_First Scholar_. Oh yes!

For none but a clever dialectician Can hope to become a great physician; That has been settled long ago.

Logic makes an important part Of the mystery of the healing art; For without it how could you hope to show That n.o.body knows so much as you know?

After this there are five years more Devoted wholly to medicine, With lectures on chirurgical lore, And dissections of the bodies of swine, As likest the human form divine.

_Second Scholar_. What are the books now most in vogue?

_First Scholar_. Quite an extensive catalogue; Mostly, however, books of our own; As Gariopontus' Pa.s.sionarius, And the writings of Matthew Platearius; And a volume universally known As the Regimen of the School of Salern, For Robert of Normandy written in terse And very elegant Latin verse.

Each of these writings has its turn.

And when at length we have finished these, Then comes the struggle for degrees, With all the oldest and ablest critics; The public thesis and disputation, Question, and answer, and explanation Of a pa.s.sage out of Hippocrates, Or Aristotle's a.n.a.lytics.

There the triumphant Magister stands!

A book is solemnly placed in his hands, On which he swears to follow the rule And ancient forms of the good old School; To report if any confectionarius Mingles his drugs with matters various, And to visit his patients twice a day, And once in the night, if they live in town, And if they are poor, to take no pay.

Having faithfully promised these, His head is crowned with a laurel crown; A kiss on his cheek, a ring on his hand, The Magister Artium et Physices Goes forth from the school like a lord of the land.

And now, as we have the whole morning before us Let us go in, if you make no objection, And listen awhile to a learned prelection On Marcus Aurelius Ca.s.siodorus.

(_They go in. Enter_ LUCIFER _as a Doctor._)

_Lucifer_. This is the great School of Salern!

A land of wrangling and of quarrels, Of brains that seethe, and hearts that burn, Where every emulous scholar hears, In every breath that comes to his ears, The rustling of another's laurels!

The air of the place is called salubrious; The neighborhood of Vesuvius lends it An odor volcanic, that rather mends it, And the buildings have an aspect lugubrious, That inspires a feeling of awe and terror Into the heart of the beholder, And befits such an ancient homestead of error, Where the old falsehoods moulder and smoulder, And yearly by many hundred hands Are carried away, in the zeal of youth, And sown like tares in the field of truth, To blossom and ripen in other lands.

What have we here, affixed to the gate?

The challenge of some scholastic wight, Who wishes to hold a public debate On sundry questions wrong or right!

Ah, now this is my great delight!

For I have often observed of late That such discussions end in a fight.

Let us see what the learned wag maintains With such a prodigal waste of brains.

(_Reads._)

"Whether angels in moving from place to place Pa.s.s through the intermediate s.p.a.ce.

Whether G.o.d himself is the author of evil, Or whether that is the work of the Devil.

When, where, and wherefore Lucifer fell, And whether he now is chained in h.e.l.l."

I think I can answer that question well!

So long as the boastful human mind Consents in such mills as this to grind, I sit very firmly upon my throne!

Of a truth it almost makes me laugh, To see men leaving the golden grain To gather in piles the pitiful chaff That old Peter Lombard thrashed with his brain, To have it caught up and tossed again On the horns of the Dumb Ox of Cologne!

But my guests approach! there is in the air A fragrance, like that of the Beautiful Garden Of Paradise, in the days that were!

An odor of innocence, and of prayer, And of love, and faith that never fails, Which as the fresh-young heart exhales Before it begins to wither and harden!

I cannot breathe such an atmosphere!

My soul is filled with a nameless fear, That, after all my trouble and pain, After all my restless endeavor, The youngest, fairest soul of the twain, The most ethereal, most divine, Will escape from my hands forever and ever.

But the other is already mine!

Let him live to corrupt his race, Breathing among them, with every breath, Weakness, selfishness, and the base And pusillanimous fear of death.

I know his nature, and I know That of all who in my ministry Wander the great earth to and fro, And on my errands come and go, The safest and subtlest are such as he.

(_Enter_ PRINCE HENRY _and_ ELSIE _with attendants_.)

_Prince Henry._ Can you direct us to Friar Angelo?

_Lucifer._ He stands before you.

_Prince Henry._ Then you know our purpose.

I am Prince Henry of Hoheneck, and this The maiden that I spake of in my letters.

_Lucifer._ It is a very grave and solemn business!

We must not be precipitate. Does she Without compulsion, of her own free will, Consent to this?

_Prince Henry._ Against all opposition, Against all prayers, entreaties, protestations.

She will not be persuaded.

_Lucifer._ That is strange!

Have you thought well of it?

_Elsie._ I come not here To argue, but to die. Your business is not to question, but to kill me. I am ready.

I am impatient to be gone from here Ere any thoughts of earth disturb again The spirit of tranquillity within me.

_Prince Henry._ Would I had not come here Would I were dead, And thou wert in thy cottage in the forest, And hadst not known me! Why have I done this?

Let me go back and die.

_Elsie._ It cannot be; Not if these cold, flat stones on which we tread Were coulters heated white, and yonder gateway Flamed like a furnace with a sevenfold heat.

I must fulfil my purpose.

_Prince Henry._ I forbid it!

Not one step farther. For I only meant To put thus far thy courage to the proof.

It is enough. I, too, have courage to die, For thou hast taught me!

_Elsie._ O my Prince! remember Your promises. Let me fulfill my errand.

You do not look on life and death as I do.

There are two angels, that attend unseen Each one of us, and in great books record Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down The good ones, after every action closes His volume, and ascends with it to G.o.d.

The other keeps his dreadful day-book open Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing, The record of the action fades away, And leaves a line of white across the page.

Now if my act be good, as I believe it, It cannot be recalled. It is already Sealed up in heaven, as a good deed accomplished.

The rest is yours. Why wait you? I am ready.

(_To her attendants._)

Weep not, my friends! rather rejoice with me.

I shall not feel the pain, but shall be gone, And you will have another friend in heaven.

Then start not at the creaking of the door Through which I pa.s.s. I see what lies beyond it.

(_To_ PRINCE HENRY.)

And you, O Prince! bear back my benison Unto my father's house, and all within it.

This morning in the church I prayed for them, After confession, after absolution, When my whole soul was white, I prayed for them.

G.o.d will take care of them, they need me not.

And in your life let my remembrance linger, As something not to trouble and disturb it, But to complete it, adding life to life.

And if at times beside the evening fire You see my face among the other faces, Let it not be regarded as a ghost That haunts your house, but as a guest that loves you.

Nay, even as one of your own family, Without whose presence there were something wanting.

I have no more to say. Let us go in.

_Prince Henry._ Friar Angelo! I charge you on your life, Believe not what she says, for she is mad, And comes here not to die, but to be healed.