This hateful compound of her atoms, and 60

  Resolve back to her elements, and take

  The shape of any reptile save myself,

  And make a world for myriads of new worms!

  This knife! now let me prove if it will sever

  This withered slip of Nature’s nightshade — my

  Vile form — from the creation, as it hath

  The green bough from the forest.

  [Arnold places the knife in the ground, with the point upwards.

  Now ‘tis set,

  And I can fall upon it. Yet one glance

  On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like

  Myself, and the sweet sun which warmed me, but 70

  In vain. The birds — how joyously they sing!

  So let them, for I would not be lamented:

  But let their merriest notes be Arnold’s knell;

  The fallen leaves my monument; the murmur

  Of the near fountain my sole elegy.

  Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall!

  [As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife, his eye is suddenly caught by the fountain, which seems in motion.

  The fountain moves without a wind: but shall

  The ripple of a spring change my resolve?

  No. Yet it moves again! The waters stir,

  Not as with air, but by some subterrane 80

  And rocking Power of the internal world.

  What’s here? A mist! No more? —

  [A cloud comes from the fountain. He stands gazing upon it: it is dispelled, and a tall black man comes towards him.

  Arn. What would you? Speak!

  Spirit or man?

  Stran. As man is both, why not

  Say both in one?

  Arn. Your form is man’s, and yet

  You may be devil.

  Stran. So many men are that

  Which is so called or thought, that you may add me

  To which you please, without much wrong to either.

  But come: you wish to kill yourself; — pursue

  Your purpose.

  Arn. You have interrupted me.

  Stran. What is that resolution which can e’er 90

  Be interrupted? If I be the devil

  You deem, a single moment would have made you

  Mine, and for ever, by your suicide;

  And yet my coming saves you.

  Arn. I said not

  You were the Demon, but that your approach

  Was like one.

  Stran. Unless you keep company

  With him (and you seem scarce used to such high

  Society) you can’t tell how he approaches;

  And for his aspect, look upon the fountain,

  And then on me, and judge which of us twain 100

  Looks likest what the boors believe to be

  Their cloven-footed terror.

  Arn. Do you — dare you

  To taunt me with my born deformity?

  Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this

  Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary

  With thy Sublime of Humps, the animals

  Would revel in the compliment. And yet

  Both beings are more swift, more strong, more mighty

  In action and endurance than thyself,

  And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 110

  With thee. Thy form is natural: ‘twas only

  Nature’s mistaken largess to bestow

  The gifts which are of others upon man.

  Arn. Give me the strength then of the buffalo’s foot,

  When he spurns high the dust, beholding his

  Near enemy; or let me have the long

  And patient swiftness of the desert-ship,

  The helmless dromedary! — and I’ll bear

  Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience.

  Stran. I will.

  Arn. (with surprise). Thou canst?

  Stran. Perhaps. Would you aught else? 120

  Arn. Thou mockest me.

  Stran. Not I. Why should I mock

  What all are mocking? That’s poor sport, methinks.

  To talk to thee in human language (for

  Thou canst not yet speak mine), the forester

  Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar,

  Or wolf, or lion — leaving paltry game

  To petty burghers, who leave once a year

  Their walls, to fill their household cauldrons with

  Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee, —

  Now I can mock the mightiest.

  Arn. Then waste not 130

  Thy time on me: I seek thee not.

  Stran. Your thoughts

  Are not far from me. Do not send me back:

  I’m not so easily recalled to do

  Good service.

  Arn. What wilt thou do for me?

  Stran. Change

  Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks you;

  Or form you to your wish in any shape.

  Arn. Oh! then you are indeed the Demon, for

  Nought else would wittingly wear mine.

  Stran. I’ll show thee

  The brightest which the world e’er bore, and give thee

  Thy choice.

  Arn. On what condition?

  Stran. There’s a question! 140

  An hour ago you would have given your soul

  To look like other men, and now you pause

  To wear the form of heroes.

  Arn. No; I will not.

  I must not compromise my soul.

  Stran. What soul,

  Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcase?

  Arn. ‘Tis an aspiring one, whate’er the tenement

  In which it is mislodged. But name your compact:

  Must it be signed in blood?

  Stran. Not in your own.

  Arn. Whose blood then?

  Stran. We will talk of that hereafter.

  But I’ll be moderate with you, for I see 150

  Great things within you. You shall have no bond

  But your own will, no contract save your deeds.

  Are you content?

  Arn. I take thee at thy word.

