AMOURS DE VOYAGE.

Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio,And taste with a distempered appetite!Shakspeare.

Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio,And taste with a distempered appetite!

Oh, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio,

And taste with a distempered appetite!

Shakspeare.

Il doutait de tout, même de l’amour.French Novel.

Il doutait de tout, même de l’amour.

French Novel.

Solvitur ambulando.Solutio Sophismatum.

Solvitur ambulando.

Solutio Sophismatum.

Flevit amoresNon elaboratum ad pedem.Horace.

Flevit amoresNon elaboratum ad pedem.

Flevit amores

Non elaboratum ad pedem.

Horace.

Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits,Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth,Come, let us go,—to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered,Where every breath even now changes to ether divine.Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, ‘The world that we live in,Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib;’Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel;Let who would ’scape and be free go to his chamber and think;’Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser;’Tis but to go and have been.’—Come, little bark! let us go.

Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits,

Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth,

Come, let us go,—to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered,

Where every breath even now changes to ether divine.

Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, ‘The world that we live in,

Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib;

’Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel;

Let who would ’scape and be free go to his chamber and think;

’Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser;

’Tis but to go and have been.’—Come, little bark! let us go.

Dear Eustatio, I write that you may write me an answer.Or at the least to put us againen rapportwith each other.Rome disappoints me much,—St. Peter’s, perhaps, in especial;Only the Arch of Titus and view from the Lateran please me:This, however, perhaps is the weather, which truly is horrid.Greece must be better, surely; and yet I am feeling so spiteful,That I could travel to Athens, to Delphi, and Troy, and Mount Sinai,Though but to see with my eyes that these are vanity also.Rome disappoints me much; I hardly as yet understand, butRubbishyseems the word that most exactly would suit it.All the foolish destructions, and all the sillier savings,All the incongruous things of past incompatible ages,Seem to be treasured up here to make fools of present and future.Would to Heaven the old Goths had made a cleaner sweep of it!Would to Heaven some new ones would come and destroy these churches!However, one can live in Rome as also in London.It is a blessing, no doubt, to be rid, at least for a time, ofAll one’s friends and relations,—yourself (forgive me!) included,—All theassujettissementof having been what one has been,What one thinks one is, or thinks that others suppose one;Yet, in despite of all, we turn like fools to the English.Vernon has been my fate; who is here the same that you knew him—Making the tour, it seems, with friends of the name of Trevellyn.

Dear Eustatio, I write that you may write me an answer.

Or at the least to put us againen rapportwith each other.

Rome disappoints me much,—St. Peter’s, perhaps, in especial;

Only the Arch of Titus and view from the Lateran please me:

This, however, perhaps is the weather, which truly is horrid.

Greece must be better, surely; and yet I am feeling so spiteful,

That I could travel to Athens, to Delphi, and Troy, and Mount Sinai,

Though but to see with my eyes that these are vanity also.

Rome disappoints me much; I hardly as yet understand, but

Rubbishyseems the word that most exactly would suit it.

All the foolish destructions, and all the sillier savings,

All the incongruous things of past incompatible ages,

Seem to be treasured up here to make fools of present and future.

Would to Heaven the old Goths had made a cleaner sweep of it!

Would to Heaven some new ones would come and destroy these churches!

However, one can live in Rome as also in London.

It is a blessing, no doubt, to be rid, at least for a time, of

All one’s friends and relations,—yourself (forgive me!) included,—

All theassujettissementof having been what one has been,

What one thinks one is, or thinks that others suppose one;

Yet, in despite of all, we turn like fools to the English.

Vernon has been my fate; who is here the same that you knew him—

Making the tour, it seems, with friends of the name of Trevellyn.

Rome disappoints me still; but I shrink and adapt myself to it.Somehow a tyrannous sense of a superincumbent oppressionStill, wherever I go, accompanies ever, and makes meFeel like a tree (shall I say?) buried under a ruin of brickworkRome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo,Merely a marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots.Ye gods! what do I want with this rubbish of ages departed,Things that Nature abhors, the experiments that she has failed in?What do I find in the Forum? An archway and two or three pillars.Well, but St. Peter’s? Alas, Bernini has filled it with sculpture!No one can cavil, I grant, at the size of the great Coliseum.Doubtless the notion of grand and capacious and massive amusement,This the old Romans had; but tell me, is this an idea?Yet of solidity much, but of splendour little is extant:‘Brickwork I found thee, and marble I left thee!’ their Emperor vaunted;‘Marble I thought thee, and brickwork I find thee!’ the Tourist may answer.

Rome disappoints me still; but I shrink and adapt myself to it.

Somehow a tyrannous sense of a superincumbent oppression

Still, wherever I go, accompanies ever, and makes me

Feel like a tree (shall I say?) buried under a ruin of brickwork

Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo,

Merely a marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots.

Ye gods! what do I want with this rubbish of ages departed,

Things that Nature abhors, the experiments that she has failed in?

What do I find in the Forum? An archway and two or three pillars.

Well, but St. Peter’s? Alas, Bernini has filled it with sculpture!

No one can cavil, I grant, at the size of the great Coliseum.

Doubtless the notion of grand and capacious and massive amusement,

This the old Romans had; but tell me, is this an idea?

Yet of solidity much, but of splendour little is extant:

‘Brickwork I found thee, and marble I left thee!’ their Emperor vaunted;

‘Marble I thought thee, and brickwork I find thee!’ the Tourist may answer.

