"Pocula si quando sævae infecêre novercæ,Miscueruntque herbas et non irmoxia verba,Auxilium venit, ac membris agit atra venena."
It is related of a certain magician, that, when he whispered in the ear of a bull, he could prostrate him to the earth as if he were dead; [Footnote: Vairus,De Fascino. p. 24.] and in our own time we have had an example of the same wonderful faculty in Sullivan, the famous horse-whisperer, whose secret died with him, or, at least, never was made public. Pliny also relates, that tigers are rendered so furious by the sound of the drum, that they often end by tearing themselves limb from limb in their rage; but I am afraid this is one of Pliny's stories. Plutarch, however, agrees with him in this belief.[Footnote: Plut.Præcepta Conjugialia.]
And next as to the Evil Eye ([Greek: ophthalmos baskanos]). From the earliest ages of the world, the potency of the eye in fascination has been recognized. "Nihil oculo nequius creatum" says the Preacher; and the philosopher calls it alter animus, "another spirit." "It sends forth its rays," says Vairus, "like spears and arrows, to charm the hearts of men": "veluti jacula et sagittæ ad effascinandorum corda." And it carries disease and death, as well as love and delight, in its course: "Totumque corpus inficiunt, atque ita (nullâ interpositâ morâ) arbores, segetes, bruta animalia et homines perniciosâ qualitate inficiunt et ad interitum deducunt." Vairus relates that a friend of his saw a fascinator simply with a look break in two a precious gem while in the hands of the artist who was working upon it. Horace thua alludes to it:—
"Non isthic obliquo oculo mea commoda quisquamLimat; non odio obscuro morsuque venenat."
Among the diseases given by a glance are ophthalmia and jaundice, say the ancients; and in these cases, the fascinator loses the disease as his victim takes it A similar peculiarity is to be remarked in the superstition of the basilisk, who kills, if he sees first, but when he is seen first, dies. No animals, it is said, can bear the steady gaze of man, and there are some persons who by this means seem to exercise a wonderful power over them. Animals, however, have sometimes their revenge on man. It is an old superstition, that he whom the wolf sees first loses his voice. Among themselves, also, they use this power of charming,—as in the case of the serpent, who thus attracts the bird, and of the toad, the "jewels in whose head" have a like magical influence. Dr. Andrew Smith, in his excellent work on "Reptilia," gives the following interesting account of the power of the serpent, and of other animals, to fascinate their prey. Speaking of theBucephalus Capetisis, he says,—
"It is generally found upon trees, to which it resorts for the purpose of catching birds, on which it delights to feed. The presence of a specimen in a tree is generally soon discovered by the birds of the neighborhood, who collect round it and fly to and fro, uttering the most piercing cries, until some one, more terror-struck than the rest, actually scans its lips, and, almost without resistance, becomes a meal for its enemy. During such a proceeding, the snake is generally observed with its head raised about ten or twelve inches above the branch round which its body and tail are entwined, with its mouth open and its neck inflated, as if anxiously endeavoring to increase the terror, which it would almost appear it was aware would sooner or later bring within its grasp some one of the feathered group.
"Whatever may be said in ridicule of fascination, it is nevertheless true that birds, and even quadrupeds, are, under certain circumstances, unable to retire from the presence of certain of their enemies, and, what is even more extraordinary, unable to resist the propensity to advance from a situation of actual safety into one of the most imminent danger. This I have often seen exemplified in the case of birds and snakes; and I have heard of instances equally curious, in which antelopes and other quadrupeds have been so bewildered by the sudden appearance of crocodiles, and by the grimaces and distortions they practised, as to be unable to fly or even move from the spot towards which they were approaching to seize them."
The fascination which fire and flame exercise upon certain insects is well known, and the beautiful moths which so painfully insist on sacrificing themselves in our candle are the commonplaces of poets and lovers. They are generally supposed to be attracted by the light and ignorantly to rush to their destruction; but this simple explanation does not fully account for all the facts. Dr. Livingstone says, that "fire exercises a fascinating effect upon some kinds of toads. They may be seen rushing into it in the evenings, without even starting back on feeling pain. Contact with the hot embers rather increases the energy with which they strive to gain the hottest parts, and they never cease their struggles for the centre even when their juices are coagulating and their limbs stiffening in the roasting heat. Various insects also are thus fascinated; but the scorpions may be seen coming away from the fire in fierce disgust, and they are so irritated as to inflict at that time their most painful stings."
May it not be that flame exercises upon certain insects and animals an influence similar to that produced upon man by the moon, rendering them mad when subjected too long to its influence? Is not the moon the Evil Eye of the night?
A curious story, bearing upon this subject, is told in one of a series of interesting articles in "Household Words," called "Wanderings in India." The author is talking with an old soldier about a cobra-capello, which has been known to the latter for thirteen years.
"This cobra," says the soldier, "has never offered to do me any harm; and when I sing, as I sometimes do when I am alone here at work on some tomb or other, he will crawl up and listen for two or three hours together. One morning, while he was listening, he came in for a good meal, which lasted him some days."
"How was that?"
"I will tell you, Sir. A minar was chased by a small hawk, and, in despair, came and perched itself on the top of a most lofty tomb at which I was at work. The hawk, with his eyes fixed intently on his prey, did not, I fancy, see the snake lying motionless in the grass; or, if he did see him, he did not think he was a snake, but something else,—my crowbar, perhaps. After a little while, the hawk pounced down, and was just about to give the minar a blow and a grip, when the snake suddenly lifted his head, raised his hood, and hissed. The hawk gave a shriek, fluttered, flapped his wings with all his might, and tried very hard to fly away. But it would not do. Strong as the eye of the hawk was, the eye of the snake was stronger. The hawk, for a time, seemed suspended in the air; but at last he was obliged to come down and sit opposite the old gentleman, (the snake,) who commenced with his forked tongue, and keeping his eyes on him all the while, to slime his victim all over. This occupied him for at least forty minutes, and by the time the process was over the hawk was perfectly motionless. I don't think he was dead,—but he was very soon, however, for the old gentleman put him into a coil or two and crackled up every bone in the hawk's body. He then gave him another sliming, made a big mouth, distended his neck till it was as big round as the thickest part of my arm, and down went the hawk like a shin of beef into a beggar-man's bag." [Footnote:Household Words, Jan. 23, 1858, vol. xvii., P. 139.]
The same writer, in another paper, relates a case in which he was cured of a violent attack oftic-douloureux, from which he "suffered extreme agonies," by the steady gaze of a native doctor, who was called in for the purpose. He used no other method than a fixed, steady gaze, making no mesmeric passes; and in this way he cured his patients by "locking up their eyes," as he termed it. His power seemed to have been very great; and what is curious is, that, "with one exception, and that was in the case of a Keranu, a half-caste, no patient had ever fallen asleep or had become 'beehosh' (unconscious) under his gaze." He related several cases, one of which was of "a sahib who had gone mad," drink-delirious. "His wife would not suffer him to be strapped down, and he was so violent that it took four or five other sahibs to hold him. I was sent for, and at first had great difficulty with him, and much trembling. At last, however, I locked his eyes up as soon as I got him to look at me, and kept him, for several hours, as quiet as a mouse. I stayed with him two days, and whatever I told him to do he did immediately. When I got his eyes fixed on mine, he could not take them away,—could not move."
All these different kinds of fascination have now become united together and go under the general name ofJettatura, in Italy, though the eye is considered as the most potent and terrible charmer. The superstition is universal, and pervades all modes of thought among the ignorant classes, but its sanctuary is Naples. There it is as much a matter of faith as the Madonna and San Gennaro. Every coral-shop is filled with amulets, and everybody wears a counter-charm,—ladies on their arms, gentlemen on their watch-chains, lazzaroni on their necks. If you are going to Italy,—and as all the world now goes to Italy, you will join the endless caravan, of course,—it becomes a matter of no small importance for you to know the signs by which you may recognize the fascinator, and the means by which you may avert his evil influence; for, should you fall in his way and be unprotected, direful, indeed, might be the consequences. Sudden disease, like a pestilence at mid-day, might seize you, and on those lovely shores you might pine away and die. Dreadful accidents might overwhelm you and bury all your happiness forever. Therefore be wise in time.
