  "You are sick, that 's sure,"—they say: "Sick of what?"—they disagree. "'T is the brain,"—thinks Doctor A; "'T is the heart,"—holds Doctor B; "The liver—my life I 'd lay!" "The lungs!" "The lights!" Ah me! So ignorant of man's whole Of bodily organs plain to see— So sage and certain, frank and free, About what 's under lock and key— Man's soul! ECHETLOSHere is a story, shall stir you! Stand up, Greeks dead and gone, Who breasted, beat Barbarians, stemmed Persia rolling on, Did the deed and saved the world, for the day was Marathon! No man but did his manliest, kept rank and fought away In his tribe and file: up, back, out, down—was the spear-arm play: Like a wind-whipt branchy wood, all spear-arms a-swing that day! But one man kept no rank, and his sole arm plied no spear, As a flashing came and went, and a form i' the van, the rear, Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here. Nor helmed nor shielded, he! but, a goat-skin all his wear, Like a tiller of the soil, with a clown's limbs broad and bare, Went he ploughing on and on: he pushed with a ploughman's share. Did the weak mid-line give way, as tunnies on whom the shark Precipitates his bulk? Did the right-wing halt when, stark On his heap of slain lay stretched Kallimachos Polemarch? Did the steady phalanx falter? To the rescue, at the need, The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed, As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede. But the deed done, battle won,—nowhere to be descried On the meadow, by the stream, at the marsh, —look far and wide From the foot of the mountain, no, to the last blood-plashed sea-side,— Not anywhere on view blazed the large limbs thonged and brown, Shearing and clearing still with the share before which—down To the dust went Persia's pomp, as he ploughed for Greece, that clown! How spake the Oracle? "Care for no name at all! Say but just this: 'We praise one helpful whom we call The Holder of the Ploughshare.' The great deed ne'er grows small." Not the great name! Sing—woe for the great name MiltiadÉs And its end at Paros isle! Woe for Themistokles —Satrap in Sardis court! Name not the clown like these! CLIVEBrowning had this story from Mrs. Jameson as early as 1846, she in turn having just heard Macaulay tell it. Browning's own narrative preceded Clive's death by a week only. I and Clive were friends—and why not? Friends! I think you laugh, my lad. Clive it was gave England India, while your father gives—egad, England nothing but the graceless boy who lures him on to speak— "Well, Sir, you and Clive were comrades—" with a tongue thrust in your cheek! Very true: in my eyes, your eyes, all the world's eyes, Clive was man, I was, am, and ever shall be—mouse, nay, mouse of all its clan Sorriest sample, if you take the kitchen's estimate for fame; While the man Clive—he fought Plassy, spoiled the clever foreign game, Conquered and annexed and Englished! Never mind! As o'er my punch (You away) I sit of evenings,—silence, save for biscuit crunch, Black, unbroken,—thought grows busy, thrids each pathway of old years, Notes this forthright, that meander, till the long-past life appears Like an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood, Once, and well remembered still,—I 'm startled in my solitude Ever and anon by—what 's the sudden mocking light that breaks On me as I slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakes While I ask—aloud, I do believe, God help me!—"Was it thus? Can it be that so I faltered, stopped when just one step for us—" (Us,—you were not born, I grant, but surely some day born would be) "—One bold step had gained a province" (figurative talk, you see) "Got no end of wealth and honor,—yet I stood stock-still no less?" —"For I was not Clive," you comment: but it needs no Clive to guess Wealth were handy, honor ticklish, did no writing on the wall Warn me "Trespasser, 'ware man-traps!" Him who braves that notice—call Hero! none of such heroics suit myself who read plain words, Doff my hat, and leap no barrier. Scripture says, the land 's the Lord's: Louts then—what avail the thousand, noisy in a smock-frocked ring, All-agog to have me trespass, clear the fence, be Clive their king? Higher warrant must you show me ere I set one foot before T' other in that dark direction, though I stand forevermore Poor as Job and meek as Moses. Evermore? No! By and by Job grows rich and Moses valiant, Clive turns out less wise than I. Don't object "Why call him friend, then?" Power is power, my boy, and still Marks a man,—God's gift magnific, exercised for good or ill. You 've your boot now on my hearth-rug, tread what was a tiger's skin: Rarely such a royal monster as I lodged the bullet in! True, he murdered half a village, so his own death came to pass; Still, for size and beauty, cunning, courage—ah, the brute he was! Why, that Clive,—that youth, that greenhorn, that quill-driving clerk, in fine,— He sustained a siege in Arcot ... But the world knows! Pass the wine. Where did I break off at? How bring Clive in? Oh, you mentioned "fear"! Just so: and, said I, that minds me of a story you shall hear. We were friends then, Clive and I: so, when the clouds, about the orb Late supreme, encroaching slowly, surely, threatened to absorb Ray by ray its noontide brilliance,—friendship might, with steadier eye