Chapter VII: Part I: The Ideal (1)

Stars are around thy head--under thy feet surges the sea--a rainbow forever floats upon the waves before thee--painting the mists, or melting them into light--whatsoever thou lookest upon is thine--the shores, the cities, the men belong to thee--the heavens are thine--it seems as if nothing ever equalled thy glory!

* * * * *

To alien ears thou chantest airs of inconceivable rapture--thou weavest hearts into one with a single touch of thy fairy fingers, and with a breath again dividest them--thou forcest tears--thou driest them with a smile--alas! the next moment thou frightenest the wan smile from the quivering lip for a time--too often, forever!

Tell me, what dost thou thyself feel? Of what dost thou think? What dost thou create?

The living stream of Beauty flows on through thee, but thou thyself art not Beauty!

Woe to thee! woe! the child crying on the lap of its nurse, the field flower unconscious of its gift of perfume, have more merit before the eyes of the Lord than thou!

* * * * *

What has been thy origin, thou empty shadow, bearing witness to the Light, yet knowing not the Light, which thou seest not, and wilt not see!

In anger, or in mockery, wert thou made? Who was thy creator? Who gave thee thy short and mobile life, and taught thee such seductive magic, that thou seemst to glitter for a moment like an angel before thou sinkest into clay, to creep like a worm, and be stifled in thine own corruption?

Thy beginning is one with that of the woman.

* * * * *

Yet, alas! thou sufferest, although thy agony brings nought to the birth, and avails thee nothing.

The groans of the lowest beggar are counted in heaven, compensated amid the music of angels' harps--but thy sighs, thy despair, fall into the bottomless abyss, and Satan gathers them together, and joyfully adds them to the pile of his own lies and delusions--and the Lord will deny and disown them, as they have denied and disowned the Lord!

* * * * *

But not for this do I pity thee, spirit of Poetry, mother of Beauty and Freedom! No. I mourn for the unhappy souls who are forced to remember or divine thee upon chaotic worlds destined to destruction--alas! thou ruinest only those who consecrate themselves to thee, who become the living voices of thy fame!

And yet, blessed is it when thou takest up thine abode in a man, as God dwelt in the world, unseen, unknown, yet everywhere great and mighty, the Lord, before whom all creatures bow and say: 'He is here!'

Such a man will bear thee like a star upon his radiant brow; he will never turn from thee even for the duration of a little word; he will love men, and, like a man, walk with his brethren.

And he who guards thee not, who is willing to betray thee, to devote thee to the idle pleasure of men--from him thou turnest sadly away, scattering in pity a few fading flowers upon his head; he plays with the dying bloom, and weaves his death-wreath all the days of his short life.

Thy beginning is one with that of the woman!

* * * * *

'De toutes les bouffonneries la plus serieuse est le
mariage.'--_Figaro._

Of all jests the most serious is marriage.

GUARDIAN ANGEL. Peace be to men of good will!

Blessed is he among the created who has still a heart; he may yet be saved!

Good and true wife, reveal thyself to him; and a child be born to their house!

He flies onward.

CHORUS OF EVIL SPIRITS. Rise! rise, spectres and phantoms! Hover near him! Head them and lead them on, thou, the yesterday-buried idol, the shadow of the dead love of the Poet! Bathe thyself anew in the vapors of the ideal realm; wreathe thy mouldering brow with the fair buds of spring; and float on before him, thou, once the beloved of the Poet!

Rise, Glory, rise! Old eagle, well stuffed and preserved in hell, descend from thy crumbling perch, unfold thy gigantic wings whitened in the rays of the sun, and wave them above the head, until they dazzle the eyes of the Poet!

Come forth from our vaults, thou rotting masterpiece from the pencil of Beelzebub, thou glowing picture of an earthly Eden, which has dizzied the brain of so many philosophers! Get the old rents in thy canvas reglued; the holes and cracks refilled with varnish; wrap thyself in the magic webs of hazy clouds and glittering mists; fly to the Poet, and unroll thyself ever before him!

And thou, Nature! surround him with mountains, cliffs, and seas; lull him with golden dawns and crimson eves; inweave him in thy magic circle of azure days and starry nights; O mother Nature--closely embrace the Poet!

* * * * *

A village. A church. The Guardian Angel is seen floating and
swaying to and fro upon it.

GUARDIAN ANGEL. If thou keepest the Holy Vow, thou wilt be my brother forever before the face of our Heavenly Father! Vanishes.

The interior of the church. Wax lights blaze upon the altar--many
witnesses are standing round it. A Priest is reading the marriage
service.

THE PRIEST. Remember, you have sworn to be true and faithful until death!

The Bride and Groom rise--he presses the hand of the Bride, and
conducts her to one of the relatives. All depart except the Groom;
he remains alone in the church.

BRIDEGROOM. I have descended to an earthly betrothal, I have found her of whom my spirit dreamed.

Curses be upon my head if I ever cease to love her!

* * * * *

A saloon filled with people. Music, dancing, lights, flowers; the
Bride dances--after a few rounds she remains standing--meets the
Groom, draws apart from the crowd, and leans her head upon his
breast.

BRIDEGROOM. How beautiful thou art, my love, in thy exhaustion, with flowers and pearls falling in soft confusion through the masses of thy wavy hair, glowing with the rapid motion of the dance, and blushing with maiden shame!

Oh, forever and ever thou shalt be my living Poem!

