SUMMIT OF THE PILLAR OF ST SIMEON STYLITES.
Firmilian.
’Twas a grand spectacle! The solid earth
Seemed from its quaking entrails to eruct
The gathered lava of a thousand years,
Like an imposthume bursting up from hell!
In a red robe of flame, the riven towers,
Pillars and altar, organ-loft and screen,
With a singed swarm of mortals intermixed,
Were whirled in anguish to the shuddering stars,
And all creation trembled at the din.
It was my doing—mine alone! and I
Stand greater by this deed than the vain fool
That thrust his torch beneath Diana’s shrine.
For what was it inspired Erostratus
But a weak vanity to have his name
Blaze out for arson in the catalogue?
I have been wiser. No man knows the name
Of me, the pyrotechnist who have given
A new apotheosis to the saint
With lightning blast, and stunning thunder knell!
And yet—and yet—what boots the sacrifice?
I thought to take remorse unto my heart,
As the young Spartan hid the savage fox
Beneath the foldings of his boyish gown,
And let it rive his flesh. Mine is not riven—
My heart is yet unscarred. I’ve been too coarse
And general in this business. Had there been
Amongst that multitude a single man
Who loved me, cherished me—to whom I owed
Sweet reciprocity for holy alms
And gifts of gentle import—had there been
Friend,—father,—brother, mingled in that crowd,
And I had slain him—then indeed my soul
Might have acquired fruition of its wish,
And shrieked delirious at the taste of sin!
But these—what were the victims unto me?
Nothing! Mere human atoms, breathing clods,
Uninspired dullards, unpoetic slaves,
The rag, and tag, and bobtail of mankind;
Whom, having scorched to cinders, I no more
Feel ruth for what I did, than if my hand
Had thrust a stick of sulphur in the nest
Of some poor hive of droning humble-bees,
And smoked them into silence!
I must have
A more potential draught of guilt than this,
With more of wormwood in it!
Here I sit,
Perched like a raven on old Simeon’s shaft,
With barely needful footing for my limbs—
And one is climbing up the inward coil,
Who was my friend and brother. We have gazed
Together on the midnight map of heaven,
And marked the gems in Cassiopea’s hair—
Together have we heard the nightingale
Waste the exuberant music of her throat,
And lull the flustering breezes into calm—
Together have we emulously sung
Of Hyacinthus, Daphne, and the rest,
Whose mortal weeds Apollo changed to flowers.
Also from him I have derived much aid
In golden ducats, which I fain would pay
Back with extremest usury, were but
Mine own convenience equal to my wish.
Moreover, of his poems he hath sold
Two full editions of a thousand each,
While mine remain neglected on the shelves!
Courage, Firmilian! for the hour has come
When thou canst know atrocity indeed,
By smiting him that was thy dearest friend.
And think not that he dies a vulgar death—
’Tis poetry demands the sacrifice!
Yet not to him be that revealment made.
He must not know with what a loving hand—
With what fraternal charity of heart
I do devote him to the infernal gods!
I dare not spare him one particular pang,
Nor make the struggle briefer! Hush—he comes.
Haverillo, emerging from the staircase.
How now, Firmilian!—I am scant of breath;
These steps have pumped the ether from my lungs,
And made the bead-drops cluster on my brow.
A strange, unusual rendezvous is this—
An old saint’s pillar, which no human foot
Hath scaled this hundred years!
Firmilian.
Aye—it is strange!
Haverillo.
’Faith, sir, the bats considered it as such:
They seem to flourish in the column here,
And are not over courteous. Ha! I’m weary:
I shall sleep sound to-night.
Firmilian.
You shall sleep sound!
Haverillo.
Either there is an echo in the place,
Or your voice is sepulchral.
Firmilian.
Seems it so?
Haverillo.
Come, come, Firmilian—Be once more a man!
Leave off these childish tricks, and vapours bred
Out of a too much pampered fantasy.
What are we, after all, but mortal men,
Who eat, drink, sleep, need raiment and the like,
As well as any jolterhead alive?
Trust me, my friend, we cannot feed on dreams,
Or stay the hungry cravings of the maw
By mere poetic banquets.
Firmilian.
Say you so?
Yet have I heard that by some alchemy
(To me unknown as yet) you have transmuted
Your verses to fine gold.
Haverillo.
And all that gold
Was lent to you, Firmilian.
Firmilian.
You expect,
Doubtless, I will repay you?
Haverillo.
So I do.
You told me yesterday to meet you here,
And you would pay me back with interest.
Here is the note.
Firmilian.
A moment.—Do you see
Yon melon-vender’s stall down i’ the square?
Methinks the fruit that, close beside the eye,
Would show as largely as a giant’s head,
Is dwindled to a heap of gooseberries!
If Justice held no bigger scales than those
Yon pigmy seems to balance in his hands,
Her utmost fiat scarce would weigh a drachm!
How say you?
Haverillo.
Nothing—’tis a fearful height!
My brain turns dizzy as I gaze below,
And there’s a strange sensation in my soles.
Firmilian.
Ay—feel you that? Ixion felt the same
Ere he was whirled from heaven!
Haverillo.
Firmilian!
You carry this too far. Farewell. We’ll meet
When you’re in better humour.
Firmilian.
Tarry, sir!
I have you here, and thus we shall not part.
I know your meaning well. For that same dross,
That paltry ore of Mammon’s mean device
Which I, to honour you, stooped to receive,
You’d set the Alguazils on my heels!
What! have I read your thought? Nay, never shrink,
Nor edge towards the doorway! You’re a scholar!
How was’t with Phaeton?
Haverillo.
Alas! he’s mad.
Hear me, Firmilian! Here is the receipt—
Take it—I grudge it not! If ten times more,
It were at your sweet service.
Firmilian.
Would you do
This kindness unto me?
Haverillo.
Most willingly.
Firmilian.
Liar and slave! There’s falsehood in thine eye!
I read as clearly there, as in a book,
That, if I did allow you to escape,
In fifteen minutes you would seek the judge.
Therefore, prepare thee, for thou needs must die!
Haverillo.
Madman—stand off!
Firmilian.
There’s but four feet of space
To spare between us. I’m not hasty, I!
Swans sing before their death, and it may be
That dying poets feel that impulse too:
Then, prythee, be canorous. You may sing
One of those ditties which have won you gold,
And my meek audience of the vapid strain
Shall count with Phœbus as a full discharge
For all your ducats. Will you not begin?
Haverillo.
Leave off this horrid jest, Firmilian!
Firmilian.
Jest! ’Tis no jest! This pillar’s very high—
Shout, and no one can hear you from the square—
Wilt sing, I say?
Haverillo.
Listen, Firmilian!
I have a third edition in the press,
Whereof the proceeds shall be wholly thine—
Spare me!
Firmilian.
A third edition! Atropos—
Forgive me that I tarried!
Haverillo.
Mercy!—Ah!—
[Firmilian hurls him from the column.
There is a grand recklessness and savage energy displayed in this scene, which greatly increases our admiration of the author’s abilities. He seems, indeed, in the fair way of making the spasmodic school famous in modern literature. With the death of Haverillo an ordinary writer would have paused—not so Percy Jones, who, with a fine aptitude for destruction, makes his hero, Firmilian, kill two birds with one stone. The manner in which he accomplishes this feat is most ingenious. He maintains the unity of the design by a very slight alteration of the locality. Whilst the two poets are ominously conversing on the summit of the pillar, a critic, affected by an intolerable itch for notoriety, is prowling in the square beneath—