At last, dearest Louisa, I take up my pen to address you.Here we are, you see, with the seven-and-seventy boxes,Courier, Papa and Mamma, the children, and Mary and Susan:Here we all are at Rome, and delighted of course with St. Peter’s,And very pleasantly lodged in the famous Piazza di Spagna.Rome is a wonderful place, but Mary shall tell you about it;Not very gay, however; the English are mostly at Naples;There are the A.’s, we hear, and most of the W. party.George, however, is come; did I tell you about his mustachios?Dear, I must really stop, for the carriage, they tell me, is waiting;Mary will finish; and Susan is writing, they say, to Sophia.Adieu, dearest Louise,—evermore your faithful Georgina.Who can a Mr. Claude be whom George has taken to be with?Very stupid, I think, but George says soveryclever.

At last, dearest Louisa, I take up my pen to address you.

Here we are, you see, with the seven-and-seventy boxes,

Courier, Papa and Mamma, the children, and Mary and Susan:

Here we all are at Rome, and delighted of course with St. Peter’s,

And very pleasantly lodged in the famous Piazza di Spagna.

Rome is a wonderful place, but Mary shall tell you about it;

Not very gay, however; the English are mostly at Naples;

There are the A.’s, we hear, and most of the W. party.

George, however, is come; did I tell you about his mustachios?

Dear, I must really stop, for the carriage, they tell me, is waiting;

Mary will finish; and Susan is writing, they say, to Sophia.

Adieu, dearest Louise,—evermore your faithful Georgina.

Who can a Mr. Claude be whom George has taken to be with?

Very stupid, I think, but George says soveryclever.

No, the Christian faith, as at any rate I understood it.With its humiliations and exaltations combining,Exaltations sublime, and yet diviner abasements,Aspirations from something most shameful here upon earth andIn our poor selves to something most perfect above in the heavens,—No, the Christian faith, as I, at least, understood it,Is not here, O Rome, in any of these thy churches;Is not here, but in Freiburg, or Rheims, or Westminster Abbey,What in thy Dome I find, in all thy recenter efforts,Is a something, I think, morerationalfar, more earthly,Actual, less ideal, devout not in scorn and refusal,But in a positive, calm, Stoic-Epicurean acceptance.This I begin to detect in St. Peter’s and some of the churches,Mostly in all that I see of the sixteenth-century masters;Overlaid of course with infinite gauds and gewgaws,Innocent, playful follies, the toys and trinkets of childhood,Forced on maturer years, as the serious one thing needful,By the barbarian will of the rigid and ignorant Spaniard.Curious work, meantime, re-entering society: how weWalk a livelong day, great Heaven, and watch our shadows!What our shadows seem, forsooth, we will ourselves be.Do I look like that I you think me that: then I am that.

No, the Christian faith, as at any rate I understood it.

With its humiliations and exaltations combining,

Exaltations sublime, and yet diviner abasements,

Aspirations from something most shameful here upon earth and

In our poor selves to something most perfect above in the heavens,—

No, the Christian faith, as I, at least, understood it,

Is not here, O Rome, in any of these thy churches;

Is not here, but in Freiburg, or Rheims, or Westminster Abbey,

What in thy Dome I find, in all thy recenter efforts,

Is a something, I think, morerationalfar, more earthly,

Actual, less ideal, devout not in scorn and refusal,

But in a positive, calm, Stoic-Epicurean acceptance.

This I begin to detect in St. Peter’s and some of the churches,

Mostly in all that I see of the sixteenth-century masters;

Overlaid of course with infinite gauds and gewgaws,

Innocent, playful follies, the toys and trinkets of childhood,

Forced on maturer years, as the serious one thing needful,

By the barbarian will of the rigid and ignorant Spaniard.

Curious work, meantime, re-entering society: how we

Walk a livelong day, great Heaven, and watch our shadows!

What our shadows seem, forsooth, we will ourselves be.

Do I look like that I you think me that: then I am that.

Luther, they say, was unwise; like a half-taught German, he could notSee that old follies were passing most tranquilly out of remembrance;Leo the Tenth was employing all efforts to clear out abuses;Jupiter, Juno, and Venus, Fine Arts, and Fine Letters, the Poets,Scholars, and Sculptors, and Painters, were quietly clearing away theMartyrs, and Virgins, and Saints, or at any rate Thomas Aquinas:He must forsooth make a fuss and distend his huge Wittenberg lungs, andBring back Theology once yet again in a flood upon Europe:Lo you, for forty days from the windows of heaven it fell; theWaters prevail on the earth yet more for a hundred and fifty;Are they abating at last? the doves that are sent to explore areWearily fain to return, at the best with a leaflet of promise,—Fain to return, as they went, to the wandering wave-tost vessel,—Fain to re-enter the roof which covers the clean and the unclean,—Luther, they say, was unwise; he didn’t see how things were going;Luther was foolish,—but, O great God! what call you Ignatius?O my tolerant soul, be still! but you talk of barbarians,Alaric, Attila, Genseric;—why, they came, they killed, theyRavaged, and went on their way; but these vile, tyrannous Spaniards,These are here still,—how long, O ye heavens, in the country of Dante?These, that fanaticized Europe, which now can forget them, release notThis, their choicest of prey, this Italy; here you see them,—Here, with emasculate pupils and gimcrack churches of Gesu,Pseudo-learning and lies, confessional-boxes and postures,—Here, with metallic beliefs and regimental devotions,—Here, overcrusting with slime, perverting, defacing, debasing,Michael Angelo’s Dome, that had hung the Pantheon in heaven,Raphael’s Joys and Graces, and thy clear stars, Galileo!

Luther, they say, was unwise; like a half-taught German, he could not

See that old follies were passing most tranquilly out of remembrance;

Leo the Tenth was employing all efforts to clear out abuses;

Jupiter, Juno, and Venus, Fine Arts, and Fine Letters, the Poets,

Scholars, and Sculptors, and Painters, were quietly clearing away the

Martyrs, and Virgins, and Saints, or at any rate Thomas Aquinas:

He must forsooth make a fuss and distend his huge Wittenberg lungs, and

Bring back Theology once yet again in a flood upon Europe:

Lo you, for forty days from the windows of heaven it fell; the

Waters prevail on the earth yet more for a hundred and fifty;

Are they abating at last? the doves that are sent to explore are

Wearily fain to return, at the best with a leaflet of promise,—

Fain to return, as they went, to the wandering wave-tost vessel,—

Fain to re-enter the roof which covers the clean and the unclean,—

Luther, they say, was unwise; he didn’t see how things were going;

Luther was foolish,—but, O great God! what call you Ignatius?