BRIDE. I will be to thee a true wife, as my mother taught me, as my own heart teaches me. But there are so many men here--there is so much noise--and it is so hot--

BRIDEGROOM. Go and join once more the dance. I will stand here, and watch thee as thou floatest on, as I have often gazed in dreams upon the circling angels.

BRIDE. I will go, since it is thy wish--but I am very weary.

BRIDEGROOM. I pray thee, love, go.

Music and dancing.

* * * * *

Midnight. The Evil Spirit appears, flying about in the form of a
maiden.

EVIL SPIRIT. It is not long since at this same hour I coursed the earth--the spirits of the lower world now drive me on; they force me to assume a holy part.

He flies over a garden.

Ye perfumed flowers! tear yourselves from your green stems, and fly into my hair!

He flies over a graveyard.

Living bloom and fresh charms of buried maidens, lost here, and floating vainly about above forgotten graves--fly into, and paint my swarthy cheeks with roseate hues of youth and love!

Under this white stone a fair-haired girl moulders and festers into wormy rottenness; shadows of her lustrous curls, come--twine round my burning brow!

Under this fallen cross, two soft eyes of heavenly blue are dying in their sunken sockets--to me! to me! the pure and lambent flame which once lightened and glimmered through them!

Behind those iron bars which guard that vault of kings, a hundred torches burn to light corruption--a princess was buried there to-day: ye white and lustrous robes of costly satin, come! fluttering like snowy, downy doves leave to the worms, undraped, the youthful form--fly through the trellised grating--and softly fall around my scathed and fleshless limbs!

And now, on! on! on!

* * * * *

A sleeping apartment. A night lamp stands upon a table, and shines
upon the face of the husband sleeping beside his wife.

THE MAN (_still sleeping_). Ha! whence comest thou? I have neither heard nor seen thee for months--for years.

As water softly flows, so flow thy feet, two white waves!

A holy calm is on thy brow--all that I have ever dreamed--have ever loved--unite in thee!

Awaking suddenly.

Where am I?... Ha! I am sleeping by my wife--yes, that _is_ my wife--

Gazing long upon her.

Ah! I once thought thou wert my early Dream--but thou art it not;--after years of time, it has returned to me--and is not thee, Mary, nor like thee!

Thou art mild, pure, good--but she....

My God! what do I see? Am I really awake?

THE MAIDEN. Thou hast deserted and betrayed me! Vanishes.

THE MAN. Cursed be the hour in which I married a wife, in which I deserted the Love of my youth, the thought of my thought, the soul of my soul....

WIFE (_awaking_). What is it, Henry? Does the day already break? Is the carriage at the door? We have so much to attend to to-day.

THE MAN. No: it is only midnight. Go to sleep--sleep soundly!

WIFE. Have you been taken suddenly ill, my dear? Shall I rise and get anything for you?

THE MAN. Sleep, sleep, I pray.

WIFE. My dearest, tell me what is the matter with you! Your voice trembles, your cheeks burn with fever.

THE MAN (_jumping out of bed_). I only want fresh air--for God's sake, stay here; do not follow me! Once more I beg you will not rise!

He leaves hurriedly the chamber.

* * * * *

The Man is seen standing in a garden lighted by the moon. A gothic
church is in the distance.

THE MAN. Since the bells rang in my marriage morn, I have dozed away life like a lump of clay, vegetating like a peasant, sleeping like a German boor. The whole world around me seems asleep in my own image. What a monotonous existence! I have visited relations, gone to shops, seen physicians, and when a child was born to me, I went for a nurse.

It strikes two upon the tower clock.

Return to me! return, O my old and misty realm, so safely sheltered in the world of thought! Ye shadowy yet lovely forms, once wont to throng around me through the lonely midnight hours, hear my adjuration, and return! return!

He wrings his hands.

O my God! hast Thou in very truth sanctified the ties which link two bodies into one?

Hast Thou surely said that nothing should avail to break them, even when the two souls repel each other; when to advance at all, they must move on upon opposing pathways, while the two chained bodies stiffen into frozen corpses?

And now that thou art again near me, my all, oh, take me with thee! If thou art but a dream, the creation of an o'erwrought brain, let me too be but a dream, a cloud, a mist, that I may be one with thee!

THE MAIDEN. 'Remember, you have sworn to be true until death.'

Wilt thou follow me, if I fly near to lead thee on?

THE MAN. Stay, and melt not like a dream away! If thou art beautiful above all other beauty; a thought above all other thoughts--why tarriest thou no longer than a wish a fading vision?

The window of the house standing in the garden is opened.

A FEMALE VOICE. The chill of the night air will fall upon your breast, my dear. Come back, Henry; it is fearful to be here alone in this vast dark room.

THE MAN. Yes; in an instant.

The fair spirit has vanished, but she promised to return for me--and then farewell house and garden! and farewell wife! created for the house and garden, but not for me!

FEMALE VOICE. For God's sake, come in! It grows so chill toward morning.

THE MAN. But my child--O God!

He leaves the garden.

* * * * *

A large saloon. Two candles stand upon an open piano. A cradle is
near it, in which lies a sleeping child. The Man reclines upon a
sofa, covering his face with his hands. The Wife is seated at the
piano.

WIFE. I have been to see Father Benjamin; he promised to be here day after to-morrow.

THE MAN. Thank you.

WIFE. I have also sent to the confectioner and ordered cakes and ices, for I suppose you have invited many guests to the baptism of our infant. He is to furnish us with some of those chocolate confections, with the name of our son, George Stanislaus, upon them.

THE MAN. Thank you.

WIFE. God be thanked that the ceremony is so soon to be completed, and that our little George will be made an entire Christian; for although he has been already baptized with water, it always seems to me as if he were wanting something.

She goes to the cradle.

Sleep, darling, sleep! Art thou dreaming, that thou thus tossest about thy white arms, and sufferest no covering to remain around thee? So now--that will keep thee warm--lie so! How very restless my baby is to-day! What can be the matter with him? My darling! my beautiful! sleep! sleep!

THE MAN (_aside_). How hot and sultry it grows! A storm is rising; will not the lightning flash from heaven, and strike me to the heart!

WIFE. Neither yesterday, nor to-day, nor for the last week--O God! it is now almost a whole month since you have, of your own accord, addressed a single word to me--and every one says I am growing so pale and thin!

THE MAN (_aside_). The hour is here--nothing can delay it longer.

(To his wife.)

Indeed, on the contrary, I think you are looking remarkably well.

WIFE. Alas! it is a matter of perfect indifference to you; you never even see me! When I come near you, Henry, you turn your head away; and if I sit down beside you, you cover your face with your hands.

I went to confession yesterday, and carefully thought overall my faults and follies--but I could not remember in what way I had so grievously offended you.

THE MAN. You have not offended me.

WIFE. O God! My God!

THE MAN. I feel it is my duty to love you.

WIFE. You kill me with the words _my duty_! Rather say at once, _I do not love you_--then I would at least know all--the worst!

She runs to the cradle, and holds up the child.

Forsake him not--your son! Let all your anger fall on me alone--love my child! my child! Henry!

She kneels before him with the infant in her arms.

THE MAN (_raising her gently from the ground_). Think not of what I have said. Gloomy moments sometimes come upon me, confusion--faintness--

WIFE. But one word more, I implore! one promise, Henry! that you will never cease to love him!

THE MAN. Neither him, nor you--both shall be dear to me--believe me, Mary!

He kisses her brow, she embraces him. At that moment a loud clap of
thunder is heard, followed by strains of music--the chords grow
ever wilder and more wild.

WIFE. Hark! What is that?

She presses the child closely to her bosom. The music ceases.

THE MAIDEN (_entering_). O my beloved, I bring thee joy and peace: come, follow me! Throw off the earthly fetters which enchain, thee, O my love, and follow me! I have sought thee from a new world of endless bliss, in which night never comes--ah! I am only thine!

WIFE. Save me, holy Mother of God!

This ghost is ghastly pale--its eyes are dying out--its voice is hollow as the rolling of the death-hearse with the corpse!

THE MAN. Thy white brow glitters; thy fair head is wreathed with flowers, O beloved!

WIFE. A white shroud hangs in tatters from the shoulders to the feet!

THE MAN. Around and from thee rays the light of heaven! but once to hear thy voice--then die!

THE MAIDEN. She who restrains and impedes thee is but an illusion; her life a passing breath; her love a dying leaf, to fall with thousands of its fellows at the first chill breath, lost and withered--but I will endure forever!

WIFE. Henry--Henry! hide me! Oh do not leave me! the air is filled with sulphur, heavy with the breath of the grave!

THE MAN. Envy not, nor slander, O woman of dust and clay! Behold the Ideal in which God created you--His first thought of what you were meant to be. But following the counsel of the serpent, you became what you now are!

WIFE. I will never leave you!

THE MAN. Beloved, I forsake my house, my all, and follow thee!

WIFE. Henry! Henry! Henry!

She falls to the floor in a fainting fit, with the child in her
arms; loud and repeated claps of thunder are again heard.

* * * * *

The baptism. Guests. Father Benjamin. The Godfather and Godmother.
The nurse with the child in her arms; the Wife seated upon the
sofa. Retainers and servants in the background.

FIRST GUEST. I wonder where the count is hiding.

SECOND GUEST. Perhaps he has been accidentally detained, or he may be writing verses.

FIRST GUEST. How pale and tired the countess looks, and as yet she has spoken to no one.

THIRD GUEST. This christening reminds me of a ball which I once attended; the host had just lost his whole estate at cards, and was a complete bankrupt, while he continued to receive his many guests with the courtesy of despair.

FOURTH GUEST. I left my lovely princess, and came here, because I thought to play my part at a gay breakfast; but I am disappointed, for it seems to me that I am, as the Scripture hath it, in the midst of 'wailing and gnashing of teeth.'

FATHER BENJAMIN. George Stanislaus, wilt thou receive holy unction?

GODFATHER AND GODMOTHER. I receive it.

A GUEST. Look! look! the countess rises from the sofa, and comes slowly forward as if in a dream!

ANOTHER GUEST. How she reels and totters--poor thing! She is advancing to the infant--how deadly pale she grows!

THIRD GUEST. Shall I offer her my arm? She looks as if about to faint--

FATHER BENJAMIN. George Stanislaus! wilt thou renounce the devil and all his works?

GODFATHER AND GODMOTHER. I renounce them.

A GUEST. Hush! the countess--look!

WIFE (_laying her hand softly on the head of the infant_). Where is thy father, tell me, George?

FATHER BENJAMIN. I beg that the ceremony may not be interrupted.

WIFE. Bless thee, George! I bless thee, my son! Become a poet, that thy father may love thee, and never desert thee, George!

GODMOTHER. I conjure you, my dear Mary!

WIFE. Become a poet! that thus thou mayst serve thy father, mayst please him, and then he will forgive thy mother, and return--

FATHER BENJAMIN. For the love of God, countess!

WIFE. I curse thee, George, if thou becomest not a poet!

She falls to the ground in a fainting fit--the servants bear her
out.

GUESTS (_whispering among themselves_). All this is very extraordinary. What can have happened here? We had better leave the house immediately.

Meanwhile the solemn ceremony is completed--the crying infant is
again placed in his cradle.

GODFATHER (_standing by the cradle_). George Stanislaus! you have just been made a Christian, and entered into the pale of human society; in after years you will also be a citizen, and, through the grace of God and the wise training of your parents, you may become a great statesman: remember that you must love your native land; that it is noble and beautiful to die for your country!

Exit all.

* * * * *

A beautiful landscape, diversified with hills and forests; a
mountain in the distance.

THE MAN. That for which I have so long striven, for which I have so ardently prayed, is at last almost within my grasp!

The world of men lies far below me; the human pismires there may throng their ant-hills, and struggle on for crumbs and flies--may burst with rage if they fail to find them, or die with despair if they should lose them. I have left all to....

VOICE OF THE MAIDEN. Here--this way--through--

She glides rapidly on.

* * * * *

Hills and mountains overhanging the sea. Clouds, mist, wind, storm.

THE MAN. Where is she gone? The morning breeze dies suddenly away, the thick mists gather, and the sky grows dark.

There! I have gained at last the very top of this steep peak;--heavens, what a frightful abyss yawns before me! How moaningly the wind howls up this rocky pass!

VOICE OF THE MAIDEN (_from a distance_). Come! to me! to me! beloved!

THE MAN. Where art thou? thy voice is almost lost in the distance. How can I follow thee through this abyss?

A VOICE (_in his ear_). Where are thy wings?

THE MAN. Evil spirit, why dost thou mock and torture me? I scorn thee!

ANOTHER VOICE. What! a great, immortal soul, which in a single moment should be able to traverse the boundless space of heaven, to faint and perish at a cliff on the side of a hill! Stout heart! sublime soul, shuddering, and imploring thy feet to go no farther! poor things!

THE MAN. Appear! Take forms with which I may contend, which may be overthrown! If I start or quail before you, may _she_ never again be mine!

THE MAIDEN (_from the other side of the abyss_). Seize my hand, and swing thyself over to me!

THE MAN. What strange change is coming over thee!...

The flowers start from thy temples, tear themselves loose from thy hair, and when thou touchest them, they crawl like lizards, and writhe and hiss like adders!

THE MAIDEN. My beloved!

THE MAN. Merciful God! the wind has twisted and torn off thy floating drapery; it hangs in squalid rags about thee!

THE MAIDEN. Why dost thou linger?

THE MAN. The rain drops from thy heart, and freezes as it falls;--skeleton bones look forth from thy bosom!

THE MAIDEN. Thou hast promised, hast sworn!

THE MAN. The lightning has burned out the apples of thine eyes!

CHORUS OF EVIL SPIRITS. Old Satan, welcome back to hell! Thou hast seduced and ruined a mighty spirit, admired by men, a marvel to itself.

Sublime soul, haughty heart--follow thy beloved!

THE MAN. Wilt thou then damn me, O my God! because I have believed that Thy Beauty far surpassed the loveliness of earth; because I have left all to follow it; and have suffered for it until I have grown the very jest of devils?

EVIL SPIRIT. Hear, brothers, hear!

THE MAN. The last hour strikes! the storm whirls in black and ever-widening circles--the sea is breaking and dashing higher and higher against the rocks, and as it mounts them, draws me on--an invisible power urges me forward--nearer--ever nearer--bands of men advance from behind upon me--mount my neck--and plunge me into the abyss!

EVIL SPIRIT. Rejoice, brothers, rejoice! He comes!

THE MAN. It is vain to struggle; useless to combat! the giddy bliss of the abyss draws me on--my head is dizzy--the plunge is inevitable--my brain whirls!--O God!--Thy fiend has conquered!

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL (_floating over the sea_). Peace, ye waves! Be still!

At this very moment of time the holy water of baptism is poured
upon the head of the infant, George Stanislaus.

GUARDIAN ANGEL. Return to thy house: and sin no more!

Return to thy house: and love thy child!

* * * * *

The saloon with the piano. The Man enters, and a servant follows
with a light.

THE MAN. Where is the countess?

SERVANT. My lady is ill.

THE MAN. She is not in her chamber; I have been there, and found it empty.

SERVANT. The countess is not here, my lord.

THE MAN. Has she left the castle? Where is she to be found?

SERVANT. They came for my lady yesterday, and carried her away.

THE MAN. Answer at once, and tell me where they have taken the countess!

SERVANT. To the madhouse!

He rushes out.

THE MAN. Hear me, answer me, Mary!

Ah, I know you are only hiding for a moment to punish me for my desertion; but I suffer, Mary!

Mary, my own Mary, in pity speak!

No--it is not so. She is not here, or she would answer to my cries.

John! Caroline! nurse!

The whole house seems deaf and dumb!

But what he has just told me, is not, cannot be true; it would be too horrible!

Ah! I have never wished to wrong any human being; I would have made the whole world happy; yet I have plunged the woman who trusted herself to me, the innocent creature whom I swore to love and guard, into the hell of those already damned on earth!

I blast all upon whom I breathe; and am doomed to destroy myself also! Hell has only released me for a few hours, that I might present to men its living image upon earth!

