A GARDEN.

Apollodorus.No!Sancho.Then go to the devil and shake yourself![Exit.Apollodorus.The foul fiend seize thee and thy cauliflowers!I was indeed a most egregious assTo take this lubber clodpole for a bard,And worship that dull fool. Pythian Apollo!Hear me—O hear! Towards the firmamentI gaze with longing eyes; and, in the nameOf millions thirsting for poetic draughts,I do beseech thee, send a poet down!Let him descend, e’en as a meteor falls,Rushing at noonday——

Apollodorus.

No!

Sancho.

Then go to the devil and shake yourself!

[Exit.

Apollodorus.

The foul fiend seize thee and thy cauliflowers!I was indeed a most egregious assTo take this lubber clodpole for a bard,And worship that dull fool. Pythian Apollo!Hear me—O hear! Towards the firmamentI gaze with longing eyes; and, in the nameOf millions thirsting for poetic draughts,I do beseech thee, send a poet down!Let him descend, e’en as a meteor falls,Rushing at noonday——

The foul fiend seize thee and thy cauliflowers!

I was indeed a most egregious ass

To take this lubber clodpole for a bard,

And worship that dull fool. Pythian Apollo!

Hear me—O hear! Towards the firmament

I gaze with longing eyes; and, in the name

Of millions thirsting for poetic draughts,

I do beseech thee, send a poet down!

Let him descend, e’en as a meteor falls,

Rushing at noonday——

[He is crushed by the fall of the body ofHaverillo.

We then find Firmilian wandering among the mountains, and lavishing a superfluity of apostrophe upon the rocks, forests, and cataracts around him. Whatever may be his moral deficiencies, we are constrained to admit that he must have studied the phenomena of nature to considerable purpose at the University of Badajoz, since he explains, in no fewer than twelve pages of blank verse, the glacier theory, entreating his own attention—for no one is with him—to the striated surface of rocks and the forcible displacement of boulders. He then, by way of amusement, works out a question in conic sections. But, notwithstanding these exercitations, he is obviously not happy. He is still as far as ever from his grand object, the thorough appreciation of remorse—for he can assign a distinct moral motive for each atrocity which he has committed. He at last reluctantly arrives at the conclusion that he is not the party destined—

To shrine that page of history in song,And utter such tremendous cadences,That the mere babe who hears them at the breast,Sanscomprehension, or the power of thought,Shall be an idiot to its dying hour!I deemed my verse would make pale Hecate’s orbGrow wan and dark; and into ashes changeThe radiant star-dust of the milky-way.I deemed that pestilence, disease, and deathWould follow every strophe—for the powerOf a true poet, prophet as he is,Should rack creation!

To shrine that page of history in song,

And utter such tremendous cadences,

That the mere babe who hears them at the breast,

Sanscomprehension, or the power of thought,

Shall be an idiot to its dying hour!

I deemed my verse would make pale Hecate’s orb

Grow wan and dark; and into ashes change

The radiant star-dust of the milky-way.

I deemed that pestilence, disease, and death

Would follow every strophe—for the power

Of a true poet, prophet as he is,

Should rack creation!

If this view of the powers of poets and poetry be correct, commend us to the continuance of a lengthened period of prose!

Firmilian then begins to look about him for a new subject, and a new course of initiative discipline. Magic first occurs to him—but he very speedily abandons that idea, from a natural terror of facing the fiend, and a wholesome dread of the Inquisition. He admits having made already one or two experiments in that line, and narrates, with evident horror, how he drew a chalk circle in his apartments, kindled a brazier, and began an incantation, when suddenly a lurid light appeared in the sockets of a skull upon the shelf, and so nearly threw him into convulsions that he could barely mutter the exorcism. (It appears, from another part of the poem, that this exploit had been detected by his servant, a spy of the Inquisition, in consequence of his having neglected to erase the cabalistic markings in chalk, and was of course immediately reported.) At last he determines to fall back upon sensuality, and to devote his unexampled talents to a grand poem upon the amours of the Heathen deities. He states, with much show of truth, that the tone of morals which an exclusively classical education is apt to give, cannot but be favourable to an extensive and sublime erotic undertaking—and that the youthful appetite, early stimulated by the perusal of the Pantheon, and the works of Ovid, Juvenal, and Catullus, will eagerly turn to anything in the vernacular which promises still stronger excitement. We shall not venture, at the present, to apply ourselves seriously to that question.

