FIRMILIAN: A TRAGEDY.[23]

We have great pleasure in announcing to our readers the fact, that we have at last discovered that long-expected phenomenon, the coming Poet, and we trust that his light will very soon become visible in the literary horizon. We cannot, however, arrogate to ourselves any large share of merit in this discovery—indeed, we must confess, with a feeling akin to shame, that we ought to have made it at a much earlier date.Firmilianis not altogether new to us. We have an indistinct recollection of having seen the tragedy in manuscript well-nigh two years ago; and, if we remember aright, a rather animated correspondence took place on the subject of the return of the papers. We had, by some untoward accident, allowed them to find their way into the Balaam-box, which girnel of genius was at that particular time full up to the very hinges. We felt confident thatFirmilianlay under the weight of some twenty solid layers of miscellaneous literature; and we should as soon have thought of attempting to disinter an ichthyosaurus from a slate-quarry, as of ransacking the bowels of the chest for that treasury of rare delights. However, we took care, on the occasion of the next incremation, to make search for the missing article, and had the pleasure of returning it to Mr Percy Jones, from whom we heard nothing further until we received his tragedy in print. Our first perusal having been rather of a cursory nature, we are not able to state with certainty whether the author has applied himself during the intervening period to the work of emendation; but we think it exceedingly probable that he has done so, as we now remark a degree of vivacity and force of expression, however extravagant many of the ideas may be, which had escaped our previous notice. We hope that, by a tardy act of justice, we shall offer no violence to that amiable modesty which has, in the mean time, restrained him from asking the verdict of the general public.

As to the actual amount of poetic genius and accomplishment which Mr Percy Jones possesses, there may, even among the circle of his friends, be considerable difference of opinion. Those who admire spasmodic throes and writhings may possibly be inclined to exalt him to a very high pinnacle of fame; for certainly, in no modern work of poetry—and there have been several recently published which might have borne theimprimaturof Bedlam—have we found so many symptoms of unmistakable lunacy. Still there is a method in his madness—a rapidity of perception and originality of thought, which contrasts very favourably with the tedious drivellings of some other writers of the same school. His taste is not one whit better than theirs, but he brings a finer fancy and a more vivid imagination to the task; nor is he deficient in a certain rude exaggerated dramatic power, which has more than once reminded us of the early style of Marlowe and the other predecessors of Shakespeare.

It is not very easy to comprehend the exact creed and method of the new school of poets, who have set themselves to work upon a principle hitherto unknown, or at all events unproclaimed. This much we know from themselves, that they regard poetry not only as a sacred calling, but as the most sacred of any—that, in their opinion, every social relation, every mundane tie, which can interfere with the bard’s development, must be either disregarded or snapped asunder—and that they are, to the fainting race of Adam, the sole accredited bearers of the Amreeta cup of immortality. Such is the kind of nonsense regarding the nature of his mission which each fresh poetaster considers it his duty to enunciate; and as there is nothing, however absurd, which will not become credited by dint of constant repetition, we need not be surprised that some very extraordinary views regarding the “rights of genius” should of late years have been countenanced by men who ought to have known better. Poets are, like all other authors or artisans, valuable according to the quality of the article which they produce. If their handiwork be good, genuine, and true, it will pass at once into circulation and be prized—if the reverse, what title can they prefer to the name which they so proudly arrogate to themselves?

We do not, however, quarrel with a poet for having an exalted idea of his art—always supposing that he has taken any pains to acquire its rudiments. Without a high feeling of this kind, it would be difficult to maintain the struggle which must precede eminent success; nor would we have alluded to the subject but for the affectation and offensive swaggering of some who may indeed be rhymsters, but who never could be poets even if their days were to be prolonged to the extent of those of Methusaleh. When the painter of the tavern sign-post, whereon is depicted a beer-bottle voiding its cork, and spontaneously ejecting its contents right and left into a couple of convenient tumblers, talks to us of high art, Raphael, and the effects ofchiaroscuro, it is utterly impossible to control the action of the risible muscles. And, in like manner, when one of our young poetical aspirants, on the strength of a trashy duodecimo filled with unintelligible ravings, asserts his claim to be considered as a prophet and a teacher, it is beyond the power of humanity to check the intolerable tickling of the midriff.

But, apart from their exaggerated notions of their calling, let us see what is the practice of the poets of the Spasmodic School. In the first place, they rarely, if ever, attempt anything like a plot. After you have finished the perusal of their verses, you find yourself just as wise as when you began. You cannot tell what they would be at. You have a confused recollection of stars, and sunbeams, and moonbeams, as if you had been staring at an orrery; but sun, moon, and stars, were intended to give light to something—and what that something is, in the poet’s page, you cannot, for the life of you, discover. In the second place, we regret to say that they are often exceedingly profane, not, we suppose, intentionally, but because they have not sense enough to see the limits which decency, as well as duty, prescribes. In the third place, they are occasionally very prurient. And, in the fourth place, they are almost always unintelligible.

Now, although we cannot by any means aver that Mr Percy Jones is entirely free from the faults which we have just enumerated, we look upon him as a decidedly favourable specimen of his tribe. There is, inFirmilian, if not a plot, at least some kind of comprehensible action; and in it he has portrayed the leading features of the poetical school to which he belongs with so much fidelity and effect, that we feel called upon to give an outline of his tragedy, with a few specimens from the more remarkable scenes.

