text:
Page:History of West Australia.djvu/534

HE histories of the world's famous goldfields are now being repeated in Western Australia. The magnetic power of the yellow metal attracts well-informed, intelligent, able-bodied men from all over the world. Every goldfield contains a cosmopolitan, and, at first, a pure democracy. Almost since the days of Roman greatness, nations and people have been sedulously searching for gold that shall quickly make them rich without the necessity of long and arduous toil. The early explorations in Asia and Africa in medieval days had that end in view. Long years after the East India Islands became known, speculation was casually indulged in as to the possible wealth of the minerals and merchandise which they contained. Hence Columbus sailed away from Europe to discover a westerly route to these places, and happened on Cuba. Not long afterwards Hernando Cortes was despatched to that island to form a settlement, but not finding it so congenial as he wished, he went further west, and exploited Central America. Then in a short time millions upon millions of pounds' worth of gold were taken out of that famous country by the Spaniards, and the Old World was astounded with bright luminous tales of wealth. A spur was given to further exploration and navigation, and mariners and travellers went forth in the anticipation of possible riches, and discovered divers islands and hitherto unknown parts of the world.

Therefore, it is apparent that in later history gold has been the foundation of discovery, and in order to acquire it people have been drawn from one end of the world to the other, like children in a toy-shop rushing here and there to get its prizes. The American goldfields not only attracted those resident in that continent, but civilised people from every portion of the globe. Ballarat and Bendigo and South Africa thus got their magnificent populations. Western Australia is not singular in this respect. The basis is the best that could possibly be gained. No general of a universal army could despatch finer officers and men to these regions than are gathered spontaneously without any ruling power other than that of self interest. Men of all shades of learning, of professions, avocations, and classes, are monthly taking up their abode in the colony. The capitalist and the poor man join together to gain some benefit from the golden wealth which she contains. The biographies published in this work of those resident on and interested in our gold fields give rise to these reflections. Happy is it for Western Australia that her deserts contain the yellow talisman, and this glittering augury of a prosperous future is now performing its potent mission. Of the highly educated, scientific, and intelligent, we have already mentioned several names, and chief among them is that of Dr. Alfred Leon Simon, of whose career a brief sketch is appended. With his wide experience, invaluable training, and, in the possession of that chief agent of development-capital,—Dr. Simon has very materially assisted in fostering the prosperity of the colony.

Dr. Simon was born at St. Johann, Germany, and received his early education at Mühlhausen, in Alsace. Thence he went to the Polytechnic School at Zurich, Switzerland, where he passed with honours the State examination for a civil engineer and an analytical chemist. He then took his degree as Doctor of Philosophy at the University of the same place. After thus distinguishing himself he received an appointment as assistant to Professor Bernthsen, teaching organic chemistry at the famous Heidelberg University, where he remained for eighteen months. His thirst for knowledge carried him first to Lille, in Northern France, where he occupied the position of chef de laboratoire at the world renowned manufactory of chemical products, and thence to Frankfort, where he obtained a practical insight into the treatment of ores at the Gold Reduction Works in that city. After this he visited Freiberg, in Germany, and Central France, where he obtained a good knowledge of practical mining. The goldfields of South Africa were at this time being opened up, and Dr. Simon, like others, saw in the new country a greater scope for his talents than in the settled centres of civilisation. He accordingly went to the Rand, where his services were eagerly sought after by several mining companies. He became civil engineer and metallurgist to the Ferreira Gold Mining Company Limited, and designed and erected large cyanide plants on the mines of the Rand. He also held the important position of consulting metallurgist to several very large mines, including the Robinson, Wemmer, Salisbury, Jubilee, New Heriot companies, &c. After three years of active work on these famous goldfields, Dr. Simon went to Paris on a holiday trip, intending to return in a short time. The Western Australian goldfields were, however, attracting great attention in France, and he was approached by representatives of a wealthy syndicate, who asked him to undertake a tour of inspection round the fields on their behalf. Dr. Simon consented to do so, and arrived in Perth in December, 1894. He at once proceeded to Coolgardie, Kalgoorlie, and the White Feather,

title: Page:History of West Australia.djvu/534


text: 1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Arensky, Anton Stephanovitch

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text:
1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Ballin, Albert

BALLIN, ALBERT (1857-1918), German merchant and one of the most eminent representatives of German commercial interests, was born Aug. 15 1857 at Hamburg. After having completed his mercantile training he organized the 'tween-deck (emigrant) traffic of the Carr Line. He next undertook the management of the passenger traffic of the Hamburg-Amerika Line and became in 1886 director and soon afterwards director-general of that enterprise, the expansion of which was essentially his work. The share capital of the Hamburg-Amerika Line was increased tenfold during his management. The network of its service was extended over the whole world, largely by the acquisition of a number of other lines. Ballin succeeded, by means of agreements with other German shipping companies, in developing German shipping on a grand scale; he was likewise the author of the German-American shipping agreement of 1902. He was regarded as enjoying the special confidence of the Emperor William II., who employed his services as an expert in all matters of shipping and commerce. Ballin died suddenly — heart-broken, it is said, by the military, political and commercial collapse of Germany — at Hamburg on Nov. 9 1918. (C. K.)


text: Bells and Pomegranates, First Series/Through the Metidja to Abd-El-Kadr


text:
1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Charpentier, Gustave

CHARPENTIER, GUSTAVE (1860-      ), French operatic composer, was born at Dieuze, Lorraine, June 24 1860. He received his musical education at the Paris conservatoire under Massenet, and obtained the Prix de Rome in 1887. His works include Impressions fausses (1895); Impressions d'Italie (1891) and the operas La Vie du Poète (1892); Louise (1900), which, first produced at Covent Garden in 1909, has attained a wide popularity, and Julien, as well as Chant d'apothéose pour le centenaire de Victor Hugo. He founded the Conservatoire de Mimi Pinson (for working girls), and during the World War started the Œuvre de Mimi Pinson and Cocarde de Mimi Pinson to aid wounded soldiers.


text:
1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Ford, Henry

FORD, HENRY (1863-      ), American manufacturer, was born on a farm at Greenfield, near Detroit, Mich., July 30 1863. He received only a common-school education in the local school and when about 15 years old went to Detroit, where he learned the machinist's trade. There a little later he began to work for the Edison Illuminating Co., and became interested in the problems of self-propelled vehicles. He worked on the construction of a gasoline engine, making all the parts himself, and in 1892 produced his first motor-car, a very clumsy vehicle, somewhat resembling a tricycle propelled by a one-cylinder engine. He continued his experiments and in 1898 was able to interest a few capitalists in his scheme. He had from the beginning a sincere desire to benefit the people, and was determined to produce a car which could be sold at a price within reach of persons of small means, the profits to come from quantity sales. His plan, however, did not coincide with that of the other members of the early company, and he withdrew. In 1903 he organized and became president of the Ford Motor Co. of Detroit, which ultimately became the largest producer of cars in the world, turning out at a very low price no fewer than 1,000,000 in the single year, 1920, and employing 75,000 men. Parts were standardized and methods devised for quickly assembling the various units that went to make up each car. At the beginning, however, serious difficulties were encountered. As early as 1895 a patent had been secured by George B. Selden, of Rochester, N. Y., which seemed to cover every type of gasoline engine used on a self-propelled vehicle. This supposed “blanket” patent

had led other manufacturers of automobiles to form the Association of Licensed Automobile Manufacturers. They paid for the privilege of using the engine and announced that they would sue any unauthorized producer. Suit was brought against the Ford Motor Co. the very year of its organization, and prospective buyers of the Ford cars were warned that they would be subject to prosecution. The Ford Co. advertised their car widely, declaring that they would give full protection to their customers. At first the suit brought against the Ford Co. was successful but on appeal it was declared in 1910 that the Selden patent applied to a particular type of engine only, and that the engine manufactured by the Ford Co. did not infringe the patent. In 1909 the Ford Co. erected a factory just outside Detroit, covering 47 acres. As the demand for cars increased, other plants were erected in Canada and England. In 1914 a profit-sharing plan was announced whereby a large percentage of the company's profits would be returned to the workers, and at the same time a minimum wage of five dollars a day was fixed. In 1919 the minimum wage was set at six dollars for approximately 28,000 of the workmen. The company undertook to do much for the welfare of its men, providing a large body of social workers among them, and furnishing legal and medical aid free. A school was founded for giving instruction to foreigners in the English language. This was all undertaken with the idea of securing greater efficiency in the shops. In 1914 Mr. Ford contributed $2,000,000 to a hospital that was building in Detroit, and later added $3,000,000. On the outbreak of the World War he came forward as a pronounced pacifist, and in Sept. 1915 announced that he had set aside $1,000,000 to fight preparedness in the United States and other countries then at peace. In Dec. 1915 he chartered a ship, and with a band of invited pacifists sailed for Europe, hoping to bring about a conference of the belligerents that would result in peace before Christmas. But nowhere was official recognition given the party and dissension arose among themselves. Mr. Ford, after reaching Christiania, returned to America, where he continued to work against preparedness. He assailed the Navy League and the National Security League, alleging that they were supported by munition manufacturers. In Sept. 1916 be brought suit for $1,000,000 against the Chicago Tribune for libel, having been called an anarchist in one of its editorials. After three years' litigation he was awarded six cents and the costs of the trial. When America entered the World War he gave full support to the Government and became a member of the Shipping Board, devoting his attention to standardizing production. He placed his efficient plants at the disposal of the Government and some were converted into producers of submarine chasers and small tanks. In 1918 he accepted the Democratic nomination for U.S. senator from Michigan, but his Republican opponent, Truman H. Newberry, was awarded the election. Charges of excessive expenditure and fraud were lodged against Mr. Newberry, who was tried and convicted. On appeal the U.S. Supreme Court reversed the decision. On Jan. 12 1922 the Senate decided, by a vote of 46 to 41, that Newberry was entitled to retain his seat. On Jan. 1 1920 Mr. Ford resigned as president of the Ford Motor Co., being succeeded by his son, to devote himself to developing the farm tractor business. Shortly before, he had purchased the Dearborn (Mich.) Independent.


