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 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 MAY 
 
 WIIXR ^0 
 
 1929 
 
 OCT 1 ^ 1924- 
 
 •i/( 
 
 AR 1 6 1926 
 
 ^R 1 8 1925 
 \H i 1926 
 ..UN 9 1926 
 "OV _ 7 1926 
 
 N0V2 81956 
 
 APR 1 9 nm 
 
 i^Ri- JflN 251967 
 
 10 
 
 MAP 3 1 1 i? 
 
 MAY - 1 t^i75 
 
 C 1975^
 
 SOUTHERN BRANCH 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 LIBRARY 
 
 LOS ANGELES. CALIF.
 
 POEMS 
 
 TOGETHER WITH 
 
 BROTHER JACOB and THE LIFTED VEIL 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 HARPER'S LIBRARY EDITION 
 
 29322 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
 
 1 885
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAOR 
 
 POEMS . , 1 
 
 BROTHER JACOB 259 
 
 THE LIFTED VEIL 319
 
 1 
 I 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 POEMS
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FAOie 
 
 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL, .... 1 
 
 AGATHA, 16 
 
 ARMGART 24 
 
 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING, £0 
 
 A MINOR PROPHET,     ^ C2 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER, . 08 
 
 STRADIVARIUS, 72 
 
 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, 75 
 
 TWO LOVERS, , . 91 
 
 SELF AND LIFE, 92 
 
 THE DEATH OP MOSES, 94 
 
 "SWEET EVENINGS COME AND GO, LOVE," 96 
 
 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 land 
 
 He wandered eastward, seeking some far strand 
 
 Ruled liy kind gods who asked no offerings 
 
 Save pure tield-fruits, as aromatic things, 
 
 To feed the subtler sense of frames divine 
 
 Tliat lived on fragrance for their food and wine: 
 
 Wild joyous gods, who winked at faults and folly, 
 
 And, could be pitiful and melancholy. 
 
 lie never had a doubt that snch gods were; 
 
 He looked within, and saw them mirrored there. 
 
 Some think he came at last to Tartary, 
 
 And some to Ind ; but, howsoe'er it be. 
 
 His staff he planted where sweet waters ran. 
 
 And in that home uf 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 pines that autumn never sears 
 His locks thronged backward as he ran, his frame 
 Rose like the orbiJd 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 time-fraught memory. 
 He said, "My happy offspring shall not know 
 That the red life from out a man may flow 
 1 .5* A*
 
 THE LEGEND OF JUI5AL. 
 
 When smitten by his brother." True, his race 
 IJorc each one stamped \\\wn his new-boni face 
 A copy of the brand no wliit less clear; 
 13ut every motlier lield that little copy dear. 
 
 Thus generations in glad idlosse throve, 
 
 Nor hunted piey, nor with each other strove ; 
 
 For clearest spriiij^s 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 
 
 I;ay everywhere in grasses and broad leaves: 
 
 They labored gently, as a maid who weaves 
 
 Iler hair in mimic mats, and pauses oft 
 
 And strokes across her palm the tresses soft, 
 
 Then peeps to watch the poised bntterfly, 
 
 Or little burdened ants that homeward hie. 
 
 Time was but leisure to their lingering thought, 
 
 There was no need for haste to finish aught; 
 
 But sweet beginnings were repeated still 
 
 Like infant babblings that no task fulfil ; 
 
 For love, that loved not change, 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 glaz6d 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, "He 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 His laud in vain I— 'tis He 
 
 Who came and slew the lad, for He has found 
 
 This home of ours, and we shall all be bound 
 
 By the harsh bands 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. 
 
 Tills 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 come 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 OP JUBAL. 
 
 With measured wing now audibly arose 
 
 Throbbing tlirough 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 uever hived 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 nocturnal 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 rcsponsh-B hand. 
 
 Thus to Cain's race death was tear-watered seed 
 
 Of various lile 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 prompt 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 wliile 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 daj', whose rays must bend 
 
 As we shall make the moving shadows tend. 
 
 Come, let us fashion acts that are to be, 
 
 When we shall lie in darkness silently. 
 
 As our young brother doth, whom yet we see 
 
 Fallen and slain, but reigning in our will 
 
 By that one image of him pale and still." 
 
 For Laniech's sons were heroes of their race: 
 
 Jabal, the eldest, bore upon his face 
 
 The look of that calm river-god, the Nile, 
 
 Mildly secure in power that needs not guile. 
 
 But Tnbal-Cain was restless as the fire 
 
 That glows and 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 on movement must be fed. 
 
 Inspiring thought of change, devices bred. 
 
 And urged his mind through earth and air to rove 
 
 For force that he could conquer if he strove,
 
 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 
 
 For liirkiiicr forms that ml^ht new tnsks fulfil 
 And yield unvvillhip; to his ptron!,'ci' will. 
 Such Tubal-Cain. But .Tubal ha(i a frame 
 Fashioned to liner senses, wliicli becauK! 
 A yearning for some hidden soul of things, 
 Some outward touch conii)letc on inner springs 
 That vaguely moving bred a lonely jiain, 
 A want that did but stronger grow with gain 
 Of all good else, as spirits might be sa<l 
 For lack of sjjeech to toll us they are glad. 
 
 Now .Tabal learned to tame the lowing kine, 
 
 And from their udders drew the snow-white wine 
 
 1'liat stirs the innocent joy, and makes the stream 
 
 Of elemental life wiih fulness teem; 
 
 The star-browed calves he nursed with feeding hand, 
 
 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 grown, 
 
 Followed his steps with sensc-tanght memory; 
 
 Till he, their shepherd, could their leader bo 
 
 And guide them through the pastures as he would, 
 
 With sway that grew from ministry of good. 
 
 He spread his tents upon the grassy plain 
 
 Which, eastward widening like the open main, 
 
 Showed the first whiteness 'neath the morning star; 
 
 Near him his sister, deft, as women are, 
 
 Plied her quick skill in sequence to his thought 
 
 Till the hid treasures of the milk she caught 
 
 Revealed like pollen 'mid the petals v.hite, 
 
 The golden pollen, virgin to the light. 
 
 Even the she-wolf with young, on rapine bent, 
 
 He caught and tethered in his mat-walled tent. 
 
 And cherished all her little sharp-nosed young 
 
 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 bis pains with patient helpfulness. 
 
 Hut Tiibal-C.iin had caught and yoked the fire, 
 Yoked it with stones that bent the flaming spire 
 And made it roar in prisoned servitude 
 Witliin 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 i)liant clay he moulded as he would, 
 And laughed with joy when 'mid the heat it stood 
 Shaped as his hand had chosen, while the nniss 
 That fl-om bis hold, dark, obstinate, would pass.
 
 THE LEGEND OP JUBAL. 
 
 He drew all glowing from the bn?y heat, 
 
 All breathing as with life that he could beat 
 
 With thuiuleriii,!,' liammer, niiikiug it ol>ey 
 
 His will creative, like the pale soft clay. 
 
 Each day he wrought and better than he jihiiined, 
 
 Shape breeding shape beneath liis restless hand. 
 
 (The soul without still helps the soul within. 
 
 And its deft magic ends what we begin.) 
 
 Nay, in his dreams his hammer he would wield 
 
 And seem to see a myriad tyjies revealed, 
 
 Then spring with wondering triumphant crj-, 
 
 And, le^t the inspiring visi(m should go by, 
 
 Would rush to labor with that plastic zeal 
 
 Which all the passicm of our life can steal 
 
 For force to work with, finch day saw the birth 
 
 Of various forms which, flung upon the earth. 
 
 Seemed harmless toys to cheat the exacting hour, 
 
 But were as seeds instinct with hidden power. 
 
 The axe, the club, the spikod wheel, the chain, 
 
 Held silently the shrieks and moans of pain ; 
 
 And near them latent Iny in share and spade, 
 
 lu the strong bar, the saw, and deep-curved blade, 
 
 61ad 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 h.ave lasted to this day; 
 
 A?, thirty silver pieces that were found 
 
 By Noah's children buried in the ground. 
 
 He mnde them from mere hunger of device, 
 
 Those small white disks; but they became the price 
 
 The traitor Judas 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 Tubnl-C'aiu wot not of treachery, 
 
 Nor greedy lu^, nor any ill to be, 
 
 Save the one ill of sinking into nought, 
 
 Banished from action and act-shaping 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, 
 
 Gathereil the elders and the growing young: 
 
 These handled vaguely and those plied the tools. 
 
 Till, happy chance begetting conscious rules. 
 
 The home of Cain with industry was rife, 
 
 Ajid glimpses of a strong persistent life. 
 
 Panting through generations as one breath. 
 
 And filling with its soul the blank of death. 
 
 Jubal, too, watched the hammer, till his eyes, 
 
 No longer following it« fall or rise, 
 
 Seemed glad with something that they could not Fee, 
 
 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 extcfnal soul that sijoke for him: 
 
 The hollow vesf^el's clang, the clash, the boom, 
 
 Like liL;ht that makes wide spiritual room 
 
 And skyey spaces in the spaceless thought, 
 
 To Jubal such enlarged passion brought 
 
 That love, hope, rag(^, 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, 
 
 To 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 : 
 
 For 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 his thought he saw: the presence 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 
 Tliat 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 sonncls which vary with the varying form 
 
 Of chiy 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 our common speech, 
 
 But might tlame out in tones whose changing reach, 
 
 Suri)assing meagre need, informs the sense 
 
 With fuller union, liner difference — 
 
 Were this great vision, now obscurely bright 
 
 As morning hills that melt in new-poured light, 
 
 Wrought into solid form and living sound. 
 
 Moving with ordered throlj and sure rebound, 
 
 Then— Nay, I, Jul)al, will that work begin ! 
 
 The generations of our race sliall win 
 
 Kew life, that grows from out the heart of this, 
 
 As spring from winter, or as lovers' bliss 
 
 From out the dull unknown of uuwaked energies." 
 
 Thus he resolved, and in the soul-fed light 
 Of coming ages waited through the night, 
 Watching for that near dawn whose chiller ray 
 Showed but the unchanged world <if yesterday ; 
 Where all the order of liis dream divine 
 Lay like Olympian forms within the mine ; 
 Where fervor that could fill the earthly round 
 With thronged 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 lands which others win. 
 Jubal must dare as great beginners dare, 
 Strike form's first way in matter rude and bare. 
 And, yearning vaguely tt)ward the plenteous quire 
 Of the world's harvest, make one poor small lyre. 
 He made it, and from out its measured frame 
 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 into love doth turn. 
 
 And still his lyre gave companionship 
 
 In 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 forth his bride. 
 
 He said, "This wonder which my soul hath found, 
 
 This heart of music in the might of sound. 
 
 Shall f(U-thwith 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 tench our youth with skill to woo
 
 TUE LEGEND OF .TUBAL. 
 
 This living lyre, to know its cecret will, 
 
 Its fine division of the j^ood and ill. 
 
 So .'sliall men call me Hire of harmony, 
 
 And where groat >Song is, tliere my life shall be." 
 
 Thus glorying as a god bcnctifent, 
 
 Forth from his solitary joy he went 
 
 To bless nianUind. It was at evening, 
 
 When sIkuIows lengthen from each westward thing, 
 
 When imminence of change makes sense more fine 
 
 And light seems holier in its grand decline. 
 
 The fruit-trees wore their slndded coronal, 
 
 Earth and her children were at festival. 
 
 Glowing as with one heart and one consent — 
 
 Thought, love, trees, rocks, iu sweet warm radiance blent. 
 
 The tribe of Cain w.ns resting on the ground. 
 
 The various ages wreathed iu one broad round. 
 
 Here lay, wliile children peeped o'er his huge thighs, 
 
 The sinewy man embrowned by centuries ; 
 
 Here the broad-bosomed mother of the strong 
 
 Looked, like Demeter, placid o'er the throng 
 
 Of young lithe forms whose rest was movement too — 
 
 Tricks, prattle, nods, and laughs that lightly flew. 
 
 And swayings as of flower-beds where Love blew. 
 
 For all had feasted well upon the flesh 
 
 Of juicy fruits, on nuts, and honey fresh, 
 
 And now their wine was health-bred merriment, 
 
 Which through the generations circling went. 
 
 Leaving none sad, for even fatlier Cain 
 
 Smiled as a Titan might, despising pain. 
 
 Jabal sflt climbed on by a playful ring 
 
 Of children, lambs and whelps, whose gambolling, 
 
 With tiny hoofs, paws, hands, and dinijiled feet. 
 
 Made barks, bleats, langhs, in pretty liubbub meet. 
 
 IJut Tulial's hammer rang from far away, 
 
 Tubal alone would keep no holiday, 
 
 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 putent 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 eagt, with glory on his head 
 
 Such as low-slanting beams on corn-waves spread. 
 
 Came Jubal with his lyre : there 'mid the throng. 
 
 Where the blank space was, poured a solemn song, 
 
 Touching his lyre to full harmonic throb 
 
 And measured pulse, with cadences that sob, 
 
 E.xult and cry, and search the inmost deep 
 
 Where the dark sources of new passion sleCp.
 
 THE LEGEND OP JUBAL. 
 
 Joy toek the air, and took each breathing soul, 
 
 Embracing ttioin in cue entranced whole, 
 
 Yet thrilled each varying frame to various ends, 
 
 As Spring new-waking through the creature scuds 
 
 Or rage or tenderness ; more plenteous life 
 
 Here breeding dread, and th'jre a fiercer strife. 
 
 He who had lived through twice three centuries. 
 
 Whose months monotonous, like trees on trees 
 
 In hoary forests, stretched a backward maze. 
 
 Dreamed himself dimly through the travelled da}'S 
 
 Till in clear light he paused, and felt the sun 
 
 That warmed him when he was a little one; 
 
 Felt that true heaven, the recovered past, 
 
 The dear small Known amid the Unknown xast, 
 
 And in that heaven wept. But younger limBs 
 
 Thrilled toward the future, that bright land which swiins 
 
 In western glory, isles aud streams and bays, 
 
 Where hidden pleasures float in golden haze. 
 
 Aud in all these the rhythmic influence, 
 
 Sweetly o'ercharging the delighted seuse, 
 
 Flowed out in movements, little waves that spifead 
 
 Enhirgiug, till in tidal uuion led 
 
 The youths and maidens both alike long-tressed, 
 
 By grace-inspiring melody possessed. 
 
 Rose in slow dance, with beauteous floating swerve 
 
 Of limbs and 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 fired music, music fired the dance, 
 
 The glow diffusive lit each countenance, 
 
 Till all the gazing elders rose and stood 
 
 With glad yet awful shock of that mysterious good. 
 
 Even Tubal caught the sound, and 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 witliiu 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 
 
 And 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 canght 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 ont from God. 
 
 Aud thus did Jubal to his race reveal 
 Music their larger sou!, where woe and weal 
 Filling the resonant chords, the song, the dance, 
 Moved with a wider-wingC'd utterance.
 
 10 THE LEGEND OF JUi5AL. 
 
 Now many a lyre was fashioned, many a son?; 
 
 il.'iised echoes new, ohl echoes to iiroloni;, 
 
 Till thiiis^s of Jubars malcinj; were so rife, 
 
 " Iloariiig myself," he said, "hems in my life, 
 
 And I Avill get me to some far-off land. 
 
 Where higher mountains nnder heaven stand 
 
 And tonch tlie 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 forma 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 teach mc 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 with the stream 
 
 Southward for many a league, till he might deem 
 
 He saw at last the pillars of the sky, 
 
 IJcholding mountains whose white majesty 
 
 Rushed through hini as new awe, and made new soug 
 
 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 honey-bee." 
 
 He lingered wandering for many an age. 
 
 And, sowing music, made high heritage 
 
 For generations far beyond the Flood — 
 
 For the poor late-begotten human brood 
 
 Born 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-off spheres 
 
 Beating their pathway, never touched his ears. 
 
 But wheresoe'er he rose the heavens rose, 
 
 And the far-gazing mountain could disclose 
 
 Nought but a wider earth; until one height 
 
 Showed him the ocean 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. 
 
 He thought, "The world is great, but I am weak, 
 And where the sky bends is no solid penk 
 To give me footing, but instead, this main — 
 Myriads of maddened horses thundering o'er the plain.
 
 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 11 
 
 "New voices come to me where'er I roam, 
 My heart too widens with its wiilciiing home: 
 But song grows wealcer, and the heart must breali 
 For lacli of voice, or fingers tliat can wulic 
 The lyre's full answer; uny, 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 coufnsedly. 
 
 "No farther will I travel : once again 
 
 Jly brethren I will see, and that fair plain 
 
 Where I and Song were born. There fresh-voiced youth 
 
 Will pour my strains with all the early truth 
 
 Which now abides not in my voice and hands, 
 
 But only iu the soul, the will that stands 
 
 Helpless to move. My tribe remembering 
 
 Will cry 'Tis he !' and ruu to greet me, welcoming." 
 
 The way was weary. Many a date-palm grew. 
 
 And shook out clustered gold against the blue, 
 
 While Jubul, guided by the steadfast spheres. 
 
 Sought tlie dear home of those first eager years. 
 
 When, with fresh vision fed, the fniler will 
 
 Took living outward shape in pliant skill ; 
 
 For still he hoped to find 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 free 
 
 His homeward steps from clinging hands and cries, 
 
 The ancient lyre. And now iu ignorant eyes 
 
 No sign remained of Jnbal, Lamech's son, 
 
 That mortal frame wherein was first 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 ruue-writ story of a man. 
 
 And so at last he neared the well-known land. 
 Could see the hills iu ancient order stand 
 With friendly faces whose familiar gaze 
 Looked through the sunshine 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!
 
 13 THE LEGEND OP JUBAL. 
 
 This wns tliy cradle, here my bronot was thine, 
 AVlicrc feeding, thon didst all tliy lift: entwine 
 With my sky-wedded life in hciitagc divine." 
 
 Bnt wendinp^ ever tlirougli the watered plain, 
 
 Firm not to rest t<ave in the homo of Cain, 
 
 He saw dread Change, with dnbions face and cold 
 
 That never kept a welcome for the old, 
 
 Like some strange heir ui)on the hearth, arise 
 
 Saying "This home is mine." He thought his eyes 
 
 Mocked all deep memories, as things new made, 
 
 U?nri)ing sense, make old things shrink and fade 
 
 And seem ashamed to meet the staring day. 
 
 His memcH-y 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 bnxzLng groups about some central glow, 
 
 Spread like a murmuring crowd o'er plain aud 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, 
 
 Skj'-roofed, aud 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 aud 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 dieani, 
 
 Brought like falfilment of forgotten prayer; 
 
 As if his soul, breathed out upon the air. 
 
 Had held 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 morning 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 
 
 Ruled each recuri-ent 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 iu one whole. 
 
 The word was"Jubalt". . . "Jubal" filled the air 
 And seemed to ride aloft, a spirit there-.
 
 THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 13 
 
 Creator of the quire, the full-franght straiu 
 
 That grateful rolled itself to him agaiu. 
 
 The aged man adust upon the bank — 
 
 Whom no eye saw — at first with rapture 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. 
 
 Bnt when the train, with living face and limb 
 
 And vocal breath, came nearer and more near. 
 
 The longing grew that they should Iiold him dear; 
 
 Him, Lamech's son, whom all their fathers knew, 
 
 The breatliiug Julial— him, 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 apart. 
 
 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. 
 
 AVhat 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 kceu desire 
 
 Of this poor aged flesh, this eventide. 
 
 This twiliglit soon iu darkness to subside. 
 
 This little pulse of self that, having glowed 
 
 Through thrice three centuries, and divinely strowcd 
 
 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 |)raise of Jubal vied. 
 IMust he in conscious 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 liis 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, I! ... I made the lyre!" 
 
 The tones amid a lake of silence fell 
 Broken and strained, as if a feeble bell 
 Had tuneless pealed the triumph of a land 
 To listening crowds in e.xpectation 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, who.se rich vein 
 Of passionate music came with that dream-paiu
 
 1^ THE LEGEND OF JUliAL. 
 
 Wheiciii the sense slips oflf fmiii each loved thin;; 
 
 Ami all appeaiance is mere vanishing. 
 
 But ere the laiij,Miter died from ont 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; this too, the spot, 
 
 And this the day, it must be crime to blot. 
 
 Even with scoiHug at a madman's lie: 
 
 Jubal was not a name to wed with mockery. 
 
 Two rushed upon him: two, the most devout 
 
 In honor of great Jubal, thrust him out, 
 
 And beat him with their llutcs. '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 
 
 Wliich could but shrink and yearn, he sought the screen 
 
 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 
 
 From something round me: dewy shadowy wings 
 
 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?'" 
 
 The face bent over him like silver night 
 
 In long-iemembered 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 oulbreathed 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 wliom thou wouldst never change, nor take 
 
 Any bride living, for tliat dead one's sake"? 
 
 Was I not all thy yearning and delight, 
 
 Thy chosen search, thy senses' beauteous Right, 
 
 Which still had been the hunger of thy frame 
 
 In central heaven, hadst thon been still the same? 
 
 Wouldst thou have asked aught else from any god— 
 
 Whether with gleaming feet on earth he trod 
 
 Or thundered through the skies— aught else for shnre 
 
 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 conscious breast? 
 
 No, thou hadst grasped thy lot with all its pain, 
 
 Kor loosed it any painless lot to gain 
 
 Where music's voice was silent ; for thy fate 
 
 Was human music's self incorporate : 
 
 Thy senses' keenness and thy passionate ctrife 
 
 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-widening bliss 
 
 Where fellowship means equal perfectness. 
 
 And on the mountains in thy wandering 
 
 Thy feet were l)eautiful 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 fulls shrivelled, dead, 
 
 A seed primeval that has forests bred. 
 
 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 : 
 
 'Twas 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 hira the heavenly space along, 
 Where mighty harmonies all gently fell 
 Through veiling vastness, like the far-oflf bell. 
 Till, ever onward through the choral hlue, 
 He heard more faintly and more faintly knew, 
 Quitting mortality, a quenched sun-wave, 
 The All-creating Presence for his grave. 
 
 1S69.
 
 A G A Til A. 
 
 CoMK with ine to the inotiiituiii, not where rocks 
 
 Soar liarsh above the troops of hurrying pines, 
 
 But where the enrth spreads soft and rounded breasts 
 
 To feed her cliildrcii ; where the generous hills 
 
 Lift fi green isle hetwixt the sky and plain 
 
 To keep some Old World things aloof from change. 
 
 Here too 'tie hill and hollow: new-born streams 
 
 With sweet enforcement, joyously compelled 
 
 Like laughing children, hurry down the steeps, 
 
 And make a dimpled cba.>^e athwart the stones; 
 
 Pine woods are black upon the heights, the slopes 
 
 Arc green with pasture, and the bearded corn 
 
 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 southwestward gleams 
 
 France by the Khine, melting anon to haze. 
 
 The monks of old chose here their still retreat, 
 
 And called it by the Blessed Virgin's name, 
 
 Sancta Maria, which the peasant's tongue. 
 
 Speaking from out the parent's heart that turns 
 
 All loved things into little things, has made 
 
 Sanct Miirgen— Holy little Mary, dear 
 
 As all the sweet home tilings she smiles upon. 
 
 The children and the cows, the apple-trees. 
 
 The cart, the plough, all named with that caress 
 
 Which feigns them little, easy to be held. 
 
 Familiar to the eyes and hand aud heart. 
 
 What though a Queen? She puts her aown away 
 
 And witli her little Boy wears common clothes, 
 
 Caring for common wants, remembering 
 
 That day when good Saint Joseph left his woik 
 
 To marry her with bumble trust sublime. 
 
 The monks are gone, their shadows fall no more 
 
 Tall-frocked and cowled athwart tlie evening fields 
 
 At milking-time ; their silent corridors 
 
 Are turned to homes of bare-armed, aproned men, 
 
 Who toil fin- wife and children. But the bells, 
 
 Pealing 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 i)erishable fruit 
 
 Upon its heaven-wide branches. At their sound 
 
 The shepherd boy far off upon the hill, 
 
 Tire worlvers with the saw aud at the forge, 
 
 The triple generation round the hearth—
 
 AGATHA. 17 
 
 Gnnulames mid mothers nud the flute-voiced girls — 
 
 Fall on their knees nnd send forth prayerful cries 
 
 To the kind Mother with the little Bo}-, 
 
 Who pleads for helpless men against the storm, 
 
 Lightning and plagues all and terrific shapes 
 
 Of power supreme. 
 
 Within the prettiest hollow of these hills, 
 
 Just as 3'ou enter it, upon the elope 
 
 Stands a low cottage neighbored cheerily 
 
 By running water, which, at farthest end 
 
 Of the same hollow, turns a heavy mill, 
 
 And feeds the pasture for the miller's cows, 
 
 Blanchi and Niigeli, Veilchen and 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 find a sanctuary 
 
 Open and still; without, the silent crowd 
 
 Of heaven-planted, inceuse-mingling flowers ; 
 
 Withiu, the altar where the Mother sits 
 
 'Mid votive tablets hung from far-ofi" years 
 
 By peasants succored in the peril of fire. 
 
 Fever, or flood, who thouglj,t that Mary's love, 
 
 Willing h'ut not omnipotent, had stood 
 
 Between their lives and that dread power which sle\'/ 
 
 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 a.iar ; 
 
 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 in 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 some memory were sacred there 
 
 And everything withiu the four low walla 
 
 An 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 and 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, orphaus whom she caressed, 
 16 B
 
 18 AGATHA. 
 
 Said Mamma Liiula: yet her years were few, 
 Her outward beauties all in budding time, 
 Iler virtues the aroma of the plant 
 That dwells in nil its being, root, stem, leaf, 
 And waits not ripeness. 
 
 "Sit," paid Agatha. 
 Ilcr cousins were at work In neighboring liomcs, 
 But 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 llic birds and bees, 
 But all the houseliold goods, which, polished fair 
 By hands that cherished them for service done. 
 Shone as with glad content. The wooden beams 
 Darkjand yet friendly, easy to be reached. 
 Bore three white crosses for a speaking sign; 
 The walls had little pictures hung a-row. 
 Telling 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 hookey inherited 
 From those old times when printing still was young 
 With stout-limbed promise, like a sturdy boy. 
 And in the farthest corner stood the bed 
 Where o'er the pillow hung two pictures wiealhed 
 With fresh-plucked 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 tlie soul that cannot trust 
 lu life which outlasts burial. Agatha 
 Sat at her knitting, aged, upright, slim, 
 And spoke her welcome with mild dignity. 
 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 antipliony of young and old. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 You like our valley, lady? I am glad 
 
 Yon thought it well to come again. But rest — 
 
 The walk is long from Master Michael's inn. 
 
 CotrKTKSS Linda. 
 Yes, but no walk is prettier. 
 
 AOATUA. 
 
 It is true : 
 There lacks no blessing here, the waters all 
 llave virtues like the garments of the Lord,
 
 AGATHA. 19 
 
 And heal much sickness; then, the crops and cows 
 
 Ffonrish past speaking, and the garden flowers, 
 
 Pink, blue, and ])urp1c, 'tis a joy lo see 
 
 How they yield honey for the singing bees. 
 
 I would the wliole world were as good a home. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 
 And you are well off, Agatha?— your friends 
 Left you a certain bread : is it not so? 
 
 AOATUA. 
 
 Not so at all, dear lady. I had nought. 
 
 Was a poor orphan ; but I came to tend 
 
 Here in tliis house, au old afflicted pair, 
 
 Who wore out slowly; and the last who died, 
 
 Full thirty years ago, left me this roof 
 
 And all the liousehold stuff. It was great wealth ; 
 
 And so I had a home for Kate and Nell. 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 
 But how, then, liave 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 tailing: they have work for us 
 In house and field, all sorts of odds and cuds, 
 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 iu the big farm-house 
 When cloth comes home from weaving, the good wife 
 Cuts me a jjiece— this very gown — and says: 
 "Here, 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. I take it much to heart 
 That other people are worse off than I — 
 I ease my soul with praying for them all. 
 
 CotiNTEGG 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. 
 
 Agatha. 
 
 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. 
 
 Ai)(l feci I can do non^ht towards liclpini^ men, 
 Till out it comes, like tears that will not hold, 
 And I must pray again for all the world. 
 'TIs good to me — 1 mean the neighbors arc: 
 To Kate and Nell too. I have money saved 
 To go ou pilgrimage the second lime. 
 
 ConNTKSS Linda. 
 
 And do yon mean to go ou pilgrimage 
 With all your years to carry, Agatha? 
 
 AOATIIA. 
 
 The years are light, dear lady: 'lis my sins 
 Are heavier than I would. And I shall go 
 All the way to Eiusiedehi with that load: 
 I need to work it off. 
 
 , CouNTRBS Linda. 
 
 What sort of 8in.«, 
 Dear Agatha? I think they must be small. 
 
 AOATHA. 
 
 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 arc. 
 
 There's perfect goodness somewhere: so I strive. 
 
 CouNTKSS Linda. 
 
 You were the better for that pilgrimage 
 Yon made before? The shrine is beautiful; 
 And then yon saw fresh conntry all the way. 
 
 Agatua. 
 
 Yes, that is true. And ever since that time 
 
 The world seems greater, and the Holy Charch 
 
 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 pilgrimage : 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 
 
 Countess Linda. 
 Perhaps some neighbors will be pilgrims too. 
 And you can start together in a band. 
 
 AOATHA. 
 
 Not from these hills : people are busy here, 
 The beasts want tendance. One who is not missed 
 Can go and pray for others who must work. 
 I owe it to all neighbors, young and old ;
 
 AGATHA. 21 
 
 For they are good past thinking— lads and girls 
 
 Given to mischief, merry naiiglitiness, 
 
 Quiet it, lis tlie hedgehogs smooth their epines. 
 
 For foar of hurting poor old Agatha. 
 
 'Tis pretty: why, the cherubs iu the eky 
 
 Look young and merry, and the angels play 
 
 On citherns, lutes, and all sweet iustruments. 
 
 I would have young things merry. See the Lord I 
 
 A little baby playing with the birds ; 
 
 And how the Blessed Mother smiles at him. 
 
 CoiTNTESs Linda. 
 
 I think you are too happy, Agatha, 
 
 To care for heaven. Earth contents you well. 
 
 Agatua. 
 
 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 : 
 
 The garden must be cleared for young spriiig 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 and 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. 
 
 Aqatua. 
 
 Yes, I will gladly come to see you, lady. 
 And you will give me sweet hay for a bed, 
 And in the morning I shall wake betimes 
 Aud start when all the birds begin to sing. 
 
 CouNTKSS Linda. 
 
 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. 
 
 Agatua. 
 
 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 
 More than some neighbors, I was partly shy
 
 22 AGATHA. 
 
 Of wenring better clothes than thoy, nnd now 
 I am CO old and custom is so stn)nf^ 
 'Twould hui't me sore to put on liiiciy. 
 
 CouNTKss Linda. 
 
 Your gray hair is a crown, dear Agatha. 
 
 Shake liaiids; good-bye. The sun is going down, 
 
 And I must see the glory from tlie hill. 
 
 I stayed among those hills; and oft heard more 
 Of Agatha. I liked to hear her name, 
 As that of one lialf grandamc and half saint, 
 Uttered with reverent playfulness. The lads 
 And younger men all called her mother, aunt,. 
 Or granny, with their pet diminutives. 
 And bade their lasses and their l)rides behave 
 Kight well to one wlio surely made a link 
 'Twixt faulty folk and God by loving both : 
 Not one but counted service done by her, 
 Asking no pay save just her daily bread. 
 At feasts and weddings, when they passed iu groups 
 Along the vale, and the good country wine, 
 Being vocal in them, made them quire along 
 In quaintly mingled mirtli and piety, 
 They fain must jest and play some friendly trick 
 On three old maids ; but when the moment came 
 Always they bated breath and made their sport 
 Oenile 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 harmony, 
 And poet Hans, the tailor, wrote them songs 
 That grew from out their life, as crocuses 
 From out the meadow's moistness. 'Twas his song 
 They often sang, wending homeward from a feast — 
 The song I give you. It brings in, you see. 
 Their gentle jesting with the ihree old maids. 
 
 Midnight by the chai>el bell 1 
 Homeward, homeward all, farewell I 
 I with you, and you with me. 
 Miles are short with company. 
 
 Heart of Mary, bless the way. 
 
 Keep us all by night and day ! 
 
 Moon and stars at feast with night 
 Now have drunk their fill of light. 
 Home they hurry, making time 
 Trot apace, like merry rhyme. 
 
 Heart of Mary, niitufic rose. 
 Send ?ts all a sweet repose ! 
 
 Swiftly through the wood down hill, 
 Kuu till you can hear the mill. 
 Toni's ghost is wandering now. 
 Shaped just like a snow-wliite cow. 
 
 Heart of Mary, tiwrninfj star. 
 
 Ward off danger, near or far I
 
 AGATHA. 23 
 
 Toni's wagon with its load 
 Fell and cnisiicd liim in the road 
 'Twixt tliete piuc-tiees. Nevei- fear! 
 Give a iiuighljoi's ghost good cheer. 
 UiAij Babe, oxir God and Brother, 
 Bind us fast to one another I 
 
 Hark! the mill is at its work, 
 
 Now we pags beyond the murk 
 
 To the hollow, where the moon 
 
 Makes her silvery afternoon. 
 
 Good Saint Joseph, faithful spouse, 
 Help us all to keep our vows! 
   
 
 Ilere 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 Manj, cup of joy. 
 Give us mirth loithout alloy I 
 
 Hnsh, 'tis here, no noise, sing low. 
 
 Rap with gentle knuckles — so! 
 
 Like the little tapping birds, 
 
 On the door; then sing good words. 
 Meeli Saint Anna, old and fair, 
 Hallow all tli£ snow-white hair! 
 
 Little maidens old, sweet dreams! 
 
 Sleep one sleep till morning beams. 
 
 Mothers ye, who help ns all, 
 
 Qnick at hand, if ill befall. 
 Holy Gabriel, lily-laden. 
 Bless the aged mother-maiden ! 
 
 Forward, mount the broad hillside 
 Swift as soldiers when they ride. 
 See the two towers how they peep, 
 Round-capped giants, o'er the steep. 
 Heart of Uai-y, by thy sorrow. 
 Keep ua tqyriglit through the morrow! 
 
 Now they rise quite suddenly 
 
 Like a man from bended knee, 
 
 Now Saint Miirgen is in sight, 
 
 Here the roads bianch off— good-night ! 
 Heart of Mary, by thy grace, 
 Give us with the saints a place! 
 
 186S.
 
 ARMGART. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 Salon lit tvith lamps and ornamented with green plants. An open piano, loith 
 many scattered sheets of music. Bronze busts of Beethoven and Glitck mi pillars 
 opposite each other, A small table spread with supper. To PrXulkin Wal- 
 PUKO.V, who advances with a slight lameness of gait frovi an adjoining room, erv- 
 tera Guap Dounbekg at the oppiosite door in a travelling dress. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Good-inoruiug;, Friiuleiu ! 
 
 Walvubga. 
 
 What, so soon rctiinied ? 
 I feared your mission Itept you still at Prague. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 But now arrived! You see my travelling dress. 
 I hurried from the panting, roaring steam 
 Like any courier of embassy 
 Who hides the fleuds of war within his bag. 
 
 Walpuuqa. 
 You know that Arnigart sings to-night? 
 
 Gbaf. 
 
 Has sung! 
 'Tis close on half-past nine. The Orpheus 
 Lasts not so long. Iler spirits — were they high? 
 Was Leo confident? 
 
 Wai.pdeoa. 
 
 lie only feared 
 Some tamcness at beginning. Let the house 
 Once ring, he said, with plaudits, she is safe. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 And Armgart? 
 
 Walphuqa. 
 
 She was stiller than her wont. 
 Cut once, at some such trivial word 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. 
 I never strove for any second prize."
 
 ARMGART. 25 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Poor liunian-hearted singing-bird ! She bears 
 
 Cfesar's ambition in her delicate breast, 
 
 And nought to still it with but quivering song I 
 
 Wai.pdroa. 
 
 I had not for the world been there to-night: 
 Unreasonable dread oft chills me more 
 Thau any reasonable hope can warm. 
 
 GUAF. 
 
 You have a rare affection for your cousin; 
 As tender as a sister's. 
 
 WALruRGA. 
 
 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 boru whose being ministers 
 To her completeness. Is it most her voice 
 Subdues usf or her instinct exquisite, 
 Informing each old strain witli 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? 
 
 WALrCRGA. 
 
 I know not. Losing either, we should lose 
 That whole we call our Arnigart. 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 Msenad — made her snatch a brand 
 And fire some forest, that her rage might mount 
 In crashing, roaring flames through half a laud, 
 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. Iler nature hide.s 
 One half its treasures by its very wealth, 
 Taxing the hours to show it. 
 
 Walpukga. 
 
 Hark! she comes.
 
 26 AKMGAKT. 
 
 Enter Lko with a vfreath in his hand, lioUling the cionr open for Aunoaut, wlio wears 
 a furred mantle a7id hood. She is followed by her maid, carrying an armful of 
 bouquets. 
 
 Lko. 
 Place for the queen of Hoiig ! 
 
 GuAP (advancing towards Armoaut, trho throws off her hood and mantle, and shows 
 
 a star of brilliants in her hair). 
 
 A triumph, then. 
 You will not be n iiigganl of your joy 
 And chide the eagerness that came to share it. 
 
 Abmqart. 
 
 kind 1 you hastened your return for me. 
 
 1 would you had been there to hear me sing ! 
 Walpurga, kiss me: never tremble more 
 
 Lejit Armgart's wing should fail her. She has found 
 This night the region where her rapture breathes — 
 Pouring her passion on the nir made live 
 With human heart-throbs. Tell them, Leo, tell them 
 How I outsang your hope and made you cry 
 Because Gluck could not hear me. That was folly ! 
 He sang, uot 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. 
 
 [Sfie crowns the bust of Gluok 
 
 Lko (sardonically). 
 
 Ay, ay, but mark you this: 
 It was not part of him— that trill you made 
 lu spite of me and reason I 
 
 AlUIOABT. 
 
 You were wrong — 
 Dear Leo, you were wrong: the house was held 
 As if a stornj were listening with delight 
 And hushed its thuuder. 
 
 Lko. 
 
 Will you a?k the house 
 To teach you singing? Quit your Orpheus then. 
 And sing in farces grown to operas, 
 Where all the i)rurience of the full-fed mob 
 Is tickled with melodic im])udence: 
 Jerk forth burlesque bravnras, square your arms 
 Akinil)0 with a tavern wench's grace, 
 And set the splendid cunipass of your voice 
 To lyric jigs. Go to! I thought you meant 
 To be an artist— lift your auilit-nie 
 To see your visiiui, uot trick forth a show 
 To please the grossest taste of grossest numbers. 
 
 AuiiGAET {taking up Leo's hand, and kissing it). 
 
 Pardon, good Leo, I am penitent. 
 
 I will do penance: sing a hundred trills
 
 AUMGART. 27 
 
 Into a deep-clug grave, then burying them 
 As one did Midas' secret, rid myself 
 Of naughty exultation. O I trilled 
 At nature's iirompting, like the nightingales. 
 * Go scold them, dearest Leo. 
 
 Lbo. 
 
 I stop my ears. 
 Nature in Gluclc inspiring Orpheus, 
 lias done with nightingales. Are bird-beaks lips? 
 
 Geaf. 
 
 Truce to rebukes ! Tell us— who were not there— 
 The double drama: how the expectant house 
 Took the first notes. 
 
 Wai.vuuqa {turning from her occupation of decking the room with the flowers). 
 
 Yes, tell us all, dear Armgart. 
 Did you feel tremors? Leo, hoAV did she look? 
 Was there a cheer to greet her? 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Not a sound. 
 She walked like Orpheus in his solitude. 
 And seemed to sec nought but what no man saw. 
 'Twas famous. Not the Schroeder-Devrient 
 Uad done it better. But your blessed public 
 Had never any judgment in cold blood — 
 Thinks all perhaps were better otherwise. 
 Till rapture brings a reason. 
 
 Abmqakt {scornfully). 
 
 I knew that I 
 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 the 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 tune 
 Made bass to rambling trebles, showering down 
 In endless demi-semi-quavers. 
 
 Abuoast {taking a bon-lon from the table, uplifliiig it before putting it into her 
 
 mouth, and turning away). 
 
 Mum! 
 
 Gkaf. 
 Ye8, tell us all the glory, leave the blame.
 
 28 AUMGART. 
 
 Walpdrqa. 
 
 You first, dear Leo— what you saw and heard; 
 
 Theu Armgart— she must tell us what she felt. - 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Well ! The first uotea came clearly, firmly forth, 
 
 And I was easy, for behind those rills 
 
 I knew there was a fountain. I could see 
 
 The house was breathing gently, heads were still ; 
 
 Parrot opinion was sinick 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! Qluck had not written, nor I taught: 
 
 Orpheus was Armgart, Armgart Orpheus. 
 
 Well, well, all through the nceiia 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 pent awhile 
 
 Ere Orpheus returned. Pfni ! He was changed: 
 
 My demi-god was pale, had downcast eyes 
 
 That quivered like a bride's who fain would send 
 
 Backward the rising tear. 
 
 An.MQAUT {advancing, hut then ttirning away, as if to 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 ! 
 
 (Sna2}s Iiis fuirfer«.) 
 Music has sounds for it— I know no words. 
 I felt it once myself when they performed 
 My overture to Siutram. Well! 'tis strange, 
 We know not pain from pleasure in such joy. 
 
 Aemgaet {turning quickly). 
 
 Oh, pleasure has cramped dwelling in our souls. 
 And when full Being comes must call on paiu 
 To lend it liberal space. 
 
 WAI.rCKGA. 
 
 I hope the house 
 Kept a reserve of plaudits: I am jealous 
 Lest they had dulled themselves for coming good 
 That should have seemed the better and the best. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 No, 'twas ft revel where they had but quaffed 
 'I'heir opening cup. I Ih.ink the artist's star,
 
 AHMGART. 29 
 
 His audience keeps not sober: once afire, 
 
 They flame towards climax, though his merit hold 
 
 But fairly eveu. 
 
 Aemgaet (her hand on Lko's arm). 
 
 Now, now, conTess the truth; 
 I saug still better to the very end — 
 All save tlie trill; I give th:it up to you. 
 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 finger). 
 
 I was raving. 
 
 Armgakt. 
 I am not glad with that mean vanity 
 Which knows no good beyond its appetite 
 Full feasting upon ])raise! I am only glad. 
 Being praised for wliat 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— 
 Thiuk you I felt myself a jn-ima dunnaf 
 No, but a happy spiritual star 
 Sucli as old Dante saw, wrought in a rose 
 Of light in Paradise, whose only self 
 Was consciousness of glory wide-difi'used, 
 Music, life, power — I moving in the midst 
 With a sublime necessity of good. 
 
 Leo (^with a shrug). 
 I thought it was a prima donna came 
 Within the side-scenes; ay, and she was proud 
 To find the bouquet from the 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 lodging when it sinks 
 Plump down from ecstasy. 
 
 Armoaiit. 
 
 Owii it? why not? 
 Am 1 a sage whose words must fall like seed 
 Silently buried toward a far-off 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, 
 Gold, incense, myrrh — 'twill be the needful sign 
 That I have stirred it as the liigh year stirs 
 Before I sink to winter. 
 
 GUAI'. 
 
 Ecstasies 
 Are short — most happily ! We should but lose
 
 30 ARMGART. 
 
 Were Arm£;art borne too commonly and long 
 Out of the gclf that charms us. t'ouUl 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 ebon hair. 
 
 AtiMGART {taking out the gem and looking at it). 
 
 Tliis little star'. I would it were the seed 
 
 Of a whole IMilky Way, if such bright sliimmer 
 
 Were the sole speech men told their rapture with 
 
 At Armgart's music. 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, 
 
 That splendor ! May the day be near when mcu 
 
 Tliiuk 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 
 
 But the benignant strength of One, transformed 
 
 To joy of Many? Tributes, plaudits come 
 
 As necessary breathing of such joy; 
 
 And may they come to me! 
 
 Gbaf. 
 
 The auguries 
 Point clearly that way. Is it no ofience 
 To wish the eagle's wing may find repose, 
 As feebler wings do, in a quiet nest 1 
 Or has the taste of fame already turned 
 The Woman to a Muse. . . . 
 
 Lko (going to the table). 
 
 Who needs no supper. 
 I am her priest, ready to eat hor share 
 Of good Walpurga's oflerings. 
 
 Walpuuga. 
 
 Armgart, come. 
 Graf, will yon come ? 
 
 Geaf. 
 Thanks, I play truant here. 
 And must retrieve my self-indulged delay. 
 But will the Muse receive a votary 
 At any hour to-morrow? 
 
 AUMQART. 
 
 Any hour 
 After rehearsal, after twelve at uoon.
 
 ARMGART. 31 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The same Salon, morning. Armoart seated, in her bonnet and ivalking dress. The 
 Graf standing near her against the piano. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Armp;nrt, to many minds tlie first success 
 
 Is rciiaoii for desisting. I have known 
 
 A man so versatile, he tried all arte, 
 
 But when in each by turns he had achieved 
 
 Just so much mastery as made men say, 
 
 "He could be king here if lie would," he threw 
 
 The lauded skill aside. "He hates," said one, 
 
 " The level of achieved iire-emineuce, 
 
 He must be conquering Blill ;"' but others said — 
 
 Ar.MQART. 
 
 The truth, I hope : he had a meagre soul, 
 Holding no depth where love could root itself. 
 " Could if he would ?" True greatness ever wills- 
 It lives in 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 
 Wrought to perfection through long lonely years, 
 Huddled in the mart of mediocrities. 
 He said, the very finest doing wins 
 The admiring only ; but to have undone, 
 Promise and not fulfil, like buried youth, 
 Wins all the envious, makes them sigh your name 
 As tliat 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. 
 
 Armgakt. 
 
 It is the truth 
 Mean souls select to feed upon. What then ? 
 Their meanness is a truth, which I will spurn. 
 Tho praise I seek lives not in envious breath 
 Using my name to blight another's deed. 
 I sing for love of soug 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 —
 
 33 ARMGART. 
 
 Git AT. 
 
 Have won, not lost, in yonr decisive tlirow, 
 And I too glory in tliis issue; yet, 
 Tlic i)ul)lic verdict has no potency 
 To sway my jiul,L,'mei]t of what Aringart is: 
 Wy lun-e delight in hei- would bo but sullied, 
 If it o'eiflowed witli mixture of men's i)iai.-c. 
 And had she failed, I should have said, "The peai-1 
 Remains a pearl for mc, lellects the light 
 With the same titncss that lirst charmed my gaze- 
 Is, worth as line a setting now as then." 
 
 AiuiGABT (risinfi). 
 
 Oh, you are good ! But why will you rehearse 
 The talk of cynics, who with iusect 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. 
 
 GUAF. 
 
 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 ou 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 thiok what life had been 
 Without the stamp of eminence ; have you thought 
 How you will bear the poise of emiuence 
 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. 
 
 Aemgakt. 
 
 I accept the peril. 
 I choose to walk high with sublimer dread 
 Ifather than crawl in safety. And, besides, 
 I am an artist as you are a noble: 
 I ought to bear the burdeu of my rank. 
 
 Gkaf. 
 
 Such parallels, dear Armgart, are but snares 
 To catch the mind with seeming argument — 
 Small baits of likeness 'mid disjiarity. 
 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. 33 
 
 Akmoakt. 
 
 Yes, I know 
 The oft-tnnght Goppel : " Woman, thy desire 
 Shall be that all superlatives on earth 
 Belong to men, save the one highest kind — 
 To be a mother. Thou shalt uot desire 
 To do aught best save pure subservience : 
 Nature has willed it so!" O blessed Nature! 
 Let her be arbitress; she gare me voice 
 Such as she only gives a woman child. 
 Best of its kind, gave me ambition 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. 
 Wen 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 your pardon, Graf, you said it. 
 
 GUAF. 
 
 No! 
 How should I say it, Armgart? I who own 
 The magic of your nature-given art 
 As sweetest effluence of your womanhood 
 Which, being to my choice the best, must find 
 The best of utterance. But tliis 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 wliich soars 
 Towards something quintessential you call fame, 
 Is not robust enough for this gross world 
 Whose fame is dense with false and foolish breath. 
 Ardor, a-twin with nice refining thought, 
 Prepares a double pain. Pain had been saved, 
 Nay, purer glory reached, had you been throned 
 As woman only, holding all your art 
 As attribute to that dear sovereignty- 
 Concentering your power in home delights 
 Which penetrate and purify the world. 
 
 Au.MGART. 
 
 What ! leave the opera with my part ill-sung 
 
 While I was warbling iu a drawing-room ? 
 
 Sing iu the chimney-corner to inspire 
 
 My husband reading news? Let the world hear 
 
 My music only iu his moiniug speech 
 
 Less stammciing 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 AKMGART. 
 
 By the pame warrnnt that 1 am a woman: 
 Nay, in the aikUul rarer <;ifi I see 
 Supreme vocation ; if a fonliict come;;, 
 Perisii— no, not the woman, but the joys 
 Whicli men nialce narrow by their narrowness. 
 Oh, I am happy 1 The great masters write 
 For women's voices, and .i,'reat Mnsic wants me! 
 I need not crush myself wiitiin a mould 
 Of theory called Nature: I Inive room 
 To breathe and grow uustunted. 
 
 Graf. 
 
 Armgart, Iicar me. 
 I meant not that onr talk should hurry on 
 To .Mich 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 
 
 Arnigart, do you remember too? the snit 
 Had but postponement, was not quite disdained— 
 Was told to wait and learn— what it has learned— 
 A more submissive speech. 
 
 Akmgakt (with some agitation). 
 
 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 crown. 
 
 GUAF. 
 
 Nor will it, Armgart. I. come not to seek 
 
 Any renunciation save the wife's, 
 
 Which turns away from other ijossible love 
 
 Future and worthier, to take his love 
 
 Who asks the name of husband. He who sought 
 
 Armgart obscure, and heard her answer, " Wair*'— 
 
 May come without suspicion now to seek 
 
 Armgart applauded. 
 
 AniioART {turning toioards him). 
 
 Yes, without suspicion 
 Of aught save what consists with faithfulness 
 In all expressed intent. Forgive me, Graf— 
 I anj 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 unfledged 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 ;)ersistency 
 As is but stretched-out rashness, soon must And
 
 ARMGART. 35 
 
 Our martiaf^e nsks concessions, asks resolve 
 
 To share reminciation or demand 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 el.«e for which each lives 
 
 Besides the other. Meu are reasoncrs : 
 
 That premi-ss of superior claims perforce 
 
 Urges conclusion— " Armgart, it is you." 
 
 Gl-.AF. 
 
 But if I say I have considered this 
 
 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 who.ee threat 
 
 Touched you as well as me— and finally, 
 
 With impetus of undivided will 
 
 Eeturued 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. 
 
 Akmgap.t. 
 
 Well, I accuse myself. 
 My love would be accomplice of your will. 
 
 Again — my will ? 
 
 Gkaf. 
 
 Ae.mgart. 
 
 Oh, your unspoken will. 
 Your silent tolerance would torture nie. 
 And on that rack I should deny the good 
 I yet believed in. 
 
 Gkaf. 
 
 Then I am the man 
 Whom yon would love ? 
 
 Abmoabt. 
 
 Whom I refuse to love ! 
 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, sufl'eriug for, 
 To be a thing dispensed with easily, 
 Or else the idol of a mind infirm. 
 
 GUAF. 
 
 Armgart, you are ungenerous ; you strain 
 My thought beyond its mark. Our diflerence 
 Lies not so deep as love— as union 
 Through a mysterious fitness that transcends 
 Formal agreement.
 
 3G ARMGAUT. 
 
 Armoaist. 
 
 It lies deep cnmiph 
 To chafe the nnioii. If many a mwn 
 Rcfraiiip, doj^riidcil, IVoni the utmost ri'^ht. 
 Because the pleading's of his wife'.s pniall fears 
 Are little serpents bitinp; at his heel, — 
 How shall a woman keep her steadfastness 
 IJeneath a frost within her husband's eyes 
 Where coldness scorches ? Graf, it is your sorrow 
 Tliat you love Armsm't. Nay, it is her sorrow 
 That she may not love you. 
 
 GUA.P. 
 
 Woman, it seems, 
 Has enviable power to love or not 
 According to her will. 
 
 AUMGAKT. 
 
 She has the will— 
 I have — who am one woman— not to take 
 Dnloyal pledges that divide her will. 
 The man who marries me must wed my Art — 
 Honor and cherish it, not tolerate. 
 
 GSAP. 
 
 The man is yet to come whose theory 
 
 Will weigh as nought with you against his love. 
 
 Abmoaut. 
 Whose theory will plead beside his love. 
 
 Gkaf. 
 
 Himself a singer, then? who knows no life 
 Out (if the opera boolis, where tenor parts 
 Arc found to suit hiraf 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 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 fulflUing yours. The type abounds. 
 
 GttAF. 
 
 And happily, for the world. 
 
 Abmoart. 
 
 Yes, happily. 
 Let it excuse me that my kind is rare: 
 Commonness is its own security. 
 
 GUAF. 
 
 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.
 
 AKMGAET. 37 
 
 Armqaet. 
 
 Oh, I can live unmated, but not live 
 Without the bliss of singing to the world. 
 And feeling all my world respond to me. 
 
 GllAT. 
 
 May it be lasting. Then, we two must part? 
 
 Armgakt. 
 I thank you from my heart for all. Farewell! 
 
 SCENE ni. 
 
 A Year Later. 
 
 The same Salcn. WALrnROA is standing looking totrards the u'indow iaith an air 
 0/ uneasiness. Doctor Gkaun. 
 
 DOOTOR. 
 
 Where is my patient, Franleiu ? 
 
 WALrUEOA. 
 
 Fled ! escai>€d ! 
 Gouc to rehearsal. Is it dangerous ? 
 
 DOOTOB. 
 
 No, no; her throat is cured. I only came 
 
 To hear her try her voice. Had she yet sung? 
 
