The Continental Monthly, Vol 6, No 5, November 1864

Jew, I am ready now for the vault of St. Ignatius!

The Baptized. The day dawns; I can go no farther.

The Man. Lead me on until we strike the right path; I will then release you!

The Baptized. Why do you drag me on through mist, through thorns and briers, through ashes and embers, over heaps of ruins? Let me go, I entreat!

The Man. Forward! forward! and descend with me!

The last songs of the people are dying away behind us; a few torches here and there just glimmer through the gloom!

Ha! under those hoary trees drooping with the night dew, and through this curdling, whitening vapor, see you not the giant shadow of the dead Past? Hark! hear you not that wailing chant?

The Baptized. Everything is shrouded in the thickening mist; at every step we descend, deeper, deeper!

Chorus of Wood Spirits. Let us weep for Christ, the persecuted, martyred Jesus!

Where is our God; where is His church?

The Man. Unsheathe the sword—to arms! to arms!

I will restore Him to you; upon thousands and thousands of crosses will I crucify His enemies!

Chorus of Spirits. We kept guard by day and night around the altar and the holy graves; upon untiring wings we bore the matin chime and vesper bell to the ear of the believer; our voices floated on the organ's peal! In the glitter of the stained and rainbow panes, the shadows of the vaulted domes, the light of the holy chalice, the blessed consecration of the Body of our Lord—was our whole life centred!

Woe! woe! what will become of us?

The Man. It is growing lighter; their dim forms fade and melt into the red of morn!

The Baptized. Here lies your way: this is the entrance to the Pass.

The Man. Hail! Christ Jesus and my sword! (He tears off the liberty cap, throws it upon the ground, and casts pieces of silver upon it.) Take together the Thing and the Image for a remembrance!

The Baptized. You pledge your word to me for the honorable treatment of him who will visit you at midnight?

The Man. An old noble never repeats or breaks a promise!

Hail! Christ Jesus and our swords!

Voices (from the depths of the Pass). Mary and our swords! Long live our lord, Count Henry!

The Man. My faithful followers, to me—to me!

Aid me, Mary, and Christ Jesus!

Night. Trees and shrubbery. Pancratius, Leonard, and attendants.

Pancratius (to his attendants). Lie upon this spot with your faces to the turf, remain perfectly still, kindle no fires, beat no signals, and, unless you hear the report of firearms, stir not until the dawn of day!

Leonard. I once more conjure you, citizen!

Pancratius. Lean against this tall pine, Leonard, and pass the night in reflection.

Leonard. I pray you, Pancratius, take me with you! Remember, you are about to intrust yourself alone with an aristocrat, a betrayer, an oppressor....

Pancratius (interrupting him, and impatiently gesturing to him to remain behind). The old nobles seldom broke a plighted promise!

A vast feudal hall in the castle of Count Henry. Pictures of knights and ladies hang upon the walls. A pillar is seen in the background bearing the arms and escutcheons of the family. The Count is seated at a marble table upon which are placed an antique lamp of wrought silver, a jewel-hilted sword, a pair of pistols, an hourglass, and clock. Another table stands on the opposite side, with silver pitchers, decanters, and massive goblets.

The Man. At the same hour, surrounded by appalling perils, agitated by foreboding thoughts, the last Brutus met his Evil Genius.

I await a like apparition. A man without a name, without ancestors, without a faith or guardian angel; a man who is destroying the Past, and who will, in all probability, establish a new era, though himself sprung from the very dust, if I cannot succeed in casting him back into his original nothingness—is now to appear before me!

Spirit of my forefathers! inspire me with that haughty energy which once rendered you the rulers of the world! Give me the lion heart which erst throbbed in your dauntless breasts! Give me your peerless dignity, your noble and chivalric courtesy!

Rekindle in my wavering soul your blind, undoubting, earnest faith in Christ and in His church: at once the source of your noblest deeds on earth, your brightest hopes in heaven! Oh, let it open for me, as it was wont to do for you; and I will struggle with fire and sword against its enemies! Hear me, the son of countless generations, the sole heir of your thoughts, your courage, your virtues, and your faults!

The castle bell sounds twelve.

It is the appointed hour: I am prepared!

An old and faithful servant, Jacob, enters, fully armed.

Jacob. My lord, the person whom your excellency expects is in the castle.

The Man. Admit him here.

Exit Jacob.

He reappears, announcing Pancratius, and again retires.

Pancratius. Count Henry, I salute you! The word 'count' sounds strangely on my lips.

He seats himself, throws off his cloak and liberty cap, and fastens his eyes on the pillar on which hang the arms and shield.