The hero of the piece, Firmilian, is a student in the university of Badajoz, a poet, and entirely devoted to his art. He has been engaged for some time in the composition of a tragedy upon the subject of Cain, which is “to win the world by storm;” but he unfortunately discovers, after he has proceeded a certain length in his task, that he has not yet thoroughly informed himself, by experience, of the real nature of the agonies of remorse. He finds that he cannot do justice to his subject without steeping his own soul in guilt, so as to experience the pangs of the murderer; and as, according to the doctrines of the spasmodic school of poetry, such investigations are not only permitted, but highly laudable, he sets himself seriously to ponder with what victim he should begin. All our spasmodic poets introduce us to their heroes in their studies, and Mr Percy Jones follows the tradition. He does not, however, like some of them, carry his imitative admiration of Goethe’sFaustso far, as personally to evoke Lucifer or Mephistopheles—an omission for which we are really thankful. Firmilian begins by a soliloquy upon his frame of mind and feelings; and states himself to be grievously perplexed and hindered in his work by his comparative state of innocence. He then meditates whether he should commence his course of practical remorse by putting to death Mariana, a young lady to whom he is attached, or three friends and fellow-students of his, with whom he is to dine next day. After much hesitation, he decides on the latter view, and, after looking up “Raymond Lullius” for the composition of a certain powder, retires to rest after a beautiful but somewhat lengthy apostrophe to the moon. There is nothing in this scene which peculiarly challenges quotation. The next is occupied by love-making; and certainly, if Mr Percy Jones had intended to exhibit his hero throughout in the most amiable and romantic light, nothing could be better than his appearance in the bower of Mariana. If, here and there, we encounter an occasional floridness, or even warmth of expression, we attribute that in a great measure to the sunny nature of the clime; just as we feel that the raptures of Romeo and Juliet are in accordance with the temperament of the land that gave them birth. But we presently find that Firmilian, though a poet, is a hypocrite and traitor in love. The next scene is laid in a tavern, where he and his friends, Garcia Perez, Alphonzo D’Aguilar, and Alonzo Olivarez are assembled, and there is a discussion, over the winecup, on the inexhaustible subject of knightly love. Alphonzo, claiming to be descended from the purest blood of Castile, asserts the superiority of European beauty over the rest of the universe; to which Firmilian, though known to be betrothed to Mariana, makes the following reply—

FIRMILIAN.I knew a poet once; and he was young,And intermingled with such fierce desiresAs made pale Eros veil his face with grief,And caused his lustier brother to rejoice.He was as amorous as a crocodileIn the spring season, when the Memphian bank,Receiving substance from the glaring sun,Resolves itself from mud into a shore.And—as the scaly creature wallowing there,In its hot fits of passion, belches forthThe steam from out its nostrils, half in love,And half in grim defiance of its kind;Trusting that either, from the reedy fen,Some reptile-virgin coyly may appear,Or that the hoary Sultan of the NileMay make tremendous challenge with his jaws,And, like Mark Anthony, assert his rightTo all the Cleopatras of the ooze—So fared it with the poet that I knew.He had a soul beyond the vulgar reach,Sun-ripened, swarthy. He was not the foolTo pluck the feeble lily from its shadeWhen the black hyacinth stood in fragrance by.The lady of his love was dusk as Ind,Her lips as plenteous as the Sphinx’s are,And her short hair crisp with Numidian curl.She was a negress. You have heard the strainsThat Dante, Petrarch, and such puling foolsAs loved the daughters of cold Japhet’s race,Have lavished idly on their icicles.As snow melts snow, so their unhasty fallFell chill and barren on a pulseless heart.But, would you know what noontide ardour is,Or in what mood the lion, in the waste,All fever-maddened, and intent on cubs,At the oasis waits the lioness—That shall you gather from the fiery songWhich that young poet framed, before he daredInvade the vastness of his lady’s lips.

FIRMILIAN.

I knew a poet once; and he was young,And intermingled with such fierce desiresAs made pale Eros veil his face with grief,And caused his lustier brother to rejoice.He was as amorous as a crocodileIn the spring season, when the Memphian bank,Receiving substance from the glaring sun,Resolves itself from mud into a shore.And—as the scaly creature wallowing there,In its hot fits of passion, belches forthThe steam from out its nostrils, half in love,And half in grim defiance of its kind;Trusting that either, from the reedy fen,Some reptile-virgin coyly may appear,Or that the hoary Sultan of the NileMay make tremendous challenge with his jaws,And, like Mark Anthony, assert his rightTo all the Cleopatras of the ooze—So fared it with the poet that I knew.

I knew a poet once; and he was young,

And intermingled with such fierce desires

As made pale Eros veil his face with grief,

And caused his lustier brother to rejoice.

He was as amorous as a crocodile

In the spring season, when the Memphian bank,

Receiving substance from the glaring sun,

Resolves itself from mud into a shore.

And—as the scaly creature wallowing there,

In its hot fits of passion, belches forth

The steam from out its nostrils, half in love,

And half in grim defiance of its kind;

Trusting that either, from the reedy fen,

Some reptile-virgin coyly may appear,

Or that the hoary Sultan of the Nile

May make tremendous challenge with his jaws,

And, like Mark Anthony, assert his right

To all the Cleopatras of the ooze—

So fared it with the poet that I knew.

He had a soul beyond the vulgar reach,Sun-ripened, swarthy. He was not the foolTo pluck the feeble lily from its shadeWhen the black hyacinth stood in fragrance by.The lady of his love was dusk as Ind,Her lips as plenteous as the Sphinx’s are,And her short hair crisp with Numidian curl.She was a negress. You have heard the strainsThat Dante, Petrarch, and such puling foolsAs loved the daughters of cold Japhet’s race,Have lavished idly on their icicles.As snow melts snow, so their unhasty fallFell chill and barren on a pulseless heart.But, would you know what noontide ardour is,Or in what mood the lion, in the waste,All fever-maddened, and intent on cubs,At the oasis waits the lioness—That shall you gather from the fiery songWhich that young poet framed, before he daredInvade the vastness of his lady’s lips.

He had a soul beyond the vulgar reach,

Sun-ripened, swarthy. He was not the fool

To pluck the feeble lily from its shade

When the black hyacinth stood in fragrance by.

The lady of his love was dusk as Ind,

Her lips as plenteous as the Sphinx’s are,

And her short hair crisp with Numidian curl.

She was a negress. You have heard the strains

That Dante, Petrarch, and such puling fools

As loved the daughters of cold Japhet’s race,

Have lavished idly on their icicles.

As snow melts snow, so their unhasty fall

Fell chill and barren on a pulseless heart.

But, would you know what noontide ardour is,

Or in what mood the lion, in the waste,

All fever-maddened, and intent on cubs,

At the oasis waits the lioness—

That shall you gather from the fiery song

Which that young poet framed, before he dared

Invade the vastness of his lady’s lips.

Judging from the implied character of the ditty in question, we are not sorry that we cannot lay it before our readers—indeed it does not appear in the volume, for D’Aguilar was so disgusted with the introduction that he openly reviled Firmilian as a pupil of Mahound, and bestowed a buffet on him, whereupon there was a flashing of swords. These, however, were sheathed, and the students again sate down amicably to drink. Firmilian, being suddenly called away, entreats his friends to amuse themselves, during his absence, with a special bottle of “Ildefronso”—a vintage which we do not remember having seen in any modern list of wines. They comply—feel rather uncomfortable—and the scene concludes by the chaunt of a funeral procession beneath the window; an idea which we strongly suspect has been borrowed from Victor Hugo’s tragedy ofLucrèce Borgia.

The next scene exhibits Firmilian pacing the cloisters. His three friends have died by poison, but he is not able by any means to conjure up a feeling of adequate remorse. He does not see that he is at all responsible in the matter. If he had poured out the wine into their glasses, and looked upon their dying agonies, then, indeed, he might have experienced the desired sensation of guilt. But he did nothing of the kind. They helped themselves, of their own free will and accord, and died when he was out of the way. On the whole, then, his first experiment was a blunder. During his reverie, an old preceptor of his, the Priest of St Nicholas, passes; and certain reminiscences of stripes suggest him as the next victim. The reader will presently see by what means this scheme is carried into execution. Suffice it to say, that the mere anticipation of it sheds a balm upon Firmilian’s disappointed spirit, who, being now fully convinced that in a few days he will be able to realise the tortures of Cain, departs for an interview with Lilian, a young lady for whom he entertains a clandestine attachment. The next scene speaks for itself.

Exterior of the Cathedral of St Nicholas.Choir heard chaunting within.EnterFirmilian.

Exterior of the Cathedral of St Nicholas.

Choir heard chaunting within.

EnterFirmilian.

How darkly hangs yon cloud above the spire!There’s thunder in the air—What if the flashShould rend the solid walls, and reach the vaultWhere my terrestrial thunder lies prepared,And so, without the action of my hand,Whirl up those thousand bigots in its blaze,And leave me guiltless, save in the intent?That were a vile defraudment of my aim,A petty larceny o’ the element,An interjection of exceeding wrong!Let the hoarse thunder rend the vault of heaven,Yea, shake the stars by myriads from their boughs,As autumn tempests shake the fruitage down;—Let the red lightning shoot athwart the sky,Entangling comets by their spooming hair,Piercing the zodiac belt, and carrying dreadTo old Orion, and his whimpering hound;—But let the glory of this deed be mine!

How darkly hangs yon cloud above the spire!

There’s thunder in the air—

What if the flash

Should rend the solid walls, and reach the vault

Where my terrestrial thunder lies prepared,

And so, without the action of my hand,

Whirl up those thousand bigots in its blaze,

And leave me guiltless, save in the intent?

That were a vile defraudment of my aim,A petty larceny o’ the element,An interjection of exceeding wrong!Let the hoarse thunder rend the vault of heaven,Yea, shake the stars by myriads from their boughs,As autumn tempests shake the fruitage down;—Let the red lightning shoot athwart the sky,Entangling comets by their spooming hair,Piercing the zodiac belt, and carrying dreadTo old Orion, and his whimpering hound;—But let the glory of this deed be mine!

That were a vile defraudment of my aim,

A petty larceny o’ the element,

An interjection of exceeding wrong!

Let the hoarse thunder rend the vault of heaven,

Yea, shake the stars by myriads from their boughs,

As autumn tempests shake the fruitage down;—

Let the red lightning shoot athwart the sky,

Entangling comets by their spooming hair,

Piercing the zodiac belt, and carrying dread

To old Orion, and his whimpering hound;—

But let the glory of this deed be mine!

OrganandChoir.

Sublimatus ad honoremNicholai presulis:Pietatis ante roremCunctis pluit populis:Ut vix parem aut majoremHabeat in seculis.

Sublimatus ad honorem

Nicholai presulis:

Pietatis ante rorem

Cunctis pluit populis:

Ut vix parem aut majorem

Habeat in seculis.

Firmilian.

Yet I could weep to hear the wretches sing!There rolls the organ anthem down the aisle,And thousand voices join in its acclaim.All they are happy—they are on their knees;Round and above them stare the imagesOf antique saints and martyrs. Censers steamWith their Arabian charge of frankincense,And every heart, with inward fingers, countsA blissful rosary of pious prayer!Why should they perish then? Is’t yet too late?O shame, Firmilian, on thy coward soul!What! thou, the poet!—thou, whose mission ’tisTo send vibration down the chord of time,Until its junction with eternity—Thou, who hast dared and pondered and endured,Gathering by piecemeal all the noble thoughtsAnd fierce sensations of the mind—as oneWho in a garden culls the wholesome rose,And binds it with the deadly nightshade up;Flowers not akin, and yet, by contrast kind—Thou, for a touch of what these mundane foolsWhine of as pity, to forego thine aim,And never feel the gnawing of remorse,Like the Promethean vulture on the spleen,That shall instruct thee to give future voiceTo the unuttered agonies of Cain!Thou, to compare, with that high consequenceThe breath of some poor thousand knights and knaves,Who soaring, in the welkin, shall expire!Shame, shame, Firmilian! on thy weakness, shame!

Yet I could weep to hear the wretches sing!

There rolls the organ anthem down the aisle,

And thousand voices join in its acclaim.

All they are happy—they are on their knees;

Round and above them stare the images

Of antique saints and martyrs. Censers steam

With their Arabian charge of frankincense,

And every heart, with inward fingers, counts

A blissful rosary of pious prayer!

Why should they perish then? Is’t yet too late?

O shame, Firmilian, on thy coward soul!

What! thou, the poet!—thou, whose mission ’tis

To send vibration down the chord of time,

Until its junction with eternity—

Thou, who hast dared and pondered and endured,

Gathering by piecemeal all the noble thoughts

And fierce sensations of the mind—as one

Who in a garden culls the wholesome rose,

And binds it with the deadly nightshade up;

Flowers not akin, and yet, by contrast kind—

Thou, for a touch of what these mundane fools

Whine of as pity, to forego thine aim,

And never feel the gnawing of remorse,

Like the Promethean vulture on the spleen,

That shall instruct thee to give future voice

To the unuttered agonies of Cain!

Thou, to compare, with that high consequence

The breath of some poor thousand knights and knaves,

Who soaring, in the welkin, shall expire!

Shame, shame, Firmilian! on thy weakness, shame!

OrganandChoir.

Auro dato violariVirgines prohibuit:Far in fame, vas in mariServat et distribuit:Qui timebant naufragariNautis opem tribuit.

