Glenaveril, or The Metamorphoses :: :: University of Virginia Library

Glenaveril, or The Metamorphoses

By the Earl of Lytton

Lytton, Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton (1831-1891)

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GLENAVERIL;

VOL. I.

BOOK THE FIRST. THE ORPHANS.

BOOK THE SECOND. FATALITY.

BOOK THE THIRD. THE ALPS.

II.

VOL. II.

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I. VOL. I.

BOOK THE FIRST. THE ORPHANS.

CANTO I. DEATH.

I

Born on the day when Lord Glenaveril died
Was Lord Glenaveril; and the sire's last sigh,
Breathing a premature farewell, replied
To the son's first petitionary cry.
On that dim tract which doth two worlds divide
And yet unite, they passed each other by
As strangers, tho' each bore the selfsame name;
The one departing as the other came.

II

Life and Death darkly jostled in the door
That opes and shuts upon the days of man;
The sire had lived scarce thirty years before
The sireless son his orphaned life began.
That fragile ark in its small bosom bore
A race which else had perished, tho' its span
Was shorter than a cubit's when one bell
Rang birth and burial, welcome and farewell.

III

Long ere the child hath left its mother's knee
The web of the man's character is spun;
Those future paths, no living eye may see,
Ere life's beginning were by Fate begun;
And all the living do, and all they be,
Proceeds from what the dead have been, or done;
For Fate hath no finality on earth.
This is the story of Glenaveril's birth:—

IV

'Twas nigh the ending of the year and day,
And both in sombre golden splendour glowed;
October prone upon the hillside lay,
Down-drooping, half asleep, his fervid load
Of loosened fruitage; when along the way,
Full light of heart, a youthful horseman rode
With heedless hand, at rapid pace, not knowing
That Death, by chance, the selfsame way was going.

V

Youth, in its saucy certitude of joy,
Slights and offends, by noticing it not,
The sadness of that shrouded majesty
Whose unseen power is jealous when forgot.
The Austrian Gessler hung his bonnet high
Upon a pole in some conspicuous spot,
And bade the surly Switzer doff his own,
Passing the symbol of an unseen crown.

VI

A bidding easily obeyed! And yet
The rascals all refused to be polite,
Taking the invitation for a threat;
And that is why, perchance, the Swiss are quite
The most uncivil folks you ever met,
Even to this day. But Gessler's thought was right.
Tyranny's motto (learn it, young aspirant
To freedom!) is Memento. Death's a tyrant.

VII

Remember, and salute him, sons of clay!
Ave, te salutamus, Thanatos!
That horseman spied not Death upon his way,
And passed without saluting. Death was cross
To be so slighted by his natural prey,
And shook the rein with a resentful toss.
The steed beheld the spectre, swerved aside,
Rolled down the abyss,—and Death was satisfied.

VIII

This happened somewhere in a lone retreat
Of the Black Forest, yet not far from where
Fortune erewhile had fixed her favourite seat,
And round her nimble wheel, from here and there,
Her wandering devotees were wont to meet
In Baden Baden's pleasant groves, now bare
Of those gay crowds, those golden oracles,
And Monsieur Benazet's alluring spells.

IX

Here dwelt a widow, whose late-buried spouse
(A simple-minded Lutheran village priest)
Had left her with a living pledge of vows
To love and death twice plighted, unreleased
From ante-natal bondage in that house
Not made with hands: and in the mother's breast
Grief, like a grave that puts forth blossoms, smiled
Its timorous welcomes to her unborn child.

X

Three sons the Pastor's wife had borne him—all,
Before their father, had in childhood died;
So, from the past, four shadows seemed to fall
About the empty cradle Fancy tried
To fill with infant features augural
Of future joys to former hopes denied.
These deaths the dwelling of the widowed wife
Had left too large for her diminished life;

XI

But hither, homeward from the hot south, came
Glenaveril's new-wed Earl, and Countess fair,
The drooping sweetness of whose flowerlike frame,
That late had languished for its native air,
Here drew from breezes which, if not the same,
At least were mountain-born, fresh strength to bear
Those mystic agitations that prelude
The burthened bliss of coming motherhood.

XII

So here Glenaveril was content to stay,
The widow's tenant, till his wife had gained
Health to begin again the homeward way
To their own highlands. Women have retained
Better than men have, the original sway
Of nature's human instincts: unrestrained
By barriers that divide, and ranks that vex,
Theirs is the strong old commonwealth of sex.

XIII

To Eleanor Glenaveril all the pride,
The joy, the glory, the angelic bode;
To the lone human sister at her side
Only the care, the suffering, and the load,
Of that in which all women are allied—
The privilege upon their sex bestowed;
And her heart yearned to solace this poor dame,
Their lot so different yet their case the same.

XIV

So, when at last in one weak body strove
The powers of birth and death with one another,
'Twas Eleanor's sweet face that stooped above
The fatal childbed of the widowed mother,
And her soft voice that whispered words of love
And hope and courage. Man is not man's brother
As woman woman's sister: her vocation
Begins where ends his aid—with consolation.

XV

‘Sister, embrace thy son!’ the lady cried,
And held the infant to the mother's breast;
The dying mother, wanly smiling, eyed
Her little orphan: gratefully she pressed
The hand of Eleanor, and faintly sighed
‘Poor babe! 'twill be but an unwelcome guest
‘In its dead father's house when I am gone;
‘My life is ebbing fast. God's will be done!’

XVI

‘Nay, but,’ said Eleanor, ‘this child will be
‘Half mine, for I have helped it into life;
‘But thou must live to do as much for me
‘When comes mine hour.’ And, as the fond young wife
Thus to the future issued love's decree,
Love's doom fell sudden as the headsman's knife;
For thro' the hall below, with heavy tread,
Men bore the body of her husband—dead.

XVII

The famed physician, summoned that same morn
By Eleanor Glenaveril to the aid
Of her poor hostess, found the infant born;
The mother dead; Glenaveril's body laid,
A lifeless horror, in the hall; and torn,
Almost as lifeless, by her weeping maid
From where she had fall'n above it, his young wife,
Plucked by the pangs of labour back to life.

XVIII

Here the good doctor's skill was not in vain,
For Death's gorged maw had lost its gluttonous zest.
Reluctantly the nurse he brought had ta'en
The child of the dead woman to her breast
With superstitious protest, when again
Glenaveril's heir, another infant guest,
Claimed the unwilling hospitality
Of its hired shelter with a hungry cry.

XIX

Stoutly the churlish peasant's wife demurred
To this new charge. But that celestial
Patron of infants, good St. Francis, heard
The orphan's cry; and wakened in the hall
A hubbub shrill. Ere yet another word
The startled nurse could say, his burden small
The doctor thrust into her arms. ‘Stay there!’
He cried, and forthwith hastened down the stair.

XX

A curious figure at the foot of it
His sight surprised; a woman tall and thin,
On whose hard face time had in wrinkles writ
‘Old Maid.’ Firm jaws, high cheeks, decisive chin,
Keen nose, and eyes with frank defiance lit,
Guarded a face well fortified within
The deep embrasure of her bonnet vast,
A grim cyclopean relic of the past.

XXI

‘So, Sir! And who are you? And whose are these
‘Beliveried pert monkeys? Upon whose
‘Authority, whose orders, whose decrees,
‘My brother's widow's house do they refuse
‘To me, Sir, Martha Müller if you please,
‘Me who’—‘Alas, good lady, pray excuse
‘This sad reception which, if you were not
‘Prepared, no doubt’—‘Prepared, Sir! and for what?’

XXII

‘Did you not know, then, that Frau Müller’—‘Ay,
‘My brother's widow, well?’ ‘Her house had let
‘To a young English nobleman’—‘Not I!’—
‘Who with a grievous accident has met?’
‘But, Sir’—‘His lady lies in jeopardy
‘Of her own life’—‘But, Sir’—‘Nay, hear me yet,
‘I am my lady's doctor’—‘That may be,
‘Herr Doctor, but all this concerns not me.

XXIII

‘Which is the way, Sir, to Frau Müller's room?’
The doctor seized her arm. ‘Alas,’ he said,
‘This house, I told you, is a house of gloom.
‘Frau Müller was this morning brought to bed’—
‘Ah, and the child?’ ‘A boy.’ ‘Then I presume,
‘If she's asleep’—‘Asleep! take courage’—‘Dead!’
The woman cried. ‘I understand you now,
‘And—thank you, Sir. Forgive—my wits were slow.

XXIV

‘I thank you. Dead! Poor Mary!’ Down upon
The stair she sat. The doctor turned aside,
And both were silent for awhile. Anon
She rose erect, and muttered, as she eyed
The doctor keenly, ‘And the child? her son,
‘My nephew?’ ‘The child lives yet,’ he replied.
‘'Tis well. He lives and shall live!’ High she raised
Her hand, and murmured softly ‘God be praised!

XXV

‘Now let me see my nephew. Where is he?’
‘Dear Madam, stay awhile. Your nephew is’—
‘Be good enough, Sir, not to madam me.
‘Thank Heaven, I'm not married!’ ‘Then dear Miss—’
‘Müller, Sir. Martha Müller, as you see,
‘Hearty and hale; and, God be thanked for this,
‘A spinster—Grundbesitzerin, thank Heaven!
‘Residence, Stuttgard—age, Sir, forty-seven’—

XXVI

‘And therefore, Sir, well able to take care
‘Both of herself and nephew. Now, lead on!’
‘Wait, my good woman, wait! The little heir
‘Of Lord Glenaveril and Frau Müller's son
‘Fate has made foster brothers, and they are
‘Both with their nurse now; for I brought but one,
‘Not guessing’—‘Keep her!’ interrupted she,
‘My nephew's nurse from Stuttgard came with me.

XXVII

‘And in the porch outside she waits.’ ‘Indeed!
‘Then,’ said the doctor, ‘you and she were sent
‘By Providence to bless our special need,
‘For with the nurse that's here I'm ill content.
‘The woman has not wherewithal to feed
‘The two poor orphans this day's accident
‘Has cast together on her breast; and so
‘By your good help, Miss Müller’—‘Hold, Sir! no.

XXVIII

‘Neither my nephew, nor his nurse, nor I
‘Can here remain. I keep what I have got,
‘And that is no superfluous supply;
‘A wetnurse, Sir, is not a table d'hôte.’
‘Miss Müller,’ said the doctor with a sigh,
‘This is unfeeling.’ ‘No, Sir, it is not.
‘In all the world my brother's child has none
‘Now left to care for him, save me alone.

XXIX

‘Ho, Gretchen, here!’ And from the porch aglow
Came, coloured like a full-blown cabbage rose,
A peasant wench. ‘This gentleman will show
‘The way upstairs. But first take off thy shoes,
‘Not to disturb the poor sick lady. Go
‘Softly. The woman that hath got them, knows
‘Which child to give thee. Both of them are boys.
‘Follow, and fetch the babe, and make no noise.’

XXX

While the old nurse was handing to the new
One half her charge, the doctor heard a sigh
In the next room; and, entering softly, drew
The curtain, and stooped over tenderly.
The lady oped dim eyes of dreamy blue,
And vaguely smiled. Then, with a bitter cry
Remembrance rushed upon its prey, and grief
In a wild storm of weeping found relief.

XXXI

‘Weep, lady, weep! Those tears have saved your life;
‘They are the gift of Heaven,’ the doctor said.
‘Is it then true? all true?’ the wretched wife
Moaned, ‘and no dream? O God, that I were dead!’
‘My child,’ he sighed, ‘with pain and suffering rife
‘Are all the paths that human footsteps tread,
‘Yet each is thronged. But who could tread them, who
‘Their traveller be, without some end in view?

XXXII

‘Some by ambition, vanity, or pride
‘Are urged; and others, other ends allure;
‘Each follows to the goal a different guide.
‘And is, then, Grief more aimless, or less sure
‘Of its vocation? In your own confide,
‘For it is love's divine investiture;
‘A precious gift bequeathed you from the grave
‘By him to whom life's dearest joys you gave.’

XXXIII

Having said this, the doctor rose, and stole
Out of the chamber; but returned anon,
Carrying in his arms a little roll
Of flannel, lace, and linen. ‘See your son,’
He whispered, ‘and no longer doubt the goal!’
A little sudden cry, a plaintive one,
The babe put forth. The mother flung out wild
Wide arms, and to her bosom clasped her child.

XXXIV

'Twas then his master-stroke the doctor tried.
And, ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘you have the force
‘To nurse your babe yourself?’ The lady cried
‘And who but I should nurse him?’ ‘Then of course
‘This babe,’ the good man smiled, ‘will be both guide
‘And goal. Dear lady, love grants no divorce
‘'Twixt life and duty, while to life remains
‘Aught that upon its love one claim retains.’

XXXV

He left the babe and mother both asleep,
And waked the nurse. `Thou good-for-nothing slut,
‘Get up, and go!’ The nurse began to weep
And whine, ‘'Twas not my fault,’ she whimpered. ‘Tut!
‘Begone!’ ‘I could not tell—'tis hard to keep
‘One's head in such a place as this—I put
‘The cradle yonder, where I thought’—‘Enough!
‘Thy thoughts are stupid heartless fools. Be off!’

XXXVI

Then to himself, ‘How is all this to end?
‘And how am I to get away from here?
`If only I knew where to write, or send!
‘I cannot leave her by herself, poor dear,
‘In such a cemetery. Luck befriend
‘My wits, that know not for what port to steer!
‘Oh for some “Sessame,” to ope the door
‘Out of this deadlock! I can do no more.’

XXXVII

Hap-Hazard, that eccentric humourist,
The patron of adventures, nose in air,
Wanders the world where'er his whim may list,
And, without knocking, enters everywhere.
No man can either summon or resist
His intervention: but with prescience rare
All sorts of complications he scents out,
Either to solve, or else to bring about.

XXXVIII

The Saints disown him, nor his name admit
Into that Heavenly Army List of theirs
Where, in her Calendar, the Church hath writ
The names and ranks of all her officers;
For to no discipline doth he submit;
But in the conduct of this world's affairs,
(Tho' to exclude him all its laws were made,)
His meddling is incessantly displayed.

XXXIX

Now generous and gracious to excess,
And now morose and cruel, he delights
(Like brigands and marauders, who profess
To rectify Dame Fortune's oversights,
And all her inequalities redress)
In mixing up together wrongs and rights;
The sage he foils, instructs the simpleton,
Wins battles lost, and loses battles won.

XL

The unconscious crowd his hovering influence guides
To actions by its leaders never meant;
'Tis his incalculable vote decides
The wavering council. Now the innocent
His hand betrays, and now the guilty hides;
Doth here misdeeds provoke, and there prevent;
Admits the lover to the lady's house,
And then informs the unsuspecting spouse.

XLI

Guessing, no doubt, in that sad hermitage
'Twixt Death and Grief a foremost part to play,
This strolling actor of the world's wide stage
Arrived from Tübingen; whence all the way,
Clad in the garment of a German Sage,
The traveller had walked. Glenaveril's grey
Old valet crossed him on the garden path,
And cried ‘Thank Heaven, Professor Edelrath!’

XLII

A long lean man, bald, and a little bent,
Was Ludwig Edelrath, with luminous eyes.
Scarce more than forty years his life had spent
In innocently learning to be wise;
But of his science the serene extent
Embraced those famous forty centuries
That watched Napoleon's conscripts. To his sight
The past was present in a child's delight.

XLIII

For in this hospitable German mind
Together dwelt ideas old and new.
Those undisturbed disturbers of mankind,
That men and nations, for their prey, pursue,
From Greece, Judæa, Egypt, Rome, and Ind,
Collected here, were all exposed to view
Like wild beasts in a zoologic van,
Without the risk of injury to man.

XLIV

Homer, Gautama, Moses, Zoroäster
Conversed with him in their own tongue. His brow,
Bald, pale, and pure, seemed modelled by a master
In polished ivory; and, like the glow
Of veiled lamps lit in urns of alabaster,
Benevolence and wisdom shone below
So soft, that in their light young Love might sigh,
‘Could I grow old, as he looks so would I!’

XLV

He had contrived to reconcile the dead
Even in their deadliest feuds. Without demur,
His heart wore, now the White Rose, now the Red,
On equal terms with York and Lancaster.
Peloponnesian politics he read
As if they were as new as the last stir
Of those innumerable spoons that keep hot
The storm in Modern Europe's social teapot.

XLVI

Young infants fain would feed on all they see,
With lips still faithful to a mother's breast:
A full-grown child was Edélrath; and he,
Whose growth his growing tenderness caressed
As growing ivy clasps a growing tree,
So vast an appetite of love possessed
That in his heart he crammed man's world, and man,
As in its mouth a child puts all it can.

XLVII

Thro' coloured crystal seen, the gloomiest ground
Looks golden; so to him looked human nature.
Ramses the Great a charming soul he found,
The little Prince of Detmold a grand creature;
For him even Auguste Comte became profound,
And Victor Hugo modest. Some fine feature
His keen capacity of love detected
In every object on his mind reflected.

XLVIII

And these discoveries filled him with delight,
Such as Professor Ehrenberg, they say,
Was almost overcome by at the sight
Of his first favourite infusoria.
But what, then, were the links that could unite
This traveller, from the ages rolled away,
And that young widowed mother? 'Tis a tale
That lifts from vanished years another veil.

XLIX

Returning from his Indian Government
Fired with the love of Hindu literature,
Henry, Lord Orchester, at Bonn had spent
A summer, sipping from the Sanscrit lore
Of the famed Bopp; who to his votary lent
A teacher he himself had trained to store
The scattered wealth of his own aftermath;
His favourite pupil, Ludwig Edelrath.

L

And Orchester and Edelrath, the lean
Gaunt Student, and the study-loving Peer,
In spite of all disparity between
Their age and station, having passed a year
Together, roaming thro' the rich demesne
Of Hindu Legend, became friends so dear
That more than all his kin, save one, in truth,
The Norman patron loved the Saxon youth.

LI

That one was his own daughter, the sole child
And darling solace of his widowed years.
Full well the little Eleanor was skilled
In every winning grace that most endears
Childhood to Age. The Saxon youth, beguiled
From his loved Sanscrit slokas, with hushed ears
Heard something in his soul begin to stir,
Murmured ‘Sacòntala,’ and worshipped her.

LII

A difference of age and rank, a face
Or form too homely to inspire romance,
In close relations may suffice to place
A man still youthful, and a girl perchance
Whose childhood hovers with a lingering grace
Upon the verge of womanhood. A glance,
A tone, at any moment might destroy
This insecure serenity of joy;

LIII

And yet it lasts. In all its force profound
A deep affection, greatening, still remains,
Like Ocean, faithful to its own vast bound.
The shallow streamlet, swoll'n by sudden rains,
O'erflows its narrow banks, and all around
Submerges in its course the neighbouring plains.
But the great sea that voice divine obeys
Which to its storms ‘Thus far, no farther,’ says.

LIV

And so the years slid quietly away,
And nothing happened to divert or fret
The course of those three lives, until one day
An unexpected change of Cabinet
Recalled Lord Orchester once more to pay
That never-wholly-liquidated debt
Which, ever and anon, from men whose names
Are linked with politics, their Party claims.

LV

To Public Life Hernani's fatal horn
Belongs: and woe to him who once hath done
To that cursed horn's possessor a good turn!
Past services perchance, but these alone,
The persecutor now and then may scorn
To recollect; but never any one
That's capable of doing service yet
Doth that relentless creditor forget.

LVI

The fatal horn now startled unawares
The halls of Orchester; and he again,
Obedient to its call, resumed the cares
Of office. Edelrath at Tübingen
Fit refuge found among the learnèd chairs
Of that famed seat of study: and these two men,
Assiduous correspondents for awhile,
Absence with friendship strove to reconcile.

LVII

But visits first, then letters, rarer grew;
Until (like folk whose homestead, field and fold,
Ascending floods have overwhelmed) the two,
As wider and more wide between them rolled
Life's rapid waves, found fewer and more few
The points of common interest, that uphold
A sinking intercourse, still unsubmerged
In the swift current that between them surged.

LVIII

And from those peaks and headlands of the past
They signalled to each other in distress:
‘It seems a century since I got your last
‘Long-wished-for letter’—‘I must plead the press
‘Of business under which I write in haste’—
‘I trust that some time, during the recess,
‘We may be able’—‘I have been unwell’—
‘Excuse this brief reply. No news to tell’—

LIX

Et cætera! Was this, then, the decay
And dissolution of affection? No.
Out of the corn-seed disinterred to-day
From Pharaoh's tomb, where centuries ago
'Twas buried, life hath never passed away;
Harvests unreaped lurk in it. Even so,
Tho' sepulchred in absence, sympathy
Lives a suspended life and cannot die.

LX

At length there came to Edelrath, whose three
Last letters had remained unanswered still,
From his two friends in England, just when he
Had half begun to look for tidings ill,
News of a marriage that was soon to be
'Twixt Eleanor and Lord Glenaveril.
He mused ‘A fine alliance! But what makes
My mind mistrustful of the thoughts it wakes?

LXI

‘Glenaveril? a noble name, too! why
‘So sinister the sound of it to me?
‘Ah, I remember! Many a year's gone by
‘Since first I found in that strange pedigree
‘Facts that confirmed a theory which I
‘Once played with—and my notebook, let me see,
‘I must have kept it’—Then he searched, and took
Down from a rummaged shelf a little book:

LXII

A book of manuscript, in leather bound,
And labelled thus—‘Glenaveril: curious case
Of death from violent causes, sometimes found
Hereditary in a single race.’
It was a record that might well confound
Fate's most inveterate mocker. Red, from place
To place, from age to age, from man to man,
The long hereditary bloodstain ran.

LXIII

Many an old Glenaveril, sire and son,
Had fall'n in savage clan or border feud:
Others at Acre or at Ascalon
Had Painim swords with Christian blood embrued:
Some in the Stuarts' cause had gaily gone
To Hanoverian scaffolds: some at lewd
And brawling feasts when swords, in wine, were crossed
Had perished for a wager, or a toast.

LXIV

One young Glenaveril, in Childe Harold's train,
Had been at Nauplia the first to fall:
One upon Waterloo's historic plain
Had found a soldier's death and burial:
One had in grim Mahratta war been slain:
One in a hurdle race was killed: but all,
As if the victims of some weird command,
Had come to violent ends by sea or land.

LXV

The scholar fell into a reverie.
Where in this series of untoward events
Hereditary causes could one see?
Yet there the facts were. What are accidents?
A causeless accident there cannot be.
And what excludes transmitted influence
From such a series? Character is fate;
Men's dispositions do their dooms dictate.

LXVI

Who dies in battle must to battle go,
Nor are they drowned at sea who stay on shore.
The course of these reflections, in its flow
From one conjecture to another, bore
The wandering fancy of the scholar so
Completely back among the days of yore,
And all the dead Glenaverils, that he quite
Forgot the letter he had meant to write,

LXVII

Congratulating Lady Eleanor
Upon her live Glenaveril's luckier lot.
But, ere the letter she still waited for,
Came one from her, which he had waited not.
No grim Glenaveril ghost, premonitor
Of coming griefs, had warned his heart of what
This letter told. For she had been a bride
Scarce one short month before her father died.

LXVIII

Fresh from that father's grave, and scenes made dim
By the dear memory of his good grey hairs,
Glenaveril took his weeping wife with him
To those soft shores where sweet Sorrento rears
From sapphrine deeps her emerald diadem,
And still the Siren's song, thro' scented airs.
Lulls with delightful spells the tideless sea
In whose embrace sleeps blue Parthenope.

LXIX

The day this letter, by the tears of two
Twice blotted, (his who read, and hers who wrote)
Reached Tübingen, the Sanscrit lecture, due
That morning, a mysterious little note,
Patched to the college lecture board, withdrew.
A learnèd man may from the Vedas quote
The saws of sages and the songs of seers,
But Wisdom never yet stopped Sorrow's tears.

LXX

There be three hundred different ways and more
Of speaking, but of weeping only one;
And that one way, the wide world o'er and o'er,
Is known by all, tho' it is taught by none.
No man is master of this ancient lore,
And no man pupil. Every simpleton
Can weep as well as every sage. The man
Does it no better than the infant can.

LXXI

The first thing all men learn is how to speak,
Yet understand they not each other's speech;
But tears are neither Latin, nor yet Greek,
Nor prose, nor verse. The language that they teach
Is universal. Cleopatra's cheek
They decked with pearls no richer than from each
Of earth's innumerable mourners fall
Unstudied, yet correctly classical.

LXXII

Tears are the oldest and the commonest
Of all things upon earth: and yet how new
The tale each time told by them! how unblessed
Were life's hard way without their heavenly dew!
Joy borrows them from Grief: Faith trembles lest
She lose them: even Hope herself smiles thro'
The rainbow they make round her as they fall:
And Death, that cannot weep, sets weeping all.

LXXIII

With thoughts that overflowed in tears, away
The gentle scholar hastened, to the side
Of her whose second father from that day
He never ceased to be. Glenaveril vied
With Eleanor in response to the sway
Of this quaint, innocent, eccentric guide
Philosopher and friend. But, weeping still,
He gazed bewildered on Glenaveril;

LXXIV

And on his gaze weird visions rose and rolled.
Adown the Chiaja clattering, grim and wroth,
Rode the Black Douglas. In the distance tolled
A passing bell. With folds of sable cloth
The balcony was, like a scaffold, stoled.
Fierce crowds below it waited, nothing loth,
The opening of some hideous spectacle
Announced beforehand by that passing bell.

LXXV

‘What is the matter?’ noticing the fear
In her friend's eyes, said Eleanor; and he,
‘For heaven's sake tell me, ere the rest I hear,
‘What may his lordship's occupation be?’
‘That of a man, the noblest and most dear,
‘Who loves your little Eleanor,’ laughed she.
‘Ah, but—is he a soldier?’ ‘No, thank heaven!’
‘A sailor, then?’‘Nor yet a sailor even.’

LXXVI

‘A sportsman?’ ‘Oh, field sports he cannot bear!’
‘But hunting, racing, steeplechasing?’ ‘Yes,
‘Thro’ picture galleries, and after rare
‘Editions of engravings.’ ‘Then God bless
‘His chase!’ laughed Edelrath. Into thin air
His visions vanished. All his cheerfulness
Returned. The dread Glenaveril ghosts grew dim,
And shook no more their ‘gory locks’ at him.

LXXVII

Before the three friends separated, they
Agreed to meet in Germany, and make
A tour thro' the Black Forest. But one day
Glenaveril wrote to Edelrath, ‘Forsake,
‘O Shepherd Sage, thy flocks on Himelay,
‘And hasten here to Baden, for the sake
‘Of Eleanor; whose state forbids, I fear,
‘Our further progress. We await you here.’

LXXVIII

Hence the Professor's pilgrimage: and hence
His fortunate arrival at the gate
Of that drear house; altho' no warning sense
Of his loved lady's miserable state
His steps had hastened. It was Providence
(The name man's gratitude bestows on Fate
When she, so often cruel, shows contrition)
That managed this most timely apparition.

LXXIX

The old servant, he had greeted with a nod
Of ignorant gladness, led him to the hall
In ominous silence; there, with feet unshod,
Crept to the bier, and plucked away the pall
That hid the dead man's face. ‘The curse, O God,’
Groaned Edelrath, ‘hath fallen after all!’
And back he reeled with an instinctive cry,
‘Glenaveril—violent death—fatality!’

CANTO II. CHILDHOOD.

I

There is a Hades, the unblessed sojourn
Of spirits not departed, who await
A signal to go on, or to return.
Athwart the obscurity of that dim state
Voices and visions float from either bourne,
Vague and confused; and the disconsolate
Spirit, from life half loosed and yet not free,
Knows not which world the nearest world may be.

II

There, each surrounding scene, each neighbouring face,
Glimmers uncertain thro' a shadowy veil;
And faint as echo from a distant place
Falls every sound. Long in that dolorous dale,
Where thro' the twilight of sensation pace
With muffled steps, and shrouded features pale,
The phantoms of realities, lay still
The soul of Eleanor Glenaveril.

III

An infant voice, the voice of her own child,
To human life recalled her. She obeyed
Its bidding, and with a compliance mild
Resumed the load by love and duty laid
Upon a patient tenderness that smiled
Only thro' tears. But close beside her stayed,
Soothing her sad life's solitary path
To its lone goal, the faithful Edelrath.

IV

Back to the vast domains, whose lord was now
A cradled infant, she had wished to take
The widow's son with hers, and bring the two
As brethren up together, for the sake
Of the dead mother; but no prayer, no vow,
And no persuasion, could avail to shake
The resolution of the maiden aunt,
Whose ‘yea’ and ‘any’ were made of adamant.

V

To Edelrath, who had to Stuttgard gone
Charged to deliver Eleanor's request,
‘No, Sir,’ she said, ‘Emanuel is the son
‘Of a poor German Pastor who addressed
‘His blameless life (which had no fault but one,
‘That it was all too brief, alas!) with zest
‘To serving God. As did his father, so
‘Doth it behove Emanuel to do.

VI

For that high task one life sufficeth not.
‘Its due accomplishment must be ensured
‘By an inheritance of virtues, got
‘From generations that have been inured,
‘Fathers and children, to the humble lot,
But high vocation, that of yore allured
‘The first beginner of a saintly line
‘Of men devoted to its claim divine.

VII

‘My brother's life was all too short for this.
‘The son must finish what the sire began.
‘And Providence hath in that boy of his
‘A miracle vouchsafed us. What a man
‘The child will be! Just look at him! He is
‘An infant Samson, born to lead the van
‘Of Israel to battle, undismayed
‘In these bad days when Faith herself's afraid.

VIII

‘Not one of his dead kindred equalled him,
‘Not at his age (how bravely built and stout
‘The little body stands!) in strength of limb.
‘The generations, that seemed half worn out
‘Before his birth, like sleeping Cherubim
‘Were only resting; and, with force no doubt
‘By sleep refreshed, concentrated at length
‘In one brave effort all their gathered strength.

IX

‘Yet I am not ungrateful. You may tell
‘The English lady that I thank her, Sir,
‘Both for myself, and for Emanuel;
‘And tell her, too, how much I pity her.
‘But she is young. Long may she live, and well
‘Watch over her own boy! He is the heir
‘Of a great name and fame; and he, too, hath
‘Traditions to preserve, Herr Edelrath.

X

‘May he grow up a gallant nobleman,
‘The pattern of what nobleness should be!
‘My nephew and adopted son, Sir, can
‘Never be more, nor ever less, than he
‘Was born to be: a good Samaritan,
‘To lift up Faith, and heal her wounds, when she
‘Faints by the way; or else her oracle,
‘Filled with the voice of God, like Samuel.

XI

‘Farewell! I thank the lady for her kind
‘Intentions to the boy. And I thank you,
‘Herr Edelrath. I have a grateful mind,
‘Tho' I've an independent spirit too.
‘And you have that about you I'm inclined
‘To like at once. I think you, Sir, a true
‘Good man, and to be trusted. And I'm glad
‘You've come to see me, and my little lad.’

XII

Edelrath, notwithstanding his defeat,
Respected Mistress Müller's honest pride.
The young Emanuel's image left a sweet
And bright impression on his mind. He sighed,
Comparing the abundant life that beat
In that young Teuton's babyhood, bold-eyed,
And nimble-footed, with the drooping grace
Of the last scion of Glenaveril's race.

XIII

Baptised in tears, and by a mother's groans
Greeted to life and sorrow, this lone child
Was all the more beloved. The pleading moans
Of Ivor's plaintive infancy beguiled
Grief to soft response, mimicking Joy's tones.
Upon her babe the weeping mother smiled
With widowed eyes; and, sombre as regret,
Hope hailed a promise that recalled a threat.

XIV

The babe lived on, grew up, became a boy;
About his being felt a mother's love
Sweetened by sadness; learned to look for joy
In tear-stained eyes, and thro' the hushed house move
With uncompanioned steps, whose echoes coy
Scared not the sensitive quietness above
Floors that were haunted by the shadow of death,
Where Mirth in whispers spake with bated breath.

XV

Dwellers in boreal regions by the pole
Call twilight day, and know no other light:
Like theirs, there is a twilight of the soul
Where, as a polar sun, by day and night
Tho' pale, yet beautiful, throughout the whole
Of its dim summer beaming darkly bright,
A love that sets not thro' a shadowy air
Shines on strange flowers that only blossom there.

XVI

Such blossoms in young Ivor's childhood grew.
The solitary child contèmplated
Shadow and depth undaunted. Well he knew,
By some wise instinct in his being bred
From griefs not his, that heaven's transcendent blue,
Dazzling the hawk's eye on the mountain's head,
A sweeter and serener glory takes
Reflected from the bosom of dark lakes.

XVII

Some childhoods are there, that impatient pass
Into life's sewer of common cares, almost
As rapid as the rinsings of a glass
Down from the garret to the gutter tossed
By some wild Magdalen, whose midnight mass
Is a libation to the unlaid ghost
Of her slain innocence. Where such drops fall
No blossoms spring. The gutter takes them all.

XVIII

Others there be whose days are drops of dew
That softly, droplet after droplet, sliding
From flower to flower, in sheltered peace pursue
Hushed grassy courses; all their sweetness hiding,
Till from its silent growth a rivulet new
The woodland wins, along whose wavelets gliding
On sun beams, and on moonbeams, fearless elves
Under dim forest leaves disport themselves.

XIX

And there's a beauty that demands the light,
Bursting, like glory from the battle plain,
Full-blown. A whole world's homage is its right;
The sun is not solicited in vain;
He shines to be admired; from alpine height
To height, from shore to shore, from main to main,
The god goes radiant, gilding, as it rolls,
Each wave between the Indus and the poles.

XX

But oh, that beauty born beneath the veil,
The Isis of the heart! By many a fold
Its mystic vesture tells the silent tale
Of charms that eyes profane may not behold:
Whilst to its own appointed priest the pale
Composure of the sacred image, stoled
In sweet repose, if ruffled not, reveals
The secret it from all beside conceals.

XXI

Lift not the veil! Divined in silence, leave
The beauty hid beneath its holy hem!
Poësy, Childhood, Faith, Love, Passion, weave
(Like the wise moth, ere round the rose's stem
With wavering joy his budded winglets heave)
O'er them a mystery that shelters them
From the rude touch, and the inquisitive eye;
Lift not the veil; but worship, and pass by!

XXII

Thirteen still summers slumbrous in the shade
Of agèd oaks, whose dusky boughs were green
Ere yet the first Glenaveril's sword had laid
Its lordly rule upon their rich demesne:
Thirteen hushed winters in dim halls arrayed
With the heraldic banners of thirteen
Glenaverils: thirteen happy hidden years
Of all that childhood loves, and love endears:

XXIII

And then, one evening, in a quiet hour
When o'er her somnolent autumnal bed
The sweetness of the wasted lily-flower
Drooped, in the dewy twilight, a wan head,
The pensive smile that lit that lonely bower
Softly became the smiling of the dead;
And Eleanor, Glenaveril's Countess, slept
Once more by him whose loss her life had wept.

XXIV

They laid the mother in the father's grave:
They hailed the orphan, head of all his race:
O'er leagues of woodland, and by lengths of wave,
The boy beheld his feudal rule embrace
A hundred vassal homes: himself the slave
And lord of that high solitary place
Above them all, which linked, from sire to son,
The lot of many with the life of one.

XXV

The death of Eleanor Glenaveril
Left Edelrath her child's sole guardian.
Her dying prayer implored him to be still
The guide of Ivor's boyhood: and (so ran
The fond injunction of her husband's will)
To him, in preference to all the clan,
Was given, until the boy became of age,
The management of his wide heritage.

XXVI

And now, remembering a long-nursed intent
Of his dear lady (in whose faithful heart
Each unforgotten face and incident
Of her brief wifehood had become a part
Of one supreme, sustaining sentiment
That found a sort of sweetness in the smart
Of the sharp memories it was pastured on)
His thoughts reverted to the widow's son.

XXVII

So to Emanuel's aunt he wrote. Ere now
Letters he had exchanged with her. He said
Ivor was suffering from a cruel blow:
The Countess of Glenaveril was dead:
His wish, like hers, was that the boys should know
And love each other: by which motive led,
Ivor and he were now upon their way
To Stuttgard, for perchance a lengthened stay.

XXVIII

The announcement of this project much delighted
That agèd maiden. That the heir of wide
Domains and ancient titles, uninvited,
Should come from his own country to abide
In Stuttgard for her nephew's sake, excited
And flattered greatly her plebeian pride;
Which, had Emanuel first from Stuttgard wended
To visit Ivor, would have been offended.

XXIX

For every sentiment is more or less
Mixed with another in the heart of man;
And in the sentiment of lowliness
There lurks a secret vanity. This plan
Appeared to Mistress Müller to redress
An inequality of birth, and span
A gap which, thus got over, left to pride
A little balance, all on her own side.

XXX

Nevertheless the prudent spinster deemed
That when her nephew's star into conjunction
With Gemini was coming, it beseemed
The occasion she should preach to him with unction
A homily; wherein what she esteemed
Her knowledge of the world performed the function
A pinch of salt does in a strawberry ice,
Of spoiling something naturally nice.

XXXI

‘Emanuel,’ she said, ‘remember now
‘That a young, rich, arìstocrat is he,
‘And but the child of lowly parents thou.
‘You will not, either of you, feel or see
‘This difference between you (that I know)
‘So long as boys and playfellows you be:
‘For between boys, if boys with boys be friends,
‘The intercourse on sentiment depends.

XXXII

‘But bear in mind, my nephew, bear in mind
‘Thou and this young Glenaveril will be men
‘A few years hence: for thou anon wilt find
‘That between one man and another, when
‘Their stations differ in degree and kind,
‘Even sentiment is regulated then
‘By that which, if a man thro' life would pass
‘Respected, bids him cling to his own class.

XXXIII

‘And as thy father's was, and as ere then
‘Thy father's father's, so is thy career
‘A simple village pastor's. Honest men
‘And women, born in the same humble sphere,
‘Loved and revered them, as in thee again
‘The same folk the same virtues will revere.
‘Their lot to them sufficed; and unto thee
‘Sufficient also must thine own lot be.

XXXIV

‘In other spheres hath young Glenaveril's lot,
‘'Mid other folk, by other fates, been cast.
‘Respect thyself, dear child, that he may not
‘Cease to respect thee. In the days long past
‘I, too, was young’—She paused, and one bright spot
Of sudden colour flushed and flickered fast
Thro' the grey quiet of her withered cheek,
And her eyes softened, and her face grew meek.

XXXV

‘Yes, I was young, and had my trials too.
‘I might, by yielding to the generous prayer
‘Of one above me born, have lost the clue
‘Which, kept, (thank God!) hath aided me to fare
‘Thro' life, lone woman tho' I be, still true
‘And loyal to the lowly name I bear
‘Without a blush. The right and power to guard
‘From harm thine orphaned youth, are my reward.’

XXXVI

And, as with moistened eyes she murmured this,
The stern old veteran of virtue bent
Above the boy's fair forehead, with a kiss
Whose grave caress was such a rare event,
And fraught with so much more of awe than bliss,
To him it seemed a solemn sacrament.
Then, with a sigh that haply to the dead
Some message bore, ‘Be brave, my child!’ she said.

XXXVII

But, like snow castles in the sun, all these
Cold fortresses by Pride and Prudence planned,
The warmth of Ivor's nature by degrees
Melted away. No heart could long withstand
The charm of his unconscious power to please;
And the first captive to its soft command
Was the old dame herself. Against her will
Her bosom yearned to young Glenaveril.

XXXVIII

A doctrinaire in sentiment, who held
That all affections must perforce obey
Some principle or precept, she rebelled,
Albeit in vain, against the insidious sway
Of this instinctive fondness that up-welled
Spontaneously, in a mysterious way,
From depths disturbed by some new sense of beauty
Owning no source in reason or in duty.

XXXIX

‘What is this blue-eyed cherub from above
‘To me, or I to him,’ the old lady sighed,
‘That I should waste on him a wealth of love
‘By not one claim of kinship justified?’
Her pride against this new affection strove,
And the affection that subdued her pride
She grudged her heart, as housewives grudge their house
Some dainty deemed by thrift superfluous.

XL

It vexed her that from her well-guarded store
Of tenderness the stranger's child had won,
In one short month, without an effort, more
Than to the claim of her own brother's son
Nature and duty had vouchsafed before.
Excuse for this injustice found she none
In reason: but mysterious sympathies
Lurked in the light of Ivor's wistful eyes.

XLI

As if to right the balance thus set wrong,
An instinct just as unaccountable,
By some inverse attraction no less strong,
Drew Edelrath towards Emanuel:
Not to the loss of that affection long
To Ivor given; but with a livelier spell
That spoilt his cherished theories, because
It seemed to contradict all natural laws.