"Women," says Vairus, "have more power to fascinate than men"; but the reason he gives will not, I fear, recommend itself to the sex,—for the worthypadrefeared women as devils. According to him, their evil influence results from their unbridled passions: "Quia irascendi et concupiscendi animi vim adeo effrenatam habent, ut nullo modo ab irâ et cupiditate sese temperare valeant." (Certainly, heisa wretch.) But it will be some consolation to know that the young and beautiful have far less power for evil than "little old women," (aniculas,) and for these you must specially look out. But most of all to be dreaded, male or female, are those who are lean and melancholy by temperament, ("lean and hungry Cassiuses,") and who have double pupils in their eyes, or in one eye a double pupil and in the other the figure of a horse. Perhaps Mr. Squeers and all of his kind come within this class, as having more than one pupil always in their eye,—but, specially, this rule would seem to warn us against jockey schoolmasters, with a horse in one eye and several pupils in the other. Those, too, are dangerous, according to Didymus, who have hollow, pit-like eyes, sunken under concave orbits, with great projecting eyebrows,—as well as those who emit a disagreeable odor from their armpits, (con rispetto,) and are remarkable for a general squalor of complexion and appearance. Persons also are greatly to be suspected who squint, or have sea-green, shining, terrible eyes. "One of these," says Didymus, "I knew,—a certain Spaniard, whose name it is not permitted me to mention,—who, with black and angry countenance and truculent eyes, having reprimanded his servant for something or other, the latter was so overcome by fear and terror, that he was not only affected with fascination, but even deprived of his reason, and a melancholic humor attacking his whole body, he became utterly insane, and, in the very house of his master, next the Church of St. James, committed suicide, by hanging himself with a rope." [Footnote: The passage from Didymus is this: "Macilenti et melancholici, qui binas pupillas in oculis habent, aut in uno oculo geminam pupillam, in altero effigiem equi,—quique oculos concavos ac veluti quibusdam quasi foveis reconditos gerunt, exhaustoque adeo universo humore ut ossa,—quibus palpebræ coherent, eminere, hirquique sordibus scatere cernuntur,—quibus in tota cute quæ faciem obducit squallor et situs immoderatus conspicitur, facillime fascinant. Strabones, glaucos, micantes et terribiles oculos habentes quæcumque et iratis oculis aspiciunt fascino inficiunt. Etegohisce oculis Romæ quondam Hispanum genere vidi, quem nominare non licet, qui cum truculentis oculis tetro et irato vultu servum ob nescio quod objurgâsset, adeo servus ille timore ac terrore perterritus fuit, ut non modo fascino affectus, sed rationis usu privatus fuerit, et melancholico humore totum ejus corpus invadente, ita ad insaniam redactus fuit, ut in domo sui heri prope ecclesiam Divi Jacobi sibi mortem consciverit et laqueo vitam finiverit."]
Moral.—If you ever meet with such an agreeable person as this Spaniard appears to have been,—look out!
In this connection, the reader will recall the similar power of Vathek, in Beckford's romance, who killed with his eye,—and the story of Racine, whom a look of Louis XIV. sent to his grave.
The famous Albertus Magnus, master of medicine and magic, devotes a long chapter to the subject of eyes, giving us, at length, descriptions of those which we may trust and those which we must fear, some of them terrible and vigorous enough. From among them I select the following:—"Those who have hollow eyes are noted for evil; and the larger and moister they are, the more they indicate envy. The same eyes, when dry, show the possessors to be faithless, traitorous, and sacrilegious; and if these eyes are also yellow and cold, they argue insanity. For hollow eyes are the sign of craft and malignity; and if they are wanting in darkness, they also show foolishness. But if the eyes are too hollow, and of medium size, dry and rigid,—if, besides this, they have broad, overhanging eyebrows, and livid and pallid circles round them, they indicate impudence and malignity." [Footnote: Albertus Magnus,De Animâ.] If this be not enough to enable you, O my reader, to recognise the Evil Eye at sight, let me refer you to the whole chapter, where you will find ample and very curious rules laid down, showing a singular acuteness of observation.
Things have, indeed, somewhat changed since the days of Didymus, in this respect, that men are now thought to be more potent for eviljettaturathan women; but his general views still coincide with those entertained at the present time in Italy. Ever since the establishment, or rather decadence, of the Church in the Middle Ages, monks have been considered as peculiarly open to suspicion of possessing the Evil Eye. As long ago as the ninth century, in the year 842, Erchempert, afrateof the celebrated convent of Monte Cassino, writes,—"I knew formerly Messer Landulf, Bishop of Capua, a man of singular prudence, who was wont to say, 'Whenever I meet a monk, something unlucky always happens to me during the day.'" And to this day, there are many persons, who, if they meet a monk or priest, on first going out in the morning, will not proceed upon their errand or business until they have returned to their house and waited awhile. In Rome there are certain persons who are noted for this evil power, and marked and avoided in consequence. One of them is a most pleasant and handsome man, attached to the Church, and yet, by odd coincidence, wherever he goes, he carries ill-luck. If he go to a party, the ices do not arrive, the music is late, the lamps go out, a storm comes on, the waiter smashes his tray of refreshments,—something or other is sure to happen. "Sentite," said some one the other day to me. "Yesterday, I was looking out of my window, when I saw —— coming along. 'Phew!' said I, making the sign of the cross and pointing both fingers, 'what ill-luck will happen now to some poor devil that does not see him?' I watched him all down the street, however, and nothing occurred; but this morning I hear, that, after turning the corner, he spoke to a poor little boy, who was up in a tree gathering some fruit, and no sooner was out of sight than smash! down fell the boy and broke his arm." Even the Pope himself has the reputation of possessing the Evil Eye to some extent. Ask a Roman how this is, and he will answer, as one did to me the other day,—"Si dice, e per me veramente mi pare di sì": "They say so; and as for me, really it seems to me true. If he have not thejettatura, it is very odd that everything he blesses makesfiasco. We all did very well in the campaign of '48 against the Austrians. We were winning battle after battle, and all was gayety and hope, when suddenly he blesses the cause, and everything goes to the Devil at once. Nothing succeeds with anybody or anything when he wishes well to them. See, here the other day he went to Santa Agnese to have a great festival, and down goes the floor, and the people are all smashed together. Then he visits the column to the Madonna in the Piazza di Spagna, and blesses it and the workmen, and of course one falls from the scaffolding the same day and kills himself. A week or two ago he arranged to meet the King of Naples at Porto d'Anzo, and up comes a violent storm and gale that lasts a week; then another arrangement was made, and then the fracas about the ex-queen of Spain. Then, again, here was Lord O——- came in the other day from Albano, being rather unwell; so the Pope sends him his special blessing, when pop! he dies right off in a twinkling. There is nothing so fatal as his blessing. We were a great deal better off under Gregory, before he blessed us. Now, if he hasn't thejettatura, what is it that makes everything turn out at cross purposes with him? For my part, I don't wonder the workmen at the Column refused to work the other day in raising it, unless the Pope stayed away."
No less a person than Rachel seems also to have been affected with this same superstition in regard to the Pope, if we may place confidence in the strange story which Madame de B——- relates in her memoirs of that celebrated daughter of Israel. According to her account, Rachel had been on a visit to her sister, who was quite ill in the Pyrenees, when one day the disease appeared to take so favorable a turn that Rachel left her to visit another sister. There she met several friends, and, (to continue the story in Madame de B——-'s words,) "exhilarated by the good news she had brought, and the hopes all hastened to build on the change, she began to chat and laugh quite merrily. In the midst of this exuberant gayety, her maid broke into the room in a state of great excitement; a fit had come on, the patient was in much danger, the physician desired Mdlle. Rachel's immediate presence. Rising with the bound of a wounded tigress, thetragédienneseemed to seek, bewildered, some cause for the blow that had fallen thus unexpectedly. Her eye lighted on a rosary blessed by the Pope, and which she had worn round her arm as a bracelet ever since her visit to Rome. Without, perhaps, accounting to herself for the belief, she had attached some talismanic virtue to the beads. Now, however, in the height of her rage and disappointment, she tore them from her wrist, and, dashing them to the ground, exclaimed, 'Oh, fatal gift! 'tis thou hast entailed this curse upon me!' With these words, she sprang out of the room, leaving every one in mute astonishment at her frantic action." On the 23d of June, immediately after, the sister died.