Upon what a pillow of horror will she lay to-night her helpless head! with what harmonies have I surrounded her in the darkness?--the wild shrieks and howls of madmen in their cells!

I see her there! that brow so calm, so innocent, upon which no harsh thought ever rests, is sunk and buried in her little hands. Her pure thoughts wander idly now through space; they rove in search of the husband who deserted her--and the unfortunate weeps--and is mad! mad!

A VOICE. Poet! thou chant'st a Drama!

THE MAN. Ha! the voice of my evil spirit!

He hurries to the door of the saloon and tears it open.

Haste! saddle my Arabian, and bring me my cloak and pistols!

* * * * *

A hilly country. An asylum for the insane, surrounded by a garden.

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. (_She is seen opening a barred door, and wears a great bunch of keys at her girdle._) Are you a relation of the countess?

THE MAN. I am a friend of the count's; he sent me here.

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. We have indeed but little hope of her recovery. I am sorry my husband is not at home; he could have explained the whole case to you. She was brought here in convulsions yesterday--how very hot it is to-day!

Wiping the perspiration from her face.

We have a great many patients here, but none so ill as the countess.

Only think of it--this asylum costs us two hundred thousand--but you are growing impatient--tell me, is it true that the Jacobins seized her husband at midnight, and thus drove her mad?

I beg you....

* * * * *

A room with a grated window. A bed, a chair. The Wife is lying upon
a sofa, supported by pillows.

THE MAN (entering). I wish to be left alone with the countess.

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN (_without_). My husband will be very angry if....

THE MAN (_closing the door_). Leave us in peace!

Approaches his wife.

VOICE (_from the ceiling_). You have chained and fettered God himself! You have already put one God to death on the cross; I am the second, and you have given me into the hands of the headsman.

VOICE (_under the floor_). Kneel down before the King, your Lord!

VOICE (_from the wall on the left_). The comet tracks its way in fire across the sky; the day of wrath already breaks--the trump of Judgment sounds!

THE MAN. Mary--do you know me?

WIFE. I have sworn to be true to you until death.

THE MAN. Give me your hand, Mary. Let us quit this dreadful place!

WIFE. Yes, but I cannot stand up--my soul has left my body, and is all burning, blazing, in my brain.

THE MAN. I can carry you in my arms to the carriage, which is waiting for you at the door; I want to take you home, Mary!

WIFE. Yes, we will go home. But you must wait for me; leave me for a little while, and I will become worthy of you, Henry!

THE MAN. I do not understand you, Mary.

WIFE. Ah! I have prayed through weary days and endless nights; at last God heard me, and smiled upon me!

THE MAN. I know not what you mean, Mary!

WIFE. Listen, Henry! After you left me, a great change came upon my spirit, and I felt what was wanting to make you love me. I cried to God unceasingly; I struck my breast; I placed a blessed candle on my bosom; I did penance; I said: 'Lord God be merciful unto me! Oh send down upon me the spirit of Poetry, that I may be loved!'

And on the third day I was a Poet!

THE MAN. Mary!

WIFE. You will no more despise me; no longer leave me to my lonely evenings; for I am full of inspiration, a Poet, Henry!

THE MAN. Never! never!

WIFE. Look upon me! have I not grown like yourself? I understand everything now; I can explain and describe all that is: I chant the sea, the stars, the clouds, battles--yes, stars--seas--storms--but battles? No, I have never seen a battle. You must take me to see a battle, Henry. I must watch men die! I must see and describe a corpse--a shroud--the night dew--the moon--a cradle--a coffin:

Endless space will spread around me,
I will seek the farthest star,
Cleaving swift the air around me,
Searching beauty near and far.
Like an eagle onward cleaving,
All the Past behind me leaving,
Chaos dark around me lying,
Through its dimness lightly flying,
Through its infinite abysses,
On through darker worlds than this is,
Farther--farther--ringing--ringing--
Sounds the curse my soul is singing....

THE MAN. Horrible! horrible!

WIFE (_throwing her arms round him, and resting her head on his bosom_). My Henry! my Henry! I am so, so happy!

VOICE (_from below_). I have murdered three kings with my own hand; ten are still left for the block: a hundred priests still sing mass--

VOICE (_from the left_). The sun has lost the half of its glory; its light is dying; the stars have lost their way, and hurtle each other from their paths--woe! woe!

THE MAN. The Day of Judgment has already come upon me!

WIFE. Do not look so sad, Henry. Cheer up, you make me again unhappy! What is the matter? I can tell you something will make you so glad.

THE MAN. Tell me what it is. I will do everything you wish me to do,

WIFE. Listen! _Your son will be a Poet!_

THE MAN. What are you saying, Mary?

WIFE. The priest, when he baptized him, gave him _first_ the name: Poet; and then: George Stanislaus.

It is I who have done this; first I blessed him--then I affixed a curse to the blessing: I know he will be a Poet!

VOICE (_from above_). Father, forgive them; they know not what they do!

WIFE. There is some one above us, suffering from strange and incurable madness; is it not so?

THE MAN. Very strange.

WIFE. He does not know what he is saying; but I can tell you how it would all be if God should go mad.

She seizes him by the hand.

All the worlds would go flying about, up and down, and crash against one another: every worm would cry out: 'I am God!' and then some of them would die every moment; they would all perish one after the other!

All the comets and suns would go out in the sky! Christ would redeem us no longer; He would tear His bleeding hands away from the nails, and pitch the cross into the bottomless abyss. It falls!