O my tolerant soul, be still! but you talk of barbarians,

Alaric, Attila, Genseric;—why, they came, they killed, they

Ravaged, and went on their way; but these vile, tyrannous Spaniards,

These are here still,—how long, O ye heavens, in the country of Dante?

These, that fanaticized Europe, which now can forget them, release not

This, their choicest of prey, this Italy; here you see them,—

Here, with emasculate pupils and gimcrack churches of Gesu,

Pseudo-learning and lies, confessional-boxes and postures,—

Here, with metallic beliefs and regimental devotions,—

Here, overcrusting with slime, perverting, defacing, debasing,

Michael Angelo’s Dome, that had hung the Pantheon in heaven,

Raphael’s Joys and Graces, and thy clear stars, Galileo!

Which of three Misses Trevellyn it is that Vernon shall marryIs not a thing to be known; for our friend is one of those naturesWhich have their perfect delight in the general tender-domestic;So that he trifles with Mary’s shawl, ties Susan’s bonnet,Dances with all, but at home is most, they say, with Georgina,Who is, however,toosilly in my apprehension for Vernon.I, as before when I wrote, continue to see them a little;Not that I like them much or care abajoccofor Vernon,But I am slow at Italian, have not many English acquaintance,And I am asked, in short, and am not good at excuses.Middle-class people these, bankers very likely, not whollyPure of the taint of the shop; will at table d’hôte and restaurantHave their shilling’s worth, their penny’s pennyworth even:Neither man’s aristocracy this, nor God’s, God knoweth!Yet they are fairly descended, they give you to know, well connected;Doubtless somewhere in some neighbourhood have, and are careful to keep, someThreadbare-genteel relations, who in their tum are enchantedGrandly among county people to introduce at assembliesTo the unpennied cadets our cousins with excellent fortunes.Neither man’s aristocracy this, nor God’s, God knoweth!

Which of three Misses Trevellyn it is that Vernon shall marry

Is not a thing to be known; for our friend is one of those natures

Which have their perfect delight in the general tender-domestic;

So that he trifles with Mary’s shawl, ties Susan’s bonnet,

Dances with all, but at home is most, they say, with Georgina,

Who is, however,toosilly in my apprehension for Vernon.

I, as before when I wrote, continue to see them a little;

Not that I like them much or care abajoccofor Vernon,

But I am slow at Italian, have not many English acquaintance,

And I am asked, in short, and am not good at excuses.

Middle-class people these, bankers very likely, not wholly

Pure of the taint of the shop; will at table d’hôte and restaurant

Have their shilling’s worth, their penny’s pennyworth even:

Neither man’s aristocracy this, nor God’s, God knoweth!

Yet they are fairly descended, they give you to know, well connected;

Doubtless somewhere in some neighbourhood have, and are careful to keep, some

Threadbare-genteel relations, who in their tum are enchanted

Grandly among county people to introduce at assemblies

To the unpennied cadets our cousins with excellent fortunes.

Neither man’s aristocracy this, nor God’s, God knoweth!

Ah, what a shame, indeed, to abuse these most worthy people!Ah, what a sin to have sneered at their innocent rustic pretensions!Is it not laudable really, this reverent worship of station?Is it not fitting that wealth should tender this homage to culture?Is it not touching to witness these efforts, if little availing,Painfully made, to perform the old ritual service of manners?Shall not devotion atone for the absence of knowledge? and fervourPalliate, cover, the fault of a superstitious observance?Dear, dear, what do I say? but, alas! just now, like Iago,I can be nothing at all, if it is not critical wholly;So in fantastic height, in coxcomb exultation,Here in the garden I walk, can freely concede to the MakerThat the works of His hand are all very good: His creatures,Beast of the field and fowl, He brings them before me; I name them;That which I name them, they are,—the bird, the beast, and the cattle.But for Adam,—alas, poor critical coxcomb Adam!But for Adam there is not found an help-meet for him.

Ah, what a shame, indeed, to abuse these most worthy people!

Ah, what a sin to have sneered at their innocent rustic pretensions!

Is it not laudable really, this reverent worship of station?

Is it not fitting that wealth should tender this homage to culture?

Is it not touching to witness these efforts, if little availing,

Painfully made, to perform the old ritual service of manners?

Shall not devotion atone for the absence of knowledge? and fervour

Palliate, cover, the fault of a superstitious observance?

Dear, dear, what do I say? but, alas! just now, like Iago,

I can be nothing at all, if it is not critical wholly;

So in fantastic height, in coxcomb exultation,

Here in the garden I walk, can freely concede to the Maker

That the works of His hand are all very good: His creatures,

Beast of the field and fowl, He brings them before me; I name them;

That which I name them, they are,—the bird, the beast, and the cattle.

But for Adam,—alas, poor critical coxcomb Adam!

But for Adam there is not found an help-meet for him.

No, great Dome of Agrippa, thou art not Christian! canst not,Strip and replaster and daub and do what they will with thee, be so!Here underneath the great porch of colossal Corinthian columns,Here as I walk, do I dream of the Christian belfries above them;Or, on a bench as I sit and abide for long hours, till thy whole vastRound grows dim as in dreams to my eyes, I repeople thy niches,Not with the Martyrs, and Saints, and Confessors, and Virgins, and children,But with the mightier forms of an older, austerer worship;And I recite to myself, howEager for battle hereStood Vulcan, here matronal Juno,And with the bow to his shoulder faithfulHe who with pure dew laveth of CastalyHis flowing locks, who holdeth of LyciaThe oak forest and the wood that bore him,Delos’ and Patara’s own Apollo.[13]

No, great Dome of Agrippa, thou art not Christian! canst not,

Strip and replaster and daub and do what they will with thee, be so!