That Firmilian—for we shall not say Mr Percy Jones—was well qualified for such an undertaking as he finally resolved to prosecute, must be evident to every one who has perused the earliest extract we have given; and we shall certainly hold ourselves excused from quoting the terms of the course of study which he now proposes to himself. Seriously, it is full time that the prurient and indecent tone which has liberally manifested itself in the writings of the young spasmodic poets should be checked. It is so far from occasional, that it has become a main feature of their school; and in one production of the kind, most shamefully bepuffed, the hero was represented as carrying on an intrigue with the kept-mistress of Lucifer! If we do not comment upon more recent instances of marked impurity, it is because we hope the offence will not be repeated. Meantime, let us back to Firmilian.

As he approaches the catastrophe, we remark, with infinite gratification, that Mr Percy Jones takes pains to show that he is not personally identified with the opinions of his hero. Up to the point which we have now reached, there has been nothing to convince us that Jones did not intend Firmilian to be admired—but we are thankful to say that before the conclusion we are undeceived. Jones, though quite as spasmodic as the best of them,hasa sense of morals; and we do not know that we ever read anything better, in its way, than the following scene:—

Firmilian. Mariana.Firmilian.My Mariana!Mariana.O my beautiful!My seraph love—my panther of the wild—My moon-eyed leopard—my voluptuous lord!O, I am sunk within a sea of bliss,And find no soundings!Firmilian.Shall I answer back?As the great Earth lies silent all the night,And looks with hungry longing on the stars,Whilst its huge heart beats on its granite ribsWith measured pulsings of delirious joy—So look I, Mariana, on thine eyes!Mariana.Ah, dearest! wherefore are we fashioned thus?I cannot always hang around thy neckAnd plant vermilion kisses on thy brow;I cannot clasp thee, as yon ivy bush—Too happy ivy!—holds, from year to year,The stalwart oak within her firm embrace,Mixing her tresses fondly up with his,Like some young Jewish maid with Absalom’s.Nay, hold, Firmilian! do not pluck that rose!Firmilian.Why not? it is a fair one.Mariana.Are fair thingsMade only to be plucked? O fie on thee!I did not think my lord a libertine!Firmilian.Yet, sweetest, with your leave I’ll take the rose,For there’s a moral in it.—Look you here.’Tis fair, and sweet, and in its clustered leavesIt carries balmy dew: a precious flower,And vermeil-tinctured, as are Hebe’s lips.Yet say, my Mariana, could you bearTo gaze for ever only upon this,And fling the rest of Flora’s casket by?Mariana.No, truly—I would bind it up with more,And make a fitting posy for my breast.If I were stinted in my general choice,I’d crop the lily, tender, fresh, and white,—The shrinking pretty lily—and would giveIts modest contrast to the gaudier rose.What next? some flower that does not love the day—The dark, full-scented night-stock well might serveTo join the other two.Firmilian.A sweet selection!Think’st thou they’d bloom together on one breastWith a united fragrance?Mariana.Wherefore not?It is by union that all things are sweet.Firmilian.Thou speakest well! I joy, my Mariana,To find thy spirit overleaps the paleOf this mean world’s injurious narrowness!Never did Socrates proclaim a truthMore beautiful than welled from out thy lips—“It is by union that all things are sweet.”Thou, darling, art my rose—my dewy rose—The which I’ll proudly wear, but not alone.Dost comprehend me?Mariana.Ha! Firmilian—How my eyes dazzle!Firmilian.Let me show you nowThe lily I have ta’en to bind with thee.[He bringsLilianfrom the summer-house.Mariana.Is this a jest, Firmilian?Firmilian.Could I jestWith aught so fair and delicate as this?Nay, come—no coyness! Both of you embrace.Then to my heart of hearts—Mariana.Soft you a moment!Methinks the posy is not yet complete.Say, for the sake of argument, I shareMy rights with this pale beauty—(for she’s pretty;Although so fragile and so frail a thing,That a mere puff of April wind would mar her)—Where is the night-stock?FirmilianbringsIndianafrom the tool-house.Here!Mariana.A filthy negress!Abominable!Lilian.Mercy on me! what blubber lips she has!Mariana,furiously toFirmilian.You nasty thing! Is this your poetry—Your high soul-scheming and philosophy?I hate and loathe you! (To Indiana).—Rival of my shoe,Go, get thee gone, and hide thee from the dayThat loathes thine ebon skin! Firmilian—You’ll hear of this! My brother serves the king.Lilian.My uncle is the chief Inquisitor,And he shall know of this ere curfew tolls!What! Shall I share a husband with a coal?Mariana.Right, girl! I love thee even for that word—The Inquisition makes most rapid work,And, in its books, that caitiff’s name is down!Firmilian.Listen one moment! When I was a babe,And in my cradle puling for my nurse,There fell a gleam of glory on the floor,And in it, darkly standing, was a form—Mariana.A negress, probably! Farewell awhile—When next we meet—the faggot and the pile!Come, Lilian![Exeunt.Indiana.I shake from head to foot with sore affright—What will become of me?Firmilian.Who cares? Good night![Scene closes.