Drawing near, bear what had burned else, now no blaze—all majesty. Too much bee's-wing floats my figure? Well, suppose a castle 's new: None presume to climb its ramparts, none find foothold sure for shoe 'Twixt those squares and squares of granite plating the impervious pile As his scale-mail's warty iron cuirasses a crocodile. Reels that castle thunder-smitten, storm-dismantled? From without Scrambling up by crack and crevice, every cockney prates about Towers—the heap he kicks now! turrets—just the measure of his cane! Will that do? Observe moreover—(same similitude again)— Such a castle seldom crumbles by sheer stress of cannonade: 'T is when foes are foiled and fighting 's finished that vile rains invade, Grass o'ergrows, o'ergrows till night-birds congregating find no holes Fit to build in like the topmost sockets made for banner-poles. So Clive crumbled slow in London, crashed at last. A week before, Dining with him,—after trying churchyard chat of days of yore,— Both of us stopped, tired as tombstones, headpiece, foot-piece, when they lean Each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o'er a coffined Past between. As I saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul's extinguishment By the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers went Where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,—"One more throw Try for Clive!" thought I: "Let 's venture some good rattling question!" So— "Come Clive, tell us"—out I blurted—"what to tell in turn, years hence, When my boy—suppose I have one—asks me on what evidence I maintain my friend of Plassy proved a warrior every whit Worth your Alexanders, CÆsars, Marlboroughs and—what said Pitt?— Frederick the Fierce himself! Clive told me once"—I want to say— "Which feat out of all those famous doings bore the bell away —In his own calm estimation, mark you, not the mob's rough guess— Which stood foremost as evincing what Clive called courageousness! Come! what moment of the minute, what speck-centre in the wide Circle of the action saw your mortal fairly deified? (Let alone that filthy sleep-stuff, swallow bold this wholesome Port!) If a friend has leave to question,—when were you most brave, in short?" Up he arched his brows o' the instant—formidably Clive again. "When was I most brave? I 'd answer, were the instance half as plain As another instance that 's a brain-lodged crystal —curse it!—here Freezing when my memory touches—ugh!—the time I felt most fear. Ugh! I cannot say for certain if I showed fear—anyhow, Fear I felt, and, very likely, shuddered, since I shiver now." "Fear!" smiled I. "Well, that 's the rarer: that 's a specimen to seek, Ticket up in one's museum, Mind-Freaks, Lord Clive's Fear, Unique!" Down his brows dropped. On the table painfully he pored as though Tracing, in the stains and streaks there, thoughts encrusted long ago. When he spoke 't was like a lawyer reading word by word some will, Some blind jungle of a statement,—beating on and on until Out there leaps fierce life to fight with. "This fell in my factor-days. Desk-drudge, slaving at Saint David's, one must game, or drink, or craze. I chose gaming: and,—because your high-flown gamesters hardly take Umbrage at a factor's elbow if the factor pays his stake,— I was winked at in a circle where the company was choice, Captain This and Major That, men high of color, loud of voice, Yet indulgent, condescending to the modest juvenile Who not merely risked but lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile. "Down I sat to cards, one evening,—had for my antagonist Somebody whose name 's a secret—you 'll know why—so, if you list, Call him Cock o' the Walk, my scarlet son of Mars from head to heel! Play commenced: and, whether Cocky fancied that a clerk must feel Quite sufficient honor came of bending over one green baize, I the scribe with him the warrior, guessed no penman dared to raise Shadow of objection should the honor stay but playing end More or less abruptly,—whether disinclined he grew to spend Practice strictly scientific on a booby born to stare At—not ask of—lace-and-ruffles if the hand they hide plays fair,— Anyhow, I marked a movement when he bade me 'Cut!' "I rose. 'Such the new manoeuvre, Captain? I'm a novice: knowledge grows. What, you force a card, you cheat, Sir?' "Never did a thunder-clap Cause emotion, startle Thyrsis locked with Chloe in his lap, As my word and gesture (down I flung my cards to join the pack) Fired the man of arms, whose visage, simply red before, turned black. When he found his voice, he stammered 'That expression once again!' "'Well, you forced a card and cheated!' "'Possibly a factor's brain, Busied with his all-important balance of accounts, may deem Weighing words superfluous trouble: cheat to clerkly ears may seem Just the joke for friends to venture: but we are not friends, you see! When a gentleman is joked with,—if he 's good at repartee, He rejoins, as do I—Sirrah, on your knees, withdraw in full! Beg my pardon, or be sure a kindly bullet through your skull Lets in light and teaches manner to what brain it finds! Choose quick— Have your life snuffed out or, kneeling, pray me trim yon candle-wick!' "'Well, you cheated!' "Then outbroke a howl from all the friends around. To his feet sprang each in fury, fists were clenched and teeth were ground. 