Auro dato violari

Virgines prohibuit:

Far in fame, vas in mari

Servat et distribuit:

Qui timebant naufragari

Nautis opem tribuit.

Firmilian.

A right good saint he seems, this Nicholas!And over-worked too, if the praise be just,Which these, his votaries, quaver as his claim.Yet it is odd he should o’erlook the factThat underneath this church of his are storedSome twenty barrels of the dusky grain,The secret of whose framing, in an hourOf diabolic jollity and mirth,Old Roger Bacon wormed from Belzebub!He might keep better wardship for his friends;But that to me is nothing. Now’s the time!Ha! as I take the matchbox in my hand,A spasm pervades me, and a natural thrillAs though my better genius were at hand,And strove to pluck me backwards by the hair.I must be resolute. Lose this one chance,Which bears me to th’ Acropolis of guilt,And this, our age, foregoes its noblest song.I must be speedy—

A right good saint he seems, this Nicholas!

And over-worked too, if the praise be just,

Which these, his votaries, quaver as his claim.

Yet it is odd he should o’erlook the fact

That underneath this church of his are stored

Some twenty barrels of the dusky grain,

The secret of whose framing, in an hour

Of diabolic jollity and mirth,

Old Roger Bacon wormed from Belzebub!

He might keep better wardship for his friends;

But that to me is nothing. Now’s the time!

Ha! as I take the matchbox in my hand,

A spasm pervades me, and a natural thrill

As though my better genius were at hand,

And strove to pluck me backwards by the hair.

I must be resolute. Lose this one chance,

Which bears me to th’ Acropolis of guilt,

And this, our age, foregoes its noblest song.

I must be speedy—

OrganandChoir.

A defunctis suscitaturFurtum qui commiserat:Et Judæus baptizaturFurtum qui recuperat:Illi vita restauratur,Hic ad fidem properat.

A defunctis suscitatur

Furtum qui commiserat:

Et Judæus baptizatur

Furtum qui recuperat:

Illi vita restauratur,

Hic ad fidem properat.

Firmilian.

No more was needed to confirm my mind!That stanza blows all thoughts of pity off,As empty straws are scattered by the wind!For I have been the victim of the Jews,Who, by vile barter, have absorbed my means.Did I not pawn—for that same flagrant stuff,Which only waits a spark to be dissolved,And, having done its mission, must disperseAs a thin smoke into the ambient air—My diamond cross, my goblet, and my books?What! would they venture to baptise the Jew?The cause assumes a holier aspect, then;And, as a faithful son of Rome, I dareTo merge my darling passion in the wrongThat is projected against Christendom!Pity, avaunt! I may not longer stay.

No more was needed to confirm my mind!

That stanza blows all thoughts of pity off,

As empty straws are scattered by the wind!

For I have been the victim of the Jews,

Who, by vile barter, have absorbed my means.

Did I not pawn—for that same flagrant stuff,

Which only waits a spark to be dissolved,

And, having done its mission, must disperse

As a thin smoke into the ambient air—

My diamond cross, my goblet, and my books?

What! would they venture to baptise the Jew?

The cause assumes a holier aspect, then;

And, as a faithful son of Rome, I dare

To merge my darling passion in the wrong

That is projected against Christendom!

Pity, avaunt! I may not longer stay.

[Exit into the vaults. A short pause, after which he reappears.

’Tis done! I vanish like the lightning bolt!

OrganandChoir.

Nicholai sacerdotumDecus, honor, gloria:Plebem omnem, clerum totum—

Nicholai sacerdotum

Decus, honor, gloria:

Plebem omnem, clerum totum—

[The Cathedral is blown up].

We back that scene, for intensity, against anything which has been written for the last dozen of years. Nay, we can even see in it traces of profound psychological observation. Firmilian, like Hamlet, is liable, especially on the eve of action, to fits of constitutional irresolution; and he requires, in order to nerve him to the deed, a more direct and plausible motive than that which originally prompted him. Hence we find him wavering, and almost inclined to abandon his purpose, until a casual passage in the choral hymn jars upon an excitable nerve, and urges him irresistibly forward. We shall presently find the same trait of character even more remarkably developed in another scene.

We then come to the obsequies of the students, which, being episodical, we may as well pass over. There are two ways of depicting grief—one quiet and impressive, the other stormy and clamorous. Mr Percy Jones, as might have been expected, adopts the latter method; and we are bound to say that we have never perused anything in print so fearful as the ravings of the bereaved Countess D’Aguilar, mother of the unfortunate Alphonzo. She even forgets herself so far asto box the ears of the confessor who is officiously whispering consolation.

Meanwhile, where is the hero of the piece—the successful Guy Fawkes of the cathedral? Perched on a locality which never would have occurred to any but the most exalted imagination.