Firmilian. Mariana.

Firmilian.

My Mariana!

Mariana.

O my beautiful!My seraph love—my panther of the wild—My moon-eyed leopard—my voluptuous lord!O, I am sunk within a sea of bliss,And find no soundings!

O my beautiful!

My seraph love—my panther of the wild—

My moon-eyed leopard—my voluptuous lord!

O, I am sunk within a sea of bliss,

And find no soundings!

Firmilian.

Shall I answer back?As the great Earth lies silent all the night,And looks with hungry longing on the stars,Whilst its huge heart beats on its granite ribsWith measured pulsings of delirious joy—So look I, Mariana, on thine eyes!

Shall I answer back?

As the great Earth lies silent all the night,

And looks with hungry longing on the stars,

Whilst its huge heart beats on its granite ribs

With measured pulsings of delirious joy—

So look I, Mariana, on thine eyes!

Mariana.

Ah, dearest! wherefore are we fashioned thus?I cannot always hang around thy neckAnd plant vermilion kisses on thy brow;I cannot clasp thee, as yon ivy bush—Too happy ivy!—holds, from year to year,The stalwart oak within her firm embrace,Mixing her tresses fondly up with his,Like some young Jewish maid with Absalom’s.Nay, hold, Firmilian! do not pluck that rose!

Ah, dearest! wherefore are we fashioned thus?

I cannot always hang around thy neck

And plant vermilion kisses on thy brow;

I cannot clasp thee, as yon ivy bush—

Too happy ivy!—holds, from year to year,

The stalwart oak within her firm embrace,

Mixing her tresses fondly up with his,

Like some young Jewish maid with Absalom’s.

Nay, hold, Firmilian! do not pluck that rose!

Firmilian.

Why not? it is a fair one.

Mariana.

Are fair thingsMade only to be plucked? O fie on thee!I did not think my lord a libertine!

Are fair things

Made only to be plucked? O fie on thee!

I did not think my lord a libertine!

Firmilian.

Yet, sweetest, with your leave I’ll take the rose,For there’s a moral in it.—Look you here.’Tis fair, and sweet, and in its clustered leavesIt carries balmy dew: a precious flower,And vermeil-tinctured, as are Hebe’s lips.Yet say, my Mariana, could you bearTo gaze for ever only upon this,And fling the rest of Flora’s casket by?

Yet, sweetest, with your leave I’ll take the rose,

For there’s a moral in it.—Look you here.

’Tis fair, and sweet, and in its clustered leaves

It carries balmy dew: a precious flower,

And vermeil-tinctured, as are Hebe’s lips.

Yet say, my Mariana, could you bear

To gaze for ever only upon this,

And fling the rest of Flora’s casket by?

Mariana.

No, truly—I would bind it up with more,And make a fitting posy for my breast.If I were stinted in my general choice,I’d crop the lily, tender, fresh, and white,—The shrinking pretty lily—and would giveIts modest contrast to the gaudier rose.What next? some flower that does not love the day—The dark, full-scented night-stock well might serveTo join the other two.

No, truly—I would bind it up with more,

And make a fitting posy for my breast.

If I were stinted in my general choice,

I’d crop the lily, tender, fresh, and white,—

The shrinking pretty lily—and would give

Its modest contrast to the gaudier rose.

What next? some flower that does not love the day—

The dark, full-scented night-stock well might serve

To join the other two.

Firmilian.

