The whole extent of degradation, once
Engaged in the confession? Spite of all
My fine talk of obedience, and repugnance,
Docility, and what not, 'tis yet to learn
If when the old task really is performed,.
And my will free once more, to choose a new,
I shall do aught but slightly modify

The nature of the hated one I quit.

In plain words, I am spoiled: my life still tends
As first it tended. I am broken and trained
To my old habits; they are part of me.

I know, and none so well, my darling ends
Are proved impossible: no less, no less,
Even now what humours me, fond fool, as when
Their faint ghosts sit with me, and flatter me,
And send me back content to my dull round?
How can I change this soul?-this apparatus
Constructed solely for their purposes
So well adapted to their every want,

To search out and discover, prove and perfect;
This intricate machine, whose most minute,
Least obvious motions have their charm to me
Though to none else—an aptitude I seize,
An object I perceive, a use, a meaning,
A property, a fitness, I explain,

And I alone :-how can I change my soul?

And this wronged body, worthless save when tasked Under that soul's dominion-used to care

For its bright master's cares, and quite subdue

Its proper cravings-not to ail, nor pine,
So the soul prosper-whither drag this poor,
Tried, patient body? God! how I essayed,
To live like that mad poet, for a while,
To catch Aprile's spirit, as I hoped,

And love alone! and how I felt too warped

And twisted and deformed! What should I do?
Even tho' released from drudgery, but return
Faint, as you see, and halting, blind and sore,
To my old life-and die as I begun!
I cannot feed on beauty, for the sake
Of beauty only; nor can drink in balm
From lovely objects for their loveliness;
My nature cannot lose her first intent;

I still must hoard, and heap, and class all truths
With one ulterior purpose: I must know!
Would God translate me to his throne, believe
That I should only listen to his words

To further my own aims! For other men,
Beauty is prodigally strewn around,
And I were happy could I quench as they
This mad and thriveless longing, be content
With beauty for itself alone: alas!

I have addressed a frock of heavy mail,
Yet may not join the troop of sacred knights;
And now the forest-creatures fly from me,

The grass-banks cool, the sunbeams warm no more!
Best follow, dreaming that ere night arrives

To enter once more on the life thus left,

Seek not to hide that all this consciousness

Of failure is assumed.

Par.

My friend, my friend,

I speak, you listen; I explain, perhaps

You understand: there our communion ends.

Have you learnt nothing from to-day's discourse?

When we would thoroughly know the sick man's state We feel awhile the fluttering pulse, press soft

The hot brow, look upon the languid eye,

And thence divine the rest. Must I lay bare
My heart, hideous and beating, or tear up

My vitals for your gaze, ere you will deem

Enough made known? You! who are you, forsooth? That is the crowning operation claimed

By the arch-demonstrator-heaven the hall,

And earth the audience.

Let Aprile and you

Secure good places-'twill be worth your while.

Fest. Are you mad, Aureole? What can I have said To call for this? I judged from your own words. Par. Oh, true! A fevered wretch describes the ape That mocks him from the bed-foot, and you turn All gravely thither at once: or he recounts The perilous journey he has late performed, And you are puzzled much how that could be!

You find me here, half stupid and half mad
It makes no part of my delight to search
Into these things, much less to undergo
Another's scrutiny; but so it chances
That I am led to trust my state to you:
And the event is, you combine, contrast,
And ponder on my foolish words, as though
They thoroughly conveyed all hidden here-
Here, loathsome with despair, and hate, and rage!
Is there no fear, no shrinking, or no shame?

Will you guess nothing? will you spare me nothing?
Must I go deeper? Ay or no?

Fest.

Dear friend..

Par. True: I am brutal-'tis a part of it;

The plague's sign-you are not a lazar-haunter,

How should you know? Well then, you think it strange

I should profess to have failed utterly,

And yet propose an ultimate return

To courses void of hope; and this, because
You know not what temptation is, nor how
'Tis like to ply men in the sickliest part.
You are to understand, that we who make
Sport for the gods, are hunted to the end:
There is not one sharp volley shot at us,
Which if we manage to escape with life,

Though touched and hurt, we straight may slacken paco
And gather by the way-side herbs and roots

To stanch our wounds, secure from further harm-

No; we are chased to life's extremest verge.

It will be well indeed if I return,
A harmless busy fool to my old ways!
I would forget hints of another fate,
Significant enough, which silent hours.
Have lately scared me with.

Fest.

Another

and what i

Par. After all, Festus, you say well: I stand
A man yet-I need never humble me.

I would have been-something, I know not what;
But though I cannot soar, I do not crawl:

There are worse portions than this one of mine;
You say well!

Fest.

Ah!...

Par

And deeper degradation!

If the mean stimulants of vulgar praise,

And vanity, should become the chosen food

Of a sunk mind; should stifle even the wish

To find its early aspirations true;

Should teach it to breathe falsehood like life-breath

An atmosphere of craft, and trick, and lies;
Should make it proud to emulate or surpass
Base natures in the practices which woke
Its most indignant loathing once . . .
No, no!
Utter damnation is reserved for Hell!
I had immortal feelings-such shall never
Be wholly quenched-no, no!

My friend, you wear

A melancholy face, and truth to speak,

There's little cheer in all this dismal work;