The Man. Thanks, guest, that you have confided in the honor of my house! Faithful to our ancient forms, I pledge you in a glass of wine. Your good health, guest!

He takes a goblet, fills, tastes, and hands it to Pancratius.

Pancratius. If I am not mistaken, this red and blue shield was called a coat of arms in the language of the Dead; but such trifles have vanished from the face of the earth.

He drinks.

The Man. Vanished? With the aid of God, you will soon look upon them by thousands!

Pancratius. Commend me to the old noble! always confident in himself, though without money, arms, or soldiers; proud, obstinate, and hoping against all hope; like the corpse in the fable, threatening the driver of the hearse at the very door of the charnel house, and confiding in God, or at least pretending to confide in Him, when confidence in himself is no longer even possible!

Pray, Count Henry, give me but one little glimpse of the lightning which is to be sent from heaven, for your especial benefit, to blast me and my millions; or show me at least one angel of the thousands of the heavenly hosts, who are to encamp on your side, and whose prowess is so speedily to decide the combat in your favor!

He empties the goblet.

The Man. You are pleased to jest, leader of the people; but atheism is quite an old formula, and I looked for something new from the new men!

Pancratius. Laugh, if you will, at your own wit, but my faith is wider, deeper, and more firmly based than your own. Its central dogma is the emancipation of humanity. It has its source in the cries of despair which rise unceasingly to heaven from the hearts of tortured millions, in the famine of the operatives, the grinding poverty of the peasants, the desecration of their wives and daughters, the degradation of the race through unjust laws and debasing and brutal prejudices—from all this agony spring my new formulas, the creed which I am determined to establish: 'Man has a birthright of happiness.' These thoughts are my god, a god which will give bread, rest, bliss, glory to man!

He fills, drinks, and casts and goblet from him.

The Man. I place my trust in that God who gave power and rule, into the hands of my forefathers!

Pancratius. You trust Him still, and yet through your whole life you have been but a plaything in the hands of the Devil!

But let us leave such discussions to the theologians, if any such still linger upon earth:—to business, Count Henry, to stern facts!

The Man. What do you seek from me, redeemer of the people, citizen-god?

Pancratius. I sought you, in the first place, because I wished to know you; in the second, because I desire to save you.

The Man. For the first, receive my thanks; for the second, trust my sword!

Pancratius. Your God! your sword! vain phantoms of the brain! Look at the dread realities of your situation! The curses of the millions are upon you; myriads of brawny arms are already raised to hurl you to destruction! Of all the vaunted Past nothing remains to you save a few feet of earth, scarcely enough to offer you a grave. Even your last fortress, the castle of the Holy Trinity, can hold out but a few days longer. Where is your artillery? Where are the arms and provisions for your soldiers? Where are your soldiers? and what dependence can you place on the few you still retain? You must surely know there is nothing left you on which to hang a single hope!

If I were in your place, Count Henry, I know what I would do!

The Man. Speak! you see how patiently I listen!

Pancratius. Were I Count Henry, I would say to Pancratius: 'I will dismiss my troops, my few retainers; I will not go to the relief of the Holy Trinity—and for this I will retain my title and my estates; and you, Pancratius, will pledge your own honor to guarantee me the possession of the things I require.'

How old are you, Count Henry?

The Man. I am thirty-six years old, citizen.

Pancratius. Then you have but about fifteen years of life to expect, for men of your temperament die young; your son is nearer to the grave than to maturity. A single exception, such as yours, can do no harm to the great whole. Remain, then, where you are, the last of the counts. Rule, as long as you shall live, in the house of your fathers; have your family portraits retouched, your armorial bearings renewed, and think no more of the wretched remnant of your fallen order. Let the justice of the long-injured people be fulfilled upon them! (He fills for himself another cup.) Your good health, Henry, the last of the counts!

The Man. Every word you utter is a new insult to me! Do you really believe that, to save a dishonored life, I would suffer myself to be enslaved and dragged about, chained to your car of triumph?

Cease! cease! I can endure no longer! I cannot answer as my spirit dictates, for you are my guest, sheltered from all insult while under my roof by my plighted honor!

Pancratius. Plighted honor and knightly faith have, ere this, swung from a gallows! You unfurl a tattered banner whose faded rags seem strangely out of place among the brilliant flags and joyous symbols of universal humanitarian progress. Oh, I know you, and protest against your course! Full of life and generous vigor, you bind to your heart a putrefying corpse! You court your own destruction, clinging to a vain belief in privileged orders, in worn-out relics, in the bones of dead men, in mouldering escutcheons and forgotten coats of arms—and yet in your inmost heart you are forced to acknowledge that your brother nobles have deserved their punishment, that forgetfulness were mercy for them!