A sweet selection!Think’st thou they’d bloom together on one breastWith a united fragrance?

A sweet selection!

Think’st thou they’d bloom together on one breast

With a united fragrance?

Mariana.

Wherefore not?It is by union that all things are sweet.

Wherefore not?

It is by union that all things are sweet.

Firmilian.

Thou speakest well! I joy, my Mariana,To find thy spirit overleaps the paleOf this mean world’s injurious narrowness!Never did Socrates proclaim a truthMore beautiful than welled from out thy lips—“It is by union that all things are sweet.”Thou, darling, art my rose—my dewy rose—The which I’ll proudly wear, but not alone.Dost comprehend me?

Thou speakest well! I joy, my Mariana,

To find thy spirit overleaps the pale

Of this mean world’s injurious narrowness!

Never did Socrates proclaim a truth

More beautiful than welled from out thy lips—

“It is by union that all things are sweet.”

Thou, darling, art my rose—my dewy rose—

The which I’ll proudly wear, but not alone.

Dost comprehend me?

Mariana.

Ha! Firmilian—How my eyes dazzle!

Ha! Firmilian—

How my eyes dazzle!

Firmilian.

Let me show you nowThe lily I have ta’en to bind with thee.

Let me show you now

The lily I have ta’en to bind with thee.

[He bringsLilianfrom the summer-house.

Mariana.

Is this a jest, Firmilian?

Firmilian.

Could I jestWith aught so fair and delicate as this?Nay, come—no coyness! Both of you embrace.Then to my heart of hearts—

Could I jest

With aught so fair and delicate as this?

Nay, come—no coyness! Both of you embrace.

Then to my heart of hearts—

Mariana.

Soft you a moment!Methinks the posy is not yet complete.Say, for the sake of argument, I shareMy rights with this pale beauty—(for she’s pretty;Although so fragile and so frail a thing,That a mere puff of April wind would mar her)—Where is the night-stock?

Soft you a moment!

Methinks the posy is not yet complete.

Say, for the sake of argument, I share

My rights with this pale beauty—(for she’s pretty;

Although so fragile and so frail a thing,

That a mere puff of April wind would mar her)—

Where is the night-stock?

FirmilianbringsIndianafrom the tool-house.

Here!

Mariana.

A filthy negress!Abominable!

A filthy negress!

Abominable!

Lilian.

Mercy on me! what blubber lips she has!

Mariana,furiously toFirmilian.

You nasty thing! Is this your poetry—Your high soul-scheming and philosophy?I hate and loathe you! (To Indiana).—Rival of my shoe,Go, get thee gone, and hide thee from the dayThat loathes thine ebon skin! Firmilian—You’ll hear of this! My brother serves the king.

You nasty thing! Is this your poetry—

Your high soul-scheming and philosophy?

I hate and loathe you! (To Indiana).—Rival of my shoe,

Go, get thee gone, and hide thee from the day

That loathes thine ebon skin! Firmilian—

You’ll hear of this! My brother serves the king.

Lilian.

My uncle is the chief Inquisitor,And he shall know of this ere curfew tolls!What! Shall I share a husband with a coal?

My uncle is the chief Inquisitor,

And he shall know of this ere curfew tolls!

What! Shall I share a husband with a coal?

Mariana.

Right, girl! I love thee even for that word—The Inquisition makes most rapid work,And, in its books, that caitiff’s name is down!

Right, girl! I love thee even for that word—

The Inquisition makes most rapid work,

And, in its books, that caitiff’s name is down!

Firmilian.

Listen one moment! When I was a babe,And in my cradle puling for my nurse,There fell a gleam of glory on the floor,And in it, darkly standing, was a form—

Listen one moment! When I was a babe,

And in my cradle puling for my nurse,

There fell a gleam of glory on the floor,

And in it, darkly standing, was a form—

Mariana.

A negress, probably! Farewell awhile—When next we meet—the faggot and the pile!Come, Lilian!

A negress, probably! Farewell awhile—

When next we meet—the faggot and the pile!

Come, Lilian!

[Exeunt.

Indiana.

I shake from head to foot with sore affright—What will become of me?

I shake from head to foot with sore affright—

What will become of me?

Firmilian.

Who cares? Good night!

[Scene closes.