Here underneath the great porch of colossal Corinthian columns,

Here as I walk, do I dream of the Christian belfries above them;

Or, on a bench as I sit and abide for long hours, till thy whole vast

Round grows dim as in dreams to my eyes, I repeople thy niches,

Not with the Martyrs, and Saints, and Confessors, and Virgins, and children,

But with the mightier forms of an older, austerer worship;

And I recite to myself, how

Eager for battle here

Stood Vulcan, here matronal Juno,

And with the bow to his shoulder faithful

He who with pure dew laveth of Castaly

His flowing locks, who holdeth of Lycia

The oak forest and the wood that bore him,

Delos’ and Patara’s own Apollo.[13]

Yet it is pleasant, I own it, to be in their company; pleasant,Whatever else it may be, to abide in the feminine presence.Pleasant, but wrong, will you say? But this happy, serene coexistenceIs to some poor soft souls, I fear, a necessity simple,Meat and drink and life, and music, filling with sweetness,Thrilling with melody sweet, with harmonies strange overwhelming,All the long-silent strings of an awkward, meaningless fabric.Yet as for that, I could live, I believe, with children; to have thosePure and delicate forms encompassing, moving about you,This were enough, I could think; and truly with glad resignationCould from the dream of Romance, from the fever of flushed adolescence,Look to escape and subside into peaceful avuncular functions.Nephews and nieces! alas, for as yet I have none! and, moreover,Mothers are jealous, I fear me, too often, too rightfully; fathersThink they have title exclusive to spoiling their own little darlings;And by the law of the land, in despite of Malthusian doctrine,No sort of proper provision is made for that most patriotic,Most meritorious subject, the childless and bachelor uncle.

Yet it is pleasant, I own it, to be in their company; pleasant,

Whatever else it may be, to abide in the feminine presence.

Pleasant, but wrong, will you say? But this happy, serene coexistence

Is to some poor soft souls, I fear, a necessity simple,

Meat and drink and life, and music, filling with sweetness,

Thrilling with melody sweet, with harmonies strange overwhelming,

All the long-silent strings of an awkward, meaningless fabric.

Yet as for that, I could live, I believe, with children; to have those

Pure and delicate forms encompassing, moving about you,

This were enough, I could think; and truly with glad resignation

Could from the dream of Romance, from the fever of flushed adolescence,

Look to escape and subside into peaceful avuncular functions.

Nephews and nieces! alas, for as yet I have none! and, moreover,

Mothers are jealous, I fear me, too often, too rightfully; fathers

Think they have title exclusive to spoiling their own little darlings;

And by the law of the land, in despite of Malthusian doctrine,

No sort of proper provision is made for that most patriotic,

Most meritorious subject, the childless and bachelor uncle.

Ye, too, marvellous Twain, that erect on the Monte CavalloStand by your rearing steeds in the grace of your motionless movement,Stand with your upstretched arms and tranquil regardant faces,Stand as instinct with life in the might of immutable manhood,—O ye mighty and strange, ye ancient divine ones of Hellas.Are ye Christian too? to convert and redeem and renew you,Will the brief form have sufficed, that a Pope has set up on the apexOf the Egyptian stone that o’ertops you, the Christian symbol?And ye, silent, supreme in serene and victorious marble,Ye that encircle the walls of the stately Vatican chambers,Juno and Ceres, Minerva, Apollo, the Muses and Bacchus,Ye unto whom far and near come posting the Christian pilgrims,Ye that are ranged in the halls of the mystic Christian Pontiff,Are ye also baptized? are ye of the kingdom of Heaven?Utter, O some one, the word that shall reconcile Ancient and Modern!Am I to turn me from this unto thee, great Chapel of Sixtus?

Ye, too, marvellous Twain, that erect on the Monte Cavallo

Stand by your rearing steeds in the grace of your motionless movement,

Stand with your upstretched arms and tranquil regardant faces,

Stand as instinct with life in the might of immutable manhood,—

O ye mighty and strange, ye ancient divine ones of Hellas.

Are ye Christian too? to convert and redeem and renew you,

Will the brief form have sufficed, that a Pope has set up on the apex

Of the Egyptian stone that o’ertops you, the Christian symbol?

And ye, silent, supreme in serene and victorious marble,

Ye that encircle the walls of the stately Vatican chambers,

Juno and Ceres, Minerva, Apollo, the Muses and Bacchus,

Ye unto whom far and near come posting the Christian pilgrims,

Ye that are ranged in the halls of the mystic Christian Pontiff,

Are ye also baptized? are ye of the kingdom of Heaven?

Utter, O some one, the word that shall reconcile Ancient and Modern!

Am I to turn me from this unto thee, great Chapel of Sixtus?

These are the facts. The uncle, the elder brother, the squire (aLittle embarrassed, I fancy), resides in the family place inCornwall, of course; ‘Papa is in business,’ Mary informs me;He’s a good sensible man, whatever his trade is. The motherIs—shall I call it fine?—herself she would tell you refined, andGreatly, I fear me, looks down on my bookish and maladroit manners;Somewhat affecteth the blue; would talk to me often of poets;Quotes, which I hate, Childe Harold; but also appreciates Wordsworth;Sometimes adventures on Schiller; and then to religion diverges;Questions me much about Oxford; and yet, in her loftiest flights stillGrates the fastidious ear with the slightly mercantile accent.Is it contemptible, Eustace—I’m perfectly ready to think so,—Is it,—the horrible pleasure of pleasing inferior people?I am ashamed my own self; and yet true it is, if disgraceful,That for the first time in life I am living and moving with freedom.I, who never could talk to the people I meet with my uncle,—I, who have always failed,—I, trust me, can suit the Trevellyns;I, believe me,—great conquest, am liked by the country bankers.And I am glad to be liked, and like in return very kindly.So it proceeds;Laissez faire, laissez aller,—such is the watchword.Well, I know there are thousands as pretty and hundreds as pleasant.Girls by the dozen as good, and girls in abundance with polishHigher and manners more perfect than Susan or Mary Trevellyn.Well, I know, after all, it is only juxtaposition,—Juxtaposition, in short; and what is juxtaposition?