'End it! no time like the present! Captain, yours were our disgrace! No delay, begin and finish! Stand back, leave the pair a space! Let civilians be instructed: henceforth simply ply the pen, Fly the sword! This clerk 's no swordsman? Suit him with a pistol, then! Even odds! A dozen paces 'twixt the most and least expert Make a dwarf a giant's equal: nay, the dwarf, if he 's alert, Likelier hits the broader target!' "Up we stood accordingly. As they handed me the weapon, such was my soul's thirst to try Then and there conclusions with this bully, tread on and stamp out Every spark of his existence, that,—crept close to, curled about By that toying tempting teasing fool-forefinger's middle joint,— Don't you guess?—the trigger yielded. Gone my chance! and at the point Of such prime success moreover: scarce an inch above his head Went my ball to hit the wainscot. He was living, I was dead. "Up he marched in flaming triumph—'t was his right, mind!—up, within Just an arm's length. 'Now, my clerkling,' chuckled Cocky with a grin As the levelled piece quite touched me, 'Now, Sir Counting-House, repeat That expression which I told you proved bad manners! Did I cheat?' "'Cheat you did, you knew you cheated, and, this moment, know as well. As for me, my homely breeding bids you—fire and go to Hell!' "Twice the muzzle touched my forehead. Heavy barrel, flurried wrist, Either spoils a steady lifting. Thrice: then, 'Laugh at Hell who list, I can't! God 's no fable either. Did this boy's eye wink once? No! There 's no standing him and Hell and God all three against me,—so, I did cheat!' "And down he threw the pistol, out rushed—by the door Possibly, but, as for knowledge if by chimney, roof or floor, He effected disappearance—I 'll engage no glance was sent That way by a single starer, such a blank astonishment Swallowed up their senses: as for speaking—mute they stood as mice. "Mute not long, though! Such reaction, such a hubbub in a trice! 'Rogue and rascal! Who 'd have thought it? What 's to be expected next, When His Majesty's Commission serves a sharper as pretext For ... But where 's the need of wasting time now? Naught requires delay: Punishment the Service cries for: let disgrace be wiped away Publicly, in good broad daylight! Resignation? No, indeed! Drum and fife must play the Rogue's-March, rank and file be free to speed Tardy marching on the rogue's part by appliance in the rear —Kicks administered shall right this wronged civilian,—never fear, Mister Clive, for—though a clerk—you bore yourself—suppose we say— Just as would beseem a soldier? "'Gentlemen, attention—pray! First, one word!' "I passed each speaker severally in review. When I had precise their number, names and styles, and fully knew Over whom my supervision thenceforth must extend,—why, then— "'Some five minutes since, my life lay—as you all saw, gentlemen— At the mercy of your friend there. Not a single voice was raised In arrest of judgment, not one tongue—before my powder blazed— Ventured "Can it be the youngster blundered, really seemed to mark Some irregular proceeding? We conjecture in the dark, Guess at random,—still, for sake of fair play—what if for a freak, In a fit of absence,—such things have been!—if our friend proved weak —What 's the phrase?—corrected fortune! Look into the case, at least!" Who dared interpose between the altar's victim and the priest? Yet he spared me! You eleven! Whosoever, all or each, To the disadvantage of the man who spared me, utters speech —To his face, behind his back,—that speaker has to do with me: Me who promise, if positions change and mine the chance should be, Not to imitate your friend and waive advantage!' "Twenty-five Years ago this matter happened: and 't is certain," added Clive, "Never, to my knowledge, did Sir Cocky have a single breath Breathed against him: lips were closed throughout his life, or since his death, For if he be dead or living I can tell no more than you. All I know is—Cocky had one chance more; how he used it,—grew Out of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back again Brought the late-ejected devil with a score more in his train,— That 's for you to judge. Reprieval I procured, at any rate. Ugh—the memory of that minute's fear makes gooseflesh rise! Why prate Longer? You 've my story, there 's your instance: fear I did, you see!" "Well"—I hardly kept from laughing—"if I see it, thanks must be Wholly to your Lordship's candor. Not that —in a common case— When a bully caught at cheating thrusts a pistol in one's face, I should under-rate, believe me, such a trial to the nerve! 'T is no joke, at one-and-twenty, for a youth to stand nor swerve. Fear I naturally look for—unless, of all men alive, I am forced to make exception when I come to Robert Clive. Since at Arcot, Plassy, elsewhere, he and death—the whole world knows— Came to somewhat closer quarters." Quarters? Had we come to blows, Clive and I, you had not wondered—up he sprang so, out he rapped Such a round of oaths—no matter! I 'll endeavor to adapt To our modern usage words he—well, 't was friendly license—flung At me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue. "You—a soldier? You—at Plassy? Yours the faculty to nick Instantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick, —At his mercy, at his malice,—has you, through some stupid inch Undefended in your bulwark? Thus laid open,—not to flinch —That needs courage, you 'll concede me. Then, look here! Suppose the man. Checking his advance, his weapon still extended, not a span Distant from my temple,—curse him!—quietly had bade me, 'There! Keep your life, calumniator!—worthless life I freely spare: Mine you freely would have taken—murdered me and my good fame Both at once—and all the better! Go, and thank your own bad aim Which permits me to forgive you!' What if, with such words as these, He had cast away his weapon? How should I have borne me, please? Nay, I 'll spare you pains and tell you. This, and only this, remained— Pick his weapon up and use it on myself. If so had gained Sleep the earlier, leaving England probably to pay on still Rent and taxes for half India, tenant at the Frenchman's will." "Such the turn," said I, "the matter takes with you? Then I abate —No, by not one jot nor tittle,—of your act my estimate. Fear—I wish I could detect there: courage fronts me, plain enough— Call it desperation, madness—never mind! for here 's in rough Why, had mine been such a trial, fear had overcome disgrace. True, disgrace were hard to bear: but such a rush against God's face —None of that for me, Lord Plassy, since I go to church at times, Say the creed my mother taught me! Many years in foreign climes Rub some marks away—not all, though! We poor sinners reach life's brink, Overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but think There 's advantage in what 's left us—ground to stand on, time to call 'Lord, have mercy!' ere we topple over—do not leap, that 's all!" Oh, he made no answer, re-absorbed into his cloud. I caught Something like "Yes—courage: only fools will call it fear." If aught Comfort you, my great unhappy hero Clive, in that I heard, Next week, how your own hand dealt you doom, and uttered just the word "Fearfully courageous!"—this, be sure, and nothing else I groaned. I 'm no Clive, nor parson either: Clive's worst deed—we 'll hope condoned. MULÉYKEHure, at just the stage I find you,When your hand may draw me forth from the mad war-dance Savages are leading round your master—down, not dead. Padua wants to burn me: balk them, let me linger Life out—rueful though its remnant—hid in some safe hold behind you! Prostrate here I lie: quick, help with but a finger Lest I house in safety's self—a tombstone o'er my head! "Lodging, bite and sup, with—now and then—a copper —Alms for any poorer still, if such there be,—is all my asking. Take me for your bedesman,—nay, if you think proper, Menial merely,—such my perfect passion for repose! Yes, from out your plenty Peter craves a pittance —Leave to thaw his frozen hands before the fire whereat you 're basking! Double though your debt were, grant this boon—remittance He proclaims of obligation: 't is himself that owes!" "Venerated Master—can it be, such treatment Learning meets with, magic fails to guard you from, by all appearance? Strange! for, as you entered,—what the famous feat meant, I was full of,—why you reared that fabric, Padua's boast. Nowise for man's pride, man's pleasure, did you slyly Raise it, but man's seat of rule whereby the world should soon have clearance (Happy world) from such a rout as now so vilely Handles you—and hampers me, for which I grieve the most. "Since if it got wind you now were my familiar, How could I protect you—nay, defend myself against the rabble? Wait until the mob, now masters, willy-nilly are Servants as they should be: then has gratitude full play! Surely this experience shows how unbefitting 'T is that minds like mine should rot in ease and plenty. Geese may gabble, Gorge, and keep the ground: but swans are soon for quitting Earthly fare—as fain would I, your swan, if taught the way. "Teach me, then, to rule men, have them at my pleasure! Solely for their good, of course,—impart a secret worth rewarding, Since the proper life's—prize! Tantalus's treasure Aught beside proves, vanishes, and leaves no trace at all. Wait awhile, nor press for payment prematurely! Over-haste defrauds you. Thanks! since,—even while I speak,—discarding Sloth and vain delights, I learn how—swiftly, surely— Magic sways the sceptre, wears the crown and wields the ball! "Gone again—what, is he? 'Faith, he 's soon disposed of! Peter's precepts work already, put within my lump their leaven! Ay, we needs must don glove would we pluck the rose—doff Silken garment would we climb the tree and take its fruit. Why sharp thorn, rough rind? To keep unviolated Either prize! We garland us, we mount from earth to feast in heaven, Just because exist what once we estimated Hindrances which, better taught, as helps we now compute. "Foolishly I turned disgusted from my fellows! Pits of ignorance—to fill, and heaps of prejudice—to level— Multitudes in motley, whites and blacks and yellows— What a hopeless task it seemed to discipline the host! Now I see my error. Vices act like virtues —Not alone because they guard—sharp thorns—the rose we first dishevel, Not because they scrape, scratch—rough rind—through the dirt-shoes Bare feet cling to bole with, while the half-mooned boot we boast. "No, my aim is nobler, more disinterested! Man shall keep what seemed to thwart him, since it proves his true assistance, Leads to ascertaining which head is the best head, Would he crown his body, rule its members—lawless else. Ignorant the horse stares, by deficient vision Takes a man to be a monster, lets him mount, then, twice the distance Horse could trot unridden, gallops—dream Elysian!