text: Paracelsus (Browning)

title: Paracelsus (Browning)


text:
User:Anishshah19/EditCounterOptIn.js

Saved

title: User:Anishshah19/EditCounterOptIn.js


text:
1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Forel, François Alphonse

FOREL, FRANÇOIS ALPHONSE (1841-1912), Swiss geographer, was born at Morges on Lake Geneva Feb. 2 1841. He was trained for and practised in the medical profession, but his life-interest was found in the lake on whose shore he lived, and, from that, in limnology, the science of lakes. The study of Lake Geneva in all its associations led him to that of geology, physics, biology, and anthropology, and he set forth the results of his researches in the three stately volumes of Le Léman (1892-1902). On the science of limnology more generally his standard work is Handbuch der Seenkunde (1901); in this connexion his investigations of the previously mysterious movements of lake-waters known as seiches call for special notice. Among other researches of Forel's, those in seismology and upon Swiss Alpine glaciers are noteworthy. He died at Morges Aug. 7 1912.


text:
Paracelsus (Browning)/I

Part I Paracelsus Aspires

Scene.— Würzburg; a garden in the environs. 1512.

Paracelsus. Come close to me, dear friends; still closer; thus! Close to the heart which, though long time roll by Ere it again beat quicker, pressed to yours, As now it beats—perchance a long, long time— At least henceforth your memories shall make Quiet and fragrant as befits their home. Nor shall my memory want a home in yours— Alas, that it requires too well such free Forgiving love as shall embalm it there! For if you would remember me aright, As I was born to be, you must forget All fitful strange and moody waywardness Which e'er confused my better spirit, to dwell Only on moments such as these, dear friends! —My heart no truer, but my words and ways More true to it: as Michal, some months hence, Will say, "this autumn was a pleasant time," For some few sunny days; and overlook Its bleak wind, hankering after pining leaves. Autumn would fain be sunny; I would look Liker my nature's truth: and both are frail, And both beloved, for all our frailty.

Michal. Aureole!

Paracelsus. Drop by drop! she is weeping like a child! Not so! I am content—more than content; Nay, autumn wins you best by this its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay: Look up, sweet Michal, nor esteem the less Your stained and drooping vines their grapes bow down, Nor blame those creaking trees bent with their fruit, That apple-tree with a rare after-birth Of peeping blooms sprinkled its wealth among! Then for the winds—what wind that ever raved Shall vex that ash which overlooks you both, So proud it wears its berries? Ah, at length, The old smile meet for her, the lady of this Sequestered nest!—this kingdom, limited Alone by one old populous green wall Tenanted by the ever-busy flies, Grey crickets and shy lizards and quick spiders, Each family of the silver-threaded moss— Which, look through near, this way, and it appears A stubble-field or a cane-brake, a marsh Of bulrush whitening in the sun: laugh now! Fancy the crickets, each one in his house, Looking out, wondering at the world—or best, Yon painted snail with his gay shell of dew, Travelling to see the glossy balls high up Hung by the caterpillar, like gold lamps.

Michal. In truth we have lived carelessly and well.

Paracelsus. And shall, my perfect pair!—each, trust me, born For the other; nay, your very hair, when mixed, Is of one hue. For where save in this nook Shall you two walk, when I am far away, And wish me prosperous fortune? Stay: that plant Shall never wave its tangles lightly and softly, As a queen's languid and imperial arm Which scatters crowns among her lovers, but you Shall be reminded to predict to me Some great success! Ah see, the sun sinks broad Behind Saint Saviour's: wholly gone, at last!

Festus. Now, Aureole, stay those wandering eyes awhile! You are ours to-night, at least; and while you spoke Of Michal and her tears, I thought that none Could willing leave what he so seemed to love: But that last look destroys my dream—that look As if, where'er you gazed, there stood a star! How far was Würzburg with its church and spire And garden-walls and all things they contain, From that look's far alighting?

Paracelsus. I but spoke And looked alike from simple joy to see The beings I love best, shut in so well From all rude chances like to be my lot, That, when afar, my weary spirit,—disposed To lose awhile its care in soothing thoughts Of them, their pleasant features, looks and words,— Needs never hesitate, nor apprehend Encroaching trouble may have reached them too, Nor have recourse to fancy's busy aid And fashion even a wish in their behalf Beyond what they possess already here; But, unobstructed, may at once forget Itself in them, assured how well they fare. Beside, this Festus knows he holds me one Whom quiet and its charms arrest in vain, One scarce aware of all the joys I quit, Too filled with airy hopes to make account Of soft delights his own heart garners up: Whereas behold how much our sense of all That 's beauteous proves alike! When Festus learns That every common pleasure of the world Affects me as himself; that I have just As varied appetite for joy derived From common things; a stake in life, in short, Like his; a stake which rash pursuit of aims That life affords not, would as soon destroy;— He may convince himself that, this in view, I shall act well advised. And last, because, Though heaven and earth and all things were at stake, Sweet Michal must not weep, our parting eve.

Festus. True: and the eve is deepening, and we sit As little anxious to begin our talk As though to-morrow I could hint of it As we paced arm-in-arm the cheerful town At sun-dawn; or could whisper it by fits (Trithemius busied with his class the while) In that dim chamber where the noon-streaks peer Half-frightened by the awful tomes around; Or in some grassy lane unbosom all From even-blush to midnight: but, to-morrow! Have I full leave to tell my inmost mind? We have been brothers, and henceforth the world Will rise between us:—all my freest mind? 'T is the last night, dear Aureole!

Paracelsus. Oh, say on! Devise some test of love, some arduous feat To be performed for you: say on! If night Be spent the while, the better! Recall how oft My wondrous plans and dreams and hopes and fears Have—never wearied you, oh no!—as I Recall, and never vividly as now, Your true affection, born when Einsiedeln And its green hills were all the world to us; And still increasing to this night which ends My further stay at Würzburg. Oh, one day You shall be very proud! Say on, dear friends!

Festus. In truth? 'T is for my proper peace, indeed, Rather than yours; for vain all projects seem To stay your course: I said my latest hope Is fading even now. A story tells Of some far embassy despatched to win The favour of an eastern king, and how The gifts they offered proved but dazzling dust Shed from the ore-beds native to his clime. Just so, the value of repose and love, I meant should tempt you, better far than I You seem to comprehend; and yet desist No whit from projects where repose nor love Has part.

Paracelsus. Once more? Alas! As I foretold.

Festus. A solitary briar the bank puts forth To save our swan's nest floating out to sea.

Paracelsus. Dear Festus, hear me. What is it you wish? That I should lay aside my heart's pursuit, Abandon the sole ends for which I live, Reject God's great commission, and so die! You bid me listen for your true love's sake: Yet how has grown that love? Even in a long And patient cherishing of the self-same spirit It now would quell; as though a mother hoped To stay the lusty manhood of the child Once weak upon her knees. I was not born Informed and fearless from the first, but shrank From aught which marked me out apart from men: I would have lived their life, and died their death, Lost in their ranks, eluding destiny: But you first guided me through doubt and fear, Taught me to know mankind and know myself; And now that I am strong and full of hope, That, from my soul, I can reject all aims Save those your earnest words made plain to me, Now that I touch the brink of my design, When I would have a triumph in their eyes, A glad cheer in their voices—Michal weeps, And Festus ponders gravely!

Festus. When you deign To hear my purpose. ..