XLII

‘'Tis strange,’ he mused, ‘the more that I compare
‘The characters of these two boys, the more
‘Inexplicable to my mind they are.
‘Hard is it Nature's mysteries to explore,
‘And this seems one of those exceptions rare
‘To her fixed order, that confound the lore
‘Of the biologist, who must admit
‘He cannot penetrate the cause of it.

XLIII

‘Here, from a race of peaceful shepherds springs
‘A little warrior, born to rule and fight;
‘And there, from a long line of warrior kings
‘Comes forth at last a peaceful shepherd wight,
‘Meek as a lamb. What freak of Nature brings
‘Such miracles about, transcending quite
‘The jurisdiction of her own decrees,
‘By gathering laurel crowns from olive trees?’

XLIV

Albeit the gentle optimist was well
With Nature's eccentricities contented.
‘For Heaven,’ thought he, ‘ordained this miracle
‘That hath to the Church Militant presented
‘A champion bold in young Emanuel,
‘And in our Ivor's milder vein prevented
‘Renewal of the curse whose horror still
‘Haunts the red records of Glenaveril.’

XLV

Such was the situation of these four
Constituents of a chance-made family.
Won by a charm she never felt before,
The hard old daughter of the Bourgeoisie
In noble birth found much to praise, and more
To love. So great is the capacity
Of adaptation that discretely dwells
In all imperishable principles!

XLVI

Emanuel who, tho' by nature gay
Gallant and frank, had in the solitude
Of his chilled childhood missed the ripening ray
By sympathy diffused from souls imbued
With its caressing warmth, now day by day
In Ivor's loved companionship renewed
The ever-growing consciousness of joy
That fills the first fresh friendship of a boy.

XLVII

And Edelrath, whose own youth, vowed too soon
To study, ne'er before had known the bright
Vivacity of boyhood, this late boon
Enjoyed vicariously in the delight
Of those young hearts. With his ripe afternoon
Their fresh morn mingled; and, in time's despite,
Their boyhood gave its youth to warm the sage
Whose love, to light their boyhood, gave his age.

XLVIII

Ivor himself, the vivifying sun
Of that small universe that round him moved,
Giving to each what each most wanted, won
From all in turn the love his nature loved:
Adventurous with Emanuel; anon
Studious with Edelrath; and, as behoved,
To the old aunt so tenderly he bore him,
She found herself beginning to adore him.

XLIX

Thus the two boys, like brothers, hand in hand
Wending the selfsame path, and side by side,
Youth's frontier reached; whence that untravelled land,
The Future, opens, and the ways divide.
The management of half a county, spanned
Superbly by Glenaveril's Earldom wide,
Recalled to England once in every year
The presence of its guardian and its heir.

L

Ivor, on these occasions, would not quit
Emanuel: and so, with Edelrath
And him, Emanuel went. ‘No help for it!’
The old aunt sighed. ‘That little wizard hath
‘Bewitched us all, and we must needs submit.’
But great was her bewilderment and wrath
When letters she from Edelrath received
Recording feats her nephew had achieved:

LI

What famous sport at Orchester he had:
How well he looked when mounted on his filly,
In scarlet coat and leather breeches clad:
How at Glenaveril Castle every gilly
Would go thro' fire and water for the lad:
And (here the old maid's very soul grew chilly
With horror) how up strath, and glen, and crag,
That future village pastor stalked the stag.

LII

Her perturbation was in part relieved
By Edelrath. With ardour he explained
The Christian muscularity achieved
By England's Church; whose Clergy thus maintained
In strength robust the doctrine they received
From Wittemberg. But his success sustained
A serious check the moment she caught scent
Of certain plans on which his mind was bent.

LIII

His wish, and Ivor's was (the truth to tell)
That, as the agent for Glenaveril, he
Should be succeeded by Emanuel;
And that, meanwhile, Emanuel should be
Trained for the duties he appeared so well
By nature fitted to discharge. But she
Listened to these proposals as, they say,
Ulysses listened to the Siren's lay.

LIV

‘A false position,’ she replied, ‘destroys
‘The truth of character. The boys are friends,
‘And that is well. So long as they are boys,
‘Friends let them be. But friendship's charm depends
‘For all its graces, and for all its joys,
‘Upon complete equality; which ends
‘With childhood. The equality of men
‘Is but the dream of childhood come again;

LV

And they who dream it, tho' their beards be grey,
‘Are babes who into second childhood fall.
‘No disrespect to you, friend, by the way!
‘Your childhood you have ne'er outgrown at all,
‘And you are just as much a child to-day
‘As you were forty years ago. I call
‘Such childhood quite another sort of thing.
‘But I, a born old maid, to old age cling.

LVI

‘Your pupil's course you from your heart dictate.
‘But, by your leave, my head guides mine and me.
‘The boys are nearly come to man's estate;
‘And, if they are to enter on it free,
‘'Tis best for both that they should separate
‘Till each becomes what each was born to be:
‘Ivor, the lord of all Glenaveril;
‘Emanuel, God's servant, if God will!’

LVII

How many generous ideas ere now
Good Sense, with its stout truncheon, hath struck down!
It takes them for illusions; and we know
Good Sense spares no illusions but its own.
Sentiment aims too high, and Sense too low:
Between them both the ball of life is thrown
Wide of the mark, and never hits it fairly:
Genius alone sees just, and that but rarely.

LVIII

Edelrath, possibly, had judged aright,
But in his judgment he lacked faith. The scheme
Of Mistress Müller was erroneous quite;
But Error never doubts. All men who seem
Convinced, we should mistrust with all our might.
The danger from such persons is extreme,
Because all those who of their own have none
By other men's convictions are undone.

LIX

And so the dame's uncompromising will
Prevailed; and all things as she wished them went;
Alone to Oxford went Glenaveril,
Emanuel to Tübingen was sent.
That she had done her duty she was still
Convinced when, one year after this event,
Emanuel she sent for, blessed him, sighed
‘Now let thy servant part in peace!’ and died.

LX

Her will survived her: and it was decided,
In deference to the wishes of the dead
Who had for this contingency provided,
That not till after three full years were fled
Ivor (whatever chance to each betided
Before the stipulated time was sped)
Should with Emanuel hold the least relation,
Or seek, in aught, to alter his vocation.

LXI

For her belief had been that, to the path
Of safety bound thus far, Emanuel
(Equipped for battle with the sons of Gath)
Would, of his own accord, decline to dwell
Among the tents of Kedar. Edelrath,
Assured that with his pupils all was well,
To Heidelberg retired, until the last
Of those probationary years was past.

LXII

But o'er the separated friends he still
His fatherly, tho' distant, watch maintained.
They from the least evasion of the will
Of the dead woman loyally refrained.
So to Emanuel and Glenaveril
Only the memories and the hopes remained
Of their old union. But still hope is strong,
And memory still is sweet, while life is young.

LXIII

O Youth, O Childhood, fugitive angels you,
That, once gone back to Heaven, return no more!
In vain our hearts invoke you to renew
The joys that followed you: in vain implore
The bounty of a single bead of dew
That perished with you from our paths before
We knew you gone. The only dew that wets
Those pathways now, falls there from vain regrets.

LXIV

Regrets that, while you lingered here below,
We knew not that you would so soon depart:
Regrets that you are gone: regrets to know
That you will come no more: regrets that start
To life at every backward glance we throw:
Regrets that cling to the discouraged heart,
When all the joys that smile on later years
Lost youth's memento mori fills with fears.

LXV

O Heaven! to have been young, and all youth was,
All we have felt and cannot feel again,
Still to remember, and to find, alas,
That the remembrance of lost joy is pain!
'Tis ever drinking from an empty glass.
Better the full glass broken, than the vain
Importunate wild cravings, that caress
With pining lips its perfect emptiness!

LXVI

Fall in the fresh delight of victory,
Young warriors! In your bridal garments dressed,
On your death biers, young virgin brides, go by!
Perish, young infants, on your mother's breast!
And you, in love's first kiss, young lovers, die,
Dreaming of beauty still to be possessed!
Let earth, thro' you, whose bliss no memory mars,
Send up one happy message to the stars!

LXVII

Say to them, you, ‘O wistful stars, down there,
‘Hid in the depth of night's primæval dome
‘From your bright eyes, that seek her everywhere,
‘Happiness dwells. From her abode we come.
‘There have we seen and known her; and we bear
‘This message of the earth, her human home,
‘From star to star, thro' all your shining mists
‘Of suns and planets, “Happiness exists!”’

LXVIII

Why do the stars with such reproachful eyes
Search all the dismal avenues of night?
What questions that admit of no replies
Come trembling to us on their plaintive light?
‘Alas,’ they seem to say, ‘earth's look belies
‘The tidings carried in their heavenward flight
‘By those young messengers she sent us. Yes,
‘They sung to us of earthly happiness—

LXIX

‘What have you done with it? Where is it? Who
‘Are its possessors? Yonder man, that glides
‘Down the dark alley stealthily, below
‘His cloak gleams something that he grasps and hides,
‘But can it be his happiness? Ah, no!
‘Hark! thro' the sleeping house what harsh sound grides
‘I’ the shuttered dark? Doth happiness emit
‘That sullen cry? or is it the centrebit?

LXX

‘Is it for happiness dark hands explore
‘Those rummaged coffers? Is it happiness
‘Yon woman, hovering by the half-shut door,
‘On every passing stranger strives to press?
‘Who are earth's happy ones? and where their store
‘Of undiscoverable earthly bliss?
‘Lurks it beneath the lids of eyes that keep
‘Its stolen treasures only while they sleep?’

LXXI

What to such questioners can we reply?
Is all earth's happiness a heartless boast?
Is it not lest the legend of earth's joy
Should all too soon become a legend lost,
That in their unsuspecting youth they die
Who still believe in it? And we (sad host
Of mourners!) hide our griefs, and whisper low,
Lest them, and it, our voice should disavow.

LXXII

For who would blast what those young lips have blessed?
Or who the promise they proclaimed belie?
For their sakes, Sorrow, in thine aching breast
Stifle the vain involuntary sigh!
For their sakes, Misery, be thy groans suppressed!
And smile, Old Age! Lo, as thou limpest by,
Along the hedge the honeysuckle flings
Her frolic blossoms, and the linnet sings!

CANTO III. THE WORLD.

I

‘O England, O my Country!’ These are not
The last words spoken by the lips of Pitt;
And that's unlucky, for the words have got
A fine grandiloquence that seems to fit
Lips so sententious. I've been told that what
Was really said (but I'll not vouch for it)
By that great man before death closed his eyes
Was ‘Bring me one of Bellamy's veal pies!’

II

But howsoe'er that be, O England, O
My Country, canst thou, unashamed, recall
All thou hast lived to lose without a blow,
And gain without a blush? Slav, Teuton, Gaul,
In turn deride thee, while the meanest foe
Thy menace mocks: and how ironical
Sounds History's voice when she records thy praise
Of that ‘August Ally’ of other days!

III

Praise, till he fell! Then, wast thou first to preach
The sanctimonious sermon o'er his doom;
Proclaiming all his sins, and damning each;
Tagging the moral to the dead man's tomb;
And still too dull to see thou didst impeach
Less the foiled gamester than the fawning groom
Of his good fortune, who first shared the pelf,
Then called ‘Police!’ and slyly hid himself.

IV

O England, O my Country! Is thy sun
Sunk in a fogbank bred from its own heats?
O land of Nelson, and of Wellington,
The prowess of thine armies and thy fleets
What now attests? Vain victories, soon as won
Repented and renounced—the smouldering streets
Of Alexandria—and the dead that still
Lie unavenged upon Majuba Hill!

V

Dupe of thy Sadducean policy,
That owns no spirit, trusts no future state,
Lives for the hour, and with the hour shall die!
Fortune plays fairly, and doth ne'er checkmate
Nations, or men, without the warning cry
Of ‘check!’ first given—tho' often heard too late.
But thou, long since, from east and west hast heard
(O be it not in vain!) that warning word.

VI

O England, O my Country! far and wide
The nations ask what hath become of thee,
And why thy sons repent their fathers' pride
In thy renown. What can we answer? We
Who, to protect it, have been forced to hide
Thy sullied flag! Must this the answer be?
‘Tho' rich, not proud, 'tis our especial merit
‘To join a full purse to a lowly spirit.

VII

‘What boots an empire to our burdened isle?
‘Or why retain a sway that's too extensive,
‘And costs, at least, a farthing every mile?
‘Soldiers and ships are horribly expensive.
‘At all who scoff we can afford to smile,
‘It costs us nothing to be inoffensive,
‘To avenge offence would cost us much, and still
‘We serve the gospel when we save the till.

VIII

‘Repose is gained with every province lost;
‘Let other nations boast that they are growing
‘Greater and stronger, be it still our boast
‘That we remain the richest and most knowing!
‘Our trade's the largest, and our wealth the most,
‘And while our mills and furnaces keep going,
‘And our free mart invites even foes to stock it,
‘Our pride is where it should be—in our pocket!’

IX

O England, O my Country! And hast thou
No nobler creed than ever to forsake
The feeble, fawn upon the strong, bestow
Base blessings on each upstart power, and shake
A coward's fist at every fallen brow?
Degenerate land, beware! The storm may break
On thee thyself, when skies seem most serene,
And find thee friendless—as thy friends have been!

X

Themistocles once boasted he knew how
A small State to convert into a great,
But, with less effort, our new statesmen know
How to convert into a little State
A mighty Empire. And this science now
By skilled adepts, whom none can emulate,
Is nightly taught us at that National
And Public School near Westminster's old Hall.

XI

Glenaveril, as became a youthful peer,
To whom the privilege, tho' grudged, is given,
His place upon its benches took. And here
Each afternoon, from half-past four till seven,
Inhaled the soporiferous atmosphere
Of those Elysian Meadows smooth and even,
Wherein the lordly leaders of the State
On its affairs till dinner-time debate.

XII

His station on that Bridge of Sighs he chose
(The short Cross Bench) that spans the narrow space
Between the hostile armies led by those
Last veterans of the old illustrious race
Of English Oligarchs: and, as they rose
To right and left, from this impartial place
He viewed (as, in the play, Mercutio views)
The rival Capulets and Montagues.

XIII

What stately form, in that historic hall
Now rising as the expectant cheer ascends,
Stoops the swayed outline of its stature tall,
And o'er the box upon the table bends
Brows weighty with stored thought about to fall
In unpremeditated speech, that blends
Slow-gathering forces in its wavelike swell?
Behold Cæcilius, and observe him well!

XIV

For not yet by the influence or the power
It hath attained can this chief's greatness be
Completely gauged. 'Tis growing still. His hour
Is not yet come. A force mysterious he,
By friends and foes but half-divined. A tower
That, high above their heads, beholders see
Looming aloft in cloudy solitudes:
Their course it points, but their approach eludes.

XV

Times low and little—the blind craft which loses
A cause to catch a vote—the artifice
That stoops to conquer—the sly speech that glozes
Meanness with solemn plausibilities,
Or the loud rant that upon crowds imposes—
Need not such men. Them, dunces deem unwise,
And cowards rash. But by such men alone
Great times are guided, and great deeds are done.

XVI

Let the times ripen—let the hour arise
When, from the grim inevitable crash
Of all the smooth deceits and pleasant lies
Men still deem safe, bewildered by the flash
Of knowledge known too late, they lift scorched eyes,
And stretch lamed hands to seize—not truthless trash,
But rescue from it—then, and then alone,
Thy worth, Cæcilius, shall be fully known!

XVII

Tho' born the scion of a House that boasts
Historic title to its rich domains,
Long while about the obscure and bitter coasts
Of that bleak land where Want's chill winter reigns,
The hardest labourer of those struggling hosts
Who daily dig for bread its stubborn plains,
His sad youth toiled; and from its toil hath wrought,
To enrich his manhood, treasures dearly bought.

XVIII

Treasures of deepened thought and widened life;
A well-stored memory and a ready wit;
Prone to reflection, yet inured to strife,
Alike for study and for action fit;
An English heart with high-born ardours rife;
Fervid as Fox, but national as Pitt;
And, for that cause, mistrusted by a time
When to be national is deemed a crime.

XIX

Philosopher and Paladin in one;
The soldier's courage, and the sage's lore;
A searching intellect that leaves no stone
Unturned on any path its thoughts explore;
A rush of repartee that, not alone
Dazzles, but scathes—like lightning flashing o'er
The loaded fulness of a brooding mind,
Scornful of men, but studious of mankind.

XX

Observe his mien. Above the spacious chest
The large Olympian forehead forward droops
Its massive temples, as if thus to rest
The crowded brain their firm-built bastion coops;
And the large slouching shoulder, as oppressed
By the prone head, habitually stoops
Above a world his contemplative gaze
Peruses, finding little there to praise.

XXI

And, as the outward, so the inward man,
Larger and loftier than are other men,
To meet their level must contract its span,
And stoop its height. Weak followers, now and then,
While fearless strides the chieftain in their van,
Lag in the rear so far behind that when
The victory else were won 'tis lost at last,
Because the baggage-waggons have stuck fast!

XXII

As when (ah, woe the day!) with dauntless zeal,
To save Hibernia's garrison, he drew
His trenchant blade, and his proud clarion's peal
To the Freebooters' Camp defiance blew,
What checked the hand? Why sank the lifted steel?
A murmur thro' the host behind him flew,
The baffled chief obeyed the muttered word,
‘And in the sheath, reluctant, plunged the sword.’

XXIII

But lo! where, lifting now his polished shield
To parry darts shot straighter than his own,
The supple Glaucus, smiling, takes the field:
Evades the point, with deprecating tone
Of well-bred wonder noble lords should yield
To doubts unworthy of reply: smiles down
The unanswered charge: from old Whig history quotes:
And wards off arguments with anecdotes.

XXIV

Supremely skilled to plead whatever cause
The most excìtes aristocratic fears
Before arìstocrats, and win applause
For tones that never once offend their ears;
The awful schedules of subversive laws
He cheerfully explains to shuddering peers,
And chats along, serene, complacent, gay,
Thro' bills whose clauses take your breath away.

XXV

Fine type of that fine world before the Flood!
Wherein the attributes of statesmen were
An intellectual sublimate of Good
Society; whose light elastic air
They breathed with every breath into their blood!
Statesmen to whom the State was an affair
Of tact and taste, and public life a staid
Decorous game by well-bred persons played!

XXVI

Gifted with every charm of social grace
That to ability can reconcile
The envy of that influential race,
The slow and dull, is Glaucus. With a smile
And tap he splinters battle-axe and mace;
Does all with ease; and sets on fire the Nile,
Or rides 'cross country, with the same address,
Which ne'er betrays a moment's awkwardness.

XXVII

Glaucus, a pure Patrician to the bone,
Serving Plebeian masters coarse and rough,
Seems all misplaced, as some fine Parian stone
At Smithfield used to prop a cattle trough!
Doth Misery make strange bedfellows alone,
When Glaucus, trained in arts polite enough
For the fine conduct of a Court Intrigue,
Drapes in brocade the fustian of the League?

XXVIII

But hush! while yonder amiable bore
Fumbles the dismal Blue Book's dog-eared page,
His gentle eyes for drowsy texts explore,
And the House slumbers, thro' what seems an age,
Till all his melancholy task is o'er,
Gaze we around this oratoric stage,
And mark the actors waiting to come on;
For ere 'tis dinner-time they'll all be gone.

XXIX

Manly, yet courteous, bold, but debonair,
Gallus, even ere he rises, seems to smile
With lips so frank, and such a hearty air
Of English courage, that his looks meanwhile
Both welcoming friends and wistful foes prepare
For his straightforward onset's gallant style;
A style that most from feeling wins its force,
And is, like Cæsar's, action in discourse.

XXX

Ill was the chance that, in its direst need,
From the main body of the host, which he
Beyond all others seemed so fit to lead,
This dashing soldier called away, to be
A wandering ghost on an Elysian Mead!
With what exploits of genial chivalry
Would he have cheered the sullen troops that now
Droop, waiting trumpet notes which never blow!

XXXI

Grave with each grace, mere speakers cast aside,
Of natural eloquence, by art refined
To periods that majestically glide
Like some Greek chorus,—from the bench behind
His wincing friends, Argyllus soars in pride,
And the hushed House forgets it has not dined;
While even admiring foemen feel his spell;
Let no dog bark. Behold Sir Oracle!

XXXII

With what solemnity of purpose flow
Denunciations from that fluent tongue!
Like royal horses in a coach of show
The stately gestures bear the speech along,
Step finely out, and move extremely slow.
A coach so gorgeous, drawn by steeds so strong,
For common use seems all too grandly made;
But how superb, on field days, for parade!

XXXIII

Caught from some school that else hath left no trace,
His eloquence recalls a loftier day:
And, had he then been in ‘another place,’
He might have braved, in some historic fray,
Burke's mighty sword, sustained with classic grace
Windham's skilled fence, rebuked the sprightly play
Of nimble Brinsley's pertinacious wit,
And breathed again tho' felled to earth by Pitt.

XXXIV

From those who forge, to those who wield our laws,
Turn where the cheer around the woolsack rings
While, crashing down on some ill-fated cause,
The massive mace of Caius sternly swings
Its ponderous strokes; which yet expose no flaws
In his own mail, that round the giant clings
Close rivetted with links of finest steel;
Links that no crevice to the foe reveal.

XXXV

Roused to reply, scholastic Sylvius see!
Sedate, deliberate, and severely mild;
Half priest, some hint; but all alike agree
Whole lawyer! With what learning undefiled,
(From Papist and from Puritan to free
The Church so cherished by her faithful child)
Had he but lived when our Sixth Edward died,
He could have argued law itself aside!

XXXVI

He lacks not fire, but 'tis a fire subdued;
Warm in defence, yet in attack well bred;
Calm, but not tame; in earnest, but not rude;
His speech, ingenious, leaves, when all is said,
If little that can fix the attitude
Of wavering minds to Party votes unwed,
Yet much that, in its influence, pleases friends,
And nothing that even foes rebuked offends.

XXXVII

But to Glenaveril all this stately scene
Looked dreamlike and devoid of real life,
As those phantasmal combats waged between
Heroic ghosts in Hades. From a strife
So noiseless, in a region so serene,
Oft strayed he down to where, with scalping knife
And tomahawk, more savage foemen fight
Their barbarous battles all the livelong night.

XXXVIII

And there, the sad spectator of the fray,
Its progress with a pensive pain he eyed;
To him it seemed one vast insane display
Of wasted power, and passion misapplied.
Yet, in this motley mannerless array
Of rufflers, move the men whose names with pride
Their country cherishes; and here abides
The wisdom that o'er England's fate presides.

XXXIX

Who, rising yonder, from firm lips unlocks
Words, like chained bulldogs chafing for release?
What front pugnacious! Doth he rise to box?
The Saints be thanked, your natural fears may cease!
Tho' fierce of heart as Sefton's fighting cocks,
His creed is Penn's, and his vocation Peace.
Those sturdy fists may not assault your nose,
And words must vent the instinctive wish for blows.

XL

Big words they are! If Balbo's lore be small,
Large is his utterance, and his language strong.
With what fierce bile his blows about him fall!
What stripes the stout fanatic deals the throng
Of those who, unconverted by his call,
Presume to hold his doctrine in the wrong!
He should have lived when Lenthal filled the Chair,
And led the Saints to war as well as prayer!

XLI

A later, leaner, demagogue behold
In envious Casca. Scorning argument,
His manner of persuading is to scold;
His mode of proving, to misrepresent;
By no restraints of courtesy controlled,
His words the rancour of a lifetime vent;
And, if the art of speech be to provoke,
Far better Casca speaks than Tully spoke.

XLII

More ignorant than Balbo, and with less
Redeeming faith in his own ignorance,
But better fitted to achieve success
In the rank game that's played for the main chance
By those political Macaires who guess
Each card in packs they've shuffled in advance,
Because impelled by more sustained ambition
For power, upon no matter what condition;

XLIII

Abhorring all who in men's reverence stand
Above him (and how many such there be!)
Exhausting earth's grudged dignitaries, and
Embracing Heaven's, in that abhorrence, he,
With scarce one other talent for command,
By matchless menace hath attained to be
The secret despot of a Cabinet
That dare not disregard his faintest threat.

XLIV

See, where, to cheer him from the lower hall,
His minions round the gangway congregate!
Great is their zeal, altho' their number small;
And theirslife's strongest motives—Hope, and Hate;
Hope of what ne'er hath been, and hate of all
That still is left of what were Church and State,
Each, of some revolution in the air,
A mimic Marat, or a mock Robespierre!

XLV

Alas, that lost in such a brainless brood
Sophronion's philosophic soul should be!
Can Platos be by Cleons understood?
Fastidious zealot, dost thou dream to see
The world reformed, with neither blows nor blood,
On some ideal pattern planned by thee,
When statecraft, changed to science in the schools,
Shall build republics by enlightened rules?

XLVI

That world moves slowly, but moves all the same;
Tho' ne'er, Sophronion, hath it kept the tracks
Thy dreams dictate. 'Twere better for thy fame
Hadst thou been born when Hampden braved the tax,
Eliot the Tower! In Freedom's cause and name
Thou wouldst have doomed the Stuart to the axe,
On Cromwell's ear have Vane's Reform Bill urged,
And—from the House by Colonel Pride been purged!

XLVII

Hibernia's fame Triptolemus sustains,
(‘Her old good humour and good manners too’)
When English sense from Irish wit obtains,
In his discourse, an animation new;
Fleet as Camilla's steed he ‘scours the plains,’
Cheers on the hunt with lusty view halloo!
And tho' he rides with weight, as 'tis well known,
Takes every leap, yet never yet was thrown.

XLVIII

The rostrum now Historicus ascends.
Fighting to him, for fighting's sake is dear;
And if, at times, his style your taste offends,
It charms to lusty life a Party cheer.
With Hansard tingling at his fingers' ends,
He rates the House, and yet the House cries ‘Hear!’
Such verve, such gusto, and such lively force!
The whole so clever! Must one add—so coarse?

XLIX

What fails his eloquence? It is not wit.
His jokes are pregnant, and his sneers are smart.
It is not strength. ‘A hit, a palpable hit’
In every sentence! 'Tis what fails the art
Of the praised actor who, to please the pit,
Provokes its laughter, but lets down his part,
Winks at his audience while he slaps his fob,
And turns Charles Surface into swaggering Bob.

L

Hist! who comes next? The Wizard of Finance!
Whose spell on Budget Nights each bosom thrills
Beneath a charm that turns to bright romance
Bank Charters, Consols, and Exchequer Bills;
The Sugar Duty, or the Trade with France,
Your soul, by turns, with fine emotion fills;
And squires, who tearless bore the fall of rents,
Weep for the perils of the Three-per-Cents.

LI

With what a choice variety of play
The gesture pleases, as the utterance warms,
While changing looks the changeful thoughts obey!
So would Quinctilian have composed his arms,
And so Hortensius might have paused to lay
Finger on palm, ere some new sentence charms
The listening ear with periods rich, that rise
In tones intensely dotting smallest ‘i's’!

LII

With what electric light the dark eye glows!
From lips still placid with a smile urbane
How smooth the long elaborate prelude flows
With what a rapture of sublime disdain
The quivering frame the inward passion shows!
Yet, ah!—what memories in the mind remain
Of this grand stage play, when the show is o'er?
Vox et præterea nihil—nothing more!

LIII

Burke, Fox, Pitt, Chatham, Canning, Brougham, and Peel,
All put together—by mere force of speech
Could no such faith inspire, nor fan such zeal,
As those to whom Grandævus loves to preach
(Devout as Ghazis!) in his preaching feel.
Yet this great orator's orations, each
And all, we search, and search in vain, to find
Aught of the smallest value to the mind.

LIV

Not one new truth, not one deep thought, not one
Original fancy, or profound remark!
No gleam of wit that sheds new lights upon
Old commonplaces! not a single spark
Of genius, or creative power! When gone
The living voice, we wander thro' a dark
And tedious labyrinth of words, that say
Nothing the thankful mind can bear away.

LV

The man himself, a Chillingworth in creed;
Not his the mind that in its own deep well
Finds Truth, and, trusting her still voice, doth need,
To guide his steps, no noisier oracle.
To-day stout oak, to-morrow bending reed,
According as the wind may sink or swell;
To him the weathercock's a heavenly force,
And its loud rattle regulates his course.

LVI

Men of far-reaching action are born seers,
And their intelligence is in their eyes;
That of the vulgar crowd is in its ears;
Not light, but sound, the guiding force supplies
To its blind brain. It goes by what it hears;
And, since to it the noisy seem the wise,
It dreads the thunder-clap, forgetting quite
That 'tis the lightning only that can smite.

LVII

Yet great his gift, whom multitudes of men
With shut eyes follow, shouting to the sound
His mouth emits, and dancing blindfold when
Its strains they hear: and, were it only found
With insight and true statesmanship, who then
Would wish that gift ungiven? But gaze around!
Where'er this shepherd's pipe his sheep hath led,
The paths with ruin and disgrace are spread.

LVIII

Confusion, and dismay, and wrath, and shame,
And death, and doubt, and pain, and tribulation
Are in the cup he ministers. The name
Of a once glorious and magnanimous nation,
To him entrusted, hath been bathed in blame,
And made the byeword of humiliation.
Still to prolong his shameless shameful hour
Of personally comfortable power,

LIX

Loosed, o'er a land betrayed, hath treason been,
To run, unreined, its sanguinary course;
Victims the noblest, to appease obscene
And senseless idols, slain without remorse;
And all the while, with self-admiring mien,
And throat with self-congratulation hoarse,
Soaked in his country's blood, yet blushing never,
He boasts, and bawls, and babbles on for ever!

LX

And hath it come to this (ye gods, to this!)
The sad beginning of the end of all
Free States,—when their most trusted leader is,
Not he that can do best, whate'er befall,
But he that can talk most? Adown the abyss
Of some vexed crater, whence perpetual
Rumblings resound, and rank miasmas rise,
Glenaveril seemed to gaze with sickened eyes.

LXI

His German training spoilt his English life;
He could not catch the brisk enthusiasm
Of those around him. Paltry seemed the strife,
And mad the combatants. With no sweet spasm
Of emulous pride he to their fluttering fife
And rattling drum responded. A drear chasm
Of hopes, and loves, and faiths, unsatisfied,
Him from the world he lived in did divide.

LXII

Not wholly for the public cause alone,
Do public men on public life bestow
Such passionate patientness. But he had none
Of those ambitions that, in youth's fresh glow,
The love of fame, or power, enkindles. Won
By dead men's hands, and his without a blow,
Was all that Boyhood, eager to begin
Its combat with the world, aspires to win.

LXIII

Fair was the prospect, but it failed to please;
The spoils were his before the field was fought;
And, tho' his soul disdained unwishful ease,
He strove with no man, for he wanted nought.
Not his the rapture of tired hands that seize
The poorest prize with passionate purpose sought.
Man's life, if awed, is charmed, by the unknown:
This awful charm was wanting to his own.

LXIV

Yet powers were his which might, perchance, have won,
(Had foes opposed him, or harsh fortune tried)
The goal surrendered ere the race was won:
Nor lacked his wit fine instincts oft denied
To Fame's slow pilgrims who, by plodding on,
Fulfil the dreams of that Parental Pride
Which wafts Young Hopeful on a mother's prayer
To Selborne's woolsack, or the Speaker's Chair.

LXV

And Youth has sweeter hopes, and fairer dreams,
Than those which politics can satisfy;
Its natural, and its best ambition seems
To love, and to be loved. A glancing eye,
A glowing lip, can fill with rosy gleams
Of beauty the most leaden-coloured sky
In life's first dawn; and Ivor's young heart yearned
With love's vast longings. Were they unreturned?

LXVI

Not by the Season's lovely débutantes!
All London's marriageable maidens smiled
Like ministering angels on the wants,
Still unavowed, of Fortune's thankless child.
Each beauteous bosom's sympathetic pants
Would all too willingly have reconciled
That lonely heart to the afflicting weight
Of the vast wealth it seemed to find too great.

LXVII

A thousand fond maternal souls conferred
A kind anticipative parentage
Upon the orphan. The good creatures purred
With pride in offering to his tender age
Their trusty counsel; while a heavenly herd
Of Houris hovered o'er the opening page
Of his young life, and all their wistful wings
About it fanned with amorous whisperings.

LXVIII

He might have married, had he felt inclined,
The lively Lady Adeline Adair;
No prettier brunette could Cupid find
Unwed between Belgravia and May Fair.
He might have wooed, nor found the maid unkind,
The beautiful Miss Spence, whose golden hair
Was rippled by the little Loves that heave
Entangled in sweet curls they cannot leave.

LXIX

And there were Lady Betty, Lady Jane,
And Lady Susan, jealous, for his sake,
Of that pert fairy, Clementina Vane;
Whose known vocation was to undertake
(With a good nature nothing could restrain,
Nor yet reïterated failure shake)
The amorous education, night by night,
Of each new Season's latest neophyte.

LXX

A richer prize than all, he could have won
The great Scotch heiress, Maud McLeod, whose face
And form might challenge fair comparison
With those of Manchester's Teutonic Grace.
Moulded she looked to sit superb upon
The rock-hewn throne of some heroic race,
A warrior queen, with helmet, spear, and shield;
Tall as a Walkyr, blue-eyed as Criemhild!

LXXI

But had she been, in these mild days, the bride
Of some pacific chief whose deeds are done
By means of words, she could have boldly vied
With elder rivals in the race still run
To snatch that sceptre once so deftly plied,
When thou wast still, lamented Palmerston,
The darling of the Fashion and the State,
By thine incomparably social mate!

LXXII

What hosts, for his support, would she have brought
To man, or storm, the Ministerial trenches!
What ardour breathed into those battles fought
About St. Stephens—for a change of benches!
With what a zest would her sweet lips have taught
The proper means to rid the Thames of stenches,
Or check the increase of beggary and beer,
And prove that soldiers cost a deal too dear!

LXXIII

And she could dance and flirt the livelong night,
Yet keep the rose still fresh in her young cheek;
Discuss the style of Milton's prose with Bright,
Or rally Gladstone upon Homer's Greek.
Wedded, she would have been a social light
Whose guidance Fashion had been forced to seek,
Or, Lowe's gay Pyrrha, ruled ‘that pleasant cave,’
And won Whig hearts from sprightly Waldegrave.

LXXIV

In ceremonial hours so stately she,
That all averred she was extremely fit
For an ambassadress: yet could she be
The soul of frolic when she fancied it;
Serious enough, with Stanhope after tea
To criticise the character of Pitt;
Lively enough, to laugh at Osborne's jokes,
And bet with young St. Leger on the Oaks!

LXXV

Gaily the stiffest ground she galloped over;
And on her little stage performed all parts
With equal grace; could awe the boldest lover,
And coax the shyest vote; invade all hearts,
Nor ever let her own heart's motion move her
An inch too far: for hers were Dian's darts,
Tho' Venus bound them in her zone together,
And Cupid winged them with his warmest feather.

LXXVI

Nor was it only each unwedded maid
That smiled upon Glenaveril. Matrons fair
To him in confidential tones betrayed
The disappointments they were doomed to bear
From conjugal neglect; with sighs displayed
The rents a young consoler might repair
In ravaged hearts, and hinted a regret
That they so late had their ideal met.

LXXVII

What spell withheld him from the paradise
That opened round him wheresoe'er he went?
Why gazed he with such welcomeless surprise
On those fair fruits so eager to present
Their unforbidden beauties to his eyes?
Alas, the cause of all his discontent
Was that Content had nothing left to crave
When Pleasure whispered ‘Only ask, and have!’

LXXVIII

'Twas this indifference which had saved perchance
The boy's unvalued birthright from the pot
Wherein sly Jacob puts the inheritance
Of reckless Esau, when the brew is hot,
And Thriftless Hunger craves ‘a last advance.’
But tho', like Esau, in his envied lot
Unenviably small was his delight,
Glenaveril lacked stout Esau's appetite.

LXXIX

'Twas not a soul whose sweets the world had wasted,
No heart it was, by sated passion chilled,
That left on Life's large banquet board untasted
The cup by Fortune for her favourite filled:
His boyhood's blossom no spring frost had blasted,
No canker gnawed: yet May's blithe breathings thrilled
But feebly its pure petals that reposed
In pensive peace round childhood's dreams, half closed.

LXXX

To all the affections of his life's brief past,
The loves that with his growth began and grew,
His nature clung, tenacious to the last;
He missed the comrade of his youth. No new
Endearment o'er Emanuel's image cast
Effacing spells. And now, as nearer drew
The time for their reünion, life seemed brought
To a glad pause on that one pleasant thought.

LXXXI

And here awhile will I, too, pause, to plead
My right of calling every spade a spade.
I wish each knight would saddle his own steed
Whene'er the Press proclaims its next crusade.
Men's virtues should not on men's vices feed:
But counterfeited feeling's now a trade
That all compete in. Who can say (not I!)
This Age's signature's no forgery?

LXXXII

Meek Maiden Love, what art thou nowadays?
‘Discrete attention to the eldest son!’
Filial Affection? ‘Debts my dad defrays!’
Parental Love? ‘The brat is twenty-one!’
Philanthropy? ‘A company that pays!’
Virtue? ‘Denounce the deeds by others done!’
Religion? ‘Force your clamorous catechism
‘On John and Joan, or else proclaim a schism!’

LXXXIII

Nothing is what it calls itself. And I
Myself am not a Cato, tho' I dare
Assume the Censor's office. Ask you why?
Being an honest Sinner, I can't bear
Fictitious Saints. ‘But Heaven,’ says Samuel Sly,
‘Is looking on, our dealings must be fair!’
'Faith, my wise friend, if Heaven be in the matter,
You'd best deal fairer, but you'll grow no fatter!

CANTO IV. THE COMPACT.

I

Now came that sweetest month of all the year
Ere Autumn's sigh hath Summer's smile effaced.
The seasons with the seasons interfere:
Spring chases Winter, and in turn is chased:
Winter too often, ere the leaf be sere,
Rich Autumn's treasuries ransacks in haste:
And in the midst of Nature's civil strife
The year begins and ends its troubled life.

II

Its calmest hours are in the month that blends
Summer with Autumn, when the glow of one
To the cool quiet of the other lends
A hushed voluptuous charm. And now was done
The long probation of the severed friends;
Emanuel to Heidelberg had gone,
There in Theology to graduate;
And there Glenaveril's coming did he wait.

III

Of old, some dozen leagues the traveller went,
And, having travelled, he arrived at last;
To-day he traverses a continent,
Yet neither travels nor arrives; tho' fast
Across the world he flies, securely pent
In a snug cage, with pause for brief repast
At intervals, in places that remind him
Exactly of the places left behind him.

IV

Europe exists no longer. In its place
Are railway stations. Watches supersede
Geography, and Time has swallowed Space.
‘Two hours!’ That means plain, mountain, moorland, mead,
Lake, river, sea-coast, valley, forest, chase,
Cathedrals, castles, cities. 'Tis agreed
To call this fiction's finish an arrival,
Tho' 'tis departure's horrible revival.

V

Give up your tickets, and your passport show,
Be pushed about a platform up and down,
Then, bag and baggage, off again you go,
Omnibussed darkly thro' the sleeping town,
Reach your friend's house past midnight, when you know
The family's in bed, and to your own
Creep sick, and sad, and tired, to sleep away
The recollections of a joyless day!

VI

But in the luxuries of sentiment
Glenaveril was an epicure, and he
Had so arranged, that the long-wished event
Of his reünion with his friend should be
Graced and surrounded, to his heart's content,
With all appropriate influences, free
From the fatigue, confusion, and disgust
Of those who meet, not as they would, but must.

VII

He and Emanuel on a certain day
And hour, 'twas settled, were again to meet
Upon the ruin-crested summit grey
Of Heidelberg. And now, with pausing feet,
Emanuel wound his solitary way,
Near sunset, up the mountain road, to greet
The three-years-absent comrade of a time
Dim-glimmering seen thro' Memory's misty clime.

VIII

He pressed his heart, and sighed ‘What ails me here?
‘Why lags my foot when every step brings nigh
‘The hour so wished-for, and the friend so dear?
‘Why do I shrink and hesitate? and why
‘So sinks my heart within me? Is it fear?
‘Yes! fear to find no more what memory
‘So long hath cherished, fear to find no more
‘The youth I knew, the friend I loved, of yore,

IX

‘But, in his dear and gracious semblance dressed,
‘Some stranger. I am changed, and why not he?
‘What feelings chase each other thro’ my breast,
‘And yet not one of them what it should be!
‘To fear succeeds, not faith, but an unblessed
‘And faithless curiosity. Ah, me!
‘Sufficient is one sovereign sentiment
‘To fill the heart with a divine content.