Firmilian.’Twas a grand spectacle! The solid earthSeemed from its quaking entrails to eructThe gathered lava of a thousand years,Like an imposthume bursting up from hell!In a red robe of flame, the riven towers,Pillars and altar, organ-loft and screen,With a singed swarm of mortals intermixed,Were whirled in anguish to the shuddering stars,And all creation trembled at the din.It was my doing—mine alone! and IStand greater by this deed than the vain foolThat thrust his torch beneath Diana’s shrine.For what was it inspired ErostratusBut a weak vanity to have his nameBlaze out for arson in the catalogue?I have been wiser. No man knows the nameOf me, the pyrotechnist who have givenA new apotheosis to the saintWith lightning blast, and stunning thunder knell!And yet—and yet—what boots the sacrifice?I thought to take remorse unto my heart,As the young Spartan hid the savage foxBeneath the foldings of his boyish gown,And let it rive his flesh. Mine is not riven—My heart is yet unscarred. I’ve been too coarseAnd general in this business. Had there beenAmongst that multitude a single manWho loved me, cherished me—to whom I owedSweet reciprocity for holy almsAnd gifts of gentle import—had there beenFriend,—father,—brother, mingled in that crowd,And I had slain him—then indeed my soulMight have acquired fruition of its wish,And shrieked delirious at the taste of sin!But these—what were the victims unto me?Nothing! Mere human atoms, breathing clods,Uninspired dullards, unpoetic slaves,The rag, and tag, and bobtail of mankind;Whom, having scorched to cinders, I no moreFeel ruth for what I did, than if my handHad thrust a stick of sulphur in the nestOf some poor hive of droning humble-bees,And smoked them into silence!I must haveA more potential draught of guilt than this,With more of wormwood in it!Here I sit,Perched like a raven on old Simeon’s shaft,With barely needful footing for my limbs—And one is climbing up the inward coil,Who was my friend and brother. We have gazedTogether on the midnight map of heaven,And marked the gems in Cassiopea’s hair—Together have we heard the nightingaleWaste the exuberant music of her throat,And lull the flustering breezes into calm—Together have we emulously sungOf Hyacinthus, Daphne, and the rest,Whose mortal weeds Apollo changed to flowers.Also from him I have derived much aidIn golden ducats, which I fain would payBack with extremest usury, were butMine own convenience equal to my wish.Moreover, of his poems he hath soldTwo full editions of a thousand each,While mine remain neglected on the shelves!Courage, Firmilian! for the hour has comeWhen thou canst know atrocity indeed,By smiting him that was thy dearest friend.And think not that he dies a vulgar death—’Tis poetry demands the sacrifice!Yet not to him be that revealment made.He must not know with what a loving hand—With what fraternal charity of heartI do devote him to the infernal gods!I dare not spare him one particular pang,Nor make the struggle briefer! Hush—he comes.Haverillo,emerging from the staircase.How now, Firmilian!—I am scant of breath;These steps have pumped the ether from my lungs,And made the bead-drops cluster on my brow.A strange, unusual rendezvous is this—An old saint’s pillar, which no human footHath scaled this hundred years!Firmilian.Aye—it is strange!Haverillo.’Faith, sir, the bats considered it as such:They seem to flourish in the column here,And are not over courteous. Ha! I’m weary:I shall sleep sound to-night.Firmilian.Youshallsleep sound!Haverillo.Either there is an echo in the place,Or your voice is sepulchral.Firmilian.Seems it so?Haverillo.Come, come, Firmilian—Be once more a man!Leave off these childish tricks, and vapours bredOut of a too much pampered fantasy.What are we, after all, but mortal men,Who eat, drink, sleep, need raiment and the like,As well as any jolterhead alive?Trust me, my friend, we cannot feed on dreams,Or stay the hungry cravings of the mawBy mere poetic banquets.Firmilian.Say you so?Yet have I heard that by some alchemy(To me unknown as yet) you have transmutedYour verses to fine gold.Haverillo.And all that goldWas lent to you, Firmilian.Firmilian.You expect,Doubtless, I will repay you?Haverillo.So I do.You told me yesterday to meet you here,And you would pay me back with interest.Here is the note.Firmilian.A moment.—Do you seeYon melon-vender’s stall down i’ the square?Methinks the fruit that, close beside the eye,Would show as largely as a giant’s head,Is dwindled to a heap of gooseberries!If Justice held no bigger scales than thoseYon pigmy seems to balance in his hands,Her utmost fiat scarce would weigh a drachm!How say you?Haverillo.Nothing—’tis a fearful height!My brain turns dizzy as I gaze below,And there’s a strange sensation in my soles.Firmilian.Ay—feel you that? Ixion felt the sameEre he was whirled from heaven!Haverillo.Firmilian!You carry this too far. Farewell. We’ll meetWhen you’re in better humour.Firmilian.Tarry, sir!I have you here, and thus we shall not part.I know your meaning well. For that same dross,That paltry ore of Mammon’s mean deviceWhich I, to honour you, stooped to receive,You’d set the Alguazils on my heels!What! have I read your thought? Nay, never shrink,Nor edge towards the doorway! You’re a scholar!How was’t with Phaeton?Haverillo.Alas! he’s mad.Hear me, Firmilian! Here is the receipt—Take it—I grudge it not! If ten times more,It were at your sweet service.Firmilian.Would you doThis kindness unto me?Haverillo.Most willingly.Firmilian.Liar and slave! There’s falsehood in thine eye!I read as clearly there, as in a book,That, if I did allow you to escape,In fifteen minutes you would seek the judge.Therefore, prepare thee, for thou needs must die!Haverillo.Madman—stand off!Firmilian.There’s but four feet of spaceTo spare between us. I’m not hasty, I!Swans sing before their death, and it may beThat dying poets feel that impulse too:Then, prythee, be canorous. You may singOne of those ditties which have won you gold,And my meek audience of the vapid strainShall count with Phœbus as a full dischargeFor all your ducats. Will you not begin?Haverillo.Leave off this horrid jest, Firmilian!Firmilian.Jest! ’Tis no jest! This pillar’s very high—Shout, and no one can hear you from the square—Wilt sing, I say?Haverillo.Listen, Firmilian!I have a third edition in the press,Whereof the proceeds shall be wholly thine—Spare me!Firmilian.A third edition! Atropos—Forgive me that I tarried!Haverillo.Mercy!—Ah!—

Firmilian.

’Twas a grand spectacle! The solid earthSeemed from its quaking entrails to eructThe gathered lava of a thousand years,Like an imposthume bursting up from hell!In a red robe of flame, the riven towers,Pillars and altar, organ-loft and screen,With a singed swarm of mortals intermixed,Were whirled in anguish to the shuddering stars,And all creation trembled at the din.It was my doing—mine alone! and IStand greater by this deed than the vain foolThat thrust his torch beneath Diana’s shrine.For what was it inspired ErostratusBut a weak vanity to have his nameBlaze out for arson in the catalogue?I have been wiser. No man knows the nameOf me, the pyrotechnist who have givenA new apotheosis to the saintWith lightning blast, and stunning thunder knell!

’Twas a grand spectacle! The solid earth

Seemed from its quaking entrails to eruct

The gathered lava of a thousand years,

Like an imposthume bursting up from hell!

In a red robe of flame, the riven towers,

Pillars and altar, organ-loft and screen,

With a singed swarm of mortals intermixed,

Were whirled in anguish to the shuddering stars,

And all creation trembled at the din.

It was my doing—mine alone! and I

Stand greater by this deed than the vain fool

That thrust his torch beneath Diana’s shrine.

For what was it inspired Erostratus

But a weak vanity to have his name

Blaze out for arson in the catalogue?

I have been wiser. No man knows the name

Of me, the pyrotechnist who have given

A new apotheosis to the saint

With lightning blast, and stunning thunder knell!