The Man. You, Pancratius, and your followers, what do you deserve?

Pancratius. Victory and life! I acknowledge but one right, I bow to but one law, the law of perpetual progress, and this law is your death warrant. It cries to you through my lips: 'Worm-eaten, mouldering aristocracy! full of rottenness, crammed with meat and wine, satiated with luxury—give place to the young, the strong, the hungry!'

But I will save you, and you alone!

The Man. Cease! I will not brook your arrogant pity!

I know you, and your new world; I have visited your camp at night, and looked upon the restless swarms upon whose necks you ride to power! I saw all: I detected the old crimes peering through the thin veils of new draperies, shining under new shams, whirling to new tunes, circling in new dances—but the end was ever the same which it has been for centuries, which it will forever be: adultery, license, theft, gold, blood!

But I saw you not there; you were not with your guilty children; you know you despise them in the depths of your soul; and if you do not go mad yourself in the mad dances of the blood-thirsty and blood-drunken people, you will soon scorn and despise yourself!

Torture me no more!

He rises, moves hurriedly to and fro, then seats himself under his escutcheon.

Pancratius. It is true my world is in its infancy, unformed and undeveloped; it requires food, ease, material gratifications; but it is growing, and the time will come—(He rises from his chair, approaches the count, and leans against the pillar supporting the escutcheons)—the time will come when my world will arrive at maturity, will attain the consciousness of its own strength, when it will say, I am; and there will be no other voice on earth able to reply, 'I also am!'

The Man. And then?

Pancratius. A race will spring from the generation I am now quickening and elevating, stronger, higher, and nobler than any the world has yet produced; the earth has never yet seen such men upon her bosom. They will be free, lords of the globe from pole to pole; the earth will be a blooming garden, every part of her surface under the highest culture; the sea will be covered with floating palaces and argosies of wealth and commerce; a universal exchange of commodities will carry civilization, mutual recognition, and comfort to every clime; prosperous cities will crown every height, and expand their blessings of refinement and culture o'er every plain; earth will then offer happy and tranquil homes to all her children, she will be one vast and united house of blissful industry and highest art!

The Man. Your words and voice dissemble well, but your pale and rigid features in vain struggle to assume the generous glow of a noble enthusiasm, which your soul cannot feel.

Pancratius. Interrupt me not! Men have begged on bended knees before me for such prophecies.

The world of the Future will possess a god whose highest fact will not be his own defeat and death upon a cross; a god whom the people, by their own power and skill, will force to unveil his face to them; a god who will be torn by the very children whom he once scattered over the face of the earth in his anger, from the infinite recesses of the distant heavens in which he loves to hide! Babel will be no more, all tribes and nations will meet and understand their mutual wants, and, united by a universal language, his scattered children, having attained their majority, assert their right to know their creator, and claim their just inheritance from a common father: 'the full possession of all truth!'

The god of humanity at last reveals himself to man!

The Man. Yes, He revealed Himself some centuries ago; through Him is humanity already redeemed.

Pancratius. Alas! let the redeemed delight in the sweetness of such redemption! let them rejoice in the multiplied agonies which have in vain cried to a Redeemer for relief during the three thousand years which have elapsed since His defeat and death!

The Man. Blasphemer, cease! I have seen the Cross, the holy symbol of His mystic love, standing in the heart of the eternal city, Rome; the ruins of a power far greater than thine were crumbling into dust around It; hundreds of gods such as those you trust in, were lying prostrate on the ground, trampled under careless feet, not even daring to raise their crushed and wounded heads to gaze upon the Crucified. It stood upon the seven hills, stretching its mighty arms to the east and to the west, its holy brow glittering in the golden sunshine; men wistfully gazed upon its perfect lesson of self-abnegating Love; it won all hearts, it RULED THE WORLD!

Pancratius. An old wife's tale, hollow as the rattling of these vain escutcheons! (He strikes the shield.) These discussions are in vain, for I have read all the secrets of your yearning heart! If you really wish to find the infinite which has so long baffled your search; if you love the truth, and are willing to suffer for it; if you are a man, created in the image of our common humanity, and not the impossible hero of an old nursery song—listen to me! Oh, let not these rapidly fleeting moments, the last in which you can possibly be saved, pass in vain! The race renews itself, man of the Past; and of the blood we shed to-day, no trace will be found to-morrow! For the last time I conjure you, if you are what you once appeared to be, A MAN, rise in your former might, aid the down-trodden and oppressed people, help to emancipate and enlighten your fellow men, work for the common good, forsake your false ideas of a personal glory, quit these tottering ruins which all your pride and power cannot prevent from crumbling o'er you, desert your falling house, and follow me!