These are the facts. The uncle, the elder brother, the squire (a

Little embarrassed, I fancy), resides in the family place in

Cornwall, of course; ‘Papa is in business,’ Mary informs me;

He’s a good sensible man, whatever his trade is. The mother

Is—shall I call it fine?—herself she would tell you refined, and

Greatly, I fear me, looks down on my bookish and maladroit manners;

Somewhat affecteth the blue; would talk to me often of poets;

Quotes, which I hate, Childe Harold; but also appreciates Wordsworth;

Sometimes adventures on Schiller; and then to religion diverges;

Questions me much about Oxford; and yet, in her loftiest flights still

Grates the fastidious ear with the slightly mercantile accent.

Is it contemptible, Eustace—I’m perfectly ready to think so,—Is it,—the horrible pleasure of pleasing inferior people?I am ashamed my own self; and yet true it is, if disgraceful,That for the first time in life I am living and moving with freedom.I, who never could talk to the people I meet with my uncle,—I, who have always failed,—I, trust me, can suit the Trevellyns;I, believe me,—great conquest, am liked by the country bankers.And I am glad to be liked, and like in return very kindly.So it proceeds;Laissez faire, laissez aller,—such is the watchword.Well, I know there are thousands as pretty and hundreds as pleasant.Girls by the dozen as good, and girls in abundance with polishHigher and manners more perfect than Susan or Mary Trevellyn.Well, I know, after all, it is only juxtaposition,—Juxtaposition, in short; and what is juxtaposition?

Is it contemptible, Eustace—I’m perfectly ready to think so,—

Is it,—the horrible pleasure of pleasing inferior people?

I am ashamed my own self; and yet true it is, if disgraceful,

That for the first time in life I am living and moving with freedom.

I, who never could talk to the people I meet with my uncle,—

I, who have always failed,—I, trust me, can suit the Trevellyns;

I, believe me,—great conquest, am liked by the country bankers.

And I am glad to be liked, and like in return very kindly.

So it proceeds;Laissez faire, laissez aller,—such is the watchword.

Well, I know there are thousands as pretty and hundreds as pleasant.

Girls by the dozen as good, and girls in abundance with polish

Higher and manners more perfect than Susan or Mary Trevellyn.

Well, I know, after all, it is only juxtaposition,—

Juxtaposition, in short; and what is juxtaposition?

But I am in for it now,—laissez faire, of a truth,laissez aller.Yes, I am going,—I feel it, I feel and cannot recall it,—Fusing with this thing and that, entering into all sorts of relations,Tying I know not what ties, which, whatever they are, I know one thing,Will, and must, woe is me, be one day painfully broken,—Broken with painful remorses, with shrinkings of soul, and relentings,Foolish delays, more foolish evasions, most foolish renewals.But I have made the step, have quitted the ship of Ulysses;Quitted the sea and the shore, passed into the magical island;Yet on my lips is themoly, medicinal, offered of Hermes.I have come into the precinct, the labyrinth closes around me,Path into path rounding slyly; I pace slowly on, and the fancy,Struggling awhile to sustain the long sequences weary, bewildered.Fain must collapse in despair; I yield, I am lost, and know nothing;Yet in my bosom unbroken remaineth the clue; I shall use it.Lo, with the rope on my loins I descend through the fissure; I sink, yetInly secure in the strength of invisible arms up above me;Still, wheresoever I swing, wherever to shore, or to shelf, orFloor of cavern untrodden, shell sprinkled, enchanting, I know IYet shall one time feel the strong cord tighten about me,—Feel it, relentless, upbear me from spots I would rest in; and though theRope sway wildly, I faint, crags wound me, from crag unto crag re-Bounding, or, wide in the void, I die ten deaths, ere the end IYet shall plant firm foot on the broad lofty spaces I quit, shallFeel underneath me again the great massy strengths of abstraction,Look yet abroad from the height o’er the sea whose salt wave I have tasted.

But I am in for it now,—laissez faire, of a truth,laissez aller.

Yes, I am going,—I feel it, I feel and cannot recall it,—

Fusing with this thing and that, entering into all sorts of relations,

Tying I know not what ties, which, whatever they are, I know one thing,

Will, and must, woe is me, be one day painfully broken,—

Broken with painful remorses, with shrinkings of soul, and relentings,

Foolish delays, more foolish evasions, most foolish renewals.

But I have made the step, have quitted the ship of Ulysses;

Quitted the sea and the shore, passed into the magical island;

Yet on my lips is themoly, medicinal, offered of Hermes.

I have come into the precinct, the labyrinth closes around me,

Path into path rounding slyly; I pace slowly on, and the fancy,

Struggling awhile to sustain the long sequences weary, bewildered.

Fain must collapse in despair; I yield, I am lost, and know nothing;

Yet in my bosom unbroken remaineth the clue; I shall use it.