X

‘Why suffers it, about its simple throne,
‘A tribe of courtiers that prescribe to it
‘The regulated course of every one
‘Of its own acts? What suitors to admit,
‘When to give audience: when to be alone,
‘And whether silence or discourse be fit
‘To each occasion, as it comes, until
‘They leave it nothing of its natural will.

XI

‘Oh, to love ignorantly, stupidly,
‘And blindly, caring not (whate'er it be)
‘To know, or understand, the reason why!
‘Not asking Duty first to guarantee
‘This impulse, Gratitude to certify
‘That other, Prudence to safeguard Joy's free
‘Improvident path, and Justice to approve
‘The reckless liberality of Love!

XII

‘When all things change around us, why persist
‘In striving to fix firm and fast forever
‘That which of all things is the changefullest,
‘A sentiment? Vain is the heart's endeavour
‘The flux of its own feelings to resist;
‘Wave upon wave, flows by the fleeting river,
‘And what clings fastest to the bank, anon
‘We soonest lose: for we ourselves go on.’

XIII

But time was not vouchsafed him to pursue
This self-analysis. A whirlwind warm
Of hugs enwrapped him, staggered, blinded, blew
His wits about in such a sweet alarm
Of doubts rebuked, that nothing more he knew
Than that he felt thro' every pore the charm
Of being loved; an inarticulate joy
No chill reflection lingered to alloy.

XIV

Hand clasped in hand, not heeding where they went,
This way, and that way, all beatified
And breathless in a bright bewilderment,
The two friends walked, and talked, and laughed, and cried,
Questions, too rapid for reply, gave vent
To a delight that, in its haste, replied
To questions yet unasked; and both replies
And questions were but stammering ecstasies.

XV

When evening fell, and over vale and grove
And river, slowly reddening, sank the sun,
With farewell signal from the fort above
Saluted by a solitary gun,
Together seated in the dim alcove
Of a small hillside garden, overrun
With Autumn's scarlet creeper, they at last,
Into coherent conversation passed.

XVI

To greet the arrival of the wished-for time
With honour due, Glenaveril had broached
A flagon old of golden Rudesheim:
And, while its genial influence encroached
On the reserve that clings, like morning rime,
To all unwonted joys, he thus approached
The subject which, tho' long deprived of speech,
Had occupied for years the thoughts of each.

XVII

‘Dost thou remember, my Emanuel,
‘The promises we pledged to one another,
‘On that sad morning of our last farewell?
‘Then we were children, both of us, my brother.
‘Children we are no longer, but—ah well,
‘We still are young enough to mourn a mother!
‘Our choice in life upon ourselves depends:
‘But one thing both must choose—to still be friends!

XVIII

‘I know not yet thy projects—Hush! anon
‘We will discuss them—But, whate'er they be,
‘There's one condition I insist upon,
‘They must not separate my friend from me.
‘Nay, speak not yet! I have but half begun
‘What I have waited years to say to thee.
‘Save when on some assured affection based,
‘Life drifts like sand by every wind displaced;

XIX

‘And hence it was man's earliest act on earth
‘To build a hearth, and found a family;
‘But we, the heirs of an unfamilied hearth,
‘Have nothing to hold on to, but the tie
‘Fate hath between us woven from the dearth
‘Of all life's other bonds; and that is why,
‘If this tie snaps, our loosened lives must fall
‘Asunder, lacking any tie at all.

XX

‘Marriage? Ah, yes—across an unknown sea
‘A voyage of adventure to find out
‘An unknown world! And which of us may be
‘Its Christopher Columbus? For no doubt
‘We cannot all be fortunate as he.
‘Better the world that we know all about!
‘Sweeter the paths that to the past are true,
‘And dearer the old faces than the new!

XXI

‘Moreover, marriage is youth's tomb, they say;
‘And who would bury youth ere youth be dead?
‘Our own is in the blossom of its May,
‘And on its branches still the buds are red.
‘Enough! The fate that took so soon away
‘Those who might else thy steps and mine have led
‘By paths perchance diverging far and wide,
‘Hath left us free to travel side by side.

XXII

‘And left us, also, in misfortune shared,
‘One common heritage; a constant one,
‘Whose equalised effect hath half repaired
‘The wrong by fortune to our friendship done
‘Thro' inequalities which, if compared
‘By vulgar standards (tho' by them alone)
‘Seem vast indeed. But I have long devised
‘How even these may all be equalised.

XXIII

‘A fortune larger than its owner's need
‘Of all that it can give him, larger than
‘The liberty it leaves him, is indeed
‘Only a splendid burden to the man
‘Whose life supports it; and were mine but freed
‘From half that burden which, as best it can,
‘It bears unshared and unenjoyed, how blessed
‘Would be its free enjoyment of the rest!

XXIV

‘Who but a bosom friend could render me
‘This service? And what friend have I, but one?
‘There's no one I can crave it of but thee.
(‘Peace! interrupt me not. I've not half done.)
‘Thus halved, our fortune will twice doubled be.
‘The paths wealth smooths for steps that stray alone
‘Allure me not. My life hath no ambition,
‘Nothing can hurt or better its condition.

XXV

‘Nought for myself do I desire, and none
‘For what he hath I envy. Me the zest
‘Of emulation moves not. I have known
‘No pleasure in life's pleasant things possessed
‘Without an effort. Oh to share, with one
‘I loved, some common human interest!
‘Thou know'st that England's public life is free
‘To every man, whate'er his birth may be.

XXVI

‘Nowhere does Prejudice with Reason live
‘On better terms; and nowhere else does wealth
‘Give to its getter more than birth can give
‘In thine own land, where merit, save by stealth,
‘Without a pedigree can scarce contrive
‘To climb to power. Now pledge me to the health
‘Of Sir Emanuel Miller, K.C.B.
‘Called to the future Cabinet with me!’

XXVII

‘I drink,’ Emanuel answered, ‘to the most
‘Unselfish heart, the noblest nature too,
‘In England! And’ (he added, as he tossed
‘His glass down) ‘to the faithful friend, the true,
‘The grateful, servant of a generous host,
‘Emanuel, son of Gottfried Müller, who,
‘A Heidelberg licentiate, to the cure
‘Of souls is called. Heaven keep his calling pure!

XXVIII

‘Nay, be not disappointed or surprised,
‘Dear Ivor,’ he went on, ‘nor take it ill,
‘That thy kind wish is more than realised
‘In the delight I feel to find thee still
‘All thou hast been. That gift is not despised
‘Which gratitude resigns with tears that fill
‘An overflowing heart. The slave of pride
‘And prejudice, believe me not!’ He sighed;

XXIX

And stretched his own to grasp Glenaveril's hand.
‘Ah no! the joy of pure beneficence,
‘The blessedness of hearts that have it, and
‘The heaven that glows in hearts whose grateful sense
‘Rejoices to receive, I understand.
‘But never unrebuked from Providence
‘Hath man usurped the power to separate
‘The future from the past of human fate.

XXX

‘A Will Divine hath at our birth confided
‘To each of us a stringent, tho' concealed,
‘Direction how our course must needs be guided
‘Towards a goal that's by our growth revealed;
‘And, like the captain of a ship, provided
‘Ere he sets forth to sea with orders sealed,
‘Life's voyager learns only in mid sea
‘Both what he is, and what he is be.

XXXI

‘The duties Heaven hath charged him with, he then
‘Discovers, when he can no longer steer
‘His bark, tho' storms may threaten it, again
‘Back to the port he sailed from. Trust me, dear
‘And honoured friend of now and always, when
‘I own it cost me a prolonged, severe,
‘And sorely bitter struggle to subdue
‘All that once strove to prove this truth untrue;

XXXII

‘All my youth's natural cravings! all the wild
‘And passionate promptings of a rebel heart!
‘I know, too well, my nature is not mild,
‘As my vocation must be. Loth to part
‘With what I loved to keep, but unbeguiled,
‘I have cut off my hand, and still the smart
‘Lingers; plucked out mine eyes, and still the light
‘Of heaven afflicts my mutilated sight.

XXXIII

‘Thy confidence I would, but cannot, share
‘In the duration of those sentiments
‘Which to thy fond imagination are
‘As Heaven's vicegerents, or at all events
‘Its messengers, commissioned to declare
‘Authentically its divine intents.
‘Of all things insubordinate to will,
‘The subtlest seems emotion's mystic thrill.

XXXIV

‘'Tis most withdrawn from reason's rule, and so
‘The most susceptible, from hour to hour,
‘To all that changes with the ebb and flow
‘Of that obscure incalculable power
‘Men call fatality. But well I know
‘The law that to the leaf allots the flower,
‘And to the plant the soil, my place on earth
‘Hath fastened to the race that gave me birth.

XXXV

‘Protest not! Change is nature's common right.
‘We form not our affections. It is they
‘That do form us; and form us in despite
‘Of our poor protests. Nothing we can say,
‘Or do, will make life's temperature be quite
‘The same to-morrow as it is to-day.
‘The wind blows where it lists, and no man knows
‘Whence the wind comes, or whither the wind goes.

XXXVI

‘Because we must, and not because we choose,
‘We change. Let Age remember and regret
‘The generous ardours that no more suffuse
‘Its sober cheek; thus honouring them yet
‘Better than when with imitated hues
‘Of youth, that blushing without bliss, beget
‘Only a hypocritical grimace,
‘It paints the wrinkles of a withered face.

XXXVII

‘If aught of thy rich heritage I may
‘Not meanly envy, Ivor, it is still
‘The grand device Glenaveril sois vrai.
‘When first I read the scroll those three words fill
‘Graved on the gates of that storm-beaten, grey,
‘Grandæval home of thine, I felt a thrill,
‘As one to whom some voice, expected not,
‘Recalls an order that hath been forgot.

XXXVIII

‘Oh, what sublimer than the solemn cry
‘Of an ancestral mandate, all along
‘The listening years transmitted from on high
‘By ancestor to ancestor? The throng
‘Of generations, each as it goes by,
‘In turn reëchoes that heart-thrilling song,
‘Which is a law to those of whose high names
‘The duties and traditions it proclaims.

XXXIX

‘Alas! my name is one I cannot find
‘Among the records of events that share
‘In shaping the traditions of mankind.
‘My father, and my father's father, were
‘Shepherds whose own sheep knew them: and to bind
‘My present to their past, that I may bear
‘Some part in the transmission of a type,
‘Mine too must be the shepherd's crook and pipe.

XL

‘I care not—peasant, burgher, prince, or priest—
‘Whate'er the rank assigned me, were but I
‘A step among the reckoned steps at least
‘Of the great ladder of Humanity.
‘But, ere the birth of my grandfather, ceased
‘The record of my race. In vain I try
‘To trace three lives from mine thro' death's deep night,
‘That to my search vouchsafes no gleam of light.

XLI

‘Whoe'er he was, my great-grandfather drew
‘The ladder after him, or flung it down.
‘The People (my progenitor) ne'er knew
‘Itself, nor to itself will e'er be known.
‘It springs from, and anon subsides into,
‘A nameless characterless crowd, whose own
‘Existence is but a congested clot
‘Of life, not born, but casually got.’

XLII

‘Ah,’ sighed Glenaveril, with reproachful face,
‘And wouldst thou rather, then, from age to age
‘Reckon the grim procession of thy race
‘By slaughtered corpses, strewn at every stage
‘Beneath the sword or axe, to keep the trace
‘Of blood unbroken down the dismal page
‘Of chronicled catastrophes?’ And ‘Ay,’
‘Emanuel answered quickly, ‘that would I!’

XLIII

‘I would the ladder, on whose lowest rung
‘I stand upgazing thro' the dark, were propped
‘Against a scaffold, whence the axe that swung
‘Above my head continually dropped
‘The ancestral blood from which mine own had sprung,
‘Rather than know my life's short lineage stopped,
‘Annulled, expunged, beyond my power to guess
‘Its cancelled source in nameless nothingness.

XLIV

‘'Tis well, 'tis natural, that the grain which grows
‘Along our valleys should remember not
‘The Caucasus it came from. Over those
‘Whose growth is reaped in one unreckoned lot,
‘The recollection of lost grandeur throws
‘No individual grace. 'Tis best forgot.
‘But oh, that immortality should be
‘The dunce of time, unable to count three!

XLV

‘In this loose series of existences
‘I fain would link the future to the past,
‘By such a life as may, at least, express
‘Some purpose common to them both, held fast
‘By sire and son with pious faithfulness
‘To one pure type, the same from first to last.
‘Still honoured doth my grandsire's memory stand
‘Among the theologians of our land;

XLVI

‘He to a piety severe united
‘An erudition splendid and profound,
‘That made his name redoubtable. A lighted
‘And lofty beacon, all the region round
‘Its blaze illumined, rallying Faith's benighted
‘And straying children. 'Twas a name renowned
‘In Lutheran Theology. Then came
‘My father, who made loveable that name;

XLVII

‘Winning to it the benedictions deep
‘Of those whose lives his own had comforted
‘In its short ministry. His quiet sheep
‘On Hermon's freshest dews the shepherd fed,
‘Or soft, by lawns where Kedron's wavelets sleep
‘In sabbath sweetness lulled, their steps he led.
‘His sermons, if I published them, would bring
‘Fresh solace to a world of suffering.

XLVIII

‘Have not the pages of à Kempis been
‘As often as the Bible's self almost
‘Reprinted? I myself can count eighteen
‘Hundred editions of them. What a host
‘In one!—as many as the years between
‘The Saviour's death and this sad age, whose boast
‘Is to save nothing, but let all die out,
‘And, doubting faith, to still put faith in doubt.

XLIX

‘Thou seest that, even in those two lives alone,
‘I lack not some hereditary base
‘Whereon to fix and edify mine own.
‘I have the will, too, and the wish for grace
‘And strength the labours of those lives to crown.
‘But have I the vocation?’ (There his face
‘Darkened.) ‘St. Paul once doubted of his own.
‘What's faith, but doubt incessantly kept down?

L

‘Or walking, but a tendency to fall
‘Each footstep is an effort to suspend?
‘Or life itself, but death's continual
‘Postponement? Far as Nature's realms extend,
‘This conflict with its contrary, in all
‘That lives and acts, goes on without an end.
‘And now, my brother, my heart's loved, and blessed,
‘First, last, and only friend,—what is, is best!

100

LI

‘Pledge me one toast, the sweetest, and the last,
‘To Cæsar Cæsar's due! For I declare
‘The Cæsar that I honour is the Past,
‘Whose empire is Remembrance. Young and fair
‘Are all the loves that live there. Time's chill blast
‘Can blight them not. Change cannot reach them there.
‘To them be this libation!’ ‘Ah, but why
‘All for the Past?’ said Ivor with a sigh,

LII

‘And nothing for the Future?’ ‘Nay,’ replied
‘Emanuel, ‘To the Future I concede
‘Its due—to be the Past, in turn. Decide
‘Its worth till then, who can? Not I, indeed!
‘The eldest sister was the first-wed bride
‘In Israel's family; and 'twas agreed
‘The latest married should the youngest be.’
‘O Laban, Laban!’ Ivor sighed, ‘to me

LIII

Thou givest Leah, when the bride I sought
‘Was Rachel.’ ‘Jacob,’ laughed Emanuel,
‘Got Rachel too; and, by a lucky thought,
‘Contrived to get, along with her as well,
‘All the striped cattle.’ ‘They were dearly bought,’
Said Ivor, with a half-perceptible
Scorn in his accent, ‘by a sly deceit.
‘But be it so. Myself I cannot cheat.

101

LIV

‘Yet, so to serve my friend as Isaac's son
‘Served Rachel's wily father, I exact
‘A pledge, a compact, no impossible one.’
‘Good!’ said Emanuel, ‘name it, and the pact
‘I'll sign, upon the faith of Laban.’ ‘Done!
‘But this acceptance shall be better backed
‘Than by the faith of Laban. Brother, lay
‘Thy hand in mine. Heed well, too, what I say!’

LV

And, as the adept adjures the neophyte,
Glenaveril resumed. ‘As sure as now
‘I hold thy hand in mine, Emanuel, plight
‘To me this promise, and hold fast the vow.
‘Soon as thy studies here, completed quite,
‘Have closed the respite I till then allow,
‘Thou thro' the world awhile with me shalt go:
‘My “yes” shall be thy “yes,” my “no” thy “no.”

LVI

‘And all this while shalt thou to me belong;
‘But, like those comrades of the days of old,
‘The heroes of the Niebelungen song,
‘Who with each other in their battles bold
‘Exchanged their arms; so, moving thro' the throng
‘And rabble of a world that takes for gold
‘Whatever glitters, thou my name shalt bear,
‘I thine, and each the other's vesture wear.

102

LVII

‘If, after this, thou still persist in trying
‘To offer Heaven to others, and to me,
‘Thine earliest petitioner, denying
‘That handful of poor earth I offer thee,
‘I then must needs correct myself of sighing
‘For a felicity that's not to be,
‘And be contented with a lesser claim
‘On thy regard; which it remains to name.

LVIII

‘My marriage, when its destined hour is come,
‘Thou, with due ritual done, shalt solemnise:
‘My children, in the water carried home
‘From Jordan by us two, shalt thou baptise:
‘And if I die before thee (since by some
‘Mischance, untimely, each Glenaveril dies)
‘Then shalt thou bury me, where now thou hast
‘Buried youth's dreams—in a remembered past.

LIX

‘Swear it!’ ‘'Tis sworn, but comprehended not,
‘Wherefore this masquerade?’ ‘For the salvation
‘Of thy life's happiness, 'tis love's last plot.
‘Emanuel, I trust not thy vocation
‘To apostolic holiness. The lot
‘Thy stubborn fancy deems the destination
‘Of thy proud spirit, would but blight and kill
‘All of thy better self that lingers still.

103

LX

‘Wear, for awhile, a name that represents
‘Some little portion of earth's soil possessed
‘By him that wears it; and at all events
‘Thou wilt have put thy nature to the test,
‘Roused into life its latent elements,
‘And gained a new experience. For the rest,
‘No harm befalls thee if the experiment
‘Should haply disappoint mine own intent.’

LXI

‘Bene! præclare!’ laughed Emanuel.
‘Whoever founded the Four Faculties
‘Ought to have joined to them a fifth as well,
‘Giving to all who have taken its degrees
‘As many acres of good arable
‘Land of their own; then I, by means of these,
‘Might be a real land-owner, and not die
‘A simple Doctor of Divinity.’

LXII

‘Nay, but,’ said Ivor, ‘that Fifth Faculty
‘Exists already.’ ‘Where? In what sublime
‘Ideal University? Oh ay,
‘The University of Rudesheim!’
Emanuel answered. ‘One more glass! that I
‘May graduate in it while there yet is time!’
Said Ivor, ‘Its degrees need no rehearsal;
‘Its university is universal;

104

LXIII

‘And Friendship is the name of it.’ ‘Well said!’
Emanuel sighed. ‘Dear friend, the way that seems
‘The shortest to it is the way to bed.
‘Come! let us seek it in the land of dreams.’
And, saying this, he rose. Thick overhead
The night was strewn with stars: the moon's pure beams
In silver panoplied the castled hill:
Lights twinkled underneath: and all was still.

LXIV

All but the rustling of the moonlit stream;
For silent was the sleeping town below,
And nothing stirred but the unquiet gleam
Of the reflected lamps, whose ruddy glow
Shook in the tremours of a quivering team
Of sparkles shaken by the tide's swift flow.
Slowly the two friends, arm in arm enlaced,
Along the downward-sloping pathway paced—

LXV

Back to that fortress of Philosophy
Where Science stores inflammatory dust,
And yearly trains her young recruits to ply
Keen weapons, sharpened for quick cut and thrust
By masters of the lore of How and Why;
Whose sapience is, to Nature's wisdom, just
As are the gleams from clustered candles given,
To the far splendours of the stars of heaven.

END OF BOOK THE FIRST.

“Nenn'ich Sakontala dich, und so ist alles gesagt.”—Goethe.

105

BOOK THE SECOND. FATALITY.

107

CANTO I. A LETTER.

I

Nature in noble characters hath pent
A depth of quiet sadness. It is not
The fretful pang of personal discontent,
But a pervading consciousness of what,
With its diffused and common element
Of suffering, fills the universal lot
Of human life. For life, in every case,
Hides 'neath a comic mask a tragic face.

II

The grandest life is comic in detail;
The meanest doth to penetrative eyes
Present a tragic aspect. The world's wail
Of widespread misery Chance accompanies
By incidents burlesque, that train their stale
Reïterated trivialities
Across the stage of that deep tragedy
Performed by all who live, and all who die.

108

III

The daily vanities, the vile vexations,
The little pleasures, the amusements mean,
The undignified desires and irritations,
The wants so trivial yet withal so keen,
The foolish fears, the silly situations,
Of common life do, from the outside seen,
Look like a sorry farce that, out of joint,
Jerks itself on with neither plot nor point;

IV

Yet the stern drama they deface presents,
In progress as pathetic as can be,
A constant train of tragical events
Moving to one immense catastrophe;
Wrecked in the storm of their own elements,
Primæval passions; lost in their own sea
Of restless error, loves and longings vast;
With Death to end the tragedy at last!

V

And therefore is it that the contemplation
Of any intense grief affects the mind
With an instinctive sense of veneration,
Scarce differing either in degree or kind
From that which we experience in relation
To some transcendent virtue, when we find
Its presence unexpectedly in one
We honoured not before. Nor this alone;

109

VI

The man who without murmuring endures
Even the little sufferings of sustained
Exertion or privation (hourly cures
For the disease of self, if self-ordained)
Hath in his aspect something which allures
That sentiment our nature hath retained
Of the sublime: a sentiment that speaks
As do the cataracts to the mountain peaks.

VII

This feeling of sublimity was blent
Rebukefully with the compassionate,
But also disapproving, sentiment
Of Ivor, when he mused upon the fate
It saddened him to find his poor friend bent
Upon embracing with a desperate
And drear devotion. Tragically grim
That comedy of errors seemed to him.

VIII

By chance, or by design, when he related
To Edelrath the pact Emanuel
Was pledged to carry out, he left unstated
The terms of its fantastic article
About the change of names. Perhaps it grated
On sentiments he did not care to tell,
To think his reverend monitor might fail
To quite approve this whimsical detail;

110

IX

Perhaps he had forgot it; but a glance,
A tone, are oft sufficient to excite
In natures sensitive and quick a trance
Of sudden shyness; and, o'erflowing quite
With fervour in his pupil's praise, by chance
Edelrath, in his rapture of delight,
Had dubbed Emanuel ‘Illustrissimus
‘Et doctus ille Molinarius!’

X

This fashion, by the Middle Age affected,
Of latinizing vulgar names, distressed
Glenaveril's tenderness, when he reflected
On the proud bearing and the haughty crest
Of him whose pride was by his birth subjected
To the endurance of a name at best
Common and trite; and who, he felt convinced,
Must from the same reflection oft have winced;

XI

Recalling, with a pensive pang, his share
In the discussion of the night before,
He feared that he himself might, unaware,
Have jarred a nerve still sensitive and sore;
And he recoiled, perhaps, from laying bare
The vague remorse with which he pondered o'er
The pained expression in Emanuel's eyes,
When dwelling on his own dull destinies.

111

XII

The historian, who records what famous States
And kings have done, resists no better than
The simple storyteller, who relates
The life of some imaginary man,
That constant tendency which operates
On both alike, to mingle, when they can,
Fancies and suppositions of their own
With the plain statement of things said and done;

XIII

And this reproach, if a reproach it be,
Applies to all the reasons here set down
Upon Glenaveril's behalf, why he
Omitted to do that which, be it known,
He had no chance of doing; for, with glee,
Edelrath, like a dog who gets a bone,
Had snapped up the word ‘travels,’ and it so
Entranced him that he could not let it go.

XIV

The good Professor, who himself had ne'er
The chance enjoyed to visit or to roam
Those famous cities and far regions where
His travelled fancy had been long at home,
Was constantly on the look out, as 'twere,
For opportunities to pounce on some
Wayfarer, by whose mouth he might impart
To realms remote fresh greetings from his heart.

112

XV

And forthwith, seven-league-booted, he began
His vast vicarious journey over seas
And lands. With three swift strides of giant span
He crossed Alps, Apennines, and Pyrenees;
Europe he ransacked, Asia he o'erran,
And penetrated Africa with ease;
Even Marco Polo would have been astounded,
And old Nearchus perfectly dumfounded!

XVI

‘Optime! thine itinerary, child,
‘Enchants me!’ he exclaimed; forgetting quite
He was himself the author of that wild
And superhuman project. ‘My delight
‘Is but to one detail unreconciled;
‘I cannot spread my wings, and join the flight
‘Of my young eaglets. But the old bird's nest
‘Gives to the young ones a brief perch at best;

XVII

‘And all that I can do is to prepare
‘Thine outfit for the journey that's to be,
While for this task some dozen days to spare,
‘Before our friend goes up for his degree,
‘The time vouchsafes us still. A knowledge rare
‘Of Oriental languages hath he
Acquired already; and thou wilt, at least,
‘Need no interpreter throughout the East.

113

XVIII

‘The East! Ah, lucky youths, if you but knew
‘What luck is yours! It is the Holy Land
‘Of all my longings. Would that I, with you,
‘Could trace Time's footprints o'er that sacred strand!
‘There is the sepulchre, and cradle too,
‘Of all the dreams, the speculations, and
‘The memories of our knowledge. There began,
‘And there hath ended, the First Age of Man.

XIX

‘That silent East, and this unquiet West,
‘Each a huge horologe appears to me;
‘The one is ever going, without rest,
‘But never going right, tho' oft it be
‘Wound up and mended by the very best
‘And handiest craftsmen; they can ne'er agree
‘Upon the time that it should keep, and so
‘For these too fast it goes, for those too slow;

XX

‘The other hath, in some forgotten past,
‘Stopped going, and now never goes at all;
‘The index rests upon the dial fast
‘Asleep, unwaked by the perpetual
‘Procession of the restless ages vast
‘That, round about it circling, rise and fall;
‘But each twelfth hour of Time's recurrent flight,
‘That steadfast index needs must point aright.

114

XXI

‘My hope is that Emmanuel, face to face
‘With yonder visible past whose spacious sphere
‘(Still present, there) absorbs in its embrace
‘Creeds old and new, will cease to persevere
‘In that mistaken view of his own case
‘Which now is forcing on him a career
‘Quite uncongenial to the natural bent
‘Both of his intellect and temperament.

XXII

‘His resolution I have striven in vain
‘To combat; and it still distresses me
‘To think of what the world from both might gain
‘If, in one aim united, thou and he
‘(Thou, with thy wealth, and heart; he with his brain
‘And knowledge) were but, as you should be, free
‘To work together for its good. Alas,
‘How seldom such conjunctions come to pass!

XXIII

‘The King of Archæology became
‘A Catholic, the better at his ease
‘Still to remain a Pagan. Who can blame
‘The terms of compromises such as these,
‘When to some genius of immortal fame,
‘That else must needs have languished by degrees
‘Into obscure extinction, they concede
‘The leverage its large conceptions need?

115

XXIV

‘With just that leverage, and nothing more,
‘Winckelmann's genius lifted into light
‘Treasures his age had never guessed before;
‘Without that leverage, his genius might
‘Have been, with all its undiscovered store
‘Of beauteous things, obliterated quite,
‘Where birth had bound it to the wooden stool
‘Of a starved usher in a village school;

XXV

‘And but for Winckelmann, and but for that
‘Hellenic tendency which he began,
‘And to his age communicated, what
‘Would ever have inspired thy countryman,
‘Lord Elgin, to the deed so cavilled at
‘Only because so envied? Nothing can
‘Wealth, by itself, find out; nor Intellect,
‘That grand discoverer, without means, effect.

XXVI

‘But to return to what I had to say’—
(And here a packet from a desk he drew)
‘These notes, dear Ivor, may assist thee. Nay,
‘Take them, and, at thy leisure, look them thro’.
‘I wrote them long ago (ah, well-a-day!)
‘For thy grandfather, my dear friend, in view
‘Of a long journey it was then our plan
‘To make together over Hindustan.

116

XXVII

‘Ah, not for him, nor me, that journey! Dis
‘Aliter visum!’ All his face aglow
With the rejuvenating joy that is
In talk on cherished subjects, to and fro
The pleased old Scholar, as he murmured this,
The chamber paced; but paused from row to row
Of volumes ranged, and, hovering round them, took
Now here a paper, and now there a book;

XXVIII

Books, papers,—each in turn he made the text
Of some injunction—each in turn explained;
Ransacked the Ramayana, and was vexed
That his translation of it still remained
Too incomplete to be of service; next
The Mahâbhârata his talk detained;
About Jain temples much did he impart,
And plunged for pearls in Indo-Bactrian Art.

XXIX

‘Thy youth,’ he said, ‘I would not see grow sere,
‘Nor prematurely colourless and dry
‘Like these old parchments, use to me makes dear,
‘By poring o'er them with a joyless eye;
‘But lose not now the chance, vouchsafed thee here,
‘Of glancing thro’ that golden treasury
‘Of knowledge, by the patient German mind
‘Stored in its silent service of mankind.

117

XXX

‘Our German Genius is an alpine land,
‘Whose lofty peaks look wrapt in cloud and snow;
‘But spacious prospects those dim heights command,
‘And from their seeming-sterile regions flow
‘The great main springs whose streams, as they expand,
‘Refresh and fertilize the world below;
‘The mother of ideas is Germany,
‘Tho’ other nations her ideas apply;

XXXI

‘From her prolific womb (their ethnic home)
‘Flowed down the currents that have changed the course
‘Of History; from her dream-lands have come
‘The inventions and conceptions vast, whose force
‘Hath revolutionized the world (as some
‘Believe, for better—and as some, for worse)
‘Printing, Gunpowder, and the Reformation,
‘Three revolutions, each of her creation!

XXXII

‘To the French,—talent and adaptive skill;
‘But to the Germans—genius, divination!
‘Fortitude, and indomitable will
‘Were once the gifts of England. But that nation
‘Seems, half-hysterically, passing still
‘Thro’ some incalculable transformation;
‘What she will be, if she survives it, none
‘Can yet divine; but what she was is gone.’

118

XXXIII

Thus, in confused and scattered monologue,
Here, there, and everywhere, the Scholar's mind
Bestirred itself, as a Newfoundland dog
Doth in a shipwreck all about him find
Something to do; tho' now and then a log,
Or empty barrel, by mistake, the kind
And zealous creature brings, with loving eyes
And wagging tail, to shore as some great prize.

XXXIV

Back to his lodging, which Emanuel shared,
Glenaveril, when this interview was o'er,
Infected by the Master's fervour, fared,
To pile with a preliminary store
Of prints and volumes, lovingly prepared
By Edelrath, shelf, table, chair, and floor;
And, day by day, the growing pile increased,
Till, crammed in one small room, crouched half the East.

XXXV

Meanwhile, as folio upon folio, grew
The preparations by Glenaveril made,
Emanuel was passing in review
The forces mustered by him for parade
On that eventful field day, when he knew
That they must for inspection be displayed,
Marched past, and put to any sort of task
The Faculty's Head Quarter Staff might ask.

119

XXXVI

So in the hushed forenoons, ere July skies
Their freshness lost, or off the sparkling green
Morn's dews were melted, from their sanctuaries
The two friends, thro' the door ajar between,
With saucy questions, waking pert replies,
(Like birds that carol out of nests unseen)
Saluted one another o'er the books
Built high about their sedentary nooks.

XXXVII

Antiquity, and all her terms, revived
In their fresh joyous dialogue, and bloomed,
And breathed; as, when the Faëry Prince arrived,
The Sleeping Beauty and her court resumed
Their animated characters, and lived,
Unconscious of the spell that had contrived
So long to hide them in a thorny grove
From the life-giving touch of Youth and Love.

XXXVIII

Why doth our Age to those sweet classic tongues
Which Time hath silenced, save at Learning's call,
Deny the charm that for the heart belongs
To language only when its accents fall
From Beauty's lips in syllables like songs?
Why must the wit, the sentiment, and all
The grace of Greek and Latin poets now
Their gifts on pedagogues alone bestow?

120

XXXIX

The joyous Spirit of the Renaissance,
When the lulled Arts and Sciences again
From their long, leaden, mediæval trance
Its voice awakened, did no more disdain
Lively alliances with young Romance,
Than doth the freshness of the Spring refrain
From calling to its aid the song that hails
Spring's message from the throats of nightingales;

XL

And, with a thrill such sounds no more inspire,
A young world, laughing thro' the ruins green
Of its old past, responded to the lyre
Of Horace, handled by that fair French Queen
Whose sportive learning fanned love's rosy fire;
Or the sad songs of Ovid sighed between
Her passionate lips who soothed with memories sweet
The wounded hermit of the Paraclete.

XLI

Thus, morn by morn, Time's well-fledged wings pursued
Their peaceful flight with an unruffled feather;
And, noon by noon, the two young friends renewed
Long, pleasant, rambles, arm in arm, together,
By Neckar's banks, where vineyard, field, and wood
Gleamed thro' a golden mist of windless weather;
Till, like the sunset, all their converse grew
Slowly more glowing, yet more pensive too.

121

XLII

One morning, when the postman to ‘Milord’
His daily budget brought, of scented notes
Rose-hued, and sealed with some sweet signet-word,
Bills, begging-letters, share-lists, forms for votes,
Appeals for autographs, and all the abhorred
Swarm of small importunities that floats
Fast on the brisk wings of the penny post,
Where'er rank, wealth, or fame attracts it most;

XLIII

That lingering Mercury at last drew out
From his stuffed pouch, with hesitating hand,
A letter which, in deferential doubt
Or feigned surprise, mistrustfully he scanned,
Turning its fingered envelope about
Like something that is hard to understand;
And ‘With Milord's permission, this,’ said he,
‘For Herr Emanuel Müller seems to be;

XLIV

‘Emanuel Müller, student; nothing more.
‘But I was told downstairs, where I asked word,
‘This person lodges here—on the same floor—
‘And has the honour to be with Milord.’
Ivor perused the address the letter bore;
The name was plainly spelt, and underscored
In a fine hand, firm, delicate, and clear.
‘Yes, man, Herr Müller,’ he replied, ‘lives here;

122

XLV

‘And it is I, be good enough to know,
‘Who have the honour, I am proud to say,
‘Of being lodged with him.’ With many a bow
The instructed postman bowed himself away.
Then Ivor shouted shrill ‘Ahoy! aho!
‘You there, of the Minerva frigate, pray,
‘A rope's end out to this dispatch-boat fling!
‘Advices for the Admiral we bring.’

XLVI

Emanuel, o'er the Psalms of David bowed,
Conned the Shiggaion on the words of Cush
The Benjamite; and muttered ‘From the crowd
‘Of them that persecute, O save me! Hush!’
But Ivor still hallooed to him, more loud,
Between his hollowed hands, ‘Ahoy there!’ ‘Tush!’
The student groaned, ‘Be silent! Proud are they,
‘And “with our voice will we prevail,” they say!’

XLVII

‘And so saith he,’ cried Ivor, ‘who now craves
‘An envoy's berth aboard the Admiral!
‘Ahoy! aho! Britannia rules the waves,
‘And Britons never, never, never shall
‘(Put that in Hebrew!) never shall be slaves!
‘Which means, in English, at thy beck and call
‘I wait no longer. Please to come and take
‘This letter, I have rescued for thy sake.’

123

XLVIII

Emanuel, from his book still moving not,
Murmured, ‘A refuge for the sore oppressed
‘In time of trouble he will be—But what
‘Of Labben and Muth Labben is the best
‘Interpretation? Doth it mean a spot,
‘A person, or a tune?’ ‘It is addressed,’
Continued Ivor—‘To Muth Labben, why?’
Emanuel answered, ‘But Muth Labben, why?’

XLIX

‘I tell thee (hang Muth Labben!)’ Ivor cried,
‘The letter is addressed to none but thee.’
And, vacantly, Emanuel replied
‘The letter Jod? The Talmudists agree
‘That letter marks’—‘Semitic suicide
‘Of somebody's Teutonic sanity!’
Glenaveril laughed. ‘This letter's marked U.S.
‘And bears Emanuel Müller, his address.’

L

Emanuel's only audible reply
Was, as he hugged the book upon his knees,
‘Why do the heathen rage?’ Said Ivor, ‘Why
‘Dost thou to me in Hebrew mutter these
‘Mad questions? Am I, then, a heathen, I?
‘Beware! or I will answer in Chinese;
‘For am I not translating (woe is me!)
‘The doctrine of the learnèd Kung-Fon-Tse—

124

LI

‘Edition Marsham—by the dismal aid
‘Of Morison's Turanian lexicon—
‘Concerning the transcendent duty laid
‘On monarchs, and their ministers, and on
‘Secretaries of Legation, and Unpaid
‘Attachés (I myself might have been one!)
‘To keep their tempers? Mine is, goodness knows,
‘Fast going; take thy letter, ere it goes!’

LII

‘In study,’ said Emanuel, ‘I find
‘How hard it is, even by slow degrees,
‘To approach with perfect quiet of the mind
‘Those literae called quiescibiles.
‘In life, however, every other kind
‘Of letters I have hitherto with ease
‘Prevented from approaching me. Obscurity
‘Is from such plagues a merciful security!

LIII

‘I have no creditors, no love affairs,
‘I have no property of any sort,
‘Either in lands or houses, funds or shares;
‘I have no business of my own, in short;
‘So other folks to trouble me with theirs
‘No business have,—that's clear!’ And, with a snort,
‘He slapped his Hebrew Psalter, murmuring
‘Why do the folk imagine a vain thing?’

125

LIV

‘The folk, whose name is, as the case may be,
‘Or M. or N.,’ said Ivor, ‘may have meant
‘Extremely well, in thus addressing thee.’
‘'Tis an impertinence, and I resent
‘The address of that impertinence to me!’
‘Emanuel answered. ‘A most insolent
‘Intrusion, I intend not to permit!
‘Take it away! I will not look at it!

LV

‘Out of my sight with it! destroy it! burn it!
‘Thy meerschaum light with it! or—Ivor, stay!
‘Open, and read it, thou! And then return it,
‘Postage unpaid, to whence it came. But pray
Plague me not any more with it. I spurn it!’
And, saying this, he snatched, and tossed away
The letter; then arose and slammed the door.
Glenaveril picked the letter from the floor;

LVI

‘Emanuel,’ he mused, ‘is capable
‘Of spurning angels; and, for good or ill,
‘This packet may concern him greatly. Well,
‘“Read it,” he said; and, for his sake, I will!
‘A legacy it may be, who can tell?
‘But, even were it a protested bill,
‘He could not more dishonour it. Now, then,
‘Be seated, Madam M., or Mister N.!’

126

LVII

He drew his chair beside the stove, and laid
The letter on his knee; and, as he eyed
The seal, ‘Dear Madam, or dear Sir,’ he said,
‘Being just now extremely occupied
‘In paying his respects to a crowned head,
‘My friend requests you will to me confide
‘Your visit's purpose, and permit me, too,
‘To have the honour of receiving you.

LVIII

‘I may inform you confidentially
‘Mr. Emanuel Müller is just now
‘Waiting on His Judaic Majesty
‘King David. There's an etiquette, you know,
‘To be observed on such occasions. I,
‘However, must request you to bestow
‘On me the favour of your confidence.
‘I'm all attention. Shall we now commence?’

LIX

Then solemnly, as if he were about
Some diplomatic ceremonial,
The envelope he opened, and drew out
Some dozen pages, closely written all
In a handwriting which beyond a doubt
Proclaimed itself a woman's; fine and small
But singularly legible and neat.
About the paper breathed a perfume sweet;

127

LX

Sweet, but not sickly, was that delicate scent;
The letter was in German. He read on
With deepening interest; and the face he bent
Above those pages as, one after one,
He laid them down, grew more and more intent;
And in his eyes a sparkling moisture shone.
But such o'erweening length this letter ran to,
Its transcript needs must fill another Canto.

128

CANTO II. THE LETTER.

I

‘Emanuel—’
(The letter thus began;
And by this confidential salutation
Glenaveril was cautioned that he ran
A risk of that embarrassing sensation
Which punishes for eavesdropping the man
Who overhears a whispered conversation;
But he was fascinated by a spell
That forced him to read on.) ‘Emanuel,

II

‘If you, who read this writing, be the son
‘Of Gottfried Müller, and your mother's name
‘Was Mary,—then are you the child of one
‘Who might have given your life and mine the same
‘Dear source, had Destiny not left undone
‘What she intended,—and you then can claim
‘The right to read what follows to the end:
‘If so, read on, and know your unknown friend!