And yet the Pope does not at all answer to the accredited portraits of those who have the Evil Eye. He is fat, smiling, and most pleasant of aspect, as he is good in heart. But, certainly, nothing has prospered that he has touched. Read Dumas' description, and see if you should have recognized the Pope as ajettatore. "Le Jettatore," says he, "est ordinairement pâle et maigre. II a un nez en bec de corbin, de gros yeux qui ont quelque chose de ceux de crapaud, et qu'il recouvre ordinairement pour les dissimuler d'une paire de lunettes." But it is the exception that proves the rule, say those who insist on thejettaturaof Pius IX.
Dumas also speaks of a work on thejettatura, which I have vainly endeavored to procure, written by Nicola Valetta; and from what one can gather from the heads of the chapters which Dumas gives, it must be a very amusing book. [Footnote: The title of this work isCicalata sul Fascino, volgarmente detto Jettatura, by Nicola Valetta. It was published more than fifty years since, and copies are now rare.] These heads are as follows. They speak for themselves, and show the fear entertained of a monk. He examines:—
"1. If a man inflicts a more terriblejettaturathan a woman?
"2. If he who wears a peruke is more to be feared than he who wears none?
"3. If he who wears spectacles is not more to be feared than he who wears a peruke?
"4. If he who takes tobacco is not more to be feared than he who wears spectacles? and if spectacles, peruke, and snuff-box combined do not triple the force of thejettatura?
"5. If the womanjettatriceis more to be feared when she isenceinte?
"6. If there is still more to be feared from her when she is certain that she is notenceinte?
"7. If monks are more generallyjettatorithan other men? and among monks what order is most to be feared?
"8. At what distance canjettaturabe made?
"9. Must it be made in front, or at the side, or behind?
"10. If there are really gestures, sounds of voice, and particular looks, by whichjettaturamay be recognized?
"11. If there are prayers which can guaranty us against thejettatura?and if so, whether there are any special prayers to guaranty us against thejettaturaof monks?
"12. Lastly, whether the power of modern talismans is equal to the power of ancient talismans? and whether the single or the double horn is most efficacious?"
Luckless, indeed, is he who has the misfortune to possess, or the reputation of possessing this fatal power. From that time forward the world flees him, as the water did Thalaba. A curse is on him, and from the very terror at seeing him accidents are most likely to follow. Keep him from your children, or they will break their legs, arms, or necks. Look not at him from your carriage, or it will upset. Let him not see your wife when she isenceinte,or she will miscarry, or you will have a monster for a son. Never invite him to a ball, unless you wish to see your chandelier smash, or the floor give way. Invite him not to dinner, or your mushrooms will poison you, and your fish will smell. If he wishes youbuon viaggio, abandon the journey, if you would return alive. Nor be deceived by his good manners and kind heart. It is of no avail that he is amiable and good in all his intentions,—hisjettaturais without and beyond his will,—nay, worse, is contrary to it; for alljettaturagoes like dreams, by contraries. Therefore shudder when he wishes you well, for he can do no worse thing.
If you do not believe what I tell you, read the wonderful story of Count ——- which is told by Dumas in his "Corriccolo," and at least you will be amused, if not convinced. Listen, however, to this one historical incident, and believe it or not, as you please. Ferdinand of Naples died on the night of the 3d of January, 1825, and was found dead in the morning. The physicians attributed his death to a stroke of apoplexy; but that was in consequence of their pretended science and real ignorance. The actual cause of his death was this,—and if you do not believe it, ask any true Neapolitan, or Alexander Dumas, if you put more faith in him.—A certaincanonico,named Don Ojori, had for many years desired an audience of Ferdinand, to present him a certain book, of which Don Ojori was the author. The King had his good reasons for refusing, for Don Ojori was well known to be the greatestjettatorein Naples. Finally, on the 2d of January, the King was persuaded to grant him the desired favor the next day, much against his will. Thecanonicocame, and after a long audience left his book and many prayers for the King's prosperity. But Ferdinand did not survive the interview a whole day; and if this be not proof that Don Ojori bewitched him to his destruction, what is?
* * * * *
Above the petty passions of the crowdI stand in frozen marble like a god,Inviolate, and ancient as the moon.The thing I am, and not the thing Man is,Fills these blank sockets. Let him moan and die;For he is dust that shall be laid again:I know my own creation was divine.Strewn on the breezy continents I seeThe veined shells and glistening scales which onceEnwrapt my being,—husks that had their use;I brood on all the shapes I must attainBefore I reach the Perfect, which is God,And dream my dream, and let the rabble go:For I am of the mountains and the sea,The deserts, and the caverns in the earth,The catacombs and fragments of old worlds.
I was a spirit on the mountain-tops,—A perfume in the valleys,—a simoomOn arid deserts,—a nomadic windRoaming the universe,—a tireless Voice.I was ere Romulus and Remus were;I was ere Nineveh and Babylon;I was, and am, and evermore shall be,—Progressing, never reaching to the end.
A hundred years I trembled in the grass,The delicate trefoil that muffled warmA slope on Ida; for a hundred yearsMoved in the purple gyre of those dark flowersThe Grecian women strew upon the dead.Under the earth, in fragrant glooms, I dwelt;Then in the veins and sinews of a pineOn a lone isle, where, from the Cyclades,A mighty wind, like a leviathan,Ploughed through the brine, and from those solitudesSent Silence, frightened. To and fro I swayed,Drawing the sunshine from the stooping clouds.Suns came and went,—and many a mystic moon,Orbing and waning,—and fierce meteor,Leaving its lurid ghost to haunt the nightI heard loud voices by the sounding shore,The stormy sea-gods,—and from ivory conchsWild music; and strange shadows floated by,Some moaning and some singing. So the yearsClustered about me, till the hand of GodLet down the lightning from a sultry sky,Splintered the pine and split the iron rock;And from my odorous prison-house, a bird,I in its bosom, darted: so we fled,Turning the brittle edge of one high wave,—Island and tree and sea-gods left behind!
Free as the air, from zone to zone I flew,Far from the tumult to the quiet gatesOf daybreak; and beneath me I beheldVineyards, and rivers that like silver threadsRan through the green, and gold of pasture-lands,—And here and there a hamlet, a white rose,—And here and there a city, whose slim spiresAnd palace-roofs and swollen domes uproseLike scintillant stalagmites in the sun;I saw huge navies battling with a stormBy ragged reefs along the desolate coasts,—And lazy merchantmen, that crawled, like flies,Over the blue enamel of the seaTo India or the icy Labradors.
A century was as a single day.What is a day to an immortal soul?A breath,—no more. And yet I hold one hourBeyond all price,—that hour when from the heavensI circled near and nearer to the earth,Nearer and nearer, till I brushed my wingsAgainst the pointed chestnuts, where a streamThat foamed and chattered over pebbly shoalsFled through the bryony, and with a shoutLeaped headlong down a precipice: and there,Gathering wild-flowers in the cool ravine,Wandered a woman more divinely shapedThan any of the creatures of the air,Or river-goddesses, or restless shadesOf noble matrons marvellous in their timeFor beauty and great suffering; and I sung,I charmed her thought, I gave her dreams; and thenDown from the sunny atmosphere I stoleAnd nestled in her bosom. There I sleptFrom moon to moon, while in her eyes a thoughtGrew sweet and sweeter, deepening like the dawn,A mystical forewarning! When the stream,Breaking through leafless brambles and dead leaves,Piped shriller treble, and from chestnut-boughsThe fruit dropped noiseless through the autumn night,I gave a quick, low cry, as infants do:We weep when we are born, not when we die!So was it destined; and thus came I here,To walk the earth and wear the form of man,To suffer bravely as becomes my state,—One step, one grade, one cycle nearer God.