And yet—and yet—what boots the sacrifice?I thought to take remorse unto my heart,As the young Spartan hid the savage foxBeneath the foldings of his boyish gown,And let it rive his flesh. Mine is not riven—My heart is yet unscarred. I’ve been too coarseAnd general in this business. Had there beenAmongst that multitude a single manWho loved me, cherished me—to whom I owedSweet reciprocity for holy almsAnd gifts of gentle import—had there beenFriend,—father,—brother, mingled in that crowd,And I had slain him—then indeed my soulMight have acquired fruition of its wish,And shrieked delirious at the taste of sin!But these—what were the victims unto me?Nothing! Mere human atoms, breathing clods,Uninspired dullards, unpoetic slaves,The rag, and tag, and bobtail of mankind;Whom, having scorched to cinders, I no moreFeel ruth for what I did, than if my handHad thrust a stick of sulphur in the nestOf some poor hive of droning humble-bees,And smoked them into silence!I must haveA more potential draught of guilt than this,With more of wormwood in it!Here I sit,Perched like a raven on old Simeon’s shaft,With barely needful footing for my limbs—And one is climbing up the inward coil,Who was my friend and brother. We have gazedTogether on the midnight map of heaven,And marked the gems in Cassiopea’s hair—Together have we heard the nightingaleWaste the exuberant music of her throat,And lull the flustering breezes into calm—Together have we emulously sungOf Hyacinthus, Daphne, and the rest,Whose mortal weeds Apollo changed to flowers.Also from him I have derived much aidIn golden ducats, which I fain would payBack with extremest usury, were butMine own convenience equal to my wish.Moreover, of his poems he hath soldTwo full editions of a thousand each,While mine remain neglected on the shelves!Courage, Firmilian! for the hour has comeWhen thou canst know atrocity indeed,By smiting him that was thy dearest friend.And think not that he dies a vulgar death—’Tis poetry demands the sacrifice!Yet not to him be that revealment made.He must not know with what a loving hand—With what fraternal charity of heartI do devote him to the infernal gods!I dare not spare him one particular pang,Nor make the struggle briefer! Hush—he comes.

And yet—and yet—what boots the sacrifice?

I thought to take remorse unto my heart,

As the young Spartan hid the savage fox

Beneath the foldings of his boyish gown,

And let it rive his flesh. Mine is not riven—

My heart is yet unscarred. I’ve been too coarse

And general in this business. Had there been

Amongst that multitude a single man

Who loved me, cherished me—to whom I owed

Sweet reciprocity for holy alms

And gifts of gentle import—had there been

Friend,—father,—brother, mingled in that crowd,

And I had slain him—then indeed my soul

Might have acquired fruition of its wish,

And shrieked delirious at the taste of sin!

But these—what were the victims unto me?

Nothing! Mere human atoms, breathing clods,

Uninspired dullards, unpoetic slaves,

The rag, and tag, and bobtail of mankind;

Whom, having scorched to cinders, I no more

Feel ruth for what I did, than if my hand

Had thrust a stick of sulphur in the nest

Of some poor hive of droning humble-bees,

And smoked them into silence!

I must have

A more potential draught of guilt than this,

With more of wormwood in it!

Here I sit,

Perched like a raven on old Simeon’s shaft,

With barely needful footing for my limbs—

And one is climbing up the inward coil,

Who was my friend and brother. We have gazed

Together on the midnight map of heaven,

And marked the gems in Cassiopea’s hair—

Together have we heard the nightingale

Waste the exuberant music of her throat,

And lull the flustering breezes into calm—

Together have we emulously sung

Of Hyacinthus, Daphne, and the rest,

Whose mortal weeds Apollo changed to flowers.

Also from him I have derived much aid

In golden ducats, which I fain would pay

Back with extremest usury, were but

Mine own convenience equal to my wish.

Moreover, of his poems he hath sold

Two full editions of a thousand each,

While mine remain neglected on the shelves!

Courage, Firmilian! for the hour has come

When thou canst know atrocity indeed,

By smiting him that was thy dearest friend.

And think not that he dies a vulgar death—

’Tis poetry demands the sacrifice!

Yet not to him be that revealment made.

He must not know with what a loving hand—

With what fraternal charity of heart

I do devote him to the infernal gods!

I dare not spare him one particular pang,

Nor make the struggle briefer! Hush—he comes.

Haverillo,emerging from the staircase.

How now, Firmilian!—I am scant of breath;These steps have pumped the ether from my lungs,And made the bead-drops cluster on my brow.A strange, unusual rendezvous is this—An old saint’s pillar, which no human footHath scaled this hundred years!

How now, Firmilian!—I am scant of breath;

These steps have pumped the ether from my lungs,

And made the bead-drops cluster on my brow.

A strange, unusual rendezvous is this—

An old saint’s pillar, which no human foot

Hath scaled this hundred years!

Firmilian.

Aye—it is strange!

Haverillo.

’Faith, sir, the bats considered it as such:They seem to flourish in the column here,And are not over courteous. Ha! I’m weary:I shall sleep sound to-night.

’Faith, sir, the bats considered it as such:

They seem to flourish in the column here,

And are not over courteous. Ha! I’m weary:

I shall sleep sound to-night.

Firmilian.

Youshallsleep sound!

Haverillo.

Either there is an echo in the place,Or your voice is sepulchral.

Either there is an echo in the place,

Or your voice is sepulchral.

Firmilian.

Seems it so?

Haverillo.

Come, come, Firmilian—Be once more a man!Leave off these childish tricks, and vapours bredOut of a too much pampered fantasy.What are we, after all, but mortal men,Who eat, drink, sleep, need raiment and the like,As well as any jolterhead alive?Trust me, my friend, we cannot feed on dreams,Or stay the hungry cravings of the mawBy mere poetic banquets.

Come, come, Firmilian—Be once more a man!

Leave off these childish tricks, and vapours bred

Out of a too much pampered fantasy.

What are we, after all, but mortal men,

Who eat, drink, sleep, need raiment and the like,

As well as any jolterhead alive?

Trust me, my friend, we cannot feed on dreams,

Or stay the hungry cravings of the maw

By mere poetic banquets.

Firmilian.

Say you so?Yet have I heard that by some alchemy(To me unknown as yet) you have transmutedYour verses to fine gold.

Say you so?

Yet have I heard that by some alchemy

(To me unknown as yet) you have transmuted

Your verses to fine gold.

Haverillo.

And all that goldWas lent to you, Firmilian.

And all that gold

Was lent to you, Firmilian.

Firmilian.

You expect,Doubtless, I will repay you?

You expect,

Doubtless, I will repay you?

Haverillo.

So I do.You told me yesterday to meet you here,And you would pay me back with interest.Here is the note.

So I do.

You told me yesterday to meet you here,

And you would pay me back with interest.

Here is the note.

Firmilian.

A moment.—Do you seeYon melon-vender’s stall down i’ the square?Methinks the fruit that, close beside the eye,Would show as largely as a giant’s head,Is dwindled to a heap of gooseberries!If Justice held no bigger scales than thoseYon pigmy seems to balance in his hands,Her utmost fiat scarce would weigh a drachm!How say you?

A moment.—Do you see

Yon melon-vender’s stall down i’ the square?

Methinks the fruit that, close beside the eye,

Would show as largely as a giant’s head,

Is dwindled to a heap of gooseberries!

If Justice held no bigger scales than those

Yon pigmy seems to balance in his hands,

Her utmost fiat scarce would weigh a drachm!

How say you?

Haverillo.

Nothing—’tis a fearful height!My brain turns dizzy as I gaze below,And there’s a strange sensation in my soles.

Nothing—’tis a fearful height!

My brain turns dizzy as I gaze below,

And there’s a strange sensation in my soles.

Firmilian.

Ay—feel you that? Ixion felt the sameEre he was whirled from heaven!

Ay—feel you that? Ixion felt the same

Ere he was whirled from heaven!

Haverillo.

Firmilian!You carry this too far. Farewell. We’ll meetWhen you’re in better humour.

Firmilian!

You carry this too far. Farewell. We’ll meet

When you’re in better humour.

Firmilian.

Tarry, sir!I have you here, and thus we shall not part.I know your meaning well. For that same dross,That paltry ore of Mammon’s mean deviceWhich I, to honour you, stooped to receive,You’d set the Alguazils on my heels!What! have I read your thought? Nay, never shrink,Nor edge towards the doorway! You’re a scholar!How was’t with Phaeton?

Tarry, sir!

I have you here, and thus we shall not part.

I know your meaning well. For that same dross,

That paltry ore of Mammon’s mean device

Which I, to honour you, stooped to receive,

You’d set the Alguazils on my heels!

What! have I read your thought? Nay, never shrink,

Nor edge towards the doorway! You’re a scholar!

How was’t with Phaeton?

Haverillo.

Alas! he’s mad.Hear me, Firmilian! Here is the receipt—Take it—I grudge it not! If ten times more,It were at your sweet service.

Alas! he’s mad.

Hear me, Firmilian! Here is the receipt—

Take it—I grudge it not! If ten times more,

It were at your sweet service.

Firmilian.

Would you doThis kindness unto me?

Would you do

This kindness unto me?

Haverillo.

Most willingly.

Firmilian.

Liar and slave! There’s falsehood in thine eye!I read as clearly there, as in a book,That, if I did allow you to escape,In fifteen minutes you would seek the judge.Therefore, prepare thee, for thou needs must die!

Liar and slave! There’s falsehood in thine eye!

I read as clearly there, as in a book,

That, if I did allow you to escape,

In fifteen minutes you would seek the judge.

Therefore, prepare thee, for thou needs must die!

Haverillo.

Madman—stand off!

Firmilian.

There’s but four feet of spaceTo spare between us. I’m not hasty, I!Swans sing before their death, and it may beThat dying poets feel that impulse too:Then, prythee, be canorous. You may singOne of those ditties which have won you gold,And my meek audience of the vapid strainShall count with Phœbus as a full dischargeFor all your ducats. Will you not begin?

There’s but four feet of space

To spare between us. I’m not hasty, I!

Swans sing before their death, and it may be

That dying poets feel that impulse too:

Then, prythee, be canorous. You may sing

One of those ditties which have won you gold,

And my meek audience of the vapid strain

Shall count with Phœbus as a full discharge

For all your ducats. Will you not begin?

Haverillo.

Leave off this horrid jest, Firmilian!

Firmilian.

Jest! ’Tis no jest! This pillar’s very high—Shout, and no one can hear you from the square—Wilt sing, I say?

Jest! ’Tis no jest! This pillar’s very high—

Shout, and no one can hear you from the square—

Wilt sing, I say?

Haverillo.

Listen, Firmilian!I have a third edition in the press,Whereof the proceeds shall be wholly thine—Spare me!

Listen, Firmilian!

I have a third edition in the press,

Whereof the proceeds shall be wholly thine—

Spare me!

Firmilian.

A third edition! Atropos—Forgive me that I tarried!

A third edition! Atropos—

Forgive me that I tarried!

Haverillo.

Mercy!—Ah!—

[Firmilianhurls him from the column.

There is a grand recklessness and savage energy displayed in this scene, which greatly increases our admiration of the author’s abilities. He seems, indeed, in the fair way of making the spasmodic school famous in modern literature. With the death of Haverillo an ordinary writer would have paused—not so Percy Jones, who, with a fine aptitude for destruction, makes his hero, Firmilian, kill two birds with one stone. The manner in which he accomplishes this feat is most ingenious. He maintains the unity of the design by a very slight alteration of the locality. Whilst the two poets are ominously conversing on the summit of the pillar, a critic, affected by an intolerable itch for notoriety, is prowling in the square beneath—

EnterApollodorus,a Critic.Why do men call me a presumptuous cur,A vapouring blockhead, and a turgid fool,A common nuisance, and a charlatan?I’ve dashed into the sea of metaphorWith as strong paddles as the sturdiest shipThat churns Medusæ into liquid light,And hashed at every object in my way.My ends are public. I have talked of menAs my familiars, whom I never saw.Nay—more to raise my credit—I have pennedEpistles to the great ones of the land,When some attack might make them slightly sore,Assuring them, in faith, it was not I.What was their answer? Marry—shortly this:“Who, in the name of Zernebock, are you?”I have reviewed myself incessantly—Yea, made a contract with a kindred soulFor mutual interchange of puffery.Gods—how we blew each other! But, ’tis past—Those halcyon days are gone; and, I suspect,That, in some fit of loathing or disgust,Mine ancient playmate hath deserted me.And yet I am Apollodorus still!I search for genius, having it myself,With keen and earnest longings. I surviveTo disentangle, from the imping wingsOf our young poets, their crustaceous slough.I watch them, as the watcher on the brookSees the young salmon wrestling from its egg,And revels in its future bright career.Ha! what seraphic melody is this?EnterSancho,a Costermonger, singing.Down in the garden behind the wall,Merrily grows the bright-green leek;The old sow grunts as the acorns fall,The winds blow heavy, the little pigs squeak.One for the litter, and three for the teat—Hark to their music, Juanna my sweet!Apollodorus.Now, heaven be thanked! here is a genuine bard,A creature of high impulse, one unsoiledBy coarse conventionalities of rule.He labours not to sing, for his bright thoughtsResolve themselves at once into a strainWithout the aid of balanced artifice.All hail, great poet!Sancho.

