The Continental Monthly, Vol. 6, No 4, August, 1864. Various

search through infinite space,

      I press through Chaos, Darkness,

      To bring thee light and grace;

      I listen to the angels' song

      To catch the heavenly tone;

      Seek every form of beauty,

      To bring to thee, mine own!

      'I seek from greatest spirits,

      From those of lower might,

      Rainbow colors, depth of shadow,

      Burning contrasts, dark and bright;

      Rhythmed music, hues from Eden,

      Floating through the heavenly bars;

      Sages' wisdom, seraphs' loving,

      Mystic glories from the stars—

      That thou mayst be a Poet, richly gifted from above

      To win thy father's fiery heart, and keep his changeful love!'

      Thou seest, dear father, that my mother does speak to me, and that I remember, word for word, what she says to me; indeed I am telling you no lie.

      The Man (leaning against one of the pillars of the tomb). Mary! wilt thou destroy thine own son, and burden my Soul with the ruin of both?…

      But what folly! She is calm and tranquil now in heaven, as she was pure and sweet on earth. My poor boy only dreams …

      George. I hear mamma's voice now, father!

      The Man. From whence comes it, my son?

      George. From between the two elms before us glittering in the sunset. Listen!

      'I pour through thy spirit

      Music and might;

      I wreathe thy pale forehead

      With halos of light;

      Though blind, I can show thee

      Blest forms from above,

      Floating far through the spaces

      Of infinite love,

      Which the angels in heaven and men on the earth

      Call Beauty. I've sought since the day of thy birth

      To waken thy spirit,

      My darling, my own,

      That the hopes of thy father

      May rest on his son!

      That his love, warm and glowing,

      Unchanging may shine;

      And his heart, infant poet,

      Forever be thine!'

      The Man. Can a blessed spirit be mad? Do the last thoughts of the dying pursue them into their eternal homes?

      Can insanity be a part of immortality?… O Mary! Mary!

      George. Mamma's voice is growing weaker and weaker; it is dying away now close by the wall of the charnel house. Hark! hark! she is still repeating:

      'That his love, warm and glowing,

      Unchanging may shine;

      And his heart, little poet,

      Forever be thine!'

      The Man. O God! have mercy upon our unfortunate child, whom in Thine anger Thou hast doomed to madness and to an early death! Have pity on the innocent creature Thou hast Thyself called into being! Rob him not of reason! Ruin not the living temple Thou hast built—the shrine of the soul! Oh look down upon my agony, and deliver not this young angel up to hell! Me Thou hast at least armed with strength to endure the dizzying throng of thoughts, passions, longings, yearnings—but him! Thou hast given him a frame fragile as the frailest web of the spider, and every great thought rends and frays it. O Lord! my God! have mercy!

      I have not had one tranquil hour for the last ten years. Thou hast placed me among men who may have envied my position, who may have wished me well, or who would have conferred benefits upon me—but I have been alone! alone!

      Thou hast sent storms of agony upon me, mingled with wrongs, dreams, hopes, thoughts, aspirations, and yearnings for the infinite! Thy grace shines upon my intellect, but reaches not my heart!

      Have mercy, God! Suffer me to love my son in peace, that thus reconciliation may be planted between the created and the Creator!…

      Cross thyself now, my son, and come with me.

      Eternal rest be with the dead!

      Exit with George

      A public square. Ladies and gentlemen. A Philosophe. The Man.

      Philosophe. I repeat to you, that it is my irresistible conviction that the hour has come for the emancipation of negroes and women.

      The Man. I agree with you fully.

      Philosophe. And as a change so great in the constitution of society, both in general and particular, stands so immediately before us, I deduce from such a revolution the complete destruction of old forms and formulas, and the regeneration of the whole human family.

      The Man. Do you really think so?

      Philosophe. Just as our earth, by a sudden change in the inclination of its axis, might rotate more obliquely …

      The Man. Do you see this hollow tree?

      Philosophe. With tufts of new leaves sprouting forth from the lower branches?

      The Man. Yes. How much longer do you think it can continue to stand?

      Philosophe. I cannot tell; perhaps a year or two longer.

      The Man. Its roots are rapidly rotting out, and yet it still puts forth a few green leaves.

      Philosophe. What inference do you deduce from that?

      The Man. Nothing—only that it is rotting out in spite of its few green leaves; falling daily into dust and ashes; and that it will not bear the tool of the moulder!

      And yet it is your type, the type of your followers, of your theories, of the times in which we live....

      They pass on out of sight.

      A mountain pass.

      The Man. I have labored many years to discover the final results of knowledge, pleasure, thought, passion, and have only succeeded in finding a deep and empty grave in my own heart!

      I have indeed learned to know most things by their names—the feelings, for example; but I feel nothing, neither desires, faith, nor love. Two dim forebodings alone stir in the desert of my soul—the one, that my son is hopelessly blind; the other, that the society in which I have grown up is in the pangs of dissolution; I suffer as God enjoys, in myself only, and for myself alone....

      Voice of the Guardian Angel. Love the sick, the hungry, the wretched! Love thy neighbor, thy poor neighbor, as thyself, and thou shalt be redeemed!

      The Man. Who speaks?

      Mephistophiles. Your humble servant. I often astonish travellers by my marvellous natural gifts: I am a ventriloquist.

      The Man. I have certainly seen a face like that before in an engraving.

      Mephistophiles (aside). The count has truly a good memory.

      The Man. Blessed be Christ Jesus!

      Mephistophiles. Forever and ever, amen!—(Muttering as he disappears behind a rock:) Curses on thee, and thy stupidity!

      The Man. My poor son! through the sins of thy father and the madness of thy mother, thou art doomed to perpetual darkness—blind! Living only in dreams and visions, thou art never destined to attain maturity! Thou art but the shadow of a passing angel, flitting rapidly over the earth, and melting into the infinite of …

      Ha! what an immense eagle that is fluttering just there where the stranger disappeared behind the rocks!

      The