Paracelsus. Hear it? I can say Beforehand all this evening's conference! 'T is this way, Michal, that he uses: first, Or he declares, or I, the leading points Of our best scheme of life, what is man's end And what God's will; no two faiths e'er agreed As his with mine. Next, each of us allows Faith should be acted on as best we may; Accordingly, I venture to submit My plan, in lack of better, for pursuing The path which God's will seems to authorize. Well, he discerns much good in it, avows This motive worthy, that hope plausible, A danger here to be avoided, there An oversight to be repaired: in fine Our two minds go together—all the good Approved by him, I gladly recognize, All he counts bad, I thankfully discard, And nought forbids my looking up at last For some stray comfort in his cautious brow. When, lo! I learn that, spite of all, there lurks Some innate and inexplicable germ Of failure in my scheme; so that at last It all amounts to this—the sovereign proof That we devote ourselves to God, is seen In living just as though no God there were; A life which, prompted by the sad and blind Folly of man, Festus abhors the most; But which these tenets sanctify at once, Though to less subtle wits it seems the same, Consider it how they may.

Michal. Is it so, Festus He speaks so calmly and kindly: is it so?

Paracelsus. Reject those glorious visions of God's love And man's design; laugh loud that God should send Vast longings to direct us; say how soon Power satiates these, or lust, or gold; I know The world's cry well, and how to answer it. But this ambiguous warfare. ..

Festus. . . . Wearies so That you will grant no last leave to your friend To urge it?—for his sake, not yours? I wish To send my soul in good hopes after you; Never to sorrow that uncertain words Erringly apprehended, a new creed Ill understood, begot rash trust in you, Had share in your undoing.

Paracelsus. Choose your side, Hold or renounce: but meanwhile blame me not Because I dare to act on your own views, Nor shrink when they point onward, nor espy A peril where they most ensure success.

Festus. Prove that to me—but that! Prove you abide Within their warrant, nor presumptuous boast God's labour laid on you; prove, all you covet A mortal may expect; and, most of all, Prove the strange course you now affect, will lead To its attainment—and I bid you speed, Nay, count the minutes till you venture forth! You smile; but I had gathered from slow thought— Much musing on the fortunes of my friend— Matter I deemed could not be urged in vain; But it all leaves me at my need: in shreds And fragments I must venture what remains.

Michal. Ask at once, Festus, wherefore he should scorn. ..

Festus. Stay, Michal: Aureole, I speak guardedly And gravely, knowing well, whate'er your error, This is no ill-considered choice of yours, No sudden fancy of an ardent boy. Not from your own confiding words alone Am I aware your passionate heart long since Gave birth to, nourished and at length matures This scheme. I will not speak of Einsiedeln, Where I was born your elder by some years Only to watch you fully from the first: In all beside, our mutual tasks were fixed Even then—'t was mine to have you in my view As you had your own soul and those intents Which filled it when, to crown your dearest wish, With a tumultuous heart, you left with me Our childhood's home to join the favoured few Whom, here, Trithemius condescends to teach A portion of his lore: and not one youth Of those so favoured, whom you now despise, Came earnest as you came, resolved, like you, To grasp all, and retain all, and deserve By patient toil a wide renown like his. Now, this new ardour which supplants the old I watched, too; 't was significant and strange, In one matched to his soul's content at length With rivals in the search for wisdom's prize, To see the sudden pause, the total change; From contest, the transition to repose— From pressing onward as his fellows pressed, To a blank idleness, yet most unlike The dull stagnation of a soul, content, Once foiled, to leave betimes a thriveless quest. That careless bearing, free from all pretence Even of contempt for what it ceased to seek— Smiling humility, praising much, yet waiving What it professed to praise—though not so well Maintained but that rare outbreaks, fierce and brief, Revealed the hidden scorn, as quickly curbed. That ostentatious show of past defeat, That ready acquiescence in contempt, I deemed no other than the letting go His shivered sword, of one about to spring Upon his foe's throat; but it was not thus: Not that way looked your brooding purpose then. For after-signs disclosed, what you confirmed, That you prepared to task to the uttermost Your strength, in furtherance of a certain aim Which—while it bore the name your rivals gave Their own most puny efforts—was so vast In scope that it included their best flights, Combined them, and desired to gain one prize In place of many,—the secret of the world, Of man, and man's true purpose, path and fate. —That you, not nursing as a mere vague dream This purpose, with the sages of the past, Have struck upon a way to this, if all You trust be true, which following, heart and soul, You, if a man may, dare aspire to : And that this aim shall differ from a host Of aims alike in character and kind, Mostly in this,—that in itself alone Shall its reward be, not an alien end Blending therewith; no hope nor fear nor joy Nor woe, to elsewhere move you, but this pure Devotion to sustain you or betray: Thus you aspire.

Paracelsus. You shall not state it thus: I should not differ from the dreamy crew You speak of. I profess no other share In the selection of my lot, than this My ready answer to the will of God Who summons me to be his organ. All Whose innate strength supports them shall succeed No better than the sages.

Festus. Such the aim, then, God sets before you; and 't is doubtless need That he appoint no less the way of praise Than the desire to praise; for, though I hold With you, the setting forth such praise to be The natural end and service of a man, And hold such praise is best attained when man Attains the general welfare of his kind— Yet this, the end, is not the instrument. Presume not to serve God apart from such Appointed channel as he wills shall gather Imperfect tributes, for that sole obedience Valued perchance! He seeks not that his altars Blaze, careless how, so that they do but blaze. Suppose this, then; that God selected you To (heed well your answers, for my faith Shall meet implicitly what they affirm) I cannot think you dare annex to such Selection aught beyond a steadfast will, An intense hope; nor let your gifts create Scorn or neglect of ordinary means Conducive to success, make destiny Dispense with man's endeavour. Now, dare you search Your inmost heart, and candidly avow Whether you have not rather wild desire For this distinction than security Of its existence? whether you discern The path to the fulfilment of your purpose Clear as that purpose—and again, that purpose Clear as your yearning to be singled out For its pursuer. Dare you answer this?

Paracelsus. [after a pause] No, I have nought to fear! Who will may know The secret'st workings of my soul. What though It be so?—if indeed the strong desire Eclipse the aim in me?—if splendour break Upon the outset of my path alone, And duskest shade succeed? What fairer seal Shall I require to my authentic mission Than this fierce energy?—this instinct striving Because its nature is to strive?—enticed By the security of no broad course, Without success forever in its eyes! How know I else such glorious fate my own, But in the restless irresistible force That works within me? Is it for human will To institute such impulses?—still less, To disregard their promptings! What should I Do, kept among you all; your loves, your cares, Your life—all to be mine? Be sure that God Ne'er dooms to waste the strength he deigns impart! Ask the geier-eagle why she stoops at once Into the vast and unexplored abyss, What full-grown power informs her from the first, Why she not marvels, strenuously beating The silent boundless regions of the sky! Be sure they sleep not whom God needs! Nor fear Their holding light his charge, when every hour That finds that charge delayed, is a new death. This for the faith in which I trust; and hence I can abjure so well the idle arts These pedants strive to learn and teach; Black Arts, Great Works, the Secret and Sublime, forsooth— Let others prize: too intimate a tie Connects me with our God! A sullen fiend To do my bidding, fallen and hateful sprites To help me—what are these, at best, beside God helping, God directing everywhere, So that the earth shall yield her secrets up, And every object there be charged to strike, Teach, gratify her master God appoints? And I am young, my Festus, happy and free! I can devote myself; I have a life To give; I, singled out for this, the One! Think, think! the wide East, where all Wisdom sprung; The bright South, where she dwelt; the hopeful North, All are passed o'er—it lights on me! 'T is time New hopes should animate the world, new light Should dawn from new revealings to a race Weighed down so long, forgotten so long; thus shall The heaven reserved for us at last receive Creatures whom no unwonted splendours blind, But ardent to confront the unclouded blaze. Whose beams not seldom blessed their pilgrimage, Not seldom glorified their life below.

Festus. My words have their old fate and make faint stand Against your glowing periods. Call this, truth— Why not pursue it in a fast retreat, Some one of Learning's many palaces, After approved example?—seeking there Calm converse with the great dead, soul to soul, Who laid up treasure with the like intent —So lift yourself into their airy place, And fill out full their unfulfilled careers, Unravelling the knots their baffled skill Pronounced inextricable, true!—but left Far less confused. A fresh eye, a fresh hand, Might do much at their vigour's waning-point; Succeeding with new-breathed new-hearted force, As at old games the runner snatched the torch From runner still: this way success might be. But you have coupled with your enterprise, An arbitrary self-repugnant scheme Of seeking it in strange and untried paths. What books are in the desert? Writes the sea The secret of her yearning in vast caves Where yours will fall the first of human feet? Has wisdom sat there and recorded aught You press to read? Why turn aside from her To visit, where her vesture never glanced, Now—solitudes consigned to barrenness By God's decree, which who shall dare impugn? Now—ruins where she paused but would not stay, Old ravaged cities that, renouncing her, She called an endless curse on, so it came: Or worst of all, now—men you visit, men, Ignoblest troops who never heard her voice Or hate it, men without one gift from Rome Or Athens,—these shall Aureole's teachers be! Rejecting past example, practice, precept, Aidless 'mid these he thinks to stand alone: Thick like a glory round the Stagirite Your rivals throng, the sages: here stand you! Whatever you may protest, knowledge is not Paramount in your love; or for her sake You would collect all help from every source— Rival, assistant, friend, foe, all would merge In the broad class of those who showed her haunts, And those who showed them not.

