That Gryllus's benighted spirit May wake to your transcendent merit, And, with profoundest admiration thrilled, He may with willing mind a.s.sume his place In your steam-nursed, steam-borne, steam-killed, And gas-enlightened race.

CIRCE Speak, Gryllus, what you see,

I see the ocean, And o'er its face ships pa.s.sing wide and far; Some with expanded sails before the breeze, And some with neither sails nor oars, impelled By some invisible power against the wind, Scattering the spray before them, But of many One is on fire, and one has struck on rocks And melted in the waves like fallen snow.

Two crash together in the middle sea, And go to pieces on the instant, leaving No soul to tell the tale, and one is hurled In fragments to the sky, strewing the deep With death and wreck. I had rather live with Circe Even as I was, than flit about the world In those enchanted ships which some Alastor Must have devised as traps for mortal ruin.

Look yet again.

Now the whole scene is changed.

I see long chains of strange machines on wheels, With one in front of each, purring white smoke From a black hollow column. Fast and far They speed, like yellow leaves before the gale, When autumn winds are strongest. Through their windows I judge them thronged with people; but distinctly Their speed forbids my seeing.

SPIRIT-RAPPER This is one Of the great glories of our modern time, * Men are become as birds,' and skim like swallows The surface of the world.

GRYLLUS For what good end?

SPIRIT-RAPPER The end is in itself--the end of skimming The surface of the world.

GRYLLUS If that be all, I had rather sit in peace in my old home: But while I look, two of them meet and clash, And pile their way with ruin. One is rolled Down a steep bank; one through a broken bridge Is dashed into a flood. Dead, dying, wounded, Are there as in a battle-field. Are these Your modern triumphs? Jove preserve me from them.

SPIRIT-RAPPER These ills are rare. Millions are borne in safety Where ore incurs mischance. Look yet again.

GRYLLUS I see a ma.s.s of light brighter than that Which burned in Circe's palace, and beneath it A motley crew, dancing to joyous music.

But from that light explosion comes, and flame; And forth the dancers rush in haste and fear From their wide-blazing hall.

SPIRIT-RAPPER Oh, Circe! Circe!

Thou show'st him all the evil of our arts In more than just proportion to the good.

Good without evil is not given to man.

Jove, from his urns dispensing good and ill, Gives all unmixed to some, and good and ill Mingled to many--good unmixed to none.{1} Our arts are good. The inevitable ill That mixes with them, as with all things human, Is as a drop of water in a goblet Full of old wine.

1 This is the true sense of the Homeric pa.s.sage:--

(Greek pa.s.sage) Homer: ii. xxiv.

There are only two distributions: good and ill mixed, and unmixed ill. None, as Heyne has observed, receive unmixed good. Ex dolio bonorum....

GRYLLUS More than one drop, I fear, And those of bitter water.

CIRCE There is yet An ample field of scientific triumph: What shall we show him next?

SFIRIT-RAPPER Pause we awhile, He is not in the mood to feel conviction Of our superior greatness. He is all For rural comfort and domestic ease, But our impulsive days are all for moving: Sometimes with some ulterior end, but still For moving, moving, always. There is nothing Common between us in our points of judgment.

He takes his stand upon tranquillity, We ours upon excitement. There we place The being, end, and aim of mortal life, The many are with us: some few, perhaps, With him. We put the question to the vote By universal suffrage. Aid us, Circe I On taj.i.s.manic wings youi spells can waft The question and reply* Are we not wiser, Happier, and better, than the men of old, Of Homer's days, of Athens, and of Rome?

VOICES WITHOUT Ay. No. Ay, ay. No. Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, We are the wisest race the earth has known, The most advanced in all the arts of life, In science and in morals.

...nemo meracius accipit: hoc memorare omisit. This sense is implied, not expressed. Pope missed it in his otherwise beautiful translation.

Two urns by Jove's high throne have ever stood, The source of evil one, and one of good; From thence the cup of mortal man he fills, Blessings to these, to those distributes ills, To most he mingles both: the wretch decreed To taste the bad, unmixed, is curst indeed; Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driven, He wanders, outcast both of earth and heaven.