 Walpurga. 
 
 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 plnns, 
 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 mufBers, said iu haste, 
 "I go to Leo — to rehearsal — none 
 Shall sing Fidelio to-night but me !" 
 Then rushed down-stairs. 
 
 Doctor [looking at his ivatch). 
 
   And this, not long ago? 
 
 WALPUKaA. 
 
 Barely an hour. 
 
 Doctor. 
 I will come again. 
 
 Ketnruing from Charlottenburg at one. 
 Walpdeoa. 
 
 Doctor, I feel a strange preseutimeut. 
 Are you quite easy?
 
 88 AllilOAKT. 
 
 DOOTOB. 
 
 She can take no harm. 
 'Twas time for hci- to siii!^: her throat is well. 
 It was a tierce attack, and dangerous ; 
 I had to use strong remedies, but— well I 
 At one, dear Friiulcin, we shall meet again. 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Two UoDKS Later. 
 
 WALruKOA starts vj), lookinr/ towards the door. Aumoaut enters, foUorri'd hi/ Lro. 
 She throws herself on a chair tehieh stands with its hack towards the door, 
 8X>ecchless, not seeminr/ to nee anything. AVat.pdroa casts a questioning terri- 
 fied look at Leo. He sh7-ugs his shoulders, and lifts vp his Jiands hchind Arm- 
 GAKT, who 8it8 like a helpless image, while Walpckga. takes off her hat and 
 rnantle. 
 
 WAi.ruuoA. 
 
 Arnigart, dear Armgart {kneeling and taking her hands), 
 
 only spealc to me. 
 Your poor Walpurga. Oli, your hands arc cold. 
 Clasp mine, and warm them ! I will kiss them warm. 
 
 (Ar.mgaut looks at her an instant, then di-aws aioay her hands, and, turning aside, 
 
 buries her face against the back of the chair, Walpurga rising and standing 
 
 neoj;) 
 
 (DooTOfi GoAiiN enters.) 
 
 Doctor. 
 
 News ! stirring news to-day ! wonders come thick. 
 
 AcMOABT {starting up at the first sound of his voice, and speaking veliementli/). 
 
 Yes, thick, thick, thick! and you have murdered it! 
 
 Murdered ray voice — poisoned the soul iu mc, 
 
 And kept me living. 
 
 You never told me that your cruel cures 
 
 Were clogging films— a mouldy, dead'ning blight — 
 
 A lava-mud to crust and bury me, 
 
 Yet hold nic living iu a deep, deep tomb, 
 
 Crying unheard forever 1 Oh, your cures 
 
 Are devil's triumphs: you can rob, maim, slay. 
 
 And keep a hell on the other side your cure 
 
 Where you can see your victim quivering 
 
 Between the teeth of torture— see a soul 
 
 Made keen by loss— all anguish with a good 
 
 Once known and gone ! {7'urns and sinks back on her chair.) 
 
 O misery, misery ! 
 Yon might have killed me, might have let mc sleep 
 After my happy day and wake— not here ! 
 In some new nnremembered world— not here, 
 Where all is faded, flat— a feast broke ofl"— 
 Banners all meaningles.s— exulting words 
 Dull, dull— a drum that lingers in the air 
 Beating to melody which no man hear.s.
 
 ARMGART. 39 
 
 DooTon (flf(cr a viomenVe silence), 
 
 A sudden check has shaken j-oii, poor child ! 
 All things seem livid, tottering to 5-oiir sense, 
 From inward tnmult. Stricken by a threat 
 You see your terrors only. Tell me, Leo: 
 "ris not such utter loss. 
 
 (Leo, with a shruff., goes quietl'j out.) 
 The freshest bloom 
 Merely, has left the fruit ; the fruit itself . . . 
 
 Aemgart. 
 
 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 your pity. 
 
 You never told me, never gave me choice 
 
 To die a singer, lightuiug-struck, unmaimed, 
 
 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 hymn 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 '. 
 
 DooToa. 
 
 Well, I will come again ; 
 Send for me when you will, though but to rate me. 
 That is medicinal— a letting blood. 
 
 Akmgaut. 
 
 Oh, there is one physician, only one. 
 
 Who cures and never spoils. Ilim I shall send for; 
 
 He comes readily. 
 
 DooTOE (to Walpokoa). 
 
 Oce word, dear Friiuleiu. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 Aemqaet, WAirUEGA. 
 
 AUMGAET. 
 
 Walpurga, have yon walked this morning? 
 
 Walpuega. 
 
 No. 
 Aemqaet. 
 Go, then, and walk ; I wish to be alone.
 
 40 ARMGAKT. 
 
 WAi.rnnoA. 
 I will uot leave you. 
 
 Akmqaut. 
 Will not, at my wisli ? 
 
 Wali'uuoa. 
 
 Will not, because you wi^li it. Sny no more, 
 But take this diaii^^lil. 
 
 Akmsart. 
 
 The Doctor gave it you? 
 It is au anodyne. Tut it away. 
 He cured me of my voice, and now he wants 
 To cure me of my vision and resolve — 
 Drug me to sleep that I may wake again 
 Without a purpose, abject as the rest 
 To bear the yoke of life. lie shall not cheat me 
 Of that fresh strength which anguish gives the soul. 
 The inspiration of revolt, ere rage 
 Slackens to faltering. Now I sec the truth. 
 
 Wai.puuoa (setting down tlic glass). 
 
 Tlien you must see a fiitme in your reach, 
 With happiness cuough to make a dower 
 For two of modest claims. 
 
 Akmoakt. 
 
 Oh, you iutone 
 That chant of consolation wherewith ease 
 Makes itself easier in the sight of pain. 
 
 Wai-pubga. 
 No; I would not console you, but rebuke. 
 
 Armqaut. 
 
 That is more bearable. Forgive me, dear. 
 Say what you will. But now I want to write. 
 
 (iViC rises and moves toicards a table.) 
 
 Walpuiioa. 
 
 I say, then, you are siuiply fevered, mad ; 
 You cry aloud at horrors that would vanish 
 ]f you would change the light, throw into shade 
 The 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 Dornberg loved you well. 
 
 Akmgabt. 
 
 Not me, not me. 
 lie loved one well who was like me in all 
 Save in a voice which made that All unlike
 
 AKMGART. 41 
 
 As diamoiid is to charcoal. Oh, a nian'ti love! 
 l*hii)k you he loves a woman's inner self 
 Aching with loss of loveliness? — as mothers 
 Cleave to the jialpitatang pain that dwells 
 Within their misformed offspring ? 
 
 Walpueoa. 
 
 But the Graf 
 ■Chose you ae simple Armgart— had preferred 
 "That you should never seek for any fame 
 l?ut such as matrons have who rear great sons. 
 And therefore you rejected him; but now — 
 
 Aemqakt. 
 
 Ay, now— now he would see me as I am, 
 
 {She takes up a hand-mirror.) 
 Basset and eongless as a niis^cl-thnish. 
 An ordinary girl— a plain brown girl, 
 Who, if some meaning flash from out her words, 
 Shocks as a disproportioncd thing— a Will 
 That, like an arm astretch anil broken off, 
 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 diviiieness. Nay, my cliarni 
 Was half that I could win fame yet renounce ! 
 A wife with glory possible absorbed 
 Into her husband's actual. 
 
 Walpcuga. 
 
 For shame ! 
 Armgart, you slander him. What would you say 
 If now he came to you and asked again 
 That you would be his wife ? 
 
 AUMO.AUT. 
 
 No, and thrice no! 
 It would be pitying constancy, 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-BiriiOA. 
 Proad, Armgart, but not generous. 
 
 ABMaART. 
 
 Say no more, 
 He will not know until- 
 
 WALPCnaA. 
 
 He knows already. 
 
 Akmoaut iiquickly). 
 Is he come back ? 
 
 17 c
 
 42 AllMGAKT 
 
 WALrCROA. 
 
 Yes, and will soou be here. 
 The Doctor had twice seen him aud would go 
 From heuce a^'aiu to bug him. 
 
 AUMOAKT. 
 
 Well, he kuows. 
 It is all oiic- 
 
 WALrURQA. 
 
 What if he were outside ? 
 I hear a footstep iu the aute-room. 
 
 Ahmoart (raishif; hcrstdf and assuming calmness). 
 
 Why let him come, of course. I shall behave 
 Like what I am, a common personaice 
 AVho looks for uothing but civility. 
 1 shall uot play the fallen heroine. 
 Assume a tragic part aud throw out cues 
 For a beseeching lover. 
 
 Walpdrga. 
 
 Some one raps. 
 
 (Goes to the door.) 
 A letter— from the Graf 
 
 Armoart. 
 
 Then open it. 
 
 (WALrcRQA still offers it.) 
 Nay, my head swims. Read it. I cannot see. 
 
 (WALruRGA opcnii it, reads and pauses.) 
 Kcad it. Have done ! No matter what it is. 
 
 Walpukga (reads 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. Gralin. But surely it is possible that 
 this result may not be permanent. For youth such as yours. Time may hr)!d iu 
 store something more than resignation: who shall say that it does not hold re- 
 newal ? I have not dared to ask admission to you iu 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 intrusted by the Government with business which may be of long 
 duration." 
 
 (Walpuuga sits down dcjcctedlij .) 
 
 Armoart (after a slight shudder, bitterlr). 
 
 The Graf has much discretion. I am glad. 
 He spares us both a pain, not seeing me. 
 What I like least is that consoling hoi)e— 
 That empty cup, so neatly ciphered "Time," 
 Handed me as a cordial for despair. 
 
 (Slowly and dreamily) Time— wiiat a word to fling as charity ! 
 Bland neutral word for slow, dull-beating pain- 
 Day.'", months, and years !— If I would wait for them. 
 (She takes V2> her hat and puts it on, then xoraps her mantle round her. Wai.- 
 I'ORGA leaves the mom.)
 
 ARMGATvT. 43 
 
 Why, this is but beginning. (Walv. rc-etUers.) Kiss me, dear. 
 
 -I am going now — alone — out — for ii walli. 
 
 Siiy you will never wouud me any more 
 
 With such cajolery as nurses use 
 
 To patients amorous of a crippled life. 
 
 Flatter the bliud: I see. 
 
 Wai-pukqa. 
 
 Well, I was wrong. 
 In haste to soothe, I snatched at fliclters merely. 
 Believe me, I will flatter you no move. , 
 
 Aemqaet. 
 
 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 ye?, gives lessons; not so good 
 
 As any man's would be, but cheaper far." 
 
 "Pretty?" "No; yet she makes a tigurc 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 droschkies in the rain. They print her things 
 
 Often for charitj'."— Oh, a dog's life! 
 
 A harnessed dog's, that draws a little cart 
 
 Voted a nuisance ! I am going now. 
 
 Walpuiioa. 
 
 Not now, the door is locked. 
 
 Aemgaut. 
 
 Give me the key ! 
 
 WAI.PUr.GA. 
 
 Locked on the outside. Gretchen has the key: 
 She is gone on errands. 
 
 Your prisoner? 
 
 Armgart. 
 
 What, you dare to keep me 
 
 Wai.purga. 
 
 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-oflf scorn. . . . 
 
 AUMQART. 
 
 I paint what I must be! 
 What is my soul to me vvitliout the voice
 
 44 , ARMGABT. 
 
 That gave it freedom ?— gave it one prand touch 
 
 And made it nobly human ?— 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 passion through an insect's horu 
 
 That moves a millet-seed laboriously. 
 
 If I ivmikl do it ! 
 
 Walpurga (coldl'j). 
 
 And why should you not? 
 
 Akmgart (turning quickly). 
 
 Because Heaven made me royal— wrought me out 
 
 With subtle finish towards pre-eminence, 
 
 Made every channel of my soul converge 
 
 To one liigh function, and then flung me down, 
 
 That breaking I miglit turn to subtlest pain. 
 
 An inborn passion gives a rebel's right : 
 
 I would rebel and die in twenty worlds 
 
 Sooner than bear the yoke of thwarted lil'c. 
 
 Each keenest sense turned into keen distaste, 
 
 Hunger not satisfied but kept alive 
 
 Breathing in languor half a century. 
 
 All the world Jiow 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.I'Uuoa (hidigiiaiithi). 
 
 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 must 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 you, 
 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 fired 
 With too much gladness — listen, always listen 
 To what she felt, who having power had right 
 To feel exorbitantly, and submerge 
 The souls around her with the jjoured-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 deepest jiassion is a pang 
 Till they accept their [lauper's heritage. 
 And meekly live from out the general store
 
 ARMGAET. 45 
 
 Of joy they were born stripped of. I accept — 
 Nay, now would, sooner choose it than tlie wealtli 
 Of natures you call royal, who can live 
 In mere mock knowledge of their fellows' woe, 
 Thinking their smiles may heal it. 
 
 Arjigakt (tremulousdij). 
 
 Nay, VValpnrga, 
 I did not make a palace of my joy 
 To ehnt the world's truth from me. All my good 
 Was that I touched the world and made a pan 
 In the world's dower of beauty, strength, and bliss; 
 It was the glimpse of consciousness divine 
 Which pours out day and sees the day is good. 
 Now I am fallen dark ; I sit in gloom, 
 Remembering bitterly. Yet you speak truth ; 
 I wearied you, it seems; took all your help 
 As cushioned Dobles use a weary serf, 
 Not looking at his face, 
 
 WAI.rUEGA. 
 
 Oh, I but stand 
 As a small symbol for the mighty sum 
 Of claims unpaid to needy myriads ; 
 I think you never set your loss beside 
 Tiiat mighty deficit. Is your work gone— 
 The prouder queenly work that paid itself 
 And yet was overpaid with men's applause? 
 Ar2 you no longer chartered, privileged, 
 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 lie who flings his own load off 
 And leaves his fellows toiling? llcbcra right? 
 Say rather, the deserter's. Oh, you smiled 
 From your clear height on all the million lots 
 Which yet you brand as abject. 
 
 Aemgabt. 
 
 I was blind 
 With too much happiness : true vision comes 
 Only, it seems, with sorrow. Were there one 
 This moment near me, suffering what I feel, 
 And needing me for comfort iu her pang — 
 Then it were worth the while to live; not else. 
 
 WAI.rtTRGA. 
 
 One— near you — why, they throng! you hardly stir 
 
 But your act touches them. We touch afar. 
 
 Yox did not swarthy slaves of yesterday 
 
 Leap iu their bondage at the llebrews' flight, 
 
 Which touched them through the thrice millennial dark? 
 
 But you can find the sufferer you need 
 
 With touch less subtle. 
 
 Aemoakt. 
 
 Who has need of me?
 
 46 ARMGART. 
 
 WAirtTBOA. 
 
 Love lluds the need It fills. But you nrc hard. I 
 
 Abmqart. 
 
 Is It not yon, Walpnrgn, who are hard f 
 You humored all my wishes till to-day, 
 When fate has blii;htc(l ine. 
 
 WM.rtinoA. 
 
 You wotild not hear 
 The "chant of consolation:" words of hope 
 Only embittered you. Then hear the truth— 
 A lame girl's truth, whom no one ever praised 
 For being cheerful. "It is well," ihcy said: 
 "Were she cross-drained she could not be endured." 
 A word of truth from her had startled you ; 
 But you— you claimed the universe; nought less 
 Thau all existence working in sure tracks 
 Towards your supremacy. The wheels might scathe 
 A myriad destinies— nay, must perforce ; 
 But yours they must keep clear of; just for you 
 The seething atoms through the firmament 
 Must bear a human heart— which you had not! 
 For what is it to you that women, men, 
 Plod, faint, arc weary, and espouse despair 
 Of aught but fellowship ? Save that you spurn 
 To be among them ? Now, tlien, you are lame — 
 Maimed, as you said, and levelled with the crowd: 
 Call it new birth— birth IVom that monstrous Self 
 Which, smiling down npon a race oppressed. 
 Says, "All is good, for I am throned at ease." 
 Dear Armgart — nay, you tremble— I am cruel. 
 
 Abmqaut. 
 O no 1 hark ! Some one knocks. Come in ! — come in I 
 
 [Enter Lno. 
 Lr.o. 
 
 See, Gretchen let me in. I could not rest " 
 Longer away from you. 
 
 An.MGART. 
 
 Sit down, dear Leo. 
 Walpurga, I would speak with him alone. 
 
 (WALrUKQA (jnCS out.) 
 
 Leo (Jtesitatingly). 
 
 You mean to walk ? 
 
 Ak.mgaiit. 
 
 No, I shall stay within. 
 (She. takes of her hat and mantle, and sits down imniediatclij. After a pause, 
 speaking in a subdiied tone to Leo.) 
 How old arc you ? 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Threescore and five.
 
 ARMGART. 47 
 
 Armgakt. 
 
 That's old. 
 I never thought till now how yon have lived. 
 They hardly ever play yonr music? 
 
 Lko (raising his eyebroies and throwing <nU his lip). 
 
 No! 
 Schubert too wrote for silence: half his work 
 Lay like a frozen Rhine till sumnierij came 
 That warmed the grass above him. Even sot 
 His music lives now with a mighty youth. 
 
 Akmqart. 
 Do yon think youre will live when you are dead? 
 
 Lf.o. 
 
 Pfui ! The time was, I drank that home-brewed wine 
 And found it heady, while my blood was young: 
 Now it scarce warms me. 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 not thy handful ?" 
 
 Akmoa-rt. 
 
 Strange ! since I have known you 
 Till now I never wondered how you lived. 
 When I sang well— that was your jubilee. 
 But you were old already. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Yes, child, yes: 
 Youth thinks itself the goal of each old life; 
 Age has but travelled from a far-oft" time 
 Just to l)e ready for youth's service. Well ! 
 It was my chief delight to perfect you. 
 
 Aemgart. 
 
 Good Leo! You have lived on little joys. 
 
 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 in the lowest pit. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Nay, nay, 1 have a thought: keep to the stage. 
 To drama without song; for you can act — 
 Who knows how well, when all the soul is poured 
 Into that sluice alone ? 
 
 Aemg.mit. 
 
 I know, and you: 
 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,
 
 48 AUMOART. 
 
 Self-jndgment, is not gone. Song wns my gpccch, 
 
 And with its impulse oiilj', action came: 
 
 Song was llie battlcVs onset, wlien cool jmrpoec 
 
 Glows into lage, becomes a wairing god 
 
 And moves the limbs with miracle. But now — 
 
 Oh, I should stand liommcd in with thoughts and riil^— 
 
 Say "This way passion acts," yet never feel 
 
 The might of passion. IIow should I declaim? 
 
 As monsters write with feet instead of hands. 
 
 1 will not feed on doing great taeks ill. 
 
 Dull the world's sense with mcdiociity, 
 
 Aud live by trash that smothers excellence. 
 
 One gift I had that ranked me with tlie best — 
 
 The secret of my frame — and that is gone. 
 
 For all life now I am a broken thing. 
 
 But silence there ! Good Leo, advi.se me now. 
 
 I would take humble work and do it well — 
 
 Teach music, singing — what I can— not here, 
 
 But in some smaller town where 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 pauses, with a sob in her voice.) 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Yes, yes, dear child 1 
 And it were well, perhaps, to change the place- 
 Begin afresh as I did when I left 
 Vienna with a heart half broken. 
 
 Abmgabt {i-oused by surprise). 
 You ? 
 
 LiMI. 
 
 Well, it is long ago. But I had lost — 
 No matter ! We must bury our dead joys 
 And live above them witK a living world. 
 But whither, think you, you would like to go? 
 
 To Freiburg. 
 
 It is too small. 
 
 Aumqaet. 
 
 Lbo. 
 In the Breisgan? And why there? 
 
 Aemoaet. 
 
 Walpurga was born there. 
 And loves the place. She quitted it for me 
 These five years past. Now I will take her there. 
 Dear Leo, I will bury my dead joy. 
 
 Lko. 
 
 Mothers do so, bereaved ; then learn to love 
 Another's living child.
 
 1870. 
 
 ARMGART. 49 
 
 AKMaAKT. 
 
 Oh, it is hard 
 To tiikc 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-night. 
 
 Leo. 
 
 Well, well, 
 'Tis better that our griefs should not spread far. 
 
 17 
 
 *
 
 now LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Six hundred years ago, in Dante'a time, 
 Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme- 
 When Euroi)e, fed afiesh from 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- 
 Six 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 Aragou, 
 Was welcomed master of all Sicily, 
 A royal knight, supreme as kings should be 
 In strength and gentleness that make high chivalry. 
 
 Spain was the favorite home of knightly grace. 
 
 Where 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 fulfilling 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 dauger 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-gemmed ring 
 
 The largest ruby, or as that briglit star 
 
 Whose shining shows us where the Ilyads are. 
 
 His the best jennet, and he sat it best; 
 
 His weapon, whether tilling 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 flics. 
 
 But of the maiden forms that thick enwreathed 
 The broad piazza and sweet witchery breathed,
 
 now LISA LOVED THE KING. 51 
 
 With innocent faces budding all arow 
 
 From balconies and windows hii,'h and low, 
 
 Wiio was it felt the deep mysterious glow, 
 
 The impregnation with supernal tire 
 
 Of young ideal love — transformed desire. 
 
 Whose passion is but worship of that Best 
 
 Tuuglit 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 drngs; yet liept an honest fame. 
 
 And had the virtue not to try and sell 
 
 Drugs that had none. He loved his riches well, 
 
 But loved theui chiefly for his Lisa's salie, 
 
 Whom with a father's care he sought to make 
 
 The bride of some true honorable man: — 
 
 Of Perdicoue (so the rumor ran). 
 
 Whose birth was higher than his fortunes were; 
 
 For still your trader likes a mixture fair 
 
 Of blood that hurries to some higher strain 
 
 Than recicouiug money's loss and money's gain. 
 
 And of sucli mixture good may surely come : 
 
 Lords' scions so may learn to cast a sum, 
 
 A trader's grandson bear a well-set head, 
 
 And have less conscious manners, belter l)red; 
 
 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 hard to turn another way. 
 
 She had a pensive 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 cheek a finer glow. 
 
 Parting her lips that seemed a mimic bow 
 
 By chiselling Love for play in coral wrought, 
 
 'I'hen quickened by him with the passionate thought. 
 
 The soul that trembled in the lustrous night 
 
 Of slow long eyes. Her body was so sliglit. 
 
 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 
 
 now LISA LOVED TUE KING. 
 
 Like Roland, or the waniers of Troy, 
 The Cid, or Amadis, or that fair boy 
 Who conquered everythinn; beneath the sun, 
 And Bomehow, some time, died at Babylon 
 Fiylitini; the Moors. For heroes nil were good 
 And fair as that archangel who w-ithstood 
 The Evil One, tlic anthor of all wrong- 
 That Evil One who made the French so strong; 
 And now the flower of heroes must be ho 
 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 light that opes their modest cync 
 Was lily-odored,— and as rights divine, 
 Round tiirf-laid altars, or 'neath roofs of stone. 
 Draw sanctity from out the heart alone 
 That loves and worships, so the miniature 
 Perplexed of her soul's ^yorId, 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 men avengers be. 
 Save as God's messengers on coursers fleet f— 
 These, scouring earth, made Spain with Syria meet 
 In one self world where the same right had sway, 
 And good must 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 
 The darkness was alight for her with sheen 
 Of arms, and plumed helm, , and bright between 
 Their commoner gloss, like? the jnire living spring 
 'Twixt porphyry lips, or tjving bird's bright wing 
 'Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king 
 Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there 
 Of known delights love-mixed to new and rare: 
 The impalpable dream was turned to breathing flesh, 
 Chill thought 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 he but knew 
 (Her poor small self could claim no other due) 
 How Lisa's lowly love had highest reach 
 Of winged passion, wliereto winged 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 slirank 
 From telling love that fed on selfish hope ; 
 But love, as hopeless as the shattering song 
 Wailed for loved beings who have joined the throng
 
 now LISA LOVED THE KING. 53 
 
 Of mighty dead ones. . . . Nay, bnt she was weak — 
 Kuew ouly prayers nud ballads— could not speak 
 With eloquence save what dumb creatures have, 
 That with small cries aud touches small boons crave. 
 
 She watched all day that she might see him pass 
 
 With knights aud ladies; but she said, "Alas! 
 
 Though he should see me, it were all as one 
 
 lie saw a pigeon sitting on the stone 
 
 Of wall or balcony : some colored spot 
 
 His eye just sees, his mind regardelh not. 
 
 I have 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-bora aloe-flowers that rarest years disclose. 
 
 "For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen 
 
 A-horseback, with blonde hair, and Uinic green 
 
 Gold-bordered, like C'ostanza, I should need 
 
 No change within to make mc 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 heaveuliest 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 siieech to tell 
 
 Its inward pang, and I would soothe it well 
 
 With tender touch and with a low soft moan 
 
 For company: my 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 her 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 i)hysicians, 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 Indian snow, 
 
 Or roses that on alpine summits blow —
 
 54 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 It should be hers. She answers with low voice, 
 She loii^s for death alone— death is her choice; 
 Death is tlic King who never did think scorn, 
 But rescues every meanest soul to sorrow l)orn. 
 
 Yet one day, as they bent above her bed 
 
 And watched hor in brief sleep, her drooping head 
 
 Turned gently, as the tliirsty flowers that feel 
 
 Sonic moist revival through their petals steal, 
 
 And little fluttcrings of her lids and lips 
 
 Told of sucli dreamy joy as sometimes dips 
 
 A skyey shadow in the mind's poor pool. 
 
 She oped her eyes, and turned tlieir dark gems full 
 
 Upon her father, as in utterance duml) 
 
 Of some new jirayer 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 unstilled thought, 
 
 Wandering all o'er its little world, had souglit 
 
 How she coidd reach, by some soft pleading touch, 
 
 King Pedro's soul, tliat she who loved so much 
 
 Dying, might have a place witlun his mind — 
 
 A little grave which he would sometimes find 
 
 And plant some flower on it— some thought, some memory kind. 
 
 Till in her dream she saw Minuccio 
 
 Touching his viola, and chanting low 
 
 A strain that, falling on lier brokenly. 
 
 Seemed blossoms lightly blown from oflf a tree. 
 
 Each burdened with a word that was a scent — 
 
 Raona, Lisa, love, death, tournament; 
 
 Then in her dream she said, "He sings of me— 
 
 Might be my messenger; ah, now I see 
 
 The king is listening—" Then 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 humors 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, 
 (lie 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 
 Aerial spirits, rare yet vibrant wings 
 That fanned the pulses of his listener, 
 And waked each sleeping sense with blissful stir. 
 Her cheek already showed a slow faint l)lush, 
 But soou the voice, in pure full liquid rush.
 
 HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 
 
 Made all the passion, that till now she felt, 
 
 Scciii but cool waters that in wanner melt. 
 
 Finished the song, she prayed to be alone 
 
 With kind Minnccio ; for her faith had grown 
 
 To trust him as if missioned like a priest 
 
 With some high grace, that when his singing ceased 
 
 Still made him wiser, more niagnanimons 
 
 Than common men who had no 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 unsnng and thoughts unspoken do, 
 
 Which else might live within another breast. 
 
 She said, "Miiiuccio, 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, with 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, kuowiug 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 Minnccio. "Lisa, trust in me," 
 
 lie said, and kissed her fingers loyally ; 
 
 "It is sweet law to nie to do your will, 
 
 And ere the suu 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 
 
 IIow 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 Siennese, 
 
 And " Mico, mine," he said, "full oft to jjlease 
 
 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 passionate 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 (me too high her V)ve 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 tliou again to-morrow." The third day. 
 
 When linked notes had perfected the lay, 
 
 Minnccio had his summons to the court 
 
 To make, as he was wont, the moments short
 
 56 now LISA liOVED THE KINO. 
 
 Of ceromonious dinner to the king. 
 
 This was the time when he iiad meant to bring 
 
 Melodious messat,'e of young Lisa's love: 
 
 He waited till the air had ceased to move 
 
 To ringing silver, till Falcrnian wine 
 
 Made iiuickencd sense with quietude combine, 
 
 And then with passionate descant made each car incline. 
 
 Love, thou diditt see me, Ivjht as morniiufa breath, 
 lioaming a garden in a joyous error, 
 Laxirjhinij at chases vain, a ha])pi/ child. 
 Till of thy countenance the alhuing terror 
 In majesty from out the blossoms smiled. 
 From out their life scfviinrj a beauteous Death. 
 
 O Love, who So diiht choose me for thine omn, 
 
 Takinrj this little isle to thy great sway, 
 
 See now, it is the honor of thy throne 
 
 That luhat thou gavcst perish not away, 
 
 Nor leave some sweet remembraiice to atone 
 
 By life that will be for the brief life gone: 
 
 Hear, ere the shroud o'er these frail lirnbs be throtvnr^ 
 
 Since every king is vassal unto thee, 
 
 My heart's lord needs must listen loyally — 
 
 O tell him I am waiting for my Death ! 
 
 Tell him, for that Ice hath such royal power 
 'Twere hard for him to think how small a thing. 
 How slight a sign, tuonld make a tvealthy dowar 
 For one like me, the bride of that pale king 
 Whose bed is mine at some swift-nearing hour. 
 Oo to' my lord, and to his memory bring 
 That hap%>y birthday of my sorrowing 
 When his large glance inade meaner gazers glad. 
 Filtering the bannered lists: 'twas then I had 
 Tfie wound that laid me in tlie arms of Death. 
 
 Tell him, Love, I am a lowly maid, 
 Ab more than any little knot of thyme 
 That he with careless foot may often tread; 
 Vet loiocst fragrance oft will mount sublime 
 And cleave to things most high and hallowed. 
 As doth the frc^g ranee of my life's springtime. 
 My lowly love, that soaring seeks to climb 
 Within hii thought, and make a gentle bliss, 
 J) fore 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-tllled eyes 
 Of little child at little miseries. 
 Trembling at first, then 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.
 
 now LISA LOTED THE KING. 57 
 
 But most such sweet compiilsiou took the mood 
 Of Pedro (tired of doing what he would). 
 Whether the words which tliat stran<^e meaning bore 
 Were but the poet's feiguiug or aught more, 
 Was bouuden question, since their aim must be 
 At some imagined or true royalty. 
 lie called Minuccio and bade him tell 
 \^'hat poet of the day had writ 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 
 IIow this song grew, save to your royal ear." 
 Eager, the king withdrew where none was near, 
 And gave close audience to Minuccio, 
 Who meetly told that love-tale meet to know. 
 The king had features pliant to confess 
 The presence of a manly tenderness- 
 Son, father, brother, lover, blent in one. 
 In flue harmonic exaltation — 
 The spirit of religious chivalry. 
 He listened, and Minuccio could see 
 The tender, generous admiration spread 
 O'er all his face, and glorify his head 
 With royalty that would have kept its rank 
 Tliongh his brocaded robes to tatters shrank, 
 lie answered without pause, "So sweet a maid, 
 In nature's own insignia arrayed. 
 Though she were come of unmixed trading blood 
 That sold and bartered ever since the Flood, 
 Would have 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 \vill surely visit her when vespers ring;" 
 
 Joyful, Minuccio bore the joyous word, 
 
 And told at full, while none but Lisa heard, 
 
 IIow each thing had befallen, sang the song, 
 
 And like a patient nurse who would prolong 
 
 All means of soothing, dwelt upon each tone, 
 
 Each look, with whicli the mighty Aragon 
 
 Marked the high worth his royal heart assigned 
 
 To that dear place he held in 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 palo. 
 
 Her parents wondering see her half arise— 
 Wondering, rejoicing, see her long dark eyes 
 Brimful with clearness, not of 'scaping tears, 
 But of some light clhcjcal that enspheres
 
 58 now LISA LO\TED THE KINO. * 
 
 Their orbs with calm, eomc vision newly Icavnt 
 
 Where strangest fires crewhile had blindly burnt. 
 
 She asked to have her Bol't white robe and band 
 
 And coral ornaments, and with her hand 
 
 She gave her locks' dark length a backward Tall, 
 
 Then looked intently in a mirror small, 
 
 And feared her face might perhaps displease the king; 
 
 "In truth," she said, "I 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 deeply wrought 
 
 To chivalrous pity ; and at vesper bell. 
 
 With careless mien which hid his purpose well, 
 
 W'ent forth on horseback, and as if by chance 
 
 Passing Bernardo's house, he paused to glance 
 
 At the fine garden of this wealthy man, 
 
 Tliis Tuscan trader turned ralermitan : 
 
 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 father's task 
 
 Of marrying that daughter whoso 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 ; 
 
 Kut all snch hopes of late have turned to fears; 
 
 She droops and fades ; though for a space quite bi ief— 
 
 Scarce three hours past— she finds some strange relief." 
 
 The king avised : " 'Twcrc 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, be wends, 
 
 With Lisa's fatbci- and two chosen friends. 
 
 Up to the chamlier 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 leverent kiss 
 
 Upon her hand, said, "Lady, what is this? 
 
 You, whose sweet youth should others' solace be, 
 
 Pierce all our hearts, languishing pitenusly. 
 
 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 — 
 "Siguor, I was too weak to bear the yoke,
 
 now LISA LOVED THE KING. 59 
 
 The gokleu yoke of thonghta too great for mc ; 
 
 That was the jrround 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-ciips 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 high loved one saw her love aright. 
 
 Thus her soul thriving on that exquit^ite mood, 
 
 Spuead like the May-time all its beauteous good 
 
 O'er the soft, bloom of ueck, and arms, and cheek, 
 
 And strengthened the sweet body, once so weak, 
 
 Until she rose and walked, and, like a bird 
 
 With sweetly rippling throat, she made her spring joys heard. 
 
 The king, when he the happy change bad seen, 
 
 Trusted the ear of ConstaTice, his fair queen, 
 
 With Lisa's innocent secret, and conferred 
 
 IIow 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. The queen had that chief grace 
 
 Of womanhood, a heart that can embrace 
 
 All goodness in another woman's fiirm ; 
 
 And that same day, ere the sun lay too warm 
 
 On southern terraces, a messenger 
 
 Informed Bernardo that the royal pair 
 
 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 
 
 The 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
 
 00 now USA LOVED THE KINO. 
 
 A lake of splendor 'mid the aloes ^T:\y — 
 
 "VVhci-c, meekly facing all theii- proud array, 
 
 The white-robed Lisa with her pareuls stood, 
 
 As sonic white dove before the gorgeous brood 
 
 Of dapple-breasted birds boru by the Colchiaii flood. 
 
 The king and queen, by gracious looks and sjieech, 
 
 ICncoiirag^ her, and thus their courtiers teach 
 
 IIuw this fair morning they may courtliest be 
 
 By making Lisa pass it liappily. 
 
 And soon the ladies and tlie 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 ; 
 
 Koou 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 trellised sliade 
 
 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. 
 
 We while we live your cavalier will be. 
 
 Nor will we ever arm ourselves for fight, 
 
 Whether for struggle dire or brief delight 
 
 Of warlike feigning, but we first M'ill 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 wortliiness, and we entreat 
 
 That you will turn your ear to proffered vows 
 
 Of one who loves you, and would be your spouse. 
 
 We must not wrong yourself and Sicily 
 
 By letting all your blooming years pass by 
 
 Unmated: you will give the world its due 
 
 From beauteous maiden and become a matron true."' 
 
 Then Lisa, wrapt in virgin wonderment 
 
 At her ambitious love's complete content, 
 
 Which left no further good for her to seek 
 
 Thau love's obedience, said with accent meek— 
 
 "Monsignor, I know well that were it known 
 
 To all the world how higli my love had flown. 
 
 There would be few who would not deem inc mad, 
 
 Or say my mind the fal.scst image had 
 
 Of my condition and your lofty place. 
 
 But heaven 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.
 
 UOW LISA LOVED THE KIKG. 61 
 
 But, as you better know than I, the heart 
 In choosing chooseth not its own desert, 
 But that great merit which attracteth it ; 
 'Tis law, I strnggled, Ijnt I must submit, 
 And having seen a wortli all worth above, 
 1 loved you, love you, and shall always love. 
 But that doth mean, my will is ever yours. 
 Not only when your will my good 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 conscut." 
 
 Eer 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 he loved ; she loving well 
 
 The lot that from obedience befell. 
 
 The queen a rare betrothal ring ou each 
 
 Bestowed, and other gems, with gracious speech. 
 
 And that no joy might lack, the king, who knew 
 
 Tlie youth was poor, gave him rich Ceffalu 
 
 And Catalctta, large and fruitful lands — 
 
 Adding much promise when he joined their hands. 
 
 At last he said to Lisa, with an air 
 
 Gallant yet noble: "Now we claim our share 
 
 From your sweet love, a share which is not small: 
 
 For in the sacrament one crumb is all." 
 
 Then taking her small face his hands between, 
 
 lie kissed her on the brow with kiss serene, 
 
 Fit seal to that pure vision her young soul had seen. 
 
 Sicilians witnessed that King Pedro kept 
 Ilis royal promise: Perdicone slept 
 To many honors honorably won. 
 Living with Lisa in true union. 
 Throughout his life the king still 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 thrust. 
 
 L'Envoi. 
 
 Reader, this story pleaded mc lonr/ ago 
 
 In thf hrvjht pagcfi of Doccaccin, 
 
 And where the avthor of a good )«p know, 
 
 Let rta not fail to pay the yratiful thanks we, owe. 
 
 1S69.
 
 A MINOR rROrHET. 
 
 I iiAVF. a fi'iend, a vegetarian seer, 
 
 By name Elias IJaptist, IJutterwoitli, 
 
 A harmless bland, disinterested man, 
 
 Whose ancestors in Cromwell's day believed 
 
 The Second Advent certain iu five years, 
 
 But when King Charles the Second came instead. 
 
 Revised their date and sought another world: 
 
 I mean — not heaven but— America. 
 
 A fervid stock, whose generous hope embraced 
 
 The fortunes of mankind, not stopping 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 liats 
 
 Would all be of one pattern, books and songs 
 
 AH 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 thought. 
 
 You could not pass him in the street and fail 
 
 To note his shoulders' long declivity. 
 
 Beard to the waist, swan-neck, and large palo 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 
 
 Proving him witty, while the shallower men 
 
 Only seem witty iu their repartees. 
 
 Not that he's vain, but that his doctrine needs 
 
 The 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 liere ; 
 
 .90 the Thought-atmosphere is everywhere: 
 
 High truths that glimmered under other names
 
 A MINOR PROPnET. 63 
 
 To ancient sages, whence good scholarship 
 
 Applied to Eleusiiiian mysteries — 
 
 The Vedas — Tripitaka— Vendidad— 
 
 Might furnish weaker i)roof for weaker miuds 
 
 That Thought was rapping in tlie lioary past, 
 
 And might have edifled 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-atmospliere is reabsorbed 
 
 By nerves of insects parasitical. 
 
 Those higher truths, seized now by higher minds 
 
 But not ex))ressed (the insects hindering) 
 
 AVill either flash out into eloquence, 
 
 Or better still, be comprehensible 
 
 By rappings simply, without need of roots. 
 
 'Tis on this theme — the vegetarian world — 
 
 That good Elias willingly expands : 
 
 lie loves to tell in mildly nasal tones 
 
 And vowels stretclied 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. 
 
 Saith 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 think 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 lifu. 
 
 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 being dished in good society. 
 
 Imagination in that distant age. 
 
 Aiming at fiction called historical, 
 
 Will vainly try to reconstruct the times 
 
 When it was men's preposterous delight 
 
 To sit astride live horses, which consumed 
 
 Material's for incalculable cakes; 
 
 When there were milkmaids who drew milk from cows 
 
 With udders kept abnormal for that end 
 
 Since the rude mythopceic jieriod 
 
 Of Aryan dairymen, who did not blush 
 
 To call their milkmaid and their daughter cue — 
 
 Ilidplcssly gazing at the Milky Way 
 
 Nor dreaming of the astral cocoa-uuts
 
 64 A MINOll PllOPHET. 
 
 Quite at tho service of posterity. 
 'Tis to be feared, thonsli, that tlie diillcr boyo, 
 Much given to anachronisms and nuts 
 (Elias has confessed boys will be boys) 
 May write a jockey for a centaur, think 
 Europu's suitor was an Irish bull, 
 .^sop a journalist who wrote up Fox, 
 And Bruin a chief swindler ui)ou 'Change. 
 Boys will be boys, but dogs will all be moral, 
 With longer alimentary canals 
 Suited to diet vegetarian. 
 The uglier breeds will fade from memory, 
 Or, being pala;ontological, 
 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 queerncsses. 
 No naive cunning, grave absurdity. 
 Wart-pigs with tender and parental grunts. 
 Wombats much flattened as to their contour. 
 Perhaps from too much crushing in the ark, 
 Bujt taking meekly that fatality; 
 The serious cranes, unstung 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 wcll-turued, 
 And talk quite free from aught erroneous. 
 
 Thus far Elias 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 friend, 
 
 Setting the weak carnivorous brain nstretch ; 
 
 We will resume the thread another day." 
 
 "To-morrow," cries Elias," "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 
 Who living in tliose perfect future times 
 Will not know half the dear imperfect things
 
 A MIKOK PROPIIET. 65 
 
 That move my smiles and tears— will uever know 
 
 The line old incougiuities that raise 
 
 My friendly laugh ; the inuoceut conceits 
 
 That like a needless eyeglass or black patch 
 
 Give those who wear them harmless happiness ; 
 
 The twists and cracks in our poor earthenware, 
 
 That touch me to more conscious fellowship 
 
 (I am not myself the linest Parian) 
 
 With my coevals. So poor Colin Clout, 
 
 To whom raw onion gives prospective zest. 
 
 Consoling hours of dampest wintry work, 
 
 Could hardly fancy any regal joys 
 
 Quite unimpregnate with the onion's scent: 
 
 Perhaps his highest hopes are not all clear 
 
 Of wafiings from that energetic bulb; 
 
 'Tis well that onion is not heresy. 
 
 Speaking in parable, I am Colin Clout. 
 
 A clinging flavor jienelrates my life— 
 
 My onion is imperfectness: I cleave 
 
 To nature's blunders, evanescent types 
 
 Which sages banish from Utopia. 
 
 "Not worship beauty?" say you. Patience, friend ! 
 
 I worship in the temple with the rest; 
 
 But by my hearth I keep a sacred nook 
 
 For gnomes and dwarfs, duck-footed waddling elves 
 
 Who stitched and hammered for the weary man 
 
 In days of old. And in that piety 
 
 I clothe ungainly forms inherited 
 
 From toiling generations, daily bent 
 
 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 parados. 
 
 And pity future men who will not know 
 
 A keen experience with pity blent, 
 
 The pathos exquisite of lovely minds 
 
 Hid in harsh forms— not penetrating them 
 
 Like fire divine within a common bush 
 
 Which glows transfigured by the heavenly guest, 
 
 So that men put their shoes off; 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 walls. 
 
 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 love 
 
 Of merest habit, like the raiser's greed. 
 
 But I am Colin still: my prejudice 
 
 Is for the flavor of my daily food. 
 
 Not that I doubt the world is growing still 
 
 As once it grew from Chaos and from Night; 
 
 Or have a soul too shrunken for the hope 
 
 Which dawned in human breasts, a double morn, 
 
 18 D
 
 66 A MINOll PKOrilET. 
 
 With eailiost watchings of the rising light 
 Chasing thi; darliiicss; and tlirougli many an age 
 Has raised tlio vision of a fiUnre time 
 Tlial stands an yVngel with a face all mild 
 Spearing the demon. I too rest in faith 
 That man's jieifection is the crowning flower, 
 Toward which the urgent sap in life's great tree 
 Is i)ressing — 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 thvsh of faces 'ueath uplifted hats 
 
 Run like a storm of joy along the streets ! 
 
 lie says, "God bless him!" ahnost 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 ou too; and he will soon relapse 
 
 From noticing the banners and the steeds 
 
 To think with pleasure there is just one bun 
 
 Left iu 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 good 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 people making holiday 
 
 Because of hopes for better days to come. 
 
 But Hope to him was like the brilliant west 
 
 Telling of sunrise in a world unknown. 
 
 And from that dazzling curtain of bri'jflit hues 
 
 He turned to the familiar face of HcUIh 
 
 Lyiug all clear in the calm morning land.
 
 A MINOR PUOPHET. 67 
 
 Maybe 'tis wiser not to fix a lens 
 
 Too scrutinizing on the glorious times 
 
 When Barbarossa shall arise aiul shake 
 
 His mountain, good King Arthur come again, 
 
 And all the heroes of such giant soul 
 
 That, living once to cheer maukiud with hope, 
 
 They had to sleep until the time was ripe 
 
 For greater deeds to match their greater thought. 
 
 Yet no ! the earth yields nothing more divine 
 
 Thau high prophetic vision— than the Seer 
 
 Who fasting from man's meaner joy beholds 
 
 The paths of beauteous order, and constructa 
 
 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, that 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 lova. 
 
 Full souls are double mirrors, making still 
 
 An endless vista of fair things before 
 
 Repeating things behind ; so faith is strong 
 
 Only when we are strong, shrinks when we shrink 
 
 It comes when music stirs us, and the chords 
 
 Moving ou some grand climax shake our souls 
 
 With influx new that makes new enei-gies. 
 
 It aimes 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 liner 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 rebulces. 
 
 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 souls 
 To admiration, self-renouncing love. 
 Or thoughts, like light, that bind the world in one 
 Sweeps like the sense of vastness, when at night 
 We hear the roll and dash of waves that break 
 Nearer and nearer with the rushing tide. 
 Which rises to the level of the cliff 
 Because the wide Atlantic rolls behind 
 Throbbing respondent to the far-off orbs.
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 I. 
 
 I oannOt choose but think upon the time 
 When our two lives grew lilce two buds that kiss 
 At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, 
 Because the one so near the other is. 
 
 He was the elder and a little man 
 Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, 
 And I the girl that puppy-like now ran, 
 Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. 
 
 I held him Avise, and when he talked to nie 
 Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best, 
 I thought his knowledge marked the boundary 
 Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest. 
 
 If he said "Hush !" I tried to hold my breath; 
 Wherever he said "Come!" I stepped in faith. 
 
 II. 
 Long 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 waudered 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 in 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 hours of infantine content. 
 
 III. 
 
 Onr mother bade us keep the trodden ways. 
 Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill, 
 Tbeu with the benediction of her gaze 
 Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still 
 
 Across the homestead to the rookery elms, 
 Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound, 
 So rich for us, we counted them as realms 
 With varied products: here were earth-nuts found,
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 69 
 
 And here the Lady-flngers in deep shade; 
 Here sloping toward the Moat the rushes grew, 
 The hirge 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. 
 
 Our meadow-path had memorable spots: 
 One where it bridged a tiny rivulet, 
 Deep hid by tangled blue Forget-me-nots ; 
 And all along the waving grasses met 
 
 My little palm, or nodded to my cheek. 
 When flowei's with upturned faces gazing drew 
 My wonder downward, seeming all to speak 
 With eyes of souls that durably heard and knew. 
 
 Then came the copse, where wild things rushed unseen. 
 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 soul. 
 The fear, the love, the primal passionate store. 
 Whose shaping impulses make manhood whole. 
 
 Those hours were seed to all my after good; 
 My infant gla'dness, through eye, ear, and touch. 
 Took easily as warmth a various food 
 To nourish the sweet skill of loving much. 
 
 For who in age shall roam the earth and find 
 Reasons for loving that will strike ont 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, whither flew 
 The parting cuckoo toward a fresh spring time.
 
 70 KKOTnER AND SISTETl. 
 
 The widc-ai-chctl bridge, the scented clder-flowcrs, 
 The wondrous watery rings that died too soon, 
 The cclious of llic quarry, the still hours 
 With white robe sweepiug-on the shadelcss noon, 
 
 Were but my growing self, are pai t 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 in this world perplest. 
 
 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 nearing barge. 
 Snatch out the line, lest he should come too late. 
 
 Proad 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 iscemed 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 quivering 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 meny play, 
 Until my triumph reached its hiuhest 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 BO I learned, luck was with glory wed. 
 
 We had 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 thing I like my sister may not do. 
 For she is little, and I must be kind."
 
 BKOXnER AND BISTER. 71 
 
 Thus boyish Will the nobler mastery learned 
 Where inward vision over impulse reigns, 
 Widening its life with separate life discerned, 
 A Like unlike, a Self that 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 any reason when my brother came. 
 
 I knelt with him at marbles, marked his fling 
 Cut the ringed stem and make the apple drop, 
 Or watched him winding close the spiral string 
 That looped the orbits of the humming top. 
 
 Grasped by such fellowship my vagrant thonght 
 Ceased with dream-fruit dream-wishes to fulfil; 
 My ac'ry-picturing fantasy was taught 
 Subjection to the harder, truer skill 
 
 That seeks with deeds to grave a thought-tracked line, 
 And by "What is," "What will be" to define. 
 
 School parted us; 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 happy clime, 
 And its dear accent to our utterance clung. 
 
 Till the dire years whose awful name is Change 
 Had grasped our souls still yearning in 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. 
 
 1S69.
 
 STRADIVARIUS. 
 
 YoTTR Boul was liftccl by the wiugs to-dny 
 
 Hcai-iiig the master of the violiu: 
 
 You praised him, praised the great Scliastian too 
 
 Who made that flue Chacomie ; but did you think 
 
 Of old Antouio Stradivari? — him 
 
 Who a good century and half ago 
 
 Put his true work in that brown instrument 
 
 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 procedeut 
 
 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 man who stood at work 
 
 Patient and accurate full fourscore years. 
 
 Cherished his sight and touch by temperance. 
 
 And since keen sense is love of pcrfcctness 
 
 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 task 
 Of making violins?" or flung them down 
 To suit with hurling act a well-hurled curse 
 At labor on such perishable stuff. 
 Eence neighbors iu Cremona held him dull, 
 Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a machine, 
 Begged him to tell his motives or to lend 
 A few gold pieces to a loftier mind. 
 Yet he had pithy words full fed by fact ; 
 For Pact, well-trusted, reasons and persuades, 
 Is gnomic, cutting, or ironical, 
 Draws tears, or is a tocsin to arouse — 
 Can hold all figures of the orator 
 In one plain sentence ; has her pauses too- 
 Eloquent silence at the chasm abrnpt 
 Where knowledge ceases. Thus Antonio 
 Made answers as Fact willed, .and made them strong. 
 
 Naldo, a painter of eclectic school. 
 Taking his dicers, candlelight, and griua
 
 8TRADIVARIUS. 73 
 
 From Caravaggio, and in holier groups 
 Combining Flemish flesh with martyrdom- 
 Knowing all tricks of style at thirty-one, 
 And weary of them, while Antonio 
 At sixty-nine wrought placidly his best 
 Making the violin you heard to-day — 
 Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aim?. 
 "Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed — 
 The love of louis d'ors in heaps of four. 
 Each violin a heap — I've nought to blame ; 
 My vices waste such heaps. But then, why work 
 With jiainful nicety ? Since fame once earned 
 By luck or merit^oftenest by luck — 
 (Else why do I put Bonifazio's name 
 To work that '■pinxit Naldo' would not sell ?) 
 Is welcome index to the wealthy mob 
 Where they should pay their gold, and where they pay 
 There they find merit— take your tow for flax. 
 And hold the flax unlabelled with your name, 
 Too coarse for sufl'erance." 
 
 Antonio then : 
 "I like the gold — well, yes — but not for meals. 
 And as my stomach, so my eye and hand, 
 And inwtird 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 band 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 
 'Twist 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 them skill 
 I give them instruments to pl.ay upon, 
 God choosing me to help Ilim." 
 
 "What! were God 
 At fault for violins, thou absent ?" 
 
 "Yes; 
 He were at fault for Stradivari's work." 
 
 18* 1^*
 
 7i STKADIVARIUS. 
 
 " Why, many hold Giuseppe's violins 
 As good as thine." 
 
 "May be: they arc different. 
 Ilia quality declines: he Ki)oiltf liis hand 
 With Dver-diinkiiiiif. But were his the best, 
 lie could not woik for two. My work is mine, 
 And, heresy or not, if my hand Klackcd 
 I (Should 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 liim. I am one best 
 Here in Cremona, using sunlight well 
 To fashion finest maple till it serves 
 More cunningly than throats, for harmony. 
 ' 'Tis rare delight: I would not change my skill 
 To be the Enii)eror 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 — 
 Uncouuted inspirations — influence 
 
 That comes with drinking, gambling, talk turned wild, 
 Then moody misery and lack of food— 
 With every dithyrarabic 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 you now 
 The finest Crucifixion; yesternight 
 Returning homo I saw it on a sky 
 Blue-black, thick-starred. I want two louis d'ors 
 To buy the canvas and the costly blues- 
 Trust me a fixrtnight. " 
 
 "Where are those last two 
 I lent thee foe thy Judith ? — her thou saw'st 
 In saftVon gown, with Iloloferues' 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. 
 
 YoDNO Hamlet, not the hesitating Dane, 
 
 But one named after him, wlio hiteiy strove 
 
 For honors at our Euglish 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 everything: 
 
 As, drinking deep to-day for love of wine, 
 
 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, 
 
 Kesolved to wear no stockings and to fast 
 
 With arms extended, waiting ecstasy; 
 
 But getting cramps instead, and needing change, 
 
 A would-be pagan next: — 
 
 Young Hamlet sat 
 A guest with five of somewhat riper age 
 At breakfast with Horatio, a friend 
 With few opinions, but of faithful heart. 
 Quick to detect the fibrous 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 flue 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 COLLEGOi lillKAKl'AST-PARTY. 
 