Paracelsus. What shall I say? Festus, from childhood I have been possessed By a fire—by a true fire, or faint or fierce, As from without some master, so it seemed, Repressed or urged its current: this but ill Expresses what would I convey: but rather I will believe an angel ruled me thus, Than that my soul's own workings, own high nature, So became manifest. I knew not then What whispered in the evening, and spoke out At midnight. If some mortal, born too soon, Were laid away in some great trance—the ages Coming and going all the while—till dawned His true time's advent; and could then record The words they spoke who kept watch by his bed,— Then I might tell more of the breath so light Upon my eyelids, and the fingers light Among my hair. Youth is confused; yet never So dull was I but, when that spirit passed, I turned to him, scarce consciously, as turns A water-snake when fairies cross his sleep. And having this within me and about me While Einsiedeln, its mountains, lakes and woods Confined me—what oppressive joy was mine When life grew plain, and I first viewed the thronged, The everlasting concourse of mankind! Believe that ere I joined them, ere I knew The purpose of the pageant, or the place Consigned me in its ranks—while, just awake, Wonder was freshest and delight most pure— 'T was then that least supportable appeared A station with the brightest of the crowd, A portion with the proudest of them all. And from the tumult in my breast, this only Could I collect, that I must thenceforth die Or elevate myself far, far above The gorgeous spectacle. I seemed to long At once to trample on, yet save mankind, To make some unexampled sacrifice In their behalf, to wring some wondrous good From heaven or earth for them, to perish, winning Eternal weal in the act: as who should dare Pluck out the angry thunder from its cloud, That, all its gathered flame discharged on him, No storm might threaten summer's azure sleep: Yet never to be mixed with men so much As to have part even in my own work, share In my own largess. Once the feat achieved, I would withdraw from their officious praise, Would gently put aside their profuse thanks. Like some knight traversing a wilderness, Who, on his way, may chance to free a tribe Of desert-people from their dragon-foe; When all the swarthy race press round to kiss His feet, and choose him for their king, and yield Their poor tents, pitched among the sand-hills, for His realm: and he points, smiling, to his scarf Heavy with riveled gold, his burgonet Gay set with twinkling stones—and to the East, Where these must be displayed!

Festus. Good: let us hear No more about your nature, "which first shrank "From all that marked you out apart from men!"

Paracelsus. I touch on that; these words but analyse The first mad impulse: 't was as brief as fond, For as I gazed again upon the show, I soon distinguished here and there a shape Palm-wreathed and radiant, forehead and full eye. Well pleased was I their state should thus at once Interpret my own thoughts:—"Behold the clue "To all," I rashly said, "and what I pine "To do, these have accomplished: we are peers. "They know and therefore rule: I, too, will know!" You were beside me, Festus, as you say; You saw me plunge in their pursuits whom fame Is lavish to attest the lords of mind, Not pausing to make sure the prize in view Would satiate my cravings when obtained, But since they strove I strove. Then came a slow And strangling failure. We aspired alike, Yet not the meanest plodder, Tritheim counts A marvel, but was all-sufficient, strong, Or staggered only at his own vast wits; While I was restless, nothing satisfied, Distrustful, most perplexed. I would slur over That struggle; suffice it, that I loathed myself As weak compared with them, yet felt somehow A mighty power was brooding, taking shape Within me; and this lasted till one night When, as I sat revolving it and more, A still voice from without said—"Seest thou not, "Desponding child, whence spring defeat and loss? "Even from thy strength. Consider: hast thou gazed "Presumptuously on wisdom's countenance, "No veil between; and can thy faltering hands, "Unguided by the brain the sight absorbs, "Pursue their task as earnest blinkers do "Whom radiance ne'er distracted? Live their life "If thou wouldst share their fortune, choose their eyes "Unfed by splendour. Let each task present "Its petty good to thee. Waste not thy gifts "In profitless waiting for the gods' descent, "But have some idol of thine own to dress "With their array. Know, not for knowing's sake, "But to become a star to men for ever; "Know, for the gain it gets, the praise it brings, "The wonder it inspires, the love it breeds: "Look one step onward, and secure that step!" And I smiled as one never smiles but once, Then first discovering my own aim's extent, Which sought to comprehend the works of God, And God himself, and all God's intercourse With the human mind; I understood, no less, My fellows' studies, whose true worth I saw, But smiled not, well aware who stood by me. And softer came the voice—"There is a way: "'T is hard for flesh to tread therein, imbued "With frailty—hopeless, if indulgence first "Have ripened inborn germs of sin to strength: "Wilt thou adventure for my sake and man's, "Apart from all reward?" And last it breathed— "Be happy, my good soldier; I am by thee, "Be sure, even to the end!"—I answered not, Knowing him. As he spoke, I was endued With comprehension and a steadfast will; And when he ceased, my brow was sealed his own. If there took place no special change in me, How comes it all things wore a different hue Thenceforward?—pregnant with vast consequence, Teeming with grand result, loaded with fate? So that when, quailing at the mighty range Of secret truths which yearn for birth, I haste To contemplate undazzled some one truth, Its bearings and effects alone—at once What was a speck expands into a star, Asking a life to pass exploring thus, Till I near craze. I go to prove my soul! I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first, I ask not: but unless God send his hail Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time!

Michal. Vex him no further, Festus; it is so!

Festus. Just thus you help me ever. This would hold Were it the trackless air, and not a path Inviting you, distinct with footprints yet Of many a mighty marcher gone that way. You may have purer views than theirs, perhaps, But they were famous in their day—the proofs Remain. At least accept the light they lend.

Paracelsus. Their light! the sum of all is briefly this: They laboured and grew famous, and the fruits Are best seen in a dark and groaning earth Given over to a blind and endless strife With evils, what of all their lore abates? No; I reject and spurn them utterly And all they teach. Shall I still sit beside Their dry wells, with a white lip and filmed eye, While in the distance heaven is blue above Mountains where sleep the unsunned tarns?

Festus. And yet As strong delusions have prevailed ere now. Men have set out as gallantly to seek Their ruin. I have heard of such: yourself Avow all hitherto have failed and fallen.

Michal. Nay, Festus, when but as the pilgrims faint Through the drear way, do you expect to see Their city dawn amid the clouds afar?

Paracelsus. Ay, sounds it not like some old well-known tale? For me, I estimate their works and them So rightly, that at times I almost dream I too have spent a life the sages' way, And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance Ages ago; and in that act, a prayer For one more chance went up so earnest, so Instinct with better light let in by death, That life was blotted out—not so completely But scattered wrecks enough of it remain, Dim memories, as now, when once more seems The goal in sight again. All which, indeed, Is foolish, and only means—the flesh I wear, The earth I tread, are not more clear to me Than my belief, explained to you or no.

Festus. And who am I, to challenge and dispute That clear belief? I will divest all fear.

Michal. Then Aureole is God's commissary! he shall Be great and grand—and all for us!

Paracelsus. No, sweet! Not great and grand. If I can serve mankind 'T is well; but there our intercourse must end: I never will be served by those I serve.

Festus. Look well to this; here is a plague-spot, here, Disguise it how you may! 'T is true, you utter This scorn while by our side and loving us; 'T is but a spot as yet: but it will break Into a hideous blotch if overlooked. How can that course be safe which from the first Produces carelessness to human love? It seems you have abjured the helps which men Who overpass their kind, as you would do, Have humbly sought; I dare not thoroughly probe This matter, lest I learn too much. Let be That popular praise would little instigate Your efforts, nor particular approval Reward you; put reward aside; alone You shall go forth upon your arduous task, None shall assist you, none partake your toil, None share your triumph: still you must retain Some one to cast your glory on, to share Your rapture with. Were I elect like you, I would encircle me with love, and raise A rampart of my fellows; it should seem Impossible for me to fail, so watched By gentle friends who made my cause their own. They should ward off fate's envy—the great gift, Extravagant when claimed by me alone, Being so a gift to them as well as me. If danger daunted me or ease seduced, How calmly their sad eyes should gaze reproach!

Michal. O Aureole, can I sing when all alone, Without first calling, in my fancy, both To listen by my side—even I! And you? Do you not feel this? Say that you feel this!