Lo, with the rope on my loins I descend through the fissure; I sink, yet

Inly secure in the strength of invisible arms up above me;

Still, wheresoever I swing, wherever to shore, or to shelf, or

Floor of cavern untrodden, shell sprinkled, enchanting, I know I

Yet shall one time feel the strong cord tighten about me,—

Feel it, relentless, upbear me from spots I would rest in; and though the

Rope sway wildly, I faint, crags wound me, from crag unto crag re-

Bounding, or, wide in the void, I die ten deaths, ere the end I

Yet shall plant firm foot on the broad lofty spaces I quit, shall

Feel underneath me again the great massy strengths of abstraction,

Look yet abroad from the height o’er the sea whose salt wave I have tasted.

Dearest Louisa,—Inquire, if you please, about Mr. Claude ——.He has been once at R., and remembers meeting the H.’s.Harriet L., perhaps, may be able to tell you about him.It is an awkward youth, but still with very good manners;Not without prospects, we hear; and, George says, highly connected.Georgy declares it absurd, but Mamma is alarmed, and insists he hasTaken up strange opinions, and may be turning a Papist.Certainly once he spoke of a daily service he went to.‘Where?’ we asked, and he laughed and answered, ‘At the PantheonThis was a temple, you know, and now is a Catholic church; andThough it is said that Mazzini has sold it for Protestant service,Yet I suppose this change can hardly as yet be effected.Adieu again,—evermore, my dearest, your loving Georgina.

Dearest Louisa,—Inquire, if you please, about Mr. Claude ——.

He has been once at R., and remembers meeting the H.’s.

Harriet L., perhaps, may be able to tell you about him.

It is an awkward youth, but still with very good manners;

Not without prospects, we hear; and, George says, highly connected.

Georgy declares it absurd, but Mamma is alarmed, and insists he has

Taken up strange opinions, and may be turning a Papist.

Certainly once he spoke of a daily service he went to.

‘Where?’ we asked, and he laughed and answered, ‘At the Pantheon

This was a temple, you know, and now is a Catholic church; and

Though it is said that Mazzini has sold it for Protestant service,

Yet I suppose this change can hardly as yet be effected.

Adieu again,—evermore, my dearest, your loving Georgina.

I am to tell you, you say, what I think of our last new acquaintance.Well, then, I think that George has a very fair right to be jealous.I do not like him much, though I do not dislike being with him.He is what people call, I suppose, a superior man, andCertainly seems so to me; but I think he is terribly selfish.

I am to tell you, you say, what I think of our last new acquaintance.

Well, then, I think that George has a very fair right to be jealous.

I do not like him much, though I do not dislike being with him.

He is what people call, I suppose, a superior man, and

Certainly seems so to me; but I think he is terribly selfish.

Alba, thou findest me still, and, Alba, thou findest me ever,Now from the Capitol steps, now over Titus’s Arch,Here from the large grassy spaces that spread from the Lateran portal,Towering o’er aqueduct lines lost in perspective between,Or from a Vatican window, or bridge, or the high Coliseum,Clear by the garlanded line cut of the Flavian ring.Beautiful can I not call thee, and yet thou hast power to o’ermaster,Power of mere beauty; in dreams, Alba, thou hauntest me still.Is it religion? I ask me; or is it a vain superstition?Slavery abject and gross? service, too feeble, of truth?Is it an idol I bow to, or is it a god that I worship?Do I sink back on the old, or do I soar from the mean?So through the city I wander and question, unsatisfied ever,Reverent so I accept, doubtful because I revere.

Alba, thou findest me still, and, Alba, thou findest me ever,

Now from the Capitol steps, now over Titus’s Arch,

Here from the large grassy spaces that spread from the Lateran portal,

Towering o’er aqueduct lines lost in perspective between,

Or from a Vatican window, or bridge, or the high Coliseum,

Clear by the garlanded line cut of the Flavian ring.

Beautiful can I not call thee, and yet thou hast power to o’ermaster,

Power of mere beauty; in dreams, Alba, thou hauntest me still.

Is it religion? I ask me; or is it a vain superstition?

Slavery abject and gross? service, too feeble, of truth?

Is it an idol I bow to, or is it a god that I worship?

Do I sink back on the old, or do I soar from the mean?

So through the city I wander and question, unsatisfied ever,

Reverent so I accept, doubtful because I revere.

Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages,Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide?Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend not,Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide?Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and single,Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with vine,E’en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from the ruin,E’en in the people itself? is it illusion or not?Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim transalpine,Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to stare?Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian stranger,Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms to the gate?

Is it illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages,

Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide?

Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we find, comprehend not,

Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide?

Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed and single,

Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with vine,

E’en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from the ruin,

E’en in the people itself? is it illusion or not?

Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim transalpine,

Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to stare?

Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian stranger,

Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms to the gate?

What do the people say, and what does the government do?—youAsk, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favour your hopes; andI, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe it.I, who nor meddle nor make in politics,—I who sincerelyPut not my trust in leagues nor any suffrage by ballot,Never predicted Parisian millenniums, never beheld aNew Jerusalem coming down dressed like a bride out of heavenRight on the Place de la Concorde,—I, nevertheless, let me say it,Could in my soul of souls, this day, with the Gaul at the gates shedOne true tear for thee, thou poor little Roman Republic;What, with the German restored, with Sicily safe to the Bourbon,Not leave one poor corner for native Italian exertion?France, it is foully done! and you, poor foolish England,—You, who a twelvemonth ago said nations must choose for themselves, youCould not, of course, interfere,—you, now, when a nation has chosen——Pardon this folly! TheTimeswill, of course, have announced the occasion,Told you the news of to-day; and although it was slightly in errorWhen it proclaimed as a fact the Apollo was sold to a Yankee,You may believe when it tells you the French are at Civita Vecchia.

What do the people say, and what does the government do?—you

Ask, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favour your hopes; and

I, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe it.