And knowing these things, can I stoop to fretAnd lie and haggle in the market-place,Give dross for dross, or everything for nought?No! let me sit above the crowd, and sing,Waiting with hope for that miraculous changeWhich seems like sleep; and though I waiting starve,I cannot kiss the idols that are setBy every gate, in every street and park,—I cannot fawn, I cannot soil my soul:For I am of the mountains and the sea,The deserts, and the caverns in the earth,The catacombs and fragments of old worlds.
* * * * *
"Turbine raptus ingenii."—SCALIGER.
Mac and I dined together yesterday,—as we are used to do at least once or twice every year, for the sake of our ever-mellowing friendship, and those good old times in which it began. Like all who are ripe enough to have memories, we delight to recall the period of our vernal equinox, and to moralize, with gentle sadness and many wise wags of our frosty polls, upon the events in which that period was prolific; and so, when the cloth was removed yesterday, and we sat toying with our cigars and our Sherry, our talk insensibly drifted back to those merry college-days when we not infrequently "heard the chimes at midnight."
"Ah, old fellow," quoth I to my chum, "those good old days are gone by, now, and Israel worships strange gods. Old Nassau will never be what she was before the fire of '55. Those precious heirlooms of our day are sunk from sight forever, dear and mossy as they were,—swept down, like cobwebs, before the flame-besom.'Fuit Ilium!'The old bell will never again ring out the gay 'larums of a 'Third Entry' barring-out. Homer's head no longer perches owl-like and wise over the central door-way.'Ai, Adonai!'No more wilt proud fingers point to the spot whereat entered—not like 'Casca's envious dagger'—that well-aimed cannon-ball which pierced the picture-gallery, punched 'Georgius Res' on the head, and frightened away forever the Hessians that were stabled there, fouling the nest of stout old John Witherspoon. They call other rolls now in chapel and in class-room, and chant other songs at their revels and their feasts. 'Eheu, Posthume!'"
"Pshaw, Ned Blount! there's corn in Egypt still. Out of that bug-riddled old barn we used to know a new and comely Phoenix has been born unto Princeton; the fire hath purged, not destroyed; and we wiseacres who flourished in the old 'flush times' yet survive in tradition, patterns for our children, very Turveydrops of collegiate deportment. The belfry clangs with a louder peal; even Clarian's Picture, though it hath utterly perished to the eye of sense, lives vivid in a thousand memories, and, having found in the tenderness of tradition and legend an engraver whose burin is as faithful as Raphael Morghen's, has left the damp dark wall, like Leonardo'sCenacolo, to accompany all of us to our firesides."
Clarian's Picture! what memories the mention of it stirred up!
"Poor Clarian!" I murmured.
"Poor, indeed I" repeated Mac, with a sneer. "He is only worth a lovely wife and six children, with half a million to back them. And he only weighs two hundred pounds, with I forget how many inches of fat over the brisket. Poor, indeed! 'Tis pity you and I have not experienced a slight attack of that same poverty, Ned Blount!"
"Poor Clarian!" repeated I, sturdily. "To think that a man who could paint such a picture, a soul of imagination so compact, a so delicate ether-breathing spirit, should settle down at last into a mere mechanical, a plodding, every-day merchant, whose finest fancies are given to the condition of the money-market, who governs his actions by a decline of Erie, and narrows his ideas down to the requirements of filthy lucre, like a mere 'wintry clod of earth'! Ay, poor Clarian, poor anybody, when we wake from our bright youth-dream and tread the rough pathway of a reality like this!"
"Potz tausend! the man isfou!" shouted Mac. "Come, drink your wine, Ned, and we'll have our coffee. It is quite time, I think,—and he used to be a three-bottle fellow," muttered my dear old friend,sotto voce. "'Heu, heu! tempora mutantur, et nos'—well, well, well!"
* * * * *
Clarian's Picture! What a gush of recollection the words evoke! I was in the heyday and blossom of my youth then, and now—well, 'tis some years since; yet how vividly I remember that pleasant noontide of a day of early summer, when, as a party of us students were lounging about the gates that opened from our shady campus upon the street, "Dennis" handed me a note from Clarian, in which my little friend announced that his picture was finished at last, and invited Mac and myself to call and see it "exhibited," at nine o'clock that very evening. We were talking about Clarian and his picture, at the time,—as, indeed, we had been doing for a month,—and when I mentioned the purport of the note, curiosity rose to the tiptoe of expectation, and numerous surmises were set afloat. I could have satisfied their queries as to the subject and character of the picture, for Mac and I had seen it only a few days before, but Clarian expected us to be secret about it; so I only listened and smiled, while the eager talk ran on, and a thousand conjectures were hazarded.
"So themagnum opusis finished at last," said Clayt Zoile, showing by his manner, as he joined us, that he at least had not received an invitation; "a precious specimen of Art it will prove, I doubt not, after all the outcry about it. 'Montes parturiunt' etc."
"You'll lose your wish this time, Clayt," drawled Mounchersey, carelessly; "Mr. Cosine told me yesterday that 'Boss' has called on Clarian about his cutting so many prayers and recites, and that, after seeing the unfinished picture, he gave the youngstercarte blancheas to time, till it is completed;—so it must be something worth looking at"
"I guess Ned Blount's glad the picture is finished," said Tone Ninyan, turning to me,—"a'n't you, Ned?"
I confessed I was not by any means sorry, for Clarian's sake.
"No," laughed Zoile, "Ned isn't sorry,—be sure of that; for he wants his dear 'Whitewash' restored again to the bosom of society, lest the walls of his reputation should by chance suffer from fly-speck."
These words created a laugh at my expense; for Clarian had shown himself, in his warm, generous way, such a zealous advocate of my immaculate perfection, that he was quite generally known by thesobriquetof "Ned Blount's Whitewash."
Just then Mac came along, on his way to the post-office, and I joined him, showing him Ciarian's note.
"Hum," growled my good old chum, as he read it, "don't want to be disturbed to-day; sick, is he? I'd like to know who's to blame, if he isn't. Wishes me to bring my Shakspeare along;—it's a wonder he had not said Plotinus, or Jacob Böhme's 'Aurora'; they're more in his style. The deuse take that boy and his picture, Ned! What if we two fools have been playing too roughly with such plastic clay? I wish to-night were come and gone safely. I'll go see Dr. Thorne, and ask him to accompany us to-night. He claims to be something of a connoisseur, and the picture is really worth seeing, if the lad has not spoiled it with his 'final touches'. And anyhow, the boy will be a study for a psychological monomaniac like Thorne."
"You apprehend, then…."
"Sapperment, you owl-face! I apprehend nothing; only it will be as well to have Thorne present, for the boy is out of sorts, and his nerves were never very strong. Now look here, Ned Blount! don't put on that lugubrious phiz, I pray you;—and, moreover, don't you ever dare introduce any more of your Freshmenprotégé'sto me; for, I warn you, I'll insult them, and you, too,—I will, by Jove!"
I was not less impatient than Mac for the night to come, for I was very anxious about Clarian, dreading lest some catastrophe was about to overtake him,—and the thought was by no means pleasant. For, as Mac had said, the lad was aprotégéof mine; he had been given into my charge by his sweet lady-mother; he had looked up to me as his senior and his friend; and I could not help feeling, that, if anything untoward should happen to him, it would be partly my fault.