Paracelsus. I feel 't is pleasant that my aims, at length Allowed their weight, should be supposed to need A further strengthening in these goodly helps! My course allures for its own sake, its sole Intrinsic worth; and ne'er shall boat of mine Adventure forth for gold and apes at once. Your sages say, "if human, therefore weak:" If weak, more need to give myself entire To my pursuit; and by its side, all else. . . No matter! I deny myself but little In waiving all assistance save its own. Would there were some real sacrifice to make! Your friends the sages threw their joys away, While I must be content with keeping mine.

Festus. But do not cut yourself from human weal! You cannot thrive—a man that dares affect To spend his life in service to his kind For no reward of theirs, unbound to them By any tie; nor do so, Aureole! No— There are strange punishments for such. Give up (Although no visible good flow thence) some part Of the glory to another; hiding thus, Even from yourself, that all is for yourself. Say, say almost to God—"I have done all "For her, not for myself!"

Paracelsus. And who but lately Was to rejoice in my success like you? Whom should I love but both of you?

Festus. I know not: But know this, you, that 't is no will of mine You should abjure the lofty claims you make; And this the cause—I can no longer seek To overlook the truth, that there would be A monstrous spectacle upon the earth, Beneath the pleasant sun, among the trees: —A being knowing not what love is. Hear me! You are endowed with faculties which bear Annexed to them as 't were a dispensation To summon meaner spirits to do their will And gather round them at their need; inspiring Such with a love themselves can never feel, Passionless 'mid their passionate votaries. I know not if you joy in this or no, Or ever dream that common men can live On objects you prize lightly, but which make Their heart's sole treasure: the affections seem Beauteous at most to you, which we must taste Or die: and this strange quality accords, I know not how, with you; sits well upon That luminous brow, though in another it scowls An eating brand, a shame. I dare not judge you. The rules of right and wrong thus set aside, There 's no alternative—I own you one Of higher order, under other laws Than bind us; therefore, curb not one bold glance! 'T is best aspire. Once mingled with us all. ..

Michal. Stay with us, Aureole! cast those hopes away, And stay with us! An angel warns me, too, Man should be humble; you are very proud: And God, dethroned, has doleful plagues for such! —Warns me to have in dread no quick repulse, No slow defeat, but a complete success: You will find all you seek, and perish so!

Paracelsus. [after a pause] Are these the barren firstfruits of my quest? Is love like this the natural lot of all? How many years of pain might one such hour O'erbalance? Dearest Michal, dearest Festus, What shall I say, if not that I desire To justify your love; and will, dear friends, In swerving nothing from my first resolves. See, the great moon! and ere the mottled owls Were wide awake, I was to go. It seems You acquiesce at last in all save this— If I am like to compass what I seek By the untried career I choose; and then, If that career, making but small account Of much of life's delight, will yet retain Sufficient to sustain my soul: for thus I understand these fond fears just expressed. And first; the lore you praise and I neglect, The labours and the precepts of old time, I have not lightly disesteemed. But, friends, Truth is within ourselves; it takes no rise From outward things, whate'er you may believe. There is an inmost centre in us all, Where truth abides in fulness; and around, Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, This perfect, clear perception—which is truth. A baffling and perverting carnal mesh Binds it, and makes all error: and to Rather consists in opening out a way Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, Than in effecting entry for a light Supposed to be without. Watch narrowly The demonstration of a truth, its birth, And you trace back the effluence to its spring And source within us; where broods radiance vast, To be elicited ray by ray, as chance Shall favour: chance—for hitherto, your sage Even as he knows not how those beams are born, As little knows he what unlocks their fount: And men have oft grown old among their books To die case-hardened in their ignorance, Whose careless youth had promised what long years Of unremitted labour ne'er performed: While, contrary, it has chanced some idle day, To autumn loiterers just as fancy-free As the midges in the sun, gives birth at last To truth—produced mysteriously as cape Of cloud grown out of the invisible air. Hence, may not truth be lodged alike in all, The lowest as the highest? some slight film The interposing bar which binds a soul And makes the idiot, just as makes the sage Some film removed, the happy outlet whence Truth issues proudly? See this soul of ours! How it strives weakly in the child, is loosed In manhood, clogged by sickness, back compelled By age and waste, set free at last by death: Why is it, flesh enthrals it or enthrones? What is this flesh we have to penetrate? Oh, not alone when life flows still, do truth And power emerge, but also when strange chance Ruffles its current; in unused conjuncture, When sickness breaks the body—hunger, watching, Excess or languor—oftenest death's approach, Peril, deep joy or woe. One man shall crawl Through life surrounded with all stirring things, Unmoved; and he goes mad: and from the wreck Of what he was, by his wild talk alone, You first collect how great a spirit he hid. Therefore, set free the soul alike in all, Discovering the true laws by which the flesh Accloys the spirit! We may not be doomed To cope with seraphs, but at least the rest Shall cope with us. Make no more giants, God, But elevate the race at once! We ask To put forth just our strength, our human strength, All starting fairly, all equipped alike, Gifted alike, all eagle-eyed, true-hearted— See if we cannot beat thine angels yet! Such is my task. I go to gather this The sacred knowledge, here and there dispersed About the world, long lost or never found. And why should I be sad or lorn of hope? Why ever make man's good distinct from God's, Or, finding they are one, why dare mistrust? Who shall succeed if not one pledged like me? Mine is no mad attempt to build a world Apart from his, like those who set themselves To find the nature of the spirit they bore, And, taught betimes that all their gorgeous dreams Were only born to vanish in this life, Refused to fit them to its narrow sphere, But chose to figure forth another world And other frames meet for their vast desires,— And all a dream! Thus was life scorned; but life Shall yet be crowned: twine amaranth! I am priest! And all for yielding with a lively spirit A poor existence, parting with a youth Like those who squander every energy Convertible to good, on painted toys, Breath-bubbles, gilded dust! And though I spurn All adventitious aims, from empty praise To love's award, yet whoso deems such helps Important, and concerns himself for me, May know even these will follow with the rest— As in the steady rolling Mayne, asleep Yonder, is mixed its mass of schistous ore. My own affections laid to rest awhile, Will waken purified, subdued alone By all I have achieved. Till then—till then. . . Ah, the time-wiling loitering of a page Through bower and over lawn, till eve shall bring The stately lady's presence whom he loves— The broken sleep of the fisher whose rough coat Enwraps the queenly pearl—these are faint types! See, see, they look on me: I triumph now! But one thing, Festus, Michal! I have told All I shall e'er disclose to mortal: say— Do you believe I shall accomplish this?

Festus. I do believe!

Michal. I ever did believe!

Paracelsus. Those words shall never fade from out my brain! This earnest of the end shall never fade! Are there not, Festus, are there not, dear Michal, Two points in the adventure of the diver, One—when, a beggar, he prepares to plunge, One—when, a prince, he rises with his pearl? Festus, I plunge!

Festus. We wait you when you rise!

title: Paracelsus (Browning)/I


text:
1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Hadley, Arthur Twining

HADLEY, ARTHUR TWINING (1856-), American economist and educationist, was elected a director of the New York, New Haven & Hartford railway in 1913. In 1914 he lectured at the university of Oxford on “institutions of the United States.” In 1915 he evoked considerable discussion in America by declaring that young men who looked forward to a political career should have private means so as to avoid pecuniary temptations. In 1915 he endorsed college military camps and favoured counting military training for a degree. In 1920 he resigned as president of Yale University. The same year he was elected a director of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fé railway.


text: 1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Leschetizsky, Theodor


text:
Paracelsus (Browning)/II

Part II Paracelsus Attains

Scene.— Constantinople; the house of a Greek Conjurer. 1521.

Paracelsus. Over the waters in the vaporous West The sun goes down as in a sphere of gold Behind the arm of the city, which between, With all that length of domes and minarets, Athwart the splendour, black and crooked runs Like a Turk verse along a scimitar. There lie, sullen memorial, and no more Possess my aching sight! 'T is done at last. Strange—and the juggles of a sallow cheat Have won me to this act! 'T is as yon cloud Should voyage unwrecked o'er many a mountain-top And break upon a molehill. I have dared Come to a pause with knowledge; scan for once The heights already reached, without regard To the extent above; fairly compute All I have clearly gained; for once excluding A brilliant future to supply and perfect All half-gains and conjectures and crude hopes: And all because a fortune-teller wills His credulous seekers should inscribe thus much Their previous life's attainment, in his roll, Before his promised secret, as he vaunts, Make up the sum: and here amid the scrawled Uncouth recordings of the dupes of this Old arch-genethliac, lie my life's results!

