So, I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among others!Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain,And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it.But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I sawSomething; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something.I was returning home from St. Peter’s; Murray, as usual,Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge; andMoving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, whenGradually, thinking still of St. Peter’s, I became consciousOf a sensation of movement opposing me,—tendency this way(Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide isComing and not yet come,—a sort of noise and retention);So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglersHeading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner.Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza,Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters,Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now theCrowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, isHere at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it?Ha! bare swords in the air, held up? There seem to be voicesPleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords areMany, and bare in the air. In the air? they descend; they are smiting,Hewing, chopping—At what? In the air once more upstretched? And—Is it blood that’s on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of whom, then?Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation?While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on the points ofSwords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask aMercantile-seeming bystander, ‘What is it?’ and he, looking alwaysThat way, makes me answer, ‘A Priest, who was trying to fly toThe Neapolitan army,’—and thus explains the proceeding.You didn’t see the dead man? No;—I began to be doubtful;I was in black myself, and didn’t know what mightn’t happen,—But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub,Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with dust,—andPassing away from the place with Murray under my arm, andStooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs of a body.You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned the matter.Whom should I tell it to else?—these girls?—the Heavens forbid it!—Quidnuncs at Monaldini’s?—Idlers upon the Pincian?If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon whenWord of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan armyFirst was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers,Thought I could fancy the look of that old ’Ninety-two. On that eveningThree or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughtered.Some declared they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel; othersSay they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently stated,Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna:History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave to thee to determine!But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength toPut it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is most peaceful.Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, IFound no sort of disorder; I crossed by the Island-bridges,So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwardsThence by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum,Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit.
So, I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among others!Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain,And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it.But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I sawSomething; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something.I was returning home from St. Peter’s; Murray, as usual,Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge; andMoving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, whenGradually, thinking still of St. Peter’s, I became consciousOf a sensation of movement opposing me,—tendency this way(Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide isComing and not yet come,—a sort of noise and retention);So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglersHeading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner.Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza,Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters,Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now theCrowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, isHere at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it?Ha! bare swords in the air, held up? There seem to be voicesPleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords areMany, and bare in the air. In the air? they descend; they are smiting,Hewing, chopping—At what? In the air once more upstretched? And—Is it blood that’s on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of whom, then?Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation?While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on the points ofSwords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask aMercantile-seeming bystander, ‘What is it?’ and he, looking alwaysThat way, makes me answer, ‘A Priest, who was trying to fly toThe Neapolitan army,’—and thus explains the proceeding.You didn’t see the dead man? No;—I began to be doubtful;I was in black myself, and didn’t know what mightn’t happen,—But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub,Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with dust,—andPassing away from the place with Murray under my arm, andStooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs of a body.You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned the matter.Whom should I tell it to else?—these girls?—the Heavens forbid it!—Quidnuncs at Monaldini’s?—Idlers upon the Pincian?If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon whenWord of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan armyFirst was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers,Thought I could fancy the look of that old ’Ninety-two. On that eveningThree or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughtered.Some declared they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel; othersSay they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently stated,Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna:History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave to thee to determine!But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength toPut it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is most peaceful.Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, IFound no sort of disorder; I crossed by the Island-bridges,So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwardsThence by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum,Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit.
So, I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among others!Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain,And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it.But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I sawSomething; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something.I was returning home from St. Peter’s; Murray, as usual,Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge; andMoving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, whenGradually, thinking still of St. Peter’s, I became consciousOf a sensation of movement opposing me,—tendency this way(Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide isComing and not yet come,—a sort of noise and retention);So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglersHeading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner.Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza,Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters,Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now theCrowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, isHere at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it?Ha! bare swords in the air, held up? There seem to be voicesPleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords areMany, and bare in the air. In the air? they descend; they are smiting,Hewing, chopping—At what? In the air once more upstretched? And—Is it blood that’s on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of whom, then?Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation?While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on the points ofSwords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask aMercantile-seeming bystander, ‘What is it?’ and he, looking alwaysThat way, makes me answer, ‘A Priest, who was trying to fly toThe Neapolitan army,’—and thus explains the proceeding.You didn’t see the dead man? No;—I began to be doubtful;I was in black myself, and didn’t know what mightn’t happen,—But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub,Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with dust,—andPassing away from the place with Murray under my arm, andStooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs of a body.You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned the matter.Whom should I tell it to else?—these girls?—the Heavens forbid it!—Quidnuncs at Monaldini’s?—Idlers upon the Pincian?If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon whenWord of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan armyFirst was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers,Thought I could fancy the look of that old ’Ninety-two. On that eveningThree or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughtered.Some declared they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel; othersSay they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently stated,Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna:History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave to thee to determine!But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength toPut it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is most peaceful.Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, IFound no sort of disorder; I crossed by the Island-bridges,So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwardsThence by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum,Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit.