From the very first I had been strongly attracted towards Clarian. Indeed, the lad was remarkable for a peculiar spiritual beauty of person and sweetness of manner that made almost every one love him. He was, in fact,lovely, in the etymological sense of that misused word, and people softened towards him as to a young, guileless child. I have known men cease swearing when he drew near, drop ribaldry, and take up some more innocent topic, simply through an unconscious impulse of fitness,—feeling that such things had no business to be repeated in his presence. And they were right; for a purer spirit than Clarian's I have never encountered in man or woman. His face most reminded one of the portraits of Raphael at twenty. He had the same broad, smooth forehead,—the same soft skin, delicate, yet rich as the inner leaves of a pale rose,—the same finely shaped nose, and ripe, womanly mouth, which a Persian, in default of a more tangible analogy, would have likened to the seal of Solomon. But his lower face was somewhat less full than Raphael's, the chin being shorter and sharper, and the jaw curving less sensuously. His hair was of the purest chestnut hue, rich and silken, showing here and there a thread of gold; he wore it long, and flowing in half-ringlets upon his neck and shoulders. Clarian's eye was large and dark, tender, rather sad, with now and then a speculative depth, now and then a hint of the Romeo fore-doom, now and then a warm eloquence, when meeting yours, that reminded strangely of a woman loving and in love. Other womanly traits he had, such as the ingenuous blush with which he asked or did a favor, and a certain not very boyish fondness for softness and elegance of dress. Not that Clarian was effeminate, or in any material respect deficient in manly character; but his mother was a widow, and he her only son, and consequently he had been brought up like a girl, at home, without any slightest opportunity to acquire those rough-and-tumble experiences of ordinary boyhood which are so necessary to fit us for battling in the world; for the world, though not unfeeling at core, wears yet a sufficiently rough rind, and pretends but little sympathy with persons of Clarian's stamp.
Hence, when Clarian came to college, he knew very little of life indeed,—and, moreover, he cherished not a few ascetic notions, deeming this world "all a fleeting show," from whose vain illusions it was one's chief duty to shield one's self. He had never read a novel, save "some of Scott's,"—nor ever seen or read a play, not even of Shakspeare's. How I envied him this new world, in whose usages I had beenblasélong before I was of an age to appreciate its beauties,—this bright, fancy-fostering world, to which he was to go all fresh and unsophisticated, like a bride to the nuptial sheets! In literature of a more solid kind his practice was quite considerable: he had surveyed many fields of Art, History, and Theology, all of which, however, had first been submitted to the test of that anxious maternalIndex Expurgatorius, lest some drop of infidelity or impurity should trickle in unawares, to darken or embitter the pure crystal waters of his soul. Ah, thou poor fond mother, so unreasoningly ignoring the fact that each of us must somehow eat his "peck of dirt"!
Thus intrusted to my charge, and having such attractive elements in his character, I naturally took great interest in Clarian, and particularly spared no effort to give him use in college ways. I saw that the lad was not one to bear being laughed at, and so did all I could to screen him from the embarrassments of ignorance,—taught him our customs, our fashions, and gave him lessons upon that immemorial dialect in which college sublegists delight. I chicaned to secure him a fine room, which his lady-mother furnished "like a bridal chamher", if our Nassau cynics were to be credited,—introduced him where it was necessary, and exercised generally towards him that distinguished patronage which one who "knows the ropes" is able to bestow upon a very Freshman.
A fine generous fellow was Clarian, for all his apron-string antecedents,—bold as a lion, and as trustworthy as he was enthusiastic. He was of rather too nervous a temperament to be precisely healthy in all mental respects, but nevertheless had a fine comprehensive mind, very capable of sustained and concentrated effort. He had been well taught, and, unfortunately, was so far advanced beyond the studies of his class as to have a great deal of leisure. In consequence he turned to reading, and here, again unfortunately, he put himself under my guidance, and suffered me to govern him in his choice of books: unfortunately, I say, for I was then a worshipper of that clay-footed Nebuchadnezzar-image, Metaphysics, which I fondly deemed all of gold, and the most genuine of things. So, when Clarian came to me, I was eager enough to put to his lips the wine of which I was drunken. The boy took his first sip from Coleridge's "Biographia Literaria",—that cracked Bohemian glass, which, handed in a golden salver that might have come from the cunning graver of Cellini, yet forces one to taste, over a flawed and broken edge, the sourest drop of ill-madevin du pays, heavily drugged and made bitter with Paracelsian laudanum. Under that strange patchwork quilt so imaginative a soul as Clarian could not fail to dream. It was a great pity I had not been more circumspect, for the boy was already too deeply steeped in those Acherontic waters. His mother, like many other women, had loved to wander along the dreamy paths of sentimental theology, clothing from her own beautiful mind the dim, unsubstantial spectres that beckoned her, and accepting all their mystic utterances, in blind faith, for genuine oracles of God. Into these by-ways he had followed her, and his clearer vision had just sufficed to reveal to him the ghosts, without teaching him how to master or dispel them. Thus, Cowper's sweetness, which charmed her, became to him Cowper's dejection and despairing sadness, perplexing enough to his young brain. Where she took up and fed her soul upon John Wesley's conclusions, the boy found himself involved in John Wesley's perplexities, and struggling in desperate wrestle with the haunting shapes to which John Wesley had given successful battle. Thus prepared, no wonder my eager little friend plunged headlong into the sea of doubts, impatient to cry, "Eureka!" and plant his foot upon the Islands of the Blessed. The new excitement completely swept his feet from under him. 'Twas but a step from Coleridge andEsemplasticmatters to Plotinus, and in a month he had taken that step,—the more readily, that he was a right good Grecian, and found no unpleasant philological difficulties in the "Enneades". Thence he went on in feverish unrest, wildly running up and down allNiffelheimin quest of some centre-point upon which he could stand firm and look around him. He had an excellent mind, and, unexcited, could take sufficiently common-sense views of most matters; but this was too much for him. He made substance of shadows, and then exhausted himself in giving them battle. He became anxious, uneasy, nervous,—showing very plainly, that, in his search after the Alkahest, he had injured his powers by making trial of too many drugs.
Mac, with his sturdy good sense, and unerring mace-like judgment, speedily became aware of this waste of function to which Clarian was subjecting himself, and warned me accordingly.
"Why do you let that boy bother his brains about your stupidEgoandNon-Ego?" said he. "Don't you see he is injuring himself, beginning to sink under a sort of mentalalbumenurea,—at the very time, too, when he has most need of stamina? He does nothing but read, read, read,—and what, forsooth? Not anything that will teach him the genuineness of life and manhood, but those damnable spirit-exalting, body-despising emasculates of Alexandria,—Madame Guyon's meditations, too, and Isaac Taylor's giddy see-sawings,—all heresies, and bosh,—'Dead-Sea fruits that turn to ashes', and not only disgust you, but blister tongue and lips most vilely. You'll have him next trying to treat with the gods, to attain Brahm's purification, Boodh's annihilation, to jump over the moon, or doing something that will make him candidate for the shaved-head-and-blister treatment. Remember, Ned, his brain is made of finer stuff than that stolid sponge inside yourpia mater, that can take inquantum sufficitof beer, fog, and tobacco-smoke, unharmed. He can't stand it, and he's too rare and delicate a machine to go cranky thus soon. You've got the child under your thumb,—bring him out o' that. Make him take a dose of Verulam, get him back into the world again, and order him four hoursper diemat the dumb-bells."
And so, the next time Clarian came to our rooms, and was eagerly soliciting my opinion of a little essay he had written, to establish the identity of the Logos with the Demiurgic Mind, ("Plato's World-Soul, called in 'Timæus' the best of Eternal Intelligences, the Noetic Partaker and Digester of Reason", said Clarian in his tract,) with some corollaries for the purpose of reconcilingGeistandFreiheit, all sauced down,à l'Allemagne, with numerous capitals and a proper degree of incomprehensibility,—Mac bluffly interrupted the colloquy, and accosted Clarian,—
"Younker! do you know you're a fool?"
Clarian colored up,—
"How, Mac?"
"What are we—Ned, and you, and I—here for?"
"To acquire knowledge."
"Ay, knowledge,—but what for?"
"To fit us for heaven."