Listen! how this cross, the hope of millions, goes crashing and hurtling against the stars! Hark! it breaks! it flies asunder! the sky grows dark with the ruined fragments--they fall like hail, deeper, deeper--a wild storm surges from them--dreadful!

The holy Mother of God alone continues to pray, and the faithful stars, her servants, which have not yet deserted her:--but she too will plunge where all created things are storming down, for God is mad--and Christ has thrown away His Cross!

THE MAN. Mary, will you not come home with me to see our child?

WIFE. I have given wings to our son, and dipped him under the waves of the sea, that he might take into his soul all that is beautiful, sublime, and terrible. He will return to you a poet, and you will rejoice in him.

Ah me! ah me!

THE MAN. Do you suffer, Mary?

WIFE. Some one has hung up a lamp in my brain--and the light sways and flickers--I cannot bear it!

THE MAN. My beloved Mary, be calm and tranquil, as you were wont to be!

WIFE. Poets never live long.

She faints.

THE MAN. Help! Save her! Help!

Several women rush in.

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. Pills--powders--no. She can swallow nothing solid; a fluid potion is the best.

Margaret, run for the apothecary!

Speaking to the Count.

This is all your fault, and my husband will be very angry.

WIFE. Henry, my Henry, farewell!

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. You are then the count!

THE MAN. Mary! Mary!

Takes her in his arms.

WIFE. I am well--happy! I die near thee!

Her head sinks upon his breast.

THE WIFE OF THE PHYSICIAN. Her face grows crimson--the blood is rushing to her brain.

THE MAN. Her pure heart breaks--nor love nor wrong can ever reach her more! O Mary! Mary!

The Physician enters and approaches the sofa.

PHYSICIAN. It is all over now: she is dead!

SOUND REFLECTIONS.

A TORCHER.

What of the common lot of woman in the state hymeneal? Echo: High menial!

BRIDAL.

What does the world consider a proper tie? Echo: Property!

THE CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT.

On Wednesday, the fifteenth day of June, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-four, the following resolution, which had already passed the Senate, was put upon its final passage in the House of Representatives as a joint resolution of Congress, to be proposed to the people of the United States for an amendment to the Constitution:

'SECTION 1. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a
punishment for crime, whereof the party shall have been duly
convicted, shall exist in the United States, or any place subject
to their jurisdiction.

'SECTION 2. Congress shall have power to enforce this article by
appropriate legislation.'

The resolution was rejected for failure of the two-thirds vote required by the Constitution on a question of amendment; the vote standing, yeas ninety-four, nays sixty-five. Which vote has definitely determined two things: first, that the party which calls itself Democratic is afraid to trust this question to the people, and so belies its honored name; and secondly, that there is a political element in our country whose attachment to the slaveholding interest survives the attachment of the slaveholding interest to the Union. Is this the best evidence of patriotism?

Three years ago this summer of 1864, even after the treason of Southern leaders had precipitated the flagrant Southern rebellion, ay, and even after treason had dared the loyal army of the nation and flaunted its defiant banner on the field of battle, the sentiment of a forbearing people declared that no interference with the local establishments of the treason-infected South would be permitted. So faithful were we to the compromises of our fathers; so loth to believe in the wicked purpose that had moved the rebellion. Three years of desperate resistance to the nation's authority, three years of war, with its lessons of bitterness, and grief, and death, and agony worse than death, have convinced us that no further compromise is possible. Men told us so before, but we were too devoted to the Union to believe in a treason that would not stop short of the nation's complete dishonor. God be thanked that we know the issue at last! Our conviction has gradually, but how immovably, established itself! And now the sentiment of the people, no longer forbearing, but not less just, and based upon the same unalterable devotion to the Union, withdraws the pledges of the past and dictates an amendment to the Constitution that shall leave no possibility of slaveholding treason hereafter. That sentiment has found expression in two mass conventions, representing the undoubted overwhelming majority of the people, and it remains now to show the justice of it. It is accordingly the purpose of this paper to discuss the nature of the proposed amendment, and to state some controlling reasons in favor of it.

The question, plainly stated, is: Ought the Constitution to be amended so as to abolish slavery throughout the United States? Or, in other words, Ought liberty to become part of the supreme law of the land? Ought the idea of the nation to be now, at last, incorporated into the law of the nation, and so made a fixed fact of the nation's history?

It should seem that the mere statement of the question suggests the basis and positive force of the affirmative of it. For it reminds us at once of the mighty revolution that has agitated and aroused it. The progress of a century has been crowded into less than a decade of years. The statesmanship of 1850 (profound and patriotic, as alas! it is to be feared, too much of what we call statesmanship to-day is not) has been outgrown. Let us not be startled by the statement. The highest art of politics is to recognize existing facts. No thinking person will deny that the policies of the past are powerless to-day. We cannot, if we would, unmake the history of the last ten years. _Tempora mutantur, et mutamur in illis_. Or, as a distinguished and eloquent son of Tennessee lately paraphrased this old maxim: 'The world moves, and takes us along with it, whether we will or not.'

Our discussion naturally divides itself into two branches: first, as to the right, or constitutional power, to adopt the proposed amendment; and secondly, as to the expediency and necessity of it.