I, who nor meddle nor make in politics,—I who sincerely

Put not my trust in leagues nor any suffrage by ballot,

Never predicted Parisian millenniums, never beheld a

New Jerusalem coming down dressed like a bride out of heaven

Right on the Place de la Concorde,—I, nevertheless, let me say it,

Could in my soul of souls, this day, with the Gaul at the gates shed

One true tear for thee, thou poor little Roman Republic;

What, with the German restored, with Sicily safe to the Bourbon,

Not leave one poor corner for native Italian exertion?

France, it is foully done! and you, poor foolish England,—

You, who a twelvemonth ago said nations must choose for themselves, you

Could not, of course, interfere,—you, now, when a nation has chosen——

Pardon this folly! TheTimeswill, of course, have announced the occasion,

Told you the news of to-day; and although it was slightly in error

When it proclaimed as a fact the Apollo was sold to a Yankee,

You may believe when it tells you the French are at Civita Vecchia.

Dulceit is, anddecorum, no doubt, for the country to fall,—toOffer one’s blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for the Cause; yetStill, individual culture is also something, and no manFinds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others is called on,Or would be justified even, in taking away from the world thatPrecious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to abide here;Else why send him at all? Nature wants him still, it is likely;On the whole, we are meant to look after ourselves; it is certainEach has to eat for himself, digest for himself, and in generalCare for his own dear life, and see to his own preservation;Nature’s intentions, in most things uncertain, in this are decisive;Which, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will follow, and I shall.So we cling to our rocks like limpets; Ocean may bluster,Over and under and round us; we open our shells to imbibe ourNourishment, close them again, and are safe, fulfilling the purposeNature intended,—a wise one, of course, and a noble, we doubt not.Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the country to die; but,On the whole, we conclude the Romans won’t do it, and I sha’n’t.

Dulceit is, anddecorum, no doubt, for the country to fall,—to

Offer one’s blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for the Cause; yet

Still, individual culture is also something, and no man

Finds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others is called on,

Or would be justified even, in taking away from the world that

Precious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to abide here;

Else why send him at all? Nature wants him still, it is likely;

On the whole, we are meant to look after ourselves; it is certain

Each has to eat for himself, digest for himself, and in general

Care for his own dear life, and see to his own preservation;

Nature’s intentions, in most things uncertain, in this are decisive;

Which, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will follow, and I shall.

So we cling to our rocks like limpets; Ocean may bluster,

Over and under and round us; we open our shells to imbibe our

Nourishment, close them again, and are safe, fulfilling the purpose

Nature intended,—a wise one, of course, and a noble, we doubt not.

Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the country to die; but,

On the whole, we conclude the Romans won’t do it, and I sha’n’t.

Will they fight? They say so. And will the French? I can hardly,Hardly think so; and yet—He is come, they say, to Palo,He is passed from Monterone, at Santa SeveraHe hath laid up his guns. But the Virgin, the Daughter of Roma,She hath despised thee and laughed thee to scorn,—The Daughter of Tiber,She hath shaken her head and built barricades against thee!Will they fight! I believe it. Alas! ’tis ephemeral folly,Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pictures,Statues, and antique gems!—Indeed: and yet indeed too,Yet, methought, in broad day did I dream,—tell it not in St. James’s,Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church!—yet did I, waking,Dream of a cadence that sings,Si tombent nos jeunes héros, laTerre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prêts à se battre;Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental,Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse underneath me.

Will they fight? They say so. And will the French? I can hardly,

Hardly think so; and yet—He is come, they say, to Palo,

He is passed from Monterone, at Santa Severa

He hath laid up his guns. But the Virgin, the Daughter of Roma,

She hath despised thee and laughed thee to scorn,—The Daughter of Tiber,

She hath shaken her head and built barricades against thee!

Will they fight! I believe it. Alas! ’tis ephemeral folly,

Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with pictures,

Statues, and antique gems!—Indeed: and yet indeed too,

Yet, methought, in broad day did I dream,—tell it not in St. James’s,

Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church!—yet did I, waking,

Dream of a cadence that sings,Si tombent nos jeunes héros, la

Terre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prêts à se battre;

Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental,

Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse underneath me.

Now supposing the French or the Neapolitan soldierShould by some evil chance come exploring the Maison Serny(Where the family English are all to assemble for safety),Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female?Really, who knows? One has bowed and talked, till, little by little,All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous spirit.Oh, one conformed, of course; but one doesn’t die for good manners,Stab or shoot, or be shot, by way of graceful attention.No, if it should be at all, it should be on the barricades there;Should I incarnadine ever this inky pacifical finger,Sooner far should it be for this vapour of Italy’s freedom,Sooner far by the side of the d——d and dirty plebeians.Ah, for a child in the street I could strike; for the full-blown lady——Somehow, Eustace, alas! I have not felt the vocation.Yet these people of course will expect, as of course, my protection,Vernon in radiant arms stand forth for the lovely Georgina,And to appear, I suppose, were but common civility. Yes, andTruly I do not desire they should either be killed or offended.Oh, and of course, you will say, ‘When the time comes, you will be ready.’Ah, but before it comes, am I to presume it will be so?What I cannot feel now, am I to suppose that I shall feel?Am I not free to attend for the ripe and indubious instinct?Am I forbidden to wait for the clear and lawful perception?Is it the calling of man to surrender his knowledge and insight,For the mere venture of what may, perhaps, be the virtuous action?Must we, walking our earth, discern a little, and hopingSome plain visible task shall yet for our hands be assigned us,—Must we abandon the future for fear of omitting the present,Quit our own fireside hopes at the alien call of a neighbour,To the mere possible shadow of Deity offer the victim?And is all this, my friend, but a weak and ignoble refining,Wholly unworthy the head or the heart of Your Own Correspondent?

Now supposing the French or the Neapolitan soldier

Should by some evil chance come exploring the Maison Serny

(Where the family English are all to assemble for safety),

Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female?

Really, who knows? One has bowed and talked, till, little by little,

All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous spirit.