"Phew! then you calculate to graduate from 'these classic shades' direct into celestial regions, do you, without sojourning awhile in this terrene purgatory? I do not, and, moreover,je n'en ai pas l'envie; I think the world has some claims upon me, and I mean to pay that debt, D. V."
"So do I, Mac," rejoined Clarian, a little proudly.
"And do you suppose your present studies adapted to fit you for such work? Now, if you want to be a monk, if you are willing, like Origen, to purchase with your entire manhood some supposed facility of spiritual contemplation and depth of insight into the Infinite, or if you intend to become a Brahmin, and seek in your navel the dyspeptic divinity who there wields his sceptre, while your despised body is given up to the predatory ravages ofgenus pediculus, well and good. Follow your hest, go on and conquer the [Greek: gnosis] and when you have got it, just inform me what it looks like, and whether you will be more able to make use of it than the fellow was of the elephant he bought at auction. But if you desire to take a man's part in this grand world around you, you must leap off your shadow, and never think about thinking, as the new Olympian has it. Let quiddities alone, they are dry-bone vampires, that drain you of your blood without growing fatter themselves."
"But how can truth harm? and that is what I seek,—truth, and beauty; if I commune with the world-soul, then also I know the world."
"Faugh! let shadows alone; believe in the man; do not be persuaded that the body is depraved and corrupt, and only the soul is worthy to be cultivated. Hold fast to the tangible. We know that we have a body, spite the Bishop of Cloyne, far more certainly than we know we have a soul. See, the soul is this smoke, that evanishes so quickly; the body this meerschaum that I have in my fingers, and will smoke again, please God."
"But it is the smoke, not the pipe, that gives you pleasure, and is the important consideration, Mac."
"Confound analogies, and pert Freshmen!" growled my chum, puffing vigorously. "Nevertheless, it is a noble and right royal thing, this body,—a thing to be cared for and cultivated for its own sake, apart from the fact of its being God's chosen sanctuary for what He lends us to see Him by. And you are neglecting it, both in theory and practice, Clarian; so you must give up these infernal Metaphysics. If youwillbother about speculative matters, let Bacon teach you the correctives of error, and Locke how to govern and rein in the understanding. But you'd better learn first what men say about men. It may not make you happier, but it will make you wiser, and wisdom ranks high in heaven: Gabriel, Raphael, Michael,—'tis the second person in that archangelic trinity. Did you ever read Shakspeare? No, of course not; and yet I'll wager you have been hankering after the Bhagavat Ghita, and trying to get a copy of the illustrious Trismegistan Gimander! Don't blush,—you're not the first young man who has made an a—ahem—made a mistake. Fie! Learn men, Clarian, and then you will come to know man,—the surest way, I take it, of knowing the Multitudinous God. So read you Shakspeare, and Æschylus, save the 'Prometheus,'—thatwas begotten of Bactrian lore upon the mysteries of Karnac, and does not touch man nearly, spite of all its grandeur. Here, listen, and I will give you a lesson in the Myriad-Minded whom Stratford-upon-Avon blessed our little earth with."
Therewith, Mac began to read from the first act of "The Tempest." Now chum was a Shakspeare enthusiast, and, withal, a very fine reader, as well as, from long study, quite pervaded with the Master's diction and style of thought. As he read on, he commented, in his brief, pointed way, upon the text, contrasting the Boatswain's practical usefulness with the shivering helplessness of the Courtiers. "Now this is your proper somatology," he added. "What our Bo's'un says to Gonzalo, the world will say to you, Clarian, when you propose to it any of your panaceas: Are you able to do better than we? If so, save us from the shipwreck that threatens. If not, go to your prayers. Anyhow, 'out of our way, I say!'"
"Bravo!" cried I, when the homily came to an end, "Mac is preaching Carlylism, as I'm a sinner. The next utterance will be something about roofing Hell over, or the Everlasting Yea, or Morrison's Pills! Proceed: 'lay on,' Mac! none of us will cry, 'Hold, enough!' save under risible compulsion."
Mac sulked awhile, but soon resumed his reading,—sparing us further comment, however. Thus was Clarian led over the threshold, and introduced into Shakspeare's magic world. When Mac closed his book at the end of the act, Clarian's face glowed with a flattering something that must have pleased my chum, for hewasproud of his reading,—and the moisture glittering in the lad's eye, his flushed cheek, and the tremor of his voice as he asked to hear more, spoke volumes.
But Mac said, "No,—enough is as good as a feast, younker, and just now I have to go with Bacchus in quest of a tragedian for Athens,—[Greek: brek kek koax, koax], you know. Study the Master yourself: and let me by all means advise your wisdom to detect a mystery in 'Hamlet,' and to essay the solution of the same. Nobody else has done so, of course, and it will become your long head. I've met several very mild, quiet people, whom you would not suspect of the slightest impropriety; but mention the Dane, and,presto!off they go upon their hobbies, ('theories,' they call 'em,) and canter around Bedlam at a most generous pace. 'Semel insanivimus omnes,' I suppose, and Hamlet and the Apocalypse offer rare opportunities."
"Now, Ned," said Mac, somewhat complacently, when Clarian was gone, "I think I have done that young rascal some good, and the bard will advantage him still more, if he can only be moderate enough."
And, indeed, these new pastures thus unbarred to Clarian's coltish fancies made a great change in the lad. At first he simply revelled in the new world of beauty that the Master's wand evoked, like a bird in the fresh, warm sunshine of returning spring. But this did not last long; the bird must busy himself with nest-building. Clarian's ardent, impetuous nature must evolve results, would not content itself with mere sensations. So he began to study Shakspeare,—not, as he had studied the philosophers, to pluck out and make his own some cosmical, pervading thought, but to find matter for Art-purposes. I think, that, if ever there was a born artist, who united to a fine æsthetic sense the fervor of a devotee, Clarian was that one, heart and soul. Some men make a mistress of Art, and sink down, lost in sensual pleasure and excess, till the Siren grows tired and destroys them. Other men wed Art, and from the union beget them fair, lovely, ay, immortal children, as Raphael did. Some again, confounding Art with their own inordinate vanity, grow stern and harsh with making sacrifices to the stone idol, grinding down their own hearts in vain experimenting after properer pigments, whereby themselves may attain to a chill and profitless immortality. But there are others still, who, elevating Art into a grand divinity, bow down and worship it, devote their lives to its priesthood, and, as a reward, only ask the god to reveal to them once his unveiled effulgence, content with the one communion, though their rashness be fatal, and the god's benison prove but the ashes of Semele. Towards this class Clarian tended, I knew very well, and hence, from the first, I had thrown a damper upon his artistic aspirations, often rewarded by his mournful and reproaching glances, as I sneered at his sketches,—which, to tell the truth, were most admirable, showing at once a keen poetic insight, fine composition, and an unusual mastery of technical details. The obedient fellow had bowed to what he deemed my better judgment, and turned away, with something of a sigh, from his dear love and ambition. Now, however, this love came suddenly back, and with tenfold intensity, as is always the case, and, though I dreaded its unhealthiness, I could no longer thwart him. Indeed, the Art-sense took such complete possession of him that I feared to interpose obstacles. He did not go about his work like a boy, but bent himself to it with the calm, resolute purpose of a man of forty. I could see the increasing mastery of the idea, in his changed eye, in his compressed lip, in his statelier, calmer pose; and, however incredulous we may be respectingresults, these initiatory motions never fail to impress us. Even Bluebeard would forbear to strike down his pregnant wife, for the sake of what she bore under her bosom; and I, seeing the boy's careful study, and his long and laborious preparation, could not help looking forward to a result of commensurate importance.