129

III

‘The daughter, and the only child, am I
‘Of Johann Stahl. You wonder what to you
‘My father, or his daughter? By and by
‘This letter will explain. In reading thro'
‘Its until-now-unwritten history
‘Of both our parents you will find a clue,
‘Moreover, to the motive thought of her
‘Who writes it, and the writer's character.

IV

‘Your mother was, like me, an only child.
‘Her father was, like mine, a peasant born;
‘But born with house and land, and even styled
‘Gravely Herr Gutsbesitzer Haggerdorn.
‘Great was the old man's thrift; good fortune smiled
‘Upon it, and his barns were filled with corn.
‘My father was his head-man, and your mother
‘The heiress of his wealth. They loved each other.

V

‘It seems, however, that in marriage what
‘The German Peasantry assume to be
‘The measure of equality, is not
‘Birth, age, or character, but the degree
‘In which the notaries to both sides allot
‘Reciprocal increase of property:
‘And so by your grandfather Haggerdorn
‘My father's love-suit was dismissed with scorn.

130

VI

‘For this, the affianced lovers had provided;
‘'Twas a contingency foreseen, no doubt.
‘Sure of her heart, in whom his own confided,
‘My father, full of strength and hope, set out
‘To seek this Land of Promise; whither, guided
‘By zeal like his, from all shores flock the stout
‘Strong-armed adventurers who create its grand
‘Knight Errantry of Labour's pilgrim band.

VII

‘But, on the eve of joining that crusade,
‘To his affianced, tho' forbidden, bride,
‘“Wait for me, Sweetheart, five full years,” he said;
‘“No longer time I ask for, to provide
‘“All that thy father claims; for a clear head
‘“And a strong heart have never failed when tried
‘“In a fair field, and three fast friends have I,
‘“Fortitude, Temperance, and Constancy.

VIII

‘“If in that time I come not back, then give
‘“No heed more to the past, and me; for nought
‘“Save death can keep me from thee when those five
‘“Clear titles to thy hand have all been bought.
‘“Think of me then as one no more alive;
‘“But promise now that no disconsolate thought,
‘“No hankering vain devotion to the dead,
‘“Shall keep thy youth, for my poor sake, unwed.”

131

IX

‘Your mother's tenderness recoiled before
‘This second promise with a natural shock.
‘“Nay,” said my father, “I will shut no door
‘“Mine own hand is unable to unlock;
‘“My faith to thine, till life's last hour is o'er,
‘“Will cling as clings the anchor to the rock;
‘“But in God's hand my life is, not mine own;
‘“And the world ends not when the sun goes down.

X

‘“Thy father hath the right to wish thee wed,
‘“For he is old. An equal right hast thou
‘“To wait unwedded till this term be sped,
‘“For thou art young. And mine the right, I know,
‘“To claim thy faith till I have forfeited
‘“By failure, or by death, our plighted vow,
‘“For 'tis my life that to my love I give;
‘“But the gift ceases, if I cease to live.”

XI

‘To these conditions Mary's father made
‘No opposition. “Go, my lad! with thee
‘“Thyself no fault have I to find,” he said;
‘“'Tis but thy pockets that too empty be.
‘“Go, fill them, if thou canst! I'm not afraid
‘“My girl will miss her chance; her choice rests free
‘“To wait or wed, but beetroots left alone
‘“Seed fast, and so do girls, and Mary's one.

132

XII

“However, that is thine affair, not mine.
‘“Good luck go with thee!” And my father went.
'Twas not to luck he looked, but the divine
‘Protection of a Power Omnipotent;
‘The harmony with what seemed Heaven's design
‘Of his own honest purpose, and the bent
‘Impressed by steadfast will, not fleeting chance,
‘On the long tendencies of circumstance.

XIII

‘In dim penurious toil beyond the seas
‘The first two years of his new life were passed.
‘Sterile they seemed; but at the end of these,
‘From daily savings painfully amassed,
‘He had collected by minute degrees
‘A sum, not large, but large enough at last
‘For the cheap purchase of a tract of land
‘In the Far West, half jungle and half sand.

XIV

‘To clear the thicket, and to cleanse the soil,
‘Only three simple implements had he,
‘A hatchet, spade, and plough; but, with a toil
‘Robust, so sturdily he plied all three
‘That nothing their united force could foil;
‘And that choked wilderness began to be,
‘About the fifth year's end, an opening Horn
‘Of Plenty. Then he wrote to Haggerdorn.

133

XV

‘In what he wrote his love's renewed demand
‘By legal documents was fortified.
‘The estimated value of his land
‘Surpassed the wealth of Haggerdorn, whose pride
‘Five years before had deemed his daughter's hand
‘A prize too rich for Johann Stahl. His bride
‘The same post also blessed with a glad note,
‘The sole love letter that he ever wrote.

XVI

‘These letters were by Haggerdorn received
‘With livelier welcome than they might have been
‘But for a trouble they in part relieved;
‘A trouble he essayed with cheerful mien
‘To hide from all around him, but which grieved
‘His heart, and mortified his pride, with keen
‘Tho' secret apprehension of disgrace;
‘A change in his affairs had taken place.

XVII

‘The old man had, from avarice no doubt,
‘Never insured his property. The year
‘My father went away, a fire broke out
‘Upon his farm. His losses were severe.
‘Spiteful reports of them were put about,
‘Which so incensed him, when they reached his ear,
‘That house and farmstead he must needs restore
‘Upon a scale far grander than before.

134

XVIII

‘For this, he had to borrow at high rates.
‘Then failed the harvest he had reckoned on;
‘The failure put him in such narrow straits
‘That many of his best fields, one by one,
‘And more than half his stock, to meet the dates
‘Of bills against him, he was forced anon
‘To part with at low prices, and renew
‘Fresh mortgages upon the residue.

XIX

‘And every time he was constrained to part
‘With field or flock, the old man felt as tho'
‘A drop of blood were wrung from his own heart.
‘With each drop gone, his body seemed to grow
‘More feeble, while his temper grew more tart.
‘Like one who smarts and winces, bleeding slow
‘To death, from inward wounds no probe can find,
‘No science staunch, the miser peaked and pined.

XX

‘My father's letter suddenly revived
‘His sinking spirit. For he mused, “'Tis well!
‘“My future son-in-law will have arrived
‘“In time to save me. Johann Stahl must sell
‘“The American estate he hath contrived
‘“To render, if the truth his papers tell,
‘“Worth more than all I owe, and all I've lost.
‘“I know the man. He will not grudge the cost.

135

XXI

‘“My daughter's hand will be his recompense.
‘“The produce of the sale of Stahl's estate
‘“Will more than rescue mine. A few months hence
‘“The torments that have tortured me of late
‘“Will seem like dreams that on the waking sense
‘“Leave no impression. Nothing but ill fate
‘“Since Stahl went from us have I known, and he
‘“(God bless him!) shall again my right hand be.”

XXII

‘And Haggerdorn, who had refused to pay
‘A stiver to the cost of a canal
‘Thro' his own Commune, flung bank-notes away
‘In getting now intelligence from all
‘The German ports, nor grudged the price each day
‘Of special messages. For Johann Stahl
‘Had in his letter mentioned that he meant
‘To take his passage in the Orient.

XXIII

‘The time wherein a steamboat ought to reach
‘Bremen from Boston was long past, and yet
‘(As restless as a sea-gull on the beach)
‘Day after day the Mercantile Gazette
‘He vainly conned, vainly examined each
‘Last shipping list; no tidings could he get!
‘Except of a cyclone in the Atlantic,
‘Reported with a calm that drove him frantic.

136

XXIV

‘His agitation daily greater grew;
‘His daughter watched it with a wondering fear;
‘The selfish cause of it she neither knew
‘Nor guessed. One correspondent wrote—“We hear
‘“The ‘Neptune,’ ten days after she was due,
‘“Arrived in port much injured. Gales severe
‘“Off Newfoundland.” And this, another sent,
‘“Fears entertained about the ‘Orient.’”

XXV

‘Nothing of these reports did Mary see:
‘All that she saw was the effect of them,
‘Which troubled and perplexed her. But, since she
‘Was ignorant, she was happy. Pride in him
‘She loved, and the delicious hope to be
‘His wife ere long, filled to its quiet brim
‘Her life's unshaken cup,—till a shrill scream
‘Waked her, one morning, from love's last sweet dream:

XXVI

‘A scream of wrath, and terror, and despair,
‘And then the dull sound of a heavy fall!
‘The noise came from her father's chamber. There,
‘Stretched on the floor insensible, and all
‘Convulsed, she found him fallen from his chair.
‘His head had struck the wainscot; and the wall
‘Dripped with the blood that from his forehead gushed;
‘His clenched right hand a crumpled paper crushed.

137

XXVII

‘She raised the old man gently from the ground,
‘Bore him, a hideous ruin, to his bed,
‘Moistened his lips, and bathed his bleeding wound,
‘And thanked God that her father was not dead.
‘His eyes at length he oped, gazed fiercely round,
‘And, with a horrible oath, “The thief!” he said,
‘“The rogue! the rascal! he hath ruined me!
‘“Gone (curse him!) to the bottom of the sea!”

XXVIII

‘Emanuel, have you heard all this before?
‘If not, O, more than ever until now,
‘With reverential piety adore
‘Her whose last martyrdom gave life to you!
‘I, whom you know not yet, know all she bore
‘And suffered, and so venerate all I know,
‘That nightly, in its prayers for those I love,
‘My heart invokes her blessing from above.

XXIX

‘Her lover's death she learned, Emanuel,
‘By the abominable blasphemies
‘That from her father's lips in frenzy fell.
‘The strength that madness to the mad supplies,
‘For their own torment, in its ruined shell
‘Sustained, to aggravate her miseries,
‘The spirit of that terrible old man;
‘'Twas then her life's long martyrdom began.

138

XXX

‘In helpless imbecility, made worse
‘By fits of murderous fury, he whose pride
‘And avarice had been his daughter's curse
‘Lived tended by her, shunned by all beside,
‘A brute with human frame! She was his nurse,
‘His guardian, and his victim, till he died;
‘And all thro' that drear time, sole comforter,
‘Sole friend, your sainted father was to her.

XXXI

‘For Gottfried Müller, just ere this last stage
‘Of Haggerdorn's misfortunes, had arrived
‘(Its new incumbent) at the Vicarage
‘Of Sonnenthal, where Mary's father lived;
‘And, in his saintly efforts to assuage
‘The sins and sorrows of the souls he shrived,
‘Your mother's spirit stood revealed to him
‘Fair as the sanctuaried Seraphim.

XXXII

‘His character, and that of his vocation,
‘Both pure, permitted him without restraint
‘To enter into close communication
‘With one whom others shrank from. He, the saint,
‘And she, the martyr, knew by divination
‘That upon each earth's hold was far too faint
‘For vulgar joys. Her love, with broken wing,
‘Still round its ruined past crept fluttering;

139

XXXIII

‘His, whose deep tenderness was fain to share
‘Love given to another, brooded o'er
‘That storm-struck nest, and strove to comfort there
‘With sheltering pinion its crushed hopes, or bore
‘Heavenward, in silent flights of pitying prayer,
‘Longings that had not at their inmost core
‘One selfish thought. Else, utterly forlorn
‘Was the wrecked life of Mary Haggerdorn.

XXXIV

‘And Gottfried, for her sake, tried every plan
‘To elucidate the little that was known
‘About the Orient. The rumour ran
‘That she, with all on board, must have gone down;
‘For three days after she left port began
‘The great cyclone. The Siren in her own
‘Home voyage had picked up some casks that bore
‘The lost ship's brand. But he could learn no more.

XXXV

‘Years had gone by, and no survivor named.
‘That Johann Stahl had perished with the rest,
‘His German kinsmen were convinced. They claimed
‘The land that he had purchased in the West;
‘And, under the Judicial Order framed
‘On their appeal, whatever he possessed
‘Was sold. The proceeds were distributed
‘Between three distant cousins of the dead.

140

XXXVI

‘When your grandfather died at last, of all
‘His former wealth the little that remained
‘Scarce paid the expenses of his burial;
‘And, when his creditors had each obtained
‘What the law gave them out of the last stall
‘And cowshed sold upon their suit, it strained
‘Their conscience that his daughter was permitted
‘A week's delay ere her lost home she quitted.

XXXVII

‘Then was it that your generous father came
‘And with an eloquent compassion pressed
‘The shelter of his hand, his house, his name,
‘On his else friendless friend. The last request
‘Of Johann Stahl enforced your father's claim
‘Upon your mother's life. You know the rest,
‘But seems it strange that one unknown to you
‘Should know so much that not till now you knew?

XXXVIII

‘Ah, dear Emanuel, you would wonder not
‘Had you but known, as he was known to me,
‘The man who from afar hath o'er your lot
‘Watched with an unseen eye! But let that be.
‘Question not yet! I have but half-way got
‘Thro' the long tale that must be told to free
‘The soul of her who tells it from a spell
‘Strong as the grave. Much still remains to tell;

141

XXXIX

‘And, first of all, what miracle it was
‘That saved my father's life: and why it proved
‘The means of still preventing him, alas,
‘From making his life known to those he loved:
‘And how it hath not sooner come to pass
‘That you have heard his name, or I been moved
‘To write what now you read. The Orient,
‘Down in mid seas, with all on board her, went:

XL

‘But, in that moment's agony, one man
‘Was not on board her. All her bulwarks gone
‘And engines swamped, before the wind she ran,
‘Struck every moment by the strong cyclone
‘Like a cracked nutshell. Just as she began
‘To sink, my father (then the only one
‘Of all the passengers not deaf with fear)
‘Heard, thro' the storm, the Captain's voice shout “Clear—!”

XLI

‘The rest he heard not; but, unheard, divined;
‘And, snatching up a hatchet that his hand
‘Close to him in that chaos chanced to find,
‘He strove to clear the rigging. The command,
‘His instinct caught at, in the roaring wind
‘Had fall'n unheeded; but a little band
‘That marked his action, and its purpose guessed,
‘Around him, eager to the service, pressed.

142

XLII

‘Fast overboard fell crashing, spar, and mast,
‘And sail, and cordage. From their weight relieved,
‘With a resurgent spasm of life the vast
‘Dismantled hull out of the abyss upheaved
‘Its wallowing bulk, and leapt and bounded fast
‘Upon the enormous billows. He perceived
‘The staggering mass upon their crests uplifted
‘Above the hissing trough down which he drifted;

XLIII

‘For, tangled in the tackle as it fell,
‘My father, as if clutched down by the claw
‘Of some huge devilfish, into that hell
‘Of hollow sea was swept; and thence he saw
‘The ship's black carcase hovering horrible,
‘Down-slanted over its foam-spattered maw;
‘A coffin hung above an open grave,
‘Across a crumbling precipice of wave!

XLIV

‘The next wild moment he, in turn, was gazing
‘From the swift upswell down upon the ship;
‘And for awhile, now sinking and now raising
‘Its victims, with alternate heave and dip
‘The awful sea-saw played. At times, the dazing
‘Leven in livid gashes seemed to rip
‘The storm's heart open, and then all again
‘Was one wide roaring darkness lashed with rain.

143

XLV

‘As those quick fits of fire the scene embraced,
‘He saw the men from whom his fate was severed
‘Lowering the boats, and manning them in haste.
‘He shouted, but they heard not. The storm shivered
‘All voices save its own. About his waist
‘All voices save its own. About his waist
‘He wound a rope that floated, and endeavoured
‘To use it as a life-belt, which at last
‘He fixed with effort to a floating mast.

XLVI

‘Thus buoyed, his hope was that perchance some one
‘Of the ship's boats (which, crowded to the brim
‘With women, eager hands had just begun
‘To lower down) might pass and rescue him:
‘But the huge-shouldered wave that rolled him on
‘Hid all things in its white spray, smoking dim,
‘For one blind moment; and, before that passed,
‘He heard a sound more fearful than the blast:

XLVII

‘From all the mingled screams of wave, and wind,
‘And rain, and thunder, he distinguished it:
‘It was a human cry. He gazed behind:
‘The sudden-streaming lightning swathed and lit
‘An apparition never from his mind
‘In after years effaced. The ship was split
‘Into two shrieking wrecks, asunder tossed;
‘Each filled with lives whose last wild hope was lost!

144

XLVIII

‘Lost! for, the moment after, from his sight
‘The wrecks, the boats, the shuddering crowds, the whole
‘Appalling vision vanished. All that night,
‘While the storm swept him to his unknown goal,
‘He ceased not shouting, in the hope he might
‘Make known, perchance, to some poor drowning soul
‘The one weak chance of life prolonged, that still
‘Sustained his own indomitable will;

XLIX

‘But to his shouts no answer came. Ere morn
‘The cold, the effort, and the agony
‘Of this tremendous trial had nigh worn
‘From his numbed limbs life's last faint pulse. The sky,
‘The sea, both gleamed with sallow lights forlorn.
‘The water had grown warm insensibly,
‘For he was drifting in the great Gulf Stream.
‘Near noon he seemed to wake from some fierce dream;

L

‘Faint, but still conscious. Faint the storm was too.
‘And down the sullen ocean's ravaged floor
‘It tottered feebly, like an athlete who,
‘The last to leave the arena, staggers o'er
‘The tumbled corpses that his passage strew,
‘Bleeding to death himself. A scattered store
‘Of casks, and chests, and planks, came floating past
‘That lone man clinging to his broken mast.

145

LI

‘And, as my father's senses by degrees
‘Their energy recovered, he untied
‘His moorings to the mast; and after these
‘Unhoped-for treasures swam. Ere daylight died
‘(With not a ship upon those shoreless seas!)
‘He had contrived, by fastening side to side
‘Barrels, and chests, and planks, to make a kind
‘Of clumsy raft, that went before the wind.

LII

‘Then, having desperately done all this,
‘Exhausted down upon his wooden isle
‘He sank, and slept. As deep as the abyss
‘Around him was that sleep. How long a while
‘It lasted he could never tell.—It is
‘Pleasant enough vague fancies to beguile
‘With tales of shipwreck, conned by candlelight
‘At the snug hearth, in some wild windy night!

LIII

‘Have they not charmed us all, Emanuel,
‘Those tales that made our childhood long to be
‘Shipwrecked itself, that we might haply dwell
‘On manless islands in a shipless sea,
‘Where Chance invariably favours well
‘Each Crusoe's comfortable Odyssey?
‘Sweet all the springs there, wholesome all the fruits,
‘And full of friendliness the very brutes!

146

LIV

‘But churlish is Reality; nor grants
‘The smallest comforts save to effort rude.
‘My father was a Crusoe to whose wants
‘The sea vouchsafed no beauteous solitude
‘Embowered by tamarind trees, and tropic plants;
‘But a few planks and casks, not even screwed
‘Together, which the slopping brine washed bare;
‘And scanty as his lodging was his fare.

LV

‘Some gallons of sweet water in a cask
‘That floated, being only partly filled,
‘He found, and firmly lashed (no easy task!)
‘To the rude raft he had contrived to build
‘Out of the other wreckage. In his flask
‘There was a little brandy left; and, thrilled
‘With thankfulness, in one else-empty box
‘He found a sack of biscuits hard as rocks;

LVI

‘And this was all. But 'twas enough. The fear
‘Of death by hunger he was spared. The sea
‘Was windless now, and soft the atmosphere.
‘Lone on his little floating island, he
‘Lived on. Time was not. Only space. And here,
‘Lost in the universe, he seemed to be
‘Himself no more. Nor anyone at all!
‘His thought became un-individual.

147

LVII

‘Often my father in his after life
‘Undaunted face to face with danger stood:
‘Once did he brave in single-handed strife
‘That mad bloodthirsty beast, the Multitude;
‘And by the Red Man, with his scalping knife,
‘Thrice was his perilous lone flight pursued
‘Thro' thickets where the wanderer fears to wake
‘At each next step the sleeping rattlesnake;

LVIII

‘But never, never, I have heard him say,
‘Was his soul's fortitude so fiercely tried
‘As by that long inactive duel, day
‘By day, and hour by hour, unheard, uneyed,
‘Waged between Madness and its unarmed prey
‘In silence horrible. Tho' still supplied
‘With food, the body (weaker than the mind)
‘Sunk first, and into lethargy declined.

LIX

‘One morn, above the horizon rose a sail,
‘That slowly greatened. It was Hope's white wing
‘Watched by unhopeful eyes. Too weak to hail
‘(By any signal that might serve to bring
‘His misery to man's notice) that faint, pale,
‘Last chance of life, he watched it hovering
‘Far off, as if to him it mattered not;
‘So loosened was his thought from his own lot!

148

LX

‘But nearer drew the ship. Her name, the Seal.
‘She was a Greenland Whaler, on her way
‘To the north seas. Rough hands, with tender zeal,
‘Rescued the half-dead man. For weeks he lay
‘Unthankful for a change he could not feel,
‘For consciousness had nearly killed its prey;
‘But in the stricken frame life's spark still hovered,
‘And slowly the strong man his strength recovered.

LXI

‘Meanwhile the ship sped on. The care bestowed
‘Upon my father had a twofold cause;
‘'Twas not to pity only that he owed
‘His long, slow, patient rescue from Death's jaws.
‘The crew was short of hands. The Captain's code
‘Was ‘Give and Take.’ He went by those two laws.
‘Much had he marvelled at the handicraft
‘And skill betokened by my father's raft;

LXII

‘And to its saved artificer he said
‘“Look ye, my lad! and recollect that one
‘“Good turn deserves another. Not yet paid
‘“Thy passage is, but it is not yet done.
‘“Listen to me, and hang not so thy head!
‘“Next week will see us in the frozen zone;
‘“Nor shall we now for some twelve months or so
‘“Sight land. Meanwhile, what is it thou canst do?

149

LXIII

‘“My carpenter fell sick at Halifax,
‘“And there we left him. I have given thee back
‘“The strength that should (unless the good will lacks)
‘“Supply his place. We'll teach thee how to crack
‘“An iceberg, how to handle a ship's axe,
‘“How to harpoon a whale. Go, learn the knack,
‘“And earn thy wage!” My father was resigned.
‘He lived, but all his life was left behind.

LXIV

‘With knowledge, his heart's wretchedness revived.
‘He knew himself now numbered with the dead;
‘And to know this, and nothing more, he lived.
‘Lived, then, for what? Ah, not till life is fled
‘Flies hope! And hope to flatter life contrived,
‘Painting the future with a sweetness shed
‘On its blank starless forehead from the last
‘Dim golden glimpses of the sunken past.

LXV

‘It was God's will that he should live; and he
‘Had ever looked on life as given to man
‘God's will to do. He soon had learned to be
‘A dexterous seaman, foremost in the van
‘Of each adventure o'er that frozen sea.
‘At last the Seal sailed home. And now began
‘The consummation of my father's fate,
‘The misery of that bitter word Too-Late!

150

LXVI

‘A packet-boat was just departing, bound
‘For Liverpool, the day the Seal at last
‘Reached Halifax. A berth my father found
‘On board her, paid by work before the mast:
‘Then sailed to Antwerp: thence, reached German ground
‘Footsore, on foot: to his own village passed,
‘An obscure wanderer recognised by none:
‘There—knew, unknown; and groaned “God's will be done!”

LXVII

‘By night, he crept beneath the vicarage wall,
‘And thro' the casement gazed upon that hearth
‘Not his, tho' hers. Another now owned all
‘That had for him made up the whole wide earth.
‘He saw his doom, and knew it past recall.
‘This was the end! For this with danger, dearth,
‘Death, madness, and soul-sickening solitude,
‘His life and love had striven unsubdued!

LXVIII

‘He saw her. Saw her bending her dear face
‘Over the poor sick child upon her knee.
‘That face had in it the pathetic grace
‘Of grief and motherhood. His heart could see,
‘Thro' eyes half blind with tears unshed, the trace
‘Of all that she had suffered. Dignity,
‘And resignation, and sad tenderness,
‘Breathed from each soft fold of her quiet dress.

151

LXIX

‘The lamp shone full upon your father's head.
‘That, too, was bowed. Upon the table lay
‘An open book, and from the book he read
‘Aloud to her. The listener heard him say
‘“Suffer the little children to be led
‘“To me, whose kingdom is of such as they!”
‘And Gottfried noticed not, but Johann Stahl
‘Could see, that Mary wept. And that was all.

LXX

‘No, not quite all! For in one threefold prayer
‘Love, for a moment, joined this severed three:—
‘The two, who knew not who was watching there,
‘And praying with them, as they prayed; and he,
‘The third, who only knew his unknown share
‘In that night's grief well known to Heaven would be.
‘For one about to die, the living prayed:
‘And, for the living, one to them now dead.

LXXI

‘All that remains to tell you is soon told.
‘My father to America returned.
‘The Western Farm, his German heirs had sold,
‘Never did he reclaim. Once more he earned
‘By daily work his living as of old.
‘But Fortune now, as if her conscience yearned
‘To compensate the wrong that she had done,
‘Heaped wealth unvalued on her wounded son.

152

LXXII

‘He, with his savings, wandered further west:
‘Boughtland: found coal: from coal to copper passed.
‘The riches that in mines he soon possessed
‘Grew more and more. From Industry at last
‘His enterprise to Commerce he addressed.
‘His genius and activity were vast,
‘So was his wealth; starved multitudes it fed,
‘And even the stones it touched were turned to bread.

LXXIII

‘To Halifax a stranger came one day,
‘Enquiring for the Seal. She was in port.
‘The stranger found her Captain, now grown grey,
‘And to the good man put this question short—
‘“How would you like to be the partner, say,
‘“Or managing head, or something of that sort,
‘“In charge of all the mercantile marine
‘“Of Stahl and Company's West Indian Line?”

LXXIV

‘Gruffly the Captain answered “Tell me how
‘“Would you like, Mr. What's-your-name, to be
‘“King of Morocco? What I'd like to know
‘“Is who are you, sir!” “I, sir, am,” said he,
‘“One, Johann Stahl, whose name you've heard ere now,
‘“Head of the Firm of Stahl and Company.”
‘Out of his mouth his quid the Captain took,
‘And stroked his head, with a bewildered look.

153

LXXV

‘At length he stammered, “Is this serious, Sir?”
‘“Perfectly serious,” said the stranger. “Then
‘“You offer me,” he said, “what wealthier
‘“And vastly better educated men
‘“Have coveted in vain. But why confer
‘“(Excuse the question!) thus unasked for, when
‘“My betters would have begged for it, this crown
‘“On a poor skipper you have never known?”

LXXVI

‘“Friend,” said the stranger, “for two reasons. First
‘“Because I want a man that I can trust;
‘“And next, because I know you.” “Ha!” outburst
‘The Captain, “Can it be, then?—nay, it must—
‘“And yet—and yet—Heaven bless us! if I durst
‘“Believe mine eyes, mate, why thy face is”—“Just
‘“Grown a bit older,” said my father, “true!
‘“The same thing, friend, to thine hath happened too.”

LXXVII

‘Emanuel, as you read this, to your sense
‘Doth it some general idea convey
‘Of the incomparable benevolence
‘Of him who might have been your father, say?
‘And can you wonder at the reverence,
‘The love, that to his memory she must pay
‘Who is his daughter? “Ah,” perchance you sigh,
‘“His daughter? so much, then for memory!

154

LXXVIII

‘“He married! he forgot! he was consoled!”
‘He married, yes. But, marrying, nor forgot,
‘Nor yet betrayed, the past. Could I unfold
‘That record of his still mysterious lot,
‘You would—But 'tis a tale that must be told
‘Hereafter. In this place it matters not;
‘Enough that you should know that not unknown
‘To him—what here concerns yourself alone—

LXXIX

‘Your mother's death, your own sad orphaned life!
‘He, being married, wished to give to you
‘What could be given only thro' his wife;
‘All that a father and a mother too
‘Can give their child—a fond home, peace in strife,
‘Comfort in care, domestic sweetness, true
‘And tender love. But all this, fate denied;
‘For, in my second year, my mother died;

LXXX

‘And then, no home, no family, had he;
‘Only an infant daughter. Not enough
‘To realize that dream! But cautiously
‘Your Aunt he sounded, by a letter. Rough
‘Short, and decisive, was the answer she
‘His letter gave; and after this rebuff
‘He waited, confident that, if God's will
‘Ordained it, all he wished would happen still,

155

LXXXI

‘And Heaven would then together bring us two
‘In its own way. That was my father's dream.
‘“Emanuel,” he said, (For you must know
‘You were his constant thought, his daily theme,
‘And still we ever thought and spoke of you
‘As of our own) “Emanuel does not seem
‘“To want immediate aid, nor yet is he
‘“Called to decide what his career shall be:

LXXXII

‘“When he hath done his studies, we will go
‘“Together back to Germany; and there
‘“I from himself his character shall know.
‘“Since not mine own hath been the wished-for care
‘“Of his young years, more cautious, and more slow,
‘“Must be the judgment that, in him, I dare.
‘“But if Emanuel like his mother be
‘“In heart and spirit, as art thou like me,

LXXXIII

‘“Then,—then,—O Mary, from thy home in Heaven
‘“Look down and bless our children upon earth!
‘“And in the union to their young lives given
‘“May our lost happiness be found—our hearth,
‘“Tho' thunder-stricken by the pitiless leven,
‘“Rebuilt and blest by those who from their birth
‘“Thy love, and my love, have inherited,
‘“So, thro' the living, to unite the dead!”

156

LXXXIV

‘Emanuel, my father is no more;
‘But in his daughter's heart survives his own.
‘When a young girl thus opens hers before
‘A man to whom she is herself unknown,
‘Can his, to whom she lays it bare, ignore,
‘Mistrust, or misinterpret, what alone
‘Could move her, after long deliberation.
‘To run the risk of such a revelation?

LXXXV

‘I know not. The Unusual, I know,
‘Must always seem the Inadmissible;
‘And, in a woman's conduct, rightly so!
‘Yet do I think that you, Emanuel,
‘Whatever with this letter you may do,
‘Will not misunderstand its motive. Well
‘And honestly, at least, whatever be
‘The issue, shall its pages speak for me.

LXXXVI

‘I cannot carry out my father's plan
‘On our behalf with all the prudent pains
‘Which he alone could give it. But I can,
‘And will, at least, in all that yet remains
‘(So may my record end as it began!)
‘Replace them with a frankness that disdains
‘The unworthy fear lest what is pure and good
‘Be by the good and pure misunderstood.

157

LXXXVII

‘I am what many call, and deem, I know,
‘Both superstitions and romantic. These
‘Are qualities I do not disavow;
‘Only, myself, I give such qualities
‘Another name. I call them Faith. And now
‘If more of me you'd learn, upon the keys
‘Of all my character your touch is set.
‘I have not ever loved, nor love I yet.

LXXXVIII

‘All that I know is, I shall love some day;
‘Whene'er I love, my love my life will be;
‘And if, not having loved, I dare to say
‘That well I know what love is, not to me
‘This knowledge came from reading of it,—nay,
‘Nor from what round me in the world I see.
‘I know it from my father's life, that never
‘Ceased loving. Love for once, is love forever!

LXXXIX

‘But, if to love, then, there can be no end,
‘Can there to love be a beginning? No!
‘The love whereto your life and mine must tend
‘Was, in their lives to whom our own we owe,
‘First living, ere we lived ourselves! O friend,
‘Do you not feel that it must needs be so?
‘Ah yes, I doubt not this you feel with me,
‘Or else your mother's son you would not be!

158

XC

‘For she, who could inspire a love so great
‘That in the soul of one who knew her not
‘It had the power to perpetuate
‘Its influence, merely from the sight of what
‘Such love avails to brighten, elevate,
‘And beautify life's darkest lowliest lot,
‘Cannot have borne a child whose heart and head
‘Of all in hers are disinherited.

XCI

‘Yet must repugnances and doubts arise,
‘Scruples, misgivings. That is natural.
‘I could not wish such feelings otherwise;
‘My heart divines, and understands, them all;
‘And with them all, too, doth it sympathize.
‘One difficulty rests, nor is it small;
‘It happens I am rich, and you are poor;
‘A circumstance for which you see no cure;

XCII

‘Yet cure there is. No nobleminded man
‘Would care to owe his fortune to his wife.
‘How well I understand that! For what can
‘Make love by love more doubted, life to life
‘Less equal, than such debts? My father's plan,
‘However, spared us both what else were rife
‘With love's disturbance. Ours at rest may be;
‘You will not owe a single cent to me.

159

XCIII

‘That plan was to bequeath you half of all
‘His fortune, happen then what happen might.
‘His aim in this was unconditional;
‘Only, he waited first to read aright
‘With his own eyes the face he loved to call
‘“Our dear Emanuel's.” And death, that quite
‘Unaltered found my father's resolution,
‘Hath but to me transferred its execution.

XCIV

‘And now, Amen! I have spoken. Answer you!
‘Write to me honestly, Emanuel,
‘As I to you have written, and be true
‘And open with mine openness. Farewell!
‘Direct C. S. Put on your letter too
‘Poste Restante, Hamburg. In that city dwell
‘Those who on my instructions act, and they
‘Will send it on to me.

‘Cordelia.’

160

CANTO III. AN ANSWER.

I

Abrupt the letter closed, as it began.
Out of a long delicious reverie
Glenaveril wakened slowly like a man
Who, having slept in Elfland, seems to see,
Receding from his vision, thro' a wan
And wavering splendour, forms that, as they flee
Faint and far off, still smile to one another.
‘Poor mother!’ he sighed dreamily, ‘poor mother!’

II

His lips, as o'er them softly fleeted those
Low-whispered words, were thrilled invisibly
By some new feeling, as the grass that grows
Upon an infant's grave, (tho' not a sigh
Of summer air from the loose bramble rose
One petal shakes) might heave, unconscious why,
When slipping thro' its osiered cradle green,
The little newborn angel soars unseen.

161

III

The Imagination (that fine atmosphere
Wherein souls breathe) is charged with vapours light,
That, rapid as a mist upon a mere,
About the world around us weave their slight
Sweet veil: and, tho' it seem so thin and clear,
That veil impenetrably from our sight
Obliterates the world of real things,
While a new world emerges from its wings:

IV

A world with visions thronged, that overthrow
All our fixed notions of the evident
And possible: their fluctuations show
No trace of effort in the accomplishment
Of the most complicated schemes; but flow
In self-fulfilment smooth from one event
On to the next: what is, and what's to be,
As one thing and the same we seem to see:

V

The slow and painful process of long years
A single moment supersedes: between
Thought and the object to which thought adheres
No periods pass, no spaces intervene:
With pulse responsive, and enraptured ears,
Silently listening in a trance serene,
We hear a voice to whose prophetic tone
All things respond,—nor guess it is our own:

162

VI

The Understanding spreads itself abroad,
Embraces all creation, sounds its deeps,
Enlarges its horizons, lifts its load
Easily; like the spacious ocean, keeps
Touch on all coasts and shores, a single road
That yet leads everywhere; and, while it sleeps
In its own depth, rippling it every way
The restless feelings o'er its surface play:

VII

Our personal isolation giving place
To an unpent impersonality,
We trace the thoughts of others as we trace
Our own, and feel them just as easily
As we can feel ourselves; with those whose face
Is unfamiliar to our bodily eye,
Those we but once or twice perchance have seen,
We hold communion intimate and keen:

VIII

Promises, recognitions, greetings close,
Exchange and realize themselves in less
Time than 'twould take us even to utter those
Greetings, or formulate those promises:
Clearly we see what penalties oppose,
Or hindrances confront, our happiness;
But all the struggle they involve we find
Reduced to a mere symbol of the mind:

163

IX

Our force it weakens not, nor daunts our will:
We breathe the breath of victory: and, ere
The drop of ink still trembling on the quill
That o'er the page is hovering, can fall there,
Events have been accomplished in that still
Strange world, the pen that follows them will ne'er
Be able to catch up, tho' it may race
Thro' reams of paper at a breakneck pace:

X

A word in passing dropped, the faint sweet sound
Of a dress rustling, a forgotten glove
Left on a chair or fall'n upon the ground,
A half-guessed fragrance that is felt to move
With a mysterious influence around
A half-heard footfall like a half-born love,
Or else the strayed note of some distant song,
Dying away vague memories among;

XI

Things slight and transient as all these, create
Those sweet hallucinations of the soul
Which force Eternity to circulate
Round a pin's point, and enter, with its whole
Vast troop of promised joys and inchoate
Felicities, into the films that roll
Their radiant falsehoods round about that vain
And bubble world we build in our own brain:

164

XII

A clock that strikes, a bell that rings, a door
That opes or shuts, a hand that draws the blind,
And then the bubble bursts; and we once more
Out of the abysses of the absent mind
Emerge bewildered; and our wits trip o'er
Each other stupidly, as corks, confined
Beneath the waters, if one cuts their tether,
Come tumbling upward to the top together.

XIII

So from his trance emerged Glenaveril,
When, from the room adjoining his, he heard
Emanuel's voice in Hebrew crying shrill
‘Where art thou, Adam?’ Starting at the word
He rose, with dreamy look that lingered still
Along the written page his starting stirred;
And, as if troubled too by that stern cry,
It fluttered in his hand convulsively;

XIV

While the eight letters of Cordelia's name,
Which had erewhile been wandering, Heaven knows where,
With him thro' time and space, as if with shame
Rushed back into their places, settling there
In haste; like caught school children, when the Dame
Approaching calls, who then put on an air
Demure, let fall their flowers, and range themselves
Down the prim bench, unhappy little elves!

165

XV

The world of dreams collapsed; and, in its place,
The real situation reappeared.
With quivering frame, moist eyes, and blushing face,
He burst into Emanuel's study, cleared
At one light breathless bound the littered space
About the writing table, then upreared
And waved the letter, like a flag; and then,
‘Read! read!’ he cried, ‘most fortunate of men!’

XVI

But the young Hebraist, o'er his task intent,
One elbow on the table based, one hand
Propping the prone brow that against it leant,
With fingers twisted in the loose locks fanned
By the quick breath from lips that Ivor bent
Above them, and the other, in command
Or supplication, lifting warningly
His pen, sighed, ‘Wait a moment! By and by!’

XVII

And his lips murmured what the pen went on
Tracing in Hebrew characters, that looked
Like troops of weary camels, one by one
After each other bearing on their crooked
Misshapen backs, beneath a burning sun,
Along the desert, heavy burdens hooked
And bound about their ugly humps—‘Woe's me,
‘Whose soul's sad sojourn must in Mesech be!’

166

XVIII

‘No, no!’ cried Ivor, ‘dear Emanuel,
‘Shut up that dreadful book! Read this! Be wise!
‘No more in Mesech let thy spirit dwell!
‘Forget awhile the fierce misanthropies
‘Of that fanatic race whose sullen spell
‘Unsweetens all, whose holiest ecstasies
‘Exhale in maledictions, whose fierce seers
‘With myrrh and amber mingle blood and tears!

XIX

‘Read this, where every line is vibrating
‘Harmonious with the music that one heart,
‘So sweet, so pure, doth to another sing!
‘That other thine, O favoured as thou art,
‘Whose life may be one long sweet listening
‘To its delicious song!’ And with a start
Emanuel laughed, ‘Hath Solomon, then, writ
‘This canticle? Well, let me look at it!’

XX

Wearily the pale student, as he spoke,
Stretched forth an irritable hand and took
The proffered letter. Not a whisper broke
The silence, while he studied, with the look
Of one who ill endures some misplaced joke,
The seal first, then the post-mark. Then, he shook
His long locks back with an impatient toss,
And a short sigh, half sorrowful, half cross.

167

XXI

He read the letter thro' from end to end
Rapidly; and, returning, scanned once more
This page, and that; watched by his eager friend
With looks that in his face would fain explore
His inmost heart. The letter seemed to send
No welcome message there. His visage wore
A furrowed gloom beneath its growing frown;
Till angrily he flung the letter down.

XXII

‘Hah!’ he exclaimed, ‘What means it, all this fuss?
‘Art thou the easy dupe of a device
‘As cruel as it is ridiculous?
‘A vulgar snare spread grossly to entice
‘The foolish vanity (Heaven pity us!)
‘Or the cupidity, not over nice,
‘Of penniless youth! A pleasantry, I say,
‘Cruel and coarse! There, take the thing away!’

XXIII

Ivor recoiled, in inexpressible pain.
‘And were it so,’ he sighed at length, ‘Ah me,
‘Were it a snare as palpable and plain
‘As thou hast said, how much I pity thee
‘To have so soon detected it! What bane
‘Hath Poverty more bitter than when she
‘Destroys that blessing which the kind profusion
‘Of Nature freely gives to all—illusion?

168

XXIV

‘Come, come, Emanuel! I know thee well;
‘Methinks, indeed, I know thee better than
‘Thou dost thyself. All this, Emanuel,
‘Is but the sensitive pride which a proud man
‘Drapes, to protect it, in the unamiable
‘Guise of suspicion. Trust thy true self. Scan
‘These pages without prejudice again,
‘Then, sure am I, they will not plead in vain.

