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Updated: June 12, 2025
I shall never forget that pleasant June day. It was the first time that Clarian had been out since his illness; and I was his single companion, as he strayed slowly along through the college grounds, leaning tremulously upon my arm, dragging his feet languidly over the pebbled walks, and drinking in the warm, fresh, quivering air with a manner that, although apathetic, still spoke of some power of enjoyment.
"Bad news travel fast enough, Clarian, and there is no wisdom in losing a friend so long as you can retain him." "I do not see the force of your reasoning, Dr. Thorne. I have enough to answer for, without the additional contumely of being called an impostor." "For your mother's sake, Clarian, I command you to wait. Spare her what pain you can, at least." "My mother!
"So do I, Mac," rejoined Clarian, a little proudly. "And do you suppose your present studies adapted to fit you for such work?
Thorne again, springing to his feet, while we, spell-bound, sat still and waited for the end. "Cease! do you not see?" cried he, seizing Mac. But there stood Clarian yet, that red light upon his cheek and brow, that fixed stare of a real, unpainted horror in his speechless face, that long finger still pointing and trembling not, there he stood, fixed, while one might count ten.
I tell you, by dwelling on it, tasting, smelling of it, taking it into our bosoms, and making ourselves familiar with it, we poor men can finally persuade ourselves that the most damning thought begot of Hell upon a putrescent brain is the fairest, brightest, most glorious Deus vult. Here was the danger that menaced Clarian, ay, had already begun to insinuate its poison into his daily food.
"Now, Ned," said Mac, somewhat complacently, when Clarian was gone, "I think I have done that young rascal some good, and the bard will advantage him still more, if he can only be moderate enough." And, indeed, these new pastures thus unbarred to Clarian's coltish fancies made a great change in the lad.
Shelley was a mutineer on board ship, and a deserter from the ranks; and he must, therefore, wait for a biographer, as other denounced and daring geniuses have waited for their audience or their epitaph. "Turbine raptus ingenii." Scaliger The next morning there was queer talk about Clarian. Mac and I stared at each other when we heard it at breakfast, but still kept our own counsel in silence.
Oh, be sure, my aims, I thought, were noble, and myself I thought so pure! but I cannot say, Mac, I cannot say. "'We are so weak, we know our motives least In their confused beginning." "At least, Clarian," said Mac, after a while, his deep voice wonderfully refined with strong emotion, "at least, the picture was not painted in vain.
"Nay, Mac, can it be thus put off with a jest and a sneer, after all? What do you think of these words I came across last night?" and opening his note-book, Clarian read as follows: "For of old it hath been clearly proven, action without passion is nought save idle folly. Passio Christi hominis redemptio.
Then, as Clarian came out, and stood in the bedroom doorway, quite near me, I remarked the terrible change since I had last seen him. He leaned against the door-frame, as if too weak to support himself erect; and I saw that his knees shook, his hands jerked, and his mouth twitched in a continual nervous unrest. He had on a handsome robe de chambre of maroon velvet, which he seldom wore about college, though it was very becoming to him, its long skirts falling nearly to his feet, while its ample folds were gathered about his waist, and secured with cord and tassel. His feet were thrust into neat slippers, and his collar rolled over a flowing black cravat
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