— Dreaming that his dwarfish guide's a giant,—jockeys tell 's." Brief, so worked the spell, he promptly had a riddance: Heart and brain no longer felt the pricks which passed for conscience-scruples: Free henceforth his feet,—Per Bacco, how they did dance Merrily through lets and checks that stopped the way before! Politics the prize now,—such adroit adviser. Opportune suggester, with the tact that triples and quadruples Merit in each measure,—never did the Kaiser Boast as subject such a statesman, friend, and something more! As he, up and down, one noonday, paced his closet —Council o'er, each spark (his hint) blown flame, by colleagues' breath applauded, Strokes of statecraft hailed with "Salomo si nÔsset!" (His the nostrum)—every throw for luck come double-six,— As he, pacing, hugged himself in satisfaction, Thump—the door went. "What, the Kaiser? By none else were I defrauded Thus of well-earned solace. Since 't is fate's exaction,— Enter, Liege my Lord! Ha, Peter, you here? Teneor vix!" "Ah, Sir, none the less, contain you, nor wax irate! You so lofty, I so lowly,—vast the space which yawns between us! Still, methinks, you—more than ever—at a high rate Needs must prize poor Peter's secret since it lifts you thus. Grant me now the boon whereat before you boggled! Ten long years your march has moved—one triumph—(though e 's short)—hact?nus, While I down and down disastrously have joggled Till I pitch against Death's door, the true Nec Ultra Plus. "Years ago—some ten 't is—since I sought for shelter, Craved in your whole house a closet, out of all your means a comfort. Now you soar above these: as is gold to spelter So is power—you urged with reason—paramount to wealth. Power you boast in plenty: let it grant me refuge! House-room now is out of question: find for me some stronghold—some fort— Privacy wherein, immured, shall this blind deaf huge Monster of a mob let stay the soul I 'd save by stealth! "Ay, for all too much with magic have I tampered! —Lost the world, and gained, I fear, a certain place I 'm to describe loth! Still, if prayer and fasting tame the p [Listen] DOCTOR ——A Rabbi told me: On the day allowed Satan for carping at God's rule, he came, Fresh from our earth, to brave the angel-crowd. "What is the fault now?" "This I find to blame: Many and various are the tongues below, Yet all agree in one speech, all proclaim "'Hell has no might to match what earth, can show: Death is the strongest-born of Hell, and yet Stronger than Death is a Bad Wife, we know.' "Is it a wonder if I fume and fret— Robbed of my rights, since Death am I, and mine The style of Strongest? Men pay Nature's debt "Because they must at my demand; decline To pay it henceforth surely men will please, Provided husbands with bad wives combine "To baffle Death. Judge between me and these!" "Thyself shalt judge. Descend to earth in shape Of mortal, marry, drain from froth to lees "The bitter draught, then see if thou escape Concluding, with men sorrowful and sage, A Bad Wife's strength Death's self in vain would ape!" How Satan entered on his pilgrimage, Conformed himself to earthly ordinance, Wived and played husband well from youth to age Intrepidly—I leave untold, advance Through many a married year until I reach A day when—of his father's countenance The very image, like him too in speech As well as thought and deed,—the union's fruit Attained maturity. "I needs must teach "My son a trade: but trade, such son to suit, Needs seeking after. He a man of war? Too cowardly! A lawyer wins repute— "Having to toil and moil, though—both which are Beyond this sluggard. There 's Divinity: No, that 's my own bread-winner—that be far "From my poor offspring! Physic? Ha, we 'll try If this be practicable. Where 's my wit? Asleep?—since, now I come to think ... Ay, ay! "Hither, my son! Exactly have I hit On a profession for thee. Medicus— Behold, thou art appointed! Yea, I spit "Upon thine eyes, bestow a virtue thus That henceforth not this human form I wear Shalt thou perceive alone, but—one of us "By privilege—thy fleshly sight shall bear Me in my spirit-person as I walk The world and take my prey appointed there. "Doctor once dubbed—what ignorance shall balk Thy march triumphant? Diagnose the gout As colic, and prescribe it cheese for chalk— "No matter! All 's one: cure shall come about And win thee wealth—fees paid with such a roar Of thanks and praise alike from lord and lout "As never stunned man's ears on earth before. 