Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

Dr. Livingstone, in his interesting travels in South Africa, makes a curious statement bearing upon this subject. He was out shooting lions one day, when, "after having shot once, just," he says, "as I was in the act of ramming down the bullets, I heard a shout. Starting and looking half round, I saw the lion just in the act of springing upon me. I was upon a little height; he caught my shoulder as he sprang, and we both came to the ground below together. Growling horribly close to my ear, he shook me as a terrier-dog does a rat. The shock produced a stupor similar to that which seems to be felt by a mouse after the first shake of the cat. It caused a sort of dreaminess, in which there was no sense of pain nor feeling of terror, though quite conscious of all that was happening. It was like what patients partially under the influence of chloroform describe, who see all the operation, but feel not the knife. This singular condition was not the result of any mental process. The shake annihilated fear, and allowed no sense of horror in looking round at the beast. This peculiar state is probably produced in all animals killed by the _carnivora_, and, if so, is a merciful provision by our benevolent Creator for lessening the pain of death."

The next method of fascination was by the Voice. Aristotle speaks of it as the cause of fascination, and says that the mere sound of the fascinator's voice has this wondrous power, independently of his good or ill will, as well as of the words he uses. And Alexander Aphrodisiensis calls the fascinators poisoners, who poison their victim by intently looking at him _carmine prolato_, "with a measured song or cadence." The same peculiarity is observable in all experiments with the moving tables or rapping spirits, which are more successful when accompanied by constant music. Circe fascinated with incantation; and the Psalmist alludes to it as a means of charming. Serpents, as well as men, are thus charmed. Virgil says, that, if to this incantation by words certain herbs are joined, the fascination works with more terrible effect:--

"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 quisquam
Limat; 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 the _Bucephalus 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 of _tic-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 of _Jettatura_, 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 worthy _padre_ feared 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, he _is_ a 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. Et _ego_ hisce 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 evil _jettatura_ than 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, a _frate_ of 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 the _jettatura_, it is very odd that everything he blesses makes _fiasco_. 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 the _jettatura_, 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, the _tragédienne_ seemed 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 a _jettatore_. "_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 the _jettatura_ of Pius IX.

Dumas also speaks of a work on the _jettatura_, 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 is _Cicalata 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 terrible _jettatura_ than 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 the _jettatura?_

"5. If the woman _jettatrice_ is more to be feared when she is _enceinte?_

"6. If there is still more to be feared from her when she is certain that she is not _enceinte?_

"7. If monks are more generally _jettatori_ than other men? and among monks what order is most to be feared?

"8. At what distance can _jettatura_ be 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 which _jettatura_ may be recognized?

"11. If there are prayers which can guaranty us against the _jettatura?_ and if so, whether there are any special prayers to guaranty us against the _jettatura_ of 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 is _enceinte,_ 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 you _buon 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,--his _jettatura_ is without and beyond his will,--nay, worse, is contrary to it; for all _jettatura_ goes 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 certain _canonico,_ 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 greatest _jettatore_ in Naples. Finally, on the 2d of January, the King was persuaded to grant him the desired favor the next day, much against his will. The _canonico_ came, 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?

* * * * *

PYTHAGORAS.

Above the petty passions of the crowd I 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 see The veined shells and glistening scales which once Enwrapt my being,--husks that had their use; I brood on all the shapes I must attain Before 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 simoom On arid deserts,--a nomadic wind Roaming 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 warm A slope on Ida; for a hundred years Moved in the purple gyre of those dark flowers The Grecian women strew upon the dead. Under the earth, in fragrant glooms, I dwelt; Then in the veins and sinews of a pine On a lone isle, where, from the Cyclades, A mighty wind, like a leviathan, Ploughed through the brine, and from those solitudes Sent 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 night I heard loud voices by the sounding shore, The stormy sea-gods,--and from ivory conchs Wild music; and strange shadows floated by, Some moaning and some singing. So the years Clustered about me, till the hand of God Let 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 gates Of daybreak; and beneath me I beheld Vineyards, and rivers that like silver threads Ran 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 spires And palace-roofs and swollen domes uprose Like scintillant stalagmites in the sun; I saw huge navies battling with a storm By ragged reefs along the desolate coasts,-- And lazy merchantmen, that crawled, like flies, Over the blue enamel of the sea To 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 hour Beyond all price,--that hour when from the heavens I circled near and nearer to the earth, Nearer and nearer, till I brushed my wings Against the pointed chestnuts, where a stream That foamed and chattered over pebbly shoals Fled through the bryony, and with a shout Leaped headlong down a precipice: and there, Gathering wild-flowers in the cool ravine, Wandered a woman more divinely shaped Than any of the creatures of the air, Or river-goddesses, or restless shades Of noble matrons marvellous in their time For beauty and great suffering; and I sung, I charmed her thought, I gave her dreams; and then Down from the sunny atmosphere I stole And nestled in her bosom. There I slept From moon to moon, while in her eyes a thought Grew 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-boughs The 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 fret And 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 change Which seems like sleep; and though I waiting starve, I cannot kiss the idols that are set By 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.

* * * * *

CLARIAN'S PICTURE.

A LEGEND OF NASSAU HALL.

"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's _Cenacolo_, 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 is _fou_!" 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 the _magnum opus_ is 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 youngster _carte blanche_ as 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 the _sobriquet_ of "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 Freshmen _protégé's_ to 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 a _protégé_ of 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 been _blasé_ long 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 maternal _Index 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-made _vin 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 and _Esemplastic_ matters 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 all _Niffelheim_ in 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 stupid _Ego_ and _Non-Ego_?" said he. "Don't you see he is injuring himself, beginning to sink under a sort of mental _albumenurea_,--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 your _pia mater_, that can take in _quantum sufficit_ of 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 hours _per diem_ at 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 reconciling _Geist_ and _Freiheit_, 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 of _genus 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."