A few blurred characters suffice to note A stranger wandered long through many lands And reaped the fruit he coveted in a few Discoveries, as appended here and there, The fragmentary produce of much toil, In a dim heap, fact and surmise together Confusedly massed as when acquired; he was Intent on gain to come too much to stay And scrutinize the little gained: the whole Slipt in the blank space 'twixt an idiot's gibber And a mad lover's ditty—there it lies.

And yet those blottings chronicle a life— A whole life, and my life! Nothing to do, No problem for the fancy, but a life Spent and decided, wasted past retrieve Or worthy beyond peer. Stay, what does this Remembrancer set down concerning "life"? " 'Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream,' "It is the echo of time; and he whose heart "Beat first beneath a human heart, whose speech "Was copied from a human tongue, can never "Recall when he was living yet knew not this. "Nevertheless long seasons pass o'er him "Till some one hour's experience shows what nothing, "It seemed, could clearer show; and ever after, "An altered brow and eye and gait and speech "Attest that now he knows the adage true " 'Time fleets, youth fades, life is an empty dream.' "

Ay, my brave chronicler, and this same hour As well as any: now, let my time be!

Now! I can go no farther; well or ill, 'T is done. I must desist and take my chance. I cannot keep on the stretch: 't is no back-shrinking— For let but some assurance beam, some close To my toil grow visible, and I proceed At any price, though closing it, I die. Else, here I pause. The old Greek's prophecy Is like to turn out true: "I shall not quit "His chamber till I know what I desire!" Was it the light wind sang it o'er the sea?

An end, a rest! strange how the notion, once Encountered, gathers strength by moments! Rest! Where has it kept so long? this throbbing brow To cease, this beating heart to cease, all cruel And gnawing thoughts to cease! To dare let down My strung, so high-strung brain, to dare unnerve My harassed o'ertasked frame, to know my place, My portion, my reward, even my failure, Assigned, made sure for ever! To lose myself Among the common creatures of the world, To draw some gain from having been a man, Neither to hope nor fear, to live at length! Even in failure, rest! But rest in truth And power and recompense. . . I hoped that once!

What, sunk insensibly so deep? Has all Been undergone for this? This the request My labour qualified me to present With no fear of refusal? Had I gone Slightingly through my task, and so judged fit To moderate my hopes; nay, were it now My sole concern to exculpate myself, End things or mend them,—why, I could not choose A humbler mood to wait for the event! No, no, there needs not this; no, after all, At worst I have performed my share of the task The rest is God's concern; mine, merely this, To know that I have obstinately held By my own work. The mortal whose brave foot Has trod, unscathed, the temple-court so far That he descries at length the shrine of shrines, Must let no sneering of the demons' eyes, Whom he could pass unquailing, fasten now Upon him, fairly past their power; no, no— He must not stagger, faint, fall down at last, Having a charm to baffle them; behold, He bares his front: a mortal ventures thus Serene amid the echoes, beams and glooms! If he be priest henceforth, if he wake up The god of the place to ban and blast him there, Both well! What 's failure or success to me? I have subdued my life to the one purpose Whereto I ordained it; there alone I spy, No doubt, that way I may be satisfied.

Yes, well have I subdued my life! beyond The obligation of my strictest vow, The contemplation of my wildest bond, Which gave my nature freely up, in truth, But in its actual state, consenting fully All passionate impulses its soil was formed To rear, should wither; but foreseeing not The tract, doomed to perpetual barrenness, Would seem one day, remembered as it was, Beside the parched sand-waste which now it is, Already strewn with faint blooms, viewless then. I ne'er engaged to root up loves so frail I felt them not; yet now, 't is very plain Some soft spots had their birth in me at first, If not love, say, like love: there was a time When yet this wolfish hunger after knowledge Set not remorselessly love's claims aside. This heart was human once, or why recall Einsiedeln, now, and Würzburg which the Mayne Forsakes her course to fold as with an arm?

And Festus—my poor Festus, with his praise And counsel and grave fears—where is he now With the sweet maiden, long ago his bride? I surely loved them—that last night, at least, When we. . . gone! gone! the better. I am saved The sad review of an ambitious youth Choked by vile lusts, unnoticed in their birth, But let grow up and wind around a will Till action was destroyed. No, I have gone Purging my path successively of aught Wearing the distant likeness of such lusts. I have made life consist of one idea: Ere that was master, up till that was born, I bear a memory of a pleasant life Whose small events I treasure; till one morn I ran o'er the seven little grassy fields, Startling the flocks of nameless birds, to tell Poor Festus, leaping all the while for joy, To leave all trouble for my future plans, Since I had just determined to become The greatest and most glorious man on earth. And since that morn all life has been forgotten; All is one day, one only step between The outset and the end: one tyrant all- Absorbing aim fills up the interspace, One vast unbroken chain of thought, kept up Through a career apparently adverse To its existence: life, death, light and shadow, The shows of the world, were bare receptacles Or indices of truth to be wrung thence, Not ministers of sorrow or delight: A wondrous natural robe in which she went. For some one truth would dimly beacon me From mountains rough with pines, and flit and wink O'er dazzling wastes of frozen snow, and tremble Into assured light in some branching mine Where ripens, swathed in fire, the liquid gold— And all the beauty, all the wonder fell On either side the truth, as its mere robe; I see the robe now—then I saw the form. So far, then, I have voyaged with success, So much is good, then, in this working sea Which parts me from that happy strip of land: But o'er that happy strip a sun shone, too! And fainter gleams it as the waves grow rough, And still more faint as the sea widens; last I sicken on a dead gulf streaked with light From its own putrefying depths alone. Then, God was pledged to take me by the hand; Now, any miserable juggle can bid My pride depart. All is alike at length: God may take pleasure in confounding pride By hiding secrets with the scorned and base— I am here, in short: so little have I paused Throughout! I never glanced behind to know If I had kept my primal light from wane, And thus insensibly am—what I am!

Oh, bitter; very bitter!

And more bitter, To fear a deeper curse, an inner ruin, Plague beneath plague, the last turning the first To light beside its darkness. Let me weep My youth and its brave hopes, all dead and gone, In tears which burn! Would I were sure to win Some startling secret in their stead, a tincture Of force to flush old age with youth, or breed Gold, or imprison moonbeams till they change To opal shafts!—only that, hurling it Indignant back, I might convince myself My aims remained supreme and pure as ever! Even now, why not desire, for mankind's sake, That if I fail, some fault may be the cause, That, though I sink, another may succeed? O God, the despicable heart of us! Shut out this hideous mockery from my heart!

'T was politic in you, Aureole, to reject Single rewards, and ask them in the lump; At all events, once launched, to hold straight on: For now 't is all or nothing. Mighty profit Your gains will bring if they stop short of such Full consummation! As a man, you had A certain share of strength; and that is gone Already in the getting these you boast. Do not they seem to laugh, as who should say— "Great master, we are here indeed, dragged forth "To light; this hast thou done: be glad! Now, seek "The strength to use which thou hast spent in getting!"

And yet 't is much, surely 't is very much, Thus to have emptied youth of all its gifts, To feed a fire meant to hold out till morn Arrived with inexhaustible light; and lo, I have heaped up my last, and day dawns not! And I am left with grey hair, faded hands, And furrowed brow. Ha, have I, after all, Mistaken the wild nursling of my breast? Knowledge it seemed, and power, and recompense! Was she who glided through my room of nights, Who laid my head on her soft knees and smoothed The damp locks,—whose sly soothings just began When my sick spirit craved repose awhile— God! was I fighting sleep off for death's sake?

God! Thou art mind! Unto the master-mind Mind should be precious. Spare my mind alone! All else I will endure; if, as I stand Here, with my gains, thy thunder smite me down, I bow me; 't is thy will, thy righteous will; I o'erpass life's restrictions, and I die; And if no trace of my career remain Save a thin corpse at pleasure of the wind In these bright chambers level with the air, See thou to it! But if my spirit fail, My once proud spirit forsake me at the last, Hast thou done well by me? So do not thou! Crush not my mind, dear God, though I be crushed! Hold me before the frequence of thy seraphs And say—"I crushed him, lest he should disturb "My law. Men must not know their strength: behold "Weak and alone, how he had raised himself!"

But if delusions trouble me, and thou, Not seldom felt with rapture in thy help Throughout my toils and wanderings, dost intend To work man's welfare through my weak endeavour, To crown my mortal forehead with a beam From thine own blinding crown, to smile, and guide This puny hand and let the work so wrought Be styled my work,—hear me! I covet not An influx of new power, an angel's soul: It were no marvel then—but I have reached Thus far, a man; let me conclude, a man! Give but one hour of my first energy, Of that invincible faith, but only one! That I may cover with an eagle-glance The truths I have, and spy some certain way To mould them, and completing them, possess! Yet God is good: I started sure of that, And why dispute it now? I 'll not believe But some undoubted warning long ere this Had reached me: a fire-labarum was not deemed Too much for the old founder of these walls. Then, if my life has not been natural, It has been monstrous: yet, till late, my course So ardently engrossed me, that delight, A pausing and reflecting joy, 't is plain, Could find no place in it. True, I am worn; But who clothes summer, who is life itself? God, that created all things, can renew! And then, though after-life to please me now Must have no likeness to the past, what hinders Reward from springing out of toil, as changed As bursts the flower from earth and root and stalk? What use were punishment, unless some sin Be first detected? let me know that first! No man could ever offend as I have done. ..