I. THE RIGHT, UNDER THE CONSTITUTION, TO ADOPT THE PROPOSED AMENDMENT.

No characteristic of the American people is more marked than their regard for law; and in nothing is that characteristic more striking than in their respect for the Constitution, the supreme law of the land. Whatever seems to come in conflict with that supreme law must encounter an irresistible odium. And herein appears the splendid fruit of the teachings of our great legists and statesmen, enforced, as they are, by the hereditary traditions of our Anglo-Saxon birthright. It is, moreover, a standing proof that democracy is not necessarily radical and destructive; and so furnishes us with a complete answer to the assumptions of English Tories, as in Alison's 'History of Europe,' that democracy is but the organized exponent of the self-willed passions of the multitude. What thing, indeed, is more wonderful than the tenacity with which conscientious men still cling to the doctrine (that had once some reason for it) of constitutional guaranties in behalf of slavery--an institution that has inspired the most monstrous treason of all history! What people but the American would still be hesitating, after the solemn experience of these three years, to strike down every possible support to slavery!

Surely the lesson of the French Revolution, in its trumpet-toned warning to the nations against a destructive radicalism, has not been lost upon us. How ought we to adore the Providence, guided by whose inspiration (as with becoming reverence we may believe) Washington and his supporters directed our infant republic in the track of English conservatism, fearful of the vagaries of the Red Republicanism of France! This prudent policy justifies itself more and more in our experience; and to-day the great heart of the people beats in unison with those Providential leadings. Therefore it is that the question, in reference to any measure, Is it constitutional? far from exciting ridicule, as sometimes with superficial thinkers it has done, is to be recognized as proof of our magnificent control over the wayward factions of the hour, and of our abiding trust in the hardly less than inspired wisdom of our fathers, to which we thus make our ultimate appeal. For the Constitution is the organic law of the nation, and stands for the firm foundation of our national life. The indissoluble bond of the Union, it is itself the palladium of our liberties. It is, in fine, the grandest chart of liberty and law, of justice and political order, which the world ever saw. The man who dares knowingly violate its provisions merits the punishment that followed the sacrilegious touch of David's servant to the ark of the covenant--instant death. In the midst of a fierce conflict with traitors who set at nought its binding force, let us beware lest in our zeal to punish them we be not guilty of an equal crime!

We yield, then, to no one in our devotion to the Constitution. We will not allow that any one goes before us in reverence for it. But we are of those who think that the time has come, in the providence of God, for an amendment to its provisions.

Indeed, the Constitution derives not the least portion of its claim upon our tender regard from the fact that it recognizes the eternal law of progress; and, while establishing a government whose stability should be as enduring as the principles upon which it is based, does not assume to declare that it has exhausted the possibilities of the future. Guarding against any and every impulse of popular passion, it nevertheless leaves scope for the necessary changes of time and circumstance, which may make the politic statesmanship of one period the exploded fallacy of the next. For of the science of politics it may be said, as in the glowing eulogy of Macaulay upon the philosophy of Bacon: 'It is a philosophy which never rests, which has never attained its end, which is never perfect. Its law is progress. A point which yesterday was invisible is its goal to-day, and will be its starting-post to-morrow.' Political science, indeed, is only another one of those 'illustrations of universal progress,' which the genius of Herbert Spenser has made familiar to our literature. And therefore it is that we cannot too much admire the sagacity of the patriots who framed our Constitution. It was a sagacity drawing its inspiration from all history, which taught, and teaches, that if progress is attempted to be checked, it will find vent in volcanic revolution. Reformation is the watchword of history: anarchy and destruction the fate of those nations which heed it not.

Thus it was that the principle of amendment found its way into the Constitution of the United States--a principle so just that by it we are enabled in these bitter days to faithfully withstand the usurpation that seeks to justify itself by appealing to the right of revolution. For in the principle of amendment (as has heretofore been stated in this magazine) the right of revolution was at the same time recognized and exalted; and by it a means of war was made a means of peace, and so revolution was sought to be forestalled. Nothing but despotism itself would have disregarded this humane provision of the Constitution, and sought a remedy for alleged grievances that is only justified by despotism.

What, then, is the principle of amendment in our Constitution, and what are its provisions? They are found in the fifth article, and read thus: '_The Congress, whenever two thirds of both Houses shall deem it necessary, shall propose amendments to this Constitution_, or, on the application of the legislatures of two thirds of the several States, shall call a convention for proposing amendments, which, in either case, _shall be valid to all intents and purposes, as part of this Constitution, when ratified by the legislatures of three fourths of the several States_, or by conventions in three fourths thereof, as the one or the other mode of ratification may be proposed by the Congress; provided, ... that no State, without its consent, shall be deprived of its equal suffrage in the Senate.'

Can anything be clearer? And yet how men have contrived to mystify the whole question by vague declamation about the rights of States! As if those rights of States that were meant to be protected, were not carefully guarded by the article itself, and especially by the proviso 'that no State, without its consent, shall be deprived of its equal suffrage in the Senate'! As if, too, the rights of the States were everything, the rights of the Nation nothing! It might well be asked, moreover (as, indeed, a discriminating writer in _The Evening Post_ has lately asked), whether the _people_ of the States have no rights that are to be considered in this discussion; whether there are not certain reserved rights of the people that have been violated by many States--rights reserved in the very constitutions of those States, as well as in the Constitution of the United States? But let it be noted, as above intimated, that this fifth article is duly careful to guard the rights of States. Three fourths of the States must concur in the amendment; and in no event may a State be unwillingly deprived of its equal suffrage in the Senate, which is the distinguishing mark of the independent equality of all the States in the Union. On the other hand, the rights of the States being thus protected in a manner and degree which we must suppose to have been satisfactory to the men who framed and the States which ratified the Constitution, the article then proceeds to care for the rights of the Nation, by declaring that the amendment duly ratified by three fourths of the States 'shall be valid, as part of the Constitution:' thus binding all the States, the three fourths which have ratified it, and the one fourth which may not have ratified it. We have here a key to the motives of the Southern rebellion. The leaders of Southern politics knew well that an amendment like the one now proposed must one day come, and that whenever it should come, article fifth left them no pretext for resistance. So they precipitated their revolution, and have only hastened that inevitable day.