Bravo, Percy! The first part of that scene is managed with a dexterity which old Dekker might have applauded, and the conclusion shows a perfect knowledge of womanly character and feeling. Firmilian is now cast beyond the pale of society, and in imminent danger, if apprehended, of taking a conspicuous part in anauto-da-fé. An author of inferior genius would probably have consigned him to the custody of the Familiars, in which case we should have had a dungeon and rack scene, if not absolute incremation as the catastrophe. But Jones knew better. He felt that such a cruel fate might, by the effect of contrast, revive some kind of sympathy in the mind of the reader for Firmilian, and he has accordingly adopted the wiser plan of depicting him as the victim of his own haunted imagination. The closing scene is so eminently graphic, and so perfectly original, that we give it entire.

Night—Mist and fog.EnterFirmilian.They’re hot upon my traces! Through the mistI heard their call and answer—and but now,As I was crouching ’neath a hawthorn bush,A dark Familiar swiftly glided by,His keen eyes glittering with the lust of death.If I am ta’en, the faggot and the pileAwait me! Horror! Rather would I dare,Like rash Empedocles, the Etna gulf,Than writhe before the slaves of bigotry.Where am I? If my mind deceives me not,Upon that common where, two years ago,An old blind beggar came and craved an alms,Thereby destroying a stupendous thoughtJust bursting in my mind—a glorious budOf poesy, but blasted ere its bloom!I bade the old fool take the leftward path,Which leads to the deep quarry, where he fell—At least I deem so, for I heard a splash—But I was gazing on the gibbous moon,And durst not lower my celestial flightTo care for such an insect-worm as he!How cold it is! The mist comes thicker on.Ha!—what is that? I see around me lightsDancing and flitting, yet they do not seemLike torches either—and there’s music too!I’ll pause and listen.Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.Follow, follow, follow!Over hill and over hollow;It is ours to lead the way,When a sinner’s footsteps stray—Cheering him with light and song,On his doubtful path along.Hark, hark! The watch-dogs bark.There’s a crash, and a splash, and a blind man’s cry,But the Poet looks tranquilly up at the sky!Firmilian.Is it the echo of an inward voice,Or spirit-words that make my flesh to creep,And send the cold blood choking to my heart?I’ll shift my ground a little—Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.Flicker, flicker, flicker!Quicker still, and quicker.Four young men sate down to dine,And still they passed the rosy wine;Pure was the cask, but in the flaskThere lay a certain deadly powder—Ha! his heart is beating louder!Ere the day had passed away,Garcia Perez lifeless lay!Hark! his mother wails Alphonzo,Never more shall strong AlonzoDrink the wine of Ildefronso!Firmilian.O horror! horror! ’twas by me they died!I’ll move yet farther on—Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.In the vaults underBursts the red thunder;Up goes the cathedral,Priest, people, and bedral!Ho! ho! ho! ho!Firmilian.My brain is whirling like a potter’s wheel!O Nemesis!Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.The Muses sing in their charmed ring,And Apollo weeps for him who sleeps,Alas! on a hard and a stony pillow—Haverillo! Haverillo!Firmilian.I shall go mad!Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.Give him some respite—give him some praise—One good deed he has done in his days;Chaunt it, and sing it, and tell it in chorus—He has flattened the cockscomb of Apollodorus!Firmilian.Small comfort that! The death of a shard-beetle,Albeit the poorest and the paltriest thingThat crawls round refuse, cannot weigh a grainAgainst the ponderous avalanche of guiltThat hangs above me! O me miserable!I’ll grope my way yet further.Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.Firmilian! Firmilian!What have you done to Lilian?There a cry from the grotto, a sob by the stream,A woman’s loud wailing, a little babe’s scream!How fared it with Lilian,In the pavilion,Firmilian, Firmilian?Firmilian.Horror! I’m lost!—Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.Ho! ho! ho!Deep in the snowLies a black maiden from Africa’s shore!Hasten, and shake her—You never shall wake her—She’ll roam through the glens of the Atlas no more!Stay, stay, stay!This way—this way—There’s a pit before, and a pit behind,And the seeing man walks in the path of the blind![Firmilianfalls into the quarry. TheIgnes Fatuidance as the curtain descends.

Night—Mist and fog.

EnterFirmilian.