XXV

‘Yield to the simple charm that breathes thro' all,
‘Straight from a heart that shows itself to me
‘As pure and lucid as the crystal ball
‘Wherein, they say, souls young and pure could see
‘Their guardian angels.’ ‘That's equivocal,’
‘Emanuel answered. ‘It was Dr. Dee
‘Who owned that ball. Tradition says the man
‘Was only a pretentious charlatan.’

XXVI

‘Well, then,’ said Ivor, ‘if you still persist
‘In looking thro' a magnifying glass
‘At what (when not distorted by the mist
‘Of your own miserable mistrust, alas!)
‘Is clearer than the clearest amethyst,
‘Begin where prudence, if not justice, must
‘The test dictate. Control the facts, compare
‘With your own knowledge each. That is but fair.’

169

XXVII

And musingly replied Emanuel,
‘I grant you, dear Glenaveril, I find
‘That all the parts of this romance are well,
‘And with no common artifice, combined.
‘The thing's a sort of little miracle
‘Of misdirected cleverness, a kind
‘Of masterpiece like that of Vaucanson,
‘Whose artificial duck could quack and run;

XXVIII

‘And yet the duck of Vaucanson remains
‘A worthless piece of ingenuity.
‘There are some people who will take such pains
‘To paint the imitation of a fly,
‘As Nature's inconsiderate hand disdains
‘When she creates a lion. But put by
‘All other suppositions: look alone
‘To what the case implies. Of two things, one.

XXIX

‘Suppose the letter genuine. In that case
‘We must suppose, too, that at Baltimore
‘Or Boston, or some other such-like place,
‘There's a young person’ (Here his hand turned o'er
Cordelia's letter, and a slight grimace
Of mockery his expressive features wore)
‘Who, in the opinion of her transatlantic
‘Acquaintances, is flighty and romantic;

170

XXX

‘And this young lady, who has used up quite
‘The heroes of Scott, Bulwer, and George Sand,
‘Being herself incompetent to write,
‘Or to get readers if she did write, planned
‘These silly pages, so as to unite
‘In her own person author, volume, and
‘Public, at once; creating an ideal
‘Out of calamities—alas, too real!

XXXI

‘Well then, since this at least is plain to me,
‘I, who to that ideal in her mind
‘Lack all resemblance, am in no degree
‘Disposed to personate it, or inclined,
‘By masquerading in its dress, to be
‘A thief and swindler of the vilest kind,
‘Using her high-flown faith, her credulous age,
‘And foolish trust, to filch her heritage.

XXXII

‘Or else suppose my view of it is just,
‘And that the letter is a heartless trick;
‘Played off, alas, not on my faith and trust,
‘But the cupidity it makes me sick
‘To think the writer of this letter must
‘Attribute to me, or the lunatic
‘Calf-headed self-conceit and vanity
‘Of a coxcombical and moonstruck boy—

171

XXXIII

‘Ah Ivor, Ivor, bear with me! I know
‘I am not amiable. But is it, say,
‘Not plain to thee, whichever of these two
‘Assumptions be the right one, either way
‘I cannot, ought not, must not, even bestow
‘Another thought on what, if not child's play,
‘Is something worse and wickeder?’ He took
His pen again, and bent above his book.

XXXIV

Towards the end of this short argument,
Emanuel's nature had at least so far
Regained a little of its natural bent
As to impart to his oracular
Hard logic a slight tone of penitent
Pathetic self-reproach. Some souls there are
(Ivor's was one) who, when they smite it, bring
Forth from the hardest rock its hidden spring.

XXXV

Touched by the deep dejection he beheld,
And honouring the proud frigid honesty
That sternly his solicitings repelled,
As if life's happiness were all a lie
Against whose least dominion it rebelled,
Glenaveril turned, and whispered with a sigh
Into the air—‘Thou hast thine answer heard,
‘Poor pleading angel! Clip thy wings, dear bird!

172

XXXVI

‘He whom thou wouldst uplift into thine own
‘Ethereal regions, cannot fly up there;
‘He is a bold pedestrian. All alone
‘It suits him best to foot the pathways bare
‘And rugged where full many a flinty stone
‘And thorny briar his bleeding feet will tear
‘To assure him that he treads on solid ground.
‘Go, Angel! Here no use for wings is found!’

XXXVII

‘Nay, nay, Glenaveril! dear Glenaveril!’
Emanuel cried, ‘Why smite me where I smart?
‘Come now, we'll make a bargain, if you will!
‘But tell me first, do you then, for your part,
‘Belive in this American Angel still?’
And Ivor answered ‘I believe the heart
‘This letter came from is a heart whence Love,
‘Could he once enter it, would never rove.’

XXXVIII

‘So be it! Then do thou, thyself, for me
‘Answer that letter; and, in my name, write it
‘As for thyself thou wouldst. I promise thee
‘Licence unbounded, Ivor, to indite it
‘Just as thy heart dictates, whate'er that be.
‘Appreciate this concession, and requite it,
‘However, by a promise on thy part.’
‘What promise?’ cried Glenaveril with a start.

173

XXXIX

‘Thou shalt,’ Emanuel resumed, `exact
‘From this kind angel, as a stipulation
‘(Mark this, for 'tis the basis of our pact!)
‘Conditional to all continuation
‘Of correspondence, a notarial act
‘On paper stamped, with legal attestation,
‘Proving the transfer, gift, or devolution
‘Of her whole fortune to some institution;

XL

‘Some public charity, or public cause.
‘No protestations! I am adamant.’
And, scornfully, he added without pause,
‘The contract's fair, as even you must grant.
‘It costs me millions! See there be no flaws
‘In the indenture! That is all I want.
‘Is it a bargain?’ And Glenaveril sighed,
But thought of his own millions, and replied

XLI

Laughingly, ‘But my pen is to be free?’
‘Free,’ said Emanuel, ‘as thè foolish bird
‘From which 'twas plucked. May its productions be
‘Not more unreasonable or absurd
‘Than such an origin, we must agree,
‘Would fully justify!’ With that last word
His psalter he reopened, muttering ‘Strong
‘Are lying lips and a deceitful tongue!’

174

CANTO IV. THE ANSWER.

I

Daily Glenaveril bore about with him
Cordelia's letter, safely hid from sight
Against his heart. That heart was to the brim
Filled with the inebriation of delight
Which lifts upon the wings of Cherubim
A generous soul above the highest height
Of human joy, when it believes that Heaven
To it the keys of Paradise hath given,

II

Not for its own, but for another's sake;
With leave to ransack all the treasury
Of Heaven's well-hoarded happiness, and take
Joy's riches out in handfuls, to supply
The wants of those it loves. Alas! 'twould make
The universe a bankrupt, did it try
To satisfy those spendthrifts who possess
Nothing themselves but self-forgetfulness!

175

III

Emanuel's injunction irked him not.
In the first place, he valued wealth too slightly
To realize the magnitude of what
That cool condition meant. In all his nightly
And daily visions 'twas almost forgot.
In the next place, he deemed that he might rightly
Employ his own vast fortune to prevent
The wrong on which Emanuel seemed bent.

IV

As, eager to begin, the artist stands
Before the marble in whose frozen womb
He sees the finished work of his own hands,
Ere yet those hands are raised to disentomb
The still-imprisoned image which demands
Its liberation,—so Glenaveril, whom
Cordelia's image haunted day and night,
Longed to express what he delayed to write.

V

How could her image haunt him? Never yet
Had he beheld her. Yet her form and face
To him were so familiar, that he met
At every moment and in every place
Their welcome presence, and was quite upset
With rapture at the all-transcending grace
And all-surpassing beanty of them both;
To which he could have certified on oath.

176

VI

So was it ever since the world began,
And so it ever will be! Sense is dull,
But sentiment is quick. No beauty can
(Tho' sweet as roses that are ripe to cull)
Make any woman loved by any man;
But every man can still make beautiful
The woman that he loves, by loving her;
Such beautifying power doth love confer!

VII

Glenaveril was longing to commence
His letter—nay, to fly, if that could be,
Off to America at once; and thence
Bring back Cordelia; whom he knew that he
Should find there, waiting in full confidence
His coming; carry her across the sea
Upon the wings of friendship, safe and well,
And then—present her to Emanuel!

VIII

And he was in such haste all this to do—
Such desperate haste—that he had nothing done!
'Twas natural enough. 'Tis always so
In such-like cases. Out of doors you run,
And leave your hat behind you as you go,
Or if you take it with you, 'tis all one;
But your first instinct is to get away,
And be alone—in some still woodland, say?

177

IX

Some woodland, where the good old trees stand round,
And whisper low, ‘We knew that you would come!
‘We have been waiting for you. You were bound,
‘Sooner or later, truant, to come home
‘Out of that noisy world. What have you found?
‘Is it delightful? Is it troublesome?
‘Oh! 'tis advice you want of us? Well, well,
‘What can we do for you? Sit down and tell!’

X

This is what happened to Glenaveril,
When down he sank beneath an old elm tree,
On the fresh moss, beside a little rill;
For tired of running from himself was he.
And the tree whispered to him ‘There! sit still!
‘Of course it is advice you want of me.
‘I thought as much. Young lovers always do.
‘Well then, what is it I can do for you?’

XI

‘What can I do for you?’ Oh, was there ever
A question so embarrassing as this?
To wish is easy; it needs no endeavour;
We all can do it, and we do. It is
A very different sort of thing, however,
To state off hand, and yet not state amiss,
What we are wishing. Then, we find that we
Can scarcely stammer thro' thought's A.B.C.

178

XII

This also with Glenaveril came about.
Still, it was necessary to reply
Something to such a question, which no doubt
Was kindly meant. And, with a long soft sigh,
As if that name said all, he stammered out
‘Cordelia!’ ‘Cordelia what, and why?’
The trees made answer with significant stir;
And he continued, ‘I shall write to her!’

XIII

‘Do!’ said the trees. ‘But what to write?’ sighed he.
‘That is the question!’ And he rubbed his chin
Thoughtfully. ‘No, 'tis not! What troubles me
‘Is how to write.’ The trees replied ‘Begin!’
And he began ‘Miss Stahl—’ That seemed to be
Not to his taste. Nor did the effort win
One murmur of approval from the trees,
Altho' those critics are not hard to please.

XIV

‘No, that's impossible! 'Twill never do.’
And, musingly he mumbled, bit, and sucked
His pencil. ‘'Tis ridiculous, I know;
‘Just like a cork stuck in a water duct,
‘That, while it sticks there, stops the fountain's flow!
‘Beginnings were invented to obstruct
‘Continuations!’ And the trees sighed, thinning
Their loose leaves, ‘Do you call this a beginning?’

179

XV

‘No,’ he replied, ‘one puts it at the top
‘Of an unwritten page, like a vedette,
‘Pistol in hand, upon a hill, to stop
‘All comers. But there's nothing coming yet.’
Then with a sigh he let his pencil drop,
And mused, ‘The fittest heading I could get
‘Both for this letter and its writer's life
‘Would be the question asked by Bluebeard's wife:

XVI

‘“Say, Sister Anne, what yonder seëst thou?”
‘And Sister Anne herself can nothing see
‘But the grass growing in the field below,
‘And the dust whitening on the distant lea.
‘Ah, could I but begin, no matter how!
‘Why, why, so hard should the beginning be,
‘Even when one knows the end?’ The trees again
Said, ‘Why not at the end begin it, then?’

XVII

But Habit and Convention interposed,
Suggesting, ‘There's a style to be observed.’
‘That's true!’ he answered ruefully, and closed
His eyes, and racked his brains, and, half unnerved,
Resumed his pencil, and, completely posed,
Wrote, while his hand across the paper swerved
And winced, and shook,—‘Your letter, of blank date,
‘I have the honour to acknowledge’—‘Wait!’

180

XVIII

The trees broke in, all rustling with surprise,
‘That's worse than ever!’ In humiliation
He hung his head, and mused with downcast eyes,
‘What is the use of style? 'Tis pure vexation!
‘Since, when occasions really do arise
‘For saying anything the situation
‘Expressly calls for in the form most fit,
‘Our first concern is to get rid of it!

XIX

‘Ah, if I had to write to her,’ he sighed,
‘Upon mine own account, 'twere easy then!
‘I know what I would tell her!’ ‘Well, confide
‘To us that knowledge,’ said the trees again.
‘I'd tell her all I feel for her!’ he cried.
And the trees listened, trembling softly when
He whispered, trembling too, ‘Cordelia,
‘I love thee!’ That was all he had to say.

XX

‘Ah!’ said the trees, ‘you should have told us that
‘Before; although we guessed it all the same.
‘We know so well the heart of Youth, and what
‘Is in it when we hear a woman's name
‘Sighed from its lips! What are you blushing at?
‘You love Cordelia? That's no cause for shame.
‘And your Cordelia, tell us, who is she?
‘For oh, so wondrously discreet are we!’

181

XXI

But still Glenaveril blushed. And Heaven knows why!
The avowal that he was about to write
Was for another. Did he blush and sigh
For what that other felt? 'Twas surely quite
Superfluous. Just as conscientiously
With less emotional detail he might
His mandate have fulfilled, nor yet distress
His conscience by such conscientiousness.

XXII

It may be, he had heard the trees repeat
Their comments on his confidence, and found
That they were, oh, so wondrous indiscreet!
At any rate, he suddenly felt bound
To justify the indiscretion sweet
Of his own beating heart's too audible sound,
And ‘Since 'tis for Emanuel I write,
‘Politeness needs,’ he said, ‘must be polite!’

XXIII

‘Poor, foolish boy! Politeness is the name
Politely given to equivocation.’
'Twas not a tree from which this comment came;
But an old stump with fungous vegetation
Encrusted thick. It was this old stump's aim,
And, as it deemed, beneficent vocation,
To extract out of the toadstools it evolved
A system that all other systems solved.

182

XXIV

The trees are made of more congenial stuff;
And, sympathetic to the last degree,
No questioner do their kind hearts rebuff.
The advice they give to us is just what we
Would wish that they should give us. That's enough!
For what more welcome counsel could there be?
O dear old trees, what kind wrong things you do!
What soothing, dangerous, counsellors are you!

XXV

And all the trees (the living ones) combined
To efface the effect of the unpleasant speech
Of that old rotten stump. With arms entwined,
They nodded, winked, and whispered, each to each,
‘Of course! The thing's quite natural. We find
‘No reason his conclusion to impeach.
‘'Tis the most complimentary address,
‘And he for his own friend could do no less;

XXVI

‘Were it himself the case concerned alone,
‘He'd do it all the same. And that's the test!
‘Men should for others do what they'd have done
‘For their own selves. This rule is always best.
‘And, in some way or other, every one
‘Whose letters to a woman are addressed
‘Must end where he begins. There never yet
‘Was any woman who resented it;

183

XXVII

‘'Tis every time quite new; 'tis sometimes good,
‘And always pleasant. Hush! What writes he? rhymes?
‘No, but the better to be understood
‘He hath repeated it a dozen times.
‘Encourage him, while he is in the mood!’
And in the mood he was. The elms and limes
All clapped their leaves, the blackbird cleared his throat,
And with a rapid hand Glenaveril wrote—

XXVIII

‘Cordelia! dear Cordelia!’ (he began)
‘I love thee. Yes, I love thee. There, 'tis said!
‘But there's no other word for it, that can
‘Express what I have felt since first I read
‘Thy letter. All that to the heart of man
‘Is dearest, and that mine most coveted,
‘That letter gave me. Ah, could mine to thee
‘Give aught as precious as thou art to me!

XXIX

‘And new and strange as to myself they are,
‘I know these feelings must have in me been
‘Since I began to be. They come from far,
‘And they have far to go. But, all unseen
‘Unfelt, unguessed, their secret; like a star
‘That is, but shines not till from heavens serene
‘All clouds have vanished, in my mortal frame
‘Lay hid the immortal influence of thy name.

184

XXX

‘Immortal? Yes! for if that spark divine
‘Within us, which on earth can find no rest
‘Even in earth's happiest moments, but doth pine
‘For more than earth can give us at the best,—
If this immortal be—then so is thine
‘Intensest influence, that with all things blest
‘Unites itself to fill the soul and heart
‘Of all I am with love of all thou art!

XXXI

‘Thou knewest this must be—that love was there,
‘And love was thine, and love thy call awaited.
‘Thou didst but whisper “Come!” From everywhere
‘Love rushed, and life with love was saturated!
‘The earth, the sky, the universal air,
‘Are changed around me, and a world created
‘By love in its own image springs to life
‘Invoking thee—Cordelia, be my wife!

XXXII

‘Heaven, that on earth the blessèd dew bestows,
‘Doth it abandon its own gift? Ah no!
‘Heaven sends its own sweet sun, from every rose
‘That hides a dewdrop, with his golden glow
‘To gather back to heaven again all those
‘Else-perished pearls. Cordelia, even so
‘Do thou! Cordelia, thou mine own sweet sun,
‘What can I tell thee more? All's said. All's done.’

185

XXXIII

‘And well done!’ said the trees. ‘If he so well
‘Pleads for another, with what fine orations
‘Would his own case inspire him? Who can tell?
‘Vows, pledges, promises, and protestations,
(‘The children of the air!) not long can dwell
‘In human bodies pent. Mankind's sensations
‘They plague till vehement words the sufferers cry;
‘Then with those words forthwith away they fly;

XXXIV

‘And what becomes of them? Ah, what becomes
‘Of our own leaves? They fall and fly away,
‘But, falling, feed our roots, make sheltering homes
‘For violets, and in some sort of way
‘Some sort of purpose serve. The leaf that roams,
‘What is it that its roaming doth betray?
‘Be ours the grace our withered leaves to bless,
‘And not to curse men's withered promises!

XXXV

‘All promises say always all they will,
‘And all they can they always keep; and so
‘It hath been ever, and so ever will!
‘What more than this hath done, what more can do,
‘The world's wide promise, we all trust to still?
‘Each year it comes full-handed, and doth go
‘How often empty! yet each living thing
‘Hails, year by year, the promise of the Spring!’

186

XXXVI

O dear old trees! O good old trees! whose smiles
And whispers are so tender and so kind
To our poor foolish wishes, wants, and wiles,
Our loves so weak of heart, so weak of mind,
Our vain conceptions, and our feeble styles!
What makes you so indulgent? so inclined
To deem the best? Were you disposed to scoff,
Lovers and poets would be badly off!

XXXVII

But those old gossips have, between them, less
Taste, criticism, science, literature,
Than one cheap penn'orth of the Daily Press!
Theirs, unenlightened shadows that obscure
Their faculties, and drowsy silences
Whose superstitious dreams but ill endure
The noise that to the March of Mind belongs!
And no discourse but little twittering songs!

XXXVIII

And thro' their patient bark they let us drive
Pert penknives, graving names that (interlaced
As once their hands, who fashioned them) survive
The fickle sentiment whose impulse traced
Those records of a love that doth contrive,
When all the rest of it hath been effaced,
To leave its lasting cicatrice behind,
Forgotten on the poor tree's faithful rind.

187

XXXIX

Back to the town as, with his letter, gay
And glowing-spirited, Glenaveril went,
He to himself repeated all the way
Each word he had been writing. These words sent
Thro' all his frame, about his brain to play,
A stream of melodies; and each event
Performed by his own fancy to that strain,
Produced a musical drama in his brain;

XL

A sort of Operatic Rigmarole,
Unconsciously burlesque. The curtain rose:—
Chorus and dance of peasants; who extol
‘Cordelia—fairer than the lily and rose,
‘Sweeter than milk and honey!’ Then the whole
Procession passes. Forests that disclose
The Sioux' dusky tribes; storm muttering
Far off, unheeded; and the Sioux sing—

XLI

‘Cordelia, the pale-faced maiden, white
‘As moonlight, and as woodbine wavering,
‘Hath dazzled with her beauty's beams the sight
‘Of the Swift Lizard. Woodbine-maiden, cling
‘To the Swift Lizard! moon-white maiden, light
‘His wigwam! the Swift Lizard is a king
‘Mighty and strong, as thon art soft and tender,
‘But dark his wigwam is without thy splendour!’

188

XLII

Cordelia's palace; midnight, moonlight, sleep;
Sudden alarm, confusion, fire, the foe!
The Sioux thro' the burning palace creep,
And bear away Cordelia. Music, slow
Tender and soft: Cordelia's maidens weep.
A man appears, unarmed; nor spear nor bow
He carries, but he sings with marvellous art
The song Glenaveril hears in his own heart;

XLIII

All are subdued by that persuasive song;
Pleased with the singer, the Swift Lizard smokes
The pipe of peace; makes an oration long,
And then restores Cordelia; who invokes
A blessing on her saviour. All the throng
Disperses; and the singer, as he chokes
A sigh, conducts Cordelia, cool and calm,
To join Emanuel in the Hundredth Psalm!

XLIV

But, ere the last magnificent quartette
Between Cordelia and Emanuel,
King David and himself, had opened yet,
Over the stage abrupt the curtain fell,
Called by a voice that cried out, ‘Don't forget
‘To get the paper stamped!’ This broke the spell.
Cordelia swooned; his harp King David dropped;
The Sioux vanished; and the play was stopped.

189

XLV

The man whose voice had brought this end about
Was standing on a doorstep, talking fast
To some one (his solicitor, no doubt)
On his own business. As Glenaveril passed
He overheard those words, that put to rout
His whole phantasmagoria; and aghast,
‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed, ‘that admonition
Reminds me of Emanuel's condition!

XLVI

‘'Faith, I had clean forgotten it! I ought
‘To have begun my note with it, I fear.
‘But it can soon be added.’ At the thought,
He ran back to his lodging, which was near,
And added to his letter (changing nought
He had already written) this most clear
And simple postscript—‘Dear Cordelia,
‘There's something else that I forgot to say.

XLVII

‘I want you to oblige me, first of all,
‘In one small matter. Large as it may be,
‘The fortune that you speak of is too small
‘To embrace the universe you are to me.
‘In fact, 'tis in our way. You will not call
‘Unnatural, I hope, my wish to free
‘Our love from all that is for love unfit:
‘Oblige me, therefore, and get rid of it.

190

XLVIII

‘Part with it, dear, in any way you can!
‘To charities, or something of that kind.
‘I know not why I ask this, further than
‘That I dislike your fortune, and I find
‘I cannot love it as I think the man
‘You love should love what's yours. You will not mind
‘Complying with this wish of mine, I know.
‘'Tis only, dearest, that I love you so!’

XLIX

Having achieved this masterpiece of zeal
And tact, he closed his letter up with care,
Addressed, and sealed it with Emanuel's seal;
A simple one, on which two letters were—
E. M.—nought else. Nor did he even feel
The least ashamed that his dispatch should bear
A lie upon its face, but laughed ‘Well caught!’
And rubbed his hands, quite merry at the thought.

L

‘Caught in thine own trap, dear Emanuel!
‘What matter if Cordelia do, for thee,
‘Part with her fortune, as 'tis probable?
‘Enough for both of you mine own will be.
‘Nothing can hinder that! So all is well,
‘And each will be content, I, thou, and she!’
Then forth, in these benign reflections lost,
He hastened, with his letter, to the post.

191

LI

So fast he went, that he almost upset
The venerable Edelrath, before
He was aware what obstacle had met
And stopped the impetuosity that bore
Him and his whirling wits away with it.
The rushing course of History, o'er and o'er,
Hath been diverted, checked, and made to miss
Great issues by small accidents like this.

LII

‘What, Ivor!—There it goes into the gutter,
‘My wretched hat!—No matter, boy!—But, say!
‘Whither so fast? and why in such a flutter?
‘It happens I was just upon my way
‘To find thee!—Never mind the hat! Don't utter
‘Another sigh for such a trifle, pray!
‘'Tis only a small windfall for the hatter.
‘But we must talk now on a serious matter;

LIII

‘I've much to tell thee that is urgent. Come!
‘And, since my door is close at hand, come in!
‘Things of this kind are best discussed at home.
‘Lend me thine aid, lad!’ And he laid his thin
Lean hand on Ivor's arm with wearisome
Tenacity. Glenaveril felt begin
The pangs of Purgatory; but he knew
That flight was hopeless, and resistance too.

192

LIV

So back with Edelrath his steps he bent
To the Professor's lodging, listlessly;
Nor heard a word of what, as on they went,
The old man talked. Dim in his dreamy eye
The very sense of sight grew somnolent;
And, like a captured bird that cannot fly,
Tho' unresisting, he was unresigned;
For every step left Paradise behind.

193

CANTO V. EDELRATH TO THE RESCUE.

I

The chamber wherein Edelrath's affairs
And he were commonly concealed from sight,
Was at the top of three long flights of stairs.
It was a spacious chamber, airy, light,
And cheerful, though replete with little lairs
And nooks where even the shyest spider might
Feel sure she under no constraint need be
To spoil her spinning, like Penelope.

II

The house that held it was a corner one;
The town, the river, and the hills it faced.
Two windows faced the river, one alone
The town. The walls, from floor to roof, were cased
With books in multitudes; among them none
Well bound, and many unbound. There was placed
Across one window an immense divan,
Settee, or sofa, of gigantie span:

194

III

Its sybarite appearance was belied,
However, by its Spartan qualities;
Which doubtless would have more than satisfied
Lycurgus, if that legislator wise
Upon his countrymen could once have tried
Its painful discipline. The sofa's size
Appeared designed to impose on the infliction
Of general discomfort, no restriction;

IV

The surface of its bed of suffering
Was like those papier-mâché maps, whereby
Modern Geography contrives to bring
Home to the touch as well as to the eye
What obstacles Dame Nature loves to fling
At Railway Companies, as her reply
To their pert questions. But, more bold than man,
Books had appropriated this divan.

V

They had it to themselves: and there they lay
Stark naked, sprawling, every one of them
Without a rag about its back, and grey
With dust. The Jews, when for Jerusalem,
Along the Babylonian waters, they
Lamented, (miserable sons of Shem!)
Made not those river banks look more forlorn
Than was the aspect by this sofa worn;

195

VI

For hither brown papyri of the Nile,
With saffron scrolls from Herculaneum,
And mildewed parchments, haply once the spoil
Of barbarous Macedonian monks, had come
To build a sort of monumental pile,
In memory of the Alexandrian Home
Of Erudition, with its crowded crypts,
And their five hundred thousand manuscripts.

VII

‘Alas, for Ptolemy Euërgetes!
‘Alas, for Literary Vanity!
‘Alas, that bronze, in spite of Horace, is
‘More durable than paper!’ There, each dry
Dust-strewn, dishevelled volume, into these
Mute lamentations bursting, grieved the eye;
And there, in spite or pity, from near shelves
Others had desperately flung themselves.

VIII

Fronting the window stood, with a fierce glare
Upon its face, which its uncouthness heightened,
A Gothic monster grim enough to scare
With fear that classic colony enlightened,
If books, that frighten us who read them, were
Susceptible themselves of being frightened.
This monster was a stove, whose giant pile
Was built of bits of glistening sea-green tile.

196

IX

The potter who had made it must have been
A man of sombre genius, and morose,
Who sought to imitate with gusto, keen
But coarse and barbarous, the grandiose
Array of horrors which to the dread scene
Of his Last Judgment, Michael Angelo's
Imagination hath assigned; and well
Did that stove's face its fiery purpose tell;

X

For in the rough reliefs all round it wrought,
Devils, damned souls, and instruments of pain,
Those who its neighbourhood for comfort sought
Were forced to contemplate; and, lest in vain
Should be the lesson its appearance taught,
'Twas so contrived that audible and plain
To ears of shivering sinners every minute
Should be the roaring of the fire within it.

XI

So, frowning down upon the books, it looked
Like Omar's Arab captain all elate;
Waiting, as tho' with arms akimbo crooked,
The signal to begin and imitate
Amru Ben Abâs who (howe'er rebuked
By bibliophiles) was probably so great
And true a benefactor to mankind,
That gratitude should keep his name in mind:

197

XII

For merciful the feat that man performed
When for six months (if the report be true)
The stoves of full four thousand baths he warmed
By burning all the editions old and new
Of all the immortal authors. Ere he stormed
And burned their citadel, Ben Abâs knew,
Perhaps, the nuisance they were sure to be
If still immortal now the Press is free.

XIII

The object that attracted next the eye
Was a long table, filling half the room;
It might have come from the refectory
Of one of those old convents, from whose doom
Many a rising university
The Reformation suffered to assume,
To the relief of its own revenue,
Not their lands only, but their chattels too.

XIV

Even the ruins of establishments
Reared by Religion, and by her endowed,
Have thus contributed at all events
Some aid to those which Science, with a proud
Pretence of independence, still presents
As her unshared achievement to the crowd.
Alas, Religion no such aid receives
Out of the refuse of what Science leaves!

198

XV

Loaded this table was, with many a mound
Of manuscript, and books; and the immense
Tracts of chance-drifted litter that abound
In students' rooms here joined their jungles dense:
But, like a plot of neatly-gardened ground,
A little space surrounded by a fence
Of folios (and no fence could have been fitter)
Was cleared out in the middle of the litter:

XVI

That little central space the aspect wore
Of one of those “reserved enclosures” seen
In royal parks. Stationed on guard before
Their gates, a sentry stands; but, viewed between
The bars, a lawn where fountains spout and flow,
Long alleys, and embosomed in the green
A trim pavilion, fascinate the crowd
Whose entry thro' those gates is not allowed.

XVII

Here, the pavilion was a timepiece, all
In ormolu, which might, perhaps, have been,
When France and Taste were both Imperial,
A nick-nack of the Empress Josephine:
Four burnished columns propped a burnished ball;
Above the ball an eagle perched; between
The columns sat a lady thinly clad,
Who looked extremely ill, and rather mad:

199

XVIII

The lawn was a large blotting-book, and there
The impress of assiduous cultivation
Was unmistakable; the fountains were
Two pewter inkstands, each with a plantation
Of goosequills; long white quires of foolscap fair
Served for the alleys; and the sentry's station,
Guarding the gate, was taken by a large
Armchair that seemed to have the whole in charge.

XIX

‘Sit down!’ said Edelrath; and to this seat
He pointed with a gesture such as might
Have graced Augustus when he deigned to entreat
Cinna's attention. Then, with infinite
Solemnity, he drew from out a great
Tin box whereon was writ in letters white
The name ‘Glenaveril,’ a document
Which he perused with looks of deep content.

XX

‘Sit down!’ he nodded, and went on, ‘sit down!
‘In this report our good friend Mr. Grey
‘With every possible detail has shown
‘The exact condition (and I think you'll say
‘It does the greatest credit to his own
‘Intelligence and zeal, in every way)
‘Of your Scotch property. To say the least,
‘Its value has enormously increased:

200

XXI

‘Increased, I mean, since your poor father died.
‘But there's one point now waiting your reply,
‘And 'tis a point you must yourself decide.
‘Some valuation of the property
‘Will probably be needed as a guide
‘To your decision, and these facts supply
‘The basis for it; but, as Grey says here,
‘Most of the leases will expire next year;

XXII

‘The point is, on what terms will you renew
‘These leases? That requires consideration.
‘His own suggestions Grey submits to you,
‘And these, too, well deserve examination.
‘But in so grave a matter 'twill not do
‘To act on these alone. Grey's explanation
‘Is clear and copious, but our worthy friend
‘Craves your opinion—Ivor do attend!’

XXIII

‘I do,’ said Ivor, ‘but it matters not.
‘I've no opinion; none, at least, I mean,
‘Worth giving: and no good were to be got
‘By wading through some dozen or fifteen
‘Pages of foolscap, to arrive at what
‘Is clear already—that I needs must lean
‘On Grey's decision, whatsoe'er it be.
‘I trust him fully. That's enough for me.’

201

XXIV

Wrinkling his shaggy eyebrows to a frown,
Edelrath eyed his pupil; with a sigh,
He drew a stool near Ivor's chair, sat down,
Pulled off his spectacles, and wiped them dry,
And put them on again; then, laid a brown
Large bony hand with mild authority
Upon the young man's arm, and said, ‘For shame!’
Glenaveril blushed. ‘In what am I to blame?’

XXV

‘In what!’ reëchoed Edelrath, ‘in what?
‘In this indifference to duty, boy,
‘This trifling with a serious trust! Your lot
‘Providence hath permitted to enjoy
‘A princely heritage: you made it not,
‘Nor could you make it if you were to try:
‘Yours is the product of the strength and skill
‘Of generations, dear Glenaveril;

XXVI

‘Yours, to preserve, to better if you can,
‘But not to trifle with or fling away!
‘A little more respect, young gentleman,
‘For what is difficult! It is, I say,
‘Extremely difficult howe'er you plan,
‘And plot, and pinch, and plod, and drudge, to lay
‘A little capital by when all is done,
‘That's just enough for the support of one:

202

XXVII

‘To lay the bases, and to fix them sure,
‘Of some vast fortune able to fulfil
‘The splendid wants of families that endure
‘For generations, is beyond the skill
‘Of most men; and no simple sinecure
‘Have you inherited; for harder still
‘It is, believe me, proper care to take
‘Of that great heritage you did not make.

XXVIII

‘Tut! tut! Attempt not to expostulate!
‘I know you are not, and will never be,
‘One of those brainless heartless fools of fate,
‘Who waste in unenjoyed frivolity
‘The wealth they are unable to create.
‘But there's one foe to manly virtue, he
‘That hath in keeping a great fortune must
‘Most guard against, if faithful to his trust;

XXIX

‘And that is the impatient weariness,
‘The growing increase of disinclination,
‘Which he must needs experience more or less
‘In the details of its administration.
‘The forest, whose umbrageous beauties bless
‘The traveller with an undisturbed sensation
‘Of joy and peace, may to its owner be
‘Mainly a troublesome anxiety;

203

XXX

‘To him that forest represents, not trees
‘Whose hospitable boughs diffuse a dim
‘Delicious languor, but those foes to ease,
‘Figures fatiguingly precise and prim,
‘Which he must reckon up by twos and threes
‘To hundreds, thousands. Not enough for him
‘That two and two make four! He has to strive
‘That practically two and two make five.

XXXI

‘You have, I know, in Mathew Grey, a good,
‘An excellent, agent. He deserves, no doubt,
‘Your fullest confidence. 'Tis understood,
‘However, that he cannot act without
‘Your orders. If you're never in the mood
‘To notice what he writes to you about,
‘You hurt his honesty, and Mathew Grey
‘Will feel his pains are being thrown away.

XXXII

‘The master must not abdicate, you know,
‘Because the servant's zealous. So sit down
‘With a good will, since I have caught you now,
‘(Two heads are better at such tasks, you'll own,
‘Than one) and let us pass an hour or two
‘In going thro' these papers. I have thrown
‘The totals into simple tables, see,
‘Which show the case as plain as A B C.’

204

XXXIII

‘Yes, yes, dear Father Edelrath, I will!’
Cried Ivor, bounding at the word away,
‘Only, to-morrow (do not take it ill!)
‘To-morrow, or the next day, not to-day!
‘How can I sit down quietly, with quill
‘And paper, to work out how best I may
‘Wring twenty pounds a year, with no great harm,
‘Out of some miserable highland farm,

XXXIV

‘When in this little letter (I must go
‘And post at once) I've spurned without regret
‘As many million dollars? No, no, no!
‘Another day!’ And, all upon the fret,
He pushed the papers from him, sprang up so
Impetuously he almost upset
His tutor for the second time that day,
And hastened to the door. ‘Stay, Ivor, stay!’

XXXV

Cried Edelrath aghast. ‘These ears, alas,
‘Are old, and surely must have heard amiss
‘Your answer, boy! But, whatsoe'er it was,
‘For twenty years that I have known you, this
‘Is the first time it ever came to pass
‘That Ivor sought to make a jest of his
‘Old friend and tutor.’ And Glenaveril,
Keeping his hand upon the door, stood still.

205

XXXVI

Checked in his impulse, in his purpose crossed,
He could not on the instant so repress
The disappointment that was uppermost
In his sensations, but what more or less
Of his composure in the attempt was lost.
And with that tone of curt impatientness
Which, by a young man to an old employed,
Sounds almost insolent, he exclaimed, annoyed,

XXXVII

‘Your ears, dear Father Edelrath, are still
‘As good as ever! 'Tis your memory
‘Only that fails a little; else, you still,
‘I think, would give me credit for what I
‘At least forget not—the Glenaveril
‘Device, which pledges me to truth. Ah, why
‘Do you suppose I mean not what I say?
‘Glenaveril je suis, et je suis vrai!’

XXXVIII

The old man crossed the floor, and softly took
The boy's two hands in his, and drew him thus
Silently with him to the window-nook,
And there perused with a solicitous
And anxiously inquisitive long look
The young man's face. ‘What has gone wrong with us?’
He whispered tenderly. ‘Thy hands are hot.
‘Something disturbs thee,—and I know it not!

206

XXXIX

‘Ah, have I not,’ he added with a sigh,
‘The right to know thine inmost thoughts?—the right!
‘Well, no! I meant not that. No right have I,
‘Only an old sweet habit, that seemed quite
‘Established by thy trust and sympathy;
‘And if thy confidence I now invite,
‘Let it convince thee, Ivor, that mine still
‘Doubts not the Motto of Glenaveril!’

XL

To this appeal the answer was a close
Long warm embrace. ‘Yes, yes!’ Glenaveril cried,
‘Mine inmost thoughts, dear Edelrath, are those
‘Which most of all my heart would fain confide
‘To thee, mine earliest, wisest friend. How gross
‘Was my forgetfulness! But all,’ he sighed,
‘Hath come so quick,—is still so strange! Nay, sit,
‘And listen! Thou shalt hear the whole of it!’

XLI

With all the feverish eloquence of love
Glenaveril told to Edelrath his tale.
So deeply did Cordelia's letter move
His feelings while he read it out, that, pale
With passion, oft he paused, and tears above
Its pages dropped. ‘I knew thou couldst not fail,’
He cried, ‘to be profoundly moved by this.
‘Oh what a soul! how beautiful it is!

207

XLII

‘What candour! what sublimity of pure
‘And noble innocence! what generous trust!
‘What self-forgetfulness! Ah, I was sure
‘That thou wouldst feel them all! Emanuel must
‘Be blind and deaf. How else could he endure
‘To spurn so rich a pearl into the dust?
‘How glad I am that I can talk to thee
‘Of all I feel, for it was stifling me!’

XLIII

Edelrath, with no gesture of assent
Or sympathy, to Ivor's eloquence
Had listened mute; his bald brow forward bent,
His attitude revealing an intense
Attention. When Glenaveril's force was spent
At last by its own breathless vehemence,
The stern old Mentor slowly raised his head,
On Ivor's face fixed two cold eyes, and said—

XLIV

‘Ah! and this candour, this sublimity
‘Of innocence, this generous trust in one
‘Whose name and place thou hast usurped, thereby
‘To filch the gifts that were for him alone,
‘And recompense with an elaborate lie
‘Her simple confidence! was that well done?
‘And it is thus, then, that thou dost fulfil
‘Thy vaunted Motto of Glenaveril?

208

XLV

‘Be silent! What! as if it were to win
‘A wager, thou couldst practise on the heart
‘And soul of this poor girl, and see no sin
‘In playing the abominable part
‘Of the arch-trickster and seducer in
‘Emanuel's cruel comedy? Ay, start
‘And blush! for, O Glenaveril sois vrai,
‘Tis thou thyself dost love Cordelia!’

XLVI

Then, like a judge whose sentence is delivered,
Edelrath rose. Beneath his puckered white
Rough eyebrows, on Glenaveril, who shivered
And cowered upon his chair, he flashed a bright
Rebukeful glance; and stretched an arm that quivered
(As that of some indignant prophet might)
Down from the shoulder to the finger-joint
With the strong menace it was raised to point.

XLVII

Glenaveril was thunder-struck. His whole
Lost Paradise in ruins round him lay,
Beyond redemption gone! The enchanter's bowl
Was broken at his lip. The ground gave way
Beneath his foot. He felt his very soul
Rent like a garment. In his vast dismay
Long while for utterance he seemed to strive,
Then cried aloud ‘Cordelia, forgive!’

209

XLVIII

‘And that thou still may'st have the right at least
‘To be forgiven,’ Edelrath replied,
‘Forbear to write to her!’ Then, with increased
Severity of tone and mien, he cried,
‘Where is that letter?’ Ivor from his breast
Drew forth his letter, turned his head aside,
And with a trembling hand, and a faint sigh,
Laid it upon the table silently.

