LITMIR.BIZ

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your love.

      Julian. Ay! What of her?

      Robert. I heard no more than so; and that you came To seek the next best service you could find: Turned from the lady's door, and knocked at God's.

      Julian. One part at least is true: I knock at God's; He has not yet been pleased to let me in. As for the lady—that is—so far true, But matters little. Had I less to think, This talking might annoy me; as it is, Why, let the wind set there, if it pleases it; I keep in-doors.

      Robert. Gloomy as usual, brother! Brooding on fancy's eggs. God did not send The light that all day long gladdened the earth, Flashed from the snowy peak, and on the spire Transformed the weathercock into a star, That you should gloom within stone walls all day. At dawn to-morrow, take your staff, and come: We will salute the breezes, as they rise And leave their lofty beds, laden with odours Of melting snow, and fresh damp earth, and moss— Imprisoned spirits, which life-waking Spring Lets forth in vapour through the genial air. Come, we will see the sunrise; watch the light Leap from his chariot on the loftiest peak, And thence descend triumphant, step by step, The stairway of the hills. Free air and action Will soon dispel these vapours of the brain.

      Julian. My friend, if one should tell a homeless boy, "There is your father's house: go in and rest;" Through every open room the child would pass, Timidly looking for the friendly eye; Fearing to touch, scarce daring even to wonder At what he saw, until he found his sire; But gathered to his bosom, straight he is The heir of all; he knows it 'mid his tears. And so with me: not having seen Him yet, The light rests on me with a heaviness; All beauty wears to me a doubtful look; A voice is in the wind I do not know; A meaning on the face of the high hills Whose utterance I cannot comprehend. A something is behind them: that is God. These are his words, I doubt not, language strange; These are the expressions of his shining thoughts; And he is present, but I find him not. I have not yet been held close to his heart. Once in his inner room, and by his eyes Acknowledged, I shall find my home in these, 'Mid sights familiar as a mother's smiles, And sounds that never lose love's mystery. Then they will comfort me. Lead me to Him.

      Robert (pointing to the Crucifix in a recess). See, there is God revealed in human form!

      Julian (kneeling and crossing). Alas, my friend!—revealed—but as in nature: I see the man; I cannot find the God. I know his voice is in the wind, his presence Is in the Christ. The wind blows where it listeth; And there stands Manhood: and the God is there, Not here, not here!

      (Pointing to his bosom.) [Seeing Robert's bewildered look, and changing his tone—]

      You do not understand me.

       Without my need, you cannot know my want.

       You will all night be puzzling to determine

       With which of the old heretics to class me.

       But you are honest; will not rouse the cry

       Against me. I am honest. For the proof,

       Such as will satisfy a monk, look here!

       Is this a smooth belt, brother? And look here!

       Did one week's scourging seam my side like that?

       I am ashamed to speak thus, and to show

       Things rightly hidden; but in my heart I love you,

       And cannot bear but you should think me true.

       Let it excuse my foolishness. They talk

       Of penance! Let them talk when they have tried,

       And found it has not even unbarred heaven's gate,

       Let out one stray beam of its living light,

       Or humbled that proud I that knows not God! You are my friend:—if you should find this cell Empty some morning, do not be afraid That any ill has happened.

      Robert.] Well, perhaps 'Twere better you should go. I cannot help you, But I can keep your secret. God be with you. [Goes.

      Julian. Amen.—A good man; but he has not waked, And seen the Sphinx's stony eyes fixed on him. God veils it. He believes in Christ, he thinks; And so he does, as possible for him. How he will wonder when he looks for heaven! He thinks me an enthusiast, because I seek to know God, and to hear his voice Talk to my heart in silence; as of old The Hebrew king, when, still, upon his bed, He lay communing with his heart; and God With strength in his soul did strengthen him, until In his light he saw light. God speaks to men. My soul leans toward him; stretches forth its arms, And waits expectant. Speak to me, my God; And let me know the living Father cares For me, even me; for this one of his children.— Hast thou no word for me? I am thy thought. God, let thy mighty heart beat into mine, And let mine answer as a pulse to thine. See, I am low; yea, very low; but thou Art high, and thou canst lift me up to thee. I am a child, a fool before thee, God; But thou hast made my weakness as my strength. I am an emptiness for thee to fill; My soul, a cavern for thy sea. I lie Diffused, abandoning myself to thee…. —I will look up, if life should fail in looking. Ah me! A stream cut from my parent-spring! Ah me! A life lost from its father-life!

      SCENE II.—The refectory. The monks at table. A buzz of conversation. ROBERT enters, wiping his forehead, as if he had just come in.

      Stephen (speaking across the table). You see, my friend, it will not stand to logic; Or, if you like it better, stand to reason; For in this doctrine is involved a cause Which for its very being doth depend Upon its own effect. For, don't you see, He tells me to have faith and I shall live! Have faith for what? Why, plainly, that I shall Be saved from hell by him, and ta'en to heaven; What is salvation else? If I believe, Then he will save me! But, so, this his will Has no existence till that I believe; And there is nothing for my faith to rest on, No object for belief. How can I trust In that which is not? Send the salad, Cosmo. Besides, 'twould be a plenary indulgence; To all intents save one, most plenary— And that the Church's coffer. 'Tis absurd.

      Monk. 'Tis most absurd, as you have clearly shown. And yet I fear some of us have been nibbling At this same heresy. 'Twere well that one Should find it poison. I have no pique at him— But there's that Julian!—

      Stephen. Hush! speak lower, friend.

      Two Monks farther down the table—in a low tone.

      1st Monk. Where did you find her?

      2nd Monk. She was taken ill At the Star-in-the-East. I chanced to pass that way, And so they called me in. I found her dying. But ere she would confess and make her peace, She begged to know if I had ever seen, About this neighbourhood, a tall dark man, Moody and silent, with a little stoop As if his eyes were heavy for his shoulders, And a strange look of mingled youth and age,—

      1st Monk. Julian, by—

      2nd Monk. 'St—no names! I had not seen him. I saw the death-mist gathering in her eyes, And urged her to proceed; and she began; But went not far before delirium came, With endless repetitions, hurryings forward, Recoverings like a hound at fault. The past Was running riot in her conquered brain; And there, with doors thrown wide, a motley group Held carnival; went freely out and in, Meeting and jostling. But withal it seemed As some confused tragedy went on; Till suddenly the light sank, and the pageant Was lost in darkness; the chambers of her brain Lay desolate and silent. I can gather So much, and little more:—This Julian Is one of some distinction; probably rich, And titled Count. He had a love-affair, In good-boy, layman fashion, seemingly.— Give me the woman; love is troublesome!— She loved him too, but falsehood came between, And used this woman for her minister; Who never would have peached, but for a witness Hidden behind some curtain in her heart— An unsuspected witness called Sir Conscience, Who has appeared and blabbed—but must conclude His story to some double-ghostly father, For she is ghostly penitent by this. Our consciences will play us no such tricks; They are the Church's, not our own. We must Keep this small

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