 The daily nurslings of creative light. 
 Small words held mighty meanings: flatter, Force, 
 Self, Not-self, licing, Seeming, Space, and Time- 
 Plebeian toilers on the duKty road 
 Of daily trallJc, tinned to Genii 
 And cloudy giants darkening sun and moon. 
 Creation was reversed in Imnian talk: 
 Kone said, "Let Darkness be," but Diirkness was; 
 And in it weltered with Teutonic ease, 
 An argumentative Leviathan, 
 Blowing cascades from out his element, 
 The thunderous Rosencranz, till 
 
 "Truce, 1 beg!" 
 Said Osric, with nice accent. " I ablior 
 That battling of the ghosts, that strife of terms 
 For utmost lack of color, form, and breath, 
 That tasteless squabbling called Philosophy : 
 As if a blue-winged butterfly afloat 
 For just three days above the Italian fields. 
 Instead of sipping at the heart of flowers. 
 Poising in sunshine, fluttering towards its bride, 
 Sliould fast and speculate, 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 bo 
 A sipping, marrying, blue-winged butterfly; 
 Since utmost speculation on itself 
 Were but a three days' living of 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 Imttcrfly, 
 A bubble, sparlj, 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 mother'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 bent 
 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 vvlio know it, pain is solely pain : 
 Not any letters of the alphabet 
 Wrought syllogistically pattern-wise, 
 Nor any cluster of fine images, 
 Nor any missing of their figured dance 
 By blundering molecules. Analysis 
 May show you the right physic for the ill. 
 Teaching the molecules to find their dance.
 
 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 77 
 
 But spare me your analogies, that hold 
 Such insight as the figure of a crow 
 Aud bar of music put to siguify 
 A crowbar." 
 
 Said the Priest, "There I agree— 
 Would add that sacramoiUal grace is grace 
 Which to 1)6 kiiowu mus^t lirst be felt, with all 
 The strengthening influxes that come by prayer. 
 I note this passingly— would not delay 
 The conversation's tenor, save to hint 
 That talcing stand with Roseucranz one sees 
 Final equivalence of all we name 
 Our Good and 111— their diflerence meanwhile 
 Being inborn prejudice that plumps you dowu 
 An Ego, brings a weight into your scale 
 Forcing a standard. That resistless weight 
 Obstinate, irremovable by thought. 
 Persisting through disproof, an ache, a need 
 That spaceless stays where sharp analysis 
 Has shown a plenum filled without it— what 
 If this, to use your phrase, were just that Being 
 Not looking solely, grasping from the dark. 
 Weighing the diflerence you call Ego? This 
 Gives you persistence, regulates the flux 
 With strict relation 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: 
 Reason has reached its utmost negative. 
 Physic and metaphysic meet in the inane 
 And backward shrink to intense prejudice, 
 Making their absolute aud homogene 
 A loaded relative, a choice to be 
 Whatever is — supposed: a What is not. 
 The Church demands no more, has standing room 
 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. Father, how to know 
 
 The sign of that imperative whose right 
 
 To sway my act in face of thronging doubts 
 
 Were an oracular gem in price beyoud 
 
 Urim and Thummim lost to Israel. 
 
 That bias of tlie soul, that conquering die 
 
 Loaded with golden emphasis of Will — 
 
 How find it where resolve, once made, becomes 
 
 The rash exclusion of au opposite 
 
 Which draws the stronger as I turn aloof." 
 
 "I think I hear a bias in your words," 
 The Priest said mildly,— "that strong natural bent 
 Which we call hunger. What more positive 
 Thau appetite?— of spirit or of flesh,
 
 78 A COLLEGE BKEAKFAST-PAIITY. 
 
 I care not— 'pciisc of need' were truer phrase. 
 
 You Lunger for autlioiilativc rij^ht, 
 
 And yet dL-^ceru no difference of tones, 
 
 jMo \veij,'lit of rod that marks imperial rule? 
 
 Lacrics granting;, 1 will put your case 
 
 In analogic form : the doctors hold 
 
 Hunger wiiicli gives no relish— save caprice 
 
 That tasting venison fancies mellow pears— 
 
 A symi)toni of disorder, and prescribe 
 
 Strict discipline. Were I physician here 
 
 I would prescribe that exercise of soul 
 
 V/liich lies in full obedience: you ask, 
 
 01)edicnce to what? The answer lies 
 
 Within the word itself; for how obey 
 
 What has no rule, asserts no absolute claim? 
 
 Take iuclination, taste— why, that is you, 
 
 No rule above you. Science, reasoning 
 
 On nature's order— they exist and move 
 
 Solely by disputatiou, hold no pledge 
 
 Of final consequence, but push the swing 
 
 Where Epicurus and the Stoic sit 
 
 In endless see-saw. One authority. 
 
 And only one, says simply this, Obey : 
 
 Place yourself iu that current (test it so!) 
 
 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 plus of arithmetic iutei-change. 
 
 'The Church too has a body,' you object, 
 
 'Cau be dissected, put beneath the lens 
 
 And shown the merest continuity 
 
 Of all existence else beneath the sun.' 
 
 I grant you ; but the lens will not disprove 
 
 A presence which eludes it. Take your wit, 
 
 Yotu- highest passion, widest-reaching thought: 
 
 Show their conditions if you will or can, 
 
 lUit 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 exc^ise must be 
 
 Your question, Hamlet, which has iirobed right through 
 
 To the 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. Good-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 Guildenstern :
 
 A COLLEGE BBEAKFAST-PAKTY. 79 
 
 "I marvel how the Father gave new charm 
 To weak coucUisioiis : I was half couviuced 
 The pooi-e!<t reasoiier mado the liiiest mau, 
 And held his loj^ic lovelier for its liini)." 
 
 "I fain would hear," said Hamlet, "how you find 
 
 A strouoer fooiiuK than the Father gave. 
 
 How hase your self-resistance save on faith 
 
 In some invisible Order, higher Eight 
 
 Thau changing impulse. What does Keasou hid? 
 
 To take a fullest rationality 
 
 What offers best solution : so the Church. 
 
 Science, delecting hydrogen aflame 
 
 Outside our firmament, leaves mystery 
 
 Whole and untouched beyond; nay, iu our blood 
 
 And iu 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 fiont at mystery. The Church 
 
 Takes mystery as her empire, brings its wealth 
 
 Of i)ossibility to fill the void 
 
 'Tvvixt contradictions— warrants so a faith 
 
 Defying sense and all its ruthless train 
 
 Of arrogant 'Therefores.' Science with hec lens 
 
 Dissolves the Forms that made the other half 
 
 Of all our love, which thenceforth widowed lives 
 
 To gaze with maniac stare at what is not. 
 
 The Churcli explains not, governs — feeds resolve 
 
 By vision fraught with heart-experience 
 
 And human yearning." 
 
 "Ay," said Guildenstern, 
 With friendly nod, "the Father, I can see, 
 Has caught you up in his air-chariot. 
 His thought takes rainbow-bridges, out of reach 
 I?y solid obstacles, evaporates 
 The coarse and common into subtiltics, 
 Insists that what is real in the Church 
 Is something out of evidence, and begs 
 (Just iu parenthesis) you'll never mind 
 What stares you in the face and hruises yoii. 
 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. IIow 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 lot 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 he found 
 In strict subordination, hierarchy
 
 80 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY, 
 
 Of forces where, by nature's law, the strong 
 
 Has rightful empire, rule of wciiker iiroved 
 
 Mere ilissoliitioii. What can you ol)joct? 
 
 The luquisiliou — if yon turn away 
 
 From narrow notice how the scent of gold 
 
 lias guided sense of damning heresy — 
 
 The Inquisitiou is suljlimc, is love 
 
 Hindering the spread of jioison in men's souls : 
 
 The flames are notliing: oniy smaller pain 
 
 To hinder greater, or llie pain of one 
 
 To save the many, such us throbs at heart 
 
 Of every system born into the world. 
 
 So of the Church as high communion 
 
 Of Head with members, fount of sjiirit force 
 
 Beyond the calculus, and carrying proof 
 
 In her sole i)ower to satisfy man's need: 
 
 That seems ideal truth as clear as lines 
 
 That, necessary though invisible, trace 
 
 The balance of the planets aud the sun — 
 
 Until I find a hitch is 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 Church 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, 
 
 Which 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 Mount, if still within 
 
 I see a higher Right, a higher Good 
 
 Compelling love and worship ? Though the earth 
 
 Held force electric to discern and kill 
 
 Each thinking rebel — what is martyrdom 
 
 But death-defying utterance of belief, 
 
 Which being mine remains my truth supreme 
 
 Though solitary as the throb of pain 
 
 Lying outside the pulses of the world? 
 
 Obedience is good: ay, 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 nowl" 
 Said Osric, delicately, " how you come, 
 Laertes mine, with all your warring zeal
 
 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 
 Of private judgment and disgust for doubt — 
 To state my thesis, which you most abhor 
 When sung in Daphuis-notes l)eneath the pines 
 To gentle rush of waters. Your belief — 
 In essence what is it but simply Taste? 
 I urge with you exemption from all claims 
 That come from other than my projjcr will, 
 An Ultimate within to balance yours, 
 A solid meeting you, excluding you, 
 Till you sliow fuller force by entering 
 My spiritual space and crushing IVIe 
 To a subordinate complement of You: 
 Such Ultimate must stand alike for all. 
 Preach your crusade, then: all will join who like 
 The hurly-burly of aggressive creeds ; 
 Still your unpleasant Ought, your itch to choose 
 What grates upon the sense, is simply Taste, 
 Diflers, I think, 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 liosencranz 
 
 Took up the ball with rougher movement, wont 
 
 To show contempt for doting reasoners 
 
 Who hugged some reasons with a preference, 
 
 As warm Laertes did : he gave five puffs 
 
 Intolerantly scejjtical, then said, 
 
 "Your human Good, which you would make supreme. 
 
 How do yon 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 self-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 in labor or in laziness ? 
 
 lu training for the tug of rivalry 
 
 To be admired, or in the admiring soul? 
 
 In risk or certitude ? In battling rage 
 
 And hardy challenges of Protean luck. 
 
 Or in a sleek and rural apathy 
 
 Full fed with sameness? Pray define your Good 
 
 Beyond rejection by majority; 
 
 Next, how it may subsist without the III 
 
 Which seems its only outline. Show a world 
 
 Of pleasure not resisted ; or a world 
 
 Of pressure equalized, yet various 
 
 In action formative ; for that will serve 
 
 As illustration of your human Good—
 
 82 A COLLEGE BIIEAKFAST-PAKTY. 
 
 Which at its perfectinp; (your goal of hope) 
 Will not be Rtiaight extinct, or fall to sleep 
 In the deep bosom of the UuchanKcable. 
 What will yon work for, then, and call it good 
 With full and certain vision — good for aught 
 Save [lartial ends which happen to be yours? 
 How will you get your stringency to bind 
 Tlioiight or desire in dennnistrated tracks 
 Wliich arc but waves within a balanced wlmle? 
 Is 'Kelative' the magic word that turns 
 Your flux mercurial of good to gold '! 
 Why, that analysis at which you rage 
 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 space 
 Which you say might be real were you milled 
 To curves pellicular, the thinnest thin, 
 Equation of no thickness, is still you." 
 
 "Abstracting all that makes him clubbable," 
 
 Horatio interposed. But Rosencrauz, 
 
 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 Ilunger-tower ; your social Good, 
 
 Like other deities by turn supreme, 
 
 Is transient reflex of a prejudice, 
 
 Anthology of causes and eff"ects 
 
 To suit the mood of fanatics who lead 
 
 The mood of triljes 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 your Right, - 
 
 Duty, or social Good, were it once brought 
 
 To common measure with the potent law. 
 
 Would dip the scale, would put unchanging niarka 
 
 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 
 
 Ajipeal beyond the sentience in each man? 
 
 Frighten the blind with scarecrows? raise an awo 
 
 Of things unseen where appetite commands 
 
 Chambers of imagery in the soul 
 
 At all its avenues?— You chant your hymns 
 
 To Evolution, on your altar lay
 
 A COLLEGE BKEAKFAST-PARTY. 83 
 
 A sacred egg callecl Progress: have you proved 
 
 A Best uuique where all is relative, 
 
 Aud where each chauge is loss as well as gain? 
 
 The age of healthy Sauriaus, well supplied 
 
 With lieat and prey, will balauce well enough 
 
 A human age where maladies are strong 
 
 And pleasures feeble; wealth a monster gorged 
 
 Mid hungry i)opulations ; intellect 
 
 Aproned in laboratories, 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 ghists 
 
 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, playing at belief 
 
 That hnnt the slipper, foot-ball, hide-and-seek, 
 
 Are sweetly merry, donning pinafores 
 
 And lisping emulously in their speech. 
 
 human 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 Saurians were better. — Gnildenstern, 
 Pass me the taper. Still the human curse 
 Has mitigation in the best cigars." 
 
 Then swift Laertes, not without a glare 
 Of leonine 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. 
 
 Yuu 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 yok& 
 
 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 BREAKP AST-PARTY. 
 
 Tcstinp; the Possible with patient skill, 
 
 And daring 111 in i>rcscncc of a Good 
 
 For futines to inliorit, ni:ulc yonr lot 
 
 One you would choose riilhor than end it, nay, 
 
 Katlior than, say, some twenty million lots 
 
 or lellow-liritons toiling? all to make 
 
 That nation, that community, whereon 
 
 You feed and thrive and talk (jhilosophy. 
 
 I am no optimist whose faith must hang 
 
 On hard pretence that iiain is beautiful 
 
 And a<;ony explained for men at case 
 
 hy virtue's exercise in pitying it. 
 
 ]5ut this I hold: that he who takes one gift 
 
 Made for him by the hopeful work of man. 
 
 Who tastes sweet bread, walks where ho will unarmed, 
 
 His shield and warrant the invisible law, 
 
 Who owns a hearth and household charities, 
 
 Who clothes his body and his sentient soul 
 
 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 spins 
 
 His wire-drawn argument against all good 
 
 With sense of brimstone as his private lot. 
 
 And never drew a solace from the Earth." 
 
 Laertes fuming paused, and Guildeustern 
 
 Took up with cooler skill the fusillade : 
 
 "I meet your deadliest challenge, Roseucranz: — 
 
 Where get, you say, a binding law, a rule 
 
 Enforced by sanction, au Ideal throned 
 
 With thunder in its hand ? I answer, there 
 
 Whence every faith and rule has drawn its force 
 
 Since human consciousness awaking owned 
 
 Au Outward, whose unconquerable sway 
 
 Resisted first and then subdued desire 
 
 By pressure of the dire Impossible 
 
 Urging to possible ends the active sonl 
 
 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 potency apart 
 
 From the percipient and emotive mind. 
 
 God, duty, love, submission, fellowship, 
 
 ]\Inst 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 philosopher 
 
 Looking through beauty into blankness, not 
 
 The swindler who lias sent his fruitful lie 
 
 By the last telegram : it means the tide 
 
 Of needs reciprocal, toil, trust, and love — 
 
 The surging multitude of human claims
 
 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PAllTy. 85 
 
 Which make ' a presence not to be put by ' 
 
 Above the horizon of the general soul. 
 
 Is inward Reason shrank to subtleties, 
 
 And inward wisdom pining passion-starved?— 
 
 The outward Reason has the world in store, 
 
 Regenerates passion with the stress of want, 
 
 Regenerates knowledge with discovery. 
 
 Shows sly rapacious Self a blunderer, 
 
 Widens dependence, knits the social whole 
 
 In sensible relation more detrued. 
 
 Do Boards and dirty-handed millionaires 
 
 Govern the planetary system ?— sway 
 
 The pressure of the Universe?— decide 
 
 That man henceforth shall retrogress to ape. 
 
 Emptied of every sympathetic thrill 
 
 The All has wrought in him? dam np henceforth 
 
 The flood of human claims as private force 
 
 To turn their wheels and make a private hell 
 
 For flsh-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 through the ages past, alone have made 
 
 The earth and firmament of human faith ; 
 
 Say, the small arc of Being we call man 
 
 Is near its mergence, what seems growing life 
 
 Nought but a hurrying change towards lower types, 
 
 The ready raukness of degeneracy. 
 
 Well, they who mourn for the world's dying good 
 
 May take their common sorrows for a rockt 
 
 On it erect religion and a church, 
 
 A worship, rites, and passionate piety— 
 
 The worship of the Best though crucified 
 
 And God-forsaken in its dying pangs ; 
 
 The sacramental rites of fellowship 
 
 In common woe ; visions that purify 
 
 Through admiration and despairing love 
 
 Which 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, Guildenstern, yon granted him too mnch," 
 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
 
 86 A COLLEGE BREA.KFAST-PA11TY. 
 
 Whose youth is languid and incredulous, 
 
 Wcai-y of life without the will to die ; 
 
 Their passions visionary iippetites 
 
 Of bloodless spectres wailing that llie world 
 
 For lack of substance slips IVoni out their grasp ; 
 
 Their thoughts the withered husks of all things dead, 
 
 Holding no force of germs instinct with life, 
 
 Which never hesitates but moves and grows. 
 
 Yet hear them boast in screams their godlike ill, 
 
 Excess of knowing ! Pie on you, Kosencraiiz ! 
 
 You lend your brains and tine-dividing tongue 
 
 For bass-notes to this slirivelled crudity, 
 
 This immature decrepitude that strains 
 
 To fill our ears and claim the prize of strength 
 
 For mere unmanliness. Out on them all ! — 
 
 Wits, puling minstrels, and philosophers, 
 
 Who living softly prate of suicide, 
 
 And suck the commonwealth to feed their case 
 
 While they vent epigrams and threnodies. 
 
 Mocking or wailing all the eager work 
 
 Which makes that public store whereon they Teed. 
 
 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. 
 
 Has more of human truth within its life 
 
 Thau souls that look through color into nought,— 
 
 Whose brain, too uuinipassioned for delight, 
 
 Has feeble ticklings of a vanity 
 
 Which finds the universe beneath its mark. 
 
 And scorning the blue heavens as merely blue 
 
 Can only say, ' What thc^ii ?'— pre-eminent 
 
 In wondrous want of likeness to their kind, 
 
 Founding that worship of sterility 
 
 Whose one supreme is vacillating Will 
 
 Wliich makes the Light, then says, ' 'Twere better not.' '» 
 
 Here rash Laertes brought his Ilandcl-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 Rosencranz 
 Against 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 
 To care how mere Philistines pass their lives ; 
 Whether the English panper-total grows 
 From one to two before the noughts ; how far 
 Teuton will outbrecd Roman ; if the class 
 Of proletaires will make a federal band 
 To bind all Europe and America, 
 Throw, in their wrestling, every government. 
 Snatch the world's purse and keep the guillotine :
 
 A COLLEGE BIIEAKFAST-PAKTY. 87 
 
 Or else (admitting tiiese are casualties) 
 Driving my soul with scientific hail 
 That shuts the landscape out with particles; 
 Insisting that the Palingenesis 
 Means telegraphs and measure of the rate 
 At which the stars move — nobody knows where. 
 So far, my Rosencrauz, we are at one. 
 But not 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 sen. 
 Reckless 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 illusions named the ucw-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 pass more swiftly than the Deliau God, 
 But still the earth breaks into flowers for us, 
 And mortal sorrows when they reach our ears 
 Are dying falls to melody divine. 
 Hatred, war, vice, crime, sin, those human storms. 
 Cyclones, floods, what you will^outbursts of force- 
 Feed Art with contrast, give the grander touch 
 To the master's pencil and the poet's song. 
 Serve as Vesuvian fires or navies tossed 
 On yawning waters, which when viewed afar 
 Deepen the calm sul)lime 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 flux; 
 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 joy 
 A keener edge. This is a mcnigrel 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 
 (Each planet's poise must carry two extremes 
 With verging breadths of minor wretchedness): 
 We are her favorites and accept our wings. 
 For your accusal, Rosencrauz, that Art 
 Shares in the dread and weakuess of the 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 
 lu morals, science, or philosophy :
 
 y8 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PAETY. 
 
 No dull elenchus makes a yoko for her, 
 Whose law and measure are the sweet consent 
 Of sensibilities that move apart 
 From rise or fall of systems, states or creeds — 
 Apart from what Philistines call man's weal." 
 
 "Ay, we all know those votaries of the Mnso 
 Ravished with singing till they quite forgot 
 Their manhood, sang, and gaped, and took no food. 
 Then died of emptiness, and for reward 
 Lived on as grasshoppers " — Laertes thus : 
 Hut then he checked himself as one who feels 
 His muscles dangerous, and Guildeustcru 
 Filled up the pause with calmer confidence. 
 
 "You use your wings, my Osric, poise yourself 
 Safely outside all reach of argument, 
 Then dogmatize at will (a method kuowu 
 To ancient women and i)hilosophers. 
 Nay, to Philistines whom you most abhor) ; 
 Else, could an arrow reach you, I should ask 
 Whence came taste, beauty, sensibilities 
 Rejiued to preference infallible ? 
 Doubtless, ye're 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 nun\ 
 Of human struggle, order, knowledge ? — sense 
 Trained to a fuller record, more exact- 
 To truer guidance of each jiassionate force ? 
 Get me your roseate flesh without the blood ; 
 Get fine aromas without structure wrought 
 From simpler being into manifold: 
 Then and then only flaunt your Beautiful 
 As what can live apart from thought, creeds, states, 
 Which 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 Iliudu Siva looks divine: 
 'Tis Art, 'tia Poesy. Say, you object : 
 How came you by that lofty dissidence. 
 If not through changes in the social man 
 Widening his consciousness from Uere 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 blend 
 Truth and desire ? Taste, beauty, what are they 
 But the soul's 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 fuuctious ? Aa the plant
 
 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PAllTY. bd 
 
 Holds its corolla, pnrple, delicate, 
 
 Solely as oiitflush of that energy 
 
 Which moves transformiugly iu root and branch." 
 
 GuQdenstern paused, and Hamlet, qniveriug 
 Since Osric spoke, in transit imminent 
 From catholic striving into laxity, 
 Ventured his word. "Seems to me, Guildenstern, 
 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 separate functions, a transflgured 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 
 A-s 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, uo 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 
 Pelight may stamp as highest." 
 
 "Possible!" 
 Said Gnildenstern, with touch of weariness, 
 "Bat then we might dispute of what is gross. 
 What high, what low." 
 
 "Nay," said Laertes, " ai^k 
 The mightiest makers who have reigned, still reigu 
 Within the ideal realm. See if their thought 
 Be drained of practice and the thick warm blood 
 Of hearts that beat in action various 
 Through the wide drama of the struggling world. 
 Good-bye, Horatio." 
 
 Each now said "Good-bye." 
 Such 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 
 Iiike 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 boats 
 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'crfiill of love. 
 'Twas iuvitatiou all to sweet repose ; 
 
 19 i^
 
 90 A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-I'AUTY. 
 
 Aud Ilamlct, drowsy with the mluglcd draughts 
 
 Of cider and couflictiug sentiment?, 
 
 Chose a green couch and watched witli half-closed eyes 
 
 The meadow-road, the stream and dreamy lights, 
 
 Until they merged themselves in sequence strange 
 
 M'ith undulating ether, time, the soul. 
 
 The will supreme, the individual claim, 
 
 The social Ought, the lyrist's liberty, 
 
 Democritus, Pythagoras, iu talk 
 
 With Anselni, 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 theu 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 
 And leave the soul iu 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 ! 
 O love's blest prime 1 
 
 Two wedded from the portal slept: 
 The bells made happy caroUings, 
 The air was soft as fanning wings, 
 White petals ou the pathway slept. 
 
 O puie-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 honr ! 
 O hidden power! 
 
 Two parents by tlu; evening tire : 
 The red light fell about their knees 
 On heads that rose by slow degrees 
 Like buds upon the lily spire. 
 
 O patieut life I 
 O tender strife! 
 
 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 upwn the floor 
 And made the space between them wide; 
 They drew their chairs up side by side, 
 Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more!" 
 O memories ! 
 O past that is!
 
 SELF AND LIFE. 
 
 Self. 
 
 CuANfiEFUL comrade, Life of miue, 
 
 Before we two must part, 
 I will tell thee, thon ehalt 8ay, 
 
 What thou hast beeu and art. 
 Ere I lose my hold of thee 
 Justify thyself to me. 
 
 LlFB. 
 
 I was thy Avarmth npon thy mother's knee 
 
 When light and love within her eyes were one: 
 We laughed together by the laurel-tree. 
 Culling warm daisies 'neath the sloi)ing 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 persou? Was it thing? 
 Was it touch or whispering? 
 It was bliss and it was I: 
 Bliss was what thou knew'st me by. 
 
 Sklf. 
 
 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 joj'. 
 
 LlFU. 
 
 Remember 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 LIFE. 93 
 
 Self. 
 
 Seeing what I might have been 
 
 Reproved the thiiiij I was, 
 Smoke oil heaven's clearest sheen, 
 
 The speck wiiliin tlie rose. 
 By revered ones' frailties stung 
 Reverence was with anguish wrung. 
 
 Lire. 
 
 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 knows its own iu others' shape. 
 Railing, scorning, at its ease. 
 Half man's truth must hidden lie 
 If unlit by Sorrow's eye. 
 I by Sorrow wrought iu thee 
 Willing pain 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 '." 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 lieavcnly tune of scraphin 
 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 be 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 I 
 
 Far-sent, uuchosen mate ! 
 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. 
 
 MoBKS, who spake with God as with liis fiicud, 
 And ruled his people with tlie twofold power 
 Of wisdom that can dare and still be meek, 
 Was writing his last word, the sacred name 
 Unutterable of that Eternal Will 
 Which was arid is and evermore shall be. 
 Yot was his task not finished, for the flock 
 Needed its shepherd, and the life-taught sago 
 Leaves no successor; but to chosen men. 
 Tlie rescuers and guides of Israel, 
 A death was given called the Death of Grace, 
 Which freed them from the burden of the flesh 
 But left them rulers of the multitude 
 And loved comiiauions of the lonely. This 
 Was God's last gift to Moses, this the hour 
 When soul must part from self and be but soiiL 
 
 God spake to Gabriel, the messenger 
 
 Of mildest death that draws the parting life 
 
 Gently, as when a little rosy child 
 
 Lifts up its lips from off the bowl of milk 
 
 And so draws forth a curl that dipped its gold 
 
 In the soft white— thus Gabriel draws the souL 
 
 " Go, briug the soul of Moses unto me 1" 
 
 And the awe-strickeu angel answered, " Lord, 
 
 How shall I dare to take his life who lives 
 
 Sole of his kind, not to be likened once 
 
 In all the generations of the earth ?" 
 
 Then God called Michael, hira of pensive brow 
 Snow-vest and flaming sword, who knows and acts: 
 " 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 ZaniaCl, the terrible. 
 The angel of fierce death, of agony 
 That comes in battle and in pestilence 
 Kemorseless, sudden or with lingering throes. 
 And ZamaiJl, 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. 95 
 
 Wou from the heavenly Presence In the mount 
 
 Gleamed on the prophet's brow and dazzling pierced 
 
 Its conscious opposiie : the angel turned 
 
 His murky gaze aloof and iuly said : 
 
 "An angel this, deathless to angel's stroke." 
 
 Bnt Moses felt the subtly uearing dark: — 
 
 "Who art thou? and what wilt thou?" ZamaC-l then: 
 
 " I am God's reaper ; through the fields of life 
 
 I gather ripened and unripened souls 
 
 Both willing and unwilling. And I come 
 
 Now to reap thee." But Jloses 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 ZamaiJl baffled from his errand fled. 
 
 But Closes, pausing, in the air serene 
 Heard now that mystic whisper, far yet near, 
 The all-penetrating Voice, that said to him, 
 "Moses, the hour is come and thon must die." 
 " Lord, I obey ; but thou rememberest 
 How thon, lueflable, 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 and burial." 
 So Moses waited, ready now to die. 
 
 And the Lord came, invisible as a thought, 
 
 Three angels gleaming on his secret tr.ick, 
 
 Prince Michael, ZamaiJi, Gabriel, charged to guard 
 
 The soul-forsaken body as it fell 
 
 And bear it to the hidden sepulchre 
 
 Denied forever to the search of man. 
 
 And the Voice said to Moses: "Close thine eyes." 
 
 He closed them. "Lay thine hand upon thine heart 
 
 And diaw thy feet together." He obeyed. 
 
 And the Lord said, "O spirit, child of mine ! 
 
 A hundred years and twenty thou hast dwelt 
 
 Within 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, fluttering, like the bird 
 
 With young wing weak and dubious, the soul 
 
 Stayed. But behold ! upon the death-dewed lips 
 
 A kiss descended, pure, unspeakable — 
 
 The bodiless Love without embracing Love 
 
 Th.at lingered in the body, drew it forth 
 
 Willi heavenly strength and carried it to heaven.
 
 00 "SWEET EVENINGS COME AND 00, L0^T5." 
 
 But now beneath the sky the watchers all, 
 
 Angels that keep the homes of Israel 
 
 Or on high piiri)ose wander o'er the world 
 
 Leading the Gentiles, felt a dark eclipse : 
 
 The greatest rnler among men was gone. 
 
 And from the westward sea was heard a wail, 
 
 A dirge as from the isles of Javanim, 
 
 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 liim lives or shall arise 
 
 In Israel or the world for evermore." 
 
 Bnt Israel waited, looking toward the mount, 
 Till with the deepening eve the elders came 
 Saying, "Uis 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 withiji the sky." 
 
 The people answered with mute orphaned gaze 
 Looking for what had vanished evermore. 
 Tlieu through the gloom without them and within 
 The spirit's shaping light, mysterious speech. 
 Invisible Will wrought clear iu sculptured sound, 
 The thought-begotten daughter of the voice, 
 Thrilled on their listening sense: "He has no tomb. 
 He dwells not with you dead, but lives as Law." 
 
 "SWEET EVENINGS COME AND GO, LOVE^^ 
 
 " La noche buena se viene. 
 La noche buena ee va, 
 y nosotrOB nos iremos 
 Y no vt)lvcremo9 mas," — Old ViUancico. 
 
 SwKET 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; 
 
 Bnt 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 come, love, 
 
 And better souls be born : 
 I would not be the best, love. 
 
 To leave thee now forlorn.
 
 ABION. 
 
 (Hbeod. I. 24.) 
 
 Arion, whose melodic soul 
 Taught the dithyramb to roll 
 
 Like forest fires, and sing 
 
 Olympian sufl'eriug, 
 
 Had carried his diviuer lore 
 From Ooriuth to the sister shoie 
 
 Where Greece could largelier be, 
 
 Brauching o'er Italy. 
 
 Then weighted with his glorious name 
 And bags of gold, aboard he came 
 'Mid harsh seafaring meu 
 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 
 In sleep beside his lyre. 
 Hearing the Muses quire. 
 
 He waked and saw this wolf-faced Death 
 Breaking the dream that filled his breath 
 
 With iuspiration 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 inight fare 
 
 With men who paid their gold 
 
 For what a poet sold. 
 
 In flowing stole, bis eyes aglow 
 With inward fire, he neared the prow 
 
 .And took his god-like stand, 
 
 The cilhara in hand. 
 
 The wolfish men all shrank aloof, 
 And feared this singer might be proof 
 
 Against their murderous power. 
 
 After his lyric hour. 
 
 But ho, in liberty of song, 
 
 Fearless of death or other wrong. 
 With full spondaic toll 
 Poured forth his mighty sonl: 
 
 Toured forth the strain his dream had taughtj 
 A nome with lofty passion fraught 
 
 Such as makes battles won 
 
 On fields of Marathon. 
 
 The last long vowels trembled then 
 As awe within those woltish men : 
 
 They said, with mutual stare. 
 
 Some god was present there. 
 
 But lo ! Arion leaped on high 
 Heady, his descant done, to die; 
 
 Not asking, "Is it well?" 
 
 Lilce a pierced eagle fell. 
 
 1S73.
 
 «6» 31 AY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE:' 
 
 Longum ilUid tcmpus, quam vtm frOy ina/jh vie movctj quam hoc exi^uuin. — Cicero, ad Att. xii. IS. 
 
 O MAY I join the choir invisible 
 
 Of those immortal dead who live again 
 
 In minds made better by their presence: 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 starp, 
 
 And with their mild persistence urge man's search 
 
 To vaster issues. 
 
 So to live is heaven : 
 To malie undying music in the world, 
 Breathing as beauteous order that controls 
 Witli 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. 
 Kebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
 A vicious parent shaming still its child 
 Poor anxious penitence, is quick 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 higher reverence more mixed with love — 
 That better self shall live till hnnian 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 strength in some great agony. 
 Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
 Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — 
 Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
 And in diflfusion ever more intense. 
 So shall I join the choir invisible 
 Whose music is the gladness of the world. 
 
 3C7.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 [TTtis tttork ipa3 originallij written in the winier of 1S64-65; after a visit to Spain in 1867 it tvaa rewriUen 
 and am/'lijied. The reader conversant with Spanish jutetrt/ will see that in two of the lyrics an attempt has 
 hsen made to imitate the trochaic measure and assonance of tlie Spanish ballad. — Mjiy, 186y.] 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 'Tis the warm South, where Europe spreads her laucls 
 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 untravclled Ocean's restless tides. 
 This river, shadowed by the battlements 
 And gleaming silvery towards the northern sky, 
 Feeds tlie famed stream that waters Andaliis 
 And loiters, amorous of the fragrant air. 
 By Cordova and Seville to the bay 
 Fronting Algarva and the wandering flood 
 Of Guadiana. This deep moiuitaiu 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 uew-bathed Day 
 With oriflamme uplifted o'er the peaks 
 Saddens the breasts of northward-looking snows 
 That loved the night, and soared with soaring stars? 
 Plashing the signals of his Hearing swifmess 
 From Almeria's jiurple-shadowed bay 
 On to the far-olT rocks that gaze and glow- 
 On to Alhainbra, strong and ruddy heart 
 Of glorious Morisma, gasping now, 
 A maim6d giant in 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 Bedmar: '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 rays are Moorish)— 
 Hereditary jewel, agraffe bright 
 On all the many-titled privilege 
 Of young Duke Silva. No Castilian knight 
 That serves Queen Isabel has higher charge ; 
 For near this frontier sits the Moorish king, 
 Not Boabdil the waverer, who usurps
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 A throue he trembles in, and fawning licks 
 The feet of conquerors, but that fierce lion 
 Grisly El Zagal, who has made his lair 
 lu Guadix' fort, and rushing thence with strength, 
 Half his own fierceness, half the untainted heart 
 Of mountain bands that fight for holiday, 
 Wastes the fair lands that lie by AlcaUi, 
 Wreathing his horse's neck with Christian heads. 
 
 To keep the Christian frontier— such high trust 
 
 Is young Duke Silva's; and the time is great. 
 
 (What times arc 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 rijied. 
 
 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 Illyrian 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-oflT 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 firmament. 
 
 Where the blue light-pierced curtain, rolled away, 
 
 Eeveals 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 stars 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 iu 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. 
 Immortally incarnate, like the gods, 
 In spiritual bodies, wingi^d words 
 Holding a universe impalpable, 
 Find a new audience For evermore, 
 
 101
 
 102 THE SPANISH GYI'SY. 
 
 With grander resurrection than was feigned 
 
 Of Attihi's fierce Iliins, the soul of Greece 
 
 Conquers the bulk of Persia. The maimed form 
 
 Of cahnly-joyous beauty, niarble-1 imbed, 
 
 Yet breathing with the thouglit that shaped its lipn, 
 
 Looks mild reproacli from out its opened grave 
 
 At creeds of terror; and the vine-wreathed god 
 
 Frouts tlie 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, 
 
 I'raising a name with indolent piety — 
 
 lie spells the record of his long descent, 
 
 More largely conscious of the life that was. 
 
 And from tlie height that shows where morning shone 
 
 On far-off summits pale and gloomy now. 
 
 The horizon widens round liim, and the west 
 
 Looks vast with uutracked waves whereon his gaze 
 
 Follows the flight of the swift-vanished bird 
 
 That like the sunken suu 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 ; 
 
 Then 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 fin- a million maravedis: 
 
 Give me three caravels to find a world, 
 
 New shores, new I'ealms, new soldiers for the Cross. 
 
 Son cosas grandes !^' Thus he pleads in vain; 
 
 Yet faints not utterly, but pleads anew, 
 
 Thinking, "God means it, and has cliosen 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 
 
 Of 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 lloly 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 pass 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. 
 
 Since first Pelayo and his resolute band 
 
 Trusted the God withiu their Gothic hearts 
 
 At Covadunga, aud defied Mahound ; 
 
 Bes^inuing so the Uoly War of Spain 
 
 That now is panting with the eagerness 
 
 Of labor near its end. The silver cross 
 
 Glitters o'er Malaga aud streams dread light 
 
 Ou Moslem galleys, turning all their stores 
 
 From threats to gifts. What Spanish knight is he 
 
 Who.'liviiig now, holds it not shame to live 
 
 Apart from that hereditary battle 
 
 Which needs his sword ? Castiliau gentlemen 
 
 Choose not their task— they choose to do it well. 
 
 The time is great, and greater no man's trust 
 Than his who keeps the fortress for his king. 
 Wearing great honors as some delicate robe 
 Brocaded o'er with names 'twere sin to tarnish. 
 Born de la Cerda, Calatravan knight. 
 Count of Segura, fourth Duke of Bedmi'ir, 
 Offshoot from that high stock of old Castile 
 Whose topmost branch is proud Medina Cell— 
 Such titles with their blazonry are his 
 Who keeps this fortress, its sworn governor. 
 Lord of the valley, mastfr of the town, 
 Commanding whom he will, himself commanded 
 By Christ his Lord who sees liim from tVie Cro.ss 
 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 Spjyn ;— 
 By the dead gaze of all his ancestors;— 
 And by the mystery of his Spanish blood 
 Charged with the awe and glories of the past. 
 
 See now with soldiers in his front and rear 
 lie winds at evening through the nariow streets 
 That toward the Castle gate climb devious: 
 His charger, of fine Audalusiau slock. 
 An Indian beauty, black but delicate^ 
 la eojiscious of the herald trumpet note, 
 Tlie gatheiiug glances, and familiar ways 
 That lead fast homeward: she forgets fatigue, 
 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 diflicult steep. 
 Night-black the charger, blaek the rider's plume, 
 But all between is bright with morning hues- 
 Seems ivory and gold and deep blue gems, 
 And starry flashing steel and pale verrailiuu, 
 All set in jasper: on his surcoat white 
 Glitter the sword-belt and the jewelled hilt, 
 Red on the back and breast the holy cross, 
 And 'twist the helmet aud the soft-spun white 
 Thick tuvny wavelets like the lion's mane 
 Turn backward from his brow, pale, wide, erect, 
 Shadowing blue eyes— blue as the rain-washed sky 
 
 103
 
 W4 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 That braced the early stem of Gothic kings 
 
 lie claims for ancestry, A goodly knight, 
 
 A noble caballero, broad of chest 
 
 And long of limb. So mnch the August sun, 
 
 Now in the west but shooting half its beams 
 
 Past a dark rocky prolilc toward the plain, 
 
 At windings of the ])atli across the slope 
 
 Makes suddenly hnninoiis for all who see: 
 
 For women smiling from the terraced roofs ; 
 
 For boys that prone on trucks with head up-propped 
 
 Lazy and curious, siare irreverent; 
 
 For men who make obeisance with degrees 
 
 Of good-will shading towards servilitj', 
 
 Where good-will ends and secret fear begins 
 
 Aud curses, too, low-muttered through the teeth. 
 
 Explanatory to the God of Shem. 
 
 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 aud 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.) 
 
 MiNR Host is one: he with the well-arched nose, 
 
 Soft-eyed, fat-hauded, loving men for nought 
 
 But his own humor, patting old aud young 
 
 Upon the back, and mentioning the cost 
 
 With confidential blaudness, as a tax. 
 
 That he collected much against his will 
 
 From Spaniards who were all his bosom friends: 
 
 Warranted Christian— else how lieep an inn, 
 
 Which calling aslcs true faith? though like his wine 
 
 Of cheaper sort, a trifle over-new. 
 
 His father was a convert, chose the chrism 
 
 As men choose physic, kept his chimney warm 
 
 AVith 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 Epliraim, 
 
 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, 
 
 Aud 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 aud seek new pasture.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 105 
 
 Thus baptism seemed to him a merry game 
 
 Not tried before, all sacraments a mode 
 
 Of doing homage for one's property, 
 
 And all religious a queer human whim 
 
 Or else a vice, according to degrees : 
 
 As, 'tis a whim to like your cliestnnts hot, 
 
 Burn your own mouth and draw your face awry, 
 
 A vice to pelt frogs with them — animals 
 
 Content to talie life coolly. And Lorenzo 
 
 Would have all lives made easy, even lives 
 
 Of spiders and inquisitors, yet still 
 
 Wishing so well to flies and 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 solemn mastift" leaning on his knee. • 
 
 His right-hand guest is solemn as the dog. 
 
 Square-faced and massive: Blasco is his name, 
 
 A prosperous silversmith from Aragou ; 
 
 lu 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 in haste 
 
 And set ofl" chiming a superfluous tune — 
 
 Like Jdan there, the spare man with the lute, 
 
 Who makes you dizzy with his rapid tongue. 
 
 Whirring athwart your mind with comment swift 
 
 On speech you would have finished by and 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 snuffs 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-fingered, 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, aud shared 
 
 The subtler sense of sylvan ears and eyes 
 
 Uudulled by scheming thought, yet joined the rout 
 
 Of men and women on tlie festal days, 
 
 And played the syrinx too, and knew love's pains, 
 
 Turning their anguish into melody. 
 
 For Juan was a minstrel still, in times 
 
 When minstrelsy was held a thing outworn.
 
 lOG THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Spirits eeem buried and their epitaph 
 Is writ in Lntin by severest pens, 
 Yet still tiiey flit above the trodden grave 
 And fuid new bodies, animating them 
 In qnaint and ghostly way with antique souls. 
 So Juan was a troubadour revived, 
 Freshening lifc'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. 
 Flashing the comment keen of simple fact 
 Dctined in words; lending brief lyric voice 
 To grief and sadness; liardly taking note 
 Of difference betwixt his own and others'; 
 , But rather singing as a listener 
 
 To the deep moans, the cries, the wild strong joys 
 Of universal Nature, old yet young. 
 Such Juan, the third talker, sliimmeriffg bright 
 As butterfly or bird with quickest life. 
 
 The silent Roldan has his brightness too, 
 
 But only in his spangles and rosettes. 
 
 Ilis parti-colored vest and crimson hose 
 
 Are dulled with old Valeucian dust, his eyes 
 
 With straining tifty 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 iu it, characters 
 
 Stamped deep by grins that had no merriment, 
 
 The soul's rude mark i)roclaiming all its blank; 
 
 As on some faces that have long grown old 
 
 In lifting tapers up to forms obscene 
 
 On ancient walls and chuckling witli false zest 
 
 To please my lord, who gives the larger fee 
 
 For that hard industry in apishncss. 
 
 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 evermore. 
 
 '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 lliitc-like wail that mourns the blossoms gone, 
 
 And sinks, and is not, like their fragrant breath, 
 
 With flue 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 tho s;f>ze of some primeval sadness 
 Dark twin witli light in the creative raj-. 
 This little Paut.o has his spangles too, 
 And large rosettes to hide his poor left foot 
 Rounded like any hoof (his mother thought 
 God willed it so to punish all her sins). 
 
 I said the souls were five — besides the dog. 
 
 But there was still a sixth, witli wrinkled face, 
 
 Grave and disgusted with all merriment 
 
 Not less than Roklan. It is Aijniisai,, 
 
 The experienced monkey who performs the trick.=, 
 
 Jumps through the hoops, and carries round itie hat. 
 
 Once full of sallies and impromptu feats, 
 
 Nov? 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 tribe. 
 
 "We see tho company, above their beads 
 The braided matMng, goldeii as Hpe com, 
 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 beak. 
 On the stone floor tho juggler's heaped-up goods, 
 Carpet and hoops, viol and tambourine, 
 ■Where Aunibal sits perched with brows severe, 
 A serious ape whom none take seriously, 
 Obliged iu this fool's world to earn his nuts 
 By hard buffoonery. "U'e 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 desccHt — 
 And yet can quarrel, as these Spaniards can. 
 
 Jua:n {near tlie 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 great art 
 
 Made solely for themselves who understand it. 
 
 His featui-es 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 fine old Ramon ! 
 
 The blasts get louder and the clattering hoofs; 
 
 Tliey 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 hiis fmislicd reconnoitring, then? 
 
 We sliall lienr news. Tliey say he means a siilly— 
 
 Would strilcc El Zai^'al's Moors as they push home 
 
 Like ants with booty heavier than 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 lliat leather Policy, 
 
 And guess where after twice a hundred puffs 
 
 'Twill catch another feather crossing it: 
 
 Guess how the Po|)e 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, 
 
 Nothing to guess at, pure uncertainty. 
 
 Here comes the Duke. They give but feeble shouts. 
 
 And some look sour. 
 
 Host. 
 
 That spoils a fair occasion. 
 Civility brings no conclusions with it. 
 And cheerful Vivas malce the moments glide 
 Instead of grating like a rusty wheel. 
 
 JiTAN. 
 
 O they are dullards, kick because they're etting, 
 And bruise a friend to show they hate a wasp. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Best treat your wasp with delicate regard ; 
 When the right moment comes say, "By your leave," 
 Use your heel— so ! and make au 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. 
 
 Joan. 
 
 A true hidalgo's smile, 
 That gives much favor, but beseeches none 
 His smile is sweetened by bis gravity: 
 It comes like dawn upon Sierra snows, 
 Seeming more generous for the coldness gone; 
 Breaks from the calm — a sudden opening llower 
 On dark deep waters: now a chalice shut, 
 A mystic shrine, the next a fidl-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 fiill to staring like a wooden saint, 
 And wag your head as it were Ect on wires. 
 IIcre'.s fresh sherbet. Sit, be good company. 
 (To Bi.Asco) You are a stranger, sir, and cannot know 
 Uow our Duke's nature suits his princely frame. 
 
 Br.ASco. 
 
 Nay, bnt 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, 
 
 Our Lady in all sizes, crosses, bells : 
 
 He'll need snch weapons full as much as swords 
 
 If he would Ciipture 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 be 
 
 To make a sort of haze. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 I knew not that. 
 Still, they're of smoky nature, demons arc ; 
 And since you say so— well, it proves the moie 
 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 AIoiizo, lord of Aguilar. 
 Your Duke's no whit behind him in his mien 
 Or harness either. But you seem to say 
 The people love bim not. 
 
 UosT. 
 
 They've nought against him. 
 But certain winds will make men's temper bad. 
 When the Solano blows hot venomed 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 liot . . . 
 
 Host. 
 
 With fagots.
 
 110 THE SPANISH GYrSY. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 A wind that siiit« in)t with our townsmen's blood. 
 
 Abram, 'lis t:aid, objected to be scorched, 
 
 And, as the learned Arabs vouch, he gave 
 
 Tlie antipathy in full to Ishmaol. 
 
 "lis trtie, these patriarchs had their oddities. 
 
 Blasco. 
 
 Their oddities ? I'm of their mind, 1 know. 
 
 Thoupfh, as to Abraham and IshmaiJl, 
 
 I'm an old Chriistian, and owe nought to them 
 
 Or any Jew among them. But I know 
 
 We made a stir in Saragossa— we : 
 
 The men of Aragou ring hard— true metal. 
 
 Sirs, I'm no friend to heresy, but theu 
 
 A Christian'.s money is not safe. As how? 
 
 A lapsing Jew or any heretic 
 
 May owe me twenty ounces: suddenly 
 
 He's pi'isoned, suffers ))cnalties— 'tis well : 
 
 If meu will not believe, 'tis good to make them, 
 
 But let the penalties fall ou them alone. 
 
 Tlic Jew is stripped, his goods are confiscate; 
 
 Now, where, I pray yon, go my twenty ounces? 
 
 GikI know.s, and perhaps the King maj', but not I. 
 
 And more, my son may lose bis young wife's dower 
 
 Because 'twas promised since her father's soul 
 
 Fell to wrong thinking. How was I to know? 
 
 I could but use my seuse and cross myself. 
 
 Christian is Christiau— I give in— but still 
 
 Taxing is taxing, though you call it holy. 
 
 We Saragossans liked not this new tax 
 
 Thoy call the— nonsense, I'm from Aragon ! 
 
 I speak too bluntly. But, for Holy Church, 
 
 No man believes more. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Nay, sir, never fear. 
 Qood Master Roldaa 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. 
 
 Blaboo. 
 
 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.DATJ. 
 
 I? no. 
 I pray your pardon. I've a twinging knee, 
 That makes it hard to listen. You were saying? 
 
 Blaboo. 
 Nay, it was nought. (Aside to lloat) Is it his deepness t
 
 TIIE SPANISH GYPSY. Ill 
 
 Host. 
 
 No. 
 He's deep iu nothing but his poverty. 
 
 Blaboo. 
 
 Bnt 'twas his poverty that made me thiuk . . . 
 
 IIOST. 
 
 His piety might wish to keep the feasts 
 As well as fasts. No fear; he hears not. 
 
 Br.ASoo. 
 
 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 Aragon. 
 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 be;ids. 
 '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 him 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
 
 ir^ THE SPANISH OYTSY. 
 
 Is a neat well-aimed stroke that kills your man, 
 
 Yet cuds in mischief— as iu Aragou. 
 
 It was a lesson to our people here. 
 
 Else there's a monk within our city walls, 
 
 A holy, hit;h-born, stem Dominican, 
 
 They might have made the great mistake to kill. 
 
 Br.ASOo. 
 
 What ! is he ? . . . 
 
 Host. 
 
 Yes ; a Master Arbuos 
 Of finer quality. The Prior here 
 And uucle to our Duke. 
 
 Bl.ASOO, 
 
 Ue will want plate : 
 A holy pillar or a crucifix. 
 But, did you say, he was like Arbues? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 As a black eagle with gold beak and claws 
 
 Is like a raven. Even iu his cowl, 
 
 Covered from head to foot, the Prior is known 
 
 From all the black herd round. Wlieu he uncovers 
 
 And stands whitc-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 iu, charged with passion 
 
 Which quivers in his nostril and his lip, 
 
 But disciplined by long in-dwelling will 
 
 To silent labor iu the yoke of law. 
 
 A truce to thy comparisons, Lorenzo ! 
 
 Thine is no subtle nose for diiference ; 
 
 'Tis dulled by feigning and civility. 
 
 IIOST. 
 
 Pooh, thou'rt a poet, crazed with finding words 
 
 May stick to things and seem like qualities. 
 
 No pebble is a pebble iu thy hands: 
 
 'Tis a moon out of work, a barren egg, 
 
 Or tweuty things that no man sees but thee. 
 
 Our Father Isidor's — a living saint. 
 
 And that is heresy, some townsmen think : 
 
 Saints should be dead, accordiug 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 hclj) for it: I mean to say, 
 When Pope and Bishop and all customers 
 Order alike. But there be bishops now,
 
 THE BPAlflSn GYPSY. 113 
 
 AucI were aforetime, who have held it wrong, 
 
 This hurry to convert the Jews. As how? 
 
 Your Jew pays tribute to the bishop, say. 
 
 That's good, and must please God, to see the Church 
 
 Maintained in ways that ease the Christian's purse. 
 
 Convert the Jew, and where's the tribute, pray ? 
 
 lie lapses, too: 'tis slippery work, conversion: 
 
 And then the holy taxing carries oflf 
 
 ills money at one sweep. No tribute more ! 
 
 He's penitent or burnt, and there's an end. 
 
 Now guess which pleases God . . . 
 
 JnAN. 
 
 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, 
 Ilis eloquence in scars upon his cheek. 
 His virtue in 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 whisperingly — no tune, 
 But trotting rhythm: meditative eyes, 
 Most often fl.xcd upon his legs and spurs : 
 Styled Captain Lopez.] 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 At your service, sirs. 
 
 JDA.N. 
 
 Ila, 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. 
 
 J0AN. 
 
 Then spit it forth. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Sit, Captain: here's a cup, 
 Frosh-filled. What news? 
 
 Lopez. 
 'Tis bad. We make no sally: 
 We sit still here and wait whate'er the Moor 
 Sljall please to do. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Some townsmen will be glad. 
 
 Lopr.z. 
 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 — 
 He will be married straightway. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Ha, hn, ha ! 
 Thy speech is like an hour-glass ; turn it down 
 
 20 F
 
 114 THE SPANISU OYPSV. 
 
 The other way, 'twill stand as well, aud Bay 
 The Duke will wed, theicfDic he waits a siege. 
 But what say Don Diego and the Prior? 
 The holy uucle and the fiery Don? 
 
 Lol'KZ. 
 
 there be sayings running all abroad 
 
 As thick as nuts o'erturued. No man need lack. 
 Some say, 'twas letters changed the Duke's intent: 
 From Malaga, says Bias. From Home, says Quintiu. 
 From spies at Guadix, says Sebastian. 
 Some say, 'tis all a pretest— 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 . . . 
 
 Juan. 
 
 O do without the "said!" 
 Open thy mouth aud 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 rale. 
 Such torture of uncertain certainty. 
 
 Lopi'-z. 
 
 Santiago 1 Juan, thou art hard to jilease. 
 I speak not for my own delighting, I. 
 I can be silent, I. 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 Nay, sir, speak on 1 
 I like your matter well. I deal in plate. 
 This wedding touches me. Who is the bride? 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 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 up away from any nest. 
 
 Her name— the Duchess gave it— is Fedalma. 
 
 No harm iu that. But the Duke stoops, they say, 
 
 In wedding her. Aud that's the simple truth. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Thy simple truth is but a false opinion: 
 The simple truth of asses who believe 
 Their thistle is the very best of food. 
 Fie, Lopez, thou a Spaniard with a sword 
 Dreamest a Spanish noble ever stoops 
 By doing honor to the maid he loves ! 
 He stoops alone wheu he dishonors her. 
 
 Loprz. 
 Na}', I said nought against her. 
 
 JliAN. 
 
 Bettor not. 
 Else I would challcuge thee to light with wits.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 115 
 
 And spear thee through anil through ere thou conldst draw 
 
 The bhintest word. Ye?, yes, consult thy spurs : 
 
 Spurs are a sign of knighthood, and should toll 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: 
 
 lie wills no highest-born Castilian dame, 
 
 Betrothed to highest noble, should be held 
 
 More sacred than Fedalma. He enshrines 
 
 Iler virgin image for the general awe 
 
 AtmI for his own — will guard her from the world, 
 
 Nay, his profauer self, lest he should lose 
 
 The place of his religiou. He does well. 
 
