Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears, Of all the lost adventurers my peers, How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. 'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. AN EPISTLE CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN [1855.] KARSHISH, the picker-up of learning's crumbs, The not-incurious in God's handiwork (This man's-flesh He hath admirably made, Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste, To coop up and keep down on earth a space That puff of vapour from His mouth, man's soul) - To Abib, all-sagacious in our art, Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast, Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks Befall the flesh through too much stress and strain, Whereby the wily vapour fain would slip Back and rejoin its source before the term, And aptest in contrivance, under God, Three samples of true snake-stone-rarer still, One of the other sort, the melon-shaped, (But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs) And writeth now the twenty-second time. My journeyings were brought to Jericho: Thus I resume. Who studious in our art Shail count a little labour unrepaid? I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone On many a flinty furlong of this land. ear; Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls: I cried and threw my staff and he was gone. Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me, And once a town declared me for a spy, This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence A man with plague-sores at the third degree Runs till he drops down dead. Thou laughest here! 'Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe, In tertians, I was nearly bold to say, Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs, Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-grey back; Take five and drop them . . . but who knows his mind, The Syrian run-a-gate I trust this to? all Or I might add, Judaea's gum-tragacanth Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearergrained, Cracks 'twixt the pestle and the porphyry, In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp-discase Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end. Yet stay my Syrian blinketh gratefully, Protesteth his devotion is my priceSuppose I write what harms not, though he steal? I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blush, The Man had something in the look of him His case has struck me far more than 'tis worth. So, pardon if (lest presently I lose I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind, Almost in sight- for, wilt thou have the truth? The very man is gone from me but now, Whose ailment is the subject of discourse. Thus then, and let thy better wit help all. 'Tis but a case of mania - subinduced By epilepsy, at the turning-point Of trance prolonged unduly some three days, When, by the exhibition of some drug The evil thing out-breaking all at once Left the man whole and sound of body indeed, But, flinging, so to speak, life's gates too wide, Making a clear house of it too suddenly, The first conceit that entered might inscribe Whatever it was minded on the wall So plainly at that vantage, as it were, (First come, first served) that nothing subsequent Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls The just-returned and new-established soul Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart That henceforth she will read or these or none. And first the man's own firm conviction rests That he was dead (in fact they buried him) -That he was dead and then' restored to life By a Nazarene physician of his tribe: 'Sayeth, the same bade 'Rise,' and he did rise. 'Such cases are diurnal,' thou wilt cry. Instead of giving way to time and health, For see, how he takes up the after-life. As much, indeed, beyond the common health As he were made and put aside to show. Think, could we penetrate by any drug And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh, And bring it clear and fair, by three days' sleep! Whence has the man the balm that brightens all? This grown man eyes the world now like a child. Some elders of his tribe, I should premise, Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep, To bear my inquisition. While they spoke, Now sharply, now with sorrow, - told the case, He listened not except I spoke to him, But folded his two hands and let them talk, Watching the flies that buzzed and yet no fool. And that's a sample how his years must go. Look if a beggar, in fixed middle-life, Should find a treasure, can he use the same With straitened habits and with tastes starved small And take at once to his impoverished brain The sudden element that changes things,, That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand, And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? Is he not such an one as moves to mirth - say, Increased beyond the fleshly faculty Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth, Earth forced on a soul's use while seeing The man is witless of the size, the sum, With stupor at its very littleness. (Far as I see) as if in that indeed For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live So long as God please, and just how God please. He even secketh not to please God more (Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God please. Hence I perceive not he affects to preach The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be, Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do: How can he give his neighbour the real ground, His own conviction? ardent as he is Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old 'Be it as God please' reassureth him. I probed the sore as thy disciple should — 'How, beast,' said I, 'this stolid careless As a wise workman recognizes tools In a master's workshop, loving what they make. Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb: According to some preconceived design, Its cause and cure- and I must hold my peace!. Thou wilt object why have I not ere this Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the On vain recourse, as I conjecture it, The other imputations must be lies: But take one-though I loathe to give it thee, In mere respect to any good man's fame! (And after all, our patient Lazarus Is stark mad; should we count on what he says? Perhaps not though in writing to a leech 'Tis well to keep back nothing of a case.) This man so cured regards the curer, then, As God forgive me who but God himself, - To the centre, of an instant: or around Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan The licence and the limit, space and bound, Allowed to Truth made visible in Man. And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw, Over the canvas could my hand have flung, Each face obedient to its passion's law, Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue; Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood. Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place; Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved, O human faces, hath it spilt, my cup? What did ye give me that I have not saved? Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!) Of going I, in each new picture, forth, As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell, To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South or North, Bound for the calmly satisfied great State, Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, Through old streets named afresh from its event, Till it reached home, where learned Age should greet My face, and Youth, the star not yet distinct Above his hair, lie learning at my feet! Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked With love about, and praise, till life should end, And then not go to heaven, but linger here, Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend, The thought grew frightful, 'twas so wildly dear! But a voice changed it! Glimpses of such sights Have scared me, like the revels through a door Of some strange House of Idols at its rites; This world seemed not the world it was before: Mixed with my loving trusting ones there trooped Who summoned those cold faces that begun To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, They drew me forth, and spite of me. enough! These buy and sell our pictures, take and give, Count them for garniture and householdstuff, And where they live our pictures needs must live And see their faces, listen to their prate, Partakers of their daily pettiness, Discussed of 'This I love, or this I hate, This likes me more, and this affects me less!' Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint These endless cloisters and eternal aisles With the same series, Virgin, Babe and Saint, With the same cold, calm, beautiful regard, At least no merchant traffics in my heart; The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart: |