But it is objected that the right to amend the Constitution does not give us the right to enlarge its powers. Why not? And if not, to what things does the right of amendment extend? Such an interpretation makes article fifth an absurdity. This objection springs from the same mischievous doctrine of State sovereignty, which has so outraged the patriotic common sense of the people by the denial of our right to 'coerce' a State, and tends to the same result--nullification and secession. It is good logic for a confederation, but bad logic for a nation, to say that the articles of its organic law may not be changed by the will of the people. And let us not neglect to observe in the provisions of article fifth the strong incidental proof that the Constitution of the United States was meant to be the basis of a _nation_, and not the compact of a _confederation_. For how may this article be reconciled with the theory of a compact? _Three fourths_ of the States may concur in adopting an amendment that shall be valid as part of the Constitution, which declares itself to be the supreme law of the land, over _all_ the States.

This incidental point serves fitly to introduce the second branch of our discussion, namely:

II. THE EXPEDIENCY AND NECESSITY OF THE PROPOSED AMENDMENT.

For slavery, or, in other words (lest we seem to offend some), a rebellion in the interests and for the avowed establishment of slavery, has struck _at the life of the nation_; and in self-defence the nation must strike down slavery. If our Government is only the compact of a confederation, then not only is there no need, but we have not the right to adopt the proposed amendment. For by it an institution fostered by the legislation of some of the States would be overthrown, in defiance of that legislation. But the right, or constitutional power, of itself implies the necessity to adopt the amendment whenever the occasion for it may arise. The right is made part of the Constitution: the necessity, or expediency, must be determined by circumstances outside of the Constitution. We contend that circumstances at present point to the complete extinguishment of slavery as the political necessity of the period. The time for timid counsels is past. The day of tenderness for Southern prejudices is gone by.

Coming, then, directly to the root of the matter, we lay down this first proposition:

1. The proposed amendment finds its justification and highest warrant, as a measure of political reform, in the _fact of the Southern Confederacy_. This fact, pure and simple, is the controlling and abundant necessity for it. We need not take the ground that slavery is the cause of the rebellion: though to the philosophical inquirer it certainly seems difficult to reach any other conclusion. We Americans are so much under the influence of partisan prejudices, so surrounded with the complications of present and past political issues, that for us a dispassionate study of this point is almost, or quite, impossible. But the investigations of impartial and unprejudiced foreigners seem remarkably to concur in designating slavery as the moving cause of the war. We may cite, for example, the recent profound review of the slave power by Professor Cairnes. And surely no person who pauses to reflect upon the inherent nature of the slave system as a labor basis of society, will venture to deny that such a principle is at war with the elemental principles of our Government. No person will deny that slavery depreciates the dignity of labor, which is the pride and boast of our institutions. Nor does it need any but the logic of common sense to point out the incongruity of a free government resting, even partially, upon a basis of slave labor.

But all this may be waived. We may discard all these considerations. Perhaps it is wise to discard them. Let us forget our differences of political opinion in the past, and seek for points of agreement in the present. Taking this position, we cannot ignore the fact of the Southern Confederacy, and that the avowed basis of it is slavery. It is a stubborn fact confronting us at the outset of our inquiry, and, like Banquo's ghost, 'will not down.' Proclaiming boldly that free labor is a mistake, and unblushingly affirming as a doctrine of social and political economy that 'capital must own labor,' the Southern Confederacy challenges the Christian civilization of the age, and declares its right to exist as an independent nation of slaveholders. How may we explain so monstrous a pretence? There is but one explanation that is adequate. It may be stated in a single word, _ambition_. The lesson of our experience is that this malignant system of slavery, the chattel slavery of the South, is too great a temptation to the ambition of men. Let us not disregard it. Political ambition stands always ready to strike hands with the devil, and the devil is always near the conscience of ambitious men. We have no recourse but to remove the temptation. The death-knell of Carthage is well appropriated: _Servitudo est delenda_. So long as a vestige of the slavery establishment remains, the temptation remains--a deadly risk to our Government. The peril of it is too great. And this furnishes a complete answer to the superficial objection that there is no need of the amendment because slavery is dead already; for ambition may revive it, and what ambition _may_ do it _will_ do. In other words, and to sum up the argument on this point: Whatever may have been our individual opinions and beliefs before the rebellion (variant enough at all times), the attempted establishment of a confederacy avowedly based on slavery, proves beyond possibility of cavil that chattel slavery, to which we have been lenient without limit, is a temptation too great for the peace of the nation, and therefore the highest interests of the nation require its removal.

2. The simple fact of the Southern Confederacy is also the basis of our second proposition. For it reveals clearly the necessity of the proposed amendment as a thing essential to be added to the organic law, in order to carry out the purpose of it. That purpose is thus expressed in the preamble to the Constitution: 'We, the people of the United States, _in order to form a more perfect Union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquillity, provide for the common defence, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity_, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.' Every one of the objects therein specified is, in the baleful light of the rebellion, a plea for the amendment.