The Man. O youngest born of Satan's brood!—(He paces up and down the hall, speaking to himself:) Dreams, dreams, beautiful dreams—but their realization is impossible! Who could achieve them? Adam died in the desert—the flaming sword still guards the gates—we are never more to enter Paradise! In vain we dream!

Pancratius (aside). I have driven the probe to the core of his heart; I have struck the electric nerve of Poetry, which quivers through the very base of his complicated being!

The Man. Progress of humanity; universal happiness; I once believed them possible! There—there—take my head—my life—if that were possi—.... (He sighs, and is silent for a moment.) It is past! two centuries ago it might have been—but now.... But now I have seen and know there will be nothing but assassination and murder—murder on either side—nothing can satisfy now but an unceasing war of mutual extermination!

Pancratius. Woe then to the vanquished! Falter not, seeker of universal happiness! Cry but once with us: 'Woe to the oppressors of the people!' and stand preëminent o'er all, the First among the Victors!

The Man. Have you already explored all the paths in the dark and unknown country of the Future? Did Destiny, withdrawing at midnight the curtains of your tent, stand visibly before you, and, placing her giant hand upon your scheming brain, impress upon it the mystic seal of victory? or in the heat of midday, when the world slept, and you alone were watching, did she glide pale, pitiless, and stern before you, and promise conquest, that you thus threaten me with defeat and ruin? You are but a man of clay as fragile as my own, and may be the victim of the first well-aimed ball, the first sharp thrust of the sword! Your life, like mine, hangs on a single thread, and you have no immunity from death!

Pancratius. Dreams! idle dreams! Oh do not deceive yourself with hopes so vain, for no bullet aimed by man will reach me, no sword will pierce me, while a single member of your haughty caste remains capable of resisting the task which it is my destiny to fulfil. And what doom soever may befall me, after its completion, count, will be too late to offer you the least advantage. (The clock strikes.) Hark! time flies—and scorns us both!

If you are weary of your own life, save at least your unfortunate son!

The Man. His pure soul is already saved in heaven: on earth he must share the fate of his father.

His head sinks heavily, and remains for some time buried in his hands.

Pancratius. You reject too all hope for him?… (Pauses.) Nay—you are silent—you reflect—it is well: reflection becomes him who stands upon the brink of the grave!

The Man. Away! away! Back from the passionate mysteries now surging through the depths of my soul! Profane them not with a word; they lie beyond your sphere!

The rough, wide world belongs to you; feed it with meat; flood it with wine; but press not into the holy secrets of my heart! Away! away from me, framer of material bliss!

Pancratius. Shame upon you, warrior, scholar, poet, and yet the slave of one idea and its dying forms! Thought and form are wax beneath my plastic fingers!

The Man. In vain would you seek to follow my thoughts; you will never understand me, for all your forefathers were buried in a common ditch, as dead things, not as men of individual character and bold distinctive spirit. (He points to the portraits of his ancestors.) Look upon these pictures! Love of country, of family, of the home hearth, feelings at war with all your ideas, are written in every line of their firm brows—their spirit lives entire in me, their last heir and representative. Tell me, O man without ancestors, where is your natal soil? You spread your wandering tent each coming eve Upon the ruins of another's home, every morning roll it up again that it may be unrolled anew at night to blight and spoil! Yon have not yet found a home, a hearth, and you will never find one as long as a hundred men live to cry with me: 'Glory to our fathers!'

Pancratius. Yes, glory to your fathers in heaven and upon earth; but it will repay us to look at them a little more closely. (He points to one of the portraits.) This gentleman was a famous Starost; he shot old women in the woods, and roasted the Jews alive: this one with the inscription, 'Chancellor,' and the great seal in his right hand, falsified and forged acts, burned archives, stabbed knights, and sullied the inheritance with poison; through him came your villages, your income, your power. That dark man played at adultery with the wife of his friend. This one, with the golden fleece on his Spanish cloak, served in a foreign land, when his own country was in danger.

This pale lady with the raven ringlets carried on an intrigue with a handsome page. That one with the lustrous braids is reading a letter from her gallant; she smiles, as well she may, for night approaches, and love is bold.

This timid beauty with the deep blue eyes and golden curls, clasping a Roman hound in her braceleted arm, was the mistress of a king, and soothed his softer hours.