--Pope.

SPIRIT-RAPPER The ays have it.

What is that wondrous sound, that seems like thunder Mixed with gigantic laughter?

CIRCE It is Jupiter, Who laughs at your presumption; half in anger, And half in mockery. Now, my worthy masters, You must in turn experience in yourselves The mighty magic thus far tried on others.

The table turned slowly, and by degrees went on spinning with accelerated speed. The legs a.s.sumed motion, and it danced off the stage. The arms of the chairs put forth hands, and pinched the spirit-rappers, who sprang up and ran off, pursued by their chairs. This piece of mechanical pantomime was a triumph of Lord Curryfin's art, and afforded him ample satisfaction for the failure of his resonant vases.

CIRCE Now, Gryllus, we may seek our ancient home In my enchanted isle.

GRYLLUS Not yet, not yet.

Good signs are toward of a joyous supper.

Therein the modern world may have its glory, And I, like an impartial judge, am ready To do it ample justice. But, perhaps, As all we hitherto have seen are shadows, So too may be the supper.

CIRCE Fear not, Gryllus.

That you will find a sound reality, To which the land and air, seas, lakes, and rivers, Have sent their several tributes. Now, kind friends, Who with your smiles have graciously rewarded Our humble, but most earnest aims to please, And with your presence at our festal board Will charm the winter midnight, Music gives The signal: Welcome and old wine await you.

THE CHORUS Shadows to-night have offered portraits true Of many follies which the world enthrall.

'Shadows we are, and shadows we pursue': But, in the banquet's well-illumined hall, Realides, delectable to all, Invite you now our festal joy to share.

Could we our Attic prototype recall, One compound word should give our bill of fare: {1} But where our language fails, our hearts true welcome bear.

1 As at the end of the Ecclesusae

[Ill.u.s.tration: Miss Gryll was resplendent as Circe 268-226]

Miss Gryll was resplendent as Circe; and _Miss Niphet._, as leader of the chorus, looked like Melpomene herself, slightly unbending her tragic severity into that solemn smile which characterised the chorus of the old comedy. The charm of the first acted irresistibly on _Mr. Falconer._ The second would have completed, if anything had been wanted to complete it, the conquest of _Lord Curryfin._

The supper pa.s.sed off joyously, and it was a late hour of the morning before the company dispersed.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE BALD VENUS--INEZ DE CASTRO--THE UNITY OF LOVE

Within the temple of my purer mind One imaged form shall ever live enshrined, And hear the vows, to first affection due, Still breathed: for love that ceases ne'er was true.

--Leyden's Scenes of Infancy.

An interval of a week was interposed between the comedy and the intended ball. Mr. Falconer having no fancy for b.a.l.l.s, and disturbed beyond endurance by the interdict which Miss Gryll had laid on him against speaking, for four times seven days, on the subject nearest his heart, having discharged with becoming self-command his share in the Aristophanic comedy, determined to pa.s.s his remaining days of probation in the Tower, where he found, in the attentions of the seven sisters, not a perfect Nepenthe, but the only possible antidote to intense vexation of spirit. It is true, his two Hebes, pouring out his Madeira, approximated as nearly as anything could do to Helen's administration of the true Nepenthe. He might have sung of Madeira, as Redi's Bacchus sang of one of his favourite wines:--

Egli e il vero oro potabile, Che mandar suole in esilio Ogni male inrimediabile: Egli e d* Elena il Nepente, Che fa stare il mondo allegro, Dai pensieri Foschi e neri Sempre sciolto, e sempre esente.{1}

1 Redi: Bacco in Toscana.

Matters went on quietly at the Grange. One evening, Mr. Gryll said quietly to the Reverend Doctor Opimian--

'I have heard you, doctor, more than once, very eulogistic of hair as indispensable to beauty. What say you to the bald Venus of the Romans--_Venus Calva_?'