They’re hot upon my traces! Through the mistI heard their call and answer—and but now,As I was crouching ’neath a hawthorn bush,A dark Familiar swiftly glided by,His keen eyes glittering with the lust of death.If I am ta’en, the faggot and the pileAwait me! Horror! Rather would I dare,Like rash Empedocles, the Etna gulf,Than writhe before the slaves of bigotry.Where am I? If my mind deceives me not,Upon that common where, two years ago,An old blind beggar came and craved an alms,Thereby destroying a stupendous thoughtJust bursting in my mind—a glorious budOf poesy, but blasted ere its bloom!I bade the old fool take the leftward path,Which leads to the deep quarry, where he fell—At least I deem so, for I heard a splash—But I was gazing on the gibbous moon,And durst not lower my celestial flightTo care for such an insect-worm as he!How cold it is! The mist comes thicker on.Ha!—what is that? I see around me lightsDancing and flitting, yet they do not seemLike torches either—and there’s music too!I’ll pause and listen.

They’re hot upon my traces! Through the mist

I heard their call and answer—and but now,

As I was crouching ’neath a hawthorn bush,

A dark Familiar swiftly glided by,

His keen eyes glittering with the lust of death.

If I am ta’en, the faggot and the pile

Await me! Horror! Rather would I dare,

Like rash Empedocles, the Etna gulf,

Than writhe before the slaves of bigotry.

Where am I? If my mind deceives me not,

Upon that common where, two years ago,

An old blind beggar came and craved an alms,

Thereby destroying a stupendous thought

Just bursting in my mind—a glorious bud

Of poesy, but blasted ere its bloom!

I bade the old fool take the leftward path,

Which leads to the deep quarry, where he fell—

At least I deem so, for I heard a splash—

But I was gazing on the gibbous moon,

And durst not lower my celestial flight

To care for such an insect-worm as he!

How cold it is! The mist comes thicker on.

Ha!—what is that? I see around me lights

Dancing and flitting, yet they do not seem

Like torches either—and there’s music too!

I’ll pause and listen.

Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.

Follow, follow, follow!Over hill and over hollow;It is ours to lead the way,When a sinner’s footsteps stray—Cheering him with light and song,On his doubtful path along.Hark, hark! The watch-dogs bark.There’s a crash, and a splash, and a blind man’s cry,But the Poet looks tranquilly up at the sky!

Follow, follow, follow!

Over hill and over hollow;

It is ours to lead the way,

When a sinner’s footsteps stray—

Cheering him with light and song,

On his doubtful path along.

Hark, hark! The watch-dogs bark.

There’s a crash, and a splash, and a blind man’s cry,

But the Poet looks tranquilly up at the sky!

Firmilian.

Is it the echo of an inward voice,Or spirit-words that make my flesh to creep,And send the cold blood choking to my heart?I’ll shift my ground a little—

Is it the echo of an inward voice,

Or spirit-words that make my flesh to creep,

And send the cold blood choking to my heart?

I’ll shift my ground a little—

Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.

Flicker, flicker, flicker!Quicker still, and quicker.Four young men sate down to dine,And still they passed the rosy wine;Pure was the cask, but in the flaskThere lay a certain deadly powder—Ha! his heart is beating louder!Ere the day had passed away,Garcia Perez lifeless lay!Hark! his mother wails Alphonzo,Never more shall strong AlonzoDrink the wine of Ildefronso!

Flicker, flicker, flicker!

Quicker still, and quicker.

Four young men sate down to dine,

And still they passed the rosy wine;

Pure was the cask, but in the flask

There lay a certain deadly powder—

Ha! his heart is beating louder!

Ere the day had passed away,

Garcia Perez lifeless lay!

Hark! his mother wails Alphonzo,

Never more shall strong Alonzo

Drink the wine of Ildefronso!

Firmilian.

O horror! horror! ’twas by me they died!I’ll move yet farther on—

O horror! horror! ’twas by me they died!

I’ll move yet farther on—

Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.

In the vaults underBursts the red thunder;Up goes the cathedral,Priest, people, and bedral!Ho! ho! ho! ho!

In the vaults under

Bursts the red thunder;

Up goes the cathedral,

Priest, people, and bedral!

Ho! ho! ho! ho!

Firmilian.

My brain is whirling like a potter’s wheel!O Nemesis!

My brain is whirling like a potter’s wheel!

O Nemesis!

Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.