EnterApollodorus,a Critic.

Why do men call me a presumptuous cur,A vapouring blockhead, and a turgid fool,A common nuisance, and a charlatan?I’ve dashed into the sea of metaphorWith as strong paddles as the sturdiest shipThat churns Medusæ into liquid light,And hashed at every object in my way.My ends are public. I have talked of menAs my familiars, whom I never saw.Nay—more to raise my credit—I have pennedEpistles to the great ones of the land,When some attack might make them slightly sore,Assuring them, in faith, it was not I.What was their answer? Marry—shortly this:“Who, in the name of Zernebock, are you?”I have reviewed myself incessantly—Yea, made a contract with a kindred soulFor mutual interchange of puffery.Gods—how we blew each other! But, ’tis past—Those halcyon days are gone; and, I suspect,That, in some fit of loathing or disgust,Mine ancient playmate hath deserted me.And yet I am Apollodorus still!I search for genius, having it myself,With keen and earnest longings. I surviveTo disentangle, from the imping wingsOf our young poets, their crustaceous slough.I watch them, as the watcher on the brookSees the young salmon wrestling from its egg,And revels in its future bright career.Ha! what seraphic melody is this?

Why do men call me a presumptuous cur,

A vapouring blockhead, and a turgid fool,

A common nuisance, and a charlatan?

I’ve dashed into the sea of metaphor

With as strong paddles as the sturdiest ship

That churns Medusæ into liquid light,

And hashed at every object in my way.

My ends are public. I have talked of men

As my familiars, whom I never saw.

Nay—more to raise my credit—I have penned

Epistles to the great ones of the land,

When some attack might make them slightly sore,

Assuring them, in faith, it was not I.

What was their answer? Marry—shortly this:

“Who, in the name of Zernebock, are you?”

I have reviewed myself incessantly—

Yea, made a contract with a kindred soul

For mutual interchange of puffery.

Gods—how we blew each other! But, ’tis past—

Those halcyon days are gone; and, I suspect,

That, in some fit of loathing or disgust,

Mine ancient playmate hath deserted me.

And yet I am Apollodorus still!

I search for genius, having it myself,

With keen and earnest longings. I survive

To disentangle, from the imping wings

Of our young poets, their crustaceous slough.

I watch them, as the watcher on the brook

Sees the young salmon wrestling from its egg,

And revels in its future bright career.

Ha! what seraphic melody is this?

EnterSancho,a Costermonger, singing.

Down in the garden behind the wall,Merrily grows the bright-green leek;The old sow grunts as the acorns fall,The winds blow heavy, the little pigs squeak.One for the litter, and three for the teat—Hark to their music, Juanna my sweet!

Down in the garden behind the wall,

Merrily grows the bright-green leek;

The old sow grunts as the acorns fall,

The winds blow heavy, the little pigs squeak.

One for the litter, and three for the teat—

Hark to their music, Juanna my sweet!

Apollodorus.

Now, heaven be thanked! here is a genuine bard,A creature of high impulse, one unsoiledBy coarse conventionalities of rule.He labours not to sing, for his bright thoughtsResolve themselves at once into a strainWithout the aid of balanced artifice.All hail, great poet!

Now, heaven be thanked! here is a genuine bard,

A creature of high impulse, one unsoiled

By coarse conventionalities of rule.

He labours not to sing, for his bright thoughts

Resolve themselves at once into a strain

Without the aid of balanced artifice.

All hail, great poet!

Sancho.

Save you, my merry master! Need you any leeks or onions? Here’s the primest cauliflower, though I say it, in all Badajoz. Set it up at a distance of some ten yards, and I’ll forfeit my ass if it does not look bigger than the Alcayde’s wig. Or would these radishes suit your turn? There’s nothing like your radish for cooling the blood and purging distempered humours.

Apollodorus.I do admire thy vegetables much,But will not buy them. Pray you, pardon meFor one short word of friendly obloquy.Is’t possible a being so endowedWith music, song, and sun-aspiring thoughts,Can stoop to chaffer idly in the streets,And, for a huckster’s miserable gain,Renounce the urgings of his destiny?Why, man, thine ass should be a Pegasus,A sun-reared charger snorting at the stars,And scattering all the Pleiads at his heels—Thy cart should be an orient-tinted car,Such as Aurora drives into the day,What time the rosy-fingered Hours awake—Thy reins—Sancho.

Apollodorus.

I do admire thy vegetables much,But will not buy them. Pray you, pardon meFor one short word of friendly obloquy.Is’t possible a being so endowedWith music, song, and sun-aspiring thoughts,Can stoop to chaffer idly in the streets,And, for a huckster’s miserable gain,Renounce the urgings of his destiny?Why, man, thine ass should be a Pegasus,A sun-reared charger snorting at the stars,And scattering all the Pleiads at his heels—Thy cart should be an orient-tinted car,Such as Aurora drives into the day,What time the rosy-fingered Hours awake—Thy reins—

I do admire thy vegetables much,

But will not buy them. Pray you, pardon me

For one short word of friendly obloquy.

Is’t possible a being so endowed

With music, song, and sun-aspiring thoughts,

Can stoop to chaffer idly in the streets,

And, for a huckster’s miserable gain,

Renounce the urgings of his destiny?

Why, man, thine ass should be a Pegasus,

A sun-reared charger snorting at the stars,

And scattering all the Pleiads at his heels—

Thy cart should be an orient-tinted car,

Such as Aurora drives into the day,

What time the rosy-fingered Hours awake—

Thy reins—

Sancho.

Lookye, master, I’ve dusted a better jacket than yours before now, so you had best keep a civil tongue in your head. Once for all, will you buy my radishes?

Back to Index Next