'How may this be?' Why, that 's my skeptic! Soon Truth will corrupt thee, soon thou doubt'st no more! "Why is it I bestow on thee the boon Of recognizing me the while I go Invisibly among men, morning, noon, "And night, from house to house, and—quick or slow— Take my appointed prey? They summon thee For help, suppose: obey the summons! so! "Enter, look round! Where 's Death? Know—I am he, Satan who work all evil: I who bring Pain to the patient in whate'er degree. "I, then, am there: first glance thine eye shall fling Will find me—whether distant or at hand, As I am free to do my spiriting. "At such mere first glance thou shalt understand Wherefore I reach no higher up the room Than door or window, when my form is scanned. "Howe'er friends' faces please to gather gloom, Bent o'er the sick,—howe'er himself desponds,— In such case Death is not the sufferer's doom. "Contrariwise, do friends rejoice my bonds Are broken, does the captive in his turn Crow 'Life shall conquer'? Nip these foolish fronds "Of hope a-sprout, if haply thou discern Me at the head—my victim's head, be sure! Forth now! This taught thee, little else to learn!" And forth he went. Folk heard him ask demure, "How do you style this ailment? (There he peeps, My father through the arras!) Sirs, the cure "Is plain as A B C! Experience steeps Blossoms of pennyroyal half an hour In sherris. Sumat!—Lo, how sound he sleeps— "The subject you presumed was past the power Of Galen to relieve!" Or else, "How 's this? Why call for help so tardily? Clouds lour "Portentously indeed, Sirs! (Naught 's amiss: He 's at the bed-foot merely.) Still, the storm May pass averted—not by quacks, I wis, "Like you, my masters! You, forsooth, perform A miracle? Stand, sciolists, aside! Blood, ne'er so cold, at ignorance grows warm!" Which boasting by result was justified, Big as might words be: whether drugged or left Drugless, the patient always lived, not died. Great the heir's gratitude, so nigh bereft Of all he prized in this world: sweet the smile Of disconcerted rivals: "Cure?—say, theft "From Nature in despite of Art—so style This off-hand kill-or-cure work! You did much, I had done more: folk cannot wait awhile!" But did the case change? was it—"Scarcely such The symptoms as to warrant our recourse To your skill, Doctor! Yet since just a touch "Of pulse, a taste of breath, has all the force With you of long investigation claimed By others,—tracks an ailment to its source "Intuitively,—may we ask unblamed What from this pimple you prognosticate?" "Death!" was the answer, as he saw and named The coucher by the sick man's head. "Too late You send for my assistance. I am bold Only by Nature's leave, and bow to Fate! "Besides, you have my rivals: lavish gold! How comfortably quick shall life depart Cosseted by attentions manifold! "One day, one hour ago, perchance my art Had done some service. Since you have yourselves Chosen—before the horse—to put the cart, "Why, Sirs, the sooner that the sexton delves Your patient's grave the better! How you stare —Shallow, for all the deep books on your shelves! "Fare you well, fumblers!" Do I need declare What name and fame, what riches recompensed The Doctor's practice? Never anywhere Such an adept as daily evidenced Each new vaticination! Oh, not he Like dolts who dallied with their scruples, fenced With subterfuge, nor gave out frank and free Something decisive! If he said "I save The patient," saved he was: if "Death will be "His portion," you might count him dead. Thus brave, Behold our worthy, sans competitor Throughout the country, on the architrave Of Glory's temple golden-lettered for Machaon redivivus! So, it fell That, of a sudden, when the Emperor Was smit by sore disease, I need not tell If any other Doctor's aid was sought To come and forthwith make the sick Prince well. "He will reward thee as a monarch ought. Not much imports the malady; but then, He clings to life and cries like one distraught "For thee—who, from a simple citizen, Mayst look to rise in rank,—nay, haply wear A medal with his portrait,—always when "Recovery is quite accomplished. There! Pass to the presence!" Hardly has he crossed The chamber's threshold when he halts, aware Of who stands sentry by the head. All 's lost. "Sire, naught avails my art: you near the goal, And end the race by giving up the ghost." "How?" cried the monarch: "Names upon your roll Of half my subjects rescued by your skill— Old and young, rich and poor—crowd cheek by jowl "And yet no room for mine? Be saved I will! Why else am I earth's foremost potentate? Add me to these and take as fee your fill "Of gold—that point admits of no debate Between us: save me, as you can and must,— Gold, till your gown's pouch cracks beneath the weight!" This touched the Doctor. "Truly a home-thrust, Parent, you will not parry! Have I dared Entreat that you forego the meal of dust "—Man that is snake's meat—when I saw prepared Your daily portion? Never! Just this once, Go from his head, then,—let his life be spared!" Whisper met whisper in the gruff response; "Fool, I must have my prey: no inch I budge From where thou see'st me thus myself ensconce." "Ah," moaned the sufferer, "by thy look I judge Wealth fails to tempt thee: what if honors prove More efficacious? Naught to him I grudge "Who saves me. Only keep my head above The cloud that 's creeping round it—I 'll divide My empire with thee! No? What 's left but—love? "Does love allure thee? Well then, take as bride My only daughter, fair beyond belief! Save me—to-morrow shall the knot be tied!" "Father, you hear him! Respite ne'er so brief Is all I beg: go now and come again Next day, for aught I care: respect the grief "Mine will be if thy first-born sues in vain!" "Fool, I must have my prey!" was all he got In answer. But a fancy crossed his brain. "I have it! Sire, methinks a meteor shot Just now across the heavens and neutralized Jove's salutary influence: 'neath the blot "Plumb are you placed now: well that I surmised The cause of failure! Knaves, reverse the bed!" "Stay!" groaned the monarch, "I shall be capsized— "Jolt—jolt—my heels uplift where late my head Was lying—sure I 'm turned right round at last! What do you say now, Doctor?" Naught he said, For why? With one brisk leap the Antic passed From couch-foot back to pillow,—as before, Lord of the situation. Long aghast The Doctor gazed, then "Yet one trial more Is left me" inwardly he uttered. "Shame Upon thy flinty heart! Do I implore "This trifling favor in the idle name Of mercy to the moribund? I plead The cause of all thou dost affect: my aim "Befits my author! Why would I succeed? Simply that by success I may promote The growth of thy pet virtues—pride and greed. "But keep thy favors!