  Stran. Now then! —

  [The Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns to Arnold.

  A little of your blood.

  Arn. For what?

  Stran. To mingle with the magic of the waters,

  And make the charm effective.

  Arn. (holding out his wounded arm). Take it all.

  Stran. Not now. A few drops will suffice for this.

  [The Stranger takes some of Arnold’s blood in his hand, and casts it into the fountain.

  Shadows of Beauty!

  Shadows of Power!

  Rise to your duty — 160

  This is the hour!

  Walk lovely and pliant

  From the depth of this fountain,

  As the cloud-shapen giant

  Bestrides the Hartz Mountain.

  Come as ye were,

  That our eyes may behold

  The model in air

  Of the form I will mould,

  Bright as the Iris 170

  When ether is spanned; —

  Such his desire is,[Pointing to Arnold.

  Such my command!

  Demons heroic —

  Demons who wore

  The form of the Stoic

  Or sophist of yore —

  Or the shape of each victor —

  From Macedon’s boy,

  To each high Roman’s picture, 180

  Who breathed to destroy —

  Shadows of Beauty!

  Shadows of Power!

  Up to your duty —

  This is the hour!

  [Various phantoms arise from the waters, and pass in succession before the Stranger and Arnold.

  Arn. What do I see?

  Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with

  The eagle’s beak between those eyes which ne’er

  Beheld a conqueror, or looked along

  The land he made not Rome’s, while Rome became

  His, and all theirs who heired his very name. 190

  Arn. The phantom’s bald; my quest is beauty. Could I

  Inherit but his fame with his defects!

  Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs.

  You see his aspect — choose it, or reject.

  I can but promise you his form; his fame

  Must be long sought and fought for.

  Arn. I will fight, too,

  But not as a mock Cæsar. Let him pass:

  His aspect may be fair, but suits me not.

  Stran. Then you are far more difficult to please

  Than Cato’s sister, or than Brutus’s mother, 200

  Or Cleopatra at sixteen — an age

  When love is not less in the eye than heart.

  But be it so! Shadow, pass on!

  [The phantom of Julius Cæsar disappears.

  Arn. And can it

  Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone,

  And left no footstep?

  Stran. There you err. His substance

  Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame

  More than enough to track his memory;

  But for his shadow — ’tis no more than yours,

  Except a little longer and less crooked

  I’ the sun. Behold another![A second phantom passes.

  Arn. Who is he? 210

  Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of

  Athenians. Look upon him well.

  Arn. He is

  More lovely than the last. How beautiful!

  Stran. Such was the curled son of Clinias; — wouldst thou

  Invest thee with his form?

  Arn. Would that I had

  Been born with it! But since I may choose further,

  I will look further.[The shade of Alcibiades disappears.

  Stran. Lo! behold again!

  Arn. What! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, round-eyed satyr,

  With the wide nostrils and Silenus’ aspect,

  The splay feet and low stature! I had better 220

  Remain that which I am.

  Stran. And yet he was

  The earth’s perfection of all mental beauty,

  And personification of all virtue.

  But you reject him?

  Arn. If his form could bring me

  That which redeemed it — no.

  Stran. I have no power

  To promise that; but you may try, and find it

  Easier in such a form — or in your own.

  Arn. No. I was not born for philosophy,

  Though I have that about me which has need on’t.

  Let him fleet on.

  Stran. Be air, thou Hemlock-drinker! 230

  [The shadow of Socrates disappears: another rises.

  Arn. What’s here? whose broad brow and whose curly beard

  And manly aspect look like Hercules,

  Save that his jocund eye hath more of Bacchus

  Than the sad purger of the infernal world,

  Leaning dejected on his club of conquest,

  As if he knew the worthlessness of those

  For whom he had fought.

  Stran. It was the man who lost

  The ancient world for love.

  Arn. I cannot blame him,

  Since I have risked my soul because I find not

  That which he exchanged the earth for.

  Stran. Since so far 240

  You seem congenial, will you wear his features?

  Arn. No. As you leave me choice, I am difficult.

  If but to see the heroes I should ne’er

  Have seen else, on this side of the dim shore,

  Whence they float back before us.

  Stran. Hence, Triumvir,

  Thy Cleopatra’s waiting.

  [The shade of Antony disappears: another rises.

  Arn. Who is this?

  Who truly looketh like a demigod,

  Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stature,

  If not more high than mortal, yet immortal

  In all that nameless bearing of his limbs, 250

  Which he wears as the Sun his rays — a something

  Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing

  Emanation of a thing more glorious still.