Oh, one conformed, of course; but one doesn’t die for good manners,

Stab or shoot, or be shot, by way of graceful attention.

No, if it should be at all, it should be on the barricades there;

Should I incarnadine ever this inky pacifical finger,

Sooner far should it be for this vapour of Italy’s freedom,

Sooner far by the side of the d——d and dirty plebeians.

Ah, for a child in the street I could strike; for the full-blown lady——

Somehow, Eustace, alas! I have not felt the vocation.

Yet these people of course will expect, as of course, my protection,

Vernon in radiant arms stand forth for the lovely Georgina,

And to appear, I suppose, were but common civility. Yes, and

Truly I do not desire they should either be killed or offended.

Oh, and of course, you will say, ‘When the time comes, you will be ready.’

Ah, but before it comes, am I to presume it will be so?

What I cannot feel now, am I to suppose that I shall feel?

Am I not free to attend for the ripe and indubious instinct?

Am I forbidden to wait for the clear and lawful perception?

Is it the calling of man to surrender his knowledge and insight,

For the mere venture of what may, perhaps, be the virtuous action?

Must we, walking our earth, discern a little, and hoping

Some plain visible task shall yet for our hands be assigned us,—

Must we abandon the future for fear of omitting the present,

Quit our own fireside hopes at the alien call of a neighbour,

To the mere possible shadow of Deity offer the victim?

And is all this, my friend, but a weak and ignoble refining,

Wholly unworthy the head or the heart of Your Own Correspondent?

Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning as usual,Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffè Nuovo;Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in the weather,Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of Murray,And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio Marbles;Caffè-latte! I call to the waiter,—andNon c’ è latte,This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a battle.So I sit: and truly they seem to think any one else moreWorthy than me of attention. I wait for my milklessnero,Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons,Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, andGulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee,—withdrawingEagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musketSlung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, moreover, than usual,Much and silenter far; and so I begin to imagineSomething is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffè is empty,Empty too the streets, in all its length the CorsoEmpty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti.Twelve o’clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English,Germans, Americans, French,—the Frenchmen, too, are protected,—So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower;So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter’s,Smoke, from the cannon, white,—but that is at intervals only,—Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri;And we believe we discern some lines of men descendingDown through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming.Every ten minutes, however,—in this there is no misconception,—Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo’s dome, andAfter a space the report of a real big gun,—not the Frenchman’s!—That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture.Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St. Peter’s,Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us;So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome.—All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the inside,It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses.Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent,Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing:So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very.Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossiping idly,Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots ofNational Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the windows,English, American, Danish,—and, after offering to help anIrish family movingen masseto the Maison Serny,After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the tremblingQuinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters,Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter.But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voicesTalk, though you don’t believe it, of guns and prisoners taken;And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning.—This is all that I saw, and all I know of the battle.

Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning as usual,

Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffè Nuovo;

Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in the weather,

Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of Murray,

And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio Marbles;

Caffè-latte! I call to the waiter,—andNon c’ è latte,

This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of a battle.

So I sit: and truly they seem to think any one else more

Worthy than me of attention. I wait for my milklessnero,

Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of persons,

Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume, coming in, and

Gulping in hottest haste, still standing, their coffee,—withdrawing

Eagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a musket

Slung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, moreover, than usual,

Much and silenter far; and so I begin to imagine

Something is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffè is empty,

Empty too the streets, in all its length the Corso

Empty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti.

Twelve o’clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of English,

Germans, Americans, French,—the Frenchmen, too, are protected,—

So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower;

So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St. Peter’s,

Smoke, from the cannon, white,—but that is at intervals only,—

Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the Cavalleggieri;

And we believe we discern some lines of men descending

Down through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet gleaming.

Every ten minutes, however,—in this there is no misconception,—

Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo’s dome, and

After a space the report of a real big gun,—not the Frenchman’s!—

That must be doing some work. And so we watch and conjecture.

Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to St. Peter’s,

Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell us;

So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be tiresome.—

All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the inside,

It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our houses.

Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms frequent,

Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing:

So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very.

Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and gossiping idly,

Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the knots of

National Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the windows,

English, American, Danish,—and, after offering to help an

Irish family movingen masseto the Maison Serny,

After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the trembling

Quinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters,

Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter.

But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and voices

Talk, though you don’t believe it, of guns and prisoners taken;

And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the morning.—

This is all that I saw, and all I know of the battle.

Victory! Victory!—Yes! ah, yes, thou republican Zion,Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by together;Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were astonished, and so forth.Victory! Victory! Victory!—Ah, but it is, believe me,Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyrThan to indite any pæan of any victory. Death maySometimes be noble; but life, at the best, will appear an illusion.While the great pain is upon us, it is great; when it is over,Why, it is over. The smoke of the sacrifice rises to heaven,Of a sweet savour, no doubt, to Somebody; but on the altar,Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and ill odour.So it stands, you perceive; the labial muscles that swelled withVehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises,Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day col-Lapse and languidly mumble, while men and women and papersScream and re-scream to each other the chorus of Victory. Well, butI am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen were beaten.

Victory! Victory!—Yes! ah, yes, thou republican Zion,

Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by together;

Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were astonished, and so forth.

Victory! Victory! Victory!—Ah, but it is, believe me,

Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyr

Than to indite any pæan of any victory. Death may

Sometimes be noble; but life, at the best, will appear an illusion.

While the great pain is upon us, it is great; when it is over,

Why, it is over. The smoke of the sacrifice rises to heaven,

Of a sweet savour, no doubt, to Somebody; but on the altar,

Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and ill odour.

So it stands, you perceive; the labial muscles that swelled with

Vehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises,

Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day col-

Lapse and languidly mumble, while men and women and papers

Scream and re-scream to each other the chorus of Victory. Well, but

I am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen were beaten.

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