[A voice from within.] I hear a voice, perchance I heard Long ago, but all too low, So that scarce a care it stirred If the voice were real or no: I heard it in my youth when first The waters of my life outburst: But, now their stream ebbs faint, I hear That voice, still low, but fatal-clear— As if all poets, God ever meant Should save the world, and therefore lent Great gifts to, but who, proud, refused To do his work, or lightly used Those gifts, or failed through weak endeavour, So, mourn cast off by him for ever,— As if these leaned in airy ring To take me; this the song they sing.

"Lost, lost! yet come, With our wan troop make thy home. Come, come! for we Will not breathe, so much as breathe Reproach to thee, Knowing what thou sink'st beneath. So sank we in those old years, We who bid thee, come! thou last Who, living yet, hast life o'erpast. And altogether we, thy peers, Will pardon crave for thee, the last Whose trial is done, whose lot is cast With those who watch but work no more, Who gaze on life but live no more. Yet we trusted thou shouldst speak The message which our lips, too weak, Refused to utter,—shouldst redeem Our fault: such trust, and all a dream! Yet we chose thee a birthplace Where the richness ran to flowers: Couldst not sing one song for grace? Not make one blossom man's and ours? Must one more recreant to his race Die with unexerted powers, And join us, leaving as he found The world, he was to loosen, bound? Anguish! ever and for ever; Still beginning, ending never. Yet, lost and last one, come! How couldst understand, alas, What our pale ghosts strove to say, As their shades did glance and pass Before thee night and day? Thou wast blind as we were dumb: Once more, therefore, come, O come! How should we clothe, how arm the spirit Shall next thy post of life inherit— How guard him from thy speedy ruin? Tell us of thy sad undoing Here, where we sit, ever pursuing Our weary task, ever renewing Sharp sorrow, far from God who gave Our powers, and man they could not save!"

enters.

Aprile. Ha, ha! our king that wouldst be, here at last? Art thou the poet who shall save the world? Thy hand to mine! Stay, fix thine eyes on mine! Thou wouldst be king? Still fix thine eyes on mine!

Paracelsus. Ha, ha! why crouchest not? Am I not king? So torture is not wholly unavailing! Have my fierce spasms compelled thee from thy lair? Art thou the sage I only seemed to be, Myself of after-time, my very self With sight a little clearer, strength more firm, Who robes him in my robe and grasps my crown For just a fault, a weakness, a neglect? I scarcely trusted God with the surmise That such might come, and thou didst hear the while!

Aprile. Thine eyes are lustreless to mine; my hair Is soft, nay silken soft: to talk with thee Flushes my cheek, and thou art ashy-pale. Truly, thou hast laboured, hast withstood her lips, The siren's! Yes, 't is like thou hast attained! Tell me, dear master, wherefore now thou comest? I thought thy solemn songs would have their meed In after-time; that I should hear the earth Exult in thee and echo with thy praise, While I was laid forgotten in my grave.

Paracelsus. Ah fiend, I know thee, I am not thy dupe! Thou art ordained to follow in my track, Reaping my sowing, as I scorned to reap The harvest sown by sages passed away. Thou art the sober searcher, cautious striver, As if, except through me, thou hast searched or striven! Ay, tell the world! Degrade me after all, To an aspirant after fame, not truth— To all but envy of thy fate, be sure!

Aprile. Nay, sing them to me; I shall envy not: Thou shalt be king! Sing thou, and I will sit Beside, and call deep silence for thy songs, And worship thee, as I had ne'er been meant To fill thy throne: but none shall ever know! Sing to me; for already thy wild eyes Unlock my heart-strings, as some crystal-shaft Reveals by some chance blaze its parent fount After long time: so thou reveal'st my soul. All will flash forth at last, with thee to hear!

Paracelsus. (His secret! I shall get his secret—fool!) I am he that aspired to : and thou?

Aprile. I would infinitely, and be loved!

Paracelsus. Poor slave! I am thy king indeed.

Aprile. Thou deem'st That—born a spirit, dowered even as thou, Born for thy fate—because I could not curb My yearnings to possess at once the full Enjoyment, but neglected all the means Of realizing even the frailest joy, Gathering no fragments to appease my want, Yet nursing up that want till thus I die— Thou deem'st I cannot trace thy safe sure march O'er perils that o'erwhelm me, triumphing, Neglecting nought below for aught above, Despising nothing and ensuring all— Nor that I could (my time to come again) Lead thus my spirit securely as thine own. Listen, and thou shalt see I know thee well. I would love infinitely. . . Ah, lost! lost! Oh ye who armed me at such cost, How shall I look on all of ye With your gifts even yet on me?

Paracelsus. (Ah, 't is some moonstruck creature after all! Such fond fools as are like to haunt this den: They spread contagion, doubtless: yet he seemed To echo one foreboding of my heart So truly, that . . . no matter! How he stands With eve's last sunbeam staying on his hair Which turns to it as if they were akin: And those clear smiling eyes of saddest blue Nearly set free, so far they rise above The painful fruitless striving of the brow And enforced knowledge of the lips, firm-set In slow despondency's eternal sigh! Has he, too, missed life's end, and learned the cause?) I charge thee, by thy fealty, be calm! Tell me what thou wouldst be, and what I am.

Aprile. I would love infinitely, and be loved. First: I would carve in stone, or cast in brass, The forms of earth. No ancient hunter lifted Up to the gods by his renown, no nymph Supposed the sweet soul of a woodland tree Or sapphirine spirit of a twilight star, Should be too hard for me; no shepherd-king Regal for his white locks; no youth who stands Silent and very calm amid the throng, His right hand ever hid beneath his robe Until the tyrant pass; no lawgiver, No swan-soft woman rubbed with lucid oils Given by a god for love of her—too hard! Every passion sprung from man, conceived by man, Would I express and clothe it in its right form, Or blend with others struggling in one form, Or show repressed by an ungainly form. Oh, if you marvelled at some mighty spirit With a fit frame to execute its will— Even unconsciously to work its will— You should be moved no less beside some strong Rare spirit, fettered to a stubborn body, Endeavouring to subdue it and inform it With its own splendour! All this I would do: And I would say, this done, "His sprites created, "God grants to each a sphere to be its world, "Appointed with the various objects needed "To satisfy its own peculiar want; "So, I create a world for these my shapes "Fit to sustain their beauty and their strength!" And, at the word, I would contrive and paint Woods, valleys, rocks and plains, dells, sands and wastes, Lakes which, when morn breaks on their quivering bed, Blaze like a wyvern flying round the sun, And ocean isles so small, the dog-fish tracking A dead whale, who should find them, would swim thrice Around them, and fare onward—all to hold The offspring of my brain. Nor these alone: Bronze labyrinth, palace, pyramid and crypt, Baths, galleries, courts, temples and terraces, Marts, theatres and wharfs—all filled with men, Men everywhere! And this performed in turn, When those who looked on, pined to hear the hopes And fears and hates and loves which moved the crowd, I would throw down the pencil as the chisel, And I would speak; no thought which ever stirred A human breast should be untold; all passions, All soft emotions, from the turbulent stir Within a heart fed with desires like mine, To the last comfort shutting the tired lids Of him who sleeps the sultry noon away Beneath the tent-tree by the wayside well: And this in language as the need should be, Now poured at once forth in a burning flow, Now piled up in a grand array of words. This done, to perfect and consummate all, Even as a luminous haze links star to star, I would supply all chasms with music, breathing Mysterious motions of the soul, no way To be defined save in strange melodies. Last, having thus revealed all I could love, Having received all love bestowed on it, I would die: preserving so throughout my course God full on me, as I was full on men: He would approve my prayer, "I have gone through "The loveliness of life; create for me "If not for men, or take me to thyself, "Eternal, infinite love!"

If thou hast ne'er Conceived this mighty aim, this full desire, Thou hast not passed my trial, and thou art No king of mine.

Paracelsus. Ah me!