 Nought cau come closer to the poet's strain. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Or farther from his practice, Juan, eh ? 
 If thou'rt a sample? 
 
 JU.VN. 
 
 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? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 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 
 
 Worships without reward, nor hopes to find 
 
 A heaven save in his worship. He adores 
 
 TlKj sweetest woman for her sweetness' sake, 
 
 Joys in the love that was not born for him. 
 
 Because 'tis lovinguess, as beggars joy. 
 
 Warming their naked limbs on wayside walls, 
 
 To hear a tale of princes and their glory. 
 
 There's a poor poet (poor, I mean, in coin) 
 
 Worships Fedalma with so true a love 
 
 Tliat if her silken robe were changed for rags, 
 
 And she were driven out to stony wilds 
 
 Btirefoot, a scorned wanderer, he would kiss 
 
 Iler 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. 
 
 Lopez. 
 
 I? 
 
 I think no harm of her; I thank the saints 
 I wear a sword and peddle not in thinking. 
 'Tis Father Marcos says she'll not confess 
 And loves not holy water; says her blood 
 Is- infidel ; says the Duke's wedding her 
 Is union of light with darkness.
 
 116 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Tush ! 
 
 [Now Jimn — who by snatches touched hia kite 
 
 With soft arpeggio, like ii whispered dream 
 
 Of sleeping music, while he spoke of love — 
 
 In jesting auger at the soldier's talk 
 
 Thrummed loud and fast, then faster aud more loud, 
 
 Till, as he answered "Tush!" he struck a chord 
 
 Sudden as whip-crack close by Lopez' car. 
 
 Mine Host and Blasco smiled, the mastiff barked, 
 
 Roldan looked up and Anuibal looked down. 
 
 Cautiously neutral in so new a case ; 
 
 The boy raised longing, listcuiug eyes that seemed 
 
 An exiled sijirit's waiting iu 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 — he ! 
 
 lie spoke with neck erect.] 
 
 LOPKZ. 
 
 If that's a hint 
 The company sbould ask thee for a song. 
 Sing, then ! 
 
 Host. 
 
 Ay, Juan, sing, and jar no more. 
 Something brand new. Thou'rt won't to make my oar 
 A test of novelties. Hast thou aught fresh ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 As fresh as rain-drops. Here's a Canciou 
 Springs like a tiny mushroom delicate 
 Out of the priest's foul scandal of Fedalraa. 
 
 [He preluded with querying intervals, 
 Rising, then falling just a semitone, 
 In minor cadence — sound with poisod wing 
 Hovering and quivering towards the needed fall. 
 Then iu a voice that shook the willing air 
 With masculine vibration sang this song, 
 
 Should I long that dark were fair f 
 
 Say, O song ! 
 
 Lacks my love aught, that I should long f 
 
 Dark the night, with breath all floiv'rs, 
 
 And tender broken voice that Jills 
 
 With ravishment the listening hours: 
 
 Whisperings, wooings, 
 
 Liquid ripples and soft riiig-dove cooings 
 
 In low-toned rhythm that love''s aching stills. 
 
 Dark the night, 
 
 Yet is she bright. 
 
 For in her dark she brings the mystic star. 
 
 Trembling yet strong, as is the voice of love. 
 
 From, some unknown afar. 
 
 O radiant Dark! darkly fostered ray! 
 
 Tliou hast a joy too deep for shalloio Day.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 117 
 
 While Juan sang, all round tlie tavern court 
 
 Gathered a constellation of black eyes. 
 
 Fat Lola leaned upon the balcony 
 
 With arni.s that might have pillowed Hercules 
 
 (Who built, 'tis known, the mightiest Spanish towns) ; 
 
 Thin Alda's face, sad as a wasted passion, 
 
 Leaned o'er tlie nodding baby's; 'twixt the rails 
 
 The little Pepe showed his two black beads, 
 
 Ills 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 clutches, woman's coquetry 
 
 Quite turned to mother's cares and sweet content. 
 
 These on the balcony, while at the door 
 
 Gazed the lank boys and laz}'-shouldered men. 
 
 'Tis likely too the rats and insects peeped. 
 
 Being southern Spanish ready for a lounge. 
 
 The singer smiled, as doubtless Orpheus smiled, 
 
 To see the animals both great and small. 
 
 The mountainous elephant and scampering mouse, 
 
 Ileld by the ears in decent audience ; 
 
 Then, 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 ofl" the eaves in fiiOry dauce 
 
 When clouds are breaking ; till at measured pause 
 
 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 ? 
 
 LoPBZ. 
 
 All's one to me. I note no change of tune, 
 Not L save iu the ring of horses' hoofs, 
 Or iu the drums and trumpets when they call 
 To action or retreat. I ne'er could see 
 The good of singing. 
 
 Br.ASoo. 
 
 Why, it passes time — 
 Saves you 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 play. And so, iu travelling, 
 I shape myself betimes to idleness 
 And take fools' pleasures . . . 
 
 Host. 
 
 Hark, the song begins !
 
 118 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Juan (sings). 
 
 Maiden, crowned ivitli glussi/ blackness. 
 Lithe as panther forest-roaminrf. 
 
 Long-armed naiad, lohcn she dances. 
 On a stream of ether floating — 
 
 Bright, bright Fedalma ! 
 
 Form all curves like softness drifted, 
 Wave-kissed marble roundhj dimpling, 
 
 Far-off' music slowly winged. 
 Gently rising, gently sinking- 
 Bright, O bright Fedalma ! 
 
 Pure as rain-tear an a rose-leaf. 
 Cloud high-born in noonday spotless. 
 
 Sudden perfect as the dete-bead, 
 Gem of earth and ftky begotten — 
 
 Bright, O bright Fedalma ! 
 
 Beauty Jias tw mortal father. 
 
 Holy Ught Iter form engendered 
 Out of tremor, yearning, gladness. 
 
 Presage sweet and joy remembered — 
 Child of Light, FedalvM ! 
 
 Bl.ASCO. 
 
 Faith, a good song, snug to a Stirling Itiue. 
 I like the words returning in a round ; 
 It gives a sort of sense. Another such ! 
 
 KoLDAN (.rising). 
 
 Sirs, you will hear ray hoy. 'Tis very hard 
 Whea gentles t^iug for nought to all the town. 
 How can a poor man live ? And now 'tis time 
 I go to the PhifH— 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-Ieavcs, • 
 Plucked in all seasons— bears no price ; thy hoy'n 
 Is like the almond blossoms. Ah, he'.s lame ! 
 
 Host. 
 
 Load him not heavily. Here, Pedro! help. 
 Go with them to the Plnca, take the hoops. 
 The sights will pay thee. 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 I'll be there anon, 
 And set the fashion with a good white coin. 
 But let us see as well as hear. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Ay, prithee. 
 Some tricks, a dance.
 
 THE SrANISn GYPSY. 119 
 
 Blaboo. 
 
 Yes, 'tis more rational. 
 
 Roi.DAN (turning round with the bundle and monkoij on his .^honldcis). 
 
 You shall see all, sirs. There's no man in Spain 
 Knows his art better. I've a twinging knee 
 Oft hinders dancing, and the boy is lame. 
 But no man's monkey has more tricks than mine. 
 
 [At this high praise the gloomy Aunibal, 
 
 Mournful professor of high drollery. 
 
 Seemed to look gloomier, and the little troop 
 
 Went slowly out, escorted from the door 
 
 By all the idlers. From the balcony 
 
 Slowly subsided the black radiance 
 
 Of agate eyes, and broke in chattering sounds. 
 
 Coaxings and trami)ings, and the small hoarse squeak 
 
 Of Pope's reed. And our group talked again.] 
 
 Host. 
 
 I'll get this juggler, if he quits hini 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 see a miserable juggler pleased. 
 
 But that's my humor. Crowds are malcontent 
 
 As cruel as the Holy . . . Shall we go ? 
 
 All of us now together? 
 
 LorEz. 
 
 Well, 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-night 
 Bo lodged within the fort. They've forged enough 
 Of balls and bullets— used up all the metal. 
 At morn to-morrow they must carry stones 
 Up the south tower. 'Tis a flue stalwart band, 
 Fit for the hardest tasks. Some say, the queen 
 Would have the Gy])sies banished with the Jews. 
 Some say, 'twere better harness them for work. 
 They'd feed on any filth and save the Spaniard. 
 Some saj'— but I must go. 'Twill soon be time 
 To head the escort. We shall meet again. 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 Go, sir, with God (exit Lojtez). A very proper man, 
 
 And soldierly. But, for this banishment 
 
 Some men are hot on, it ill jileascs 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 tit for heaven, but on earth 
 
 They are most useful. 'Tis the same with mnles.
 
 520 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Horses, or oxen, or with any pig 
 
 Except Saint Aiillioiiy's. Tbcy are useful here 
 
 (The Jews, I mean) lliongli llicy may <,'() to liell. 
 
 And, look yon, useful siuH— wliy Providence 
 
 Sends Jews to do 'em, savinfc Christian souls. 
 
 The very Gypsies, curbed and harnessed well, 
 
 Would make draught cattle, feed on vermin too, 
 
 Cost less than graziu"^ brutes, nud turn bad food 
 
 To handsome carcasses ; Bweat at the forge 
 
 For little wages, and well drilled and flogged 
 
 Might work like Blaves, some Spaniards looking on. 
 
 I deal in plate, and am no priest to say 
 
 Wliat God may mean, save when he means jjlaiu sense; 
 
 r>iit when he sent the Gypsies wandering 
 
 In punishment because they sheltered not 
 
 Our Lady ;ind Saint Joseph {and uo 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 kuow bettor? 'Tis a sin. 
 
 They talk of vermin ; but, sirs, vermin largo 
 
 Were made to eat the small, or else to eat 
 
 The noxious rubbish, and picked Gy])sy men 
 
 Might serve iu war to climb, be killed, and fall 
 
 To make an easy ladder. Once I saw 
 
 A Gypsy sorcerer, at a spring and grasp 
 
 Kill one who came to seize him: talk of strength 1 
 
 Nay, swiftness too, for while we crossed ourselves 
 
 He vauished like— say like . . . 
 
 Juan. 
 
 A swift black snake, 
 Or like a living arrow fledged with will. 
 
 Br.Asoo. 
 Whj', did you see him, pray? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Not then, but now. 
 As painters see the many in the one. 
 We have a Gypsy iu Bedmar whose frame 
 Nature compacted with such fine selection, 
 'Twould yield a dozen types: all Spanish knights, 
 From him who slew Rolando at the pass 
 Up to the mighty Cid ; all deities, 
 Thronging Olympus in fine attitudes ; 
 Or all hell's heroes whom the poet saw 
 Tremble like lions, writhe like demigods. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Pause not yet, Juan— more hyperbole ! 
 
 Shoot upward still and flare in meteors 
 Before thou sink to earth in dull brown fact. 
 
 Blabco. 
 Nay, give me fact, high shootiug suits not mc. 
 I never stare to look for soaring larks. 
 Wliat is this Gypsy ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 131 
 
 Host. 
 
 Chieftaiu of a band, 
 The Moor's allies, whom lull a mouth ago 
 Our Diike surprised aud brought as captives home. 
 He needed smiths, and doui)tless the brave Moor 
 lias 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 transforms at will 
 To sage or warrior, and like the snu 
 Plays daily at fallacious alchemy. 
 Turns sand to gold aud dewy spider-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 llrst. 
 
 'Twas when they stripped him. In his chieftain's gear 
 
 Amidst his men he seemed a royal barb 
 
 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, aud play in sliadows there. 
 
 ne wore flue mail, a rich-wrought sword and belt, 
 
 And on his surcoat black a broidered torch, 
 
 A pine-branch flaming, grasped by two dark hands. 
 
 But when they stripped him of his ornaments 
 
 It was the baubles lost their grace, not he. 
 
 His eyes, his mouth, his nostril, all inspired 
 
 With scorn that mastered utterance of scorn, 
 
 With power to check all rage 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. 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 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 aud 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 you 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*
 
 i22 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Doing him reverence. Tliat strikes nu awe 
 Into a common man— eppecially 
 A judge of plate. 
 
 Host. 
 
 Failh, very wisely said. 
 Purge thy speech, Jiian. It. is o\Tr-fiill 
 Of this game Gyi)sy. Praise the CJatliolic King. 
 And come now, let us see the juggler's skill. 
 
 The Pla'ja Santiago. 
 
 'Tis daylight still, but now tlie golden cross 
 
 Uplifted by the angel on tlic dome 
 
 Slrauds rayless in calm color clear-dellned 
 
 Against the northern blue; from turrets high 
 
 The flitting splendor sinks with folded wing 
 
 Dark-hid till morning, and the battlements 
 
 Wear soft relenting whiteness mellowed o'er 
 
 By summers generous and winters bland. 
 
 KL)\y in the east the distance casts its veil 
 
 And gazes with a deepening earnestness. 
 
 The old rain-fretted mountains in their robes 
 
 Of shadow-broken gray ; the rounded hills 
 
 Eeddened with blood of Titans, whose huge limbs, 
 
 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 Arm unshimmeriug hues. 
 
 For the great rock has screened the westering sun 
 
 That still on plains beyond streams vaporous gold 
 
 Among the branches; and within Bedmiir 
 
 Has come the time of sweet serenity 
 
 When color c^iows unglittering, and the soul 
 
 Of visible things shows silent happiness, 
 
 As that of lovers trusting though apart. 
 
 The ripe-cheeked fruits, the crimson-petalled flowers; 
 
 The wingftd life that pausing seems a gem 
 
 Cunningly carven on the dark green leaf; 
 
 The face of man with hues supremely blent 
 
 To difference fine as of a voice 'mid sounds: — 
 
 Each lovely light-dipped thii!g seems to emerge 
 
 Flushed gravely from baptismal sacrament. 
 
 All beauteous existence rests, yet wakes, 
 
 Lies still, yet conscious, with clear open ey€s 
 
 And gentle breath and mild sufTused joy. 
 
 'Tis day, hut day that falls like melody 
 
 Repeated on a string with graver tones — 
 
 Tones such as linger in a li)ng farewell. 
 
 The Pln^a widens in the passive air — 
 The Plapa Santiago, where the church, 
 A mosque converted, shows an eyeless face 
 Red-checkered, faded, doing jjonance still—
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 123 
 
 Bearing with Moorish arch the imnged saint, 
 
 Apostle, baron, Spanish warrior, 
 
 Whose charger's hoofs trample the tnrbnncd 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 Avail 
 
 And well-Haulted castle gate. From o'er the roofs:, 
 
 And from the shadowed nutios cool, there spreads 
 
 The breath of flowers and aromatic leaves 
 
 Soothing the sense with bliss indefinite— 
 
 A baseless hope, a glad presentiment, 
 
 That curves the lip more sofily, tills the eye 
 
 With more indulgent beam. And so it soothes, 
 
 So gently sways the pulses of the crowd 
 
 Who make a zone about the central spot 
 
 Chosen by Roldan for his theatre. 
 
 Maids with arched eyebrows, delicate-pencilled, dark, 
 
 Fold their round arms below the kerchief full ; 
 
 Meu shoulder little girls; and grandames gray, 
 
 But muscular still, hold babies on their arms; 
 
 While mothers keep the stout-legged boys in front 
 
 Against their skirts, as old Greek pictures show 
 
 The Glorious Mother with the Boy divine. 
 
 Youths keep the i)Iaces for themselves, and roll 
 
 Large lazy eyes, aud call recumbent dogs 
 
 (For reasons deep behiw the reach of thought). 
 
 The old men cough with purpose, wish to liint 
 
 Wisdom within that cheapens jugglery, 
 
 Maintain a neutral air, and knit 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 with heavy wing, 
 
 Cheering their mates with melancholy cries. 
 
 But now the gilded balls begin to play 
 
 In rhythmic numbers, ruled by practice 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 fixed 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 mnltiform 
 
 Towards conscious ends: 'lis Roldan glorious, 
 
 Holding all eyes like any meteor. 
 
 King of the moment save when Annibal 
 
 Divides the scene and plays the comic part. 
 
 Gazing with blinking glances up and down 
 
 Dancing and tlirowing nought and catching it, 
 
 With mimicry as merry as the tasks 
 
 Of penance-working shades in Tartarus.
 
 124 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Pablo stands passive, and a space apart, 
 
 Iloldint^ a viol, waiting for command. 
 
 Mu.^ic must not be wa.'^ted, l)ut must rise 
 
 As needed climax: and tlie audience 
 
 Is growing with late comers. Juan now, 
 
 And the familiar lIosl,'with Blasco broad. 
 
 Find way made gladly to the inmost round 
 
 Studded with heads. Lorenzo knits the crowd 
 
 Into one family by sliowing all 
 
 Good-will and recognition. Juan casts 
 
 His large and rapid-measuring glance around ; 
 
 But— with faint quivering, transient as a breath 
 
 Shaking a flame — his eyes make sudden pause 
 
 Where by the jutting angle of a street 
 
 Castle-ward leading, stands a female form, 
 
 A kerchief pale sqimre-drooping o'er the brow. 
 
 About her 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 Bedmar — Pepita, fair yet flecked, 
 
 Saucy of lip and nose, of hair as red 
 
 As breasts of robins stejiping on the snow — 
 
 Who stands in front with little tapping feet. 
 
 And baby-dimpled hands that hide enclosed 
 
 Those sleeping crickets, the dark castanets. 
 
 But soon the gilded balls have ceased to play 
 
 And Annibal is leaping through the hoops, 
 
 That turn to twelve, meeting him as he flies 
 
 In the swift circle. Shuddering he leaps. 
 
 But with each spring flies Bwift and swifter still 
 
 To loud and louder shouts, while the great hoops 
 
 Are changed to smaller. Now the crowd is tired. 
 
 The motion swift, the living victim urged, 
 
 The imminent failure and rejjcated scape 
 
 Hurry all pulses and intoxicate 
 
 With subtle wine of passion 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 metamorphoses: the i)ebble black 
 
 Changes to whitest egg witliin his hand ; 
 
 A staring rabl>it, with retreating ears, 
 
 Is swallowed by the air and vanishes ; 
 
 He t&lls men's thoughts about the shaken dice,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 135 
 
 Theii- secret choosings; makes the white beaus pass 
 
 With causeless act sublime fiom cup to cup 
 
 Tui'ued empty on the ground— diablerie 
 
 That pales the girls and puzzles all the boys: 
 
 These tricks are samples, hinting to the town 
 
 Koldan's great mastery. He tumbles next. 
 
 And Annibal is called to mock each feat * 
 
 With arduous comicality and save 
 
 By rule romantic the great public mind 
 
 (And Roldau'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, yearn, 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 
 
 lu 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 oflT. 
 
 And the light changes; westward stnti<med clouds. 
 
 The sun's ranged outposts, luminous message spread, 
 
 Rousing quiescent things to doflF their shade 
 
 And show themselves as added audience. 
 
 Now 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, • 
 
 Fu'l words of sadness, simple, lyrical: 
 
 Spring comes hither, 
 
 BiiAs the rose ; 
 Roses wither. 
 Sweet spring goes. 
 Ojald, would sJie carry vie 1 
 
 Sum/nier soars — 
 
 Wide-winged day 
 White light pours, 
 Flies aivay. 
 Ojald, would he carry me 1
 
 126 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Soft winds blow, 
 
 Weiittvard horn. 
 Onward go 
 
 Toti'ard the moni. 
 Ojald, u'ojild tli£y carry me 1 
 
 A Sioeet birds sinr; 
 
 O^er the graves, 
 Then take wing 
 O'er the waves. 
 Ojald, wortld they carry me I 
 
 When the voice paused and left the viol'H note 
 To plonrl forsaken, 'twas as when a cloud 
 Hiding liic sun, makes all the loaves and flowers 
 Shiver. But when with measured change tlie strings 
 Had taught regret now longing, clear again, 
 Welcome as hope recovered, flowed the voice, 
 
 Warm whispering through the slender olive leaves 
 Came to me a gentle sound. 
 Whispering of a secret found 
 
 In tJie clear sunshine 'mid the golden sheaves: 
 
 Said it'was sleeping for me in the morn. 
 Called it gladness, called it joy, 
 Dreio me on — " Come hither, boy " — 
 
 To tcherc the blue wings rested on the corn. 
 
 I thought the gentle sound liad lohispered true — 
 Thought the little heaven mine. 
 Leaned to clutch the thing divine. 
 
 And satv the blue wings melt within the blue. 
 
 The long notes linger on the trembling air, 
 With subtle penetration enter all 
 The myriad corridors of tlie passionate soul, 
 Message-like spread, and answering action rouse. 
 Not angular jigs that warm the chill)' linilis 
 In hoary northern mists, l)ut action curved 
 To soft andante strains pitched plaintively. 
 Vibrations sympathetic stir all limbs: 
 Old men live backward in their dancing prime, 
 And move in memory ; small legs and arms 
 With pleasant agitation purposeless 
 ,Go up and down like pretty fruits in gales. 
 All long in common for the expressive act 
 Yet wait for it ; as in the oldeu time 
 Men waited for the bard to tell their thought. 
 "The dance!" "the dance!" is shouted all aromia. 
 Now Pablo lifts the bow, Pepita now, 
 Kendy as bird that sees the sprinkled corn, 
 When Juan nods aud smiles, puts forth her foot 
 And lilts lier arm to wake the castanets. 
 Jnan advances, too, from out the ring 
 And bends to quit his lute ; for now the scene 
 Is empty; Roldan weary, gathers pence. 
 Followed by Annibal with purse, aud stick. 
 The carpet lies a colored isle uutrod. 
 Inviting feet: "The dance, the dance," resounds,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 127 
 
 The bow entreats with slow melodic strain, 
 And all the air with expectation yearns. 
 
 Sudden, with gliding motion like a flame 
 
 That through dim vapor makes a path of glory, 
 
 A figure litlie, all white and safl'ron-robed. 
 
 Flashed right across the circle, and now stood 
 
 With ripened arms uplift and regal head, 
 
 Like some tall flower whose dark and intense heart 
 
 Lies half within a tulip-tinted cup. 
 
 Jnan stood fixed and pale ; Pepita stepped 
 Backward witliin the ring: the voices fell 
 From shouts insistent to more passive tones 
 Half meaning welcome, half astonishment. 
 "Lady Fedalma! — will she dance for ns?" 
 
 But she, sole swayed by Impulse passionate. 
 
 Feeling all life was music and all eyes 
 
 The warming, quickening light tliat music makes, 
 
 Moved as, in dance religious, Miriam, 
 
 When on the Red Sea shore she raised her voice 
 
 And led the chorus of the people's joy; 
 
 Or as the Trojan maids that reverent sang 
 
 Watching the sorrow-crowned Uecuba: 
 
 Moved in slow curves voluminous, gradual. 
 
 Feeling and action flowing into one, 
 
 In Eden's natural taintless marriage-bond; 
 
 Ardently modest, sensuously pure, 
 
 With young delight that wonders at itself 
 
 And throbs as innocent as opening flowers, 
 
 Knowing not comment — soilless, beaulifnl. 
 
 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 rrew impregnate with the mastcu's thoihght. 
 
 Even tlie chauce-sti'ayed delicate tendrils blacky 
 
 That backward 'scajjo from out her wreathing haif— » 
 
 Even the pliant folds that cling transverse 
 
 When with obliquely soaring bend altera 
 
 She seems a goddess quitting earth again — 
 
 Gatlier 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. 
 And stirrings gentle as of carted corn 
 Or seed-bent grasses, wlien the ocean's breath 
 Spreads landward. Even Juan is impelled 
 By tlie swift-travelling movement: fear and doubt 
 G^ive way before tlie hurrying energy; 
 lie takes his lute and strikes in fellowship, 
 Filling more full the rill of melody 
 Raised ever and anon to clearest flood
 
 128 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 I5y Pablo's voice, that dies awny too soon, 
 Like tlie sweet blackbird's fiaj;;mentaiy chant, 
 Yet wakes again, with varying rise and fall, 
 In songs that seem emergent memories 
 Prompting brief ntteraucc— little cancions 
 And villaucicos, Andahisia-born. 
 
 Pahi.o (sings). 
 It was 'in tlic prime 
 Of the sweet Upring-time. 
 In the linneVs throat 
 Trembled the love-note, 
 And the love-stirred air 
 Thrilled the blossoms there. 
 Little shadoivs danced 
 Each a tiny elf, 
 , Uappy in large light 
 
 And the thinnest self. 
 
 It was b^it a mimite 
 In a far-off Spring, 
 But each gentle thing, 
 
 Swectlg-wvuing linnet. 
 
 Soft-thrilled hawthorn-trcc, 
 Happy shadoimj elf 
 With the thinnest self. 
 
 Live still on in vie. 
 O the sweet, sweet prime 
 Of the past Spring-time. 
 
 And still the light is changing: high above 
 Float soft pink clouds; others with deeper flush 
 Stretch like flamingoes bending toward the south 
 Comes a more solemn brilliance o'er the sky, 
 A meaning more intense upon 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 antiphouy. 
 
 JcAN (sings). 
 Day is dying ! Float, song, 
 
 Down the westward river. 
 Requiem chanting to the Day — 
 
 Day, the mighty Giver. 
 
 Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds. 
 
 Melted rubies sending 
 Throvgh the. river and the skij. 
 
 Earth and heaven blending; 
 
 All the hng-drawn earthy banks 
 UX) to cloud-land lifting : 
 
 Sloiv between them drifts the swaiu 
 ^Twixt two heavens drifting. 
 
 Wings half open, like ajloic'r 
 
 Inly deeper Jhishing, 
 Xeck and breast as virgin''s pure— 
 
 Virgin proudly blushing.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 129 
 
 Day is dying ! Float, swan, 
 
 Down the ruby river ; 
 Folloii; ftony, in requiem 
 
 To the mifjhty Giver. 
 
 The exquisite hour, the ardor of the crowd, 
 
 The strains more plenteous, and the gathering niiglit 
 
 Of action passionate where no effort is, 
 
 But selfs poor gates open to rushing 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 unkuown rapture. Swifter now she moves, 
 
 Filling the measui'e with a doable beat 
 
 And widening circle; now she seems to glow 
 
 With more declared presence, glorified. 
 
 Circling, she lightly bends and lifts on high 
 
 The multitudinous-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 exnltaut throng 
 Is pushed and hustled, and then thrust apart: 
 Something approaches — something cuts the ring 
 Of jubilant idlers — startling as a streak 
 From alien wounds across the blooming flesh 
 Of careless 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 file 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 
 Eight to the centre of the open space. 
 Fedalma now, with gentle wheeling sweep 
 Returning, 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; 
 Religious silence and the holy sign 
 Of everlasting memories (the sign 
 Of death that turned to more difi"usive 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 TnE SPANisn gypsy. 
 
 As pagan statues with proud level pjaze. 
 
 I5ut he who wears a solitary chain 
 
 Ileailing the lile, has turned to face Fcdalnia. 
 
 She motionless, with arm uplifted, guards 
 
 The tambourine aloft (lest, sudden-lowered, 
 
 Its trivial jingle mar the duteous pause), 
 
 Reveres the general prayer, but prays not, stands 
 
 With level glance meeting that Gypsy's eyes, 
 
 That seem to her the sadness of the world 
 
 Rebuking her, the great bell's hidden thought 
 
 Now lirst 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? Uis 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 dctied him; all her soul 
 
 Rounded and hardened in its separatencss 
 
 When they encountered. But this prisoner — 
 
 This Gypsy, passing, gazing casually — 
 
 Was he her enemy too? She stood all quelled, 
 
 The impetuous joy that hurried iu her veins 
 
 Seemed backward rushing turned to chillest awe, 
 
 Uneasy wonder, and a vague self-doubt. 
 
 The minute brief stretched measureless, dream-filled 
 
 By a dilated new-fraught consciousness. 
 
 Now it was gone ; the pious murmur ceased, 
 
 The Gypsies all moved onward at command 
 
 And careless noises blent confusedly. 
 
 But the ring closed again, and many ears 
 
 Waited for Pablo's music, many eyes 
 
 Turned towards the carpet: it lay bare and dim, 
 
 Twilight was there— the bright Fedalma gone. 
 
 A Jtandsome room in tJie Castle. On a table a rich jewel-casket 
 
 Siiva had doffed his mail and with it all 
 The heavier harness of his warlike cares. 
 He had not seen Fedalma ; raiser-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 ricli tunics and slashed sleeves 
 And outward-surging linen's costly snow ; 
 With broidcred scarf transverse, and rosary 
 Handsomely wrought to tit 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 mien and garb
 
 TUE SPANISH GYPSY. 181 
 
 To scrnpnlous langnage, nttering to the world 
 
 That since she loved hhn he went caieftilly, 
 
 Bearing a thing so precious in his hand. 
 
 A man of high-wrought strain, fastidious 
 
 In his acceptance, dreading all delight 
 
 That speedy dies and turns to carrion : 
 
 His senses much exacting, deep 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 dream 
 
 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 fiercely sprang. 
 
 Or having sprung, turned pallid at his deed 
 
 And loosed the prize, paying his blood for n6ught. 
 
 A nature half-tran-sformed. With qualities 
 
 That oft bewrayed each other, elements 
 
 Not blent but struggliug, breeding strange effects. 
 
 Passing the reckoiiiug of his fricnd.s or foes. 
 
 Haughty and generous, grave and passionate; 
 
 With tidal moments of devoutest awe, 
 
 Sinking anon to farthest ebb of doubt ; 
 
 Deliberating ever, till the sting 
 
 Of a recurrent ardor made him rush 
 
 Right against reasons that himself had drilled 
 
 And marshalled painfully. A spirit framed 
 
 Too proudly special for obedience, 
 
 Too subtly pondering for mastery: 
 
 Born of a goddess with a mortal sire, 
 
 Uoir 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 alt, may leave the worst 
 
 And the best too, like tunea 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 remorse ; 
 
 Or, as a lover. ... In the screening time 
 
 Of purple blossoms, when the petals crowd 
 
 And softly crush like cherub cheeks 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 pretty 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 GYPSY. 
 
 Fresh made for two who live in Paradise. 
 
 Silva is in love's spviiip;, its freshness breathed 
 
 Within his soul aloiij; the dusty ways 
 
 While marching homeward; 'tis around him now 
 
 As in a garden fenced in for delight, — 
 
 And he may seek delight. Smiling he lifts 
 
 A whi.stle from his bell, but lets it fall 
 
 Ere it has reached his lips, jarred by the sound 
 
 Of ushers' knocking, and a voice that craves 
 
 Admissiou for the Prior of San Domiugo. 
 
 Pbioe {enkring). 
 
 Yon look perturbed, my son. I thrust myself 
 Between you and some beckoning intent 
 That wears a face more smiling tlian my own. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Father, enough that yon are here. I wait, 
 
 As always, your commands— nay, should have sought 
 
 An early audience. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 To give, I trust. 
 Good reasons for your change of policy? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Strong reasons, father. 
 
 Priob. 
 
 Ay, but arc they good? 
 I have known 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 hint on my part prompting, with besides 
 
 The testified concurrence of the king 
 
 And our Grand Master, have made peremptory 
 
 The course which else had been but rational. 
 
 Without the forces furnished by allies 
 
 The siege of Quadix 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 bring their forces. We shall catch the Moors, 
 
 The last gleaned clusters of their bravest men, 
 
 As in a trap. You have my reasons, father. 
 
 Priou. 
 
 And they sound well. But free-tongued rumor adds 
 
 A pregnant sui)plement— in substance this: 
 
 That inclination snatches arguments 
 
 To make indulgence seem judicious choice; 
 
 That you, commanding in God's Holy War, 
 
 Lift pr.ayers to Satan to retard the fight 
 
 And give you time for feasting— wait a siege.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. TdS 
 
 Call daring enterprise impossible, 
 Because yon'd marry ! You, a Spanish duke, 
 Christ's general, would marry like a clown, 
 Who, selling fodder dearer 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 Silva. 
 
 Rumor on your lips 
 
 Is eloquent, father. 
 
 Pkiok, 
 la she true? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Perhaps. 
 I seek to justify my public acts 
 And not my private joy. Before the world 
 Enough if I am faithful in command, 
 Betray not by my deeds, swerve from no task 
 My knightly vows constrain me to : herein 
 I ask all men to test me. 
 
 Pbior. 
 
 Knightly vows ? 
 Is it by their constraint that you must marry ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 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 before I took the vows. 
 
 PlSlOK. 
 
 Ignoble liberty ! you snatch your rule 
 
 From what God tolerates, not what he loves ? — 
 
 Inquire what lowest offering may suflSce, 
 
 Clicapen 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 frail flesh 
 
 Our Iloly Church indulges?— Ask great Law, 
 
 The rightful Sovereign of the human soul, 
 
 For what it pardons, not what it commands ? 
 
 O fallen knighthood, penitent of high vows. 
 
 Asking a charter to degrade itself! 
 
 Such poor apology of rules relaxed 
 
 Blunts not suspicion of that doubleness 
 
 Your enemies tax you with. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Oh, for the rest. 
 Conscience is harder than our enemies.
 
 184 THE si'ANisn gypsy. 
 
 Knows more, accuses with more nicety, 
 Nor needs to (juc^tion Kir.nor if we full 
 Below the perfect model of our thou;,'lit. 
 I fear no outward arbiter.— You Buiile f 
 
 Prior. 
 
 Ay, at the contrast 'twixt your jiortraiturc 
 
 And the true imaj^e of your conscience, shown 
 
 As now I sec it in your acts. I see 
 
 A drunken sentinel who gives alarm 
 
 At his own shadow, but wheu scalers snatch 
 
 Ilia 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. , 
 
 Prior. 
 
 Oh, the husk gapes with meaning over-ripe. 
 You Ijoast a conscience that controls your deeds, 
 Watches your knightly armor, guards your rank 
 From stain of treachery — you, helpless slave, 
 Whose will lies nerveless iu the clutch of lust — 
 Of blind mad passion — passion itself most helpless, 
 Storm-driven, lilic the monsters of the sea. 
 O famous conscieuce! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Pause there '. Leave unsaid 
 Aught that will match that text. More woi-o too much, 
 Even from holy lips. I own no love 
 I?ut such as guards my honor, since it guards 
 Hers whom I love ! I suffer no foul words 
 To stain the gift 1 lay before her feet ; 
 And, being hers, my honor is more safe. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 Versemakers' talk I 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. Y'our 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 infidel; 
 
 Prior 
 
 Jlay one day spurn (he Cross, 
 And call that honor! — one day find his sword 
 Stained with his brother's blood, and call that honor! 
 Apostates' honor ?— harlots' chastity! 
 lienegades' faithliilucss ?— Iscariot's !
 
 THE SPANISH GYPS/. 135 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 
 Strong words and biiruiiig ; but Ihey scorch not nie. 
 
 Fedalina is a daughter of the Church — 
 
 lias been baptized and nurtured in the faith. 
 
 Peioe. 
 
 Ay, as a thousand Jewesses, who yet 
 Are brides of Satan in a robe of flames. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Fcdalma is no Jewess, bears no marks 
 That tell of Hebrew blood. 
 
 Peiok. 
 
 She bears the marks 
 Of races unbaptized, that never bowed 
 Before the holy signs, were never moved 
 By stirrings of the sacramental gifts. 
 
 Don Silva {scwnfully). 
 
 Holy accusers practise palmistry, 
 
 And, other witness lacking, read the skiu. 
 
 Pkior. 
 
 I read a record deeper than the skin. 
 
 What I Shall the trick of nostrils and of lips 
 
 Descend through generations, and the soul 
 
 That moves within onr frame like God in worlds-= 
 
 Convulsing, urging, melting, withering — 
 
 Impriut no record, leave no documents, 
 
 Of her great history ? Shall men bequeath 
 
 The nancies of their palate to their sons, 
 
 And sliall the shudder of restraining awe. 
 
 The slow-wept tears 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 leave no trace 
 
 Of tremors reverent? — That maiden's blood 
 
 Is as unchristian as the leopard's. 
 
 Don Sxlva. 
 
 Say, 
 Unchristian as the Blessed Virgin's blood 
 Before the angel spoke the word, "All hail !" 
 
 Pkiou (smiling bitterly.) 
 
 Said I not truly ? See, your passion weaves 
 Already blasphemies ! 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 'Tis you provoke them. 
 
 Pkiok. 
 
 1 strive, as still the Holy Spirit strives. 
 
 To move the will perverse. But, failing this.
 
 136 THE SPANISU GYPSY. 
 
 God commands other means to save our blood, 
 
 To save Castilian 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 tongue. 
 
 As for your tlireats, fiillil them at your peril. 
 
 "Pis 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. 
 
 Pkioe. 
 
 Miserable man ! 
 Your strength will turn to anguish, like the strength 
 Of fallen angels. Can you change your blood ? 
 You are a Christian, with the Christian awe 
 In every vein. A Spanish noble, born 
 To serve your people and your people's faith. 
 Strong, are you? Turn your back upon the Cross- 
 Its shadow is before you. Leave your place: 
 Quit the great ranks of knighthood : you will walk 
 Forever with a tortured double self, 
 A self that will be hungry while you feast, 
 Will blush with shame while you are glorified. 
 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 palaces, 
 A lewd Herodias . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Stop! uo 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 effort 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 sirnshine cold to me, 
 Abolish the earth's fairness, prove it all 
 A fiction of my eyes— then, after that. 
 Profane Fedalma. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 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 
 
 Flanutiiig lier beauties grossly in tlie gaze 
 Of vulgar idlers— eking out the show 
 Made in the Plafa by a mountebank. 
 I hinder you no farther. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 It is false ! 
 
 Pbiob. 
 Go, prove it false, then. 
 
 [Father Isidor 
 Drew on his cowl and turned away. The face 
 That fla.shed anathemas, in swift eclipse 
 Seemed Silva's vanished confidence. In haste 
 lie rushed uusignallcd through the corridor 
 To where the Duchess once, Fedalma now, 
 Had residence retired from din of arms — 
 Knocked, opened, found all empty — said 
 With muffled voice, " Fedalma 1"— called more loud. 
 More oft on Inez, the old trusted nurse — 
 Then searched the terrace-garden, calling still. 
 But heard no answering sound, and saw no face 
 Save painted faces staring all unmoved 
 By agitated tones. He hurried back, 
 Giving half-conscious orders as he went 
 To page and usher, that Ihcy 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 
 Thickening the air ; snatched cloak and plumC-d hat, 
 And grasped, not knowing why, his poniard's hill ; 
 Then checked himself and said :— ] 
 
 If he spoke trutli I 
 To know were wound enough — to see the truth 
 Were Are upon the wound. It must be false! 
 His hatred saw amiss, or snatched mistake 
 In other men's report. I am a fool ! 
 But where can she be gone? gone secretly? 
 And in my absence? Oh, she meant no wrong ! 
 I am a fool ! — But where can she be gone ? 
 With only Inez? Oh, she meant no wrong! 
 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 so high 
 Toppling in fragments meaningless. What is— 
 What will be— must be — pooh ! they wait the key 
 Of that 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
 
 lUy THE SPANISH OYPSY. 
 
 If bliss itself is not yonng misery 
 With fangs swift growing. . . . 
 
 But some outward harm 
 May even now be hurting, grieving lier. 
 Oil 1 I must search— face shame— if shame be there. 
 Here, Perez! hasten to Don Alvar— tell him 
 Lady Fetlalma must be sought— is lost— 
 Has met, I fear, some mischance. lie must send 
 Towards divers points. I go myself to seek 
 First iu the town. . . . 
 
 [As Percy, opod 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 M-as 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 the purer stream 
 That strove to drown it: Anger seeks its prey — 
 Something to tear with sharp-edged tooth and claw. 
 Likes not to go oft' 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 
 lie must be angry, having cause. Yet love 
 Shot like a stifled cry of tenderness 
 All through the harshness he would faiu have given 
 To the dear word,] 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 Fedalma ! 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 
 O my lord ! 
 You are come back, and I was wandering ! 
 
 Don Sii.va {coldly, but loilh suppressed agitation). 
 You meant I should be ignorant, 
 Fedauvia. 
 
 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 hiuderance ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 139 
 
 Fedalma (.archly). 
 
 That depends 
 Ou what the wish may be. You wished me oucc 
 Not to nucage the birds. I meaut to obey: 
 But in a moment something— something stronger, 
 Forced me to let tliem out. It did no harm. 
 They all came back again— the eilly birds ! 
 I told yon, after. 
 
 Don Silva {with haughty coldness). 
 
 Will you tell me now 
 What was the prompting stronger than my wish 
 That made you wander? 
 
 Fkdalma {advancing a step towards him, with a siidden look of anxiety). 
 
 Are you angry? 
 
 Don Silva {smiling bitterly). 
 
 Angry ? 
 A man deep-wounded may feel too much pain 
 To feel much anger. 
 
 Fkdalma {still more anxiously). 
 You— deep-wounded ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes! 
 
 Have I not made your place and dignity 
 The very heart of my ambition ? You— 
 No enemy could do it — you alone 
 Can strike it mortally. 
 
 Feual.ma. 
 
 Nay, S'lva, nay. 
 Has some one told you false? I only wont 
 To see the world with Inez — see the town. 
 The people, everything. It was no barm. 
 I did not mean to dance: it happened so 
 At last . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 O God, it's true then !— true that you, 
 A maiden nurtured as rare flowers are, 
 The very air of heaven sifted fine 
 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? 
 
 Fr.nALMA {proudly). 
 
 Yes, it is true. I was not wrong to dance. 
 The air was filled with music, with a song 
 That seemed the voice of the sweet eventide — 
 The glowing light entering through eye and car — 
 That seemed our love- mine, yours— they arc but one—
 
 140 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Tieinhling Uirough nil my limbs, as furvcut woi'ds 
 Tremble within my poul and must l)e epokeu. 
 And all the pcoiile felt a common joy 
 And shouted for the dance. A brightness soft 
 As of the augels inoviuj? down to see 
 Illumiued the broad space. The joy, the life 
 Around, within me, were one heaven : I lougcd 
 To blend them visibly : I longed to dance 
 Before the i)cople— be as mounting flamo 
 To all that burned within them! Nay, I danced; 
 There was no longing: I but did the deed 
 Being moved to do it. 
 
 (.1» Fbualma spcak% she and Don Silva are qradualhj drawn nearer to 
 
 each other.) 
 
 Oh 1 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 never could do ought 
 But I must feel you present. And once done, 
 Why, you must love it better than your wish. 
 1 pray you, say so— say, it was not wrong I 
 
 {While Fedalma has bnen making this last appeal, they have gradually come 
 close together, and at last embrace.) 
 
 Don Su.va (holding her ha7ids). 
 
 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 husband. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Yes! 
 That very thing that when I am your wife 
 I shall be something difl'erent,— shall be 
 I know not what, a Duchess with new thoughts— 
 For nobles never think like common men. 
 Nor wives like maidens (Oh, j-ou wot not yet 
 Dow 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 Sii.va. 
 
 It was a guilty weakness : she knows well 
 That since you pleaded to be left more free
 
 THE BPANISn GYrSY. 141 
 
 From tedious tendance and control of dames 
 Whose rank matched better with yonr destiny, 
 Ilei- charge— my trust — was weightier. 
 
 Fepalma. 
 
 Nay, my lord, 
 Yon must not blame her, dear old nurse. She 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, 
 You innocent naughtiness, not shown yourself— 
 Sliown yourself dancing- you bewilder me! — 
 Frustrate my judgment wiih strange uegativea 
 That seem like poverty, and yet are wealth 
 In precious womanliness, beyond the dower 
 Of other women: wealth in virgin gold, 
 Outweighing all their i)etty currency. 
 You daring modesty ! You shrink no more 
 From gazing men than from the gazing flowers 
 That, dreaming sunshine, open as you pass. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 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 blue 
 
 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 Silva. 
 
 O precious little world ! you make the heaven 
 As the earth makes the sky. But, dear, all eyes. 
 Though looking even ou yon, have not a glance 
 That cherishes . . .   
 
 FKDAUfA. 
 
 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 liml)s. 
 And when the bell tolled, and the people prayed, 
 And I stood pausing— then he looked at me. 
 O Silva, such a man ! I thought he rose 
 From the dark jilace 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 lind me there 
 And grasp me— claim this festaliife of mine
 
 142 THE SPANKH GYPSY. 
 
 Ab heritage of sorrow, chill my blood 
 
 With the cold iron of sonic nnknowii bonds. 
 
 The ^'huhii'ss hurrying full wilhiu my vciiiH 
 
 Was sudden frozen, ;uid I danced no more. 
 
 But seeing yon let loose the stream of joy, 
 
 Mingling the present with the sweetest past. 
 
 Yet, Silva, still I sec him. Who is he? 
 
 Who are those prisoners with him? Are they Moors 7 
 
 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. Sncli 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 arc sundered. Danger urges us 
 To quick resolve. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 What danger? what resolve? 
 I never felt chill shadow in ray 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 in this. 
 Trusting the reasons why I overset 
 All my own airy building raised so high 
 Of i)ridal 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 Jaon. 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 liiez 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 breast,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 143 
 
 And whnt stains yon must stain our ancient name ; 
 
 If any liate yon 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 havin;^ made ns one. Now put the seal 
 
 Of yonr dear lii)s on that. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 A solemn kiss? — 
 Such as I gave yon 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 Sii,va, 
 
 Yes, yes, you face divine ! When was our kiss 
 Like any other? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Nay, I cannot tell 
 
 What other kisses are. But that one kiss 
 
 Kemaius 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 I 
 (They kiss, and pause a moment, looking earncsthj in each other's eyes. Th&n 
 FISDAI..MA, breaking aioay 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 when Iilez said, 
 
 "You are no more a little girl ;" I grieved 
 
 To part forever from that little girl 
 
 And all her happy w^orld so near the ground. 
 
 It mnst be sad to outlive aught we love. 
 
 So I shall grieve a little for these days 
 
 Of poor unwed Fedalma. Oh, they are sweet. 
 
 And none will come just like them. Perhaps the wind 
 
 Wails so in winter for tlie summers dead. 
 
 And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries 
 
 For what has been and is not. Are they, Silva ? 
 
 - {She comes nearer to him again, and lays her hand 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. Y'ou soared high 
 
 In that wild flight of rapture wheu you danced, 
 
 And now you droop. 'Tis arbitrary grief. 
 
 Surfeit of happiness, that mourns for loss 
 
 Of unwed love, which docs but die like seed
 
 ^44 THE BPANISn OYTSY. 
 
 For fuller harvest of our tenderness. 
 Wo in our wedded iilo shall kuow no loss. 
 We shall new-date our years. What went heforc 
 Will be the time of promise, shadows, dreams; 
 15ut this, full revelation of great love. 
 For rivers blent take in a broader heaven, 
 And we shall blend our souls. Away with grief! 
 When this dear head shall wear the double crown 
 Of wife and Duchess— spiritually crowned 
 Witli 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 maguanimity 
 Grow perfect with more perfect utterance, 
 Gathering full-shapen strength. And then these gems, 
 (Don Sii.va draws Fedalma towards the jewel-casket on the table, and opens it.) 
 Helping the utterance of my sonl's full choice, 
 Will be the words made richer by just use. 
 And have new meaning in their lustronsness. 
 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. 
 
 (Pedalma, whil£ Don Silva holds open tlie casket, bends over it, lookma at the 
 
 jewels with delight.) 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Ah, I remember them. In childish days 
 I felt as if they were alive and breathed. 
 I used to sit with awe and look at them. 
 And now they will be mine! I'll put them on. 
 Help me, my lord, and you shall see me now 
 Somewhat as I shall look at Court with yon, 
 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. 
 Cut when the Court is lookiug, and the queen. 
 Your eyes will follow theirs. Oh, if you saw 
 That I was other than you wished— 'twere death 1 
 
 Don Silva (taking up a jewel and placing it against her ear.) 
 Nay, let us try. Take out your car-ring, sweet. 
 This ruby glows with longing for your car. 
 
 FiCDALMA (taking out her ear-ring.'), and then lifting up the otiter jewels, one 
 
 by 07ie). 
 Pray, fasten in the rubies. 
 
 (Don Sii.VA begins to put in the ear-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 Bcent of jasmine, and the fountaiu's plash, 
 
 The moviug shadows ou the far-off hills. 
 
 The elauting inooulight, and our clasping hauds. 
 
 Silva, there's au ocean round our words 
 
 That overflows and drowns them. Do you know 
 Sometimes wheu we sit silent, aud the air 
 Breathes gently on ns from the orange-trees, 
 It seems that with the whisper of a word 
 Our souls must shrink, get poorer, more apart. 
 Is it uot tme? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes, dearest, it is true. 
 Speech is but broken light upon the depth 
 Of the unspoken : even your loved words 
 Float in the larger meaning of your voice 
 As something dimmer. 
 {He is still trying in vain to fasten the second car-ring, while she has stooped 
 
 again over the casket.) 
 
 Fedalma [raising her head). 
 
 Ah I 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 yon must be still. 
 
 (She stands perfccthj still, claxping her hands together while lie fastens the second 
 ear-ring. Suddenly a clanking noise is heard without.) 
 
 Fedalma {starting with an expression of pain). 
 
 What is that sound f— that jarring cruel sound ? 
 'Tis there — outside. 
 {She tries to start away towards the window, but Don Silva detains Iter.) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 O heed it not, it comes 
 From workmen in the outer gallery. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 It is the sound of fetters ; sound of work 
 la not so dismal. Hark, they pass along ! 
 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 fult imprisoned in my luxury 
 With servants for my jailers. O my lord. 
 Do you not wish the world were diflerent? 
 
 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 trne ! 
 And I shall beg much kindness at your hands 
 
 21* fi*
 
 146 TUE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 For those who avo less happy than ourselves. — 
 
 (Urvjhteninr;) Oh I shall rule yon! ask for many things 
 
 Before the world, which you will not deny 
 
 For very priile, lc.«t men shoulil say, "The Duke 
 
 Holds li-jihtly by his Duchess; he repents 
 
 nis humble choice." 
 
 (.She breaks away from hmi and returns to thajeweU, taking up a necklace, and 
 clasping it on her neck, while he takes a circlet of diamonds and rubies and 
 raises it towariU Iter fiead as lie speaks.) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Itoubtless, I shall persist 
 In loving you, to disappoint the world ; 
 Out of pure obstinacy feci myself 
 Happiest of men. Now, take the coronet. 
 
 (Ue places the circlet on her hcui! ) 
 The diamond.s want more light. See, from this lamp 
 1 can set tapers burning. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Tell me, now, 
 When all these cruel wars are at an cud, 
 And when we go to Court at C<!>rdova, 
 Or Seville, or Toledo— wait awhile, 
 I must be farther off for you to see — 
 
 (She retreats to a distance from him, and then advance slowly.) 
 
 Now think (I would the thpers gave more light!) 
 
 If when you show me at the tournaments j 
 
 Among the other ladies, they will say, 
 
 " Duke Silva is well matched. Ilis 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 born." 
 
 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 tit her rank. 
 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. 
 
 Fi;dai.ma. 
 
 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.) 
 Ilere is gold — 
 A necklace of pure gold— most finely wrought. 
 
 (She takes out a large gold necklace and holds it up before her, then turns to 
 
 Don Silva.) 
 
 JUit this is one that you have worn, my lord?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 147 
 
 Don Silva, 
 No, love, I never wore it. Lay it down. 
 {He puts the necklace genthj out of her hand, then joins both her hands and 
 holds them up between his own.) 
 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. 'Tis true 
 My mind is too much given to gauds — to thiugs 
 That fetter thought withiu 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 off the walls, 
 And fly far, far away, until at last 
 I find myself alone among the rocks, 
 Kemcmber then that I have left you— try 
 To fly back to you— and my winga are gone! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 A wicked dream! If ever I left yon. 
 
 Even iu 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 comes 
 
 That longing to be free, I am afraid : 
 
 I run down to my chamber, plait my hair. 
 
 Weave colors in it, lay out all ray 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 iu wild strange wishes ; presently, 
 
 It dwindles to a little babbling rill 
 
 And plays among the pebbles and the flowers. 
 
 Iflez 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 Sii.va. 
 
 Yes, you shall ride upon a palfrey, black 
 To match Bavieca. Not Qneen Isabel 
 Will be a sight more gladdening to men's eyes 
 Than my dark queen Fedalma.
 
 148 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Ah, l)ut yon, 
 You nre my kinj», and I shall tremble still 
 With some gicat feai- that throbs within my love. 
 Does your love fear? 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Ah, yes 1 all preciousness 
 To mortal hearts 13 guarded by a fear. 
 All love fears loss, and most that loss supreme, 
 Its own perfection — seeing, feeling change 
 From high to lower, dearer to less dear. 
 Can love be careless ? If we lost our love 
 What should we flud f— with this sweet Past torn ofl", 
 Our lives deep scarred just where their beauty lay? 
 The best we found thenceforth wci'e 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 Fedalma. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 That is just. 
 'Twcre 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 large 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 me. 
 But is it what we love, or how wc love. 
 That makes true good? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 O subtlety ! for mo 
 'Tis what I love determines how I love. 
 The goddess with pure rites reveals herself 
 And makes pure worship. 
 
 Fit I) ALMA. 
 
 Do you worship nio ? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Ay, with that best of worship which adores 
 Goodness adorable. 
 
 Fedalma {archly). 
 
 Goodness obedient, 
 Doing your will, devoutest worshipper? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes — listening to this prayer. This very night 
 I shall go forth. And yon will rise with day 
 And wait for me?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 149 
 
 Ff-DAI.MA. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I shall snrcly como. 
 And then we shall be married. Now I go 
 To audience fixed in Abderahman's tower. 
 Farewell, love ! 
 
 {They embrace.) 
 
 Fepalma. 
 Some chill dread possesses me ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Oh, confidence has oft, been evil augury, . 
 So dread may hold a promise. Sweet, farewell I 
 I shall send tendance as I pass, to bear 
 This casket to your chamber.— One more kiss. 
 
 [Exit.) 
 
 Fedalma {when Don Silva is gone, returning to the casket, and looking dreamily 
 
 at the jewels). 
 Yes, now that good seems less imiwssiblc ! 
 Now it seems true that I shall be hia wife, 
 Be ever by his side, and make a part 
 
 In all his purposes 
 
 These rubies greet me Duchess. Eow they glow 1 
 
 Their prisoned souls are throbbing like my own. 
 
 Perchance they loved once, were ambitious, proud : 
 
 Or do they only dream of wider life, 
 
 Ache from iuteuseness, yearn to burst the wall 
 
 Compact of crystal splendor, and to fiood 
 
 Some wider space with glory? Poor, poor gems I 
 
 We must be patient in our prison-house. 
 
 And 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 tfui. necklace, ■meaning to clasp it on /tcr neck. Then paitscs, 
 startled, holding it before her.) 
 
 Why, it is magical ! 
 
 lie 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 characters? 
 
 I never learned them; yet they stir some sense 
 
 That once I dreamed— I have forgotten what. 
 
 Or was it life? Perhaps I lived before 
 
 In some strange world where first my soul was 6hai>ed, 
 
 And all this passionate love, and joy, and pain, 
 
 That come, I know not whence, and sway my deeds. 
 
 Are old imperious memories, blind yet strong. 
 
 That this world stirs within mo ; as this chain
 
 150 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Stirs ?omc strange certainty of visions gone, 
 Ami all my mind is as an eye that stares 
 Into tlio ilarliiiess painfully. 
 {While Feuai.m.v has Imii looking at the nfcklacc, Juan Arts entered, and finding 
 himself unobserved by her, says at last), 
 
 Scflora 1 
 Fedalma Fitarts, and gatluirinr/ the necklace together, turns round— 
 
 Oh, Juau, it is you ! 
 
 Juan. 
 
 I met the Dulic— 
 Ilad waited long without, no matter why— 
 And when he ordered one to wait on you 
 And carry forth a burden you would Rive, 
 I prayed for leave to be the servitor. 
 Don Silva owes me twenty granted wishes 
 That I have never tendered, laclving aught 
 That I could wish for and a Duke could grant; 
 But this one wish to serve you, weighs as much 
 As twenty other longings. 
 
 Febai.ma (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 Dulje says, "That is idle Juan's way: 
 Poets must rove— are honey-sucking birds 
 And know not constancy." Said he quite true? 
 
 Juan, 
 O lady, constancy has kind and ranlc. 
 One man's is lordly, plump, and bravely clad, 
 Ilolds its head high, and tells tlie 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? 
 
 Juan. 
 No farther back than when I saw it taken 
 From off its wearer's neck— the Gypsy chief's. 
 
 Fepalma (eagerly). 
 What ! he who paused, at tolling of the bell. 
 Before me in the Plapa? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Yes, I eav? 
 His look fixed on you. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Know you aught of him ? 
 Juan. 
 Something and nothing— as I know the sky,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Or some great story of the olden time 
 That hides a Bccret. I have oft talked with him. 
 He seems to say much, yet is but a wizard 
 Who draws dowu raiu by sprinkling; throws inc out 
 Some pregnant text that urges comment; casts 
 A sharp-hooked question, baited with such skill 
 It needs must catch the answer. 
 Fedalma. 
 
 It is hard 
 That such a man should be a prisoner- 
 Be chained to work. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Oh, he Is dangerous ! 
 Qran&da 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 hie eyea 
 
 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 oflspriug. Prisoners ! 
 
 Oh ! they have made their fires beside the streams. 
 
 Their walls have been the rocks, the pillared pines, 
 
 Their roof the living sky that breathes with light: 
 
 They may welliiate a cage, like strong-winged birds,^ 
 
 Like me, who have no wings, but only wishes. 
 
 I will beseech the Duke to set them freei 
 
 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 t 
 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 fancies may be truth aod 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. 
 
 Fbdalma. 
 
 Fear not, Juan. 
 Your wordg bring daylight with them when you speak. 
 I understand your care. Pjut I am brave— 
 
 151
 
 152 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Oh I and so cunning !— always I prevail. 
 Now, honored Troubadour, if you will be 
 Your pupil's iscrvaiit, bear this casket hence. 
 Nay, not the necklace: it is hard to place. 
 I'ray go before me ; lilez will be there. 
 
 {Exit Juan with the casket.) 
 
 Fki>alma (lookiwj 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 arc blind, or sleep, then this man's fate, 
 Ilovering about the thing he used to wear, 
 Has laid its grasp on mine appealingly. 
 Dangerous, is lie ?— 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 find 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 prayer, 
 And he vviill not deny me: he is good. 
 Oh, I shall have much power as well as joy 1 
 Duchess Fedalma may do what she will. 
 
 A Street by the Castle. JnAN leans against a parapet, in moonlight, and touches 
 his lute half unconsciousl;/. Pepita stands on tiptoe ivatching Mm, and then 
 advances till her shadow falls in front of him. He looks towards tier. A 
 piece of white drapery thrown over her head catches the moonlight 
 
 Ila ! my Pepita ! sec how thin and long 
 Your shadow is. 'Tis so your ghost will be, 
 When you are dead. 
 
 Pepita (crossing liersclf). 
 
 Dead ! — O the blessed saints ! 
 Yon would be glad, then, if Pepita died ? 
 
 Jdan. 
 Glad 1 why 1 Dead maidens are not merry. Ghosts 
 Are doleful company. I like you living. 
 
 Pepita. 
 I think you like 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 OVPSY. 153 
 
 The wrinkles nre within, my little bird. 
 Why, I have lived through twice a thousand years, 
 And kept the company of men whose bones 
 Crumbled before the blessed Virgin lived. 
 
 PEriTA {crossing herself). 
 Nay, God defend us, that is wicked talk! 
 You say it but to scorn me. (Witli a sob) I will go. 
 
 JlTAN. 
 
 Stay, little pigeon. I am not unkind. 
 
 Come, sit upon the wall. Nay, never cry. 
 
 Give me your check to kiss. There, cry no more ! 
 
 (Pepita, sitting 07i the low parapet, puts up Mr clieek to Juan, loho kisses it, 
 2mtting his hand under her chin. She takes his luvnd and kisses it). 
 
 Pepita. 
 I like to kiss your hand. It is so good— 
 So smooth and soft. 
 
 JnAN. 
 Well, well, I'll sing to you. 
 
 Pepita. 
 A pretty song, loving and merry ? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Yes. 
 (Juan sings) 
 Memory, 
 Tell to me 
 What is fair. 
 Past compare. 
 In the land of Tubal ? 
 
 Is it Springes 
 Lovely things. 
 Blossoms white, 
 Hosy dight ? 
 Then it is Pepita. 
 
 Summer^s crest 
 Red-gold tressed, 
 
 Corn-floxvcrs pee^nng wider ? — 
 Idle noons, 
 Lingering moons. 
 Sudden cloud, 
 Lightning^s shroud. 
 Sudden rain, 
 Quick again 
 
 Smiles where late was thunder? — 
 Are all these 
 Made to please ? 
 
 So too is Pepita. 
 
 Autumn^s prime, 
 
 Apple-time, 
 Smooth check round. 
 Heart all sound?
 
 154 TITE SPANISH GYrSY. 
 
 Is it this 
 V'oit would kiss J 
 Then it is Pepda. 
 
 You can bring 
 No sv>ect tltinp, 
 Hut mi; mind 
 Still shall find 
 It is vuj I'cp'ita. 
 
 Memory 
 Says to ma 
 It is she — 
 She is fair 
 Past compare 
 In the land of Tubal. 
 
 Pepita. (seizing Juan's hand again). 
 
 Oh, then, you do love me ? 
 
 Joan. 
 
 Yes, iu the song. 
 
 Pepita (sadly). 
 Not ont of it?— not love rac out of it? 
 
 Juan. 
 Only a little out of it, my bird. 
 When I was singing I was Audits, say, 
 Or ouo who loves you better still than he. 
 
 Pepita. 
 Not yourself? 
 
 Juan. 
 
 No! 
 
 Pepita (throwing Ms hand down pettishly). 
 
 Then take it back again ! 
 I will not have it 1 
 
 Jcan. 
 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 voica 
 Juan's own life he gave once quite aw.ay. 
 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 little frightened, after letting Jdan kisa Iter). 
 You are not wicked? 
 
 Jcan. 
 Ask your confessor— tell him what I said. 
 
 (Pepita goes, while Juan thrums his lute again, and sings.) 
 Came a pretty maid 
 Dy the wwoji's pure light.
 
 THE SPANISH GTPST. 155 
 
 Loved me well, eJw said. 
 Eyes ivith tfais all blight, 
 A prcWj maid! 
 But too late she strayed. 
 
 Moonlight inire was there; 
 She was nought but shade 
 Hiding the more fair. 
 The heavenly vutid ! 
 
 A vaulted room all stotie. The light shed from a high lamp. Wooden chairs, a 
 desk, book-shelves. The Puiob, in white frock, a black rosary with a crucifix of 
 ebony and ivory at his side, is walking up and doivn, holding a written pajicr 
 in Ids lumds, which are clasped behind him. 
 
 - What if this witness lies? he says he heard her 
 Coutrtiug licr blasphemies on a rosary, 
 And fii a bold disconrse with Salomo, 
 Say tliat the Host was nought but ill-mixed flomv 
 That it was mean to pray--she never prayed. 
 I know the man who wrote this for a cur, 
 Who follows Don Diego, sees life's good 
 In spraps my nephew flings to him. What then*? 
 Particular lies may speak a general truth. -' 
 
 I guess him false, but know her heretic — 
 Know her for Satan's instrument, bedecked 
 With heathenish charms, luring the souls of men 
 To damning trust in good unsanctilied. 
 Let her be prisoned— questioned— she will give 
 Witness against herself, that were this false . . . 
 (He looks at the j)aper again and reads, then again thrusts it behind him). 
 The matter and 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-sent lamp, and I— 
 I, watchman of the Holy Oflice, bear 
 That lamp iu 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 I 
 This spotless maiden with her pagan soul 
 Is the arch-enemy's trap: he turns 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 fitfuluess, 
 Strong iu 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 iu him : Silva will be 
 That saintly noble, that wise warrior. 
 That blameless excellence in worldly gifts 
 I would have been, had I hot asked to live
 
 156 TIIE SPANISH OYrSY. 
 
 The hlj^her life of man impersonal 
 Who leigus o'er all things by refusing all." 
 What is his promise now? Apostasy 
 From every high Intent: — languid, nay, gone, 
 The prompt devontncss of a generous heart, 
 The strong obedience of a reverent will, 
 That breathes the Churcli's air and sees her light, 
 lie peers and strains with feeble questioning, 
 Or else he jests, lie 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 1, 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 fill it infamously : in God's war 
 Slackness is infamy. Shall 1 stand by 
 And let the tempter win ? defraud Christ's cause. 
 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 hand 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 purposes. 
 Evil that good may come? Measure the good 
 Before you say what's evil. Peijuryi? f" 
 
 I scorn the perjurer, but 1 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 knowcst that my will is pnrc. 
 
 Thy servant owns nought for himself, his wealth 
 
 Is but obedience. And 1 have sinned 
 
 In keeping small respects of human love — 
 
 Calling it mercy. Mercy? Where evil is 
 
 True mercy holds a sword. Mercy would sav& 
 
 Save whom? Save serpents, locusts, wolves? 
 
 Or out of pity 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 unconsumed. 
 
 And save the fools to breed idolaters? 
 
 O mercy worthy of the licking hound 
 
 That knows no future but its feeding time! 
 
 Mercy has eyes that pie^'ce the ages— sees 
 
 From heights divine of the eternal purpose
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 157 
 
 F'ar-scattcred consequence in its vast sum ; 
 
 OhooBes to B.ive, but with illumined vision 
 
 Sees ttiat to save is greatly to destroy. 
 
 'Tis 80 the Holy Inquisition sees: its wrath 
 
 Is fed from the strong heart of wisest love. 
 
 For love must needs make hatred. He who loves 
 
 God and his law must hate the foes of God. 
 
 Aud I have sinned in being merciful: 
 
 Being slack in hate, I have been slacli in love. 
 
 {tie taken the crucifix and hoMs it ii/p hcfura him.) 
 Thou shuddering, bleeding, 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 the eyelids of the blind, 
 And opened passive to the cruel nail. 
 Shall one day stretch to leftward of thy throne, 
 Charged with the power that malces the lightning strong, 
 And hurl thy foes to everlasting hell. 
 Aud thou, Immaculate Mother, Virgin mild, 
 Thou sevenfold-pierced, thou pitying, pleading Queen, 
 Shalt see aud smile, while the black filthy souls 
 Sink with foul weight to their eternal place, 
 Purging the Holy Light. Yea, I have sinned 
 And called it mercy. But I shrinlc no more. 
 To-morrow morn this temptress shall be safe 
 Under the Holy Inquisition's key. 
 lie think.s to wed her, aud defy me then. 
 She being shielded by our house's name. 
 But he shall never wed her. I have said. 
 
 The time is come. Exurge, Doininc, 
 Judica causam tuam. Let thy foes 
 Be driven as the smoke before the wind, 
 And melt like wax upon the furuace lip! 
 
 large chamber richly furnished opening on a terrace-garden, the trees visible 
 through the window in faint moonlight. Floxoers hanging about the window, lit 
 up by the tapers. The casket of jewels open on a table. The gold necklace lying 
 near. Fkdalma, splendidly dressed and adorned with pearU and rubies, is 
 walking up and down. 
 
 So soft a night was never made for sleep. 
 But for the waking of the finer sense 
 To 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 the window to gather some jasmine : then walks again.) 
 Surely these flowers keep happy watch— their breath 
 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 niglit
 
 158 THE SPANISH GYrSY. 
 
 To live through all my happy houis nRaiii 
 
 With more Pclcction— cull them quite nway 
 
 From blemishca moments. Then in loneliness 
 
 The face that bent before mo in the day 
 
 Rises iu its own light, more vivid seems 
 
 Painted upon the dark, and ccaseleiss 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 jmuses a moment viusinglij.) 
 But that dumb hojie is still a sleeping guard 
 Whose quiet rhythmic breath saves me from dread' 
 In this fair paradise. For if the earth 
 Broke off with flower-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 ])ast which is securely mine, 
 Will be the hidden root that nourishes 
 Qur still unfolding, ever-ripening love! 
 ( While she U littering the last words, a little bird falls softly on the flow behind 
 her; she hears tlio light sound of it^ fall, and turns round.) 
 Did something enter? . . . 
 
 Yes, this little bird . . . 
 
 {She lifts it.) 
 Pead and yet warm ; 'twas seeking sauctnary, 
 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 mc— 
 
 God, are sent to me! Dear child, Fedalma, 
 He brave, give no alarm — yotir Father comes ! 
 
 {She lets tfie bird fall again.) 
 BIy Father . . . comes ... my Father . . . 
 [She turns in quivering expectation towards the window. There is perfect stillness 
 a few moments u^itil Zaeoa. appears at the luindow. lie enters quickly and 
 noiselessly; then stajids still at his full height, and at a distance from Fn- 
 
 DALMA.) 
 
 Fkdal.ma {in a low,distinct tone of terror). 
 
 It is he ! 
 
 1 said his fate had laid its hold on mine. 
 
 Zakoa {advanci7ig a step or two). 
 You know, then, who I am? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 The prisoner- 
 lie whom I aaw iu fetters— aud Ihia necklace . . .
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 159 
 
 Zaeca. 
 
 Was played with by your fingers when it huug 
 About niy ueck, full tiftcea years ago. 
 
 Fbdalma {looking at the necklace and handling it, then speaking, as if vncon- 
 
 scimtshj). 
 
 Full flftcGu years ago 1 
 
 Zaroa. 
 
 The very day 
 I lost you, when you wore a tiuy 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 uapo, 
 A dent i' the middle nicking in the cheek. 
 You see I know the little gown by heart. 
 
 Fkdalma (growing paler and more trcmulovti). 
 
 Yes. It is true — I have the gown— the clasps— 
 The braid— sore tarnished :— it is long ago ! 
 
 Zaroa. 
 Biit yesterday to mc ; for till to-day 
 I saw you always as that little child. 
 And when they took my necklace from me, still 
 Your fingers played about it on my neck. 
 And still those buds of fingers on your feet 
 Caught in its meshes as you seemed to climb 
 Up to my shoulder. You were not stolen nil. 
 You had a double life fed from my heart. . . . 
 (Fedalma, letting fall the necklace, makes an impulsive movement towards 
 him with outstretched hands.) 
 The Gypsy father loves his children well. 
 
 Fkdalma {shrinking, trembling, and letting fall her hands). 
 IIow came it that you sought me — no— I mean, 
 How came it that you knew me— that you lost me? 
 
 Zaroa {standing perfectly still). 
 Poor child ! I see- your father 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, with a flash of adiniration, and looking ac 
 
 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 TUE SPANISU OYP8Y. 
 
 When Ziud, yonr nurse, na she coiifcsseii, was urged 
 By bni-niiij; thirst to wander toward the stream, 
 And leave you on the sand some paces off 
 Playing with i)cbbles, while she dog-like lapped. 
 'Twaa so I lost yon — never saw you more 
 Until to-day I saw you dancing 1 Saw 
 The daughter of the Zincalo make sport 
 For those who spit upon her people's name. 
 
 Fedai.ma {vehemently). 
 It was not sport. What if the world looked on ?— 
 I danced for joy— for love of all the world. 
 13nt when you looked at me my joy waa slabbed— 
 Stabbed with your pain. I wondered . . . now I know . . 
 It was my father's pain. 
 (She pauses a momoit luith eyes bent downward, during which Zauoa. 
 examines her /ace. Then she says quickly,) 
 How were you sure 
 At once I was your child? 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 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 shrub, 
 If you but cough beside it. I learned all 
 The story of your Sjjanish 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 Fedalma— 
 The little red-frocked foundling three years old- 
 Grown to such perfectnesa the Spanish Duke 
 Had wooed her for his Duchess— was the child, 
 Sole offspring of my ilesh, 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 robbed, 
 But from herself. 
 (Fkdai.ma has gradually approached close to Zauoa, and with a low soh sinks 
 
 Ml h^r knees before him. lie stoops to kiss her brow, and lays his haiuls 
 
 on her head.) 
 
 Zauoa {with solemn tenderness). 
 Then ray child owns her father ? 
 
 Fkdalma. 
 
 Father ! yes. 
 I will eat dust before I will deny 
 The flesh I spring from. 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 There my daughter spoke. 
 Away then with these rubies! 
 [Tie seizes the circlet of rxtbies and flings it on the ground- Fkdm.ma, start- 
 ing from the ground wUh strong ewotion, shrinks backward.) 
 
 Such a crown
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 161 
 
 Is iufamy around a Zincala's brow. 
 It is her people's blood, deckiug her shame. 
 Fed ALMA, (ofler a movient, slowly and disUnctlij, as if acc.C2)ting a doom). 
 Then ... I was born ... a Ziucala ? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Of a blood 
 Unmixed as virgin wiiie-jiiice. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Of a race 
 More outcast and despised than Moor or Jew ? 
 
 Zaroa, 
 
 Yes: wanderers whom no God took kuowIcilt,'c of 
 To give them laws, to fight for tlicni, or blight 
 Another race to make them amjilcr room ; 
 Who have no Whence or Whither iu Iheir souls, 
 No dimmest lore of glorious ancestors 
 To make a common hearth for piety. 
 
 FEnALMA. 
 
 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, iind fluug far ofl" 
 
 To perish as they may? 
 
 Zaroa. 
 
 Yon paint us well. 
 
 So abject are the men whc*e blood we share : 
 
 Untutored, uubefriended, unendowed ; 
 
 Ko favorites of heaven or of men. 
 
 Therefore I cling to them! Therefore no hue 
 
 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 onr race has no great memories, 
 
 I will so live, it shall remember me 
 
 For deeds of such divine beneflcence 
 
 As rivers have, that teach men what is good 
 
 By blessing them. I h.ave been schooled— have caught 
 
 Lore from the Hebrew, deftness from the Moor- 
 Know the rich heritage, the milder life. 
 
 Of nations fathered by a mighty Past ; 
 
 But were our race accursed (as they who make 
 
 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. 
 (Fedalma arinin advances, and puUinjj forth her right hand grasps Zat?- 
 oa's left- lie places his other, hand on her shoulder. They stand so, look- 
 iw; at each other.) 
 
   22 n
 
 162 THE SPANISH GYPSY. . 
 
 Zakoa. 
 And yon, my child? arc you of other iiiiiul, 
 Choosing forj^etfuhiess, hating tlie trnlli 
 Tliat says you are akin to neudy men?— 
 Wisliiiif,' your fatlier wore some Christian Dulcc, 
 Will) could lians^ Gypsies when their task was done, 
 VVliile you, his daughter, were not bound to care? 
 
 Ff.dai.iiia {in a troubled, eager voice). 
 No, I should always care— I cared for you — 
 For all, before I dreamed . . . 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 Before you dreamed 
 That you were born a Zincala — your flesh 
 Stamped with your people's faith. 
 
 FiCDALMA {bitterh/). 
 
 The Gypsies' faith? 
 Meu say 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 
 ^Vho share the same dire thirst, and therefore share 
 Tlie scanty water: the fidelity 
 Of meu 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: fidelily 
 To the consecrating oath our sponsor Fate 
 Made through our infant breath when we were born 
 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, 
 J3ut 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 your infant breath 
 You too were pledged. . . . 
 
 FuDALMA (letting go Zakoa'b hand, and sinking backward on her knees, with 
 bent head, as if be/ore some impending, crushing locight)). 
 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 meu erect to crawl like hissing snakes ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 163 
 
 I choose not— I am Zarca. Let him choose 
 Who halts and wavei's, haviug appetite 
 To feed ou garbage. You, my child— are you 
 Ilaltiug aud wavering? 
 
 Fepat-ma. {raisi)ig her head). 
 
 Say what is my task. 
 
 Zabca. 
 To be the augel of a homeless tribe: 
 To help me bless a race taught by uo prophet 
 And make their nniiie, 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 aud sow and reap their own, 
 Serving each other's needs, and so be spurred 
 To skill in all tlie arts that succor life; 
 Where we may kindle our lirst altar-fire 
 Prom 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. 
 
 Fj5I)ai,m,v [rising to her full height, and looking solemnly at Zaboa). 
 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' 'lis 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." 
 Theu 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 on you, and lift my brow 
 For you to kiss it, saying by that sign, 
 "I glory in my father." This, to-inorrow. 
 
 Zakoa. 
 
 A woman's dream— who thinks by smiling well 
 To ripen figs in frost. What! marry first. 
 And then i)roclaim your birth ? Enslave yourself 
 To use your freedom? Share another's name, 
 Then treat it as you will? How will that tunc 
 King in your bridegroom's cars— that sudden song 
 Of triumph in your Gypsy father?
 
 164 TIIE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Fbuaima (discouraged). 
 
 Nay, 
 
 I meant not so. We marry hastily— 
 Yet there is time— there will be:— in less space 
 Than he can take to look at me, I'll speak 
 And tell him all. Oh, I am not afraid ! 
 His love for me is stronger than all liatc ; 
 Nay, stronger than my love, which cannot sway 
 Demons tliat haunt me— tempt me to rebel. 
 Were he Fedalma and 1 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 tlie most. 
 I shall but do more stroni;ly 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 his hand on her shoulder). 
 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 strona; 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 cau 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 pious stain, 
 But never trod with naked, bleeding feet 
 Where no man praised it, and where no Church blcsiicd: 
 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 (lint 
 They strike tlieir fire from. Other work is yours. 
 
 Fkdalma. 
 What work?— what is it that you ask of me? 
 
 Zakoa. 
 A work as pregnant as tlie act of men 
 Who set their ships aflame and spring to laud, 
 
 A fatal deed . . . 
 
 Fkdai.ma. 
 
 Stay! never utter it ! 
 
 H it can part my lot from his whose love
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 1G5 
 
 Has cliosen mc. Talk not of oaths, of birth, 
 
 Of men as niimciotis as the dim wliitc star?^ — 
 
 As cold and distant, too, for my heart's pulse. 
 
 No ills on earth, though you should count them up 
 
 With grains to make a mouutain, can outweif;h 
 
 For nie, his ill who is my t-upreme love. 
 
 All sorrows else are but imagined flames, 
 
 Making me shudder at an nnfelt smart ; 
 
 }5ut his imagined sorrow is a fire 
 
 That scorches me. 
 
 Zauca. 
 
 I know, I know it well — 
 The first young, passionate wail of spirits called 
 To some great destiny. In vain, my daughter I 
 Lay the young eagle in what nest you will, 
 The cry and swoop of eagles overhead 
 Vibrate i)rophetic in its kindred frame, 
 And make it spread its wings and poise itself 
 For the eagle's flight. Hear what you have to do. 
 (Fedai.ma standfi half averted, an if she dreaded the effect of his looks awl 
 
 u'ords.) 
 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 files in our shaggy hair. 
 And i)ossible ropes that waited but our will 
 In half our garments. Oh, the Moorish blood 
 Runs thick and warm to tis, though thinned by chrism. 
 I found a friend among onr jailers— one 
 Who loves the Gypsy as the ]SIoor's alii'. 
 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 cnuisc it branches off 
 Towards a low wooden door, that art has bossed 
 To such unevenness it seems one piece 
 With the rongh-hewn rock. Open that door, it leads 
 Through a broad passage burrowed under grouud 
 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 
 Just 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. 
 
 Fedat.ma {receding a little, and gatherimj heraclf up in an attitude of resolve oppo- 
 site to Zahca). 
 
 No, I will never fly ! 
 Never forsake that chief half of my soul 
 Where lies my love. I swear to set you 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 TIIK SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 There streams the sense viiispcnkablc of kind, 
 
 As leopard feels at ease with leopard. But — 
 
 Look at these haiid.s! Yon say when they were little 
 
 They played about the .i;old upon your neck. 
 
 I do believe it, for their tiny pulse 
 
 Made record of it in the inmost coil 
 
 Of pirowinf; memory. But see them now! 
 
 Oh, they have made fresh record; twined themselves 
 
 With other throbbing hands whose piilscs feed 
 
 Not memories only but a blended life — 
 
 Life that will bleed to death if it be severed. 
 
 Have pity on me, father! Wait 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 conlemptuoiis decision). 
 Till yon ask him nug^it 
 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, perchanee 
 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. 
 
 Fkdalma. 
 
 Then, I will fi'ee you now ! You shall be safe, 
 Nor he be blamed, save for his love to me. 
 I will declare wliat I have done: the deed 
 May put our marriage ofT . . , 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Ay, till the time 
 When you shall be a queen in Africa, 
 And he be prince enough to sue for you. 
 You cannot free us and come back to him. 
 
 Fk1)AT.MA. 
 
 And why? 
 
 Zaeca. 
 I would compel you to go forth. 
 
 FiniAI.MA. 
 
 You tell me that? 
 
 ZAr.o.\. 
 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, 167 
 
 Fkdalma. 
 
 I only owe 
 A cliuighter'8 debt; I was not boin a slave. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 No, not a slave; but you were born to reign. 
 'Tis a compulsion of a higlicr sorr, 
 Whose fetters are the net invisible 
 That hold all life together. Royal deeds 
 May 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 iu 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, 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 No! 
 I belong to liim wlio 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. 
 
 Zakca, 
 Unmake yourself, then, from a Ziucala — 
 Unmake yourself from being child of mine! 
 Take holy water, cross your dark skin white; 
 Round yonr proud eyes to foolish kitten looks; 
 Walk mincingly, and smirk, and twitch your robe: 
 Unmake yourself — dofl' 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 coniiscation, sends to heaven 
 The altar-fumes of burning heretics. 
 And chaflfers with the Lcvite for the gold; 
 Holds Gypsies beasts tiufit for sacrifice, 
 80 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 ... 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 
 I am not so vile ! 
 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 daj'. 
 
 Zacoa. 
 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?
 
 168 THE srANisn gypsy. 
 
 Till then you ciiiiiiot wotl a Ppaiiish Diiko 
 And not \vcd sliamo at mention of youf race, 
 And not wed liai-dne>n to tlieii- niiHerios— 
 Nay, not wed murdei-. Wonld you save my lil'e 
 Yet stab my purpose? maim my every limb, 
 Put out my eyes, and turn me loose to feed? 
 Is that salvation? rather diink my blood. 
 That child of mine who weds my enemy- 
 Adores a God who took no heed of Gypsies- 
 Forsakes her people, leaves their poverty 
 To join the luckier crowd that mocks their wocs- 
 That child of mine is doubly murderess, 
 Murdering her father's hope, her people's trust. 
 Such drau;,'lits are mingled in your cup of lovel 
 And when you have become a thing so poor, 
 Your life is all a fashion without law 
 Save frail conjecture of a changinn; wish, 
 Your worshipped sun, your smiling face of day, 
 Will turn to cloudiness, and you will shiver 
 In your thin liiicry of vain desire. 
 - Men call his passion madness; and he, too, 
 May lenrn to think it madness: 'tis a thought 
 
 Of ducal sanity. 
 
 Fkdai.ma. 
 
 No, he is true '. 
 And if I part from him I part from joy. 
 Oh, it was morning with us, 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 unslain sacrifice, 
 Carrying the knife within me, quivering- 
 Put cords upon me, drag mc to the doom 
 My birth has laid upon me. See, I kneel : 
 I cannot will to go. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 
 Will then to stay'. 
 Say you will take your better, painted such 
 By blind desii-e, and choose the hideous worse 
 For thousands who were happier but for you. 
 My thirty followers are assembled now 
 Without this terrace: I your father wait 
 That yon may lead us fiuth to liberty- 
 Restore me to my tribe — five hundred men 
 Whom I alone can save, alone can rule. 
 And plant them as a mighty nation's seed. 
 Why, vagabonds who clnstercd round one man, 
 Their voice of God, their prophet and their 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 : 
 Tliere I may lead them, raise my standard, call 
 The wandering Zincali to that new home. 
 And make a nation— bring light, order, law,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 169 
 
 Instead of chaos. You, my only heir, 
 Ave called to leiijn for me wheu I am gone. 
 Now choose your deed : to save of to destroy. 
 You, a born Zuicala, yon, fortunate 
 Above yiiui- fellows— you who hold a curse 
 Or blessiui: in the hollow of your hand — 
 Say you will loose that hand from fellowship. 
 Let <;o the rescuing rope, hurl all the tribes, 
 Children and countless beings yet to come, 
 Down from tlie upward path of li'j;ht and joy, 
 Back to the dark and marshy wilderness 
 Where life is nouglit but blind tenacity 
 Of that which is. Say you will curse your race' 
 
 Fi'.DAi,.v\ {risinj ami 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 thoni,'ht 
 That, rising like a giant, masters mo. 
 And grows into a doom. O mother life. 
 That seemed to nourish mo so tenderly. 
 Even in the womb you vowed me to the Are, 
 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 growu too big 
 With things that might be. Father, I will go. 
 I will strip off these gems. Some happier bride 
 Shall wear them, 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 siyiks on a seat, and begins to take oJT her jewels.} 
 Now, good gems, we part. 
 Speak of me always tenderly to Silva. 
 
 IShe 2}auses, 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 unwrought? My soul is faint — 
 Will these sharp pangs buy any certain good? 
 
 Zakoa. 
 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 
 99* H"*
 
 270 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 A hnmnu mnsic. from the iudiftercnt nil-. 
 The greatest gift the hero leaves his race 
 Is to have been a hero. Sny wc fail !— 
 We feed the hi-h trailitioii .>f the world, 
 Ami leave our yi)irit in our ehiklrcu's breasts. 
 
 Fr.iiAi.MA {nncla-'iping Iwr jcwdled belt, and throvniifj it d(nini). 
 
 Yes, say that we shall fail ! 1 will not count 
 On nught but being faithful. I will take 
 Tliis yearning self of mine and strangle it. 
 I will not be half-hearted: never yet 
 Fcdalma did aught with a wavering soul. 
 Die, my young joy -die, all my hungry hopes— 
 The milk you cry for from the breast of life 
 Is thick with curs^es. Oh, all fatness here 
 Snatches its meat from leanness— feeds on graves. 
 I will seek nothing but to shun base joy. 
 The saints were cowards who stood by to poc 
 Christ crucified: they should have flung Ihenit^clves 
 Upon the Roman spe.-irs, and died iu vain— 
 The grandest death, to die in vaiu— 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, come ! 
 
 Zakca. 
 
 No curse has fallen on us till wc cease 
 To help each other. You, if you arc false 
 To that liret fellowship, lay on the curse. 
 Ihit write now to the Spaniard; briefly say 
 That I, your father, came; that you obeyed 
 Tlie fate which made you Zincala, as his fate 
 Made him a Spanish duke and Christian knight, 
 lie must uot think . . . 
 
 Fl'-DALMA. 
 
 Yos, I will write, but he— 
 Oh, he would know it— he would never think 
 The chain that dragged me from him could he aught 
 But scorching iron entering in my soul. 
 
 {SJic writes.) 
 Silva, sole love — 7ui came — vnj father came. 
 I am the daughter of the Gypsy chief 
 Who rnea')iH to be tlie savior of our tribe. 
 JJe calU on m^ to live for his great end. 
 To live ? nay, die for it. Fedalma dies 
 In leaving Silva : all that lives henceforth 
 Is the poor Zincala. {She rises.) 
 
 Father, now I so 
 To wed my people's lot. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 
 To wed a crown. 
 Our peojde's l()^^^y lot we will make royal- 
 Give it a country, homes, and monuments 
 Hold sacred through the lofty memories 
 That we shaH leave behind us. Come, my Queen I
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 171 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Stay, my betrothal ring! — one kiss — fiirewcll! 
 O love, you were my crown. No other crown 
 Is aught but thorus on my poor woman's ))row. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 SiM'A was marching liomeward wliile tlie moon 
 
 Still shed mild brightness like the far-off hope 
 
 Of those pale virgin lives that wait and pvixy. 
 
 The stars thin-scattered made the heavens large, 
 
 Bending in slow procc-sion ; in the east 
 
 Emergent from the dark waves of the hills, 
 
 Seeming a little sister of the moon, 
 
 Glowed Venus all nnquenched. Silvn, in haste, 
 
 Exultant and yet anxious, urged his troop 
 
 To quiclc 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 hurrying movement to o'ertake his thought 
 
 Already in Beduiar, 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 comfortalily 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 jiall 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 onler-gate of heaven, for through that pass 
 
 They entered his own valley, near Bedmar. 
 
 Sudden within the pass a horseman rose. 
 
 One instant dark ui)on the banner pale 
 
 Of i-ock-cut sky, the next in motion swift 
 
 With liat 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 liim whom death had robbed. 
 
 Silva believed he saw the worst — the town 
 
 Stormed by the infldcl— or, could it be
 
 173 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Feclnlina drafrgecl ?— no, there was not yet time. 
 But with a ni;ir!)lo f:ice, ho only said, 
 "What evil, AlvarV" 
 
 "Wliat this paper speaks." 
 It was Fedalina'a letlcr foliled close 
 And mute as yet for Silva. But liis friend 
 Keci)ing it still sharp-pinched aj^alnst 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. Tlic smaller ill 
 Is that our Gypsy prisoners have escaped." 
 "No more. Give me the paper — nay, I know — 
 'Twill make no diflerenco. Bid them march on faster." 
 Silva pushed forward— held the paper cruslied 
 Close in his riglit. "They h.ave imiirisoned her," 
 He said to Alvar in low, hard-cut tones, 
 Like a dream-speech of shimbcring revenge. 
 "No — when they came to fetch her she was gone." 
 Svi'ift as the riglit 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 hjss had triumph in it — what ! 
 They would have seized her with their lioly claws 
 The Prior's sweet morsel of despotic hate 
 Was snatched from off liis 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 yc-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 aie gone? 
 Love in sad weeds forgets the funeral day, 
 Opens the chamber door alid almost smiles — 
 Then sees the sunbeams i)ierce 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 fitfully in spite of words. 
 And, numbing thought with vague i!hisi(m, 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 I 
 It filled the chambers with her absence, glared 
 On ail the motionless things her hand had touched, 
 Motionless all— save where old Inez lay 
 Sunk on the floor holding her rosary. 
 Making its shadow treml)Ie with her fear. 
 And Silva passed her by because she grieved:
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 173 
 
 It was the lute, the gems, the pictured heads, 
 
 He longed to crush, because they made uo sign 
 
 But of insistence that she was not there, 
 
 She who had filled his sight and hidden them. 
 
 He went forth on the terrace tow'rd the stairs, 
 
 Saw the rained petals of the clstus flowers 
 
 Crushed by large feet; but on one shady spot 
 
 Far down the steps, where dampness made a home. 
 
 He saw a footprint delicate-slippered, small. 
 
 So dear to him, he searched for sister-prints, 
 
 Searched in tlie rock-hewn passage with a lamp 
 
 For other trace of her, and found a glove; 
 
 But not Fedalma's. Ic was Juan's glove, 
 
 Taseelled, perfumed, embroidered with his name, 
 
 A gift of dames. Th.en Juan, too, was gone? 
 
 Full-mouthed conjecture, hurrying through the tovvu, 
 
 Had spread the tale already: it was he 
 
 That helped the Gypsies' flight. He talked and sang 
 
 Of nothing but the Gypsies and Fedalma. 
 
 He drew the threads together, wove the plan; 
 
 Had lingered out by moouliglit, had been seeu 
 
 Strolling, as was his wont, within the walls, 
 
 Humming liis ditties. So Don Alvar told, 
 
 Conveying outside rumor. But the Duke, 
 
 Making of haughtiness a visor closed. 
 
 Would show uo agitated front in quest 
 
 or small disclosures. VVliat her writing bore 
 
 Had been enough. He kuew that she was gone. 
 
 Knew why. 
 
 "The Duke," some said, "will send a force, 
 Retake the prisoners, and bring back his 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. 
 Softening the sarcasm with a biaud regret. 
 
 There was the thread that in the new-made knot 
 Of obstinate circumstance seemed hardest drawn, 
 Ve.xed most the sense of Silva, in these liours 
 Of fresh and angry pain — there, in 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 ]dagues. 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 s'.ill be treated with, would not refuse 
 A proffered ransom, which would better serve 
 Gyjisy prosperity, give him more power 
 Over his tribe, than any fatherhood : 
 Nay, all the father in him must i>lead loud 
 For marriage of his daughter where she loved — 
 Her love being placed so high and lustrously. 
 The Gyjisy chieftain had foreseen a price
 
 174 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Tliat would be paid liim for liis daughter's dower- 
 Might toon give signs. Oh, all his purpose lay 
 Face upward. 8ilva here felt .strong, and smiled. 
 What could a Spanish noble not command ? 
 lie oidy helped the C^ueen, bei-.-mse he chose; 
 Could war on Spaniards, and could spare the Moor; 
 Buy justice, or defeat it — if he would : 
 Was loyal, not from weakness, but from strength 
 Of high resolve to use his biriluight well. 
 For nobles too are gods, like Emijerors, 
 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 rounded 
 Save in the plastic soids of other men. 
 Don Silva had been suckled in that creed 
 (A high-tanght speculative noble else), 
 Held it absurd as foolish argument 
 If any failed in deference, was too proud 
 Not to be courteous to so jjoor 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 hs, subtly as poisoued air, 
 In deep-laid libres 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 hand 
 That waits to clutch her with a hideous grasp 
 Not passionate, human, living, but a gras^]) 
 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-borue motes of idle slander; 
 He fed the fascinated gaze that clung 
 Kound all her movements, frank as growths of spring, 
 With the new hateful interest of suspiciou. 
 What barrier is this Gypsy ? a mere gate 
 I'll find the key for. Tlie one barrier, 
 The tightening cord that winds about my limbs, 
 Is this kind uncle, this imjierious saint, 
 He who will save me, guard me from myseif. 
 And he can work his will: I have no help 
 Save reptile secrecy, and no revenge 
 Save that I will 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 He is not supreme. The Prior shall know Itl
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 175 
 
 Ilis will shall breed resistance: he shall do 
 The thing he would not, further what he hates 
 By hardening uiy resolve." 
 
 But 'ucath Uiis speech — 
 Defiant, hectoring, the more passionate voice 
 or many-blended consciousness — there breathed 
 Miirnuirs 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 weie truer, better, 
 Conld nature follow it: a self disturbed 
 By budding growths of reason premature 
 That breed disease. With all his outilmig rage 
 Silva half shrank l)efore the steadfast raau 
 Whose life was one compacted whole, a realm 
 Where the rnle changed not, and the law was strong. 
 Then that reluctant homage stirred new hate. 
 And gave rebellion au iuteuser 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. Fedaima 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 ; 
 
 But for a noble there were mortals left 
 
 Shaped just like goddesses— O hafenil sweet! 
 
 O impudent pleasure that should dare to front 
 
 With vulgar visage memories divine ! 
 
 The noble's birthright of miraculous will 
 
 Turning I would to mttst he, spurning all 
 
 Oflcrcd as substitute for what it chose, 
 
 Tightened and fixed in strain irrevocable 
 
 The passionate selection of that love
 
 176 THE SPANISU GYPSY. 
 
 Which came not fli-st but as all-conqncriug last. 
 
 Great Love has many attiibiitesi, and .slii'iues 
 
 For vai'ied woi-tihij), hut his force divine 
 
 Shows nio.<t its niany-]iamed fulness in tlic man 
 
 Whose nature muUitudinoiisly mixed — 
 
 Each ardent impulse grai)[)ling with a thouglit— 
 
 IJesists all easy gladness, nil content 
 
 Save mystic rapture, where the (luestioning soul 
 
 Flooded witli consciousness of good tliat is 
 
 Finds life one bounteous answer. So it was 
 
 In Silva's nature, Love had mastery there. 
 
 Not as u holiday ruler, but as one 
 
 Who quells a tumult iu a day of dread, 
 
 A welcomed despot. 
 
 O all com forte IS, 
 All soothing things that bring mild ecstasy. 
 Came with her coming, in her iiresoice lived. 
 Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall 
 Pencilled upon the grass; high summer morns 
 When while light rains upon the quiet sea 
 
 And corn-fields flush witli ripeness; odors soft 
 
 Dumb vagrant bliss that seems to seek a home 
 And find it deep within, 'mid stirrings vague 
 or far-off moments when our life was fresli ; 
 All sweetly-tempered music, gentle change 
 Of sound, form, color, as on wide lagoons 
 At suuset 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 lake- 
 All came with her sweet presence, for she brought 
 The love supreme which gathers to its realm 
 All powers of loving. Subtle nature's hand 
 Waked with a tonch the far-linked harmonies 
 In her own manifold work. Fedalma (here, 
 Fastidiousness became the prelude flue 
 For full couteutmeut; and young melancholy, 
 Lost for its origin, seemed but the pain 
 Of waiting for that perfect happiness. 
 The happiness was gone ! 
 
 He sate alone, 
 ILiting companionship that was not hers; 
 Felt bruised with hopeless longing; drank, as wine 
 Illusions of what had been, would have been ; 
 Weary with auger and a strained resolve, 
 Sought passive happiness in waking dreams. 
 It has been so with rulers, emperors. 
 Nay, sages who held secrets of great Time, 
 Shn/i-ing his hoary nud beneficent life- 
 Men who sate throned among the multitudes— 
 They have sore sickened at the loss 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 
 His 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 : my little sister went. 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 The uwrld is great : I tried to mount the hill 
 Above the pines, tohere the light lies so still, 
 Hilt it rose higher : little Lisa went, 
 A nd I am lonely. 
 
 The u'orld is great : the innd comes rushing by, 
 I wonder tohere it comes from ; sea-birds cry 
 And hurt my heart: my little sister tcent, 
 A nd I am lonely. 
 
 The world is great : the ^teopla laugh and talk. 
 And make loud holiday: how fast they walk! 
 I'm lame, they push me : little Lisa we7it.. 
 And I am lonely. 
 
 'Twas Pablo, like the wounded spirit of song 
 
 Pouring melodious jiaiu to cheat the hour 
 
 For idle soldiers in the castle court. 
 
 Dreamily Silva heard and hardly felt 
 
 The song was outward, rather felt it part 
 
 Of his own aching, like the lingering day, 
 
 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 tinds it writ 
 
 Full in the inner record. Harlc, aga'n ! 
 
 The voice and viol. Silva called his thought 
 
 To guide his ear and track tnc travelling sound 
 
 O bird that used to press 
 
 Thy head against my cheek 
 
 With touch that seemed to speak 
 And ask a tender "?/<>s" — 
 Ay de mi, my bird ! 
 
 O tender downy breast 
 
 And warmly beating heart. 
 
 That beating seemed a part 
 Of me who gave it rest — 
 
 Ay de mi, viy bird! 
 
 The western court! The singer might be seen 
 From the upper gallery: quick the Duke was there 
 Looking ui)on the court as on a stage. 
 Men eased of armor, stretched upon the ground.
 
 TnE SPANISn OYrSY. 
 
 Gambling by pnatchcs; fihcphcrds from the hills 
 
 Who l)rou'^lit tlicii- blcatini; fiiciuls for FlaiiKliter ; grooms 
 
 SlioulcUniiic; loose liariiess ; lealhci-iiproncil FmitliH, 
 
 Traders wiih wares, grcen-suitccl scrviiig-mcii, 
 
 Made a round audience ; and in llicir midst 
 
 Stood little Pablo, pouring forth his song, 
 
 Just as the Duke had pictured. But the song 
 
 Was strangely couipanied by Koldan's play 
 
 With the swift gleaming balls, and now was crnshed 
 
 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 mountebaidi and monkey, must l)e — stay ! 
 
 J\'o( be excepted — must be ordered too 
 
 Into his [irivate presence ; they had brought 
 
 Suggestion of a ready shapen tool 
 
 Q'o cut a path between his helpless wish 
 
 And what it imaged. A ready shapen tool 1 
 
 A spy, an envoy whom he might despatch 
 
 In unsuspected secrecy, to find 
 
 The Gypsies' refuge so that none beside 
 
 Jlight learn it. And this juggler could bo bribed, 
 
 Would have no fear of Moors— for who would kill 
 
 Dancers and monkeys?— conld pretend a journey 
 
 Back to his home, leaving his boy the while 
 
 To please the Duke with song. Without such chanco— 
 
 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 tliis 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, nt 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 sjieak ; had worked enough 
 
 At wagging his old tongue and chiming jokes; 
 
 Thought it was other.s' turn to jilay the fool. 
 
 Give him but pence enough, no rabbit, sirs, 
 
 Would eat and stare and be more dumb than he. 
 
 Give him his orders."
 
 TITE BPAITISn GYPST. 179 
 
 They were given straight; 
 Gold for the journey, and to buy a mule 
 Outside the gates through which he was to pass 
 Afoot and carelessly. The boy would stay 
 Within the castle, at the Dnke's command. 
 And must have nought but ignorance to betray 
 For threats or coaxing. Once the quest performed. 
 The news delivered with some pledge of truth 
 Sjife to the Duke, the juggler should go forth, 
 A fortune in his girdle, take his boy 
 And settle firm as any planted tree 
 In f;\ir Valencia, never more to roam. 
 "Good! good! most worthy of a great hidalgo! 
 And Roldan was the man ! Cut Annibal— 
 A monkey like no other, though morose 
 111 private character, yet full of tricks — 
 'Twero hard to carry him, yet harder n\]\ 
 To leave the boy and him in company 
 And free to slip away. The boy was wikl 
 And shy as mountain kid; once hid himself 
 And tried to run away, and Anniljul, 
 AVho 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) — Annibal went too. 
 Would hardly know himself, were he to lose 
 Both boy and monkey— and 'twas property, 
 The trouble he had put in Annibal. 
 He didn't choose another man should beat 
 His boy and monkey. If they ran away 
 Some mau would snap them up, and square himself 
 And say they were his goods — he'd taught them— no! 
 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 Roldan quit all fears— the boy and ape 
 Should be safe lodged in Abderahnian's tower. 
 In keeping of the great physician there. 
 The Duke's most special confidant and friend. 
 One skilled in taming brutes, and always kind. 
 The Duke himself this eve would see them lodged. 
 Roldan must go— spend no more words— but go. 
 
 The Astrologer's Study. 
 
 A room high up in Abderahnian's tower, 
 
 A window open to the still warm eve, 
 
 And the bi iglit disk of royal Jupiter. 
 
 Lamps burning low make little atmospheres 
 
 Of light amid the dimness; here and tliere 
 
 Show books and phials, stones and instruments. 
 
 In carved dark-oaken chair, unpillowed, sleeps 
 
 Right in the rays of Jupiter a small man, 
 
 In skull-cap bordorcd close with crisp gray curls.
 
 180 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 
 
 And loose bliick crown ehowiiifr a neck autl brcnst 
 
 Protected by ;i dini-<jiecii amulet; 
 
 Pale-faced, with liiicst nostril wont to breathe 
 
 Ethereal pa-^sion in a world of tlioiif;ht; 
 
 Eyebrows jet-black and lirni, yi:t delicate ; 
 
 Beard scant and <,'ri/.zlcd ; mouth f<liut firm, with cnrvea 
 
 So subtly turned to meaning's exquisite. 
 
 You secni to read them as you ri^ad a word 
 
 Full-vowel led, lonj^-dcscendcd, prcLjuant — ricli 
 
 With legacies from lonu;, laborious lives. 
 
 Close by him, like a genius of sleep, 
 
 Purrs 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. 
 
 SicruAuno. 
 
 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 f 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Small guests, for whom I ask 
 Your hospitalit}'. 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. 
 
 Sl'.PnARDO. 
 
 Yea, am not I too a small animal? 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 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. 
 
 SKniAKIK). 
 
 They are vi'elcomc both. 
 Their names are ? 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Pablo, this — this Annibal, 
 And yet, I hope, no warrior. 
 
 Sl'.l'IIARDO. 
 
 \Ve"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 sliall choose. 
 
 [The cautious monkey, in a Moorish dies.'', 
 A tunic white, turban and scimitar,
 
 THE SPANISH GYP&T. 181 
 
 Wears these stage garments, nay, his very flesh 
 
 With eilent protest; keeps a neutral air 
 
 As aiming at a metaphysic state 
 
 'Twixt "is" and "is not;" lets his chain be loosed 
 
 By sage Sephardo's hands, sits still at first, 
 
 Tlieu trembles out of his nciilrality, 
 
 Looks np and leaps into Sephardo's lap, 
 
 And chatters forth his agitated soul, 
 
 Turning to peep at Pablo ou the floor.] 
 
 Skpuaedo. 
 See, he declares we are at amity ! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 No brother sage had read your nature faster. 
 
 SErnARDO. 
 
 Why, so he is a brother sage. Man thinks 
 Brutes have no wisdom, since they know not his: 
 Can we divine their 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 cries 
 Whole histories of timid races taught 
 To breathe in terror by red-handed man. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Ah, yon denounce my sport with hawk and houucL 
 
 I would not have the angel Gabriel 
 
 As hard as you in noting down my sins. 
 
 SKniAEDO. 
 
 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 tlian to know 
 The thoughts of warriors. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yet they are warriors too — 
 Y(7ur animals. Your judgment limps, Scphardo: 
 Death is the king of this world ; 'tis his park 
 Where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain 
 Arc music for his banquet; and the masque — 
 The last grand masque for his diversion, is 
 The Holy Inquisition. 
 
 Skpuaedo. 
 
 Ay, anon 
 I may chime in with you. But not the less 
 Wy judgment has firm feet. Though death were king,
 
 183 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 And cruelty his liRht-hand minister, 
 
 Pity insurgent in some huniau breasts 
 
 Makes spiritual empire, reijjns su])rcmc 
 
 As persecuted faith in faithful hearts. 
 
 Your sraall pliysiciau, weighing ninety pounds, 
 
 A petty morsel for ii healthy shark, 
 
 Will worshi)) mercy throned wilhiH his soul 
 
 Though all the lujniuous angels of the stars 
 
 Burst into ernel chorus on his ear, 
 
 Singing, " We know no mercy." Ue 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 note. 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 
 No, no, I follow yon. 
 I too have that within which I will worship 
 In 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. 
 
 Skphabdo. 
 
 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 
 Are 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. 
 
 SnriiARBO. 
 
 My lord, I will be frank ; there's uo such thing 
 
 As naked mnnhood. If the stars look down 
 
 On auy mortal of our shape, whose strength 
 
 Is to judge all things vvitlieut preference, 
 
 lie is a monster, not a faithful mau. 
 
 While my heart beats, it shall wear livery — 
 
 My people's livery, whose yellow badge 
 
 Marks them for Christian scorn. I will not say 
 
 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 pass. 
 
 '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. 
 
 Oft yon 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 leiigue yoniself 
 To hem me, hold me prisoner in bonds 
 Made, say you— how ?— by God or Deminrge, 
 By spirit or flesh— I care not! Love was made 
 Stronger than bonds, and where they press mnst break them. 
 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. 
 
 Sf.puardo. 
 
 Yes, I know. 
 Forgive me that I used untimely speech, 
 Pressing a bruise. I loved her well, my lord: 
 A woman mixed of such fine elements 
 That v.'ere all virtue and religion dead 
 She'd make them newly, being what she was. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 H'ii.s f say not ivas, Sepliardo 1 She still lives- 
 Is, and is mine; and I will not renounce 
 What heaven, nay, wh:it slie gave me. I will sin. 
 If sin I must, to win my life again. 
 Tlie fault lie with those powers who have embroiled 
 The world in hopeless conflict, where all truth 
 Fights manacled witli falsehood, and all good 
 Makes but one palpitating life with ill. 
 
 (Don Silva imriaes. Sepiiabdo 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 doctrine, you are dumb. 
 
 Sepiiakdo. 
 
 Patience! Hidalgos want interpreters 
 Of untold dreams and riddles; they insist 
 On dateless horoscopes, on formulas 
 To raise a possible spirit, nowhere named. 
 Science must be their wishing-cap ; the 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 Ijegun already: a messenger 
 Uidcnown to all has been despatclied this night. 
 But forecast mnst be used, a plan devised, 
 Ready for service when my scout returns,^
 
 184 TUE SPANISH GYl'SY. 
 
 Hi'inj^iiif^ the invisible thie;\cl to j^iiidc my etcps 
 To\v:inl that lost self my life is acliiiij^ with. 
 Scphartlo, I will go: and 1 must £o 
 Unseen by all save you ; though, at our need, 
 Wc may tiust Alvar. 
 
