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Updated: June 12, 2025
Io, Io Paean! slowly. Song and oar must chime together: Io, Io Paean! by what title call Apollo! Clarian? Xanthian? Boedromian? Countless are thy names, Apollo, Io Carnee! Io Carnee! By the margent of Eurotas, 'Neath the shadows of Taeygetus, Thee the sons of Lacedaemon Name Carneus. Io, Io! Io Carnee! Io Carnee! Io, Io Paean! quicker. Song and voice must chime together: Io Paean! Io Paean!
That is ordained; and the means to it, and particularly the effect of those means, are what I have tried to represent here." So saying, he drew up the curtain, and the picture stood before us. Mac and I gave it one quick glance, and then, with a simultaneous impulse, extended our hands to Clarian.
A fine generous fellow was Clarian, for all his apron-string antecedents, bold as a lion, and as trustworthy as he was enthusiastic. He was of rather too nervous a temperament to be precisely healthy in all mental respects, but nevertheless had a fine comprehensive mind, very capable of sustained and concentrated effort.
He can't stand it, and he's too rare and delicate a machine to go cranky thus soon. You've got the child under your thumb, bring him out o' that. Make him take a dose of Verulam, get him back into the world again, and order him four hours per diem at the dumb-bells." "Younker! do you know you're a fool?" Clarian colored up, "How, Mac?" "What are we Ned, and you, and I here for?"
No, the boy was changed, grown morbid, a pervert, ripe for whatever Devil's sickle might be put forth to gather him in. Thus things went on from bad to worse, until the authorities began to take notice of the lad's derelictions. The kind old President sent for me, and made many inquiries about Clarian.
"We do that already, Clarian," said Mac's emphatic voice. "No," said Clarian, firmly, proudly, like a poet about to kneel that he may receive the laurel crown, "no, you do not know me yet." And he was right. We did not yet know him. "That is a boy after my own heart", said Mac, after we had returned to our room.
"Oh, I agree with your author perfectly," said Mac, with inimitable gravity, while I gazed at Clarian, wondering what would come next. "All the greatest gifts man possesses have had evil sponsors or unrighteous baptism. Even Prometheus filched his fire from heaven, or t'other place. Doing evil for the sake of a prospective good is an immemorial custom, and well precedented.
Still, as he read, the nightmare-spell possessed me, till a convulsive clutch upon my arm roused me, and instinctively, with the returning sense, I turned to Clarian. Not too soon, for then, in his own person, and in that strange glare, he was interpreting the picture to us.
"To think that a man who could paint such a picture, a soul of imagination so compact, a so delicate ether-breathing spirit, should settle down at last into a mere mechanical, a plodding, every-day merchant, whose finest fancies are given to the condition of the money-market, who governs his actions by a decline of Erie, and narrows his ideas down to the requirements of filthy lucre, like a mere 'wintry clod of earth'! Ay, poor Clarian, poor anybody, when we wake from our bright youth-dream and tread the rough pathway of a reality like this!"
These words created a laugh at my expense; for Clarian had shown himself, in his warm, generous way, such a zealous advocate of my immaculate perfection, that he was quite generally known by the sobriquet of "Ned Blount's Whitewash." Just then Mac came along, on his way to the post-office, and I joined him, showing him Ciarian's note.
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