—curse thee! I devote Henceforth my service to the other side. No time to lose: the rattle 's in his throat. "So,—not to leave one last resource untried,— Run to my house with all haste, somebody! Bring me that knobstick thence, so often plied "With profit by the astrologer—shall I Disdain its help, the mystic Jacob's-Staff? Sire, do but have the courage not to die "Till this arrive! Let none of you dare laugh! Though rugged its exterior, I have seen That implement work wonders, send the chaff "Quick and thick flying from the wheat—I mean, By metaphor, a human sheaf it threshed Flail-like. Go fetch it! Or—a word between Just you and me, friend!—go bid, unabashed, My mother, whom you 'll find there, bring the stick Herself—herself, mind!" Out the lackey dashed Zealous upon the errand. Craft and trick Are meat and drink to Satan: and he grinned —How else?—at an excuse so politic For failure: scarce would Jacob's-Staff rescind Fate's firm decree! And ever as he neared The agonizing one, his breath like wind Froze to the marrow, while his eye-flash seared Sense in the brain up: closelier and more close Pressing his prey, when at the door appeared —Who but his Wife the Bad? Whereof one dose, One grain, one mite of the medicament, Sufficed him. Up he sprang. One word, too gross To soil my lips with,—and through ceiling went Somehow the Husband. "That a storm 's dispersed We know for certain by the sulphury scent! "Hail to the Doctor! Who but one so versed In all Dame Nature's secrets had prescribed The staff thus opportunely? Style him first "And foremost of physicians!" "I've imbibed Elixir surely," smiled the prince,—"have gained New lease of life. Dear Doctor, how you bribed "Death to forego me, boots not: you 've obtained My daughter and her dowry. Death, I 've heard, Was still on earth the strongest power that reigned, "Except a Bad Wife!" Whereunto demurred Nowise the Doctor, so refused the fee —No dowry, no bad wife! "You think absurd This tale?"—the Rabbi added: "True, our Talmud Boasts sundry such: yet—have our elders erred In thinking there 's some water there, not all mud?" I tell it, as the Rabbi told it me. PAN AND LUNASi credere dignum est.—Georgic, III. 390. Oh, worthy of belief I hold it was, Virgil, your legend in those strange three lines! No question, that adventure came to pass One black night in Arcadia: yes, the pines, Mountains and valleys mingling made one mass Of black with void black heaven: the earth's confines, The sky's embrace,—below, above, around, All hardened into black without a bound. Fill up a swart stone chalice to the brim With fresh-squeezed yet fast-thickening poppy-juice: See how the sluggish jelly, late a-swim, Turns marble to the touch of who would loose The solid smooth, grown jet from rim to rim, By turning round the bowl! So night can fuse Earth with her all-comprising sky. No less. Light, the least spark, shows air and emptiness. And thus it proved when—diving into space, Stript of all vapor, from each web of mist Utterly film-free—entered on her race The naked Moon, full-orbed antagonist Of night and dark, night's dowry: peak to base, Upstarted mountains, and each valley, kissed To sudden life, lay silver-bright: in air Flew she revealed, Maid-Moon with limbs all bare. Still as she fled, each depth—where refuge seemed— Opening a lone pale chamber, left distinct Those limbs: 'mid still-retreating blue, she teemed Herself with whiteness,—virginal, uncinct By any halo save what finely gleamed To outline not disguise her: heaven was linked In one accord with earth to quaff the joy, Drain beauty to the dregs without alloy. Whereof she grew aware. What help? When, lo, A succorable cloud with sleep lay dense: Some pinetree-top had caught it sailing slow, And tethered for a prize: in evidence Captive lay fleece on fleece of piled-up snow Drowsily patient: flake-heaped how or whence, The structure of that succorable cloud, What matter? Shamed she plunged into its shroud. Orbed—so the woman-figure poets call Because of rounds on rounds—that apple-shaped Head which its hair binds close into a ball Each side the curving ears—that pure undraped Pout of the sister paps—that ... Once for all, Say—her consummate circle thus escaped With its innumerous circlets, sank absorbed, Safe in the cloud—O naked Moon full-orbed! But what means this? The downy swathes combine, Conglobe, the smothery coy-caressing stuff Curdles about her! Vain each twist and twine Those lithe limbs try, encroached on by a fluff Fitting as close as fits the dented spine Its flexible ivory outside-flesh: enough! The plumy drifts contract, condense, constringe, Till she is swallowed by the feathery springe. As when a pearl slips lost in the thin foam Churned on a sea-shore, and, o'er-frothed, conceits Herself safe-housed in Amphitrite's dome,— If, through the bladdery wave-worked yeast, she meets What most she loathes and leaps from,—elf from gnome No gladlier,—finds that safest of retreats Bubble about a treacherous hand wide ope To grasp her—(divers who pick pearls so grope)— So lay this Maid-Moon clasped around and caught By rough red Pan, the god of all that tract: He it was schemed the snare thus subtly wrought With simulated earth-breath,—wool-tufts packed Into a billowy wrappage. Sheep far-sought For spotless shearings yield such: take the fact As learned Virgil gives it,—how the breed Whitens itself forever: yes, indeed! If one forefather ram, though pure as chalk From tinge on fleece, should still display a tongue Black 'neath the beast's moist palate, prompt men balk The propagating plague: he gets no young: They rather slay him,—sell his hide to calk Ships with, first steeped in pitch,—nor hands are wrung In sorrow for his fate: protected thus, The purity we love is gained for us. So did Girl-Moon, by just her attribute Of unmatched modesty betrayed, lie trapped, Bruised to the breast of Pan, half god half brute, Raked by his bristly boar-sward while he lapped —Never say, kissed her! that were to pollute Love's language—which moreover proves unapt To tell now she recoiled—as who finds thorns Where she sought flowers—when, feeling, she touched—horns! Then—does the legend say?—first moon-eclipse Happened, first swooning-fit which puzzled sore The early sages? Is that why she dips Into the dark, a minute and no more, Only so long as serves her while she rips The cloud's womb through and, faultless as before, Pursues her way? No lesson for a maid Left she, a maid herself thus trapped, betrayed? Ha, Virgil? Tell the rest, you! "To the deep Of his domain the wildwood, Pan forthwith Called her, and so she followed"—in her sleep, Surely?—"by no means spurning him." The myth Explain who may! Let all else go, I keep —As of a ruin just a monolith— Thus much, one verse of five words, each a boon: Arcadia, night, a cloud, Pan, and the moon. The first ten lines that follow were printed as epilogue to the second series of Dramatic Idyls; the second ten were added to them by Browning in the album of a young American girl in Venice, October, 1880. See The Century for November, 1882. "Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke: Soil so quick-receptive,—not one feather-seed, Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awoke Vitalizing virtue: song would song succeed Sudden as spontaneous—prove a poet-soul!" Indeed? Rock's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare: Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage Vainly both expend,—few flowers awaken there: Quiet in its cleft broods—what the after-age Knows and names a pine, a nation's heritage. Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters, Poets dead and gone; and lo, the critics cried, "Out on such a boast!" as if I dreamed that fetters Binding Dante bind up—me! as if true pride Were not also humble! So I smiled and sighed As I oped your book in Venice this bright morning, Sweet new friend of mine! and felt the clay or sand, Whatsoe'er my soil be, break—for praise or scorning— Out in grateful fancies—weeds; but weeds expand Almost into flowers, held by such a kindly hand. THE BLIND MAN TO THE MAIDENBrowning translated the following from a German poem in Wilhelmine von Hillern's novel The Hour Will Come at the request of Mrs. Clara Bell, the translator of the novel. It there appeared as the work of an anonymous friend, but was reprinted as Browning's in The Whitehall Review for March 1, 1883. The blind man to the maiden said, "O thou of hearts the truest, Thy countenance is hid from me; Let not my question anger thee! Speak, though in words the fewest. "Tell me, what kind of eyes are thine? Dark eyes, or light ones rather?" "My eyes are a decided brown— So much, at least, by looking down, From the brook's glass I gather." "And is it red—thy little month? That too the blind must care for." "Ah! I would tell it soon to thee, Only—none yet has told it me. I cannot answer, therefore. "But dost thou ask what heart I have— There hesitate I never. In thine own breast 't is borne, and so 'T is thine in weal, and thine in woe, For life, for death—thine ever!" GOLDONIThe following sonnet was written by Browning for the album of the Committee of the Goldoni monument, erected in Venice in 1883. Goldoni—good, gay, sunniest of souls,— Glassing half Venice in that verse of thine,— What though it just reflect the shade and shine Of common life, nor render, as it rolls, Grandeur and gloom? Sufficient for thy shoals Was Carnival; Parini's depths enshrine Secrets unsuited to that opaline Surface of things which laughs along thy scrolls. There throng the people: how they come and go, Lisp the soft language, flaunt the bright garb,—see,— On Piazza, Calle, under Portico And over Bridge! Dear king of Comedy, Be honored! thou that didst love Venice so, Venice, and we who love her, all love thee! Venice, November 27, 1883. |
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