 Sepiiakdo. 
 
 A giave tas-k, my lord. 
 Have you a shapen purpose, or mere will 
 That sees the end aloue aud uot the means? 
 Resolve will melt no rocks. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 But it can scale them. 
 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. Itemaius one other. 
 Known to no man save me : a secret left 
 As heirloom in our house: a secret safe 
 Even from him — from Father Isidor. 
 'Tis he who forces me to nse it— he : 
 All's virtue that cheats bloodhounds. Hear, Sepharda 
 Given, my scout returns and brings me news 
 I can straight act on, I shrill want your aid. 
 The issue lies below this tower, your fastness, 
 Where, by my charter, yon rule absolute. 
 I shall feign illness ; you with mystic air 
 Must speak of treatment asking vigilance 
 (Nay, I avi 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 you 
 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 ? 
 
 Sun I A EDO. 
 
 For faithfulness 
 In aught that I may promise, yes, my lord. 
 But— for a pledge of faithfulness — this warning.   
 I will betray nought for )'our iiersonal 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 multitudes, and calling savageness God 
 Wlio gives it victory— upbraid deceit 
 And ask for failhrulness? T love you well. 
 You are my friend. LUit yet you are a Christian, 
 Whose birth has bound you to the Catholic kings.
 
 THB SPANISH GYPSY. 185 
 
 There may come moments when to share my joy 
 Would ninke you traitor, wheu to share your grief 
 Would make me other thau a Jew . . . 
 
 Don Suva. 
 
 What need 
 To urge that now, Sepliardof I am one 
 Of mauy Spanish nobles who detest 
 The roaring bigotry of the herd, would fain 
 Dash from the lips of king and queen the cup 
 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 apple of my eye, 
 Now when my kinship scorches me like hate 
 Flashed from a mother's eye, you choose this time 
 To talk of birth as of inherited rage 
 Deep-down, volcanic, fatal, bursting forth 
 From under hard-taught reason ? Wondrous frieud I 
 My uncle Isidor's echo, mocking me. 
 From the opposing quarter of the heavens, 
 With iteration of the 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 the chain 
 Of false-linked thoughts in brains of other men. 
 What question was there 'twist us two, of aught 
 That makes division? When I come to you 
 I come for other doctrine thau the Prior's. 
 
 SEPnAItDO. 
 
 My lord, you 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 an.swered you 
 
 With regular proviso, such as stands 
 
 In testaments and charters, to forcfond 
 
 A possible case which none deem likelihood; 
 
 Just turned my sleeve, and pointed to the braud 
 
 Of brotherhood that limits every pledge. 
 
 Superfluous nicety — the student's trick. 
 
 Who will not drink until he cau define 
 
 What water is and is uot. But enough. 
 
 My will to serve you uow knows no division 
 
 Save the alternate beat of love and fear. 
 
 There's danger in this quest— name, honor, life — 
 
 My lord, the stalce is great, and are yon sure . . . 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 
 No, I am sure of nought but this, Sephardo, 
 That I will go. Prudence is but conceit 
 Hoodwinked by ignorance. There's uouglit exists 
 That is not dangerous and holds not death 
 For souls or bodies. Prudence turns its helm 
 To flee the storm and lauds 'mid pestilence. 
 Wisdom would cud by throwing dice with folly 
 
 23 I
 
 186 THE SPANISH OYPSY. 
 
 But for dire passion which alone makes choice. 
 And I have chosen as tlie lion robbed 
 Cliooses to turn npon the ravisher. 
 If love were slack, the I'rior's imperions will 
 Would move it to ontmatch him. But, Sepliardo, 
 Were all else mute, all passive as sea-calms, 
 My soul is one great hunger — I must see her. 
 Now you are smiling. Oh, you merciful men 
 Pick u]) coarse griefs and fling them in the face 
 Of us whom life with long descent has trained 
 To subtler pains, mocking your ready balms. 
 You smile at. my soul's hunger. 
 
 S F.pn, vnno. 
 
 Science Bmilea 
 And sways our lips in spite of us, my lord. 
 When thought weds fact — when maiden j)rophecy 
 Waiting, believing, sees the bridal torch. 
 I use not vulgar measures for your giief. 
 My pity keeps no cruel feasts ; but thought 
 Has joys apart, even in blackest woe. 
 And Bcisiiug some flue thread of verity 
 Knows momentary godhead. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 And your thought? 
 
 Sepuakdo. 
 
 Seized on the close agreement of your words 
 With what is written in your horoscope. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Reach it me now. 
 
 SeI'HAUUO. 
 
 By your leave, Annibal. 
 
 (ITe places ANNinAi, on Paislo's laj) and rises. The hoy moves without leak- 
 ing, and his head falls on the opposite side. SEPnAuno fetches a cushion 
 and lays Paulo's head gcnthj down upon it, then goes to reach the parch- 
 ment from a cabinet. Annihal, having waked up in alarm, shuts his eyes 
 quicklg again and pretends to sleep. ) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I wish, by new appliance of your skill, 
 Reading afresh the records of the sky, 
 You could detect more special augury. 
 Such chance oft happens, for .ill 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 l^ey 
 To fixed prediction. - 
 
 Sepuabdo (returning with the parchment and reseating himself.) 
 
 True ; our growing thought 
 Makes growing revelation. But demand not 
 Specific augury, as of sure success 
 lu medit.ated projects, or of ends 
 To be foreknown by peeping in God's scroll.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 187 
 
 I say— nay, Ptolemy said it, l)ut wise books 
 For half the tniths they hold are honored tombs— 
 Prediction is contingent, of effects 
 Where causes and concomitants are mixed 
 To seeming wealth of possibilities 
 Beyond onr reckoninfj. Who will pretend 
 To tell the adventnres of each single flsh 
 Within the Syrian Sea? Show me a fish, 
 I'll weigh him, tell his kind, what he devoured. 
 What would have devoured hini—hut for one Ulas 
 ' Who netted him instead ; nay, could I tell 
 That had Ulas missed him, he would not have died 
 Of poisonous mud, and so made carrion, 
 Swept off at last by some sea-scavenger ? 
 
 Don Sn.VA. 
 
 Ay, now you talk of fishes, you get hard. 
 I note you merciful men: you can endure 
 Torture of fishes and hidalgos. Follows? 
 
 Sepuaupo. 
 
 By how much, then, the fortanes of a man 
 
 Are made of elements refined and mixed 
 
 Beyond a tunny's, what our science tells 
 
 Of the star's influence hath contingency 
 
 In 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 o cause regnant, is not absolute, 
 
 But suffers a determining restraint 
 
 From action of the subject qualities 
 
 In proxiuiate 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? 
 
 Sephaedo. 
 
 Kaj', 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 horoscope: 
 The aspects of the Moon with Mars conjimct, 
 Of Venus and the Sun with Saturn, lord 
 Of the ascendant, make symbolic speech 
 Whereto your words gave running paraphrase.
 
 188 'i'llli Sl'ANISU GYPSY. 
 
 Don Silva (impatieiithj). 
 What did I say f 
 
 SRniABDO. 
 
 You spoke as oft you did 
 When I was schooling yon at Cordova, 
 And lessons on the noun and vcib were drowned 
 With sudden eireaui of general debate 
 On things and actions. Always in that stream 
 I saw the play of babbling currents, saw 
 A nature o'cr-endowcd with oppositcs ^ 
 
 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, 
 I'otent in action, suffer light malign 
 From luminaries large and coldly bright 
 Inspiring meditative doubt, which straight 
 Doubts of itself, by interposing act 
 Of Jupiter in the fourth house fortified 
 With power ancestral. So, my lord, I read 
 The changeless in the changing ; so 1 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. 
 
 Skpuabdo. 
 
 Yea, a result 
 Fruitful as seeded earth, where certainty 
 Wotild 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 on of cobweb theory 
 While rushing like a cataract. Be warned. 
 Kesolve with you is a fire-breathing steed, 
 But it sees visions, and may feel the air 
 Impassable with thoughts that come too late, 
 Rising from out the grave of murdered honor. 
 Look at your image in your horoscope : 
 
 {Laying the horoscope before Don Silva.) 
 You are so mixed, my lord, that each to-day 
 May seem a maniac to its morrow. 
 
 Don Silva {pushing away the horoscope, rising and turning to looic out at 
 
 the open wi7idow). 
 
 No! 
 No morrow e'er will say that I am mad 
 Not to renounce her. Risks 1 I know them all. 
 I've 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 sec the FrUn'ii nets. He docs my deed; 
 For he has narrowed all my life to this—
 
 TUE SPANISn GYPSY. 189 
 
 That I must find her by f?ome hidden means. 
 
 (7/c turns and stands close in front o/Sepharbo.) 
 One 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 rae? 
 
 Sepuaruo. 
 
 Yes, my lord, I will help yon. Israel 
 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 mo 
 "Your Israel is nought,'' and make my deeds 
 The mud they fling upon my brethren. 
 I will not fail you, save— you know the terms: 
 I am a Jew, and not that infamous life 
 That takes on bastardy, will know no father, 
 So shrouds itself in the pale abstract, Man. 
 You should be sacrificed to Israel 
 If Israel needed it. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I fear not that. 
 I am no friend of flues and banishment. 
 Or flames that, fed on heretics, still gape. 
 And must have heretics made to feed them siill. 
 I take your terms, and for the rest, your love 
 Will not forsake me. 
 
 Sepharpo. 
 
 '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. 
 
 (Don Silva turns to the icindow again, ana is silent for a few moments, hob- 
 
 ing at the sky.) 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 See now, Sephardo, yoti 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. 
 
 Sephardo. 
 Will it, though, my lord? 
 
 Don Silva. 
 I speak not of the fact but of the right. 
 
 Sij'iiaroo. 
 
 My lord, yon said but now you were resolved. 
 Question not if the world will be unjust 
 Branding your deed. If conscience has two courts
 
 190 TIIE SPANISH GYTST. 
 
 With difTcriiif; verdicts, where shall lie the appeal? 
 
 Our law must be without us or within. 
 
 Tliu Ilii^licst spcakH thiotii;h all our people's voice, 
 
 Custom, tradition, and old sanctities; 
 
 Or he reveals himself by new decrees 
 
 Of inward certitude. 
 
 Don Sii-va. 
 
 My love for her 
 Makes highest law, must be the voice of God. 
 
 SKrii.\ni)o. 
 I thought, but now, you seemed to make excnee, 
 And plead as in some couit where Spanish knights 
 Arc 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 ho a living God, these rays that stir 
 In me the pulse of wonder were in him 
 Fulness of knowledge. Are yon certified, 
 Sephardo, that the astral science slirinks 
 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 : yon cull your plants 
 By signal of the heavens, then why uot trace 
 As others would by astrologic rule 
 Times of good augury for momentous acts, — 
 
 As secret journeys ? 
 
 Sepuardo. 
 
 Oh, my lord, the stara 
 Act not as witchcraft or as muttered spells. 
 I said before they are not absohi'e. 
 And tell no fortunes. I adhei-e alone 
 To such tradition of their agencies 
 As reason fortifies. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 A barren science I 
 Some argue now 'tis folly. 'Twere as well 
 Be of their mind. If those bright stars had will — 
 Bnt they are fatal fires, and know no love. 
 Of old, I think, the world was happier 
 AVith many gods, who held a struggling life 
 As mortals do, and helped men in the straits 
 Of forced misdoing. I doubt that horoscope. 
 (Don Sii.VA turns from the icindow and rcfieatii himsdf opposite Sephaedo ) 
 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. 
 
 Skpuardo. 
 May they be fair ! No horoscope makes slaves.
 
 THE SPAJSIISn GYPSY. 191 
 
 'Tis but a mirror, shows one image forth, 
 Aud leaves the future dark with endless "ifs." 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 I marvel, my Sephardo, you cau pinch 
 With confldeut selection these few gi-aius. 
 And call them verity, from out the du^^t 
 Of crumbling error. Surely such thought creeps, 
 Wilh insect exploration of the world. 
 Were I a Hebrew, now, I would be bold. 
 Why should you fear, not being Catholic? 
 
 Si:riiARno. 
 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 
 AH good with blasphemy, because we hold 
 Your good is evil ; think we must turn pale 
 To ^ee our portraits painted in your hell. 
 And sill the more for knowing we are lost. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 Eead not my words with malice. I hut meant, 
 My temper hates an over-cautious march. 
 
 SKrUABDO. 
 
 The Unnameable 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 jiart 
 
 And will divide the child, how shall it live? 
 
 Or, I will 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 searcliing 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 patlis, by brightening Reason's lamp. 
 
 Still we are purblind, tottering. I hold less 
 
 Thau Ahen-Ezra, of that aged lore 
 
 Brought by long centuries from Chaldseau plains; 
 
 The Jew-taught Florentine rejects 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, 
 
 WHiich fulfils vision with obedience. 
 
 So, I must grasp my morsels: truth is oft 
 
 Scattered in fragments round a stately pile
 
 193 THE SPANISH GYTSY. 
 
 Ruilt half of crroi-; and the eye's defect 
 
 M:iy breed too much denial. But, my lord, 
 
 1 weary your sick soul. Go now with mc 
 
 Into the turret. VVc will watch the spheres, 
 
 And see the constclliitions bend and i)hinKC 
 
 Into a depth of being where our eyes 
 
 Hold them no more. We'll quit ourselves and be 
 
 The red Aldebaran or bright Sirius, 
 
 And sail as in a solemn voyage, bound 
 
 On some great quest we know not. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Let us go. 
 
 She may be watching, too, and thought of her 
 
 Sways mc, as if she knew, to every act 
 
 Of pure allegiance. 
 
 Sepuaudo. 
 
 That is love's perfection— 
 Tuning the soul to all her harmonies 
 So that no chord can jar. Now wo will mount. 
 
 A large hall in the Castle, of Moorish architecture. On the side where the windows 
 are, an ovter gallerj/. Pages and other young gentlemen attached to Don Sii.- 
 va's hotiseltold, gathered chiefly at one end of the hall. Some are tnoving 
 about; others are lounging on the carved he.nclics; others, half stretched on pieces 
 of matting and carjx't, are gambling. AniMi, a strijding of fifteen., sings by 
 snatches in a boyish treble, as he loalks up and down, and tosses back the mils 
 which another youth flings towards him. hi the middle Don Amadou, a 
 gaunt, grag-haired soldier, in a handsome xmiforin, sits in a marble red-cush- 
 ioned chair, with a large book spread out on his knees, from lohich he is read- 
 ing aloud, while his voice is half droioned by the talk that is going on around 
 him, first one voice and then another surging above the hum. 
 
 Arias (singing). 
 
 There was a holy hermit 
 
 Who counted all tilings loss 
 For Christ hi.i iVa.stej-'s glory: 
 
 He made an ivory cross. 
 And as he knelt before it 
 
 And ivc2)t his murdered Lord, 
 The ivory turned to iron. 
 
 The cross became a sword. 
 
 Jose (from the floor). 
 I say, twenty cruzados! thy Galiciau wit can never count. 
 
 UuKNANDO {also from the floor). 
 And thy Sevilliau wit always counts double. 
 
 Akias (singing). 
 The tears that fell upon it. 
 
 They turned to red, red rust. 
 The tears that fell from off it 
 
 Made xcriling in the dust. 
 The holy hermit, gazing, 
 
 Saio ivords upon the ground ; 
 " The sword be red forever 
 
 With the blood of false Mahoimd."
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 193 
 
 Don AMAnon {looking up fnmi his book, and raising his voice). 
 What, gentlemcu 1 Our Glorious Lady defeucl us! 
 
 Eni'.iquez (froia the benches). 
 Serves the iulidels right! They have sold Christians euoiigh to people half 
 the towns in Paradise. If the Queen, now, had divided the pretty damsels of 
 Malaga among the Castilians who have beeu helping in the holy war, and not 
 sent half of them to Naples . . . 
 
 Akias (singing again). 
 At the battle of Clavijo 
 In the days of King Bamiro, 
 Help lis, A llah ! cried the Moslem, 
 Cried the Spaniard, Heaven^s chosen, 
 
 God and Santiago! 
 Fabian. 
 Oh, the very tail of onr chance has vanislicd. The royal army is breaking np 
 — going home far the winter. The Grand Master sticks to his own border. 
 
 Akias {singing). 
 Straight out-JlusJung like the rainboio. 
 See him come, celestial liar on. 
 Mounted knight, with red-crossed banner, 
 J'lunging earthward to the battle. 
 
 Glorious Santiago ! 
 
 IlniA'ADO. 
 Yes, yes, through the pass of By-and-by, you go to the valley of Never. We 
 might have doue a great feat, if the Marquis of Cadiz . . . 
 
 Akias {sings). 
 As the flame before the swift wind. 
 See, he fires us, toe bum with him ! 
 Flash our swords, dash Pagans backward — 
 Victory he! pale fear is Allah! 
 
 God with Santiago! 
 
 Don Amadoe {raising his voice to a cry). 
 Sangre de Dios, gentlemen ! 
 
 {He simts the book, and lets it fall with a bang on the floor. Tlicre is instant 
 
 silence.) 
 
 To what good end is it that I, who studied at Salamanca, and can write 
 verses agreeable to the Glorious Lady with the point of a sword which hath 
 done harder service, am reading aloud in a clerkly manner from a book which 
 hath beeu culled from the flowers of all books, to instruct you iu the knowledge 
 befitting those who would be knights and worthy hidalgos ? I had as lief be 
 reading iu a belfry. And gambling too ! As if it were a time wheu we needed 
 not the help of God and the 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 the Duke's retinue, if my voice 
 is to run along like a gutter in a storm ? 
 
 lIuRTADO {lifting up the book, and respectfully presenting it to Don Amadoe). 
 
 Pardon, Don Amador ! The air is .so commovcd by your voice, that it stirs our 
 tongues iu siiite of us. 
 
 Don Amadok {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* I*
 
 194 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 I will report it to tlie Duke, niul tlic reading-time sliall be cloublcd, and my ofilro 
 of reader shall be handed over to Fray Domin<?o. 
 
 (While Don Amadou Inta been spcakiiuj, Don Sh.va, irith Don Alvar, Imn ai>- 
 peared ivalkinj in the outer gallery on which the loindows are opened.) 
 
 Ai.L (I'/j concert). 
 No, no, na 
 
 Don Amadou. 
 
 Arc ye ready, then, to listen, if I finish the wholesome extract from the Seven 
 Parts, wherein tlie wise Kin>,' Alfonso hath set down the rcasou why knights 
 should be of gentle birth ? Will ye now be silent? 
 
 An-. 
 Yes, silent. 
 
 Don Amador. 
 
 But when I panse, and look up, I give any leave to speak, if he hath anght per- 
 tinent to say. 
 
 (Reads.) 
 
 " And this nobility comcth in three ways : first, by lineage, secondly, by science, 
 and thirdli/, by valor and worthy behavior. Now, although they who gain no- 
 bility throngh science or good deeds arc riglitfully called noble and gentle ; never- 
 theless, they are with the highest fitness so called wtio are noWe 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 \vrong-d(riiig; 
 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 ki^eps his voice raised, as wishing Don Silva to overhear him, in the 
 judiciotui discharge of his function). 
 
 Hear ye that, yonng gentlemen f See yc not that if ye have but bad mannors 
 even, they disgrace you more than gross misdoings disgrace the low-born? 
 Tliiuk yon, Arias, it becomes the son of your house irreverently to sing and lling 
 nuts, to tlio interruption of your elders? 
 
 Akias (sitting on the floor, and leaning backward on hM elbows). 
 
 Nay, Don Amador; King Alfonso, they say, was a heretic, and I think that is 
 not true writing. For noble birth gives us more leave to do ill if wo like. 
 
 Don Amadok (lifting his brows). 
 
 What bold and blasphemous talk is this? 
 
 AUIAS. 
 
 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. 
 
 JOSK. 
 
 Nonsense, Arias ! nobles have their heads cut off because their crimes arc noble. 
 If they did what was unkuightly, they would come to shame. Is not that true, 
 Don Amador? 
 
 Don Amadou. 
 
 Arias is a contumacious puppy, who will bring dishonor on his parentage. 
 Pray, sirrah, whom did you ever hear sjiealc as you have spoken ? 
 
 AniAS. 
 Nay, I speak out of mine own head. I shall go and ask the Duke. 
 
 nURTADO. 
 
 Now, now' YOU are too bold. Arin-:.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 195 
 
 AniAS. 
 Oh, he is never an^ry with me,—{droppin<} his voice) because the Lady Fedalnia 
 liked me. She .said I was a good boy, and pretty, and that is what you are not, 
 lliirtado. 
 
 HUKTADO. 
 
 Girl-face ! See, now, if you dare ask the Duke. 
 
 (Don Silva is jii>it cntcritvj the hall from the gallcrij, loith Don Ai.vak behind 
 
 him, intending to jots.s otit at the other end. All rise tvith homage. Don Silva 
 
 hows coldly and abstractedly. Auias advam:cs from the group and goes up to 
 
 Don Silva.) 
 
 Aeiab. 
 
 My lord, is it true that a uoble is more dishonored tlian other men if he does 
 nnght dishonorable ? 
 
 Don Silva {first blushing deeply, and grasping his sword, then raising his hand and 
 giving Aeias a blow on the ear). 
 
 Varlet I 
 
 Akias. 
 
 My lord, I am a gentleman. 
 (Don Sii.va pushes him away, and passes on hurriedly.) 
 Don Alvau {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. 
 
 (Arias retires, flushed, with tears in his eyes. His companions look too much 
 surprised to triumph. Don Amador remains silent and confused.) 
 
 The Placa Santiago dnring busy inarket-time. Mules and asses laden with fruits and 
 vegetables. Stalls and booths filled with v)a7xs of all sorts. A croxcd of buyers and 
 sellers. A stalioart icoman, with keen eyes, leaning over the panniers of a inule 
 laden with apjdcs, watches Lorenzo, loho is lounging through the market. As he 
 approaches her, he is tnet by Blasoo. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 Well met, friend. 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 Ay, for we are soon to part, 
 And I would see you at the hostelry, 
 To take my reckoning. I go forth to-day. 
 
 LOKKNZO. 
 
 'Tis grievous parting with good company. 
 I would I h.id tlie gold to pay such guests 
 For all my pleasure in their talk. 
 
 Blabco. 
 
 Why, yes ; 
 A solid-headed man of Aragon 
 lias matter in him that you Southerners lack. 
 You like my company — 'tis natural. 
 But, look you, I have done my business well, 
 Ilave sold and 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. 
 
 lie reached it with liis eye, right to the marrow. 
 1 1 gave me heart tliat I had (jliitc to Bell, 
 For, saint or no saint, ii good .silvcrsniilh 
 Is wauled for God's service ; and my plate— 
 lie judged it well— bought nobly. 
 
 LOEKNZO. 
 
 A great man, 
 
 And holy ! 
 
 Blasoo. 
 
 Yes, I'm glad I leave to-day. 
 For there arc stories give a sort of smell- 
 One's nose has fancies. A good trader, sir, 
 Likes not this plague of lapsing iu the air, 
 Most caught by men with funds. And they do say 
 There's a great terror here iu Moors and Jews, 
 I would say. Christians of uuhappy blood. 
 'Tis monstrous, sure, that mcu of substance lapse. 
 And risk their property. I know I'm sound. 
 No heresy was ever bait to me. VVhate'er 
 Is the right failh, that I believe— nought else. 
 
 LOEKNZO. 
 
 Ay, truly, for the flavor of true failh 
 
 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 plaiu they're made 
 
 For profit of good Chrisliaus. And weak heads — 
 
 Panic will knit all disconnected facts — 
 
 Draw hence belief in evil auguries. 
 
 Rumors of accusation and arrest. 
 
 All air-begotten. Sir, you 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 of these eastern parts. 
 And cleanse Granada from the infidel. 
 Stay, sir, with God, until we meet again ! 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Go, sir, -with God, until I follow you ! 
 
 {Exit Bi-Asoo. LoiiENZo passes on towards the market-woman, who, as he ap- 
 proaches, raises herself from Mr leaning attitude.) 
 
 LOKENZO. 
 
 Good-day, my mistress. How's your merchandise ?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 197 
 
 Fit for a host to buy? Your apples now, 
 
 They have fair cheeks ; how are they at the core? 
 
 Mauket-Woman. 
 Good, good, sh" ! Tiiste aud try. See, here is one 
 Weighs a man's head. The best are bouud with tow: 
 'J'hey're wortli the pains, to keep the peel from splits. 
 (She takes out an aj)ple bound with tow, and, as she puts it into Lokenzo's 
 hand, speaks in a lower tone. ) 
 'Tis called the Miracle. Y()U open it, 
 And find it full of speech. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 Ay, give it me, 
 I'll take it to the Doctor iu the tower. 
 lie feeds on fruit, and if he likes the sort 
 I'll buy them for him. Meanwhile, drive your ass 
 Hound to my liostelry. I'll straight be there. 
 You'll not refuse some barter ? 
 
 Maeket-Wo.man. 
 
 No, not I. 
 Feather and skins. 
 
 LOUENZO. 
 
 Good, till we meet again. 
 (LoKKNZO, after smelling at the apple, puts it into a }7ouch-like basket which 
 hangs before him, and walks away. The woman 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 Luz. 
 A good five hundred added to iny bands 
 Will master all the garrison: the town 
 Is half with us, aud will not lift an arm 
 Save on our side. My scouts have found a way 
 Where ouce we thought the fortress most secure: 
 Spying a man upon the height, they traced. 
 By keen conjecture piecing broken sight, 
 His downward path, aud found its issue. There 
 A file of us 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 aud repay 
 The Gypsy with the furtherance he needs 
 To lead his people over Bahr el Scham 
 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. 
 
 DOOK III. 
 
 Quit now the town, and witli a journeying dream 
 
 Swift as tiic \vin:;s of sound yet seeming slow 
 
 Througli multitudinous {)ulsing of stored sense 
 
 And spiriuial space, sec walls and towers 
 
 Lie in the silent whiteness of a trance. 
 
 Giving no sign of that warm life within 
 
 That moves and miu'inuvs through their hidden heart. 
 
 Pass o'er the mountain, wind in sombre shade, 
 
 Then wiud into tlie light and see the town 
 
 Shrunk to white crust uiion the darker rock. 
 
 Turn east and sontli, descend, then rise anew 
 
 'Mid smaller mouutaius 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 with 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 afternoon. Bright in the sun 
 
 Like tall white sails on a greeu shadowy sea 
 
 Stand Moorish watch-towers : 'neath that eastern sky 
 
 Couches unseen the strength of Moorish Baza ; 
 
 Where the meridian bends lies Guadix, hold 
 
 Of brave El Zagal. Tliis is Moorish laud. 
 
 Where Allah lives unconquered in dark bi'easts 
 
 And blesses still the many-nourishing earth 
 
 With 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 white 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 in. Close they swaim 
 
 About two taller tents, and viewed afar 
 
 Might seem a dark-robed crowd in penitence 
 
 That silent kneel; but come now in their midst 
 
 And watch a busy, bright-eyed, sportive life ! 
 
 Tall maidens bend to feed the tethered goat. 
 
 The ragged kiille 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. 
 
 Rock their strong cradling arms and chant low strains 
 
 Taught by monottmoiis and soothing winds 
 
 That fall at night-time on the dozing ear. 
 
 The crones plait reeds, or shred the vivid herbs 
 
 Into the caldi'on: tiny urchins crawl
 
 THE SPAJSriSH GYPSY. 199 
 
 Or sit and gurgle forth their infant joy. 
 
 Lads lying sphinx-lilie with npiifted breast 
 
 I'ropped on their elbow.---, their bhuk manes tossed back, 
 
 Fling up the coin and watch its fatal fall, 
 
 Dispute and scranihle, run and wrestle lierce. 
 
 Then fall to play and fellowship again ; 
 
 Or iu a thieving swarm they run to plague 
 
 The grandsires, who return with rabbits sluug, 
 
 And with the mules fruit-laden from the fields. 
 
 Some striplings clioose the smooth stones from the brook 
 
 To serve the slingers, cut the twigs for snares. 
 
 Or trim the hazel-wands, or at the bark 
 
 Of some exploring dog tliey dart away 
 
 With swift precision towards a moving speck. 
 
 These are the Ijrood of Zarca's Gypsy tribe; 
 
 Jlost like an earth-born race bred by the Suu 
 
 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 nortbern heigSits. 
 
 But see, upon a pleasant spot removed 
 
 From the camp's hubbub, where the thid^et 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 baclcward flung. 
 
 His loft caressing close the long-necked lute 
 
 That seems to sleep too, leaning tow"rds its lord. 
 
 He draws deep breath secuie but not unwatched. 
 
 Aloving a-tiptoe, silent as the elves. 
 
 As mischievous too, trip three bare-footed girls 
 
 Not opened yet to womanliood — dark flowers 
 
 In slim long buds: some paces farther oft' 
 
 Gtithers a little white-leethed shaggy group, 
 
 A grinning chorus to the merry play. 
 
 The tripping girls have robbed the sleeping man 
 
 Of all his ornaments. Hita is declied 
 
 With an embroidered scarf across her rags; 
 
 Tralla, with thorns for pins, sticks two rosettes 
 
 Upon her tlireadbare woollen ; Ilinda now, 
 
 Prettiest and boldest, tuclcs her kirilc 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 walies the sleeper, who with sudden start 
 
 Shakes ofl" the masking hat and shows the face 
 
 Of Juan ; Hinda svvifc as thought leaps back, 
 
 Bat carries off the spoil triumphantly, 
 
 And leads the chorus of a happy laugh. 
 
 Running with all the naked-footed imps, 
 
 Till with safe survey all can face about 
 
 And watch for signs of stimulating chase. 
 
 While Ilinda ties long grass around her brow 
 
 To stick thQ feather in with majesty.
 
 200 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Juau slill sits contemplative, with looks 
 Alternate at the spoilers and their work. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 All, you miiruudiiig kite— my feather goncl 
 My belt, my scarf, my buttons and rosettes! 
 This is to be a brother of your tribe ! 
 The fiery-blooded children of the Sun- 
 So says chief Zarca— children of the Sun ! 
 Ay, ay, the black and stinging flies he breeds 
 To ])lague the decent body of mankind. 
 "Orpheus, professor of the gai saher. 
 Made all the brutes polite by dint of song." 
 Pregnant — but as a guide in daily life 
 Delusive. For if song and music cure 
 The barbarous trick of tliieving, 'tis a cure 
 That works as slowly as old Doctor Time 
 In curing folly. VVliy, the minxes there 
 Have rhythm in their toes, and music rings 
 As readily from them as from little bells 
 Swung by the breeze. Well, I will try the physic. 
 
 (lie tuuches his lute.) 
 Hem ! taken right!}', any single thing, 
 The Rabbis say, implies all other things, 
 A knotty task, though, the unravelling 
 Meiim and Tmmi from a saraband : 
 It needs a subtle logic, nay, perhaps 
 A good large property, to see the thread. 
 
 {He touches the lute again.) 
 There's more of odd than eveu in this world. 
 Else pretty sinners would not be let ofl" 
 Sooner than ugly ; for if honeycombs 
 Are to he 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 absence of your tail, but twenty fools 
 May not detect the presence of your wit. 
 
 (He touches his lute again.) 
 Well, I must coax my tail back cunningly. 
 For to ruu after Ibese brown lizards — all ! 
 I think the lizards lift their ears at this. 
 
 (Ashe thrums his lute the lads and girls gradually approach : he touches it more 
 briskly, and IIinda, advancing, begins to move arms and legs with an initiatory 
 dancing movement, smiling coaxingbj at Jcan. He suddenly stops, lays down 
 hvj lute and folds his arms.) 
 
 JUAK. 
 
 What, you expect a tunc to dance to, eh? 
 
 HlNDA, IIlTA, TltAI.I.A, AND TUE BEST 
 
 (claj^ping their hands). 
 Yes, yes, a tune, n tune !
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 201 
 
 Juan. 
 
 But that is what you cannot have, my sweet brothers and sisters. The tunes 
 are all dead— dead as the tunes of the lark when you have plucked his wings off; 
 dead as the song of the grasshopper when the ass has swallowed him. I can 
 play and sing no more. Hinda has killed my tunes. 
 
 (.4^ cry out in consternation. IIinda gives a wail and tries to examine the lute.) 
 
 Joan {waviivj her off). 
 
 Understand, Seilora IIinda, that the tunes are in me; they are not in the Into 
 till I put them there. 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 must have my feather 
 back. 
 
 (Hinda kisses his hands and feet coaxincjly.) 
 No, no ! not a note will come for coaxing. The feather, I say, the feather ! 
 
 (UiNDA sorrowfulli/ takes off the feather, and gives it to Juan.) 
 Ah, now let us see. Perhaps a tune will come. 
 
 (He plays a measure, a7id the three girls begin to dance; then he suddenly stops.) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 No, the tune will not come : it wants the aigrette (pointing to it on Uinda's 
 neck). 
 (IIinda, leith rather less hesitation, but again sorroufnlly, takes off the aigrette, 
 
 and gives it to him. ) 
 
 Juan. 
 Ha ! (ffe plays again, but, after rather a longer time, again sto2^s.) No, no ; 'tis 
 the buttons are wanting, IIinda, the buttons. This tune feeds chiefly on buttons 
 — a greedy tune. It wants one, two, three, four, live, six. Good I 
 
 (After Hinda has given u]j the buttons, and Juan has laid them down one by one, 
 he begins to x>lay again, going on longer than before, so that the dancers become 
 excited by the movement. Then he stops- ) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Ah, Hita, it is the belt, and, Tralla, the rosettes— both are wanting. I see the 
 tuue will not go on without them. 
 (Hita and Tiialla take off the belt and rosettes, and lay them down quickly, being 
 fired by the dancing, and eager for the micsic. All the articles lie by Juan's side 
 on the ground.) 
 
 JtTAN. 
 
 Good, good, my docile wild-cats! Now I think the tunes are all alive again. 
 Now you may dance and sing too. Hiudn, 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. 
 
 (Ue plays. The dance begins again, IIinda singing. All 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 1 
 
 We go with them ! 
 For to roam and ever roam, 
 Is the Z'lnculi's loved home.
 
 203 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Eufth is good, the Jiilhide Ircals 
 Bi) the ti.shaii roots and nidkes 
 
 J/u)iijri/ noatrilis glad : 
 Then wc run till tee are mad. 
 
 Like the horses. 
 And ice cry. 
 
 None shall catch us .' 
 Swift loinds tcini; ns — ice are free — 
 Drink the air — ice Z'lncali ! 
 
 Falls the snoio : the jnne-hranch split. 
 Call the fire out, see it fiit, 
 
 Through the dry leaves rim. 
 Spread and glow, and make i; sun 
 
 In the dark tent: 
 O warm dark ! 
 
 Warm as conies ! 
 Strong fire loves us, we are warm ! 
 Who the Z'lncali shall harm f 
 
 Onward journey : fires are spent; 
 Sunward, snmcar'd ! lift the tent. 
 
 Run before the rain. 
 Through the 2)uss, along the plain. 
 
 Hurry, hui-ry. 
 
 Lift us, rcind ! 
 
 Like the horses. 
 For to roam and ever roam 
 Is the Z'lncalVs loved home. 
 
 ( When tlie da7iee is at its height, Hind a breaks auw/frovi the. rest, and dances round 
 Juan, who is noio standing. As he turns a little to watch her movement, swirw 
 of the boys ski2> towards tlie feather, aigrette, etc., snatch them up, and run away, 
 swiftly followed by IIita, Tkali.a, and the rest. Hinpa, as she turns again, 
 sees them, screams, and falls in her ivhirling ; but immediately gets up, and 
 rushes after tlcem., still screaming with rage.) 
 
 JCAN. 
 
 Santiago! these imiis get bolder. Ilaha ! Sefiora Ilincla, tliis finishes yonr les- 
 son in ethics. You have seen the advantage of giving np stolen goods. Now yon 
 sec the ugliness of thieving when practised by others. That fable of mine abont 
 the tnnes was excellently devised. I feel like an ancient sage instructing our lisi)- 
 ing ancestors. My memory will descend as the Orphens of Gypsies. Bnt 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 Juan takes a knife from his belt, and surveys a hush of the i>rickly 2'car, 
 
 IIiNDA returns.) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Pray, Sefiora, why do you fnrac ? Did you want to steal my ornaments again 
 yourself? 
 
 HiNDA (sobbing). 
 
 No ; I thought you would give thcni me back again. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 What, did you want the tunes to die again? Do you like finery better than 
 dancing?
 
 THE SPANISH GYrSY. 203 
 
 HlNDA. 
 
 Oh, that was a tale ! I shall tell tales too, wheu I want to get anything I can't 
 steal. And I know what I will do. I shall tell the boys I've found some little 
 foxes, and I will never say where they are till they give mc back the -feather ! 
 
 (_Slte runs ojf again.) 
 Juan. 
 Hem! the disciple seems to seize the mode sooner than the matter. Teaching 
 virtue with this prickly pear may onJy teaeh the youngsters to use 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 he puU up his knife again, IIinpa comes running back, and crying, " Our 
 Queen! our Queen!" Juan adjusta hin garments and his lute, ivhile IIinda 
 turns to meet Fkpalma, tcho wears a Moorish dress, her black hair hanging 
 round Iter in -plaits, a white turban sn Iter head, a dagger by her side. Ske car- 
 ries q, scar/ on her left arm, which she holds up as a sliade.) 
 
 Fbdai.ma (patting IIisda's head). 
 How now, wild one? You are hot and panting. Go to ray tfint, and help 
 Nouna to plait reeds. 
 (HiNDA kisses Fjcdai.ma's hand, and runs off. Fedai.ma advances towards Juan, 
 who kneels to take up the edge of her cymar, and kisses it.) 
 
 Juan. 
 
 How is it with you, lady ? Y'ou look sad. 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 
 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 uuspecked round of blue and blue 
 Sees that full light is errorless despair. 
 The insects' hum that slurs the silent dark 
 Startles and seems to chest me, as the tread 
 Of coming foots'teps cheats the midnight watcher 
 Who holds her heart and waits to hear them ])ause, 
 And hears them never pause, but pass and 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 obduracy, and the lingering hours 
 Wait round mc 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. 
 
 JCAN. 
 
 I, lady? 
 
 Fkdat.ma. 
 
 Yon,
 
 204: TIIE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Joan. 
 
 I never had the virtue to liidc auirht, 
 !>:ivc what a man is wliippcd for publi^^hiiic;. 
 I'm no more reticent tlian the vohil)le air- 
 Dote on disclosure— never could contain 
 The latter half of all my sentences, 
 But for the need to utter the beginning. 
 My lust to tell is so importunate 
 That it abridges every otlier vice, 
 And makes me temperate for want of time. 
 I dull seusatimi in the haste to say 
 'Tis this or that, and choke report with surmise. 
 Judge then, dear lady, if I could be mute 
 When but a glance of yours had bid me speak. 
 
 Fkdai-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 you- 
 Pity for woman's weakness. Take my tlianks. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Thanks angrily bestowed are red-hot coin 
 Burning your servant's palm. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Deny it not, 
 You know how many leagues this camp of ours 
 Lies from Bedmar— what mountains lie between — 
 Could tell me if you would about the Duke — 
 Tliat he is comforted, sees how he gains 
 Losing the Zincala, linds now how slight 
 The thread Fedalma made in that rich web, 
 A Spanish noble's life. No, that is false I 
 He never would think lightly of our love. 
 Some evil has befallen him — he's slain — 
 Has sought for danger and has beckoned death 
 Because I made all life seem treachery. 
 Tell me the worst — be merciful— no worst, 
 Against the hideous painting of my fear, 
 Would not show like a better. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 If I speak. 
 Will yon believe your slave? For truth is scant; 
 And where the appetite is still to hear 
 And not believe, falsehood would stint it less. 
 IIow say you ? Does your hunger's fancy choose 
 Tlie meagre fact ? 
 
 Fudalma {Heating herself on the grmmd). 
 
 Yes, yes, the truth, dear Juan. 
 Sit now, and tell me all. 
 
 Juan. 
 Tliat all is nought. 
 1 can unleash my fancy if you wish
 
 THE SPAl^ISn GYPSY. 205 
 
 And hi'iut for phautoms: shoot an airy guess 
 
 And bring down airy likelihood— some lie 
 
 Masked cuiiuiugly to look like royal tiiiili 
 
 And 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 tliat would guide a pair of foot 
 
 Right to Bedniiir, across, the Moorish bounds, 
 
 A mule that dreams of stumbling over stones 
 
 Is better stored. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 And you have gathered nought 
 About the border wars? No news, no hint 
 Of any rumors that concern the Duke — 
 Kumors kept from nic by my father? 
 
 -Juan. 
 
 None. 
 Yonr father trusts no secret to ihe echoes. 
 Of late his movements have been hid from all 
 Save those few hundred chosen Gypsy breasts 
 lie carries with him. Think you he's a man 
 To let his projects slip from out his belt, 
 Then whisper him who haps to find them strayed 
 To be so kind as keep his counsel well? 
 Wliy, if he found nie knowing anght too much. 
 He would straight gag or strangle me, and say, 
 "Poor hound ! ii was a pity that his bark 
 Could chance to mar my plans: he loved my daughter- - 
 The idle hound had nouglit to do but love. 
 So followed to the battle and got crushed." 
 
 Fedalma {holding out her hand, which Juajj kisses). 
 
 Good Juan, I could have no nobler friend. 
 
 You'd ope your veins and let yonr life-blood out 
 
 To save another's pain, yet hide the deed 
 
 With jesting— say, 'twas merest accident, 
 
 A sportive scratch 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 seen 
 Priced in a tariff? — lapis lazuli, 
 Such bulk, so many drachmas: amethysts 
 Quoted at so much ; sapphires higher still. 
 'J'he stone like solid heaven in its blucnoss 
 Is what I care fi)r, not its name or jiricc. 
 So, if I live or die to serve my friend, 
 'Tls fov my love— 'tis for my friend alone.
 
 306 THE SPA2JISU GYPSY. 
 
 And not for any rate that fricnclt^hii) bears 
 In heavi-n or on earth. Nay, I romance — 
 I talk of Kolanil and tlie ancient puurt;. 
 Ill me 'tis 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 hide your soul from mc ; 
 I've seen the jewel's flash, and know 'tis there, 
 Muffle it as you will. That foam-like talk 
 Will not wash out a fear which blots the good 
 Your presence brings nie. Oft I'm pierced afresh 
 Through all the pressure of my sellish griefs 
 By thought of yon. It was a rash resolve 
 Made you disclose yourself when you kept watch 
 About the terrace wall : — your i)ity leaped, 
 Seeing alone my ills and not your loss, 
 Self-doomed to exile. Juan, you must repent. 
 'Tis not in nature tliat resolve, which feeds 
 On strenuous actions, should not pine and die 
 In these long days of empty listlessuess. 
 
 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 spray 
 
 Made by the thundering torrent of men's lives: 
 
 No matter whether I am here or there; 
 
 I still catch sunbeams. Aud in Africa, 
 
 Where melons and all fruits, they say, grow Imge, 
 
 Fables are real, and the apes polite, 
 
 A i)oet, 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. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Africa I 
 Would we were there ! Under another heaven, 
 lu lauds where neither love nor memory 
 Can plant a sclfisli 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, 
 Aud wear my weight of life's great chain unstruggling. 
 Juan, if I could know he would forget- 
 Nay, not, forget, forgive me — 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,
 
 TnE SPANISH GYPSY. 207 
 
 Hallowed like her who dies an nnwed bride. 
 
 Our words have wing?, but fly not where we would. 
 
 Could mine but reach hitu, Juan ! 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Speak the wish — 
 My feet have wings — I'll be your Mercury. 
 I tear 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 niaik 
 As issue of my wandering. Given, 1 cross 
 Safely the Moorish border, reach BedmAr : 
 Fresh counsels may prevail there, and the Duke 
 Being absent in the field, I may be trapped. 
 Men who are sour at missing larger game 
 May win^ 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 on hand to think of me; 
 Or, if he cares to slay me, I shall fall 
 Choked with a grape-stone for economy. 
 The likelier chance is that I go and come, 
 Bringing you comfort back. 
 
 Fedalma {starts frmn her scat and walks to a little distance, standing a few 
 
 moments u-ith her back towards Ju.\n, then she turns round quickly, and 
 
 ancs towards him). 
 
 No, Juan, no ! 
 
 Those yearning' words came from a soul iutlrm. 
 
 Crying and struggling at the pain of bonds 
 
 Which yet it would not loosen. He knows all — 
 
 All that he needs to know: I said farewell: 
 
 I stepped across the cracking earth and knew 
 
 'Twould yawn behind me. I must walk right on. 
 
 No, I will not win aught by risking you: 
 
 That risk would poison my i)Oor hope. Besides, 
 
 'Twere treachery in me : my father wills 
 
 That we— all here — should rest within this camp. 
 
 If I can never live, like him, on faith 
 
 In glorious morrows, I am resolute. 
 
 While he treads painfully with stillest step 
 
 And beady brow, pressed 'ueath the 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 yon, dear Juan, 
 
 Renounce, endme, arc brave, unurged by aught 
 
 Save the sweet overflow of your good will. 
 
 (She seats herself againy
 
 208 THE SPANISU GYl'SY. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Nay, I endure nought worse than napping sheep 
 
 When nimble birds uproot a fleecy luck 
 
 To line tlieir nest villi. Sec I your boiidsmiiu, Quceu, 
 
 The minstrel of your court, is feathcrless; 
 
 Deforms your presence by a monlting garb; 
 
 Shows like a roadfide bush culled of its buds 
 
 Yet, if your graciousncss will not disdain 
 
 A poor plucked songster— shall he sing to you? 
 
 Some lay of afternoons— some ballad strain 
 
 Of those who ached once hut are sleeping now 
 
 Under tlie sun-warmed flowers? 'Twill cheat the tiiuo. 
 
 Fed ALMA. 
 
 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, l)ut come again,— 
 Come with the lengthening shadows. 
 
 Juan. 
 
 Then your plavc 
 Will go to chase the robbers. Queen, farewell I 
 
 Fki>ahia. 
 Best friend, my well-spriug in the wilderness! 
 
 [While Juan 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 himself! 
 She saw him uow advancing, girt with arms 
 That seemed like idle trophies hung for show 
 Beside tlie weight and fire of living strength 
 That made his frame. lie glanced with absent triumph, 
 As one who conquers in some field afar 
 And bears off unseen spoil. But uearing her, 
 His terrible eyes intense sent forth new rays— 
 A snddeu sunshine where the lightning was 
 •Twist meeting dark. All tenderly he laid 
 His hand upon her shoulder ; tenderly, 
 His kiss upon her brow.] 
 
 Zakoa. 
 My royal daughter I 
 Fedalma. 
 Father, I joy to sec your safe return. 
 
 Zauoa. 
 Nay, I but stole the time, as hungry men 
 Steal from the morrow's meal, made a forced march,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. .20D 
 
 Left Hassan as my watch-dog, all to see 
 My daughter, aud to feel her famished hope 
 With uews of promise. 
 
 'Fed ALMA. 
 
 Is the tas^k achieved 
 That was to be the herald of our flight ? 
 
 Zacoa. 
 
 Not outwardly, but to my inward vision 
 Thiugs are achieved when they are well begun. 
 The perfect archer calls the deer his own 
 While yet the shaft is whistling. Hie keen eye 
 Never sees failure, sees the mark alone. 
 You have heard nought, then — had no messenger V 
 
 Fed alma. 
 
 I, father ? no : each quiet day has fled 
 
 Like the same moth, returning with slow wing, 
 
 Aud pausiug iu the suushine. 
 
 Zakoa. 
 
 It is well. 
 
 You shall not long count days iu weariness. 
 Ere the full moon has waned again to new. 
 We shall reach Alraeria: Berber ships 
 Will take us for their freight, and we shall go 
 With plenteous spoil, not stolen, bravely won 
 By service done on Spaniards. Do you shrink? 
 Are you aught less than a true Zincala ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 No ; but I am more. The Spaniards fostered me. 
 
 Zakca. 
 
 They stole you first, aud reared you for the flames. 
 I found you, rescued you, that you might live 
 A Ziiicala's life; I saved you from their doom. 
 Y'our bridal bed had been the rack. 
 
 Feualma {in a low tone). 
 
 They meant — 
 To seize me?— ere he came? 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Yes, I know all. 
 They found your chamber emi)ty. 
 
 Fedalma {carjerbj). 
 
 Then you know — 
 
 {checking hersc/f. ) 
 Father, my soul would be less laggard, fed 
 With fuller trust. 
 
 Zaeoa. 
 
 My daughter, I must keep 
 The Arab's secret. Arabs are our friends, 
 2i K
 
 210 THE SPAKISH GYPSY. 
 
 Grnppliiip; for life with Christians wlio lay wasto 
 
 Graiu'ula's valleys, and witli devilish hoofs 
 
 Trample ihc young f^rccn corn, witli devilish play 
 
 Fell blossomed trees, and tear up wcll-pnincd vines: 
 
 Cruel as tigers to the vanquished brave, 
 
 They wring out gold by oaths lliey mean to brealt ; 
 
 Take pay for pity and are pitiless; 
 
 Then tinkle bells above the desolate earth 
 
 And praise their monstrous gods, supposed to lovu 
 
 The flattery of liars. I will strike 
 
 The full-gorged dragon. Yon, my child, must watch 
 
 The battle wiih a heart, not fliitteiing 
 
 But duteous, iirm-weighted by resolve, 
 
 Clioosiug between two lives, like her who holds 
 
 A dagger wliich must pierce one of two breasts, 
 
 And one of them her father's. You divine — 
 
 I speak not closely, but in parables ; 
 
 Put one for many. 
 
 Fedai.ma {collecting herself and looking firmly at Zavma)^ 
 
 Then it is your will 
 That I ask nothing ? 
 
 Zakca. 
 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 in Africa, 
 So gives us furtherance in our pilgrimage 
 For service hoped, as well as service done 
 In 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 Telemsau. 
 lla, your eye flashes. Are you glad ? 
 
 Fjcdai.ma. 
 
 Yes, glad 
 That men can greatly Vrnst a Zincalo. 
 
 Zaeoa. 
 Why, fighting for dear life men choose their swords 
 For cutting only, not for oruament. 
 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 jiedigree? 
 Sick men ask cures, and Nature serves not hers 
 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 (hittcrbj). 
 To be contemned, then, is fair augury. 
 That pledge of future good at least is ours.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. SH 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Let meu CDiitemn us: 'tis such blind contempt 
 
 That leaves the winged broods to thrive in warmth 
 
 Unheeded, till they fill the air like storms. 
 
 So we shall thrive — still darkly shall draw force 
 
 Into a new and miiltitudinons life 
 
 That likeness fashions to community, 
 
 Mother divine of customs, faith and laws. 
 
 'Tis ripeness, 'tis fame's zenith that kills hope. 
 
 Huge oaks are dyinj:, forests yet to come 
 
 Lie in the twigs and rotten-seeming seeds. 
 
 Fkoalma. 
 
 And our wild Zincali? 'Neath their rough husk 
 Can you discern such seed? You said our band 
 Was the best arm of some hard enterprise ; 
 They jjive out sparks of virtue, then, and show 
 There's metal in their earth? 
 
 Zasca. 
 
 Ay, metal fine 
 In ray brave Gypsies. Not the lithest Moor 
 Has lither limbs for scaling, keener eye 
 To mark the meaning of the furthest sjieck 
 That tells of change ; and they are disciplined 
 By faitli iu me, to such obedience 
 As needs no spy. My scalers and my scouts 
 Are to the Moorish force they're leagued withal 
 As bow-string to ihe bow; while I, their chief, 
 Command the enterprise and guide the will 
 Of Moorish captains, as the pilot guides 
 With eye-instructed hand tha 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. 
 Wiih thoughts impalixxble we clutch men's souls. 
 Weaken the joints of armies, make them fly 
 Like dust and leaves before the viewless wind. 
 Tell me what's mirrored iu the tiger's heart, 
 I'll rule that too. 
 
 Fedalma (wrought to a glow of admiration). 
 
 O my imperial father ! 
 'Tis where there breathes a mighty soul like yours 
 That men's contempt is of good augury. 
 
 Zarca (seizing both Fudai.ma's hands, and looking at her seajrchinghj). 
 
 And you, my daughter, what are you— if not 
 
 The Zincalo's chiid? 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 the 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:
 
 213 TUE SPANISH GYPSy. 
 
 A miserable, petty, low-roofed life, 
 
 That knows the uiif^hty orbits of the Bkies 
 
 Tlu-otigti iion^lit pave li;,'lit or dark in its own cabin. 
 
 The very l)rntcs will feel the force of kind 
 
 And move togetlicr, gatliering a new bouI— 
 
 The 8onl of niMllitndcs. S^y now, my cliikl. 
 
 You will not falter, not look back and long 
 
 For nnfledgod ease in some soft, alien nest. 
 
 Tlie 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 ihe summer it will reach 
 
 Or perish in mid-ocean. You no less 
 
 Must feel the force sublime of growins; life. 
 
 New thoughts are urgent as the growth of wings; 
 
 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 i)leasures, winged pains. 
 
 Arc you not steadfast? Will you live or die 
 
 For aught below your royal heritage? 
 
 To liim who holds the flickering brief torch 
 
 That lights a beacon for the perishing, 
 
 Aught else is crime. Would you let drop the torch ? 
 
 FlCHAlaMA. 
 
 Father, my soul 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 hojie. 
 
 It will stand firm on certainty of woe. 
 
 I choose tlie ill that is most like to end 
 
 With my i>oor being. Hopes have precarious life. 
 
 They are oft blighted, withered, suai)ped sheer off 
 
 lu vigorous growth and turned to rottenness. 
 
 But f^iithfuluess can feed on suffering. 
 
 And knows no disappointment. Trust in met 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Zauo\. 
 