XLIX

‘'Tis well!’ said Edelrath. ‘I need not know
‘What it contains. I will not open it.
‘Whatever thou hast written will be now
‘Thank God, as if it never had been writ!
‘And that's enough. O Ivor, Ivor, how
‘Couldst thou have dug for thine own heart this pit
‘Of self-deception? There, there! never mind!
‘No harm's done yet—thou art no longer blind—

L

‘And as for this—’ With a mute shrug he tossed
Across the room Glenaveril's letter. Down
It fluttered, with its red seal uppermost,
Its shamed face flat upon a folio brown
Of the Confessions of Augustine; lost
To love, but saved from wickedness unknown;
Like some poor pretty sinful Magdalen
Prone on the chill floor of her flinty den!

210

LI

This satisfaction given to righteous wrath
And vengeful virtue, with relenting breast
Compassionately, Father Edelrath
Turned to Glenaveril, and murmured ‘Blest
‘Be Grey! whose conscientious labour hath
‘Achieved the rescue (it must be confessed,
‘No whit too soon, but none the less, in time)
‘Of his dear master's conscience from a crime!

LII

‘Nay, dear Glenaveril, be not so downcast!
‘Oft in our noblest sentiments we find
‘Our falsest traitors. But the danger's past.
‘And not the first are you whose heart a kind
‘And generous impulse hath lured on, too fast
‘For the safe guidance of the lagging mind,
‘To that abyss so slippery and so steep
‘Where, like dumb thunderclouds, the passions sleep.

LIII

‘Between our acts and our intentions ever
‘There is a bridge without a parapet:
‘Beneath it flows life's unreturning river:
‘So narrow is the way that one, to let
‘The other pass, must disappear; and never
‘Have these quick travellers escaped as yet
‘That dangerous encounter. What betides
‘Where there they meet, man's destiny decides.

211

LIV

‘From each extremity a road runs by:
‘Back from those roads no travellers ever fare:
‘The road of Action is Fatality,
‘That of Intention is Repentance; there
‘Wander those phantoms vain whose plaintive cry
‘Troubles our sleep: the other road leads where
‘Columbus finds a world, or else Macbeth
‘Climbs the dark turret plotting Duncan's death.

LV

‘A mask, in its inception, Action wears:
‘It is the function of the will to smite
‘That mask aside, and face what then appears,—
‘The nature of the undone deed. Requite,
‘Child of my heart, with no ungrateful tears
‘The rude but friendly hand that to thy sight
‘Reveals the act to which thine innocent
‘Intention yielded a beguiled assent!

LVI

‘The pathway of Repentance still is free.
‘Fear not to enter it, Glenaveril! Let
‘Thy saved intention there a pilgrim be;
‘And, tho' it wear the garment of regret,
‘Be comforted! for Time is kind, and he
‘On sorrows that are innocent doth set
‘So sweet an aspect, that to them Love rears
‘His fairest fanes, above the Vale of Tears!

212

LVII

‘But after all,’ the old man with a smile
Continued, ‘this is but an April shower!
‘And here am I (old pedant!) all this while
‘Prating, as if when it begins to lower
‘We needs must instantly construct a pile
‘As strong as Noah's to resist the power
‘Of the whole deluge, when in fact I grant
‘'Tis only an umbrella that we want!

LVIII

‘Really old pedants like myself are quite
‘Ridiculous in their fastidiousness!
‘Here is a boy as good as gold, upright,
‘Brave, generous, unselfish to excess,
‘Who loves, admires, and with a boy's delight
‘Would freely sacrifice himself to bless
‘His friend, or his friend's friend—and I must rave
‘As if he were, forsooth, an arrant knave!

LIX

‘'Twere just as rational to criticise
‘The cannon fired in Hamlet! One should view
‘The anachronisms and absurdities
‘Of a great poet, and the errors too
‘Of a great heart, with such indifferent eyes!
‘They are not of the least importance; who
‘But pedants mind them? Come then, my poor boy,
‘My young Astyanax, my Hope of Troy!

213

LX

‘Come! pardon thine old pedant, and resume
‘The task we have to do together still!
‘Help me to reckon, ere we quit this room,
‘That two and two make four, Glenaveril!
‘That's safer than exhorting maidens whom
‘You never saw, and haply never will,
‘To fling with an enthusiasm antic
‘Their fathers' ducats into the Atlantic.

LXI

‘And by the way, to make an end of it,
‘Where did I fling that precious letter down?
‘Ah, there it lies! concealing, as 'tis fit,
‘The address it well may be ashamed to own!
‘And braving me (as if I cared a whit
‘To answer such a saucy challenge, thrown
‘Right in my face!) with its unbroken seal!
‘No, witch! thy secret thou need'st not reveal,

LXII

‘Thou for a sorceress shalt be burnt, without
‘Having confessed thy sins—peace be to them!
‘There never surely was a lie laid out
‘In shorter formula than this E. M.!
‘A most laconical untruth, no doubt,
‘Yet not a little one! Well, I condemn
‘The sorceress to the fire. My matchbox! Where
‘Hath Agatha concealed it? I declare

214

LXIII

‘That damsel's desperately tidy hand
‘Is more secretive than a magpie's nest!
‘Where are those matches gone? They ought to stand
‘Always upon this table, with the rest
‘Of its equipment—Nixies, Pixies, and
‘Kobolds, and Kelpies! why have you possessed
‘Yourselves of my poor matches?—Ah, they're here!
‘That's well! Now, then, the letter! Never fear,

LXIV

‘The witch can't fly, now!’ Saying this, he took
The matchbox up—approached a candlestick
That stood upon the reading-desk, and strook
A match; then o'er the candle's lighted wick,
The letter held. With a contented look
He watched it burn and shrivel, muttering ‘Quick!
‘Bravo! Burn, sorceress, burn! Now I defy
‘The wily footsteps of Fatality!

LXV

‘All's safe, thank Heaven! and there remains no more
‘Than these burnt ashes to betray the past
‘Or jeopardize the future. Come, once more
‘Back to our task, dear Ivor! Here at last
‘Truth finds safe refuge. Two and two make four;
‘A little fact, with a deduction vast!
‘Pythagoras was right! To numbers stick,
‘If Truth you'd find: her name's Arithmetic!’

215

XLVI

And Ivor stretched a penitent hand, and cried
(With that forced gaiety which smiles in pain)
‘Ay, two and two make four! And yet,’ he sighed,
‘That is a truth which is not always plain!
‘But thou, at least, mine eyes hast opened wide,
‘And taught them too, old friend, nor taught in vain,
‘To see so many things, I yet may live
‘To learn, perhaps, how two and two make five!’

216

CANTO VI. FATE TO THE RESCUE.

I

Glenaveril's character was one of those
That suffering sours not. From a stern, a long,
And a brave struggle with himself, he rose
Sorrowful but not sullen, with a strong
Resolve to let no word or look disclose
How sharp the strife had been. And so, along
His wonted ways with mien unchanged he moved,
Still loving as before, and still beloved.

II

Meanwhile, the long vacation, drawing nigh,
Drew with it, for its own discomforting,
(Like one of those last frosts that oft destroy
Young buds put forth at the approach of Spring)
The day on which, before the Faculty,
Emanuel, with what forces he could bring
To its support, his thesis must sustain.
So sharper still he ground that tool, his brain.

217

III

The blithe ambition and the sanguine soul
That warm with hope the student's emulous breast
Cheered not his toil; for he despised the goal
To which its dogged efforts were addressed:
Such toil's achievements justly on the whole
He judged, and deemed them barren at the best;
So that upon itself his spirit preyed,
And thus his thoughts with their own shadows played:

IV

‘The brain! strange fusion of both instrument
‘And subject, like a magnet in a vice
‘Of iron! Who can say to what extent
‘For magnetism gained it pays the price
‘Of simultaneous magnetism spent?
‘Doth not its profit to its loss entice,
‘So that, with vigour got by virtue gone,
‘The process of exhaustion still goes on?

V

‘For whom, for what, so task we, and so fast
‘Force into play, an organ that is still
‘By nature doomed to disappear at last?
‘For whom, for what, do we its chambers fill
‘To bursting with agglomerations vast
‘Of notions we must painfully distill
‘From facts as painfully acquired? For whom,
‘For what, so nimbly toils Thought's restless loom?

218

VI

‘What is it we imagine we can found
‘From all the crude materials that we throw
‘Into this furnace of sensation? Bound
‘To meaner organs, can it be, or know,
‘Aught by itself? Those feet, that tread the ground
‘Unconsciously; those muscles, that bestow
‘Upon the limbs, by their mechanic stress,
‘A motion that to them is meaningless;

VII

‘Those eyes, that all behold, and nought divine;
‘Those ears, that hear yet cannot understand;
‘Those cells of sense that, from the touch so fine
‘(Thrilling the frame as if a spirit fanned
‘Each pulse with pinions dipped in airs divine)
‘Down to the brutal blow that staggers, and
‘The shock that stuns, do thoughtlessly present
‘To Thought reports of its environment;

VIII

‘Without such instruments, and without all
‘Their unintelligent service, is there aught
‘This proud Intelligence can fairly call
‘Its own, or as its own dispose of? Nought!
‘And, if it fain would be no more the thrall
‘Of its own slaves, where in the world can Thought
‘A foothold find? Were it once freed from Sense,
‘What would become of free Intelligence?

219

IX

‘Effacement! absolute nonentity!
‘Within its prison, a world; outside it, mere
‘Abysmal nothingness! Then, what a lie
‘Must be this boasted freedom! How and where
‘Doth it exist? The moment that we try
‘To treat it as a fact, into the sphere
‘Of fancy it recedes, and in the brain
‘Only a vague idea doth remain:

X

‘Of all ideas, this alone is backed
‘By no reality. All others cling
‘Fast to some base in universal fact,
‘But this can find no base in anything.
‘Whence hath the faculty that doth abstract
‘Essence from semblance, disembodying
‘From sea and land ideas of wet and dry,
‘Derived that quaint abstraction—Liberty?

XI

‘What fragment of reality attests,
‘Or answers to, or in the least degree
‘Supports it? The idea the sea suggests
‘Flows from the visible flowing of the sea;
‘And on the solid earth securely rests
‘The abstract notion of solidity;
‘In either case there still is something real
‘Which, as it were, bears witness to the ideal;

220

XII

‘A something manifest to sense, and not
‘Dependent on the idea which the mind
‘Derives from it—a something that hath got
‘A corporal substance, and a place assigned
‘To its existence in some definite spot,
‘Where the idea it suggests can find
‘Corroborative evidence and fit
‘Support in facts that correspond to it.

XIII

‘But what fact corresponds to Liberty?
‘Is it not an abnormity detached
‘From all things that exist in earth or sky?
‘The merest figment of the brain, unmatched,
‘Unwarranted, by aught that ear, or eye,
‘Or touch reveal? A vain chimæra hatched
‘From nothing; which, itself, can nothing be
‘But the negation of reality!

XIV

‘O wretched toil of the Danaïdes!
‘To go on reasoning about everything,
‘And then arrive at nothing! With such ease
‘To reckon what returning stars will bring
‘Eclipses round in vast recurrences
‘Of endless time, or count each quivering
‘Pulse of light's rapid path, yet have no power
‘To walk, oneself, beyond a mile an hour!

221

XV

‘To know what springs and valves and ducts keep going
‘The abundant animal life that never fails
‘To fill the world, yet starve for want of knowing
‘Where to procure a cutlet! The details
‘Of Alexander's strategy, the glowing
‘Achievements of Napoleon's Generals,
‘To have completely mastered, and yet be
‘Completely at the merey of a flea!

XVI

‘To carry in the registers of thought
‘The elements of Euclid; the commands
‘Of all the Vedas; systems solving nought,
‘And creeds affirming all; the solar bands;
‘All treaties ever signed, or battles fought;
‘The separate functions of nerves, cells, and glands;
‘With Egypt's one and thirty dynasties,
‘And all the Popes of Rome, and Dukes of Guise;

XVII

‘And then, because a window or a door
‘Stands open, and the time is cold or wet,
‘To find this carefully-completed store
‘Of acquisitions suddenly upset
‘Dispersed, and ruined, by a throat that's sore,
‘A head that aches, a lung that's on the fret—
‘And Vedas, Pharaohs, Hyksos, Dukes of Guise,
‘And Pontiffs, vanish in a cough or sneeze!’

222

XVIII

Such were the undelightful thoughts that threw,
Like gathering clouds, their gloomy influence
About Emanuel's mind. From study too
Prolonged, he suffered now a more intense
Dejection than habitual students do,
Who are by temperament and preference
Disposed to sedentary life, as he
Was formed by nature for activity.

XIX

Ivor with ardour, as was natural,
This misanthropic humour combated;
Maintaining the antithesis of all
The bitter sayings by Emanuel said;
And ‘O,’ he laughed, ‘thou craven giant, call
‘Some doughty dwarf thine enterprise to aid!
‘Not all the Faculties, nor all their Deans,
‘Should daunt me, had I half thy ways and means!

XX

‘Yet, certain as thou art of victory
‘Instead of wondering what triumphal arch
‘Will loudest echo ‘Io Pæan!’ why,
‘Like muffled drums that beat a funeral march,
‘These doleful groans? Thou dost with causeless sigh
‘But fan a furnace fierce enough to parch
‘Thy brains to cinders. Fuel it no more!
‘Come out, and let us talk our journey o'er!

223

XXI

‘Instead of thinking so about the old
‘Bald heads of Heidelberg's assembled Dons,
‘Think of Mont Blanc, the Jungfrau, and the bold
‘Assault on those more formidable sons
‘Of venerable Time, which, as I've told
‘The coming Lord Glenaveril more than once,
‘With him the coming Mr. Müller means
‘To make next month in spite of Dons and Deans!

XXII

‘Think of our expedition in disguise,
‘(What fun!) and think of Switzerland! and then
‘Of Italy's dear azure seas and skies!
‘And then of Egypt's yellow sands! And when
‘Thou hast exhausted all such ecstasies,
‘Think of this prophecy which I again
‘Repeat, that thou wilt in a month, nay less,
‘Have passed this ordeal with immense success!’

XXIII

Glenaveril's prediction proved quite true,
And no one was the least surprised at it.
Nature hath singular caprices. Who
Can otherwise explain why she thinks fit
That, of the babes each year brings forth, a few
(As sure as every year the swallows flit)
Should, every year, be born rope-dancers? That's
What happens, too, with mental acrobats.

224

XXIV

The persons who by nature are endowed
Thus from their birth, possess no faculties
That are not also common to the crowd;
Only, by some instinctive exercise
They force those common gifts, (on all bestowed
In less degree) to an uncommon size
With an uncommon skill; attaining thus
To a proficiency which startles us.

XXV

Of all such faculties, the commonest
Is memory. 'Tis indispensable
To all vocations, and in each is best
When it is strongest. Poetry as well
As statesmanship would perish unpossessed
Of this one gift, altho' no miracle
Of memorative power, however great,
A statesman or a poet can create;

XXVI

For memory at the best can be no better
Than a good mirror which the intellect
For its own use keeps polished; the begetter
It is not, of the things it doth reflect.
Yet are there men whose memory to the letter
Can reproduce, with every date correct,
The whole of Mangnall's Questions and the answers:
These men are intellectual rope-dancers.

225

XXVII

And every industry, and every art,
And every science, its rope-dancers has.
All rules and formulas they know by heart;
Of facts they are encyclopedias:
They know what has been writ on every part
Of human knowledge; they can tell what was
The date and place of every known event,
Or what the use of every instrument;

XXVIII

And therefore born librarians are they;
For of the multitudes of books is none
But what, without an effort, they can say
All it contains; altho' there is but one,
Of whose contents in any sort of way
The authorship belongs to them alone,
And that's the catalogue. So vast is all
Their knowledge, and the worth of it so small!

XXIX

The highest faculty such men possess
Emanuel possessed to a degree
That all such men might envy. His distress
Was that he knew it, and despised it. He
Viewed with contempt what flatters more or less
The vanity of pedantry—to be
Cropfull of every kind of information,
Yet only capable of compilation.

226

XXX

This vehement antipathy between
His temperament and intellect inspired
The former with a scorn severe and keen
For all the latter's rare but undesired
Superiorities; which to his mien
And tone imparted an effect admired
As modesty—sole virtue with the wit
To flatter those who do not practise it!

XXXI

And therefore without envy his success
Was even by his rivals recognised.
His character contributed to this:
His fellow students, with an undisguised
Habitual matter-of-course off-handedness,
Regarded him as a convenient-sized
Well-put-together book of reference,
That to original thought makes no pretence;

XXXII

There, every one the word he wants can find,
With just sufficient comment and no more:
And, since it never comes into the mind
Of any one the volume to explore
For words that are of an offensive kind,
Such as, for instance, ‘fool,’ or ‘ass,’ or ‘bore,’
So no one is offended, tho' no doubt
Such words are to be found there, if looked out.

227

XXXIII

And thus Emanuel, who never sought
Affection, got it in exchange for what
He neither loved nor valued. There was nought
Which he himself depreciated not
In his own gifts. He loathed the very thought
Of all that from such gifts is to be got.
And in his case a paradox was proved:
He was not lovable, yet he was loved.

XXXIV

Some fifteen days, or more, were passed away
Since Edelrath Glenaveril's ships had burned
Without remorse, on that unhappy day
When Ivor out of Paradise was turned.
In the report then read from Mathew Grey
The searching eyes of Edelrath discerned
Materials for instructions most minute,
Designed each local circumstance to suit:

XXXV

But, like instructions every year sent out
On State Affairs by Offices at home
To Officers abroad, they proved (no doubt
Because of their minuteness) burdensome,
And to the matter which they were about
Completely inappropriate. A tome
Of questions and objections, difficult
To answer, was their natural result;

228

XXXVI

And hence a further correspondence, till
Said Edelrath at last, ‘The thing has got
‘To such a tangle, dear Glenaveril,
‘As can but be unravelled on the spot!’
Ivor asserted that Emanuel still
His presence needed: and his Mentor, not
Contesting the boy's wishes for the nonce,
Resolved to go alone, and go at once.

XXXVII

The matter thus between himself and Grey
Was settled in a week: and all elate
He had but just returned, when the next day
Emanuel, now a passed licentiate,
Paying the visits he was bound to pay
To all the Dons in ceremonious state,
Called upon Edelrath. With proud delight
The Scholar welcomed his young favourite.

XXXVIII

‘With all my heart,’ he said, ‘I wish thee joy!
‘Thoughmuch I grudge the Church a mind so bright.
‘But say, how happens it, forgetful boy,
‘That thou didst not remember to invite
‘Old Father Edelrath to reëmploy
‘His rusty weapons (as I thought 'twas quite
‘Settled between us) on the list of those
‘Who were invoked thy thesis to oppose?’

229

XXXIX

‘My dear Professor, what a question! Why,
‘Your name was foremost on the programme placed,
‘Which duly, with a Latin letter, I
‘Left at your house: a Latin letter graced
‘With all the flowers of that Latinity
‘Whose choicest Ciceronian blossoms waste
‘Their sweetness on this academic air!
‘And here I left that letter, I declare.’

XL

‘You left it! when?’ ‘If I remember right,
‘It was not long before you went away.
‘The actual date of it I cannot quite
‘Recall; but certainly to Agatha
‘I gave it, fifteen days ago, it might
‘Be more, perhaps. I really cannot say
‘Exactly when. But this I know, I told her
‘To give it you; so, if she did not, scold her!

XLI

‘I mean, of course, that you must not scold me.’
‘Ha! but,’ said Edelrath, ‘your letter, then,
‘Must, still unopened, on my table be!
‘Too much I prize the products of your pen,
‘Especially in Latin, not to see
‘What has become of it. When was it? when
‘A fortnight say you? Wait! Ho, Agatha!
‘Were is that girl now? Agatha, I say!’

230

XLII

And hot, from culinary haunts at hand,
With arms'neath apron tucked, and cap whose frills
All stiff on the defensive seemed to stand,
Much like the porcupine's proverbial quills,
Agatha entered. Smiling ('twas a Grand
Inquisitor's official smile, that fills
The heart heretical with prescient dread)
Edelrath waved his hand to her, and said,

XLIII

‘What hast thou done, girl, with the letter that
‘The Herr Emanuel Müller left with thee
‘Some fifteen days ago, he says?’ Whereat,
Bridling a little at what seemed to be
A half-rebuke, that damsel answered pat,
‘The letter Herr Emanuel left with me,
The Herr Professor being out that day,
Upon the Herr Professor's desk I lay.’

XLIV

Edelrath flushed. A vague presentiment
Of some mischance disturbed him. He subdued
However his first impulse to give vent
To questions it suggested, and said, ‘Good!
‘The letter must have strayed, 'tis evident;
‘But I shall find it in this multitude
‘Of papers presently, Emanuel.
‘The fault was mine. Go, Agatha! 'Tis well.’

231

XLV

But scarcely had Emanuel disappeared
Ere Edelrath called Agatha again
Into his room; and, with a mind that feared
The truth it was compelled to ascertain,
‘Repeat,’ he said, ‘the statement that I heard
‘Imperfectly just now, and pray explain,
‘My dear good Agatha (no blame to thee,
‘The fault was mine!) where can this letter be?

XLVI

‘The fact is, Agatha, I'm half afraid,’
(He said this blushing red from cheek to brow)
‘That I some dreadful blunder must have made.
‘But we must clear this matter up. Come, now,
‘The letter, say'st thou, on the desk was laid?’
‘The desk, I think,’ said Agatha. ‘And how?’
‘I placed it as I generally place
‘All the unopened letters, on its face:

XLVII

‘Placed it, that is, with the seal uppermost,
‘So that at once the Herr Professor might
‘Distinguish it’—‘Ay, ay! from all the host
‘Of open letters left about. Quite right!
‘'Tis all mine own disorder that hath cost
‘This trouble’—‘And I think, but cannot quite
‘Remember,’ Agatha went on, ‘the day
‘Before the Herr Professor went away,

232

XLVIII

‘I saw the letter lying on a book
‘Somewhere. But whether it was open then
‘Or shut I cannot say, nor did I look;
‘The Herr so often having told me, when
‘His room is dusted, neither shelf nor nook
‘Must be disturbed.’ And ‘Right! quite right!’ again
Responded Edelrath, with deepening gloom,
While ruefully his glances roamed the room.

XLIX

After a moment's silent cogitation,
He added artfully, ‘And, by the way,
‘The more that I think out that indication
‘Of where, when last you looked, the letter lay,
‘The more I feel a growing inclination
‘To think it not improbable I may
‘Have found it after all, and then forgot.
‘I shouldn't wonder. But it matters not.

L

‘Only, if that were so, it strikes me now
‘Thou must have found another letter here,
‘And sealed exactly like it. For I know
‘There was just such another, and I fear
‘That in my haste, I must have mixed somehow
‘Those letters, and forgotten one. My dear
‘Try to remember!’ ‘Ah,’ said Agatha,
‘Mixed and forgot? most likely, I should say.’

233

LI

‘Yes, yes! but think, child! I am so distressed!
‘Try to remember!’—‘The same seal?’ said she.
‘Ay, just the same!’—‘A seal without a crest?’
‘Exactly!’ ‘And two letters, M. and E.?’
‘No, E. and M.!’—‘Yes, E. and M.—addressed
‘In Lord Glenaveril's writing—let me see,
‘Addressed to Hamburg, was it not?’ ‘Heaven bless
‘Thy wits, girl!’ Edelrath exclaimed, ‘yes! yes!

LII

‘To Hamburg, that's the letter! and, thank Heaven,
‘Thou hast saved us all from a misfortune vast!
‘My dear good Agatha! I knew that even
‘A pin is safe if thou its keeping hast!
‘Go now, and fetch that letter. Thou hast given
‘Ten years of life to me! Run, girl, and fast!’
‘But, Sir,’ said Agatha, ‘I have it not;
‘Again the Herr Professor has forgot.’

LIII

‘Forgotten what, child?’ ‘What the orders were
‘He gave me when he drove so fast away
‘To catch the train.’ And, thro' his thin white hair
The poor old Scholar felt, in mute dismay,
Something that like a breath of icy air,
Curdling his brain, began to creep and stray.
He stammered ‘Orders! orders about what?
‘What did I tell thee? I remember not.’

234

LIV

‘But I,’ said Agatha, ‘can still recall
‘The very words of them. You said to me,
‘“Upon my table there are several
‘Letters which must be posted. Two or three
‘Are mine, the rest Milord's. Our stamps are all
‘“Exhausted. Take them to the post, and see
‘“That they are weighed before you pay them, please.”
‘And so I did. So set your mind at ease.’

LV

‘Ah,’ faltered Edelrath, ‘at ease! Well, well,
‘No matter! But how many letters, say,
‘Were lying on my table? Can you tell?
‘Letters I mean, girl, for the post that day,
‘For we must be exact if possible.’
‘Of course!’ said Agatha. ‘I had to pay
‘One thaler twenty groschen at the post
‘For stamps, and that's exactly what they cost.

LVI

‘And all of it is entered in my book:
‘The stamps, the number of the letters too.
‘But only wait a moment! I'll go look.’
She left the room; and, like a culprit who
Awaits his doom, her luckless master shook
From head to foot, as he gasped faintly, ‘Do!’
And sank into his chair, and bit his nails,
Sighing, ‘The last hope left! and if it fails?’

235

LVII

The unfortunate mistake that he had made
Was slowly growing clearer to his mind.
If only St. Augustine had betrayed
That pretty sinner! But the Saint was kind,
And now Glenaveril's letter, by his aid,
Was doubtless speeding on its way to find
Cordelia's heart, and play the devil there,
While poor Emanuel's missive—O despair!

LVIII

‘Alas, alas!’ groaned Edelrath, ‘alas,
‘The wiles of the Unconscious! What avail
‘Precautions against Fate? and what an ass
‘Have I been, in the best design to fail
‘By the worst oversight that ever was!
‘Dolt! idiot! what a pitiable tale
‘Of blunders! Fatal was the hour when I
‘Defied the footsteps of Fatality!’

LIX

Here Agatha, returning cried ‘There! look!
‘Twenty-five groschen for two letters, see!
‘'Tis all correctly entered in the book.
‘Then, for three letters—Lord Glenaveril's three—’
‘What! what!’ cried Edelrath, and trembling took
The book she offered,—‘Two—’ ‘No, no,’ said she
‘Not two! three letters! Lord Glenaveril's score.
‘And that's as sure as two and two make four!’

236

LX

‘Good heavens!’ groaned Edelrath, and sank again
Into his chair. ‘O human vanity!
‘O blind Pythagoras! O science vain!
‘Arithmetic thou, too, art all a lie!
‘For look you here, now! Two and two, 'tis plain
‘Make four no longer. The Three Fates defy
‘All Rules of Three, and furtively contrive
‘That two and two shall make, not four, but five!’

END OF BOOK THE SECOND.

237

BOOK THE THIRD. THE ALPS.

239

CANTO I. LIFE'S METAMORPHOSES.

I

All ye who roam abroad, what seek ye there?
Change? But in search of change what need to roam?
For change to every one comes everywhere,
And comes unsought. Then, why not stay at home?
Surely, at home, enough of change it were
Simply to live, letting time go and come,
While hourly fleet the banks on either side
Of life's continually flowing tide!

II

Home changes are, at least, safe-harvested
By love unchanged. Their soft succession hides
Their harsh effects. The smile of summers fled
Still in the winter-wrinkled face abides:
Some lingering charm to deck the whitened head,
Habit, Time's old familiar friend, provides:
And, less like Summer gone than Autumn come,
Age follows Youth with Memory's harvest home.

240

III

All ye who roam abroad, what is it ye do?
Gaps you create: one in your own lives, one
Among their lives who miss you. Ah, the two
Will (never doubt it!) both be filled anon;
Filled, and, as soon as filled, put out of view!
Closed up, as open graves are, by a stone
That hides what it was meant to indicate,
The coffined corpse beneath its name and date!

IV

Care for the absent soon becomes, at best,
The Campo Santo of a convent; paved
With mortuary slabs, so often pressed
By heedless steps that the inscriptions graved
Across them can be neither traced nor guessed;
For even the mute memorials that once craved
Some charitable memory of the dead,
Life treads away with unremembering tread:

V

All but the first and last words are effaced:
‘Here lyeth’—that is all the first words say,
And ‘Pray for him!’ in mockery say the last,
And all between is rubbed and worn away;
There, once some cherished effigy was traced,
But form, and face, and features, where are they?
The dead man's image from his smooth grave stone,
And with his image even his name, is gone!

241

VI

Whither, O wanderers, whither do ye go?
The smallest streamlets never miss their way,
Roam where they will about the world; but who
Of all earth's human travellers can say
What end the path he treads will take him to?
One goal there is which all must reach some day,
Whether they go abroad or stay at home;
But to get there, what need have ye to roam?

VII

Sons, brothers, fathers, husbands, friends, depart:
O'er their departure many a sorrowing eye
Hath wept ‘farewell!’ and many an aching heart
Hath sighed ‘God speed!’ What loving lip will cry
‘Welcome!’ where they are going? Friends they start,
And strangers they return. Return! ah, why?
Tired pilgrims, have ye found not what ye sought?
Yes, but the search was all, the finding nought!

VIII

‘'Tis nailed all over,’ said Emanuel
‘Just like a Bishop's Coffin!’ He was eyeing
A Chamouni boot; a perfect miracle
Of cobblery, contrived for fortifying
The human foot in a thick-hided shell,
Such as the Athenian cobbler was for trying
Upon the walls of Athens, to test whether
Stone has the most resisting power, or leather.

242

IX

This formidable boot was one of two
By Chamouni's best bootmaker just made
For the complete equipment of the new
Earl of Glenaveril. ‘I am certain,’ said
That personage, continuing his review
Of its peculiarities, with head
Set on the critical slant, ‘that all this mass
‘Of iron knobs was meant to shoe an ass!

X

‘What is the use of fashioning a boot
‘To imitate Achilles' shield? 'Tis all
‘The vanity of that conceited brute,
‘The irrepressible periodical
‘Swiss Tourist; whom it pleases to impute
‘To these poor pimples, that are Nature's small
‘Defects, all sorts of dangers quite confined,
‘If they exist, to his own boastful mind;

XI

‘Or is it, like our cavalry cuirasses,
‘Only a reminiscence that has grown
‘Into a decoration which surpasses
‘Absurdity by inconvenience? Own
‘That, if you chanced to slip down the crevasses
‘Ready to gulp you, not a single one
‘Of these big nails would be of service found,
‘Though all are useless upon level ground!’

243

XII

Said Ivor who, with file in hand, meanwhile,
Sharpening an alpenstock, beside him sat,
‘Scorn not precaution!’ And with acrid smile,
‘Precaution,’ said Emanuel, ‘what is that?
‘Certificated accident! The tile,
‘Whose fall, to-day, by chance hath missed your hat,
‘Chance may, to-morrow, help to cleave your pate!
‘Precaution comes too soon or else too late;

XIII

‘Last winter by a miracle, without
‘A muffler, you escaped a lung disease,
‘And therefore all this summer, go about
‘Wrapped up from chest to chin.’ ‘Ah well, in these
‘Swiss tours,’ said Ivor, ‘'twill not do to flout
‘Precaution. Every guide in this agrees;
‘And wherefore, dear Emanuel, be ashamed’—
‘Stop! Call me not Emanuel,’ he exclaimed,

XIV

‘Call me, My Lord! My title is defined
‘In our convention, and I hold to it!
‘Earl of Glenaveril, am I now! And mind
‘That you address me always as 'tis fit
‘My Secretary should. I'm not inclined
‘To waive my novel rank one jot or whit.
‘Noblesse oblige! tho’, doubtless, in what way
‘It is obliging, it were hard to say.’

244

XV

‘Inveterate scoffer! born misanthropist!’
Said Ivor, laughing, ‘for full well I know
‘Thou from thy sarcasms wouldst not desist
‘On all that goes with noble birth, if thou
‘Couldst even trace thine own back to the list
‘Of Christendom's first Barons!’ ‘Anyhow,’
Emanuel answered, ‘I myself should be
‘In that case last of all their pedigree;

XVI

‘And by the simple fact of being last
‘I should confer upon society
‘A blessing greater even than the vast
‘Amount of mischief done in days gone by
‘By the whole tribe of them.’ ‘Go on! thou hast,’
‘Said Ivor, ‘in thy wit's whole armoury
‘No weapon strong enough to overthrow
‘The sway of thine own nature! That I know.

XVII

‘Thou art, in fact, a born arìstocrat
‘In all save birth: arìstocrat in all
‘Thy tastes and tendencies, no matter what
‘The motive be that urges thee to call
‘Thyself a democrat, although so flat
‘The contradiction by thy natural
‘And genuine self continually given
‘To that affected character, thank Heaven!

245

XVIII

‘Nor else would I have coaxed thee to comply
‘With this experimental transposition
‘Of names and titles. Thou dost not deny
‘(Nay more! thou dost affirm) that the transmission
‘Of an inherited capacity
‘Hath made the bee a skilled geometrician;
‘Yet to life's noblest orders dost impute
‘The want of gifts conceded to the brute!’

XIX

‘Ah, first of all,’ replied Emanuel,
‘We must distinguish, and agree upon
‘The use of terms. And pray consider well
‘What is transmitted. Bees, from sire to son,
‘(Or, to speak strictly by the oracle,
‘Mother to daughter) have been going on
‘Transmitting what I venture to define
‘As Beeism. Excuse the term, 'tis mine.

XX

‘Examine it, however, and you'll find
‘(Putting aside the Queen Bee who, in fact,
‘Is only the whole commonwealth's combined
‘Maternity into one insect packed)
‘That Beeism is the completest kind
‘Of organised equality. Abstract
‘From our Noblesse the most you can refer
‘To its hereditary character,

246

XXI

‘And what it yields is the perpetuation
‘Of inequality.’ ‘Whereby’ replied
Glenaveril, ‘it makes no deviation
‘From the great law of growth exemplified
‘By Nature, that complete Impersonation
‘Of Inequality!’ ‘Yes, doubtless,’ cried
Emanuel, ‘in individual cases,
‘But never in the usages of races!

XXII

‘Who ever saw a calf of tender age
‘Accepted as the hereditary head
‘Of the whole herd that to its pasturage
‘Was by the bull, his father, fitly led?
‘What instinct, still derived from its first stage
‘Hath our Nobility inherited?
‘An instinct, whose relief the law refuses,
‘Of using swords—which nobody now uses!’

XXIII

‘And is it thou, O philosophic friend,’
Retorted Ivor, ‘who art thus content
‘A prejudiced position to defend
‘With such a mere pretence at argument?
‘From sterile heights the torrent may descend,
‘But there is grandeur even in its descent,
‘Simply because the source of it was high.
‘Whence comes stagnation? From equality!

247

XXIV

‘Rome to the headsprings of the Apennine
‘Raised aqueducts, whereby the waters ran,
‘Keeping the freshness of their origin,
‘To slake the thirst of lips republican
‘With purity unsoiled by the supine
‘Maremmas. As the source is, so the man:
‘To every highborn progeny belong
‘Some qualities not common to the throng:

XXV

‘And, be it never so degenerate,
‘In Aristocracy doth still exist
‘A something fine, from every other state
‘And form of social growth still vaguely missed:
‘The vulgar, even when they affect to hate,
‘Admire it, nor its influence can resist;
‘Instinctively to its possessors they
‘A deference, that proclaims a difference, pay.’

XXVI

‘His Lordship's breakfast is prepared below!’
The waiter, entering, to Emanuel said,
With a profoundly deferential bow;
And then, suspending his obsequious tread,
He added, ‘And the Guides are waiting now
‘His Excellency's orders.’ ‘Good!’ his head
Emanuel nodded. ‘Let them wait till I
‘Can send Herr Müller to them by and by.’

248

XXVII

Then turning, as the waiter at that word
The chamber left, ‘There, Ivor! there,’ said he,
‘From that man's lips thou hast mine answer heard!
‘Hope nothing from the vulgar! Power to be
‘Responsive to distinction is conferred
‘Only on those who are distinguished. See,
‘The vulgar have it not! Between us two,
‘What difference did that man proclaim just now?

XXVIII

‘Each daily circumstance of his vocation
‘Must to the highest point it can attain
‘Have trained his faculty of observation;
‘Yet his vulgarity upon us twain,
‘Since our arrival here, without cessation
‘Has exercised that faculty in vain!
‘In thee the essence of nobility
‘Its source reveals: a born plebeian I:

XXIX

‘Yet see! It is enough that I display
‘A title men suppose to be mine own,
‘And indiscriminately fling away
‘Donations, in the vilest taste; and down
‘To earth men bow before me, as if they
‘In me revered the very roof and crown
‘Of human nature; while on thee, poor friend,
‘Not even a glance can they afford to spend!

249

XXX

‘Thou knowest,’ he continued with a sigh,
‘That to perfection of whatever kind
‘No man is more susceptible than I.
‘What saddens and dismays me is to find
‘That everywhere the highest faculty,
‘Whether it be of body or of mind,
‘Has no hereditary place on earth,
‘No aristocracy secured by birth.

XXXI

‘The noblest artist is the first and last
‘Of his own kind: on the philosopher
‘All the philosophies of all the past
‘No cognizable ancestors confer:
‘The great creative poet dies at last
‘With no legitimate inheritor.
‘Ah, if the Montmorenci of the mind
‘Had but the power to propagate their kind!

XXXII

‘Or even the Comneni of the plough!’
This groan Glenaveril echoed with a sigh;
‘Nature,’ he said, ‘is blind, and doth bestow
‘Her gifts by chance.’ ‘No, Ivor! I deny
‘That Nature,’ cried Emanuel all aglow
With combative rebuke to that reply,
‘Does anything by chance. There is no room
‘For chance in Nature. Natural chance means Doom.

250

XXXIII

‘We call that Nature which we understand;
‘And what we understand not we call Chance,
‘Using the word that's readiest at hand
‘To fill the place of our own ignorance.
‘Not inadvertently hath Nature planned
‘And fast established the inheritance
‘By safe transmission, in this race or that,
‘Of almond eyes, and noses hooked or flat;

XXXIV

‘And tell me not the Power that can secure
‘This permanence of type in nose and eyes
‘Is powerless to perpetuate the pure
‘Inheritance of higher faculties
‘Than sight or smell! No, no! 'tis we, be sure,
‘By some perversity, which I surmise
‘Might be corrected if we knew but how,
‘Forfeit the gifts that Power would fain bestow.

XXXV

‘Ah, if we only trusted Nature more!
‘Doth not the saxifrage select a soil
‘No other plant could thrive in, and thence pour
‘About her affluent stem a dancing coil
‘Of dainty bells? Who knows? in every score
‘Of noble dames, is one, perchance, the spoil
‘Of circumstance unsuited to her case,
‘An unguessed saxifrage born out of place!

251

XXXVI

‘A saxifrage constrained to waste away
‘Because 'tis planted in too rich an earth
‘For its development! And who can say
‘How many a natural duchess her vile birth
‘On vicious paths condemns to go astray
‘Obscurely, whose else-unpolluted worth
‘With every grace and virtue might adorn
‘Some coronet perchance less nobly worn?

XXXVII

'Tis said, in mockery of a certain race,
‘Its custom is before the opening eyes
‘Of every child, as soon as born, to place
‘A fiddle and a purse. If the child tries
‘To clutch the fiddle, in that lucky case
‘'Tis reared as a musician: if it eyes
‘The purse first, its vocation then must be
‘A thief's. The child's choice is accounted free.

XXXVIII

‘An unavowed confession in the terms
‘Of this ill-natured pleasantry I find.
‘What of a single people spite affirms,
‘Custom on all inflicts. Though undesigned,
‘The moral's true. The bent of human germs
‘We all ignore; and Childhood's heart and mind
‘Must needs to Custom pay the ruinous price
‘Exacted by Parental Prejudice!

252

XXXIX

‘No! I repeat, 'tis Ignorance that doth balk
‘The hand of Nature; tho' by humouring it
‘Cattle short-horned, and hogs too fat to walk,
‘Our scientific breeders have the wit
‘To generate; and how boastfully we talk
‘Of these monstrosities, as if 'twere fit
‘The human breed should lack that choice selection
‘Which brings a Yorkshire ham to its perfection!’

XL

‘Well,’ said Glenaveril, laughing as he rose,
‘The problem's one of opportunity;
‘And for my part, to solve it, I propose,
‘That we forthwith to breakfast go! for I
‘Begin to feel a hungry germ that grows
‘Impatient for its provident supply
‘Of suitable and timely nourishment.
‘Allons!’ And arm in arm the two friends went.

XLI

A pleasant meal was their repast, and gay,
Spread in a bright embrasure of the hall
That served for general dining-room. The day
Was but a few hours old, and cloudless. All
As green as emerald in the clear light lay,
Glittering and glooming underneath a wall
Of radiant whiteness, roofed by a blue sky,
The incomparable Vale of Chamouni.

