Our milk has been the same.

As is the hedge-hog's,

Ber.
Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam
Of the young bull, until the milkmaid finds
The nipple next day sore and udder dry.
Call not thy brothers brethren! call me not
Mother; for if I brought thee forth, it was
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out!

[Exit BERTHA.

-She is gone, and I must do

Arn. (solus). Oh mother!
Her bidding; wearily but willingly
I would fulfil it, could I only hope

A kind word in return. What shall I do?

[ARNOLD begins to cut wood: in doing this he wounds one of

his hands.

My labour for the day is over now.

Accursed be this blood that flows so fast;

For double curses will be my meed now

At home. What home? I have no home, no kin,

No kind-not made like other creatures, or

To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed too
Like them? Oh that each drop which falls to earth
Would rise a snake to sting them as they have stung me!
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me,
Would aid his likeness! If I must partake
His form, why not his power? Is it because
I have not his will too? For one kind word

From her who bore me, would still reconcile me

Even to this hateful aspect. Let me wash

The wound.

[ARNOLD goes to a spring, and stoops to wash his hand: he starts back.

They are right; and Nature's mirror shows me

What she hath made me. I will not look on it

Again, and scarce dare think on 't. Hideous wretch
That I am! The very waters mock me with
My horrid shadow-like a demon placed
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle
From drinking therein.

And shall I live on,
A burthen to the earth, myself, and shame
Unto what brought me into life? Thou blood,
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me
Try if thou wilt not in a fuller stream
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself
On earth, to which I will restore at once
This hateful compound of her atoms, and

[He pauses.

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 wither'd 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 't is 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 warm'd me, but
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 falling 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
And rocking power of the internal world.
What's here? A mist! no more?—

Arn.

He stands gazing upon it :

[A cloud comes from the fountain.
it is dispelled, and a tall black man comes towards him.
What would you? Speak!

Spirit or man?

So many men are that

Which is so call'd 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.

Str. What is that resolution which can e'er

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.

Str.

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
Looks likest what the boors believe to be

Their cloven-footed terror.

Arn.

Do you dare you

To taunt me with my born deformity?

Str. 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

With thee. Thy form is natural: 't was 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.
Str. I will.

Arn. (with surprise). Thou canst?
Str.

Arn. Thou mockest me.

Str.

Perhaps. Would you aught else?

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 caldrons with
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee,—
Now I can mock the mightiest.

Arn.

Then waste not

Thy time on me: I seek thee not.

Str.

Your thoughts

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

I am not so easily recall'd to do

Or form you to your wish in any shape.
Arn. Oh! then you are indeed the demon, for
Nought else would wittingly wear mine.

Str.

I'll show thee The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give thee Thy choice.

Arn.

Str.

On what condition?

There's a question!

An hour ago you would have given your soul
To look like other men, and now you pause
To wear the form of heroes.

I must not compromise my soul.

Str.
What soul,
Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ?
Arn. 'T is an aspiring one, whate'er the tenement
In which it is mislodged. But name your compact:
Must it be sign'd in blood?

But your own will, no contract save your deeds.

Are you content?

Arn.

Str. Now then!

Arn.

I take thee at thy word.

[The Stranger approaches the fountain, and turns to ARNOLD. A little of your blood.

For what?

Str. To mingle with the magic of the waters,
And make the charm effective.

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

This is the hour!

Walk lovely and pliant

From the depth of this fountain,

As the cloud-shapen giant

Bestrides the Hartz mountain,*

* This is a well-known German superstition--a gigantic shadow produced by re

flection on the Brocken.

Come as ye were,

That our eyes may behold
The model in air

Of the form I will mould,
Bright as the Iris

When ether is spann'd ;—
Such his desire is,

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

Who breathed to destroy

Shadows of beauty!

Shadows of power

Up to your duty

This is the hour!

[Pointing to ARNOLD.

[Various Phantoms arise from the waters, and pass in succession before the Stranger and ARNOLD.

Arn. What do I see?

Str.

The black-eyed Roman, with

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

Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along

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

His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name.

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

Inherit but his fame with his defects?

Str. His brow was girt with laurels more than hairs. You see his aspect-chuse 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.

Str. Then you are far more difficult to please
Than Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother,

Or Cleopatra at sixteen-an age

When love is not less in the

than heart.

eye pass on! [The Phantom of Julius Cæsar disappears. And can it

Be, that the man who shook the earth is gone

And left no footstep?

Str.

There

you err.

His substance

Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame