To lay them by your own ne'er turned you pale
Most glorious, are they not?

As now.
Festus.

Why-why

Something must be subtracted from success

So wide, no doubt. He would be scrupulous, truly,
Who should object such drawbacks. Still, still, Aureole,
You are changed, very changed! 'T were losing nothing
To look well to it: you must not be stolen

From the enjoyment of your well-won meed.

Paracelsus. My friend ! you seek my pleasure, past a doubt:

You will best gain your point, by talking, not
Of me, but of yourself.

Festus.

Have I not said

All touching Michal and my children? Sure
You know, by this, full well how Aennchen looks
Gravely, while one disparts her thick brown hair ;
And Aureole's glee when some stray gannet builds
Amid the birch-trees by the lake. Small hope
Have I that he will honour (the wild imp)

His namesake. Sigh not! 't is too much to ask
That all we love should reach the same proud fate.
But you are very kind to humour me

By showing interest in my quiet life;

You, who of old could never tame yourself

To tranquil pleasures, must at heart despise . . .

Paracelsus. Festus, strange secrets are let out by death

Who blabs so oft the follies of this world:

And I am death's familiar, as you know.

I helped a man to die, some few weeks since,
Warped even from his go-cart to one end—
The living on princes' smiles, reflected from
A mighty herd of favourites. No mean trick
He left untried, and truly well-nigh wormed
All traces of God's finger out of him :

Then died, grown old. And just an hour before,
Having lain long with blank and soulless eyes,
He sat up suddenly, and with natural voice
Said that in spite of thick air and closed doors
God told him it was June; and he knew well,
Without such telling, harebells grew in June;
And all that kings could ever give or take
Would not be precious as those blooms to him.
Just so, allowing I am passing sage,

It seems to me much worthier argument

Why pansies,* eyes that laugh, bear beauty's prize

From violets, eyes that dream—(your Michal's choice) —
Than all fools find to wonder at in me
Or in my fortunes. And be very sure
I say this from no prurient restlessness,
No self-complacency, itching to turn,

* Citrinula (flammula) herba Paracelso multum familiaris.-Dorn.

vary and view its pleasure from all points, And, in this instance, willing other men May be at pains, demonstrate to itself

The realness of the very joy it tastes.

What should delight me like the news of friends
Whose memories were a solace to me oft,
As mountain-baths to wild fowls in their flight?
Ofter than you had wasted thought on me
Had you been wise, and rightly valued bliss.

But there's no taming nor repressing hearts:

God knows I need such !-So, you heard me speak?
Festus. Speak? when?

Paracelsus.

When but this morning at my class?

There was noise and crowd enough. I saw you not.

Surely you know I am engaged to fill

The chair here ?-that 't is part of my proud fate

To lecture to as many thick-skulled youths

As please, each day, to throng the theatre,
To my great reputation, and no small
Danger of Basil's benches long unused
To crack beneath such honour ?

Festus.

I was there;

I mingled with the throng: shall I avow
Small care was mine to listen?-too intent

On gathering from the murmurs of the crowd
A full corroboration of my hopes !

74

What can I learn about your powers? but they
Know, care for nought beyond your actual state,
Your actual value; yet they worship you,
Those various natures whom you sway as one!
But ere I go, be sure I shall attend .

. . .

Paracelsus. Stop, o' God's name: the thing 's by no

means yet

Past remedy! Shall I read this morning's labour
-At least in substance? Nought so worth the gaining
As an apt scholar! Thus then, with all due
Precision and emphasis-you, beside, are clearly
Guiltless of understanding more, a whit,

The subject than your stool--allowed to be

I charge you, if 't be so! for I forget

Much, and what laughter should be like. No less,

However, I forego that luxury

Since it alarms the friend who brings it back.

True, laughter like my own must echo strangely

To thinking men; a smile were better far; So, make me smile! If the exulting look smiling, 't is so long

You wore but now be

Since I have smiled!

Alas, such smiles are born

Alone of hearts like yours, or herdsmen's souls
Of ancient time, whose eyes, calm as their flocks,
Saw in the stars mere garnishry of heaven,

And in the earth a stage for altars only.
Never change, Festus: I say, never change!

Festus. My God, if he be wretched after all
Paracelsus. When last we parted, Festus, you declared,
-Or Michal, yes, her soft lips whispered words
I have preserved. She told me she believed
I should succeed (meaning, that in the search

I then engaged in, I should meet success)
And yet be wretched: now, she augured false.
Festus. Thank heaven! but you spoke strangely could
I venture

To think bare apprehension lest your friend,
Dazzled by your resplendent course, might find
Henceforth less sweetness in his own, could move
Such earnest mood in you? Fear not, dear friend,
That I shall leave you, inwardly repining

Your lot was not my own!

Paracelsus.

And this for ever!

For ever! gull who may, they will be gulled!

They will not look nor think; 't is nothing new
In them but surely he is not of them!

My Festus, do you know, I reckoned, you—

Though all beside were sand-blind-you, my friend,