The Muses sing in their charmed ring,And Apollo weeps for him who sleeps,Alas! on a hard and a stony pillow—Haverillo! Haverillo!

The Muses sing in their charmed ring,

And Apollo weeps for him who sleeps,

Alas! on a hard and a stony pillow—

Haverillo! Haverillo!

Firmilian.

I shall go mad!

Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.

Give him some respite—give him some praise—One good deed he has done in his days;Chaunt it, and sing it, and tell it in chorus—He has flattened the cockscomb of Apollodorus!

Give him some respite—give him some praise—

One good deed he has done in his days;

Chaunt it, and sing it, and tell it in chorus—

He has flattened the cockscomb of Apollodorus!

Firmilian.

Small comfort that! The death of a shard-beetle,Albeit the poorest and the paltriest thingThat crawls round refuse, cannot weigh a grainAgainst the ponderous avalanche of guiltThat hangs above me! O me miserable!I’ll grope my way yet further.

Small comfort that! The death of a shard-beetle,

Albeit the poorest and the paltriest thing

That crawls round refuse, cannot weigh a grain

Against the ponderous avalanche of guilt

That hangs above me! O me miserable!

I’ll grope my way yet further.

Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.

Firmilian! Firmilian!What have you done to Lilian?There a cry from the grotto, a sob by the stream,A woman’s loud wailing, a little babe’s scream!How fared it with Lilian,In the pavilion,Firmilian, Firmilian?

Firmilian! Firmilian!

What have you done to Lilian?

There a cry from the grotto, a sob by the stream,

A woman’s loud wailing, a little babe’s scream!

How fared it with Lilian,

In the pavilion,

Firmilian, Firmilian?

Firmilian.

Horror! I’m lost!—

Chorus ofIgnes Fatui.

Ho! ho! ho!Deep in the snowLies a black maiden from Africa’s shore!Hasten, and shake her—You never shall wake her—She’ll roam through the glens of the Atlas no more!Stay, stay, stay!This way—this way—There’s a pit before, and a pit behind,And the seeing man walks in the path of the blind!

Ho! ho! ho!

Deep in the snow

Lies a black maiden from Africa’s shore!

Hasten, and shake her—

You never shall wake her—

She’ll roam through the glens of the Atlas no more!

Stay, stay, stay!

This way—this way—

There’s a pit before, and a pit behind,

And the seeing man walks in the path of the blind!

[Firmilianfalls into the quarry. TheIgnes Fatuidance as the curtain descends.

And so ends the tragedy of Firmilian.

It is rather difficult to give a serious opinion upon the merits of such a production as this. It is, of course, utterly extravagant; but so are the whole of the writings of the poets of the Spasmodic school; and, in the eyes of a considerable body of modern critics, extravagance is regarded as a proof of extraordinary genius. It is, here and there, highly coloured; but that also is looked upon as a symptom of the divine afflatus, and rather prized than otherwise. In one point of proclaimed spasmodic excellence, perhaps it fails. You can always tell what Percy Jones is after, even when he is dealing with “shuddering stars,” “gibbous moons,” “imposthumes of hell,” and the like; whereas you may read through twenty pages of the more ordinary stuff without being able to discern what the writers mean—and no wonder, for they really mean nothing. They are simply writing nonsense-verses; but they contrive, by blazing away whole rounds of metaphor, to mask their absolute poverty of thought, and to convey the impression that there must be something stupendous under so heavy a canopy of smoke. If, therefore, intelligibility, which is the highest degree of obscurity, is to be considered a poetic excellence, we are afraid that Jones must yield the palm to several of his contemporaries; if, on the contrary, perspicuity is to be regarded as a virtue, we do not hesitate in assigning the spasmodic prize to the author ofFirmilian. To him the old lines on Marlowe, with the alteration of the name, might be applied—

“Next Percy Jones, bathed in the Thespian Springs,Had in him those brave sublunary ThingsThat your first Poets had; his Raptures wereAll Air and Fire, which made his Verses clear;For that fierce Madness still he did retain,Which rightly should possess a Poet’s Brain.”

“Next Percy Jones, bathed in the Thespian Springs,

Had in him those brave sublunary Things

That your first Poets had; his Raptures were

All Air and Fire, which made his Verses clear;

For that fierce Madness still he did retain,

Which rightly should possess a Poet’s Brain.”

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