253

XLII

A pungent fragrance from the mountain pine
And the wet grass embalmed the buxom air;
Fronting the casement, in the fresh sunshine,
Mont Blanc a spacious billowy sheet of bare
Smooth snow against the ethereal hyaline
Spread like a splendid sail, as if he were
About to launch from an ice-built embrasure
His buoyant mass into the aëry azure.

XLIII

The time invited an ascent: but still,
The two friends had decided, first of all
Before attempting it, to test their skill
And strength in some comparatively small
And easy enterprise; enough to fill
This day and next, from noon till even fall,
Pleasantly with a picturesque excursion
Involving, said their Guides, no great exertion.

XLIV

Meanwhile, the empty hall wherein was spread
Their early meal, grew crowded by degrees.
As tutors with small tribes of boys to lead,
Young couples, and mamas with families,
Came strolling in to breakfast, or to read
The list of new arrivals. Among these
One family there was that seemed to be
North German, doubtless of the Bourgeoisie;

254

XLV

Such looked, at least, the type of all save one;
They took their places at a table set
Near that whereby Glenaveril now alone
Was sitting; for Emanuel, to get
His preparations for the morning done,
Had gone upstairs, in his new part as yet
But ill at ease; and thus, he chanced to quit
The hall as those late comers entered it.

XLVI

The family consisted of a man
Of middle age, in whose good-humoured face
A shrewd expression more American
Than German it was possible to trace;
His wife, a buxom dame of full-blown span,
And not without a certain comely grace;
Two little girls, his daughters, you might guess;
And with them their young English governess.

XLVII

This information, with an air discreet,
The landlord was communicating now
To a young Austrian officer, whose seat
Fronting Glenaveril's, faced that family row.
Twirling his moustache, a miraculous feat
In waxwork, the young dandy lifted slow
Eyeglass to eye, with supercilious stare,
Enquiring what his fellow-travellers were.

255

XLVIII

‘The sauce seems better than the fish!’ said he
In answer to the landlord's information,
‘And that young governess might really be
‘A princess, whose ideal occupation
‘Is to lead lambs about in Arcady!
‘Her lambs should have pink ribbons, decoration
‘Would much improve them; but their shepherdess
‘Looks charming in her very simple dress.’

XLIX

The landlord, chuckling, answered, ‘True, Herr Graf!
‘Persons of that condition now-a-days
‘Have airs and graces that would make you laugh,
‘Did you but know, as we do, all their ways.
‘But 'tis our business to know grain from chaff,
‘And no assumed distinction ever pays
‘With us, I promise you! No, I can tell
‘With half an eye the genuine article!’

L

The Herr Graf nodded. ‘Ah, no doubt you can!’
He said with a slight accent of disdain.
‘Well, we might make a bargain, honest man,
‘And you should for yourself keep all the grain;
‘Give me the chaff. I like it better than
‘Your genuine article.’ Mine host, again
Chuckling replied, with sundry nods and winks,
‘Ay, ay, that's natural! 'tis a pretty minx!

256

LI

‘But governesses with such lips and eyes
‘Are little devils! there's no doubt of that.
‘Once they get into noble families,
‘Heaven knows what pranks their eyes and lips are at!
‘And by the way, Herr Graf, just scrutinize
‘The couple yonder! There's a proof of what
‘I'm saying. Do you see them sitting there?
‘Both looking as if bored to death they were!

LII

‘The husband studying the Figaro,
‘Only for an excuse to turn his back
‘Upon his wife! And she—ah, notice, do,
‘With what a fretful wearisome tic-tac
‘She opes and shuts that bracelet! You must know
‘The lady was (a year ago, good lack!)
‘One of those pretty governesses; well,
‘In love with her, of course, the young Graf fell,

LIII

‘And so—’ But here the landlord's accents grew
More confidential and less audible,
As he proceeded to impart some new
Detail which, doubtless, it was just as well
To whisper only. Ivor never knew
The end of that romance, which, truth to tell,
He had indifferently overheard
Without attending to a single word;

257

LIV

For he, meanwhile, was deeply studying
His Alpine map, and from it jotting down
Into his notebook every little thing
About his journey. So the words had flown,
As idly heard as insects on the wing,
About his ears with that monotonous drone
Which lulls a mind on other thoughts intent.
And still Glenaveril o'er his map was bent,

LV

When, without even pausing, as he passed,
His message to deliver, in a tone
Pertly betokening his impatient haste
Upon some other business to be gone,
A waiter, with a glance behind him cast,
Exclaimed, ‘Herr Müller, if your meal is done,
‘My lord Glenaveril says he wants the key
‘Of his portmanteau. You can give it me.’

LVI

‘I'll take it him myself,’ Glenaveril said,
‘And that immediately. You need not stop.’
Then quietly the map, before him spread,
Into his pocketbook he folded up,
And rose to go. But, as he turned his head,
The little clatter of a broken cup
Stopped him, and there he stayed—beneath a spell
Whose sudden sorcery was invincible:

258

LVII

In the same moment, starting from her seat
With a glad gesture of such passionate stress
That the half-lifted tea-cup to her feet
Fell as she rose, a girl (now motionless
As he himself) stood, statuelike. Her sweet
Young face, rose-flushed, her simple soft grey dress,
Were inundated and illumined all
With a delight divinely virginal;

LVIII

Her gaze was fixed upon Glenaveril,
Suffused and radiant with a silent joy
So deep, so pure, so perfect, and so still,
That he, all quivering, and not knowing why
His whole frame trembled with a mystic thrill,
Uttered a glad involuntary cry;
A cry revealing by its vehemence
The swift recovery of some long-lost sense!

LIX

'Twas but a moment: and, for all but two,
Less than a moment. No one else perceived
Anything more than a young lady who,
Having upset a tea-cup, shocked and grieved
At the disaster, had sprung up to view
What injury her dress might have received
From her own awkwardness: a natural act
Originating in a clumsy fact.

259

LX

A moment only! But to those embraced
Within the moment's meaning, what a vast
Eternity of feeling then effaced
All the familiar landmarks around past
Present and future confidently traced
By Use and Wont! and what a furnace-blast
From the Creative Fiat breathed sublime
Thro' that one momentary sigh of time!

LXI

As thus she stood—her fluctuous image swayed
A little backward in a curve enchanting,
Whose buoyant undulating grace was made
Firm in its fairy poise by the down-slanting
Arm that, behind her, on the chair still laid
A hand to prop what seemed a sea-wave panting
Upon its highest pinnacle before
It bursts in spray on the expectant shore;

LXII

As thus she stood—a rippling tremour heaved
Each little loosened tress, as if some nerve
In every single hair had just received
A message from her heart to make it curve
And quiver with a bliss that round her weaved
One of those aureoles whose beams preserve
The else-lost tradition of Beatitude,
Making a Heaven in human flesh and blood;

260

LXIII

As thus she stood—could they have seen her there,
The painter would have flung his pencil by,
The sculptor dropped his chisel in despair,
Avowing that Life only can supply
What, to discover it, Art everywhere
Searches Creation with inquisitive eye
And restless hand, in vain—the master-key
To Beauty's supernatural mystery!

LXIV

But for a moment only, and no more,
The vision lasted—for a moment all
Throbbing and palpitating to the core
Of its quick essence with an augural
Sensation of some promised bliss that bore
No name as yet—a moment which the fall
Of one word finished. As from a rose-tree
A rosebud falls, it fell. That word was ‘He!’

LXV

Quick, the next minute, the suspended flow
Of common life renewed its idle play
Just as before, save for the lingering glow
Given by a word which nothing could unsay
To a discovery nothing could undo.
Mechanically Ivor went his way,
Mounted the stair, Emanuel's chamber found,
Entered it, and stared vacantly around.

261

LXVI

‘What ails thee?’ cried Emanuel. ‘At midday
‘Do I behold Precaution, on whose wise
‘Cool wits depends the safety of our way
‘Walking asleep?’ And, in dismayed surprise,
Glenaveril started, like a man who lay
Safe in his bed when last he closed his eyes,
But, waking, finds himself, he knows not how,
Seated upon his housetop in the snow.

LXVII

‘'Tis strange!’ he murmured with a dreamy sigh.
‘Extremely strange!’ Emanuel replied;
‘Thy face would lead to the discovery
‘Of Hamlet's secret. Garrick in his pride
‘Could not have better played the part. But why
‘So scared, Glenaveril? Wilt thou not confide
‘In thine Horatio? Hast thou seen the stately
‘But buried Majesty of Denmark, lately?’

LXVIII

‘Good heavens, Emanuel! how shall I explain
‘What hath o'erwhelmed me?’ gasped Glenaveril;
‘Oh, I could blush for shame! The cure was vain.
‘I deemed myself recovered. That my will
‘Should be so weak! Such a relapse again!’
‘Relapse?’ Emanuel laughed, ‘What, dreaming still?
‘Thou never a worse malady hast had
‘Than influenza. Is it now so bad?

262

LXIX

‘Poor fellow! sneeze then! Don't apologize,
‘They say that sneezing clears the intellect!’
And Ivor answered, with reproachful eyes,
‘Thy remedy is cruel, but its effect
‘Complete. Emanuel, yes! these pleasantries
‘Are merited; for I myself suspect
‘I am insane. Yet, sane or not, just now
‘I saw Cordelia. That is all I know.’

LXX

Emanuel burst into a laughing-fit
So loud and long it shook the window-glass.
‘Really this fooling is too exquisite!
‘Imagine me, true son as ever was
‘Of Germany's dear dreamland, forced to sit
‘Preaching plain common sense (in vain alas!)
‘To an illustrious countryman of Mill
‘And Bentham! Think of that, Glenaveril!’

LXXI

He had sunk, convulsed with laughter, in his chair,
At what to him seemed hugely whimsical
In this idea. But, with graver air,
He added ‘Try, dear Ivor, once for all
‘To free thy wits from the disastrous snare
‘Of that incipient madness, poets call
‘Imagination—to excuse the crimes
‘Against good sense committed by their rhymes!

263

LXXII

‘This wild ridiculous romance, concerted
‘Most probably for mischief of some kind,
‘And, thanks to Father Edelrath, averted—
‘How can it possibly o'er thy clear mind
‘So tyrannous an influence have exerted
‘That, go where'er thou wilt, thou needs must find
‘The world, as if Creation shared thy craze,
‘Completely peopled with Cordelias?

LXXIII

‘Glenaveril, thou art like an auctioneer
‘I heard of once,—a man of statement bold,
‘But limited invention—who, whene'er
‘The subject of the picture that he sold
‘Happened to be a woman whose head-gear
‘Or gown contained in any casual fold
‘An Oriental character, baptized it
‘“Judith”: and as he named it so he prized it.

LXXIV

‘For him (a mania, it appears to me)
‘All womankind had but one thing to do:
‘Just to be Judith, or else not to be.
‘It strikes me that 'tis much the same with you;
‘Only you change the name. And I can see
‘That you will soon become a maniac too,
‘If thus’— But here Glenaveril with a rush
‘Drew him towards the window, whispering Hush!’

264

LXXV

Outside, before the porch of the hotel,
A carriage stood; five persons into it
Were stepping; Ivor recognised them well;
And, all his face with sudden blushes lit,
‘Look there!’ he whispered to Emanuel,
‘The last to enter—where the children sit—
‘'Tis she!’ Thy face, behind this curtain, screen!
‘I would not for the world that we were seen!’

LXXVI

The smile of mockery that was hovering
About Emanuel's features suddenly
Died as he followed Ivor's gaze. ‘Poor thing!’
He murmured with a half-compassionate sigh,
‘A governess, no doubt! But wherefore cling
‘To these insane delusions, Ivor? Why,
‘The girl's no more Cordelia, that is clear,
‘Poor child, than yonder bourgeois is King Lear!

LXXVII

‘No matter! This world's mysteries embrace
‘A sacred confraternity unknown
‘'Twixt Beauty, Genius, Suffering, Grandeur, Grace.
‘The initiated have, and they alone,
‘The password of its secret. Earth they pace
‘As strangers; but each other by a tone,
‘A glance, they recognise; and then, alas,
‘With that exchange of signals on they pass!

265

LXXVIII

‘They pass, and meet no more! Poor girl, no doubt
‘She too the password knows. Well, let her be!
‘What is the world's stupidity about,
‘When it plants lilies, out of place as she,
‘In its potato-fields? Let us go out!’
‘He cried abruptly. ‘These things frighten me.
‘They make me shiver. Stay not! Let us go
‘And warm ourselves—at the eternal snow!

LXXIX

‘Come! To the glaciers! There, Eternity
‘Hath hidden Nature's warmth. My heart is cold!’
And, turning with a quick impatient sigh,
On Ivor's arm he laid an eager hold.
Glenaveril followed him without reply,
Lost in the maze of his own manifold
Sensations; while Emanuel muttered still,
‘To the great glaciers! Come, Glenaveril!’

266

CANTO II. MARIETTA'S NEEDLE.

I

‘No! bless you, no! The level here is seven
‘Thousand three hundred two and thirty feet
‘Above the sea, and so we're still from heaven
‘A long way off. You're not the least bit beat,
‘However, tho' we've done it all in even
‘Less than the time I reckoned. You'll compete
‘With old Jacques Balmat, if you keep this pace
‘Ah, yes! that yonder is the Mer de Glace.

267

II

‘Now follow, please, my hand from left to right!
‘To-morrow we shall to the Jardin get;
‘'Tis like an emerald brooch upon the white
‘Breast of Talèfre's great glacier neatly set.
‘Yonder you see Lechaud. A goodish height!
‘Ten thousand and nine hundred—(wait a bit!)
‘Nine hundred, fourteen feet. The small Jorasse,
‘Its neighbour, quite another thousand has.

III

‘Look this way now, a little further on!
‘There stands the great Jorasse; whose height may be
‘Full thirteen thousand feet and more. Anon
‘Mont Mallet and the Giant's Needle see!
‘You mark that glacier gleaming in the sun?
‘That is Tacul. Just like an ogre's knee,
‘Or a great jetty whitened by the hoary
‘Surge that it cleaves, observe yon promontory!

IV

‘Above it, like a lighthouse on a cliff,
‘Stands the Tour Ronde. And now attention, pray!
‘There soars the wonder of all wonders! If
‘You doubt it, you must climb Mont Blanc some day.
‘High as it is, the climb is not so stiff;
‘Just fifteen thousand seven hundred—Heh!
‘Take care my lord! Take care! Don't stand so near!
‘Those stones are loose. The precipice is sheer.

268

V

‘If your foot slips, you'll break your neck before
‘You've time to say Goddam; which is, I'm told,
‘The English Paternoster!’ With this roar
Of warning, the Alps' showman here seized hold
Upon Emanuel who (whilst, chatting o'er
A pic-nic feast just done, the Guides made bold
To do the honours of the Alps) had strayed
Away from that statistical parade.

VI

The official information tacked to each
Peak he beheld, vile portraits of them prized
By tourists, and the Guides' monotonous screech
Of introduction to them, vulgarized
The whole horizon far as sight could reach;
And he had wandered off, with undisguised
Impatience, hoping thus to find alone
Some point of view that he might call his own.

VII

For the unwelcome caution just received
His thanks were curt and cold, as he sat down
A little further on. The Old Guide, grieved
By the marked want of gratitude thus shown
To his remonstrance, now returning, heaved
A sort of grumbling sigh, half grunt, half groan,
And, gulping down a bumper of Medoc,
Growled ‘They are all just like Flüelen's clock!’

269

VIII

‘What's that?’ said Ivor. ‘It strikes noon,’ he said,
‘Three hours ere sunrise. You now, Herr Studènt,
‘Easy to see that you were born and bred
‘In Germany, where folks are reverent
‘And do as they are told! But there's no head
‘In England, because every man is bent
‘On being first, and upon going where
‘None ever went before him, over there!

IX

‘They'd rather go, those English, to the deuce,
‘Than not go on!’ Glenaveril, as again
He filled the glass which, after this abuse
Of its proprietor, the Guide was fain
To empty, answered, ‘There's no sort of use
‘In lecturing his lordship to abstain
‘From anything which he is bent upon.
‘He knows what he's about. Let him alone!

X

‘Research is what he lives for. We've time yet.
‘Thy brother Francois' cabin is so near,
‘Where we're to pass the night! The sun's not set.
‘Tell me the legend, I still long to hear,
‘About that curious peak we paused to get
‘A longer view of as we passed it. Queer
‘And quaint, you said, the story is, and all
‘About the German Kobold, Rubezahl;

270

XI

‘As I'm his countryman, that interests me.
‘I fancied the traditional domain
‘Of this Gnome King, whose German pedigree
‘Our people universally maintain,
‘Extended not beyond the Hartz. How he
‘Hath found his way across the Alps I'm fain
‘To learn. Hath Switzerland no less well known
‘Goblin, or gnome, that she can call her own?’

XII

‘I never heard of any,’ said the Guide.
‘Sir, the Swiss people are enlightened men;
‘The Powers of Darkness never could abide
‘Enlightened people. Only, now and then,
‘Makers of books insist on being plied
‘By us with silly stories which again
‘They tell, themselves, and call them popular.
‘Once printed, articles of faith they are!

XIII

‘That's how it happens that an annual
‘Migration of sightseers who would not care
‘To look at our magnificent Town Hall
‘Just finished at Geneva, come to stare
‘And rave about a bit of ruined wall
‘Whose only source of interest is that there
‘Some villanous deed is said to have been done
‘Ages ago; or else some ugly stone,

271

XIV

‘Which no one but the Devil himself, they say,
‘Could have removed—from where it never was,
‘And placed—where it has ever been! They pay
‘For what we tell them, so these stories pass
‘From mouth to mouth. And I am bound to say
‘That, owing to such tales, the Devil has
‘To us poor devils been a better friend
‘Than all the Saints. I hope I don't offend!

XV

‘As for the legend that I spoke about,
‘Of Marietta's Needle, if you will,
‘Why here it is! You'll understand, no doubt,
‘I don't believe a word of it. But still
‘I tell it as I've heard it.’ Then, without
A moment's pause having contrived to fill
And empty a fresh glass, the shrewd old man,
Smacked his moist lips, and thus his tale began:—

XVI

‘This Rubezahl, whom you in Germany
‘Call King of Gnomes, as I've been often told,
‘And whom, to say the truth, for my part, I
‘Suspect to have been simply a rich, old
‘Proprietor of silver mines (since gold
‘Not even Rubezahl, were he to try,
‘In either Swiss or German soil could find!)
‘You may have heard, was lovingly inclined.

272

XVII

‘The old Goblin could not set sheep's eyes upon
‘A comely wench but what he lost his head—
‘Or lost his heart—no matter, 'tis all one!
‘Tho' many a maiden by the nose had led
‘The great soft-hearted, lubberly Devil's-son,
‘Nothing could wean him from his wish to wed
‘A Christian woman; and he had the power
‘To give his bride, at least, a splendid dower.

XVIII

‘Well, here in Chamouni (a village then)
‘A pretty little peasant girl, whose name
‘Was Marietta, this big Devilkin
‘Was so enamoured of that he became
‘Extremely troublesome. No matter when
‘Or where (so pertinacious was the flame
‘He cherished for the little maiden) she
‘Set foot abroad, there at her side, was he.

XIX

‘The poor child found this most embarrassing,
‘And mainly on account of a young man
‘With whom she had exchanged a promise ring.
‘They were betrothed when Rubezahl began
‘His importunities: but not a thing
‘Could Michael call his own, except a can,
‘A net, a boat, a cot. He was, in short,
‘A fisherman. You lake was his resort;

273

XX

‘You still can see it, far away down there.
‘And Marietta's mother was a woman
‘Who for her offspring had a proper care.
‘That pretty child of hers should marry no man,
‘This worthy woman's wont was to declare,
‘Who had not ('twas before such things were common)
‘First built a big hotel at Chamouni,
‘Where, as you know, are now no less than three.

XXI

‘Poor Michael seemed to Marietta's mother
‘A son-in-law not to be thought of. So
‘The two young people could not meet each other
‘Except by stealth, which they contrived to do
‘Once every week at Mass. But what a bother
‘The maiden found it, you may guess, to know
‘That if she ventured out of doors to stir,
‘This love-sick Imp was sure to follow her.

XXII

‘Of course she knew not who or what he was,
‘Except that he was not the man she sought.
‘One day, however, coming from the Mass,
‘She managed to tell Michael what she thought
‘That he should know when things to such a pass
‘As this were come, and ask him what she ought
‘To do. She said, with much solicitude,
‘That she by a rich burgher was pursued;

274

XXIII

‘The burgher, too, had promised her, if she
‘Would but consent to marry him, Heaven knows what!
‘And he had said that from her mother he
‘Her hand would long ago have sought, but that
‘(Although he was as rich as rich could be,
‘Richer in fact than even Baron Nat,
‘Or the Schultheiss of Berne) for reasons hidden,
‘This natural step was to his love forbidden;

XXIV

‘Unless, indeed, the girl would first of all
‘Pledge him her troth, either without condition,
‘Or else, at least, in terms conditional
‘On his accomplishment of some commission
‘From her received. And he assured her, all
‘Her heart could wish a man of his position
‘Could easily perform. Such wealth as his
‘Surmounted even impossibilities!

XXV

‘Now, Michael was a sensible young man,
‘Who never in his life had any doubt
‘As to the way in which his interests ran;
‘One of those men who know what they're about,
‘In fact, a Swiss! He had made up his plan
‘In less time than it takes me to point out
‘This merit in his character, and so
‘He told the girl at once what she must do.

275

XXVI

‘“'Tis clear to me, my pretty one,” he said,
‘“The eccentric personage whom you suppose
‘“To be a rich old burgher, over head
‘“And ears in love, as his proposal shows,
‘“Is the famed Rubezahl.” A cry of dread
‘Escaped poor Marietta's lips at those
‘Alarming words. But, admirably cool,
‘Michael went on “Don't be a little fool!

XXVII

‘“He cannot eat you, and his wealth may aid
‘“Both of us if my counsel you pursue
‘“Adroitly. Listen! All the old Gnome said
‘“About your mother, and so forth, is true:
‘“His boast that no condition can be laid
‘“Upon him that's beyond his power to do
‘“What he is asked to do, was nothing more,
‘“You may be sure, than a big—metaphor!

XXVIII

‘“Some things would puzzle wiser heads than his,
‘“And baffle stronger hands! Leave that to me.
‘“Repulse no more his assiduities;
‘“Encourage them discreetly. And, if he
‘“Offers you little presents, why there is
‘“No harm in taking them. They're sure to be
‘“Useful some day. What else you have to do,
‘“After next Mass I will explain to you.”

276

XXIX

‘Now, you must know that when all this took place
‘'Twas in the time of year when overnight
‘The frost begins to form, and one may trace
‘Next morning, hanging to the fir-cones, bright
‘Fine needles of thin ice. The open space
‘Where we just now are sitting was then quite
‘Shut in towards the west by a huge wall
‘Of rock. Yon lake enclasped its pedestal.

XXX

‘And Master Michael, with a secret sigh,
‘The enormous mass of this immovable shelf
‘Of grassless granite had been wont to eye,
‘Musing and muttering to his own wise self,
‘“Saints! what a sorry joke it is that I
‘“Most probably a hoard of precious pelf
‘“Have here at hand, and cannot get it out!”
‘“There was good cause for this complaint, no doubt;

XXXI

‘For Michael had sharp eyes as well as brains;
‘His cabin, near the lake, was built hard by
‘That rock's broad base; and certain sparkling grains
‘Strewn in its chipped quartz he had chanced to spy,
‘Yellow and fine as flower-dust. With great pains
‘First having scraped together patiently
‘Some handfuls of this dust, he washed it well.
‘It looked like gold. But more he could not tell.

277

XXXII

‘The youngster's first step was, I need not say,
‘To keep his secret to himself; his next
‘To reach Geneva, walking all the way;
‘And there, quite confident and unperplexed,
‘He strolled into a goldsmith's shop one day
‘Saying (of course 'twas only a pretext)
‘“Pray can you make me, Sir, a wedding ring
‘“Out of this gold? I want one for next Spring.”

XXXIII

‘The goldsmith took the packet, looked at it,
‘And said, “'Twould be a troublesome affair
‘“To make a ring of this. But wait a bit!
‘“Choose out a ring from any you see there,
‘“And you shall have your gold's worth, every whit,
‘“(When I have weighed it) in that ring, whate'er
‘“Its weight may be. Moreover, for the sake
‘“Of the gold's fineness, I'll not charge for make.”

XXXIV

‘Michael the bargain took. His ways he went
‘With joy repressed, and projects numberless
‘For finding out some sort of instrument
‘Which might enable him to dispossess
‘The auriferous quartz of all that treasure pent
‘Within its veins. But Michael, being a Swiss,
‘Was Swiss enough to know that, if they knew it,
‘Some other Swiss would covetously do it;

278

XXXV

‘So he said nothing. And I wish to say
‘For my part, here, that I do not believe
‘That they would have believed him. Any way,
‘Devil a grain of gold (and much I grieve
‘That what I say is true) since Michael's day,
‘Though you might search these hills from morn to eve,
‘Would you or any one of us discover!
‘But to return to Marietta's lover;

XXXVI

‘I mean her Goblin Lover, Rubezahl.
‘By Michael carefully instructed, she
‘Accorded to the Kobold many a small
‘Encouragement. To do him justice, he
‘Did not abuse those favours. After all,
‘He was a gnome; and therefore it may be,
‘Too much in love not to act by her well.
‘Since he was not a man, that's possible.

XXXVII

‘Their meetings, tho’ more frequent now, remained
‘Quite innocent. Her mother would be sure
‘To scold her, Marietta had maintained,
‘Were she to lose her time; so, to procure
‘Excuses for these meetings, she now feigned
‘That, if such intercourse was to endure,
‘She needs must bring her work with her, and ply
‘Her needle nimbly in his company.

279

XXXVIII

‘One day, the two were sitting where we sit;
‘And, as I said before, 'twas just the time
‘When every fir-cone has attached to it
‘By the conjunction of the morning rime
‘And morning sun, a little sparkling bit
‘Of slender ice that, when the matin prime
‘Is over, falls in drops, dissolving soon
‘Like a wept tear into the warmth of noon.

XXXIX

‘Well, Marietta, when the Gnome was not
‘Observing her, stripped off from a fir-cone,
‘And slyly hid within her little hot
‘Close-crumpled hand, the finest-pointed one
‘Of its ice-bodkins; then, when she had got
‘(By softly squeezing it till this was done)
‘The icicle still finer, she whipped out
‘Her needle from the work she was about,

XL

‘Stuck it into her boddice, and went on
‘Pretending to be stitching busily
‘With its deceptive substitute. Anon
‘She started up, and with a sudden cry
‘Let fall the icicle which in the sun
‘Flashed as it fell; and, stooping, with a sly
‘Tap of her foot she crushed it bit by bit,
‘While all the while she feigned to look for it.

280

XLI

‘Rubezahl, like a gallant gnome, made haste
‘To aid her search; but, since he was ill-made
‘And awkward, the false needle went to waste
‘And vanished while, upon all fours, with head
‘Down-bent he groped, and rummaged, and embraced
‘The unrequiting ground. As fiercer sped
‘His fruitless quest, the maiden's feigned distress
‘Increased apace. She wept; she shook her dress;

XLII

‘She wrung her hands; and “O,” she cried, “to this
‘“What will my mother say?” Then Rubezahl
‘Laughing replied, “Your mother will not miss
‘“One little needle, and the loss were small
‘“Even if she knew it! But, dear child, dismiss
‘“These vain alarms which have no cause at all;
‘“To-morrow you shall have, I promise you,
‘“A hundred thousand scores of needles new.’

XLIII

‘“Alas,” said Marietta, “that would not
‘“Aid me the least! This needle, you must know,
‘“Is charmed. It is a talisman,—hath got
‘“A secret mark—my mother told me so.
‘“She prizes it immensely, for 'tis what
‘“She stitched her wedding gown with, years ago,
‘“When she was young. She thinks her happiness
‘“Depends upon it. Judge then, my distress!

281

XLIV

‘“O, I shall never dare to own 'tis lost!
‘“If any one could get it back for me,
‘“I'd give him willingly the best and most
‘“I have to give, whatever that may be!”
`At this, the Gnome his shaggy forehead tossed
`With a great cry of joy. “Thou hast,” said he,
‘“Named the condition!” Then he softly sighed,
‘“Mine, mine at last! mine own affianced bride!

XLV

‘“Ah, Marietta, how I love thee, dear!”
‘The little traitress drooped her pretty eyes;
‘You may be sure 'twas not to hide a tear,
‘But a malicious gleam of sweet surprise
‘At the success of her own insincere
‘Devices. “Well,” she faltered, with feigned sighs,
‘“That was a foolish word! but since 'tis said
‘I'll keep it true, as I'm an honest maid;

XLVI

‘“Only,” she added, “you must swear to me
‘“By all that's sacred, you will not betray
‘“A poor girl's confidence; and it must be
‘“The self-same needle I have lost to-day
‘“You bring me back.” “That's understood,” said he.
‘Then Rubezahl, in words I cannot say,
‘Pronounced the dreadful oath that binds a gnome,
‘And his false bride exultingly tripped home.

282

XLVII

‘Forthwith the Goblin, sure of his success,
‘Blew through his fingers, and you might have marked
‘(But for the black and roaring dreadfulness
‘Of the tumultuous tempest that now barked
‘And bellowed as if Hell's whole strain and stress,
‘With all the Devil's own artillery parked
‘On yonder peaks, were storming Heaven's last height)
‘You might, I say, have marked a wondrous sight:

XLVIII

‘From all the fissures of the rock uprose
‘A multitude of little hairy Elves,
‘Looking like brown old bramble-bushes whose
‘Misshapen roots, as they detached themselves
‘From the loosed soil, turned into ugly toes,
‘That ran and raced about by tens and twelves;
‘Swarms of them, galloping and prancing all
‘Head over heels now, to their monarch's call!

XLIX

‘“Hearken! all ye,” the Gnome King cried, “that scent
‘“The slightest savour of the smallest grain
‘“Of metal, whose congenial element
‘“Lurks hidden in the hard rock's inmost vein,
‘“Or wandering strays about earth's surface, blent
‘“With baser matter! Search with might and main!
‘“Nose all this soil, and say if here there be
‘“One particle of iron hid from me!”

283

L

‘And the Dwarves answered, “There is gold, gold, gold!
‘“And there is silver, silver, silver, here!
‘“And there is zinc, zinc, zinc, too! and behold,
‘“There's also copper, copper, copper, near!
‘“And lead, lead, lead! and rich and manifold
‘“The metals be, whose scents our noses cheer
‘“With goodly savours all about this spot,
‘“But iron, iron, iron, there is not!”

LI

‘“I bade you not to gibber and to squeak,”
‘The Gnome King said, “for minerals of the mine!
‘“'Tis only a steel needle that I seek,
‘“The thing that women use and lose, in fine,
‘“Day after day. Search yet again!” A bleak
‘Frost-bitten-looking little manikin
‘Out of the troop hopped briskly, and unslung
‘A magnet from his belt, to which it hung:

LII

‘And thrice he waved it round about his head;
‘And, as he waved it, fast there swarmed to it
‘(Just as about some little bit of dead
‘Carrion, all sorts of flies and insects flit,
‘And settle down there, buzzing to be fed,
‘Each drawn by instinct to its nurture fit)
‘From up and down, here, there, and round it all,
‘A multitude of atoms great and small!

284

LIII

‘“Bring it to me! make haste!” said the Gnome King
‘Impatiently. The Dwarf his magnet brought.
‘Its clustered trophies, nails, tacks, everything
‘Upon it, long he searched for what he sought,
‘And found it not. Time's heedless scattering
‘Of iron refuse by Oblivion caught
‘From horseshoe, bootnail, ferrule, crowbar, gun,
‘Was there in heaps; but needle was there none.

LIV

‘Then Rubezahl grew serious, and his face
‘Darkened, and long he mused. “At least, I know,”
‘He muttered, “here it fell, in any case!
‘“I saw it fall not half an hour ago.
‘“It must have been transported from the place
‘“Where then she dropped it, by that storm you so
‘“Unnecessarily let loose just now,
‘“Or sunk into some crevice deep below;

LV

‘“Some crevice deeper than the magnet's spell!
‘“Stay here till dawn, I bid you, all of you,
‘“And clear this plateau! clear it clean and well
‘“Of every blade of grass and moss! Beshrew
‘“Your eyes and noses if you fail! Each cell
‘“And crevice search! To-morrow, ere the dew
‘“Is off the pine, within the Crystal Grot
‘“Meet me. And tremble if ye bring it not!”

285

LVI

‘At that dread order all the pygmy crowd
‘Bowed their brown heads. The King of Gnomes went forth,
‘And, frowning, plunged into a thunder-cloud
‘Which then was speeding darkly to the north.
‘And, Sir, you may imagine what a loud
‘Shout of surprise next morning (which was both
‘A Sunday and a sunny day) there was,
‘When here the folk came flocking by from Mass,

LVII

‘For bare was the whole place of leaf or blade,
‘As bald, tho’ not as smooth, as a monk's crown!
‘Rummaged, raked, scraped, and scratched, and ferreted,
‘And fumbled, jumbled, tumbled up and down!
‘The witches had been dancing here, some said,
‘The night after the storm. Each had his own
‘Peculiar theory; but every one
‘Looked scared, and signed himself, as he passed on.

LVIII

‘Meanwhile, when in the Grotto Rubezahl
‘His subjects met, his wrath was terrible
‘To learn that the lost needle after all
‘Had not been found. With a demoniac yell,
‘“Splitflint!” he called; and forth there came a small
‘Stout Gnome whose muscles made his lumped limbs swell
‘Like serpents with gorged pouch and sated fang.
‘“Splitflint, I name thee head of this night's gang!

286

LIX

‘“Select, and with thee take, three hundred stout
‘“Stone-Scrubbers and Sand-Sifters! From thy flock
‘“The strongest and the skilfullest pick out;
‘“Scrape foot-deep the whole surface of the rock
‘“That rears its western battlement about
‘“The plateau where, contriving thus to mock
‘“Our search, that needle still lurks underground,
‘“And woe betide thee if it be not found!”

LX

‘And the poor Gnome King, gnawing his own nails,
‘Went home, and flung himself upon a bed
‘Of amethyst. He groaned, “If Splitflint fails,
‘“In sight of all his gang he shall be led
‘“To execution! Till my power prevails
‘“On that cursed needle, I may never wed
‘“The maid I love, nor meet her without shame!”
‘But the next morning things were just the same:

LXI

‘Foot-deep yon rock the obedient Gnomes had filed,
‘Sifted the dust of it, and on the top
‘Of its great granite rampart neatly piled
‘The powdery heaps; which soon began to drop,
‘Blown by the breath of morning breezes mild,
‘Down to the lake, where Michael gathered up
‘The golden first-fruits of his crafty plot.
‘But, as for the lost needle—it was not!

287

LXII

‘Michael in sacks conveyed his spoil away,
‘And hid it. He those sacks had long prepared
‘In expectation of this wished-for day.
‘The neighbours’ curiosity he feared,
‘But quite superfluous was that fear; for they
‘By the rock's crumbling aspect were so scared
‘That they kept clear of it; and he, no doubt,
‘Scores of alarming rumours spread about.

LXIII

‘As for the Gnome King, when he learned how vain
‘Had been the labour of the night, he flew
‘Upon poor Splitflint, whom with might and main
‘By neck and crop deep down the Grot he drew
‘To where a crystal, clear without a stain,
‘Of giant size, had just put forth six new
‘Unfinished facets, each with sloping lid
‘Folded about its nascent pyramid:

LXIV

‘Then, summoning to his relentless rage
‘Six Crystal-Builders from earth's nether womb,
‘He bade them forthwith to its final stage
‘Complete that crystal, and therein entomb
‘(A lifelong prisoner in a glassy cage
‘Impregnable!) the luckless Splitflint; whom
‘He left there as a warning to the rest,
‘Laughing “When precept fails, example's best!

288

LXV

‘“ ‘Ho, you there! All of you, behold! and heed!
‘“Rubies and garnets, I've enough in store
‘“To cage the whole of you, till you succeed
‘“In finding that lost needle!” And once more
‘He chose another Gnome, and bade him speed
‘The search that night. And when the search was o'er
‘The needle still was missing, and the Gnome
‘Caged in a topaz with a blazing dome.

LXVI

‘In frustrate search the winter passed. Each day
‘Others, in turn, the same fate underwent;
‘And bit by bit the rock was scraped away
‘Till its shrunk mass began to represent
‘The image of a needle. Need I say
‘Its aspect struck you so just now, you spent
‘Ten minutes watching it? You know its name
‘Is Marietta's Needle. So, Spring came.

LXVII

‘It was the month of May, and early morn,
‘When Rubezahl, whose subjects, one by one
‘All crystallized, had left him now forlorn,
‘(And who himself had, since, his utmost done
‘To find the gift he had so rashly sworn
‘To give to Marietta) stood alone
‘Upon that rock's last remnant, pondering
‘Vast plans to compass such a little thing!

289

LXVIII

‘His face was sombre, and his arms were crossed
‘Athwart his chest. As thus stood Rubezahl,
‘Like Bonaparte at St. Helena, lost
‘In thought, he mused—“I saw the needle fall.
‘“Here must it be, and here whate'er the cost
‘“Must it be found! No doubt some magical
‘“Malignant influence, hostile to mine own,
‘“Hath given it power to pierce the impervious stone,

LXIX

‘“And burrow in the bowels of the world;
‘“But it shall render up itself I swear,
‘“Tho’ o'er its flinty hiding-place were hurled
‘“Andes on Alps, or I, to reach its lair
‘“Must ransack Hell! Ay, even tho’ round it furled
‘“The red-ribbed pinions of Apollyon were!
‘“To-night this rock's last pile shall disappear,
‘“Or yield its prize! The needle must be here.

LXX

‘“One trial more, the last! and mine shall be,
‘“To-morrow, both the bride-gift and the bride!
‘“To-morrow, —patience! hope!” Here suddenly
‘“The Goblin's eyes dilated wild and wide.
‘All up the valley floated sounds of glee;
‘From the church steeple under the hill side
‘A peal of merry bells was chiming loud;
‘And from the church came forth a merry crowd.

290

LXXI

‘It was a bridal company. They passed
‘Out of the church, along the vale, with cries
‘Of joyous salutation, as they cast
‘White blossoms, that are born when April dies,
‘Before the bride and bridegroom, who were last
‘To leave the porch. And well the Goblin's eyes
‘Might glare! For Marietta was the bride,
‘Michael the bridegroom pacing at her side.

LXXII

‘He saw them both. He recognised them well.
‘He heard the happy chant that seemed to strive
‘For mastery with the chiming marriage bell,
‘Of “Long live Marietta!” and “Long live
‘“Michael!” Within him surged the thunder-swell
‘Of storms more terrible than those that rive
‘And rend these Alps. There, went the maid he loved,
‘She for whose sake the mountains he had moved!

LXXIII

‘Then from the heart of Rubezahl forth went
‘One of those awful cries which pierce their way
‘Beyond the limits that suffice to vent
‘All other sounds. For 'tis such cries, they say,
‘That, by our sombre planet wildly blent
‘With the wide music of the spheres, betray
‘Earth as the place of wrongs without redress,
‘And happinesses that are merciless.

291

LXXIV

‘Stopped by that cry, the merry-makers all
‘Stood speechless. Every voice of them was still
‘The faces of the crowd, as to a call
‘From Fate, were turned in answer to its shrill
‘Tremendous summons. On the ethereal
‘And fatal peak of that rock-needle, chill
‘With horror they beheld what seemed to be
‘A man; a human figure certainly;

LXXV

‘And the man's arms were raised, as if to seize
‘In the void air's invisible emptiness
‘Something—some gift of those dread Destinies
‘Whose task is to avenge and to redress.
‘But the Void's gifts, life never gets; for these
‘Are deaths, effacements, disappearances;
‘And, disappearing too, from that grim height
‘The man himself plunged headlong out of sight.

LXXVI

‘Slow, as the vision vanished, there arose
‘From all the hollows of the hills beneath,
‘Wild murmuring melancholy sounds, like those
‘Which Autumn makes when the faint scent of death
‘Hovers along the woodlands where he goes:
‘They were the farewells of the Gnomes, whose faith
‘In human love, by human love betrayed,
‘Was dead. Forever and forever dead!

292

LXXVII

‘From every mountain cave and forest glen,
‘And o'er the misty cataracts whence it went
‘To carry its reproachful moan to men,
‘The elfin music of that wild lament,
‘Now piercing shrill, now falling faint again,
‘This wail repeated o'er and o'er, to vent
‘A thousand bitter memories, “O how high
‘Is heaven, and O how deep is perfidy!”