  Was he e’er human only?

  Stran. Let the earth speak,

  If there be atoms of him left, or even

  Of the more solid gold that formed his urn.

  Arn. Who was this glory of mankind?

  Stran. The shame

  Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war —

  Demetrius the Macedonian, and

  Taker of cities.

  Arn. Yet one shadow more. 260

  Stran. (addressing the shadow). Get thee to Lamia’s lap!

  [The shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes vanishes: another rises.

  I’ll fit you still,

  Fear not, my Hunchback: if the shadows of

  That which existed please not your nice taste,

  I’ll animate the ideal marble, till

  Your soul be reconciled to her new garment

  Arn. Content! I will fix here.

  Stran. I must commend

  Your choice. The godlike son of the sea-goddess,

  The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks

  As beautiful and clear as the amber waves

  Of rich Pactolus, rolled o’er sands of gold, 270

  Softened by intervening crystal, and

  Rippled like flowing waters by the wind,

  All vowed to Sperchius as they were — behold them!

  And him — as he stood by Polixena,

  With sanctioned and with softened love, before

  The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride,

  With some remorse within for Hector slain

  And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion

  For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand

  Trembled in his who slew her brother. So 280

  He stood i’ the temple! Look upon him as

  Greece looked her last upon her best, the instant

  Ere Paris’ arrow flew.

  Arn. I gaze upon him

  As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon

  Envelope mine.

  Stran. You have done well. The greatest

  Deformity should only barter with

  The extremest beauty — if the proverb’s true

  Of mortals, that Extremes meet.

  Arn. Come! Be quick!

  I am impatient.

  Stran. As a youthful beauty

  Before her glass. You both see what is not, 290

  But dream it is what must be.

  Arn. Must I wait?

  Stran. No; that were a pity. But a word or two:

  His stature is twelve cubits; would you so far

  Outstep these times, and be a Titan? Or

  (To talk canonically) wax a son

  Of Anak?

  Arn. Why not?

  Stran. Glorious ambition!

  I love thee most in dwarfs! A mortal of

  Philistine stature would have gladly pared

  His own Goliath down to a slight David:

  But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 300

  Rather than hero. Thou shalt be indulged,

  If such be thy desire; and, yet, by being

  A little less removed from present men

  In figure, thou canst sway them more; for all

  Would rise against thee now, as if to hunt

  A new-found Mammoth; and their curséd engines,

  Their culverins, and so forth, would find way

  Through our friend’s armour there, with greater ease

  Than the Adulterer’s arrow through his heel

  Which Thetis had forgotten to baptize 310

  In Styx.

  Arn. Then let it be as thou deem’st best.

  Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing thou seest,

  And strong as what it was, and — —

  Arn. I ask not

  For Valour, since Deformity is daring.

  It is its essence to o’ertake mankind

  By heart and soul, and make itself the equal —

  Aye, the superior of the rest. There is

  A spur in its halt movements, to become

  All that the others cannot, in such things

  As still are free to both, to compensate 320

  For stepdame Nature’s avarice at first.

  They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune,

  And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win them.

  Stran. Well spoken! And thou doubtless wilt remain

  Formed as thou art. I may dismiss the mould

  Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase

  This daring soul, which could achieve no less

  Without it.

  Arn. Had no power presented me

  The possibility of change, I would

  Have done the best which spirit may to make 330

  Its way with all Deformity’s dull, deadly,

  Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain,

  In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders —

  A hateful and unsightly molehill to

  The eyes of happier men. I would have looked

  On Beauty in that sex which is the type

  Of all we know or dream of beautiful,

  Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh —

  Not of love, but despair; nor sought to win,

  Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 340

  In turn, because of this vile crookéd clog,

  Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne

  It all, had not my mother spurned me from her.

  The she-bear licks her cubs into a sort

  Of shape; — my Dam beheld my shape was hopeless.

  Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere

  I knew the passionate part of life, I had

  Been a clod of the valley, — happier nothing

  Than what I am. But even thus — the lowest,

  Ugliest, and meanest of mankind — what courage 350

  And perseverance could have done, perchance

  Had made me something — as it has made heroes

  Of the same mould as mine. You lately saw me

  Master of my own life, and quick to quit it;

  And he who is so is the master of

  Whatever dreads to die.

  Stran. Decide between

  What you have been, or will be.

  Arn. I have done so.

  You have opened brighter prospects to my eyes,

 

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