Aprile. But thou art here! Thou didst not gaze like me upon that end Till thine own powers for compassing the bliss Were blind with glory; nor grow mad to grasp At once the prize long patient toil should claim, Nor spurn all granted short of that. And I Would do as thou, a second time: nay, listen! Knowing ourselves, our world, our task so great, Our time so brief, 't is clear if we refuse The means so limited, the tools so rude To execute our purpose, life will fleet, And we shall fade, and leave our task undone. We will be wise in time: what though our work Be fashioned in despite of their ill-service, Be crippled every way? 'T were little praise Did full resources wait on our goodwill At every turn. Let all be as it is. Some say the earth is even so contrived That tree and flower, a vesture gay, conceal A bare and skeleton framework. Had we means Answering to our mind! But now I seem Wrecked on a savage isle: how rear thereon My palace? Branching palms the props shall be, Fruit glossy mingling; gems are for the East; Who heeds them? I can pass them. Serpents' scales, And painted birds' down, furs and fishes' skins Must help me; and a little here and there Is all I can aspire to: still my art Shall show its birth was in a gentler clime. "Had I green jars of malachite, this way "I 'd range them: where those sea-shells glisten above, "Cressets should hang, by right: this way we set "The purple carpets, as these mats are laid, "Woven of fern and rush and blossoming flag." Or if, by fortune, some completer grace Be spared to me, some fragment, some slight sample Of the prouder workmanship my own home boasts, Some trifle little heeded there, but here The place's one perfection—with what joy Would I enshrine the relic, cheerfully Foregoing all the marvels out of reach! Could I retain one strain of all the psalm Of the angels, one word of the fiat of God, To let my followers know what such things are! I would adventure nobly for their sakes: When nights were still, and still the moaning sea And far away I could descry the land Whence I departed, whither I return, I would dispart the waves, and stand once more At home, and load my bark, and hasten back, And fling my gains to them, worthless or true. "Friends," I would say, "I went far, far for them, "Past the high rocks the haunt of doves, the mounds "Of red earth from whose sides strange trees grow out, "Past tracts of milk-white minute blinding sand, "Till, by a mighty moon, I tremblingly "Gathered these magic herbs, berry and bud, "In haste, not pausing to reject the weeds, "But happy plucking them at any price. "To me, who have seen them bloom in their own soil, "They are scarce lovely: plait and wear them, you! "And guess, from what they are, the springs that fed them, "The stars that sparkled o'er them, night by night, "The snakes that travelled far to sip their dew!" Thus for my higher loves; and thus even weakness Would win me honour. But not these alone Should claim my care; for common life, its wants And ways, would I set forth in beauteous hues: The lowest hind should not possess a hope, A fear, but I 'd be by him, saying better Than he his own heart's language. I would live For ever in the thoughts I thus explored, As a discoverer's memory is attached To all he finds; they should be mine henceforth, Imbued with me, though free to all before: For clay, once cast into my soul's rich mine, Should come up crusted o'er with gems. Nor this Would need a meaner spirit, than the first; Nay, 't would be but the selfsame spirit, clothed In humbler guise, but still the selfsame spirit: As one spring wind unbinds the mountain snow And comforts violets in their hermitage.

But, master, poet, who hast done all this, How didst thou 'scape the ruin whelming me? Didst thou, when nerving thee to this attempt, Ne'er range thy mind's extent, as some wide hall, Dazzled by shapes that filled its length with light, Shapes clustered there to rule thee, not obey, That will not wait thy summons, will not rise Singly, nor when thy practised eye and hand Can well transfer their loveliness, but crowd By thee for ever, bright to thy despair? Didst thou ne'er gaze on each by turns, and ne'er Resolve to single out one, though the rest Should vanish, and to give that one, entire In beauty, to the world; forgetting, so, Its peers, whose number baffles mortal power? And, this determined, wast thou ne'er seduced By memories and regrets and passionate love, To glance once more farewell? and did their eyes Fasten thee, brighter and more bright, until Thou couldst but stagger back unto their feet, And laugh that man's applause or welfare ever Could tempt thee to forsake them? Or when years Had passed and still their love possessed thee wholly, When from without some murmur startled thee Of darkling mortals famished for one ray Of thy so-hoarded luxury of light, Didst thou ne'er strive even yet to break those spells And prove thou couldst recover and fulfil Thy early mission, long ago renounced, And to that end, select some shape once more? And did not mist-like influences, thick films, Faint memories of the rest that charmed so long Thine eyes, float fast, confuse thee, bear thee off, As whirling snow-drifts blind a man who treads A mountain ridge, with guiding spear, through storm? Say, though I fell, I had excuse to fall; Say, I was tempted sorely: say but this, Dear lord, Aprile's lord!

Paracelsus. Clasp me not thus, Aprile! That the truth should reach me thus! We are weak dust. Nay, clasp not or I faint!

Aprile. My king! and envious thoughts could outrage thee? Lo, I forget my ruin, and rejoice In thy success, as thou! Let our God's praise Go bravely through the world at last! What care Through me or thee? I feel thy breath. Why, tears? Tears in the darkness, and from thee to me?

Paracelsus. Love me henceforth, Aprile, while I learn To love; and, merciful God, forgive us both! We wake at length from weary dreams; but both Have slept in fairy-land: though dark and drear Appears the world before us, we no less Wake with our wrists and ankles jewelled still. I too have sought to as thou to — Excluding love as thou refusedst knowledge. Still thou hast beauty and I, power. We wake: What penance canst devise for both of us?

Aprile. I hear thee faintly. The thick darkness! Even Thine eyes are hid. 'T is as I knew: I speak, And now I die. But I have seen thy face! O poet, think of me, and sing of me! But to have seen thee and to die so soon!

Paracelsus. Die not, Aprile! We must never part. Are we not halves of one dissevered world, Whom this strange chance unites once more? Part? never! Till thou the lover, know; and I, the knower, Love—until both are saved. Aprile, hear! We will accept our gains, and use them—now! God, he will die upon my breast! Aprile!

Aprile. To speak but once, and die! yet by his side. Hush! hush!

Ha! go you ever girt about With phantoms, powers? I have created such, But these seem real as I.

Paracelsus. Whom can you see Through the accursed darkness?

Aprile. Stay; I know, I know them: who should know them well as I? White brows, lit up with glory; poets all!

Paracelsus. Let him but live, and I have my reward!

Aprile. Yes; I see now. God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations. Had you but told me this at first! Hush! hush!

Paracelsus. Live! for my sake, because of my great sin, To help my brain, oppressed by these wild words And their deep import. Live! 't is not too late. I have a quiet home for us, and friends. Michal shall smile on you. Hear you? Lean thus, And breathe my breath. I shall not lose one word Of all your speech, one little word, Aprile!

Aprile. No, no. Crown me? I am not one of you! 'T is he, the king, you seek. I am not one.

Paracelsus. Thy spirit, at least, Aprile! Let me love! ————— I have attained, and now I may depart.

title: Paracelsus (Browning)/II


text:
1922 Encyclopædia Britannica/Marschall von Bieberstein, Baron Adolf von

MARSCHALL VON BIEBERSTEIN, BARON ADOLF VON (1842-1912), German diplomatist, was born at Carlsruhe Oct. 12 1842, his father — Augustus, Baron Marschall von Bieberstein — being chamberlain to the Grand Duke of Baden, and his mother before her marriage Baroness von Falkenstein. He was educated at the Gymnasium of Frankfort-on-Main and at the universities of Heidelberg and Berlin. He studied law and from 1871 to 1882 held various administrative offices in the Grand Duchy of Baden. From 1875 to 1883 he sat in the Upper Chamber of the Baden Diet. In 1883 he was sent to Berlin as minister for Baden in the Federal Council and from 1884 to 1890 he represented the Council in the Imperial Insurance Office. In 1890 he succeeded Count Herbert Bismarck as Secretary for Foreign Affairs under the Caprivi chancellorship and continued to hold that office under Prince von Hohenlohe; but he had incurred the enmity of Prince Bismarck by refusing his advice when he first assumed office, and the result was a fierce press campaign against him which finally obliged him to speak out when he appeared as a witness at the trial of certain journalists in 1896 for lèse-majesté. He was also violently opposed by the Agrarians because he advocated the reduction of corn duties, and in 1897 he resigned office, and a few months later was appointed German ambassador in Constantinople. There he remained for nearly 15 years, creating a commanding position for himself and a growing ascendancy in Turkish affairs for his Government. To him was largely due the promotion of the Bagdad railway. In general European politics Baron Marschall had taken during his Foreign Secretaryship a strongly imperialist attitude. After the Jameson raid and the Emperor's telegram to President Krüger, in the drafting of which Baron Marschall, according to the later testimony now available, bore a leading part, it was he who declared in the Reichstag that the maintenance of the independence of the Boer republics was a “German interest.” He was also an advocate of a strong naval policy for Germany. In 1907 he was principal German delegate in the Hague Conference, and was the exponent of Germany's resolute and successful opposition to any practical discussion of the question of restriction of armaments. In May 1912 he was appointed to succeed Count Wolff-Metternich as ambassador to Great Britain, but he had only been in London a short time when his health finally broke down. He died at Badenweiler Sept. 24 1912.