Nevertheless, it was my duty to have combated Clarian's tendencies, for I could not help seeing the daily injury they did him.Ars longa, vita brevis, was an overpowering conviction of the lad's, and he went to work to apply the maddest of correctives. Art so exacting and life so short, then it was his office to labor so much the more earnestly, so much the more eagerly, that he might squeeze dry this orange of the present, and lose no opportunity, no moment. Thus it came to pass with him, as it does with us all who overwork ourselves, that actually he did less than he might have done, and warped himself in a most pitiable way indeed. A conscientious fellow, as he was, Clarian had hitherto been very faithful to his duties in the regular curriculum,—but now all this was changed. Here was a grand something to be done, a something so grand, indeed, that his whole life must bow before its exactions, and all minor duties step out of the way of Juggernaut. Who thinks of etiquette, of drawing-room trivialities, when here we are before this mistress, at whose feet we must pour out our soul? for her love blesses us with new life, her scorn damns us with eternal despair. In this cursed fashion always the Idea masters a man's soul, when he has once listened to its Lurlei-song. Henceforth he is only to see things in the light it chooses to shed upon them. Let your Alchemist but seek his Elixir long enough for the poison to fairly fill his veins, and behold what a slave and a monster the Idea shall make of him! Projection awaits him; the elements are here, comminglingin balneo Mariæ; alreadyRosa Solislends its generative warmth; already hathLeo Rubeuswooed and won his lily bride; already hath the tincture headed up royally in ruby and in purple, and sublimed, and gone through the entire circle of embryonic processes: quick! there lacks but the one element; in with it, and we are masters of the Life-Secret, of wealth, and power, and all else the world can bestow,—ay, and we can give back to the world all it asks! Yes, but that element isSanguis Virginis. Well, and why not a virgin's blood? Great things must be purchased,—cannot be plucked, like fruit, from every tree. Were itSanguis Senis, now, who would tap a vein more readily than we, ay, even were a drop from the carotid required? And must the world lose all this divine gift for a simple? What did Abraham on Moriah? Here is this child; of what use is she to the world?—yet a few ounces of her blood, and man is regenerate. In her innocence, too,—why, a Manichee would have done it for her own sake. Come, quick knife,—and, we do murder! I tell you, by dwelling on it, tasting, smelling of it, taking it into our bosoms, and making ourselves familiar with it, we poor men can finally persuade ourselves that the most damning thought begot of Hell upon a putrescent brain is the fairest, brightest, most gloriousDeus vult. Here was the danger that menaced Clarian, ay, had already begun to insinuate its poison into his daily food. The simple fact of his neglecting his studies proved this. It was a venial sin, doubtless,—but still, it was hispremier pas, and, as such, ominous enough.
Giving himself up to his art, he soon began to illustrate in his person the effects of confinement and excessive thought. His pale cheek grew paler still, the hollows under his eyes deepened, and his slim fingers waxed slimmer and more transparent than ever. I could see also that he had excessive bile,—not only ascertainable by looking at his imbrowned eye, but deducible from a change in his temper that was by no means an improvement. His room was full of sketches and drawing-material: these attracted visitors, and visitors were a trouble. Perhaps there was impertinence in their curiosity, very likely their presence hindered him; but, nevertheless, it was by no means like the sweet-tempered Clarian to show irritability and petulance, and finally, closing his door obstinately against all comers, to elect for solitude and silence at his work. No,—the boy was changed, grown morbid, a pervert, ripe for whatever Devil's sickle might be put forth to gather him in.
Thus things went on from bad to worse, until the authorities began to take notice of the lad's derelictions. The kind old President sent for me, and made many inquiries about Clarian. Evidently the elders were not a trifle bothered by my littleprotégé'sproceedings, and did not know how to act. He had been much liked, his character was unblemished, he had done himself credit in his studies: what did all this change mean? The Faculty made it a rule to respect every man's privacy as much as possible,—but Mr. Blount well knew that the present state of things could not long be permitted. In their eyes, the backslider was palpably a far more unsavory fact than the original sinner. Could not Mr. Blount use his influence in some way, or suggest some course? Mr. Blount presented Clarian's cause in as favorable a light as possible; spoke of the youth's noble nature; guarantied that there was no moral obliquity; strongly advised leniency; venturing withal to hope, nay, to believe, that all this devotion, so intense, to a single purpose, would not be fruitless, might possibly win him credit. He certainly had fine imagination, and then he was so absorbed in his work;—it was a question whether it would help him most to encourage or to repress his ardor at present. The Doctor pondered, said he would take the matter into consideration,—it were a pity to nip any wholesome enthusiasm i' the bud,—"but it is very apparent, Mr. Blount, that the young man, if he goes on, will experience the fate of Orpheus, and so needs to be curbed in time. 'Medio tutissimus ibis', saith Naso,—a maxim the non-observance of which cost him the pain and disgrace of exile. And you should strive to impress the truth of it upon Clarian; spare no pains to rouse him. This seclusion is what I most dread. The poet Spenser hath made all his viler passions dwellers in caves and darkness, and with truth; for solitude is fatal, where there are morbid and melancholic tendencies. A very wise German, remarking upon the text, 'It is not good for man to be alone,' added, very finely,—'and above all, it is not good for man toworkalone; he requires sympathy, encouragement, excitement, to succeed in anything good.'"
But I found the worthy old Doctor's advice easier to inculcate than to practise. Clarian did not need my sympathy, had excitement and encouragement enough in his own hopes, and, in fact, like the Boatswain in "The Tempest," only required to be let alone. Still, he paid us a visit now and then, and gave us to understand that he denied himself our society, did not thrust it aside as something useless and disagreeable. When he came, he would talk freely, and give us but too plain evidence of the change and confusion that were taking place in him. Mac never spared him at these times, and on one occasion, only a fortnight previous to the exhibition of the picture, fairly drove the boy into a passion.
"Well, Mr. Whitewash," said he, as Clarian came in, "how are you at this present writing? Youlookas if you had been dieting on Gamboge and Flake White. Take care, young man, or you'll put us students to the cost of a tombstone with a Latin epitaph for you, yet,—beginning,Interfecit se.—How comes on the Art? You've given the go-by toEgoandNon-Ego, I suppose, and have resolved to achieve the very [Greek: kudos] upon a ten-foot whitewashed wall, eh?Soit,—but what results? Can you say yet, as Correggio did when he saw the St. Cecilia of Raphael, 'Anch' io son pittore'? or do you intend to limit your ambition,à laDick Tinto, to the effecting of two liquidations in one by the restoration of tavern-signs?"
"Please do not taunt me, Mac, for I am cast down, almost. I have the grandest conception, but the life-touch escapes me. It is in vain I seek it: we cannot do a thing properly, unless wefeelit; passion will not be simulated. What we know, and can do well, must all be repeated from our own experience, says St. Simon,—and I agree with him."
"St. Simon be—hanged!" quoth Mac. "So, it seems, the Metaphysic is not abandoned. St. Simon, forsooth!—why, his doctrine was, that, to comprehend the nature of crime, one had first to commit crime himself. Pah! according to that, he who would most thoroughly learn the philosophy of our carnal lusts must exchange natures with the goat. Pray, why do not you solicit Herr Urian to give you a hircine metamorphosis, Clarian?"
"Nay, Mac, can it be thus put off with a jest and a sneer, after all? What do you think of these words I came across last night?"—and opening his note-book, Clarian read as follows: "For of old it hath been clearly proven, action without passion is nought save idle folly.Passio Christi hominis redemptio. For as sin came into the world by suffering, so also the gift of knowledge, which man would have confessedly lacked, had he not purchased itpretio mortis,—even whereat, meseemeth, 'tis not a commodity too high-priced. And as Philo Judæus hath well observed, (as that arch heretic doth but seldom, wherefore let us ascribe to him the full credit,) 'Materia parens est (etiam ipsa mater) peccali,' so, to attain to anything really spiritual, we have even to be born again of this our parent, by the reëntrance of whose womb, in pain and darkness, we come back to the true and the living, and have provision given us wherewith we shall conquer worlds. For, to fix the pure thought and to identify it with the true and holy, we must first divide it from the base clogs of matter; and how can we effect this disjunction, save, as it hath ever been done, by passion,—not simulate nor taken at second hand, cold,'bis coctum quasi,' but rather presently and in our very selves reiterate? So Naaman dipt in Jordan,—a task unto him, a sin in the eyes of his gods, and painful exceedingly to his pride-gorged humor, that would only have Abana and Pharpar,—yet only so was his skin made whole again, and soft like an infant's. So also did David the king come into tasting of the bliss of a true repentance by the terrible gateways of shameful adultery and blood-thirst."