Such is the true history of your unbroken, ancient, and unsullied line! But I like this jolly fellow in the green riding jacket; he drank and hunted with the nobles, and employed the peasants to run down the tall deer with the hounds. Indeed, the ignorance, stupidity, and wretchedness of the serf were the strength of the noble, and give convincing proof of his own intellect.

But the Day of Judgment is approaching: I promise you that none of your vaunted ancestors, that nought of their fame shall be forgotten in the dark award.

The Man. You deceive yourself, son of the people! Neither you nor your brethren could have preserved existence, had not our noble ancestors nourished you with their bread, and defended you with their blood. In times of famine, they gave you grain, and when the plague swept over you with its hot breath of death, they built hospitals to receive you, found nurses to take care of you, and educated physicians to save you from the grave. When from a herd of unformed brutes they had nurtured you into human beings, they built schools and churches for you, sharing everything with you save the dangers of the battle field, for war they knew you were not formed to bear. As the sharp lance of the pagan was wont to recoil, shattered and riven, from the glittering armor of my fathers, so recoil your vain words as they strike the dazzling record of their long-consecrated glory. They disturb not the repose of their sacred ashes. Like the howlings of a mad dog, who froths, bites, and snaps as he runs, until he is driven out of the pale of humanity, so fall your accusations, dying out in their own insanity.

But it is almost dawn, and time you should depart from the halls of my ancestors! Pass in safety and in freedom from their home, my guest!

Pancratius. Farewell then, until we meet again upon the ramparts of the Holy Trinity. And when your powder and ball shall be utterly exhausted?

The Man. We will then approach within the length of our swords. Farewell!

Pancratius. We are twin Eagles, but your nest is shattered by the lightning! (He takes up his cloak and liberty cap.) In passing from your threshold, I leave the curse, due to decrepitude, behind me. I devote you and your son to destruction!

The Man. Ho! Jacob!

Enter Jacob.

Conduct this man in safety through my last post on the hill!

Jacob. So help me God the Lord!

Exit Jacob with Pancratius.

DEATH IN LIFE

In some dull hour of doubt or pain,Who has not felt that life is slain—And while there yet remainLong years, perhaps, of joyless mirth,Ere earth shall claim its kindred earth,Such years were nothing worthBut that some duty still demandsThe sweating brow, the weary hands?And so Existence standsWith an appeal we cannot shun,To make complete what Life begun,With toil from sun to sun.And so we keep the sorry tryst,With all its fancied sweetness missed—Consenting to existWhen Life has fled beyond recall,And left us to its heir in thrall,With chains that will not fall.Belated stars were waning fastAs through an open gate I passed,And crossed a meadow vast—And, still descending, followed stillThe path that wound adown the hillAnd by the ruined mill—Till in its garden I espiedThe cottage by the river sideWhere dwelt my promised bride.Beneath the porch no lantern flared,No watch dog kept his faithful ward,The window blinds were barred.Entering with eager eye and ear,And ushered by the phantom Fear,I stood beside the bierOf one who, passing hence away,Left something more than lifeless clay,As twilight lingers after day,The pulseless heart, the pallid lips,The eyes just closed in death's eclipse,The fairy finger tipsSo lightly locked across the breast,Seemed to obey the sweet behestBy angels whispered—Rest!That beauty had been mine alone,Those hands had fondly pressed my own,Those eyes in mine had shone.The open door was banged about,As wailing winds went in and outWith sigh and groan and shout.And darkly ran the river cold,Whose swollen waters, as they rolled,A tale of sorrow told.I could not choose but seek that stream,Whose sympathetic moan did seemThe music of a dream.O River, that unceasing layCharms each fair tree along thy way,Until it falls thy prey!O endless moan within my heart,Thy constancy has made me partOf what thou wert and art!And while I stood upon the brink,And tried to think, but could not think,Nor sight with reason link—A form I had not seen beforeCame slowly down the dismal shore;A sombre robe she wore,And in her air and on her faceThere was a sterner kind of grace,Heightened by time and place—A sort of conscious power and pride,A soul to substance more allied—Than that of her who died.With scarce a semblance of design,Toward me her steps she did incline,And raised her eyes to mineSo sweetly, so imploringly,I scarcely wished, and did not try,To put their pleading by,And, ere a movement I had made,Her hand upon my arm she laid,And whispered: I obeyed.While one into the darkness sped,I followed where the other led;Yet often turned my head,As one who fancies that he hearsHis own name ringing in his earsShouted from far-off spheres.Oh! bliss misplaced is misery!I love the life I've lost, but, see!The life that's here loves me.And while I seem her willing slave,My heart is hid in weeds that waveAbove a distant grave.