 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 joys. 
 And, sore alhirst for air, breathes scanty life 
 Gasping from out the shallows. Y<iu are saved 
 From such poor doubleuess. The lil'e we choose 
 Breathes high, and sees a fnll-arched firmament. 
 Our deeds .shall speak like rock-hewn messages, 
 Teaching great purpose to the distant time.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 313 
 
 Now I must hasten back. I shall but speak 
 To Nailar of the order he must keep 
 lu setting watch and victualling. The stare 
 And the young moon must see me at my po.ut. 
 Nay, rest you here. Farewell, my younger self — 
 Strong-hearted daughter! Shall I live in you 
 When the earth covers me ? 
 
 Fedalha. 
 
 My father, death 
 Should give your will divineness, make it strong 
 With the beseechings of a mighty soul 
 That left its work unflnished. Kiss me uow: 
 
 {They embrace, and xhc adds tremulously as they part,) 
 
 And when you see fair hair, be pitiful. 
 
 [Exit Zauoa. 
 
 (Fkdai.ma sc«f.s herself on the bank, leayis her head forward, and covers 
 her face with her drapery. While she is seated thus, Hinda comes from 
 the bank, with a branch of viusk roses in her hand. Seeing Fkdai.ma 
 loith head bent and covered, she pauses, and begins to move on tiptoe.) 
 
 IilNI>A. 
 
 Our Queen! Can she be crying? There she sits 
 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, k7icels at Fkdalma's /ccf, and evibracci them. 
 Fr.DALMA uncovers licr head.) 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 Hinda! what is it? 
 
 Hini>a. 
 
 Queen, a branch of roses — 
 So sweet, you'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. 
 You love the roses — so do I. I wish 
 The sky would rain down roses, as they rain 
 From oti" 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 once! 
 Over the sea, Queen, where we soon shall go, 
 W^ill it rain roses? 
 
 FunALMA. 
 
 No, my prattler, no ! 
 It never will rain roses: when we want 
 To have more roses we must plant more trees. 
 But yon want nothir.g, little one — the world 
 Just suits you as it suits the tawny squirrels. 
 Come, you want nothing. 
 
 Hinda. 
 
 Yes, I want more berries — 
 Red cues— to wind about my neck and arms
 
 314 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 When I am married— on my ankles too 
 
 I want to wind rud l)crries, and on my liead. 
 
 Fl2»\T-MA. 
 
 Who is it yon arc fond of? Tell nic, now. 
 
 IIlNPA. 
 
 Qneen, you know! It could be no one eli=e 
 But Ismai'l. He catches all the birds, 
 
 Knows where the speckled lish aic, scales tlie roclse, 
 And sinj^s and dances with me when I like-. 
 Uow shonld I marry and not marry him ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 Should you have loved him, had he been a Moor, 
 Or white Castiliau ? 
 
 HiNDA {starting to her feet, then kneeling again). 
 Are you angry, Queen ? 
 Say why you will think shame of your poor Iliiida? 
 She'd sooner be a rat and hang on thorns 
 To parch until the wind had scattered her, 
 Thau be an outeast, spit at by her tribe. 
 
 FlCnALMA. 
 
 1 think no evil— am not angry, chikL 
 
 But would 3'ou i)art from Ismael ? leave him uow 
 If your chief bade you— said it was for good 
 To" all your tribe that you must part from him? 
 
 IlranA {giving a sharp cry). 
 Ah, will he say so? 
 
 Fkdalma {almost fierce in her earnestness). 
 Nay, child, answer me. 
 Could you teave IsmaiU ? get into a boat 
 And see the waters widen 'twixt yon 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 . . . 
 
 HnNDA (treinUing). 
 
 Qucea, if it is so, tell Ismael. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 You would obc}-, then? part from him forever? 
 
 IIlNDA. 
 
 llow could we live else? With our brethren lost?— 
 No marriage feast? The dny would turn to dark. 
 A Zincala cannot live without her tribe. 
 
 1 must obey! Poor Ismael— poor Ilinda! 
 But will it ever be so cold and daik? 
 Oh, I would sit upon the rocks aud cry.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 315 
 
 And cry so long that I could cry no more: 
 Then I sliould go to sleep. 
 
 Fed AIM A. 
 
 No, Ilinda, no ! 
 Thou never shalt 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. 
 
 HiNDA {clapping her hands, while Fedai.ma puts the roses on her head). 
 
 Oh, I'm as glad as many little foxes— 
 I will find ismaCl, and tell him all. 
 
 {She rnns off.) 
 Fedai.ma (alone). 
 
 She has the strength I lack. Within her world 
 
 The dial has not .<tirred 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 lier 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 tirin, could give myself the wrench 
 
 And wallc erect, hiding my life-long wound, 
 
 If I but. saw the fruit of all my pain 
 
 AVith that strong vision which commands the S(ml, 
 
 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 lnri>e — 
 
 By his own greatness making life seem great. 
 
 As the clear Iieaveus bring sublimity, 
 
 And show earth larger, spanned by that blue v.ist— 
 
 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 throiigli all my limbs 
 
 Is heard no longer; over the wide scene 
 
 There's nought but chill gray silence, or the hum 
 
 And fltfnl discoid of a vulgar world.
 
 216 TiiE srANisn gtpsy. 
 
 Then I sink helpless— pink into the arms 
 
 Of all sweet mcmoi-ios, and dream of bliss; 
 
 Sec looks that |)euoti-ate like tones; hear tones 
 
 That flash looks with them. Even now I feel 
 
 Soft ail's enwrap me, as if yearning rays 
 
 Of some far presence tonched me with their warmth 
 
 And brought a tender murmuring . . . 
 
 [While she mused, 
 A fignre came from out the olive-trees 
 That bent close-whispering 'twixt the parted hills 
 Beyond the crescent of thick cactus: paused 
 At sight of her ; then slowly moved 
 With carsfnl steps, and gently said, "Fkdai.ma!" 
 Fearing lest fancy had enslaved her sense. 
 She quivered, rose, but turned not. Soon again : 
 "Fkdai.ma, it is Sii.va!" Then she turned. 
 He, 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 ."tream's. 
 She found her rest within his circling arms.] 
 
 Fepai.ma. 
 O love, you are living, and believe in me! 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Once more we are together. AVishing dies- 
 Stifled with bliss. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Yon did not hate me, then- 
 Think me an ingrate— think my love was small 
 That I forsook you ? 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 
 Dear, I trusted yon 
 As holy men trust God. You could do nought 
 That was not i)ure and loving— though the deed 
 Might pierce me unto death. You had less trust, 
 Since you suspected mine. 'Tvvas wicked doubt. 
 
 Pf-dalma. 
 
 Nay, when I saw you hating me, the fanlt 
 Seemed in my lot— my bitter birthright— liers 
 On whom you lavished all your wealth of love 
 As price of nought, but sorrow. Then I said, 
 " 'Tis better so. lie 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 miseiy is not begun 
 Until I cease to love thee. 
 
 Feda lma. 
 Silva !
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 217 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Mine ! 
 (Thc!j stand a moment or two in silence.) 
 
 Fedalma. 
 I thought I had so much to tell you, love — 
 Loug eloquent stories — how it all befell — 
 The solemn message, calling me away 
 To awful spoiisals, where my own dead joy, 
 A conscious ghost, looked ou and saw me wed. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Oh, that grave si)eech would cumber our quick souls 
 Like bells that waste the momeuts with their loudness. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 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 liitle birds 
 Make known by their soft twitter when they feel 
 Each other's heart beat. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 All the deepest things 
 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. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Alone? 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Yes— fled in secret. There was no way else 
 To find you safely. 
 
 Fbdalma {letting one hand fall and m.oving a little from, him with a look of 
 ■sudden terror, while he clasps her m,ore 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 
 llis furtherance in bearing you away 
 To some safe refuge. Are we not betrothed? 
 
 24* K*
 
 318 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 FKnALMA. 
 
 Oh, I am trembling 'ncath the rush of thoughts 
 Th:it come like griefs at morning— look at me 
 With awfnl facc.i, from the vanishing haze 
 That momently had hidden them. 
 
 Don Su.va. 
 
 What thoughts? 
 Fkdai.ma. 
 Forgotten bnrials. There lies a grave 
 Between this visionary present and the past. 
 Our joy is dead, and only smiles on us 
 A loving shade from out the place of tombs. 
 
 Don Sii.VA. 
 Your love is faiut, else aught 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. 
 
 Fedalma (retreating a little, but keeping his Jiaml). 
 
 Silva, if now between us came a sword, 
 Severed my aim, and left our two hands clasped, 
 This poor maimed arm would feel the clasp till death. 
 What parts us is a sword . . . 
 
 Zaboa has been advancing in the background. He han drawn his mwrd, 
 and now thrustn the naked blade between them. Don Silta lets go Fk- 
 dalma'b hand, and grasps his sivord. Fkdai.ma, stiertlcd at first, stands 
 firmly, as if prepared to interpose between her fiither and the Duler.) 
 
 Z.\TW\. 
 
 Ay, 'tis a sword 
 Tiiat parts the Spaniard and the Zincala: 
 A sword that was baptized in Christian bhiod, 
 When once a band, cloaking with Spanish law 
 Their brutal rapine, would have butchered us, 
 And outraged Wien our women. 
 
 (Resting the point of his sword on tlie 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 ZiHcalo's camp, to find a fit return 
 For that C;istilian courtesy? or rather 
 To make amends for all our prisoned toil 
 By free bestowal of your preseace here? 
 
 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. 
 
 Zaeoa. 
 
 Doubtless you bring for linal arguincut 
 
 Your meu-at-arms who will escort your bride?
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 219 
 
 Don Sii-ya. 
 
 I cnme almie. The only force I l)riiig 
 Is teiideniess. Nay, I will trust besides 
 lu all the pleadings of a fathei-'a care 
 To wed his daughter as her uiirture bids. 
 And for your iribe — whatever purposed good 
 Tour thoughts may cherish, I will make secure 
 With the strong surety of a noble's power: 
 My wealth shall be your treasury. 
 
 Zaroa {with irony). 
 
 My thanks I 
 To me you otTcr liberal price ; for her 
 Yonr love'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 yonr bride; 
 I am quite culled, have neither root nor trunk, 
 Now wear me with your plume !" 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 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. 
 
 Zakca. 
 
 I tell you, were you King of Aragon, 
 
 And won my daughter's hand, your liigher rank 
 
 Would blacken her dishonor. 'Twere excuse 
 
 If you were beggared, homeless, spit upon, 
 
 And so made even with her people's lot; 
 
 For then she would be lured by want, not wealth, 
 
 To be a wife amongst an alien race 
 
 To whom her tribe owes curses. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Such blind hate 
 Is 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 on 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. 
 
 Zaeca. 
 
 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,
 
 830 THE SPANISH C.YPSY, 
 
 Making thcni mothers of a people's virlne: 
 
 Seen them so levelled to a haiulsoinc steed 
 
 That yesterday was Moorish property, 
 
 To-day is Christian— \vears uew-fashioned pear. 
 
 Neighs to new feeders, and will prauce alilie 
 
 Under all banners, so the banner be 
 
 A master's who caresses. Snch light change 
 
 You call conversion ; but we Zincali call 
 
 Conversion infamy. Our people's faith 
 
 Is faithfulness; not the rote-learned belief 
 
 That we are heaven's highest favorites, 
 
 liut the resolve tliat being most forsaken 
 
 Among the sons of men, we will be true 
 
 Each to the other, and our common lot. 
 
 You Christians burn men for their heresy: 
 
 Our vilest heretic is that Zincala 
 
 Who, choosing ease, forsakes her people's woes 
 
 The dowry of my daughter is to be 
 
 Chief woman of her tribe, and rescue it. 
 
 A bride with snch a dowry has no match 
 
 Among the subjects of that Catholic Queen 
 
 Who would have Gypsies swept into the sea 
 
 Or else would have them gibbeted. 
 
 Don SiLVA. 
 
 And yon, 
 Fedalma's father— you who claim the dues 
 Of fatherhood— will offer u|) her youth 
 To mere grim idols of your phantasy 1 
 Worse than all Pagans, with no oracle 
 To bid you murder, no sure good to win. 
 Will sacrifice your daughter— to uo god, . 
 But to a ravenous tire within your soul, 
 Mad hopes, blind hate, that like possessing fiends 
 Shriek at a naiue ! This sweetest virgin, reared 
 As garden flowers, to give the sordid world 
 Glimpses of perfectness, you 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? Yon would be saviour of your tribe; 
 So said Fedalma's letter; rather say, 
 You have the will to save by ruling men. 
 But first to rule; ai!d with tliat flinty will 
 You cut your way, though the first cut you give 
 Gash your child's bosom. 
 {Willie Don Sii.va hati been speaking, with growing pasHion, Febai.ma Tias 
 placed herself hetimen him and her father.) 
 
 Zakoa (with calm irony). 
 
 You are loud, my lord! 
 You only are the reasonable man ; 
 You have a heart, I uone. Fedalma's good 
 Is what you see, you care for; while I seek 
 No good, not even my own, urged on by nought
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 221 
 
 But hellish hunger, which must still be fed 
 
 Though ill the feeding it I suffer throes. 
 
 Fume iit your own opinion ;is 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 Zincahi 1" 
 
 If she still calls it good to take a lot 
 
 That measures joy for her as she forgets 
 
 Her kindred and her kindred's misery, 
 
 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 iu shameful pleasures shut out day; 
 
 And death, for her, is to do rarest deeds. 
 
 Which, even failing, leave new faith to men, 
 
 The faith iu human hearts — then, let her go! 
 
 She is my only offspring; in her veins 
 
 She bears the blood her tribe has trusted in; 
 
 Her herilage 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 nation, and may rise 
 
 To grander manhood than his race can show; 
 
 1'hen 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 she can leave that lot for silken shame. 
 
 For kisses honeyed by oblivion — 
 
 Tlie 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 no creed to teach 
 
 That she — the Ziucala— who might save her race 
 
 And yet abandons it, may cleanse that blot, 
 
 And mend the curse her life has been to men, 
 
 By saving her own soul. Iler one base choice 
 
 Is wrong unchangeable, is poison shed 
 
 Where men must drink, shed l)y her poisoning will. 
 
 Now choose, Fedalma ! 
 
 [But her choice was made. 
 Slowl}', while yet her father spoke, she moved 
 From where oblique with deprecatin£» 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
 
 223 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 With fates close-et-owdcd ; firm to slay her jny 
 Tliat cut her lieart with smiles beneath tlie kiiilc, 
 Like a sweet babe foieclooiiu'd by prophecy. 
 She stood apart, yet near her father: stood 
 Hand chitching hand, lier linibH all tense with will 
 Q'hat strove 'j^ainst anf^tii.sh, eyes that seemed a soul 
 Yearning in death toward.s liim she loved and left. 
 He faced her, pale with passion and a will 
 Fierce to resist whatever miijht seem strong 
 And ask him to submit: he saw one end- 
 He must be conqueror ; monarch of his lot 
 And not its ti-ibniary. But she spoke 
 Tenderly, pleadingly.] 
 
 Fkdalma. 
 
 My lord, farewell ! 
 'Twas well wc met once more; now we must part. 
 I think we had the chief of all love's joys 
 Only in knowing that we loved each other. 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 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 dcath-wonud sooner thau divide. 
 I thought we loved so. 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Silva, it is fate. 
 Great Fate has made me 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 fiu-sakeu better. It is truth 
 My father speaks: the Spanish uolde's wife 
 Were a false Ziucala. No ! I will bear 
 The heavy trust of my inheritance. 
 See, 'twas my people's life that throbbed in me: 
 An unknown need stirred darkly iu my soul, 
 Aud made me restless even iu my bliss. 
 Oh, all ray 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 
 Seen>ed like their touch. But he stood still as death; 
 Locked rrwtionless 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 muniflceutly in his thought 
 This Gypsy fatlier. Now the father stood 
 Present and silent aud nuchaugeable
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 238 
 
 As a celestial portent. Backward lay 
 
 The traversed road, tlie town's forsaken wall, 
 
 The rifk, the daring; all around bini 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 «t last he spoke.] 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No, I can never tnke those hands in mine 
 Then let thenr go forever! 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 It must be. 
 We may not make this world a paradise 
 Ey walking it together hand in hand. 
 With eyes that meeting feed a donble strength. 
 We must be only joined by i)ains divine 
 Of spirits blent in nmlual memories. 
 Silva, our joy is dead. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 But love still live.'', 
 And has a safer guard in wretchedness. 
 Fedalma, women know no perfect love: 
 Loving the strong, they can fen-sake the strong; 
 Man clings becaivse the being whom he loves 
 Is weak and needs him. I can never Unn 
 And leave you to your difiicnlt wandoj-ing; 
 Know that you tread the desert, bear the storm, 
 Shed tears, see terrors, faint with weariness. 
 Yet live away from you. 1 shgnld 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 yon ! 
 
 Zat.oa. 
 
 ]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-couduct of that trust yon 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 ihe northward lines. 
 And for the morrow, escort on your way 
 Back to the Moorish bounds. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 What if my words 
 Were meant fbr deeds, decisive as a leap
 
 234 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Into the cun-ciit? It is iii)t my wont 
 To utter hollow words, :uul speak resolves 
 Like verses bandiod in a inadri;:al. 
 1 spoke in action first: I faced all risks 
 To find Fedalnin. Action speaks again 
 When I, a Spanish noble, here declare 
 That I abide with her, adopt her lot, 
 Claiminj^ alone I'ullilnient of her vows 
 As my betrothed wife. 
 
 Vi;i)Ai.MA (ivrcsiing herself fro7H him, and standing ojipositeioith a look of terror). 
 
 Nay, Silva, nay ! 
 You could not live so— spring from your high phice . . . 
 
 Don Sii.VA. 
 
 Yes, I have said it. And you, cliief, are bound 
 By her strict vows, no stronger fealty 
 Being left to cancel them. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 
 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. 
 Your home, your wealth, your people, to become 
 Wholly a Zincalo: share our wanderings, 
 And l)e a match meet for my daughter's dower 
 By living for her tribe; take the deep oath 
 That binds you to us ; rest within our camp. 
 Never more hold command of Spanish men, 
 And keep my orders. Sec, my lord, you lock 
 A many-vviudiug chain— a heavy chain. 
 
 Don StLVA. 
 
 I have but one resolve: let the rest follow. 
 
 What is my rank? To-morrow it will be tilled 
 
 By one who eyes it like a carriou bird. 
 
 Waiting for death. I shall be no more missed 
 
 Thau 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 changing. 
 
 And I have said it: she shall be my people, 
 
 And where she gives her life I will give mine. 
 
 She shall not live alone, nor die a.l.one. 
 
 I will elect my deeds, and be the liege 
 
 Not of my birth, but of tliat good alone 
 
 I have discerned and chosen. 
 
 Zarca. 
 
 Our poor faith 
 Allows not rightful choice, save of the right 
 Our birth lias made for us. And you, my lord, 
 Can still defer your choice, for some days' space. 
 I march perforce to-night; you, if you will. 
 Under a Gypsy guard, cau keep the heights
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 225 
 
 With silent Time tliat slowly opes the scroll 
 Of change inevitahle— take no oath 
 Till my accomplished task leave me at large 
 To see you keep your purpose or renounce it. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Chief, do I hear amiss, or does your speech 
 Ring with a doubleness which I had held 
 Most alien to you ? You would put me olT, 
 And cloak evasion with allowance ? No I 
 We will complete our pledges. I will take 
 That oath which binds not me alone, but ypu. 
 To join my life forever with Fedalma's. 
 
 Zaroa. 
 
 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 Sii.va. 
 
 Agreed" to all. 
 Zakoa. 
 
 Then I will give the summons to our camp. 
 We will adopt you as a brother now, 
 After our wouted fashion. 
 
 [Exit Zaroa. 
 (Sii.va takes Fedat.ma's hands.) 
 
 Fedat.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 foul? You— join — our tribe? 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Is then your love too faint to raise belief 
 Up to that height? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 Silva, had you 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 sul)jection. Go, iny lord ! 
 Fly, while there yet is time. Wait not to speak. 
 I will declare that I refused your love — 
 Would keep uo vows to you. . . . 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 It is too late. 
 You shall not thrust mo back to seek a good 
 Apart from you. And what good ? Why, to face
 
 226 THE SPANISH GYTSY. 
 
 Your absoncc— ;ill the want that drove mc forth— 
 
 To work the will of a more tyi-aniions IVieiid 
 
 Than any nncowled father. Life at least 
 
 (Jives choice of ills; forces me to defy, 
 
 Iiiit shall not force mc to a weak deiiancc. 
 
 The power that threatened yoti, to master me, 
 
 That scorches like a cave-hid dragon's brcalh. 
 
 Sure of its victory in spite of hate, 
 
 Is what I last will bend to — most defy. 
 
 Your father has a chieftain's ends, befitting 
 
 A soldier's eye and arm: were be as strong 
 
 As the Moors' prophet, yet the prophet too 
 
 Had younger captains of illustrious fame 
 
 Among the infidels. Let him coniuiand, 
 
 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 nud have sent me to defend you. 
 
 Fedai.ma. 
 
 I made my creed so, just to suit my mood 
 And smooth all hardship, till my father came 
 Aud taught my soul by ruling it. Since tlien 
 I cannot weave a dreaming happy creed 
 Where our love's happiness is uot accursed. 
 My father shook ray soul awake. And you — 
 The bonds Fedalma may not break for you, 
 I caunot joy that you should break for lier. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 Oh, Spanish men are not a petty band 
 Where one deserter makes a fatal breach. 
 Men, even nobles, are more plenteous 
 Thau steeds aud 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 one hidalgo lost. 
 
 See where your father comes aud brings a crowd 
 Of witnesses to hear my oath of love ; 
 The low red sun glows on them like a fire. 
 This seems a valley in some strange new world, 
 Where we have found each other, my Fedalma. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 Now twice the day had sunlc from off the hills 
 Wliile Silva kept his watch there, with the band 
 Of stalwart Gypsies. Wlieu the sun was higb
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY, 227 
 
 He slept; then, waking, strained impatient eyes 
 
 To catcli tlie promise of some moving form 
 
 That miglit be Juan — Juan wlio went and came 
 
 To pootlie two hearts, and claimed nought for his ov.'n : 
 
 Friend more divine than all divinities, 
 
 Quenching his human thirst in others' joy. 
 
 All through the lingering nights and pale chill dawns 
 
 Juan had hoverejl near; with delicate sense, 
 
 As of some breath from every changing mood, 
 
 Had spoken or kept silence : touched his lute 
 
 To liint 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 tlie minstrel's heart of light-tongued Jnan 
 
 For this doomed man, who with dream-shrouded eyes 
 
 Had stepped into a torrent as a brook, 
 
 Thinking 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 Sktrict 
 
 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 idUI guide vs back : — 
 gathei'ing cloud, 
 O wide, wide sea, 
 
 loaves thai keep no track ! 
 
 On througli the pines ! 
 The pillared woods, 
 
 Where silence breathes siccet breath: — 
 O labyrinth, 
 
 O sunless 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 moje 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 than we have said to her. 
 
 He spoke, impatient : "Juan, cease thy song. 
 
 Our whimpering poesy and small-paced tunes 
 
 Have no more utterance than the cricket's chirp 
 
 For souls that carry heaven and hell within." 
 
 Then Juan, lightly: "True, my lord, I 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 asleej) 
 
 With the cheap wine of pure stupidity." 
 
 And Silva, checked by courtesy ; " Nay, Juan. 
 
 Were sireech once good, thy song were best of speech. 
 
 I meant, all life is but poor mockery:
 
 228 THE SPAKISn GYPSY. 
 
 Action, place, power, the visil)le wide world 
 
 Arc tattered inasqucindin;,' of this self, 
 
 This pulse of cons^cioiis mystery : all change, 
 
 Whether to high or low, is change of rags. 
 
 But for her love, I would noi take ii good . 
 
 Save to burn out in hat lie, in a (lame 
 
 Of madness that would feci no mangled limhp. 
 
 And die not knowing death, but passing straight 
 
 —Well, well, to other llamcs— in purgatory." 
 
 Keen Juan's car cauglit the self-discontent 
 
 That vibrated beneath tlic changing tones 
 
 Of life-contcmniug scorn. Gently he said: 
 
 " But ivith her love, my lortl, the world descives 
 
 A higher rate ; were it but masquerade. 
 
 The rags were surely worih the wearing?" "Yes. 
 
 No misery shall force me to repent 
 
 That I have loved her." 
 
 So with wilful talk, 
 Fencing the wounded soul from beating winds 
 Of truth that came unasked, companionshi') 
 Made the hours lighter. And the Gypsy guard, 
 Trusting familiar Juan, were content, 
 At friendly hint from him, to still their songs 
 And busy jargon round the nightly fires. 
 Such sounds, the quiclv-conceiving poet knew 
 Would strike on Silva's agitated soul 
 Like mocking repetition of the oath 
 Ttiat bouud him in strange clanship with the tribe 
 Of human panthers, ttame-eyed, lithe-limbed, tierce, 
 Unrccking of time-woven subtleties 
 And liigh tribunals of a phantom-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, 
 
 Aud wou his knighthood. 
 
 Well, this solitude. 
 This company with tlie 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 muliitudes, 
 Lured from the home that nurtured them to strength,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 229 
 
 Made loud insnrgence. Thus lie called on Thon,L;ht, 
 
 On (Icxtei-oiis Thought, with its swift nlcheray 
 
 To change all forms, dissolve all prejudice 
 
 Of man's long heritage, and yield him up 
 
 A crude fused world to fashion as he would. 
 
 Thought played him double; seemed to wear the yoke 
 
 Of sovereign passion iu 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. 
 
 lie 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 hnman heart 
 
 Finds nowhere shelter but in human kind. 
 
 He yearned towards images that had breath iu them, 
 
 That sprang warm palpitant with memories 
 
 From streets and altars, from ancestral homes 
 
 Bannci-s and trophies and the cherishing rays 
 
 Of shame and honor in the eyes of man. 
 
 These made the speech articulate of his soul, 
 
 That could not move to utterance of scoru 
 
 Save in words bred by fellowship ; could not feel 
 
 Kesolve of hardest constancy to love 
 
 The firmer 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 iu vain 
 
 He sought the outlaw's strength, and made a right 
 
 Contemning that hereditary right 
 
 "Which held dim habitations in his frame, 
 
 Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far, 
 
 The voice divine of human loyalty. 
 
 At home, among his people, he had played 
 
 In sceptic ease with saints and litanies, 
 
 And thunders of the Church that deadened fell 
 
 Through screens of priests plethoric. Awe, unscathed 
 
 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 fellowship, the life that made 
 His full-formed self, as the impregnate sap 
 Of years successive frames the full-branched tree- 
 Was present iu 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 shield and ble.'s ;
 
 280 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Assume the Cross and take his kiiij^htly oath 
 Mature, deliberate: faces human all, 
 And some divine as well as human: His 
 Wlio hung supreme, the sulTerlnj,' Man divine 
 Above the jillar; Hers, the IMother pure 
 Whose gl'i'ice informed liis masculine tenderness 
 With deepest reveience ; the ArchanKe! armed, 
 Trampling man's enemy: all heroic forms 
 That till the world of faith with voices, heails, 
 And high companionship, to Silva now 
 Wade but one inward and insistent world 
 Willi faces of his peers, with court and hall 
 And deference, and reverent vassalage, 
 And lilial pieties— one current strong. 
 The warmly mingled life-blood of his mind, 
 Sustaining him even when he idly played 
 With rules, beliefs, charges, and ceremouies 
 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. lie faced 
 The fatal crowd: "I never shall repent! 
 If I have sinned, my sin was made for me 
 By men's perverseness. 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; 
 Nm)', some of old were bailed, tortured, flayed 
 To win their heaven. Heaven was their good, 
 She, mine. And I have braved for her all tires 
 Certain or threatened ; for I go away 
 Beyond the reach of expiation — far away 
 From sacramental blessing. Docs God bless 
 No outlaw? Shut his absolution fast 
 In human breath? Is there no God for me 
 Save him whose cross I 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 1 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 aud listened, like a soul in dreams
 
 THE SPAKISH GYPSY. 231 
 
 Weaving the woiidrons tale it marvels at. 
 
 But lift the conflict slackened, oft strong Love 
 
 With tidal energy returning l;iid 
 
 All other restlessness: Fedahua came, 
 
 And with her visionary presence brought 
 
 What seemed a waking in the warm spring morn. 
 
 He still was pacing on the stony earth 
 
 Under the deepening night; the fresh-lit lircs 
 
 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 keejjs 
 
 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 tires 
 The Gypsy band felt freer ; Juan's song 
 W'as no more there, nor Juan's friendly ways 
 For links of amity 'twixt their wild mood 
 And this strange brother, this pale Spanish dnke, 
 Who with their Gypsy badge upon his breast 
 Took readier place within their alien hearts 
 As a marked captive, v/ho would faiu escape. 
 And Nadar, who commanded them, had known 
 The prison in Bedmar. So now, in talk 
 Foreign to Spanish ears, they said their mind.^ 
 Discussed their chief's intent, the lot marked out 
 Fog this new brother. Would he wed their qneen ? 
 And some denied, saying their queen w<)uld wed 
 Only a Gypsy duke — one who would join 
 Their bands in Telemsdn. But others thought 
 Young Ilassau was to wed her; said their chief 
 Would never trust this nol)le of Caslile, 
 Who in his very swearing was forsworn. 
 And then one fell to chanting, in wild notes 
 Recurrent like the moan of ontshut winds, 
 The adjuration they were wont to use 
 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 stream of sound, made unison 
 Higher and lower, till the tidal sweep 
 Seemed to assail the Duke and close him round 
 With fiM'ce diemonic. All debate till now 
 Had wrestled with the nrgence 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 ZtNCALi sing. 
 Brother, hear and taka the, curse. 
 Curse of soul's and body's tliroes.
 
 232 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Jf you hate not all our foes, 
 Cling not fast to all our woes, 
 Turn /(line Z'lncalo ! 
 
 May you he accurvt 
 By hunger and liy thirst 
 Bij npiked pangs, 
 Starvation's fangs 
 Clutching you alone 
 When none hvt j^eering vultures hear your moan. 
 Curst by hurning hands. 
 Curst by aching brow, 
 Whe7i on sea-tviile sands 
 
 Fever lays you low; 
 By the maddened brain 
 When the running neater glistens, 
 Arid the deaf ear listens, listens. 
 Prisoned fire within the vein. 
 On the tongue and on the lip, 
 
 Kot a sip 
 From the earth or skies; 
 Hot the desert lies 
 Pressed into your anguish, 
 Narrowing earth and narroioing sky 
 Into lonely tnisery. 
 Lonely viay you languish 
 Through the day and through the night. 
 Hate the darkness, hate the light, 
 Pray and find no ear. 
 Feel no brother near. 
 Till on death you cry, 
 
 Death wlio 2^ asses by, » 
 
 And anew you groan. 
 Soaring the vultures all to leave you living lone: 
 Curst by soul's and body's throes 
 Jf you love the darh men's foes, 
 Cling not fast to all the dark men's ivoes. 
 Turn false Z'mcalo ! 
 Swear to hate the cruel cross, 
 
 The silver cross ! 
 Glittering, laughing at the blood- 
 Shed- beloio it in a flood 
 When it glitters over Aloorish porches ; 
 
 Laughing at the scent of flesh 
 When it glitters cohere the fagot scorches. 
 Burning life's mysterious mesh; 
 Blood of loandering Israel, 
 Blood of wandering Ismail, 
 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' troes — 
 
 Else its curse light on- you ! 
 Else the curse upon you light 
 Of its sharp, red-sicorded miglU.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 233 
 
 May it lie a blood-reel hlight 
 
 On (ill things mitkiii your sight: 
 
 On the tvhite haze of the morn, 
 
 On the ineadoivs and the corn. 
 
 On the sun and on the moon. 
 
 On the clearness of the 7ioon, 
 
 On the darkness of the night. 
 
 May it fill your aching sight — 
 
 Bed-cross sword and sword blood-red — 
 
 Till it jiress upon your head. 
 
 Till it lie within your brain, 
 
 Pierci7ig sharp, a cross of x)ain. 
 
 Till it lie upon your heart, 
 Burning hot, a c7'oss of fire. 
 
 Till from sense in every jjart 
 Pains have clustered like a stinging swarm 
 
 In the cross's form. 
 And you 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 our zcoes. 
 Turn false Zincalo ! 
 
 A fierce delight was in the Gypsies' chant ; 
 
 They thought no more of Silvn, ouly felt 
 
 Lilie those broad-chested rovers of the night 
 
 Who pour exuberant strength upon the air. 
 
 To him it seemed as if the hellish rhythm, 
 
 Revolving in long curves that slackened uov.'. 
 
 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 wi^^hcs feared 
 
 And guessed at as a hidden law for men. 
 
 Even the passive silence of the night 
 
 That left these howlers mast^ery, even the mooc, 
 
 Rising and staring with a helpless face 
 
 Angered him. lie was ready now to fly 
 
 At some loud throat, and give the signal so 
 
 For butchery 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 meu — 
 Were moving slowly southward on the way 
 To Almeria. Silva learned no more. 
 lie marched jjerforce ; what other goal was his 
 Thau where Fedalnui was? And so he marched 
 
 25 ^
 
 234 TUE SPANISH OYPSY. 
 
 Through the dim passes and o'er rising hills, 
 Not knowing whither, till the morning came. 
 
 The Moorish Jiall in the castle at Bedviar, The morning twilight divihj shmjis 
 staiiut of bland on the xchite nnarhle floor ; yet there has been a careful restora- 
 tion of order among the spare objects of furniture. Stretched on mats lie three 
 cor2ises, the faces bare, the bodies covered loiih mantles. A little way off, with 
 rolled matting for ajnllow, lies Zauoa, slee])ing. His chest and arms are bare ; 
 his loeapons, turban, mail-shirt, and other upper garments lie on the floor beside 
 him. In Uie outer gallery Zincali are pacing, at intervals, past tlie arched open- 
 ings. 
 
 Zaboa (half rising and resting his elbow on the pillow lohile he looks round). 
 
 The morning ! I have slept for full three hours ; 
 
 Slept without dreams, save of my daughter's face. 
 
 Its sadness waked me. Soon she will be here, 
 
 Soon must outlive the worst of all the pains 
 
 Bred by false nurture in an alien home — 
 
 As if a liou in fangless infancy 
 
 Learned love of creatures that with fatal growth 
 
 It scents as natural prey, and grasps and tears, 
 
 Yet with heart-hunger yearns for, missing them. 
 
 She is a lioness. And they — the race 
 
 That robbed me of her — reared her to this pain. 
 
 lie will be crushed and torn. There was no bel|). 
 
 But she, my child, will bear it. For strong souls 
 
 Live like fire-hearted suns to spend their strengtl; 
 
 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-seen 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 avengiiig stores 
 Of patient wrath. The Zincali have no god 
 Who speaks to them and calls them his, unless 
 I, Zarca, carry living in my frame 
 The power divine that chooses them and s.aves. 
 "Life and more life unto the chosen, death 
 To all things living that would stifle tliem !"
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 235 
 
 So e^pcaks each god that makes a nation sti-oiig; 
 Bunia trees iukI brutes and slays all hindering men. 
 The Spaniards boast tlicir god the strongest now: 
 They win most towns by trcacliery, make most slaves, 
 Burn the most vines and men, and rob the most. 
 I flght against that strength, and in my turn 
 Slay these brave young who dnteously strove. 
 Cruel? ay, it is cruel. But, how else? 
 To save, we Icill ; each blow we strike at guilt 
 Hurts innocence with its shock. Men might well seek 
 For purifying rites; even i)ious deeds 
 Need washing. But my cleansing waters flow 
 Solely from my intent. 
 {lie turns away from the bodies to where his garments lie, but does not lift them.) 
 
 And she must sufler 1 
 But she has seen the unchangeable and bowed 
 Her head beneath the yoke. And she will walk 
 No more in chilling twilight, for to-day 
 Rises our sun. The diflicult night is past; 
 We keep the bridge uo 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 nuiture. All our race shall come 
 From north, west, east, a kindred multitude, 
 And make large fellowship, and raised inspired 
 The shout divine, the unison of resolve. 
 So I, so she, will see our race redeemed. 
 And Ihcir Icecn 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 vp the mail-shirt, and looks at it, then throws it down again.) 
 
 No, I'll none of you ! 
 To-day there'll be uo fighting. A few hours, 
 And I shall doff these garments of the Moor; 
 Till then I will walk lightly and breaihc high. 
 Sepuaei.o (appearing at the archway leading into the outer gailctij). 
 You bade me waive you. . . . 
 
 Zakoa. 
 
 Welcome, Doctor ; see, 
 With that small task I did but beclvon you 
 To graver work. You know these corpses? 
 
 SnruARDO. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 I would they were not corpses. Storms will lay 
 
 The fairest trees and leave the withered stumps. 
 
 This Alvar and the Duke were of one age. 
 
 And very loving friends. I minded not 
 
 The sight of Don Diego's corpse, for death 
 
 Gave him some genlleucss, and had he lived 
 
 I Lad still hated him. But this young Alvar
 
 236 THE sp^VNisn gypsy. 
 
 Was dottbly noble, as a gem that holds 
 Rare virtues in its lustre ; and his death 
 Will pieicc Don Silva with a poisoned dart. 
 This fair and curly youth was Arias, 
 A sou of the I'achecos ; this dark face. . . . 
 
 Zauoa. 
 Eiionjjh ! you know their names. I had divined 
 Tliiit tliey were near the DuIjc, most like had served 
 My daughter, were her friends ; so rescued tliein 
 From being flung upon tlie lieap of slain. 
 Beseecli 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 there. For once she prayed— 
 'Twas at our parting— " When you see fair hair 
 Be pitiful." And I am forced to look 
 On fair heads liviug and be pitiless. 
 Your service. Doctor, will be done to her. 
 
 Sei'uakdo. 
 A service doubly dear. For these young dead, 
 And one less happy Spaniard who still livct^. 
 Are offerings which I wienched from out my heart, 
 Constrained by cries of Israel : while my 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. 
 
 Zaboa. 
 
 Meanwhile the bodies shall rest here. Farewell. 
 
 {Exit Skpiiakuo.) 
 Nay, 'tis no mockery. She keeps me so 
 From hardening witli tlie hardness of my acts. 
 This Spaniard shrouded in her love— I would 
 lie lay here too that I might pity him. 
 
 Morning The Placa Santiago in Dedmdr. A crowd of toumsmen forming an 
 
 outer circle ; toithin, Ztncali and Moorish soldiers drawn %ip round the central 
 space. On the higher groxmd in front of the church a stake with fagots heaped, 
 and at a little distance a gibbet. Moorish music. Zakoa enters, ivearing his gnld 
 necklace toith the Oypsy badge of the flaming torch over the dress of a Moorish 
 Captain, accompanied by a small band of armed Z'mcali, who fall aside and 
 range themselves ivith the other soldiers lohilc he takes his stand in front of the 
 stake and gibbet. The music ceases, and there is expectant silence. 
 
 Zaeoa. 
 
 Men of Bedmdr, 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 GYPSY. 237 
 
 Supreme command within this town aiul fort. 
 
 Ndi- will I, witli false show of modesty, 
 
 Pi'ot'efs myself unworthy of this post, 
 
 For so I should but lax the giver's clioice. 
 
 And, as ye know, while I was prisoner liere. 
 
 Forging the bullets meant for Moorish hearts, 
 
 J'lUt likely now to reach another mark, 
 
 1 learned the secrets of the town's defence, 
 
 Caught the loud whispers of your disc(jnteut, 
 
 And so could 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 and 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 land 
 
 The Spaniard grudges us: we seek a home 
 
 Where we may spread and ripen like the corn 
 
 By blessing of the sun aud spacious earth. 
 
 Ye wish us well, I think, aud are our friends ? 
 
 Crowd. 
 
 Long life to Zarca and his Zincali ! 
 
 Zakoa. 
 
 Now, for the cause of our assembling here. 
 
 'Twas my command that- rescued from your hands 
 
 That Spanish Prior and Inquisitor 
 
 Whom in fierce retribution you had bound 
 
 Aud meant to burn, lied 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 Bedmftr, 
 
 Our kindred by the warmth 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 cari'y hell for pattern in their souls. 
 
 But in high vengeance there is noble scorn: 
 
 It tortures not the torturer, nor gives 
 
 luiquitous payment for iniquity. 
 
 Tlie 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. Aud 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
 
 288 TiiE spANisn c.ypsT. 
 
 This Christian worshipper that wc obey 
 A better law thnii his, lie shall ho led 
 Straijcht to the {libbet and to swiftest death. 
 For 1, the chieftain of the Oyjjsies, will 
 My people shed no blood hut what is shed 
 In heat of battle or in judgment strict 
 With calm deliberation on the right. 
 Such is my will, and if it please yon — well. 
 
 Ciiovvi). 
 It pleases ns. Long life to Zarca ! 
 
 Zaboa. 
 
 Harli ! 
 The bell is etrilcing, and they bring even now 
 The prisoner from the fort. What, Nadar ? 
 Nada^ (has appeared, cutting the crowd, and advancing towarde Zaboa till he 
 is rmar enough to speak in an uiulertonc). 
 
 I have obeyed your word, have followed it 
 As water does the furrow in the rock. 
 
 Chief, 
 
 Your band is here? 
 
 'Twas so I ordered. 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 Napau. 
 Yes, and the Spaniard too 
 
 Zaboa. 
 
 Nadar. 
 Ay, but this sleek hound, 
 Who slipped his collar off to join the wolves. 
 Has still a heart for none but kennelled brutes, 
 lie rages at the taking of the town, 
 Says all his friends are butchered ; and one corpse 
 He stumbled on— well, I would sooner be 
 A murdered Gypsy's dog, and howl for him, 
 Than be this Spaniard. Rage has made him whiter. 
 One townsman taunted him with his escape, 
 And thanked him for so favoring us. . . . 
 
 Zabca. 
 
 Euongh. 
 You gave him my command that ho should wait 
 Within the castle, till I saw him? 
 
 Nadab. 
 
 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 us harm. 
 
 Zaboa. 
 Fear not, I know the road I travel by: 
 Its turns are no surprises. He who rules 
 Must humor full as much ns lie commands; 
 Must let men vow impossibilities; 
 Grant folly's prayers that hinder folly's wish 
 And serve the ends of wisdom. Ah, he comes ! 
 
 [Sweeping like some pale herald from the dead,
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 239 
 
 Whose shadow-imrtured eyes, dazed by full light, 
 See nought without, but give reverted sense 
 To the soul's imagery, Silva canie. 
 The wondering people parting wide to get 
 Continuous sight of liiiu as he passed on — 
 'lais high hidalgo, who through 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 ou his breast, where late he bore the cross, 
 Wearing the Gypsy badge; his form aslant. 
 Driven, it seemed, by some invisible chase, 
 liight to the front of Zarca. There he paused.] 
 
 Don oilva. 
 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 man in nets of guilt 
 AVhich could not weave themselves in open day 
 Before his eyes. Oh, it was bitter wrong 
 To hold this knowledge locked within your mind, 
 To stand with waking eyes in broadest light. 
 And see me, dreaming, shed my kindred's blood. 
 'Tis horrible that men with hearts and hands 
 Should smile in silence like the lirmament 
 And see a fellow-mortal draw a lot 
 On which themselves have written agony 1 
 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. 
 
 Zauoa. 
 Fh-st 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 ^vith my tribe. 
 Over whose deeds my will is absolute. 
 You cliose 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 me 
 That you had linked yourself with Moorish men 
 To take this town and fortress of Bedmar — 
 Slay my near kinsman, him who held ray place, 
 Our house's heir and guardian — slaj' ray friend, 
 My chosen brother — desecrate the church 
 Where once ray mother held rae in her arms, 
 Making the holy chrism holier 
 With tears of joy that fell upon my brow ! 
 You never warned . . . 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 I warned you of your oath. 
 Ton shrank not, were resolved, were sure your place
 
 240 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Would never miss yon, and you li;id your will. 
 I am no priest, and keep no consciences: 
 I keep my own place mid my own command. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I said my place would nevei" 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 thousaud, had you knowu the die 
 That fate was throwing then. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 You knew it — you ! 
 With fiendish knowledge, smiling at the end. 
 Y^ou 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 ihi.s as a liend would know it, 
 And let me damn myself. 
 
 Zakca. 
 The deed was done 
 Before you took your oath, or reached our camp, — 
 Done when you slijiped in secret from the post 
 'Twas yours to keep, and not to meditate 
 If others might not till it. For your oath. 
 What man is he who brandishes a sword 
 In darkness, kills his friends, and rages then 
 Against the night that kept him ignorant? 
 Sliould I, for one unstable Si)aniard, quit 
 My steadfast ends as father and as chief; 
 Eenonnce my daughter and my people's hope, 
 Lest a deserter should be made ashamed? 
 
 Don Sii.va. 
 
 Your daughter— O great 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 bound 
 Y^ourself 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 . . , 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 Peace I 
 They bring the prisoner. 
 
 [Zarca waved his arm 
 With head averse, in ])eremptory sign 
 That 'twixt them now there should be space and eilencie. 
 Most ej'es had turned to where the prisoner 
 Advanced among his guards; and Silva too 
 Turned eagerly, all other striving quelled 
 By striving with the dread lest he should see 
 nis thought outside him.. And he s.aw it there.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 241 
 
 The prisoner was Father Isidor : 
 
 The man wliom once he flercely had accused 
 
 As author of his misdeeds— wliose desij;ns 
 
 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. 
 
 Kemorse was bora within him, that dire birth 
 
 Which robs all else of nurture— cancerous, 
 
 Forcing each pulse to feed its anguish, turning 
 
 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 bound his soul 
 
 Were tightened by the strain of one rash leap 
 
 Made in defiance. He accused no more, 
 
 But dumbly shrank 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 Christ's kingdom, he had wrought 
 
 Kighteously. But his glance met Silva's eyes 
 
 And drew him. Even images of stone 
 
 Look living with reproach on him who maims, 
 
 Profanes, defiles them. Silva penitent 
 
 Moved forward, would have knelt before the man 
 
 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.] 
 
 Fatuer Isii>on. 
 
 Back from me, traitorous and accursed man I 
 
 Defile not me, who grasp the holiest. 
 
 With touch or breath! Thou foulest murdererl 
 
 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 Tllli SPANISH GYl'SY. 
 
 Uucouuted brethren, weak aud strong alike, 
 The helpless priest, the warrior all uiiarnied 
 Afj;ainst a faithless leader: on thy liciul 
 Will rest the sacrilege, ou thy soul the blood. 
 These bliiul barbarians, misbelievers, Moors, 
 Arc bnt as I'ilate and his soldiery; 
 Thon, Jiubis, weighted with tliat heaviest crime 
 Wliicli deepens hell ! I warned you of this end. 
 A traitorous leader, false to God and man, 
 A kuight apostate, you shall soon behold 
 Above your people's blood the light of flames 
 Kindled by you to Ixirn me — bnru the flesh 
 Twin with your father's. O most wretched man I 
 Whose memory shall be of broken oaths— 
 liroken for lust — I turn away mine eyes 
 Forever from you. Sec, the stake is ready 
 And I am ready too. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 It shall not be ! 
 {Etusing his sword, he rushes in front of the cpiards who are advancing^ 
 
 and impedes thcvi.) 
 If you are human, Chief, hear my demand I 
 Stretch not my soul upon the endless rack 
 Of this man's torture I 
 
 Zauca. 
 Stand aside, my lord 1 
 Put up your sword. You vowed obedience 
 To me, your cliief. It was your latest vow. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 No ! hew me from the spot, or festen me 
 Amid the fagots too, if he must burn. 
 
 Zaeoa. 
 
 What should befall that persecuting monk 
 
 Was fixed before you came : no cruelty. 
 
 No nicely measured torture, weight for weight 
 
 Of injury, no luscious-toothed revenge 
 
 That justifies the injurer by its joy: 
 
 I seek bnt rescue aud 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 not 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 1 
 
 [As well-trained hounds that hold their fleetness 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 tlie Fatlier, and iu wheeling course 
 Passed beyond Silva to the gibljet's foot, 
 I'ehiud their chieftain. Sudden left alone 
 With weapon bai-e, the multitude aloof, 
 Silva was mazed in doubtful consciousness, 
 As cue who slumbering in the day awakes 
 From striving into freedom, and yet feels 
 His sense half captive to intangible things; 
 Then with a Hush 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 Sii.va. 
 
 You, Zincalo. devil, blackest infidel ! 
 
 You cannot hate that man as you 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 mo with a thieving hound — 
 
 Slake your hate so, and I will thank it : spare me 
 
 Ouly this man I 
 
 Zakoa. 
 Madman, I hate you not. 
 But if I did, my hate were poorly served 
 By my device, if I should strive to mis 
 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 madness. Ilere I tear 
 This badge away. I am a Catholic kuight, 
 A Spaniard who will die a Spaniard's death ! 
 
 [Hark! while he casts the badge upon the ground 
 
 And tramples on it, Silva hears a shout: 
 
 Was it a shout that threatened him ? lie 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 knew the shout 
 
 For wonted exultation of the crowd 
 
 When malefactors die— or saints, or heroes. 
 
 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 iu his breast, he strode 
 
 Eight upon Zarca: at the instant, down
 
 244 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Fell the great Chief, and Silvn, staggering back, 
 Heard not the Gyps-ies' shriek, fcU not the fangs 
 Of their fierce grasp— heard, felt but Zarca's words 
 Which seemed his soul oiitlcnpiiig in a cry 
 And urging men to run like rival waves 
 Whose chivalry is but obedience.] 
 
 Zako\ (as he falls). 
 My daughter! call her! Call my daughter! 
 
 Nadab {stipportinrj Zauoa atul crijing to the Gypsies luho have chttcJuai Silva). 
 
 Stay ! 
 Tear not the Siianiard, tic him to the stake : 
 Hear what the Chief shall bid us— there is time ! 
 
 [Swiftly they tied him, pleasing vengeance so 
 
 With promise that would leave them free to watch 
 
 Their stricken good, their Chief stretched lielplessiy 
 
 Pillowed upon the strength of loving limbs. 
 
 lie 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) 
 
 Ills people all, holding their wails suppressed 
 
 Lest Death believed in should be over-bold : 
 
 All life hung on 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 outer crowd 
 
 Spoke only in low murmurs, and some climbed 
 
 And clung with legs and arms on perilous coignes, 
 
 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 wliiie walls 
 
 Iler shadows bine, and with their clear-cut line, 
 
 Mildly relentless as the dial-hand's. 
 
 Measured the shrinking future of an hotir 
 
 Which held a shrinking hope. And 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 witli 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 boru: a second time 
 Her father called her to the task of life. 
 
 She knelt beside him. Then he raised himself,
 
 THE SPANISH GTPSY. 245 
 
 Aud oil hci- face there flashed from his the light 
 
 As of ii star tliat waned, but flames anew 
 
 In mighty dissolution : 'twas the flame 
 
 Of a sui'viving trust, in agony. 
 
 He spoke the parting prayer that was command, 
 
 Must sway her will, and reign invisibly.] 
 
 Zauoa. 
 
 My daughter, you have promised — yon 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 I deliver it to you. 
 
 See, it still breathes unstraugled— if it dies, 
 
 Let not your failing will be murderer. . . . 
 
 Rise, tell our people now I wait in pain . . . 
 
 I cannot die until I hear them say 
 
 They will obey yon. 
 
 [Meek, she pressed her Ifps 
 With slow solemnity upon his brow, 
 Sealing her pledges. Firmly then she rose, 
 Aud met her people's eyes with kindred gaze, 
 Darlc-flashing, flred by efi'ort strenuous 
 Trampling on pain.] 
 
 Fedai-ma. 
 
 Ye Ziucali all, who hear I 
 Your Chief is dying: I his daugliter live 
 To do his dying will. He asks you now 
 To promise me obedience as your Queen, 
 That we may seek the land he won for us. 
 And live the better life for which he toiled. 
 Speak now, and till my father's dying ear 
 With promise that you wU 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 the scattered brethren of the tribe 
 
 Had caught afar and joined the ready vow. 
 
 Then some could hold no longer, but must rush 
 
 To kiss his dying feet, aud some to kiss 
 
 The hem of their Queen's garment. 15ut she raised 
 
 Her liand to hush them. " Hark ! your Chief may speak 
 
 Another wish." Quickly she kueeled again,
 
 246 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 VVhUo Uicy upon the gronju! kept motionless, 
 
 With head oiitntretchcd. Tlicy heard his words; for now, 
 
 Griisping at Nadar's arm, he spolvc more loud. 
 
 As one who, having fought and conquered, hurls 
 
 His strength away with hurling off his shield.] 
 
 Zaroa. 
 Let loose the Spaniard 1 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 uuharnied and free 
 Kow 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 l)ccn, 
 
 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, 
 
 Compauion of her future, who would wear 
 
 Forever in her eyes her father's form. 
 
 And yet she knew that hurrying feet had gone 
 
 To do the Chief's behest, and in her soul 
 
 He who was once its lord was bciut; jarred 
 
 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 
 
 Refused the ease of lies. In moments high 
 
 Space widens in the soul. 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 aloof 
 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; 
 Walked hesitatingly, all his frame instinct 
 With high-born spirit, never used to dread 
 'Or crouch for smiles, yet etnug, yet quivering
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 247 
 
 With helpless strength, and in his sonl convulsed 
 
 By visions where pale honor held a lump 
 
 Over wide-reaching crime. Silence hung round : 
 
 It seemed the Pkifa hushed itself to hear 
 
 His footsteps and the Chiefs deep dying breath. 
 