LXXVIII

‘Vain was the search the Village Syndicate
‘Commanded! Over all the region round
‘The snow was rummaged; but of that man's fate
‘Not the least indication could be found.
‘Of all who saw the vision I relate,
‘It was, however, the belief profound
‘That they no visionary form had spied,
‘But a real man—some desperate suicide!

LXXIX

‘This was at first, I say, the common faith;
‘But afterwards, when they discovered near
‘That Needle Rock, some fifty yards beneath,
‘The mangled body of a traveller,
‘Who by an avalanche was crushed to death,
‘Just as profoundly then convinced they were
‘That the dread spectacle they all had seen
‘A warning apparition must have been;

293

LXXX

‘One of those apparitions that precede
‘Some real catastrophe. And, strange to say,
‘(Only that superstitions always breed
‘Such visions) still do folks assert that they
‘On subsequent occasions have indeed
‘Again beheld the phantom. That, you may
‘Believe, or not. I don't. But this I do,
‘For I myself have always found it so:

LXXXI

‘Whenever anyone about this place
‘Asserts that he himself has really seen
‘A human figure with a human face
‘Standing where human figure ne'er hath been
‘Save once (and that was but a hearsay case)
‘On Marietta's Needle, (of course I mean
‘The rock we call so now) as sure as fate,
‘Some accident has happened, soon or late.’

LXXXII

‘That's not incredible,’ said Glenaveril,
‘Accidents, soon or late, my worthy friend,
‘With or without such visions, always will
‘Happen in dangerous haunts, I apprehend.’
‘Ay,’ said the Guide, ‘no doubt of it. But still,
‘The accidents that image doth portend
‘Invariably happen near this spot.
‘But to my tale, if it fatigues you not;

294

LXXXIII

‘No need to say that Michael had so well
‘His potent rival's frenzy utilized,
‘That the construction of a fine hotel
‘(A proof, by his bride's mother highly prized,
‘Of his devotion!) was a bagatelle
‘To the young millionnaire. He had devised
‘A clever tale of legacies received,
‘Which, naturally, nobody believed;

LXXXIV

‘But everyone believed that Michael had
‘His wits about him. So that, by and by,
‘All came to the conclusion that the lad
‘Owed to those wits his whole prosperity.
‘They deemed that source of it by no means bad,
‘And liked him all the better. None knew why
‘Or how his sudden fortune he had got;
‘During his lifetime he revealed it not.

LXXXV

‘After his death the secret all came out;
‘And 'twas, indeed, his death that proved to be
‘The very means of bringing this about.’
‘But Marietta?’ said Glenaveril, ‘she
‘Was in her husband's confidence?’ ‘No doubt!’
‘And in those early days,’ again said he,
‘Could women keep a secret?’ ‘Wait a bit,’
The Guide said, ‘till you hear the end of it.

295

LXXXVI

‘Poor Marietta was no longer, Sir,
‘In a condition to reveal, alas,
‘No matter what. The curse had fall'n on her,
‘And she the first of the Gnome's victims was.
‘Since that event (or else, if you prefer,
‘That vision) which, in common with a mass
‘Of sane spectators, on her bridal day
‘She too had seen, her head was touched, they say.

LXXXVII

‘To her new home, the famous fine hotel
‘By Michael built (he guessed not at what cost!)
‘Michael's young wife was borne insensible,
‘And on the way to it her wits were lost.
‘But one idea had been spared to dwell
‘Sole tenant of that ruin. Like a ghost
‘Unlaid, it came and went, and came again,
‘Haunting the empty chambers of the brain:

LXXXVIII

‘That one idea was, that in the snow
‘She had lost a precious needle, and was bound
‘To go and look for it, since doomed to know
‘No peace till this lost needle had been found.
‘Her husband, when convinced that it was now
‘Past praying for her reason to come round,
‘Put no restraint upon its harmless craze.
‘He let her have her will, and go her ways;

296

LXXXIX

‘Only at first, for fear of accident
‘He had her watched and followed, wheresoe'er
‘The poor young fool, to find her needle, went
‘Wandering among the mountains. But this care
‘Superfluous proved. She was not violent;
‘And, like sleep-walkers, she went safely where
‘Even those who keep their wits might fear to fall.
‘Her wanderings, moreover, were but small;

XC

‘Never beyond the Needle Rock they passed
‘And to it always tended. She came home
‘Invariably ere nightfall, running fast
‘As home she ran that day she duped the Gnome.
‘And when they found she took no harm, at last,
‘Go where she would, unwatched they let her roam.
‘Spring, Summer, Autumn, in this way went by,
‘Bringing no change to her calamity.

XCI

‘Everyone pitied her, and let her pass
‘Unhindered if she crossed them on their way.
‘“'Tis Marietta, looking in the grass
‘“For her lost needle!” would the children say
‘When they beheld her, as her wont it was,
‘Searching the grass and moss day after day,
‘And, as she searched them, murmuring “O how high
‘“Is heaven, and O how deep is perfidy!”

297

XCII

‘One January morning, when all night
‘The weather had been freezing hard, they found
‘Her sleeping-chamber (a ground floor one) quite
‘Deserted, and the casement near the ground
‘Set open wide; a candle, still alight,
‘But choking in its socket, made a sound
‘As hoarse as a death-rattle where the wick
‘Gasped suffocated in the candlestick;

XCIII

‘An open letter on the table lay
‘Unfinished; 'twas in Marietta's hand.
‘“Michael,” the letter said, “I cannot stay!
‘“He came just now beneath my window, and
‘“Tapped at the casement, calling, Come away!
‘“The moon is light, the snow is bright, the land
‘“Is clear and still, and I will help thee now
‘“To find thy needle, for its place I know.

XCIV

‘“It is the cold down there makes dead men ache,
‘“He told me, and no winding-sheet hath he.
‘“And so I promised him for pity's sake,
‘“That, when the needle's found, as found 'twill be,
‘“A winding-sheet to warm him I will make.
‘“'Twill soon be done, for he depends on me,
‘“And I must finish it for him, poor man,
‘“(I promised that) as quickly as I can.

298

XCV

‘“He has been dead so long, and that is why
‘“He is so cold, so cold! Beneath the breast
‘“Of the black earth, he says, where dead men lie,
‘“There is no warmth. I wonder how he guessed
‘“Where we shall find our needle! O how high
‘“Is heaven, and—How does it go on, the rest?
‘“I have forgotten. He will be offended.
‘“That vexes me.” And so the letter ended.

XCVI

‘The whole of Chamouni was soon astir
‘In search of her, for all had loved her well.
‘Despite the hardness of his character,
‘Michael retained an indescribable
‘Sort of remorseful tenderness for her
‘Who was the accomplice, and, as it befell,
‘The victim, of his well-planned stratagem.
‘Fast he pressed forward at the head of them.

XCVII

‘Instinctively the steps of all were bent
‘Towards the rock which was already known
‘As Marietta's Needle, since she went
‘Daily to visit it; but not alone
‘On that account, for it was evident
‘To all, that by degrees this rock had grown
‘Into the semblance of a needle. You,
‘That strange similitude have noticed too;

299

XCVIII

‘The point of it, as you perceived just now,
‘Is planted downwards; and against the sky
‘The head, to which the long shaft broadens slow,
‘Reveals, exactly like a needle's eye,
‘An oblong fissure. Well, Sir, you must know
‘Michael was first, in his anxiety,
‘To reach the plateau, where transfixed with awe
‘The others found him. This is what they saw:

XCIX

‘Beneath a frozen pine from whose down-weighed
‘Black boughs the slipping snow-dust fell fine sifted,
‘Sat Marietta. On her lap was laid
‘A linen sheet; and in one hand uplifted
‘She held an icicle. And there she stayed
‘Motionless, tho' the climbing snows had drifted
‘Up to her knees. For she was frozen dead.
‘All held their breath, and not a word was said,

C

‘So stupefied was each spectator there!
‘But a fresh horror seized on everyone,
‘When, with a scream of agonized despair,
‘Michael now suddenly began to run
‘Tumultuously here, there, everywhere
‘About the plateau, as if chasing one,
‘To seize whose image, seen by none beside,
‘The wretched man still desperately tried:

300

CI

‘And all the while he shouted out, “Come back!
‘“Come back! Turn, Marietta, turn! 'Tis I,
‘“Thy husband—Michael! Hear me, girl! Alack,
‘“Will no one help to stop her? Not so nigh
‘“The edge, child! François, keep her off that track!
‘“Pierre! Louis! André! Jacques! for Heaven's sake try
‘“To hold her! Ah, the cowards! Look at her!
‘“So close—and all of you afraid to stir!”

CII

‘Then while, immovable as all could see,
‘Frozen beneath the frozen pine, still sat
‘The white dead woman whose false phantom he
‘Was thus importunately clutching at,
‘The maniac, with a frantic spring, shook free
‘The frightened friends that, scarcely knowing what
‘They feared, vain arms around him strove to lock,
‘And, bounding, clambered up the Needle Rock!

CIII

‘From where it strikes the plateau, near this spot,
‘(You may have noticed, as we came along)
‘That rock seems easy of ascent, and not
‘So desperately steep but that a strong
‘And active man, if he good wind had got,
‘And a cool head, might without going wrong,
‘The summit reach. Yet all the world's aware
‘No man could keep his head a moment there.

301

CIV

‘Michael, indeed, as by a miracle,
‘Did reach the summit; reached it safe and sound!
‘But he no sooner reached it, than the spell
‘Seemed broken, and his wits again he found,
‘Only to lose them in the horrible
‘Sense of his danger. Piteously around
‘The poor wretch stared in terror-struck surprise,
‘Then, shuddering all over, shut his eyes.

CV

‘And those who, impotent to save or aid,
‘Watched from below, in that short interval
‘Of anguish, saw him lift a hand that strayed
‘Feeling about like a blind man's. Then all
‘His body totteringly soughed and swayed,
‘His arms with flapping jerk fantastical
‘Beat, like a bird's wings, the impalpable air;
‘And in a minute more the rock was bare.

CVI

‘From crag to crag the body like a stone
‘Went bounding to the frozen lake below.
‘For that crevasse is quite a recent one,
‘You noticed, as we came along just now,
‘Under the Needle Rock. Where it hath grown
‘The waters of the lake used once to flow.
‘So to the cabin where his life began
‘His death restored Michael the fisherman!

302

CVII

‘Hid in that cabin, there were found at last
‘Huge heaps of gold-dust. Michael had no heirs;
‘So all this treasure to the Commune passed,
‘Who made good use of it when it was theirs.
‘Upon the wealth by Michael's craft amassed,
‘And by his death dispersed, this tale declares
‘That the prosperity of Chamouni
‘Was founded. But the tale is all a lie!’

CVIII

‘It is a tale,’ said Ivor, as the Guide
Made this remark, ‘that bears undoubtedly
‘Strong family resemblance to a wide
‘Group of like tales. Perchance the reason why
‘Is that to cheat the Devil fills with pride
‘The People's honest heart. There's something sly
‘In human nature, which, to be excused,
‘Gets itself thus legitimately used.

CIX

‘Your Michael was, however, I should say,
‘A character distinctly national;
‘It seems, at least, that he knew how to play
‘(Turning them to his own advantage all)
‘On other folks' requirements in a way
‘That shows he must have had a special call
‘To keep an inn; by which means, now and then,
‘Men do make money out of other men.

303

CX

‘But tell me what of Rubezahl became!
‘Had he no more adventures of this kind?’
‘I think not,’ said the Guide. ‘At least, his name
‘Nowhere in other love-tales can I find.
‘Love-making he had found a losing game,
‘And after this experience had no mind,
‘It may be, Sir, to play the dupe again;
‘Or else, the Chamouni maidens are too plain,

CXI

‘And Marietta may perhaps have been
‘In that particular unlike them all;
‘Anyhow, nothing more has since been seen,
‘In this enlightened land, of Rubezahl.
‘If, after this, the Hartz became the scene
‘Of his adventures, 'tis but natural
‘Thence to infer that there the men are blinder,
‘It may be, or the women somewhat kinder.

CXII

‘Nevertheless, the notion, as I've said,
‘Still lingers here, that Rubezahl (no doubt
‘Because 'twas here that he had lost his head,
‘Falling in love with Marietta) out
‘Of pure revenge and spite is sometimes led
‘To take his stand again on yonder height,
‘In order to announce the near event
‘Of some inevitable accident.

304

CXIII

‘As for myself, I need not tell you, Sir,
‘I put no faith in rumours of that sort.
‘Well as I know the goblin character
‘Of Marietta's Needle by report,
‘There's nothing in these rumours, I aver
‘From simple observation. For, in short,
‘I know that rock as well as mine own hand,
‘And know that no one on its top could stand.’

CXIV

As he made this decisive declaration
Of incredulity, the Guide arose,
And stood awhile in silent contemplation
Of the horizon, whose ethereal snows,
Rose-coloured now with the illumination
Of sunset, shone in a sublime repose.
Glenaveril watched him. Suddenly he saw
The man's face gleaming with a ghastly awe;

CXV

And that strong-minded marcher in the van
Of Popular Enlightenment, was all
Trembling from head to foot. A shudder ran
Thro' his whole frame; he seemed about to fall,
But with an effort stayed himself, as, wan
With a wild look of unequivocal
Horror, he stood still pointing in the air,
And gasping, ‘Saints in Heaven, the thing is there!’

305

CXVI

Glenaveril started to his feet, and gazed
Where the Guide's hand was pointing. With a cry
Of anguish, he too trembled, awed, amazed.
Darkly distinct against the glowing sky,
Upon the Needle-Rock which there upraised
Its shining pinnacle, immovably
A human figure stood. He knew it well.
That human figure was Emanuel.

306

CANTO III. THE CATASTROPHE.

I

Meanwhile, the Guide was now recovering
From the first terrors of the false alarm
With which, despite his scorn of everything
That savoured of a superstitious charm,
He had mistaken for the dread Gnome King
(That phantom harbinger of human harm!)
In the dark solitary image there,
The traveller confided to his care.

II

Freed from this ghastly error, the old man
Was seized forthwith by fears more practical
About the risk his reputation ran
If any harm should to his charge befall;
And, to relieve his feelings, he began
To pour forth fresh anathemas on all
The English race,—much more concerned about
His patent than Emanuel's fate, no doubt.

307

III

‘Confound the fool!’ he grumbled, ‘I declare
‘'Tis that insane milord of yours again!
‘How, in the devil's name, did he get there?
‘Hah, by St. Peter's legs, the fellow's brain
‘Must all be just as wrong-side-up as were
‘The Saint's toes when, lest they should make him vain,
‘They crucified him topsy-turvy. Ho!
‘Monsieur Milord, hold fast! Don't look below!

IV

‘Was ever such a madman! If he meant
‘To break his neck, he should have staid at home,
‘And not come here with that absurd intent,
‘To mix us all up in his venturesome
‘Vagaries! Zounds! if there's an accident
‘He'll compromise the Alps! I wish that some
‘Fine folks would take into consideration
‘That guiding maniacs is not our vocation!

V

‘All English lords are lunatics! Here, Jean,
‘Get up!’ And angrily he shook awake
His sleeping eomrade (who, when he began
His story-telling, had seen fit to make
A shorter journey, like a prudent man,
Into the land of dreams) ‘Get up, and take
‘With thee the longest rope that we have got!
‘Look yonder! Haste thee fast, and linger not!

308

VI

‘The Needle, turn upon the glacier side;
‘To attempt it from the plateau were in vain;
‘Once on the glacier, 'tis an easy stride
‘To reach the lower ridge of the moraine.
‘Fling him the rope's end up, and bid him bide
‘Just where he is, till I am back again.
‘I must to Francois for the ladders run,
‘For till we get them nothing can be done.

VII

‘'Tis lucky that the cabin is so near!
‘He never will be able to get down
‘By the same way that he got up, that's clear;
‘And there's no way at all, he should have known,
‘Upon this side, where the descent is sheer.
‘Be careful, comrade, how the rope is thrown;
‘See that the end of it is firmly braced.
‘And now, God speed! We must be off. Make haste!’

VIII

The Guide's composure, as these plans he made,
Partly assuaged Glenaveril's agitation
On seeing that Emanuel had strayed
Into so perilous a situation,
Where even a chamois might have been afraid
To place its foot. The Needle's elevation,
Moreover, from the plateau, to his sight
Presented no such formidable height;

309

IX

He knew not, or he had not understood,
That from this point, although the height seemed small,
There was no access possible. The rock, viewed
From where he stood, looked low; but it was all
So slippery here that its low altitude
Availed not. On the other side, the fall
Was awful. There, between the point and base
Was nothing but illimitable space.

X

This Needle, the last granite splinter left
Of a huge mountain that by gradual stages
Had slowly crumbled down into the cleft
Of the crevasse beneath the weight of ages,
Forgotten avalanches had bereft
Of all save that wild sadness which engages
Men's pitying superstition to adorn
With Fancy's flowers Time's ravages forlorn.

XI

Smooth from the plateau to the point, elsewhere
Its broken surface, turned to the abyss,
Uneasy foothold still vouchsafed. And there
That vegetable gnome whose region is
Remote from man's, the mountain juniper,
Crouching deformed, from its interstices
Peeped, or put forth a clambering crooked root
That looked like some brown goblin's grewsome foot.

310

XII

Attracted by the aspect, half sublime
And half grotesque, of this grim monument
Set there as its last protest against time
By the resentful Alp, Emanuel bent
His steps towards it. Something seemed to chime
In his own heart harmonious to its rent
Yet resolute form—some sentiment allied
To nature in revolt—a ravaged pride!

XIII

Raised barely fifty feet above the ledge
Of the broad plateau, to whose level disk
Its summit at right angles turned an edge
Smooth as the surface of an obelisk,
(While down it shot from the moraine's left ridge,
Rough with anfractuosities grotesque,
A shaft that disappeared beyond sight's soundings)
The rock's sole grandeur rose from its surroundings;

XIV

But well by these, could he but reach its brow,
Would its explorer be repaid, for there
The charmed spectator might aspire to know
What the ger-eagle feels when in mid-air
He wheels above the world. Nothing but snow
And air rose-lighted underneath, save where
Far off the bright green valley gleamed, and gloomed
The dark blue lake in icy vaults entombed!

311

XV

Emanuel, gazing up to that lone height,
Felt, with a mystic ecstasy elate,
Some foretaste of this coveted delight.
His sombre spirit yearned to extricate
Itself, for once, completely from the trite
And yet tenacious bondage of that state
Which separates man from nature more or less,
By his continual self-consciousness.

XVI

‘Thought, tethered not to him who thinks! pure Thought!
‘Thought by itself! O, were it possible
‘For human nature to attain to aught
‘So like Divinity!’ mused Emanuel.
‘By Action's restless mechanism caught,
‘And forced, as in an engine, to propel
‘Man to man's personal aims—ambition, pelf,
‘Love, science, safety—Thought is not itself:

XVII

‘But O the rapture! could Thought slip the sense
‘Of Self, that cripples its capacious span,
‘And (freely spreading forth its wings immense,
‘Like that strange Sprite the Arabian fisherman
‘Loosed from the little iron vessel, whence
‘It soared and swelled, colossal) from each plan
‘Or purpose of self-interest liberate
‘Itself, and to infinity dilate!’

312

XVIII

This fancy filled his soul with yearnings vast.
For once, the weight, the burden, and the pain,
Of his own vexed identity to cast
Wide to the winds of heaven! to be again
Careless as Nature, conscious of no past,
No present, and no future! to attain
To the supreme Idea, and immerse
The individual in the universe!

XIX

And, stooping forward, he perceived that, where
The Needle faced the precipice, the stone
Was rough with broad projections here and there;
Half consciously he placed his foot on one;
The ground held firm; and up this natural stair
The clambering juniper long roots had thrown;
Like Theseus grasping Ariadne's clue,
He by their aid his pathway could pursue.

XX

His first steps were but an experiment,
A half-mistrustful tentative essay.
The experiment succeeded. On he went,
Clutching the rope-like roots. The upward way
Grew easier, and soon the whole ascent
Had been completed. On the summit grey
Of Marietta's Needle safe he stood;
Nothing all round him but the solitude.

313

XXI

And what a solitude! One boundless glance
Embraced the whole horizon. Chastity
And passion! Snow and sunlight, in a trance
Of solemn glory! With a deep-drawn sigh
Of rapture, in that rose-hued radiance,
Like an alighted Seraph silently
Contemplating the world, and winged and eyed
From head to foot, he stood beatified.

XXII

While there he leant upon his alp-staff fast
Fixed in a fissure, as a sentinel
Leans on his spear, and measuring round the vast
Horizon's aëry zone, Emanuel
Was to self-consciousness recalled at last
By a shrill shout that sounded like a yell;
For now the second Guide, with might and main,
Had clambered up the ridge of the moraine.

XXIII

There, on a pile of splintered stones astride,
A coil of rope the man was loosening slow;
While, shouting, to Emanuel he cried,
To eatch the rope he was about to throw,
Fasten it to the summit on the side
Nearest the plateau, and then drop below,
Using the knots in it, as down he went,
With hands and feet, to steady his descent.

314

XXIV

In the same moment, with a dismal thrill,
Not far beneath him, he beheld, scarce more
Than twelve or fifteen feet, Glenaveril,
Who, just as he himself had done before,
Had left the plateau, and was standing still
Half up the precipice that beetled o'er
The vast crevasse upon the other side.
Glenaveril had thus outstripped the Guide;

XXV

Outstripped the Guide, without a sound! His face
And lips were whiter than the snows that laid
Their livid silence round that perilous place;
Emanuel could see that he had made
(And that he now was tightening it apace
About his waist, as if he were afraid
It might not hold) a threefold girdle wrought
Out of a second rope which he had brought;

XXVI

He saw Glenaveril, when this was done,
Making the other end of the rope tight
About an old pine stump—the only one
That barren spot vouchsafed; and this was quite
Splintered and broken short above the stone
Its roots still clasped; all else of it the might
Of some unconquerable avalanche
Had snapped and whirled asunder, trunk and branch.

315

XXVII

Emanuel understood this silent toil—
Glenaveril's face of dumb determination,
The life-belt and the anchor, and the coil,
Were the life-boatman's desperate preparation,
Before he plunges in the surge, to foil
Death's clutch, by keeping some communication
With the firm cliff, from which into the deep
For life or death he is about to leap:

XXVIII

But here, the anchorage was nothing more
Than an old rotten stump which might give way;
A dreadful precipice, the sheltering shore;
The deep, one vast abysm (the light of day
Was leaving fast, and darkness hovering o'er)
Of empty air, now yawning for its prey;
The lifeboat, all that since his life began
His heart best loved; and he the shipwrecked man!

XXIX

Up to this moment, on his pinnacle
Of isolated grandeur, all alone
With the lone Infinite, Emanuel
Had had no fear, no thought, about his own
Existence. When he heard the Guide's loud yell,
As the man shouted to him, to make known
The desperate rescue ready for him now,
He turned and, for the first time, looked below.

316

XXX

This sudden contrast was too violent;
The terror by Glenaveril's face betrayed
Was to his own transmitted. While he bent
His gaze on those mute preparations made
For his escape, their revelation sent
A surging rush of blood into his head;
His limbs felt loosened; his foot seemed to stand
Infirm; the alp-staff quivered in his hand.

XXXI

Not even a gesture's silent intimation,
Still less the utterance of a syllable,
Since the beginning of this situation
Had been exchanged. But Ivor's eye could tell
All that was passing; and, with consternation
Seeing the changed face of Emanuel,
He braced himself together, setting wide
His legs, like a young wrestler, with firm stride;

XXXII

Then to Emanuel in a loud clear tone
Calmly he called, ‘Lean not so heavily
‘Upon thy staff, but hold it fast. Well done!
‘Now shut thine eyes. That's right! Rest so, while I
‘Count sixty. That will calm thy blood. Anon
‘Open them. Not too quickly! And then try
‘To fix them upon Jean. I'll give the word,
‘Keep quiet till he throws thee up the cord!

317

XXXIII

‘Straighten thy knees, then; keeping thy left hand
‘Upon thine alp-staff, and the right hand free.
‘No need to move thy body! Only stand
‘Straight, and keep Jean in view. Don't look at me!
‘When the rope passes catch it quickly, and
‘Holding it fast still in the right hand—see,
‘This way, quite loosely—without letting go,
‘Pass thy right arm about the alp-staff—so!

XXXIV

‘Hast thou completely understood all this?’
Emanuel, from his pinnacle in the skies,
In a voice faint and husky answered ‘Yes.’
‘Now, art thou ready?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Open thine eyes.
‘Dost thou see Jean, there?’ ‘No.’ ‘He is standing less
‘Than thirty paces yonder on the rise
‘Of the moraine—there to the left, below
‘The plateau. Now, then, canst thou see him?’ ‘No.’

XXXV

Emanuel's voice was huskier, and less
Distinct each time. A gesture of despair
Glenaveril was unable to repress;
And, for an instant, he stood speechless there,
Half paralysed by his immense distress.
The light was waning fast. In that dim air,
On that lone height, Emanuel's image, too,
Faint as his voice and indistincter grew.

318

XXXVI

After a dismal pause, Glenaveril,
Still gazing upward, to Emanuel
Cried in a tone whose accents, tho' more shrill,
Were yet assured, ‘No matter! it is well.
‘Only lift up thy right hand, and stand still!
‘When the rope passes, try if possible
‘To seize it. It is sure to touch thy hand.
‘Jean!’ ‘Sir!’ ‘Be ready. Wait for the command.’

XXXVII

‘All right, Sir!’ said the Guide. ‘Depend on me.’
‘Good! But begin not ere I give the word;
‘And then, as soon as I have counted three,
‘(Three is the signal) you can fling the cord.
‘Be careful that the slip-knot runs quite free,
‘And keep your eyes well fixed upon my lord.
‘Now then, attention! I begin. One—two—
‘Three!—’ And away the rope's loosed circle flew;

XXXVIII

Silent and fleet it flew into the air
Like a long flying serpent filleted
With knotty studs, and, fast unwinding there
Its spiral rings in an ellipse, it made
A sudden downward dip, as if it were
Evading consciously Emanuel's head,
Touched his raised hand, that stirred not as it passed
Uncaught; and, frustrate, fell to earth at last.

319

XXXIX

‘The attempt has failed!’ Glenaveril groaned. And then,
‘Fear not, Emanuel! Be calm!’ he cried.
‘We cannot now employ the rope again;
‘But 'tis no matter. Canst thou there abide
‘Five minutes only till we are three men
‘Instead of two? Five minutes! The Old Guide
‘In less time than five minutes will be here
‘With all the ladders. Thou hast nought to fear!’

XL

And to these agonized enquiries, all
Brokenly came the answer from above
In interjections hoarse and guttural,
‘Glenaveril! the rock begins to move—
‘Beneath my feet 'tis rolling like a ball—
‘And my head splits as if a pickaxe clove
‘Through skull and brain—and both my feet feel dead—
‘And all things suddenly have turned blood-red!’

XLI

Then cried Glenaveril, loud as he could cry,
‘Plant fast thy staff upon the Needle's top!
‘Let thyself slide along it quietly
‘Down to the ledge! The staff thy fall will stop,
‘And thou canst sit there. Or if not,—then try
‘To grasp the ledge—and fear not, friend, but drop!’
Scarce had he spoken, ere from the rock's shelf
A thunderous cataract detached itself;

320

XLII

And down the Needle Rock, loud roaring, crashed
Tumultuously an immense white cloud
Of snow, and dust, and splintered stones. Twosmashed
Bits of a broken staff, that whirling shroud
Bore with it: two wild arms that flapped and dashed
The air, like a tossed puppet's: and, thro' a crowd
Of shapeless things that shook its fluttering pall,
A human body in headforemost fall.

XLIII

For this catastrophe, by him foreseen,
Glenaveril waited, breathless, resolute:
As a skilled player calculates with keen
Precision both the motion and the route
Of a rebounding ball, so he had been
Careful the dreadful coming to compute
Of that dear burden he awaited there,
And with a shout he sprang into the air;

XLIV

Sprang, swift as a young leopard on its prey,
Into the abyss that girt the precipice!
One impulse only did his limbs obey;
And that was to hold fast at any price,
And never loose. He spread his arms, and they
Closed as tenacious as an iron vice
Upon the indiscriminate human heap
That thus dashed with him headlong to the deep.

321

XLV

So in a wild inextricable embrace
The bodies of the two friends, bound together,
Swung o'er the void abysm of dusky space;
Suspended only by the quivering tether
Of the strained cord, which jerked and tugged apace
At its half-rotten anchorage. The wide ether
Was deathly dumb, and wan as death the white
Wide snows, and darkening o'er them crept the night.

322

CANTO IV. DEATH'S METAMORPHOSES.

I

Life hath exhausted the whole arsenal
Of terror: Life doth decorate and fill
Daily its formidable realm with all
Weapons that wound, and instruments that kill:
Life is a tyrant at whose beck and call
Is every misery, and every ill,
All maladies, and all uncertainties,
And but one certainty—the end of these:

II

And yet Life smiles! Death for itself retains
But one gift only—silence: Death is rest:
Death is the end of all Life's countless pains:
Death's eyes are shut: Death's mouth is dumb: Death's breast
Is calm: from those locked lips, like lawless trains
Of bandit troops for plunder armed, with crest
Gay-plumed, no more shall issue forth to strife
The Passions that have devastated Life:

323

III

From those shut eyes, to lure and to betray,
No more shall gleam the looks whose very smile
Troubles the heart, and with its subtle play
Awakes a thousand wishes that beguile
Their hesitating victim far away
From his repose: Death breathes no word in guile;
Death breaks no promise: Death betrays no rightful
Reliance on its pledge. Yet Death is frightful!

IV

Why is the straw on yonder pavement strown?
It is that Death to yonder house draws near,
And Death brings silence with it. The loud town
Quickens its pace along that street; to hear
No echo of a footfall up or down
Its muffled stones dismays the gossips. Drear
And lightless look those shuttered windows, where
No face is seen. For Death has entered there.

V

Within that chamber, under its dim shade
The lamp burns low. No sound can pass that door;
And the thick carpet silences the tread
That steals a tiptoe o'er the noiseless floor;
A man the chamber quits with bended head;
One waits without, whose hand he shakes with more
Than wonted warmth; and not a word is spoken;
But each hath understood the silent token.

324

VI

The man that went will come again no more;
His task is done, he hath nought left to do;
But something else, that was not there before,
Hath entered; something awful, something new;
None saw it pass, none oped to it the door,
It makes no sound; or, if a sound, but few
That sound have heard, from the close-curtained bed.
Only a sigh. A sigh, and all is said!

VII

Wherefore those sobs, those moans, those stifled cries,
Those overflowing tears that fall so fast?
Why have yon man and woman, as they rise,
Their arms about each other wildly cast,
Gazing on that white face with weeping eyes?
It is because this sigh hath been the last,
Because the faint and half inaudible breath
That wafted it away from them was Death.

VIII

But when Death passes in the street, it goes
More loudly, goes with clamour and with crowd,
With comment and confusion. Barely those
Six stalwart men, whose heads and backs are bowed
Beneath the litter where in state repose
Death's trophies, can make way between the loud
Inquisitive groups, at each street-corner growing
Thicker, along the road that they are going:

325

IX

From mouth to mouth a rumour flies about;
Like sparks in scattered tinder dancing over
Some street wherein the folks have just put out
A burning house, quick questions kindle and hover,
And cross and mix in a disorderly rout:
‘When did they first the accident discover?’—
‘How many dead?’—‘Two.’—‘No, I heard it said
That only one of them was found stone dead;

X

‘The other's breathing yet.’—‘But he'll die too,
‘He cannot live!’—‘How happened this event?’—
‘They say it was a suicide.’—‘Pooh, pooh!
‘I tell thee, neighbour, 'twas an accident’—
‘No, 'twas an Englishman.’—‘That's always so!’—
‘Who was the little German, then, that went
‘All risks to save him?’—‘I don't know.’—‘They say
‘It was his lordship's German tutor.’—‘Nay,

XI

‘Only a servant.’—‘No, indeed, I hear
‘It was his secretary.’—‘That's the same.’—
‘I doubt it! No one but a friend would care
‘Torisk his life so.’—‘What was the man's name?’—
‘I never heard.’—‘He's dead, tho', I declare.’—
‘No, 'tis the Englishman that's dead.’—‘'Tis shame
‘And pity that a man so young and rich
‘Should go and lose his life at toss and pitch!’—

326

XII

‘Ah, that's their way!’—‘I've heard the two men fell
‘Together headlong into a crevasse,
‘Three hundred metres down.’—‘That's possible.’—
‘No, no! the bodies near the great Jorasse
‘Were found not far from Francois' cabin.’—‘Well,
‘I know, at least, whichever way it was,
‘(For this the guide assured me, so 'tis true)
‘'Twas no light job to separate the two!

XIII

‘The man who tried to save the other one
‘Gripped him so fast, they were obliged to break
‘His arm, to get the second man undone;
‘And I am told they had some work to take
‘His teeth out of the dead man's coat. There's none,
‘(Say, neighbours, what you will!) shall ever make
‘My mind convinced that those two men were not
‘Sworn foes! Some deadly quarrel they had got;

XIV

‘Twas an American duel. You'll find out
‘That there has been a woman in the case.’—
‘But, neighbour, where did all this come about?’—
‘At the Croix Rouge.’—‘No, no, I know the place,
‘'Twas Marietta's Needle.’—‘Ah, no doubt,
‘That fatal rock! It always brings disgrace!
‘There'll be some dreadful accident.’—‘If these
‘Are not enough, friend, thou art hard to please!’

327

XV

So talked the gossips. Idle words were said,
And idle questions asked. Death's silent pall
Death's secret kept. Emanuel was dead:
His skull was shattered in that fatal fall,
His face disfigured horribly. With head
Grievously hurt, limbs broken, bruised, and all
Covered with blood and dust, but breathing still,
Back with the dead they bore Glenaveril.

XVI

Glenaveril? Nay, but dead on his death-bier
Now lay Glenaveril's Earl, Viscount of Lea,
Baron of Auch-na-Lavaroch, a Peer
Of England and of Scotland, twenty-three
Years old two days before the day that here
He came to his untimely end. And he
That still lived on, who was he? There were few
That cared to ask, and there was none that knew.

XVII

And on the morrow Lord Glenaveril
Was buried with such pomp as the poor place
With much ado could put forth, to fulfil
The obligations due to ancient race,
And noble name, and wealth more precious still,
Ere Death had time completely to efface
The memory of their last possessor. All
Were present at His Lordship's Funeral.

328

XVIII

The whole affair was admirably done,
A most well-managed, orderly affair!
Death—procès verbal—list of every one
Of the Deceased's effects, which duly were
To the Police made over, who anon
Transmitted them to the legitimate care
Of Her Britannic Majesty's Legation
At Berne, with an appropriate explanation.

XIX

And thro' the correspondence that ensued,
With mutual satisfaction, in no less
Than twenty notes, the Authorities renewed
The pleasure and the honour to express
The sentiments with which they were imbued:
The Chamouni Magistrate had the happiness
To certify to the Innkeeper's bill
For burying Mylord Glenaveril:

XX

The British Secretary, with like zest,
Indulged the pleasure of acknowledging
That document, together with the chest
Containing His Late Lordship's watch and ring,
Pins, shirt-studs, sleeve-links, seals and all the rest
Of His Late Lordship's trinkets. Everything
In short was done the best way possible,
And all were pleased that all passed off so well:

329

XXI

Mine Host, whom governesses, when well made,
And funerals, when ill-managed, failed to please,
Was paid, and satisfied. The Guides were paid.
The Mutes were paid. The Doctor got his fees
For having proved that His Late Lordship's head
Was cracked, and having certified with ease
That it was past his power to mend it. Thus
All were contented, all unanimous,

XXII

Waiters, and Porters, Clerk and Sexton! all
The Tourists also; and the Magistrate
Of Chamouni; and the two Federal
Swiss Councils, both the Small one and the Great;
And the Attache who expressed no small
Delight to have made the acquaintance of the Late
Earl of Glenaveril at his funeral,
An interesting occasion to recall!

XXIII

But pleased beyond all other men was one,
A Half-pay Officer; who, all surprise,
While seated by a smoky fire, alone
In a dark London lodging, rubbed his eyes,
Scarce trusting the good news, as he read on;
When in the Times with deepening ecstasies
He saw the telegram that morning sent
From Chamouni about ‘the sad event.’

330

XXIV

That telegram into his pocket poured
The pleasant promise of a wealth untold;
It changed those lodgings to three castles, stored
With every kind of luxury; it rolled
Thro' the dim channels of a life abhorred
Pactolus in a cataract of gold;
With a fierce sudden joy, that made him start,
It filled that man's mean envious narrow heart—

XXV

The frenzy of a covetous delight!
Such as in some dim corner, some small cell,
Of a cracked ceiling, a lean spider might
Feel when the web, which, tho' she wove it well,
Hath long been unemployed and empty quite,
Begins to vibrate with the visible
Convulsions of a strangled fly's death-thrill;
For this man now was Lord Glenaveril.

XXVI

And the church registers of the decease
Of the late Earl, who, last of his own race,
For this man's gain had passed into the peace
Of death—and all the papers that replace
With perfect regularity (no crease
Unseemly ruffles, and no blots deface)
The irregular emotions that once tore
And tossed the beating heart that beats no more,—

331

XXVII

All these, with an official seal well stamped,
Went to rejoin more papers, safely housed
In pigeon-holes along some closely cramped
Official shelf; where their arrival roused
The swarms of dust about their neighbours camped;
And all those swarms of dust forthwith caroused
And welcomed the new comers with a dance
Danced down a sunbeam they had caught by chance.

XXVIII

As for Emanuel Müller (the young man
Whom His Late Lordship had picked up, 'twas said,
To teach him German, when he first began
That luckless tour whose sad finale made
Such a sensation among all the clan
Of Alpine Tourists,) he no doubt was paid,
Like all the others, for his ended task;
And what became of him none cared to ask.

XXIX

So that when, three months after that event,
There came to the hotel at Chamouni
An old white-headed man, wrinkled and bent,
Who, with a quivering lip, and tear-stained eye,
Having heard all about the accident
Befallen Lord Glenaveril, anxiously
Asked for Emanuel Müller, who could blame
The landlord if he had forgot that name?

332

XXX

At last Mine Host remembered, and replied
‘Ah yes, His Lordship's Secretary! Well,
‘He was much hurt the day His Lordship died.
‘That I remember. But I cannot tell
‘What has become of him. I heard the Guide
‘Declare it was a perfect miracle
‘That he survived. But, living still, I know
‘He left our house more than a month ago.

XXXI

‘A Hamburg merchant, who was staying here,
‘And with his family, I think, arrived
‘The very morning of the day that dear
‘Young nobleman unluckily contrived
‘To break his neck — Just think! an English Peer,
‘So young, so rich, so handsome! had he lived,
‘We could have spared the other!—Well, I say
‘That merchant carried the young man away;

XXXII

‘He said, I think, that this young Schmidt—I mean,
‘Young Müller—was a kinsman of some kind,
‘A cousin of his wife's—He must have been
‘A man that's well to do, Sir, I'm inclined
‘To think, that merchant! and his age between
‘Fifty and sixty, I should say. But, mind,
‘I know, Sir, nothing of him, further than
‘The name he gave here, which was Eckermann.

333

XXXIII

‘He said he would look after that young Schmidt,
‘No, Müller—Well, the name's a common one!
‘He took the young man with him. Wait a bit!
‘Where did they go to? Oh, they must have gone
‘Towards Italy, now I remember it.
‘'Tis all that I remember. If you've done,
‘Excuse me! There's a carriage at the door,
‘And really I can tell you nothing more.’

XXXIV

When the old man all these details had heard,
Which told him nothing that he wished to know,
He asked where Lord Glenaveril was interred.
The landlord called the Boots, and bade him show
The place to him. But the old man preferred
To go alone. He went with footsteps slow
And feeble; and, when he returned, his head
Hung lower, and his eyelids were more red.

XXXV

He did not seem to be a personage
Of any mark, but, as the entry showed
In the hotel-book, on its latest page,
An old philologist, whose name bestowed
Scant lustre on that volume. To his age
Or grief, however, one good thing he owed;
The landlord did for him what he had done
For no one else, and left him quite alone.

END OF VOL. I.

‘Jacques Balmat was the first who made the ascent of Mont `Blanc. When he disappeared in 1835 he was 70 years old. He went out with a hunter of Valorsine to chase the chamois, parted from him near the Pic du Midi, having proposed an ascent which the other thought too dangerous; but poor Jacques was from his youth a gold-finder; one who believed it possible to become suddenly rich by such a discovery. He always preferred to follow this phantasy rather than act as guide, and he paid for it the forfeit of his life.’—Murray's Handbook.