"Oh, I agree with your author perfectly," said Mac, with inimitable gravity, while I gazed at Clarian, wondering what would come next. "All the greatest gifts man possesses have had evil sponsors or unrighteous baptism. Even Prometheusfilchedhis fire from heaven, or t'other place. Doing evil for the sake of a prospective good is an immemorial custom, and well precedented. Revenue-farming, theparc-aux-cerfs, and Du Barry only went down beforeLa Terreur, Robespierre, andLes Journées de Septembre."
"But seriously, Mac, is it not admissible, now and then, to employ questionable means, ordinary ones failing?"
"Certainly. You may even sin, provided you believe in your cause. Faith is the one save-all and cure-all. You smile? I can give you good authority,—none other than Martin Luther, who, in one of his disputations, says emphatically, 'Si in fide posset fieri adulterium, peccatum non esset'; and he wrote still more plainly upon this point in one of his letters to Melancthon, saying, 'Ab hoc nos non avellet peccatum, etiamsi millies millies uno die fornicamur aut occidamus.' [Footnote:Vie de Luther, par AUDIN, Paris, 1839. An accurate book, but scathingly bitter.] So follow your bent, younker, and they cannot say you are without 'precedent right reverend.'"
Clarian sprang to his feet, his pale face all ablaze with indignation. "You have no right to say such things to me, Sir," he cried, "for you know well enough"—
"I know well enough that you are a crack-brained jackanapes, with your damned fantastics!" bellowed Mac, angry in his turn. "What do you mean,—you, who are a perfect little saint in your life,—what do you mean by thrusting all these foul heresies at me, as if you were a veritable citizen of Sodom, or a rejuvenized Faust, who have just replenished your stock of 'experiences,' as you call them, by seducing Margaret and stabbing her brother? Burn your books, if that filth is all they teach you,—and mend your manners, if you expect to be tolerated in respectable company. Good-bye!" cried he, as Clarian rushed white-heated from the room.
"Pshaw, Ned, spare your remonstrances, if you please,—I'm tired of the little fool's nonsense."
"But the boy is sick, my dear fellow, and requires to be treated more gently. His mind is diseased, and it would not take much to drive him quite desperate."
"No such good luck, Ned. I wish Icouldmake him pitch into somebody or something. Nothing would do the beggar so much good, just now, as to get himself into a regular scrape. It would act like a shower-bath, wake him up, and purge him of these dismal humors."
"Still, you would not like to have it said thatyouwere the cause of his getting into any difficulty; and you know very well he is not one to extricate himself easily, if once involved."
"Never fear. 'Il y a un Dieu pour les enfants et les ivrognes', says a proverb in which I place implicit faith."
* * * * *
We saw nothing of Clarian until some three or four nights after this, when he came hurriedly into our room. It was quite late, but Mac was still at his Mathematics, while I was dawdling with my pipe and a volume of Sternberg's pleasant tales. Clarian walked directly up to Mac, holding out his hand, and saying, "I have come to ask your forgiveness, my dear Mac; I was wrong and foolish the other day."
"Nonsense, you flighty canary-bird!" said Mac; "you owe me nothing, so have done with that. Sit down and smoke a pipe with us."
"No,—I have come for you and Ned; I want you to see my picture to-night. Come, I will take no denial,—I am about to finish it, and I want your criticisms before I lay on the final touches."
"Why not to-morrow, Clarian?"
"Then everybody will want to see. No, it must be to-night."
Mac and I were by no means reluctant to humor the lad, for we were not incurious respecting the picture, and we accompanied him forthwith. His room was quite large, well lighted and airy, with a sleeping-closet attached. Over the blank wall opposite the windows hung a black muslin curtain of most funereal aspect, which rolled up to the ceiling by means of a cord and pulley, and, being now down, effectually concealed from view what we had come to see. Clarian placed three or four candles, made us be seated, filling pipes for us, and taking one himself, a most rare occurrence with him,—all the while talking with more vivacity than I had seen him exhibit for several months. "I have carefully studied my subject, fellows," said he, "and have striven after perfection. I went to Shakspeare for it, Mac, and sought one that would give me at once a proper field, and at the same time pervade me so that I could paint from myself. Singularly enough, I have found this magnetic influence most completely in 'Macbeth'. Do you remember Scene Fourth of the Third Act? That is the situation I have endeavored to portray. Macbeth, wretched criminal, suspects every one of his own dark purposes, or fears their hatred, because he feels himself hateful. He is not a coward, either physically or morally; his fears are all intellectual; he knows that Banquo is too noble to serve him, too powerful to be permitted to serve against him,—so he must out of the way. The murderers have received their commission; the king, satisfied now that all he has to fear will shortly be removed, has said, 'There's comfort yet'; he has cheered his wife with words even merry, as he can with some complacency, for it is truly his principle of action, that
'Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill';
and now, in this scene, he is to meet his courtiers at a state-banquet, given in honor of Banquo, he tells them with hardihood. For we must remember that this jealous king is no longer the warrior Thane whom we first encounter upon the 'blasted heath', and whom we afterwards see haunted by horrid visions of 'air-drawn daggers', as he turns his hand to crime. He has gotten far beyond all this. Murders to him are become but 'trifles light as air'; use has blunted his sensibility, and to bring back all that agony and horror needs a vastly stronger excitement than a mere deed of blood. We see this in the cool way he tells the murderer, 'There's blood upon thy face', as if it simply made him look less presentable. Nevertheless, suffer for it Macbeth must. That is ordained; and the means to it, and particularly theeffectof those means, are what I have tried to represent here."
So saying, he drew up the curtain, and the picture stood before us. Mac and I gave it one quick glance, and then, with a simultaneous impulse, extended our hands to Clarian. The lad laughed a little laugh of joy as he returned our embrace, and then silently nodded towards the picture again.
Those old Princetonians who have seen Clarian's Picture will easily be able to explain our emotion upon beholding it thus for the first time. It was in colored crayon, and covered a large portion of the wall, representing a lofty, but entirely unornamented Gothic hall, with a table in the centre, around which were grouped the guests. These showed in their faces and disordered array that dismay and anxiety which were natural to them at sight of their king so strangely and appallingly stricken, but evidently they were entirely and happily unconscious of the THING that sat there in their midst, touching them, consorting its charnel horrors with their warm-blooded humanity,—so near, so close to them, thathefancied the smell of that trickling gore, that dank grave-soil, must necessarily enter in at their nostrils, and he sickened at the thought for very sympathy. The woe-wasted wife, comprehending what it meant, as she chiefly, from the dark depths of her own spotted consciousness,couldcomprehend, had yet flung her fear aside for the sake of him whom she loved with a love so bitter-costly, and now she stood at his side, fiercely clutching him, and taunting him like a tigress with his unmanly fears. Ah, had that clutch upon his elbow been the searing grasp of white-heated pincers, eating to the bone, it had not stirredhim. He stood there, a tall, large-limbed man, brown and weather-stained, one who had endured much, wrinkled somewhat, care-marked about the brow, but very capable, and evidently as bold and daring, to the line, as he asserted himself,—he stood there, flung back, fixed, petrified, as it were, by the baleful judgment that lighted those unearthly eyes which watched him from across the table there; and though his arm be flung up over his face, half to protect, half in menace,—though his fist be clenched and swollen, his brow dark and frowning, we know he will not spring forward, but will stand there still, no life in all that mass of muscle, no will-power in that capable brain, nought but impotent malignity in that murderous frown: for he is stricken,—his sin has found him out,—ay, at the very altar, Orestes hears the Furies shriek their hatred in his ears, exultingly proclaiming that for him at least there is no rest, nor ever shall be!