 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 paiu he turned away and went, 
 
 Carrying forever with him what he fled — 
 
 Iler murdered love— her love, a dear wronged ghost, 
 
 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 waned. 
 As wanes the parting glory from the heights, 
 And leaves them in their pallid majesty. 
 Fedalma kissed the marble lips, and said, 
 "He breathes no more." And then a long loud wail, 
 Poured out upou the morning, made her light 
 Ghastly as smiles on some fair maniac's face 
 Smiling unconscious o'er her bridegroom's corse. 
 The wailing men in eager press closed round. 
 And made a shadowing pall beneath the sun. 
 They 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 pangs. 
 Yet shrinks not, groans not, bearing in her heart 
 Their ignorant misery and their trust in her. 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 TuE eastward rocks of Almeria's bay 
 
 Answer long farewells of the travelling sun 
 
 With softest glow as from an inward pnlse 
 
 Changing and flashing: 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 pufhed ofT, anon with flashing oar 
 
 Make transit to the quay's smooth-quarried edge.
 
 248 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Where throii<?ing Gypsies are in haste to lade 
 
 Each as it comes with i;iaiidaincs, babes, and wives, 
 
 Or witli (lust-tinted goods, the conijjany 
 
 Of wandeiing years. Nought seems to lie unmoved, 
 
 For 'mid tlie throng the lights and shadows play. 
 
 And make all snrl'ace eager, while the boats 
 
 Sway restless as a horse that hoard the shouts 
 
 And surging hum incessant. Naked limbs 
 
 With beauteous ease bend, lift, and throw, or raise 
 
 High signalliug 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, aud dirk-like cries 
 
 Rise 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, aud some bring welcome gifts, 
 
 Bright stuffs aud cutlery, and bags of seed. 
 
 To make new waving crops in Africa. 
 
 Others aloof with folded arms slow-eyed 
 
 Survey man's labor, saying, "God is great;" 
 
 Or seek with question dw.p the Gyps^ies' 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 teut 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 aud fro in hard command 
 
 Of noisy tumult ; imaging oft anew 
 
 How much of labor still deferred the hour 
 
 When they must lift the boat and bear away 
 
 Her father's coffin, and her feet must quit 
 
 This shore forever. Motionless she stood, 
 
 Black-crowned with wreaths of many-shadowed hair; 
 
 Black-robed, but bearing wide upon her breast 
 
 Iler father's goldeu necklace and his back;e. 
 
 ner limbs were motionless, but in her eyes 
 
 Aud iu her breathing liji's soft tremulous curve 
 
 Was intense motion as of prisoned fire 
 
 Escaping subtly iu outleaping thought. 
 
 She watches anxiously, and yet she dreams: 
 The busy moments uow expand, now shrink 
 To uarrowiug swarms within the refluent space
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 249 
 
 Of changeful coiiscionsiiess. For in her thought 
 
 Ah-eady she has left the fadiug shore, 
 
 Sails with her peojjle, scelis an iinlvuowii hind, 
 
 And bears the buruing length of weary days 
 
 That parchhig fall upon her father's hope, 
 
 Which she must plant and see it wither only — 
 
 Wither and die. She saw the end begun. 
 
 The Gypsy hearts were not unfaithful : she 
 
 Was centre to the savage loyalty 
 
 Whicli vowed obedience to Zarca dead. 
 
 But soon their natures missed the constant stress 
 
 Of his command, that, while it fired, restrained 
 
 By urgency supreme, and left no play 
 
 To fickle impulse scattering desire. 
 
 They loved their Queen, trusted in Zarca's child. 
 
 Would hear her 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, 
 
 Was gone. Already Hassan and two bands, 
 
 Drawn by fiesli baits of gain, had newly sold 
 
 Their jervice 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 lo Telemsiin. 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-threatening. In a little while, the tribe 
 
 That was to be the ensign of the race. 
 
 And draw it into conscious union. 
 
 Itself would break in small and scattered bands 
 
 That, living on scant prey, would still disperse 
 
 And propagate forgetfuluess. Brief years. 
 
 And that great purpose fed with vital fire 
 
 That might have glowed for half a centurj', 
 
 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 jjresent on the quay. 
 Far her straight path beyond it. Yet she watched 
 To mark the growing hour, and yet in dream 
 Alternate she beheld another track. 
 And felt herself unseen piu'suing it 
 Close to a wanderer, who with haggard gaze 
 Looked out on loneliness. The backward years — 
 Oh, she would not foi-get them — would not drink 
 Of waters that brought rest, while he far off 
 Kemcmbered. " Father, I renounced the joy ; 
 You must forgive the sorrow." 
 
 So she stood, 
 Her strnggliug life compressed into that hour.
 
 250 TIIE SPANISH GYPSY. 
 
 Ycriniing, resolving, conquering ; though slic seemed 
 
 Slill lis a tutclnry image sent 
 
 To guard her people and to he the strength 
 
 Of some rock-uitadcl. 
 
 IJelow her eat 
 Slim mischievous ninda, happy, red-bedecked 
 Witli rows of berries, grinning, nodding ofl. 
 And shaking high her small dark aim and hand 
 Kesponsive to the black-nianed Isinaol, 
 VVlu) held aloft his spoil, and clad in skins 
 Seemed the Boy-;)rophet of the wilderness 
 Escaped from tasks iirophetic. But anon • 
 
 Ilinda would backward turn upon her knees, 
 And like a pretty loving hound would bend 
 To fondle her Queen's feet, then lift her head 
 Hoping to feel the gently pressing palm 
 AVhich touched the deeper sense. Fedalma knew — 
 From out the black robe stretched her speaking hand 
 And shared the girl's content. 
 
 So the dire hours 
 Burdened with destiny— the death of hopes 
 Darkening long generations, or the birth 
 Of thoughts undying— such hours sweep along 
 In their aerial ocean measureless 
 Myriads of little joys, that ripen sweet 
 And soothe the sorrowful spirit of the world, 
 Groaning and travailing with the painful birth 
 Of slow redemption. 
 
 But emerging now 
 From eastward fringing Hues of idling men 
 Quick Juan lightly sought the upward steps 
 Behind Fedalma, and two paces off, 
 With head uncovered, said in gentle tones, 
 "Lady Fedalma !"— (Juan's jiassword now 
 Used by no other), and Fedalma turned, 
 Knowing who sought her. He 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 
 His low tones fell on her, as if she passed 
 Into religious dimness among tombs. 
 And trod on names in everlasting rest. 
 Lingeringly slie looked, and then with voice 
 Deep and yet soft, like notes from some long cliord 
 Responsive to thrilled air, said — ] 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 It is he 1 
 
 [Juan kept silence for a little space. 
 
 With reverent caution, lest his lighter grief 
 
 Might seem a wanton touch npou her pain.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 251 
 
 But time was urging him with visible flight, 
 Changing the shadows: he must ntter all.] 
 
 J CAN. 
 
 That man was yonng when last I pressed his hand— 
 
 In that dread moment when he left Bedm^ir. 
 
 He has aged since : the week has made him gray. 
 
 And yet I knew him — knew the while-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-wounding joy, like his who ha.stes 
 
 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 fi-om Carthageua, in a boat 
 Too slight for safety ; yon 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, Iliuda, follow me ! 
 
 [All men who watched 
 Lost her regretfully, then drew content 
 From thought that she must quickly come again, 
 And tilled 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. 
 He moved at sight of her: their glances met; 
 It seemed they could no more remain aloof 
 Thau nearing waters hurrying into one. 
 Yet their steps slackened and they [jaused apart, 
 Pressed backward by the force of memories 
 Which reigned supreme as death above desire. 
 Two paces otT they stood and silently 
 Looked at each other. Was it well to speak? 
 Could speech be clearer, stronger, tell them more 
 Thau that long gaze of their renouncing love? 
 They passed from sileuce hardly knowing how; 
 It seemed they heard each other's thought before.] 
 
 Don Sii.TA. 
 I go to be absolved, to have my life 
 Washed into fitness for an offering 
 To injured Spain. But I have nought to give
 
 252 TIIE SPANISH GYI'SY. 
 
 For that Inst injury to her I loved 
 
 Ueiter th.'in 1 loved Spain. I am accurst ' 
 
 Above all sinners, beinLC made the curse 
 
 Of her I sinned for. I'ardou? Penitence? 
 
 When they have done their utmost, still beyond 
 
 Out of their reach staiuLs Injury unchanged 
 
 And changeless. I should see it still in heaven — 
 
 Out of ray reach, forever in my sight: 
 
 Wearing j-our grief, 'twould hide the smiling seraphs. 
 
 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. . . . 
 
 FfiDAI.MA. 
 
 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 anght alone. 
 For when we loved I willed to reign in you, 
 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. 
 
 Feb ALMA. 
 Vengeance ! She does but sweep us 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 leaned 
 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 shape: 
 Tell me what dread is close before you ? 
 
 Fedalma. 
 
 None. 
 No dread, but clear assurance of the end.
 
 THE SPANISH GYPSY. 253 
 
 My fiithe." held within his mighty frame 
 A people's life: great futures died with him 
 Never to rise, until the time shall ripe 
 Some other hero with the will to save 
 The outcast Ziucali. 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 And yet they shont^ 
 1 heard it — sounded as the i)lentuous rush 
 Of full-fed sources, shaking their wild souls 
 With power that pronii.sed sway. 
 
 Fkdalma, 
 
 Ah yes, that shout 
 Came from full hearts : they meant ohedience. 
 But they are orphaned: their poor childish feet 
 Are viigabond in spite of love, and stray 
 Forgetful after little lures. For nic— 
 I am but as a funeral urn that hears 
 The ashes of a leader. 
 
 Don Sii.vA. 
 
 O great God I 
 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 ruin. I shall drink 
 No 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 si>le j)ath 
 
 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. Tliat is my chief good. 
 
 The deepest hunser of a faithful heart 
 
 Is faithfulness. Wish me nought else. And you — 
 
 You too will liTe. . . . 
 
 Don Silva. 
 
 I go to Rome to seek 
 The right to use my knightly sword again ; 
 The riglit to fill my place and live or die 
 So that all Spaniards shall not curse my name. 
 1 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 c(nild not bear 
 The harm Ihcmsclvcs had done, which olbeis bore.
 
 254 THE srANisn gypsy. 
 
 My youns; life yet may fill sonic fatal breach, 
 And 1 will take no pardon, not my own, 
 Not God's— no pardon idly on my knees: 
 But it sUiill come to me upon my feet 
 And in the thick of action, and each deed 
 That carried shame and wron^; shall be the sting 
 That drives me liigher up the steep of honor 
 In deeds of duteous service to that Spain 
 Who nourished me on her expectant breast, 
 The heir of highest gifts. I will not fling 
 My earthly being down for carriou 
 To fill the air with loathing: I will be 
 The living prey of some fierce noble death 
 That leaps upon me while I move. Aloud 
 I said, "1 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. But 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 unto 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 ! 
 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 ! 
 
 lie did not say "Farewell." 
 But neither knew that he was silent. She, 
 For one long moment, moved not. They knew nought 
 Save that they parted ; for their mutual gaze 
 As with their souls' full speech forbade their hands 
 To seek each other— those oft-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 Iliuda, who was bending low 
 And lingered still to wai-h her shells, but aoou
 
 THE SPAITISH GYPSY. 255 
 
 Leaping and scampering followed, while her Queen 
 Mounted the steps again and took her place, 
 Which Juau rendered silently. 
 
 And now 
 The press upon the quay was thinned; the ground 
 Was cleared of cnmheriug heaps, the eager shouts 
 Ilad sunk, 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 while 
 Upon the luminous meadow toward the verge. 
 The quay was in still shadow, and the boats 
 Went sombrely upon the sombre waves. 
 Fedalma watched again ; but now her gaze 
 Takes in the eastward bay, where that small l)ark 
 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 face 
 Aw.ay from her at jjarting: but the sea 
 Should widen slowly 'Lwixt their seeking eyes. 
 
 The time was coming. Nadar had approached. 
 
 Was the Queen ready? Would she follow now 
 
 Her father's body ? For the largest boat 
 
 AV'as 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 coffin as it lay. 
 
 They raised it slowly, holding it aloft 
 
 On shoulders proud to bear the heavy load. 
 
 Bound on the coffin lay the chieftain's arms. 
 
 His Gypsy garments and his coat of mail. 
 
 Fedalma saw the burden lifted higli. 
 
 And then descending followed. All was still. 
 
 The Moors aloof could hear the struggling steps 
 
 Beneath the lowered burden at the boat— 
 
 Tlie struggling calls subdued, till safe released 
 
 It lay within, the space aroaud it filled 
 
 By black-haired Gypsies. Then Fedalma stepped 
 
 From off the shore and saw it flee away — 
 
 The land that bred her helping the resolve 
 
 Which exiled her forever. 
 
 It was uight 
 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 jel-black upon moon-whitened waves.
 
 25G THE SPiVNISU GYPSY. 
 
 Silva was stauclin^ too. lie too divined 
 A steadfast form that lu^ld liiiti witli its tlioiight, 
 And eyes that soiiglil liini vanisliin-;: 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. Cactus. 
 
 The Indian flg {Opuntia), like the other Cactaccce, 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 conieth, seems hardly called for, 
 seeing that niarrano is Spanish tor pir/. 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 mediroval minds generally. Dante, in an elevated passage 
 of the Paradiso—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 dc' 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 Siete 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 the text is translated from Partida IP, Ley II. 
 The whole preamble is worth citing in its old Spanish : 
 
 " Como debcn ser cacogidos los cahalleros.'" 
 
 " Autiguamieutc para facer cahalleros escogieu de los veuadores de rnoute, que 
 
 20 M
 
 258 NOTES TO "THE SPANISH GYPSY." 
 
 eon homes que snfrcn grandc laceria, et carpinteros, et fcrrcros, ct pedreros, porqiic 
 nsan mucho a ferir et sou fucrtc de maiios ; et otiosi de los cuniiceros, por razoii 
 que usan matar las cosas vivas ct esparcer la saiif^ie dellas ; el ami cataban otra 
 cosa eu escogiendolos que fueseu bieu facciouadas de membros paia scr leciog, et 
 fucrtes et li^eros. Et esta manera de escoger usarou los autiguos muy grant ti- 
 cmpo; mas porqnc despues vieroii muchas vegadasque estos atales iion habiendo 
 veigiienza olvidabau todas estas cosas sobredichas, et en logar de vincer sus eoe- 
 migos venciensc ellos, tovierou por bien los sabidores destas cosas que catasen 
 homes pai-a esto que hobiesen uaturalmiente en si vergiienza. Et sobresto dixo 
 nu sabio que liable nombre Vkgeoio que fiibl6 de la orden de caballeria, que la ver- 
 giienza vieda al caballero que nou fuya de la batalla, et por ende ella le face ser 
 vencedor; ca mucho tovieron que era niejor el homo flaco et sofridor, que el fuerte 
 et ligero para foir. Et por esto sobre todas las otras cosas cataron que fueseu 
 homes porque se guardasen de facer cosa por que podiesen caer en vergueuza ; et 
 porque estos fueron escogidos de buenos logares et algo, que qiiiere tanto decir en 
 lenguage de Espaiia como bien, por eso los llamaron fijosdalgo, que mucstra ataiito 
 como fijos de bien. Et eu algunos otros logares los llamaron gentiles, et tomaron 
 este nombre de geutileza que muestra ataiito como noblcza de boudat, porqne los 
 gentiles fueron nobles homes et buenos, et vevieron mas ordenadamente que las 
 otras gentes. Et esta geutileza avieue eu tres maueras ; la una por liuage, la se- 
 guuda por saber, et la tercera por boudat de armas et de costumbres et de ma- 
 ueras. Et comoquier que estos que la ganan por su sabidoria 6 por su boudat, sou 
 con dcrecho llamados uobles et gentiles, mayormieute lo son aquellos que la han 
 por linage autiguamieute, et faceu buena vida porque les viene de luefie como por 
 heredat ; et por eude son mas encargados de facer bieu et guardarse de yerro ct de 
 malestanza; ca nou tan solamieute quando lo faceu resciben dano ct vergiienza 
 ellos mismos, ma auu aquellos ondc ellos vieueu."
 
 BROTHER JACOB
 
 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 " Trompeurs, c'est povir vous que j'ecris, attendez-vous a la pareille." 
 
 La Fontaine. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 ' Among the many fatalities attending the bloom 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 must 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 influential 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
 
 2G2 BKOTUEE JACOB. 
 
 themselves bound to warn the public against his doc- 
 trine of the Inconceivable. lie couldn't give up his 
 dancing lessons, because he made his bread by them, 
 and metaphysics would not have found him in so much 
 as salt to his bread. It was nearly the same with 
 Mr. David Faux and the confectionery business. His 
 uncle, the 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 in 
 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-
 
 BEOTHEE JACOB. 203 
 
 try, is not the best preparation for the oflBce 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 was 
 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 tlie hia:hest 
 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 might not have been below the mark of
 
 264 BKOTFIKIJ JACOB. 
 
 tliG literary calling; bnt liis 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, would 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 his 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 
 family beans, he had used his leisure in ascertaining a
 
 BEOTHEK JACOB. 265. 
 
 fact which was of considerable importance to him, name- 
 ly, that his mother 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 
 the 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 p4-operty 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. IS'ev- 
 ertheless, to an active mind like David's, ingenuity is 
 not without its pleasures. It was rather an interesting 
 occupation to become stealthily acquainted with the 
 
 wards of his mother's simple key (not in the least like 
 26* M*
 
   266 BKOTHER JACOB. 
 
 Chnbb's patent), cind to get one that would 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 youngest-born, David. 
 Next, 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 
 his 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. 
 
 ISTothing 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
 
 BROTH EK 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 he 
 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, " Iloich, 
 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 Avhen 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 BKOTUEB JACOB. 
 
 had brought with him from Brigford 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. 
 But 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 yellow lozenges, 
 lifted the lid, and performed a pantomime with his 
 mouth and fingers which was meant to imply that he 
 was deliofhted 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, but within a 
 certain limited range knew how to choose the good 
 and reject the evil. He took one lozenge, by way 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 wine, 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-
 
 BEOTHEK JACOB. 209 
 
 dence should be fonder of him than of other apprentices, 
 and since he was 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 with 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 among all Jacob's narrow 
 experiences as to money, this 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. Kun ! 
 — make haste ! — else somebody '11 come and take 'era." 
 
 David, not liaving 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. Was 
 ever a promising young man, wishing to lay the foun- 
 dation of his -fortune by appropriating his mother's
 
 270 BROTUER JACOB. 
 
 guineas, obstructed by such a day-mare as this ? But 
 the moment must come when Jacob would move his 
 rii>;ht 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 ?" 
 
 "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 contrary, 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
 
 BKOTHEK 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 ^o." Then, as he took the last 
 lozenge out, he said, " Come out 5C>," 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 hole, 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 ou 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 which 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- 
 Bightedness of human contrivance. This ingenious
 
 272 
 
 BliOTlIEK JACOB. 
 
 young man, Mr. David Faux, thought lie liad achieved 
 a triumph of cunning when he had associated himself 
 in his brother's rudimentary' mind with 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 you 
 yourself 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-bye 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 privacy, and carried them 
 on his own person without inconvenience. But David, 
 you perceive, had reckoned without his host, or, to 
 speak more precisely, 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 with
 
 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 or guineas the three she had 
 always promised him as his share ; indeed, in his origi- 
 nal plan he iiad counted on this as a means by which 
 the theft would be discovered under circumstances that 
 would themselves speak for his innocence; but now, as 
 I need hardly 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. No ! 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 large 
 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. 
 
 liiiii ; 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 he 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 his 
 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 enouejli to bestow a curse on him — 
 it was the only thing he ever did bestow gratuitously. 
 His small bundle of olothes 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, although the dawning light was rather dimmer 
 in the thicket. But what, 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 had 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 tlie 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 whether 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 tlie lid rather tight, gave the box to 
 his brother in perfect faith. David raised the lid and
 
 276 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 shook his head, while Jacob put his finger in and took 
 out a guinea to taste whetlicr the metamorphosis into 
 lozenges was complete and satisfactor3^ 
 
 '^' 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. 
 
 Wiiat on earth was David to do ? It w^ould 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 becanie 
 unmanageable, and was liable to lits 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 out 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 high 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 
 
 changed 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, 
 perhaps with 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 
 
 BKOTUER 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 wer^ 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, 
 without 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 wonld 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 !
 
 BKOTUEK JACOB. 279 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 It was nearly six years after the departure of Mr. 
 David Faux for the West Indies that the vacant shoo 
 in the market-place at Grim worth was understood to 
 have been let to the stranger witli 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 ready market for their joints 
 without strict reference to religious 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 
 as 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 concerning the 
 curriculum, but only concerning the coat. 
 
 The shopkeepers at Grimworth were by no means
 
 280 
 
 BKOTHEK JACOB. 
 
 unaniraous as to the advantages promised by this prps- 
 pect 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. Hitherto 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 gown 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 was 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- 
 ing the nature of the business which the sallow-com- 
 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 showy and inferior articles — printed cot- 
 tons and muslins which would leave their dye in the
 
 BKOTUER JACOB. 281 
 
 wash-tub, jobbed linen full of knots, and flannel that 
 would soon look like gauze. If groceiy, then it was to 
 be hoped that no niotJier 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 their pockets : when people 
 came from nobody knew where, there was no knowing 
 what tliey might do. It was a tliousand 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 
 were being put up on the premises, and that the shop 
 was, in fact, being fitted up for a confectioner and pas- 
 try-cook's business, hitherto unknown in Grimworth, did 
 not quite suffice to turn the scale in the new-comer's 
 favor, though the landlady at the AVoolpack 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 predonnnance of the more delicate hues of pink 
 
 27 N
 
 282 BKOTIIER JACOB. 
 
 and 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. AVhat 
 a sight to dawn upon the e^^es of Grimworth children I 
 They almost forgot to go to their dinner that day, 
 their appetites being preoccupied with imaginary su- 
 gar-plums; and I think even Punch, setting up his tab- 
 ernacle in the market-place, would not have succeeded 
 in drawing them awa}^ 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 comino-, but what housewife in Grim- 
 worth would not think shame to furnish forth her table 
 with articles that were not home-cooked ? ISTo, 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 the 
 new shop — a generous-sounding name that might liave 
 belonged to the open-hearted, improvident hero of an 
 old comedy, who 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 that 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, he 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 liis 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 young 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 West Indies, and 
 Lad 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 np 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 Avhich the 
 progress of the corruption was ultimately checked. 
 
 It was young Mrs. Steene, the veterinary surgeon's 
 wife, 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 Rookh," 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 wdtli a coarse neighbor, and was angry if the 
 pndding 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 with 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
 
 BKOTIIER JACOB. 285 
 
 labor to the making of a batch of pies in the morning ; 
 but they proved to be so very heavy vi^heu they came 
 out of the oven that she could only think with trem- 
 bling of the moment when hqr husband should catch 
 sight of them on the snpper-table. He 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 had 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 very 
 expensive — indeed, making mince-pies at all was a great 
 expense, when they were not sure to turn out M^ell : 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 fr6m 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 lierself 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 there 
 was a party or clique in Grimworth on the side of 
 "buying at Freely's ;" and many husbands, kept for 
 some time in the dark on this point, innocently swal- 
 lowed at two mouthfuls a tart on which they 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 l)on 
 vivant, 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 
 manufacturing 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
 
 BKOTUEK JACOB. 287 
 
 SO forth, and that the maids and matrons may be said 
 to have had their hands set free from cookery to add to 
 the wealtli of societj^ in some other way. Only it hap- 
 pened at Grimworth, whieli, to be sure, was a low 
 place, that the maids and matrons conld 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 wns not otherwise apparent 
 than in the impoverishment of men, the gossiping 
 idleness of women, and the heightening prosperity of 
 Mr. Edward Freely. 
 
 The Yellow Coat School was a donble source of 
 profit to the calculating confectioner, for he opened an 
 eating-room for the superior workmen employed on tlie 
 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 Spectato7''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; secondl}^ the confectionery bnsiaess was so 
 entirely new at Griniworth that its place in the scale of 
 rank had not been distinctly ascertained. There was no 
 doubt about drapers and grocers, when the}' came of 
 good old Grimworth families, like Mr. Luif and Mr. 
 Prettyman : they visited with the Palfreys, and the 
 Palfreys farmed their own land, played many a game 
 at whist with the doctor, and condescended a little to- 
 wards 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 respectabilit}', 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 liis 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 insignificant east. But so far from this, it very 
 soon appeared that he was a remarkable young man, 
 who had been in the West Indies, and had seen many 
 v^•onders 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 tliat had 
 been offered to him as a man who knew what was what, 
 and was, therefore, particularly needed in a tropical
 
 BEOTHEK JACOB. 289 
 
 climate; and of a Creole heiress who had wept bitterly 
 at his departure. Such conversational talents as these, 
 we know, will overcome disadvantages of complexion ; 
 and yonng Towers, whose cheeks were of the finest 
 pink, set off by a fringe of dark whisker, was quite 
 eclipsed by the presence of the sallov/ Mr. Freely. So 
 exceptional a confectioner elevated his business, and 
 might well begin to make disengaged hearts flutter a 
 little. 
 
 Fatliers 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 tiie high horse. He's uncommonly knowing, 
 I'll 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- 
 elty, 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- 
 
 27* N*
 
 290 BKOTIIElt JACOB. 
 
 tance. Mr. Freely was becoming a person of influence 
 in tlie parish ; he was found useful as an overseer of the 
 poor, having great firmness in enduring other people's 
 pain — wliich 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 parishioners. 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-indule-ence 
 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 intimate 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 tiie 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 stomped 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. Freely'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 merchant'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 Palfre}', 
 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 the 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, rouud 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 BuoxnEii jacob. 
 
 a year and a half. To be sure, there M'as young Towers 
 always coining to the house ; but Fenny 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 Fenny'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 w^ell received in Grimworth families, 
 it was a long while before he could converse with Fenny 
 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 Falfreys ; for though Mr. Falfrey 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. Falfrey's farm-yard doors 
 had the paint all worn off them, and the front garden 
 walks had long been merged in a general weediness. Still 
 his father had been called Squire Falfre}^, and had been 
 respected by the last Grimworth generation as a man 
 who could afford to drink too much in his own house. 
 
 Pretty Fenny was not blind to the fact that Mr. Freely
 
 BKOTnEE JACOB. 293 
 
 admired her, and she felt sure that it was he who had 
 sent her a beautiful valentine ; but her sister seemed to 
 think so lightly of him (all engaged young ladies think 
 lightly of the gentlemen 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 Mangnall's 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, she knew, laughed at men who couldn't sit on 
 horseback well, and called them tailors ; but her broth- 
 ers were very rough, 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 heard 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 this way: 
 
 "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 lie always called Mr. Freely
 
 294 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 '' that siigar-plum fellow." Oh, it was very cruel, when 
 trne-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
 
 BKOTIIEB 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 liis daughter's hand ; and, moreover, 
 he had three tall sons : it was clear that a suitor would 
 be at a disadvantage with such a family, 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.
 
 296 mjoTiiEii JACOB. 
 
 Nextj^ 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. Now 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 handf uls and pinches ; and for wet, there was 
 a middle-sized jag — 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 — 
 difiicult to communicate; and as Mrs. 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
 
 BROTHEK JACOB. 297 
 
 trembling liand, thinking how wonderfully, things Ccarae 
 about in this world. 
 
 In this way Mr. Freely got himself introduced into 
 the 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 would 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 some day; 
 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 V 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 vrithout 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 BKOTIIEK JACOB. 
 
 But he was cautions, and wished to he quite sure of 
 the ground he trod on. His views in marriage were 
 not entirely sentimental, hut 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. lie was not a man to 
 fall in love in the wrong place, and so lie applied liim- 
 sclf quite as much to conciliate the favor of tlie 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 enouirh 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 nncle in Ja- 
 maica, who had no children, and loved his nephew Ed- 
 ward better than any one else in the world, though ho 
 had been so hurt at his leaving Jamaica that he had 
 threatened to cut him off with a shillinw-. However.
 
 BKOTHER JACOB. 299 
 
 lie had since written to state his full forgiveness, and 
 though he was an eccentric old gentleman and conid 
 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 family, 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 where it leads." 
 
 Little Penny was very proud and fluttering, but
 
 300 BROTUEli JACOB. , 
 
 hardly so happy as she expected to be in an engage- 
 incut. She wondered if young Towers cared much 
 about it, for he had not been to the house lately, and 
 lier sister and brothers were rather inclined to sneer 
 than to sympathize. Grim worth 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 marriage might 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 w\as 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 w^as 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 Rodliam, he will hear of something to his 
 advantange." 
 
 " Father's dead !" exclaimed Mr. Freely, involuntarily. 
 " Can he have left me a legacy ?" 
 
 Chaptek III. 
 
 PERHArs 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
 
 BKOTHER JACOB. SOI 
 
 in life. Since, as we know, men cluange their skies and 
 see new constellations without changing their souls, 
 it will follow sometimes that they don't change their 
 business under those novel circumstances. 
 
 Certainly this result was contrary to David's own ex- 
 pectations. He had looked forward, you are 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. IsTobody 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 recognized 
 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 Sultanic self- 
 indulgence spent by him in the luxurious Indies, I 
 really think lie was doing himself a wrong ; I believe 
 he worked for his bread, and, in fact, took to cooking 
 again, as, after all, the only 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 o^ettinsi: 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 uo instance 
 been known of passing a half-penny or a half-crown as 
 a sovereign. A sharper can drive a brisk trade in this
 
 302 
 
 BllOTIIER JACOB, 
 
 world: it is undeTiiablc that tlierc may be a fine career 
 for liim if he will dare consequences ; but David was 
 too timid to be a sharper, or venture in any waj'' among 
 the man-traps of the law. He dared rob nobody 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 
 half-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 lie 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 was 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 tliouglit it as well to call himself Mr. 
 Edward Freely. 
 
 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- 
 thing considerable. On the other hand, even a small 
 gain is pleasant, and the promise of it in this instance 
 was 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 that 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 was not of a high and subtle 
 kind, but it included giving him his due share of tlio
 
 304: BKOTUEK JACOB. 
 
 family property ; for when a man had got a little honest 
 money of his own, was he so likely to steal ? To cut 
 the delinqnent son off with a shilling was like deliver- 
 ing him over to his evil propensities. No; let the 
 sum of twenty guineas whieh he had stolen be deducted 
 from his share, 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 kejit 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 — namely, that David was still alive 
 and 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. lie 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 
 dog." It was this incident which had led to the adver- 
 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
 
 BEOTHER 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 home. 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 have taken 
 a new name, they'd better keep to their new 'quine- 
 tance." 
 
 David pocketed the insult along with the eighty-two 
 pounds three, and travelled home again in some triumph 
 at the ease of a transaction which liad 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 tlian 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 
 home, 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 sliop was to l>e the best sitting-room, but
 
 30G BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 also the ]>ar]or 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 
 M'ith 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 
 was 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. AVould no deliverer 
 come to make a slip between that cherry and that mouth 
 without a lip? 
 
 " Quite a family likeness between tlic 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?"
 
 BKOTUER JACOB. 307 
 
 "I can't say," said Mr. Freely, with a sigli. "My 
 family have iiiostl}' thought themselves too high to take 
 any notice of me." 
 
 At this moment an extraordinary disturbance 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, follow^ed by the four Palfreys, who 
 made a group at the parlor door, transfixed with w-on- 
 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, 
 crj'ing out, " Zav}'-, Zavy, b'other Zavy !" 
 
 It was Jacob, and for some moments David lost all 
 presence of mind. He felt arrested for having stolen 
 his mother's guineas. He turned cold, and trembled in 
 his brother's grasp. 
 
 " Why, howl'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 his 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, lie added : " Yoic watch 
 him, wliile I run for the constable." And lie hurried 
 out of the sliop. 
 
 " Why, where do 3'ou come from, my man ?" said Mr. 
 Palfrey, speaking to Jacob in a conciliatory tone. Ja- 
 cob was eating his pie by large mouthfiils, and looking 
 round at the other good things in the shop, while he 
 embraced his pitchfork with his left arm, and laid his 
 left hand on some Bath buns. lie 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 
 drawn 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. " lie 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. Freel3^ 
 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 the 
 constable. 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
 
 BKOTIIEE JACOB. 309 
 
 trouble of inquiring after him. He must resign him- 
 self to more patient measures. 
 
 "On second thoughts," 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 
 something to eat, and letting him lie down for the night, 
 lie's got it 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. Pm 
 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. 
 
 "Eh, Zavy, come back?" exclaimed Jacob, giving his 
 dear brother another hng, 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 
 have arsenic in them. 
 
 " Mother's dnnies ?" 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 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 " Yon'ro very f^ood to this stranger, Mr. Freely," said 
 Lctitia; and then spitefully, as David joined the party 
 at the parlor door, "I think 3^011 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 bav- 
 ins: their ric-lit senses." 
 
 " I don't know where there'd ha' been victual for ns 
 all, then," observed Mrs. Palfrey, regarding the matter 
 in a housewifely light. 
 
 " But let ns 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 their way home.
 
 BROTHER JACOB. 311 
 
 " Letty, it's ycry ill-natured of you," said Penny, be- 
 ginning to cry. 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Mr. Palfrey. "Frecly's got no 
 brother ; he's said so many and many a time. lie'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 ?" 
 
 Letitia 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 2jroaned. 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, while Jacob was snoring close by. Was this the 
 upshot of travelling to the Indies, and acquiring expe- 
 rience combined with anecdote ?
 
 312 • BEOTHER JACOB. 
 
 He rose at break of day, as he had once before done 
 "vvlien he was in fear of Jacob, and took all gentle means 
 to rouse him from his deep sleep ; he dared not be lond, 
 because his apprentice was in the house, and would re- 
 port everything. But Jacob was not to be roused, lie 
 fought out with his fist at the unknown cause of dis- 
 turbance, turned over, and snored again. lie 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 was so benev- 
 olently inclined. lie found a crowd round the shop. 
 All Grimworth by this time had heard how Freely had 
 been fastened on by an idiot, who called hiin "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. Pretty man. " 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-
 
 BKOTIIEK 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. Prettjman, 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 
 fatlier-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 naj^, 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 inniccnt of a brother, sure enough," 
 
 said honest Jonathan. "A fine trouble and cost he is 
 2S* ^**
 
 314 BROTHEK JACOB. 
 
 to US in til' eating and other things, but we must bear 
 what's hiid on us." 
 
 "And your name's Freely, is it?" said Mr. Pretty- 
 man. 
 
 " ISTa}', 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 yoa can make him loose his hold of 
 me," said David, feebly. 
 
 "Is this gentleman here in the confectionery line 
 your brother, then, sir?" said Mr. Prettyman, feeling 
 that it was an occasion on which formal lano-nas-e must 
 be used. 
 
 "/don't want to own him," said Jonathan, unable to 
 resist a movement of indic-nation that had never been 
 allowed to satisfy itself. "lie 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 hini (Mr. Prettyman) that, for 
 the interests of the parish, he should know all that was
 
 BEOTHEK JACOB. 315 
 
 to be known about this " interloper." Grimwortli 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 that 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 
 heavy, 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 fnrther 
 disturbances in his shop which would make his exposure 
 all the more conspicuous. " You 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. 
 
 "Yery well," said Jonathan, gruffly. "I don't see 
 why you shouldn't have some trouble and expense with 
 him as \^ell as the rest of us. But mind you 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 the benefit of the 
 parish, hastened to make all the information ho could
 
 316 BKOTIIEE JACOB. 
 
 gather about Freelj' common parochial property. You 
 may imagine that the meeting of the chib at the "Wool- 
 pack that evening was unusually lively. - Every member 
 was anxious to prove that he had never liked Freely, as 
 he 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. lie sent to engage the 
 Woolpack gig for an early hour the next morning ; but 
 this order was not kept religiously a secret by the land- 
 lord. Mr. Freely was informed that he could not have 
 the gig till seven ; and the Grimworth 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. " Ilnzzay, 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-pot. As long as David lived at
 
 BKOTIIEK JACOB. 317 
 
 Grimwortli, Jacob's return would be lianging over him. 
 But could he go on living at Grimwortli — an object of 
 ridicule, discarded bj the Palfreys, after having revelled 
 in the consciousness that he was an -envied and pros- 
 perous confectioner? David liked to be envied; ho 
 minded less about being loved. 
 
 His doubts on this point were soon settled. The 
 mind of Grimwortli became obstinately set against him 
 and his viands, and tho 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 had done, in 
 Jamaica or elsewhere, before he came to Grimwortli, 
 worming liimself into families under false pretences? 
 Females shuddered. Dire suspicions gathered round 
 him: his green eyes, his bow- legs, had a criminal as- 
 pect. The rector disliked the sight of a man who 
 had imposed upon him ; and all boys who could not 
 afford to purchase hooted " David Faux " as they passed 
 his shop. Certainly no man now would pay anything 
 for the "good -will" 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, cdias Edward Free- 
 ly, had gone — nobody at Grimwortli knew whither. 
 In this way the demoralization of Grimwortli women 
 was checked. Young Mrs. Steene renewed her efforts 
 to make light mince-pies, and having at last made a
 
 318 BROTHER JACOB. 
 
 batch so excellent that Mr. Stecne 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 
 bulbuls and renegades ever after. The secrets of the 
 finer cookery were revived in the breasts of matronly 
 housewives, and daughters were again anxious to bo 
 initiated in them. 
 
 You will further, I hope, be glad to hear that some 
 purchases of drapery made by pretty Penny, in prepa- 
 ration for her marriage with Mr. Freel}'^, 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 always 
 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 herself.
 
 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 angina 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 cnrsed 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 day, 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 lior- 
 riblc contraction will begin at my clicst. I shall only 
 have time to reach the bell, and pull it violently, before 
 the sense of suffocation will come. No one answers my 
 bell. I know why. My two servants are lovers, and 
 will have quarrelled. My house-keeper wnll have rushed 
 out of the house in a furj^, 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 mo 
 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 stays 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 my fellow-men. But we 
 have all a chance of meeting with some pity, some ten-
 
 THE LIFTED VEIL. 323 
 
 derness, some charity, when we arc dead ; it is the living 
 only who 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 the eye 
 can still turn towards you with moist, timid entreaty, 
 freeze it with an icy, unanswering gaze ; while the ear, 
 that delicate messenger to the inmost sanctuary of the 
 soul, can still take in the tones of kindness, put 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- 
 by be still — uhi smva indignatio ulterius cor lacerare 
 nequit;'^ 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 tlie failure; then yon may give due 
 honor to the work achieved ; then you may find exten- 
 uation for errors, and consent to bury tliem. 
 
 That is a " trivial school-boy text ;" why 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 perliaps 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 morro\y, 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 bod}', 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 certainly 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- 
 
 ance 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 were
 
 THE LIFTED VEIL. 325 
 
 large barracks — made me sob and tremble ; and yet 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 was 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- 
 holder, 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 
 melancholy nor high spirits. I held him in great awe, 
 and appeared more timid and. sensitive in his presence 
 than at other times — a circumstance which, perhaps, 
 helped to confirm him in the intention to educate me 
 on a different 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 ".vEschylus" 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 LirrED 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 rougli ex]3erieuce 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 exjiloratorj^, 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 — '^ here is 
 the excess. That 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 my 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 Jiuman emotions, so I was 
 to be plentifully crammed with the mechanical powers,
 
 THE LIFTED VEIL. 327 
 
 the elementary bodies, and the phenomena of electricity 
 and magnetism. A better-constituted boy would certain- 
 ly have profited under my intelligent tutors, Avith 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 wliy 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 
 have 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
 
 328 111^ LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 all licr awful loveliness. You will think, perhaps, that 
 1 innst have been a poet, from this early sensibility to 
 Nature. Bat my lot was not so happy as that. A poet 
 ]ionrs forth his song, and Mieves in the 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-men. 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 w\ater 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 my 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 push 
 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 
 wdio 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 
 
 Mennier, his real surname — an English one, for he 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 w^as 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 gamms^ and not acceptable in drawing-rooms. I 
 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 Yevay, while I listened dreamily to the 
 monologues in which he unfolded his bold conceptions 
 of future experiment and discovery. I mingled them 
 confusedly in my 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 whicli I shall 
 have to narrate in my subsequent life. 
 
 This happier life at Geneva was put an end to by a 
 
 20 1'
 
 330 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 terrible illness, which is partlj^ a blank to me, partly a 
 time of dimly remembered suffering, with the presence 
 of my fatlier 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 with 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 Filmores are come ; Alfred will join 
 us at Basle, and we shall all go together to Yienna, 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 epheinei-al visitants infesting it 
 for a day. It is such grim, stony beings as these, I 
 tlionght, who are the fathers of ancient faded children 
 in those tanned time-fretted dwellings that crowd the 
 steep before me ; who pay tlieir 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 
 tlie 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 historical 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 were only saved from being utterly 
 disjointed and commonplace by the frequent terrors of
 
 332 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 nightmare. Bnt I could not believe that I had been 
 asleep, for I remembered distinctly the gradual break- 
 ing in of the vision npon 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 flrmer 
 tension to my nerves, carried oflE some dull obstruction ? 
 I had often read of such effects — in works of fiction, at 
 least. Nay, in genuine biographies I had read of the 
 subtilizing or exalting 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, I 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. Put 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 knowledge, 
 in the hope that they would find some object which 
 would send a re-awakening vibration through my slum- 
 bering genius. But 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 pcist 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 tlie 
 stimulus. 
 
 Unable to sit still and reserve my strength, I walked 
 up and down the room, looking out on the current of 
 the Khone just where it leaves the dark blue lake, but 
 thinking all the while of the possible causes that could 
 detain my father. 
 
 Suddenly I Avas conscious that my father was in the 
 room, bat 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 hand 
 our neighbor Mrs. Filmore, whom I remembered very 
 well, though I had not seen her for five 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, the pale gray eyes at once 
 acute, restless, and sarcastic. They were fixed on me in 
 half-smiling curiosity, 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 AVater 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 
 
 birtli from some cold, sedgy stream, the 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. " I'm afraid something has hap- 
 pened to my father — he is usually so punctual. liun to 
 the Hotel des Bergues, and see if he is there," 
 
 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 then 
 rubbed the reviving spirit over my hands and forehead 
 and under my nostrils, drawing a new delight from the
 
 336 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 hulf-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 you are, Latimer. 
 They were waiting in the next room. "We shall put off 
 our shopping expedition to-da_y." 
 
 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 particularit}^ 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 
 liad not been alive before. This was the obtrusion on 
 my mind of the mental process going forward in first 
 one person and then 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 ray conscious- 
 ness like an importunate, ill-played musical instrument 
 or the loud activity of an imprisoned insect. But this 
 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 mis^ht 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 indiiferent people, 
 
 became an intense pain and grief when it seemed to be 
 29* ^'*
 
 338 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 opening to me the souls of those who were in a close 
 relation to me — when the rational talk, the graccf al 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 w^as 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 w\as 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 
 extremel}' 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 our desires had not clashed, and 
 if I liad been iu the healthy human condition that ad- 
 mits of generous confidence and charitable construction. 
 There must always have been an antipathy between our 
 natures. As it Avas, 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- 
 all}'- occupied with his thoughts and emotions than -with 
 those of any other person who came in my "way. I 
 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 on me; for, in tlic abstract, no womanly 
 character could seem to have less sympathy with 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 nsorbidly sensitive nat- 
 ure perpetually craving sympathy and support. The 
 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 
 mvsterious seclusion of soul that renders such youth- 
 ful delusion possible. Doubtless there was another sort 
 of fascination at work — that subtle physical attraction 
 whicli deliglits in cheating our pyschological predic- 
 tions, and in compelling the men wlio 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 poM^er were in- 
 tensely gratified by the belief that I had fainted on first 
 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 witli 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 father had made up their minds to this result, 
 there was not yet an understood engagement — there 
 had been no explicit declaration ; and Bertha habitu- 
 ally, while she flirted with my brother, and accepted his 
 homage in a way that implied to him a thorough recog-
 
 342 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 iiitioii of its intention, mndc mc 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 brothers 
 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 
 nie. 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 wdiicli 
 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 jeweller3\ 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, clianging- with the changing L'ght 
 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 myself up in my own room whenever Bertha was 
 absent, that I might intoxicate myself 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
 
 Si-i THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 diseased participation in otlicr people's conscionsness 
 continued to torment me. Now it was my father, and 
 now my brother, now Mrs. Fihnore or her husband, and 
 now our Gernum courier, whose stream of thought rusli- 
 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 froino- 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 cveiy one. Bertha above all, would shud- 
 der at and avoid. But I magnified, as usual, the im-
 
 THE LIFTED VEIL. 345 
 
 prcssion 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 tl;e 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 
 Iwo 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 Gallery 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 tho 
 gallery, 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 the dispute had been de- 
 cided. I had been sitting liere a short space, vaguely 
 conscious of trim gardens, Avith a city and green hills in 
 the distance, when, wishing to avoid the proximity of 
 tlic 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 within 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 with 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
 
 THE 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 ray 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 ray 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 stay 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. 
 What if I saw into the heart of Bertha, the matured 
 woman — Bertha, my wife ? Bertha, the girl, was a fas-
 
 348 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 cinating secret to nie still; I trembled under her toucli; 
 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 sensibility, 
 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 shnd- 
 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 time. 
 
 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. 319 
 
 Bertha with the fuller form, the harder eyes, the more 
 rigid mouth — with the barren, selfish soul laid bare ; no 
 longer a fascinating secret, but a measured fact, urging 
 itself perpetually on my unwilling sight. Are you un- 
 able to give me your sympathy, you who read this ? Ai'c 
 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-daj's 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 
 liave 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 thoughts 
 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 TUE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 sclf-rcnunciation seem strong when our egoism lias head 
 its da}', 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 bj the chill hand 
 of death. 
 
 Our arrival 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 Avell as visit some of its specially 
 interesting spots, before the heat became oppressive ; for 
 we were in August, and the season w\as hot and diy. 
 But it happened that the ladies were rather late at their 
 morning toilet, and, to my father's politely repressed but 
 perceptible 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' quarter, 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 w^hich 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 mediseval Judaism, was of a piece with 
 mj vision. Those darkened, dusty Christian saints, with 
 their loftier arches and their larger candles, needed the 
 consolatory scorn with which they might point to a more 
 shriv'elled death in life than their own. 
 
 As I expected, wlien 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 Avas — the patch of colored light 
 on the pavement transmitted through a lamp in the 
 shape of a star.
 
 352 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 Befoke the antiiiiiii was at an end, and while the 
 brown leaves still stood thick on the beeches in our 
 ])ark, 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 Iiad 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 joy, 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 
 
 ing, 01* taking long rides while the daylight lasted, and 
 then shutting myself up with ray unread books ; for 
 books had lost the power of chaining my 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 Csesar, a !N"ewfoundland 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 ray 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 TUE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 a good-natured fellow he -was not to beliavc 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 tlie world for low spirits." 
 
 " Low spirits !" I thought, bitterly, as he rode away ; 
 " that's the sort of phrase with which coarse, narrow 
 natures like yours think you completely define experi- 
 ence of which you can know no more than your 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 enjojdng 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 hira as the delicate white mist is felt 
 by the rock it caresses. There was no evil in store 
 for him: 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. 
 
 355 
 
 and we walked out in the grounds together, for she 
 seldom went on foot beyond the trimly swept gravel- 
 walks. I remember what a beautiful sylph she looked 
 to me as the low November sun shone on her blond 
 hair, 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 pre- 
 dominated, for 1 had not yet shaken off the access of 
 jealous hate which my brother had raised in me by his 
 parting patronage. Suddenly I interrupted and startled 
 her by saying, almost fiercely, " Bertha, how can you 
 love Alfred?" 
 
 She looked at me with surprise for a moment, but 
 soon lier 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 be 
 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, iny small Tasso " (that was the 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 the shadow of my vision —
 
 356 TUE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 the Bertha wliose soul was no secret to ine — passed be- 
 tween me and tlie radiant girl, the playful sj^lph whose 
 feelings were a fascinating mystery. I suppose I must 
 have 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 are 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 retm'ning 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. I 
 must go in, for the sun is setting." 
 
 I left her — full of indignation against myself. I 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 
 his 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 
 hopes, 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 my pity 
 for him, 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 my case what he had not 
 intended in my brother's — that his son and daughter-in- 
 law should make one household with him. My softened 
 feeling towards my father made this the happiest time I 
 had known since childhood ; these last months 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 me more completely under her power: 
 •no matter how empty the adytum, so that the veil be 
 thick enoug-h. So absolute is our soul's need of some- 
 tiling 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 our one morning and our one afternoon ; we 
 should rush fiercely to the Exchange for our last possi- 
 bility of speculation, of success, of disappointment ; we 
 should have a glut of political prophets foretelling a 
 crisis or a no-crisis within the only twenty-four hours
 
 360 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 left open to prophecy. Conceive the condition of the 
 human mind if all propositions whatsoever were self- 
 evident except one, which was to become self-evident at 
 the close of a summer's day, 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 fatiguing obviousness of the other 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, hemmed-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 her 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 her, submitting to her playful tyranny. It 
 costs a woman so little effort to besot us in this way ! 
 A half-repressed word, a moment'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 young girl, she had been imposed on by 
 the charm that lay for her in the 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 thera 
 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 : ray 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- 
 tha'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 while after our first year of 
 marriage, and it was not quite extinct when paralysis 
 came and saved him from utter disappointment. 
 
 I shall hurry through the rest of my story, not 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* Q*
 
 362 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 Wo lived in a round of visits for some time after onr 
 return Lome, 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 
 was 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
 
 TUE LIFTED VEIL. 363 
 
 I had been looking forward. I had been deeply pained 
 by this, had even felt a sort of erusliing of the heart, 
 from the sense that my 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 
 wlien 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 witli- 
 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 love 
 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.
 
 364: THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 It was in that state of mind that I joined Bertlia in 
 lier private sitting'-room. She was seated in a leaning 
 postnre 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 treniulousness 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 
 otlier. 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 
 
 O 
 
 nature, she was unable to conceive the fact that sensi- 
 bilities were anything else than weaknesses. She had 
 thought ray weaknesses would put me in her power, and 
 she found them unmanageable forces. Our positions 
 were reversed. Before marriage she had completely 
 mastered 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 was laid 
 open to me, now that I was compelled to share the pri- 
 vacy of her motives, to follow all the petty devices tliat 
 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 off all sympathy from a husband who was sick- 
 1}'^, 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 ray depend- 
 ents, but I excited in them a shrinking, half-contemptuous
 
 3G6 
 
 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 pity ; for this class of men and women are but slightly 
 determined in their estimate -of others by general con^ 
 sidcrations of character. They judge of persons as they 
 judge of coins, and value 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 bff 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 the hope that my 
 evident wretchedness would drive me to the commission 
 of suicide ; but suicide was not in my nature. I was 
 too completely swayed by the sense that I was in the 
 grasp of ur^known 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. Why 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 easy to live married and apart. 
 
 That course of our 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 
 other'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 herfd and heart throbbings, of 
 dread and vain wa-estling, of remorse and despair. We 
 learn words by rote, but not tlieir 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 fathei''s 
 — when Bertha appeared at the door, with a candle in 
 her hand, and advanced towards me. I knew the ball- 
 dress she had on — the white ball-dress, with the green 
 jewels, shone upon by the light of the wax-candle, wliich 
 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 library, which was my habitual 
 place, for months. Why did she stand before me with
 
 3G8 TUE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 the candle in lier hand, with her cruel, contemptnons 
 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 ray 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 I'm 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. 369 
 
 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 with 
 ill-defined images of candle-light scenes in her dressing- 
 room, and the locking up of something 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 the 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 was 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 rif^ht- 
 \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 society, 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 me in all these mighty 
 shapes — the presence of something unknown and piti- 
 less. For continual sliffering had annihilated religious 
 faith within me ; 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. 371 
 
 talk whicli is cnstomary between a husband 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
 
 872 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 for me. It was a visit from Charles Mcunier, who had 
 written me word that he was coming to England foi" 
 relaxation from too strenuous labor, and would, 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, which 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-a-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. He 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 
 score of his celebrity, and put forth all her coquetries 
 and accomplishments. Apparently slie 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-Ortete wanderings when 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 liis 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 tlic 
 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 was 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 accompanied 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 '-I'UK LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 woman's temper. I was the more astonished to observe 
 that lier ilhiess seemed a cause of strong soHcitnde to 
 Bertha ; tliat she was at the bedside night and day, and 
 would allow no one else to ofiiciate as liead-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?" 
 "Ko," he answered, "it is an attack of peritonitis, 
 which will be fatal, but which does not differ physically 
 from many other cases that have come under my obser- 
 vation. But I'll tell 3^ou what I have on my mind. I 
 want to make an experiment on this woman, if you will 
 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, witli 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
 
 THE 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 i'nsuperable 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 shall 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 Archer would not survive through 
 the night, and endeavored to persuade her to leave the 
 patient and take a night'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 uj) 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 woman has against her mistress, who is so de- 
 voted to her?"
 
 37G THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 " I tliink there was some misunderstanding between 
 them before her ilhiess. Why do you ask ?" 
 
 "Because I have observed for tlie 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 fire 
 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. 377 
 
 be done for her — she was no longer in a state to be con- 
 scious of an affectionate presence. Bertha was 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 were lifted no more. Once I looked at 
 Bertha as she watched tlie face of the dying one. She 
 wore a rich peignoir, and her blond 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, with 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 the agonies of a dying 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 Tllii LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 Meuiiicr 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 
 who had been present before. When they entered, 
 Mcunier 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, thafl think his senses would 
 have been closed against all sounds 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. AVith 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 :
 
 TIIK LIFTED VEIL. 379 
 
 "You mean to poison your linsband — 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, bnt 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?
 
 380 THE LIFTED VEIL. 
 
 Thero had been no witness of the scene in the dyiiig-- 
 rooin except Mennicr, and wliile Mennier lived liis lips 
 were sealed by a promise to nie. 
 
 Once or twice, weary of wandering, I rested in a fa- 
 vorite spot, and my heart went out towards the men 
 and women and children whose faces were becoming 
 familiar to me ; bnt 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 my double 
 consciousness, came again, and has never left me. I 
 know all their narrow thoughts, their feeble regard, 
 
 their half-wearied pity. 
 
 ii * * -» * •>5- -"- •:<- 
 
 It 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 the scene of my dying struggle 
 has opened upon me. . . .
 
 mm^ny of cAui^iiili 
 
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 Los Angeles 
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