So, I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among others!
Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain,
And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen it.
But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I saw
Something; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw something.
I was returning home from St. Peter’s; Murray, as usual,
Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo bridge; and
Moving towards the Condotti, had got to the first barricade, when
Gradually, thinking still of St. Peter’s, I became conscious
Of a sensation of movement opposing me,—tendency this way
(Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of the tide is
Coming and not yet come,—a sort of noise and retention);
So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of stragglers
Heading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that corner.
Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza,
Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters,
Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and now the
Crowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last barricade, is
Here at my side. In the middle they drag at something. What is it?
Ha! bare swords in the air, held up? There seem to be voices
Pleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but the swords are
Many, and bare in the air. In the air? they descend; they are smiting,
Hewing, chopping—At what? In the air once more upstretched? And—
Is it blood that’s on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of whom, then?
Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation?
While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their caps on the points of
Swords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask a
Mercantile-seeming bystander, ‘What is it?’ and he, looking always
That way, makes me answer, ‘A Priest, who was trying to fly to
The Neapolitan army,’—and thus explains the proceeding.
You didn’t see the dead man? No;—I began to be doubtful;
I was in black myself, and didn’t know what mightn’t happen,—
But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub,
Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with dust,—and
Passing away from the place with Murray under my arm, and
Stooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs of a body.
You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned the matter.
Whom should I tell it to else?—these girls?—the Heavens forbid it!—
Quidnuncs at Monaldini’s?—Idlers upon the Pincian?
If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon when
Word of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan army
First was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris Septembers,
Thought I could fancy the look of that old ’Ninety-two. On that evening
Three or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were slaughtered.
Some declared they had, one of them, fired on a sentinel; others
Say they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently stated,
Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna:
History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave to thee to determine!
But I am thankful to say the government seems to have strength to
Put it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is most peaceful.
Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of the clock, I
Found no sort of disorder; I crossed by the Island-bridges,
So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwards
Thence by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great Coliseum,
Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a visit.
Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have witnessed!—George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, onHorseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him:This is a man, you know, who came from America with him,Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses alassoin fighting,Which is, I don’t quite know, but a sort of noose, I imagine;This he throws on the heads of the enemy’s men in a battle,Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills them:Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian.Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claudebeing selfish;He wasmostuseful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of April.Do not write here any more; we are starting directly for Florence:We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses;All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dreadful Mazzini.P.S.Mary has seen thus far.—I am really so angry, Louisa,—Quite out of patience, my dearest! What can the man be intending?I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment,Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dismiss him.
Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have witnessed!—George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, onHorseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him:This is a man, you know, who came from America with him,Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses alassoin fighting,Which is, I don’t quite know, but a sort of noose, I imagine;This he throws on the heads of the enemy’s men in a battle,Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills them:Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian.Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claudebeing selfish;He wasmostuseful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of April.Do not write here any more; we are starting directly for Florence:We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses;All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dreadful Mazzini.P.S.Mary has seen thus far.—I am really so angry, Louisa,—Quite out of patience, my dearest! What can the man be intending?I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment,Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dismiss him.
Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have witnessed!—George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, onHorseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him:This is a man, you know, who came from America with him,Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses alassoin fighting,Which is, I don’t quite know, but a sort of noose, I imagine;This he throws on the heads of the enemy’s men in a battle,Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills them:Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian.Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claudebeing selfish;He wasmostuseful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of April.Do not write here any more; we are starting directly for Florence:We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses;All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dreadful Mazzini.
Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have witnessed!—
George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long white cloak, on
Horseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him:
This is a man, you know, who came from America with him,
Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses alassoin fighting,
Which is, I don’t quite know, but a sort of noose, I imagine;
This he throws on the heads of the enemy’s men in a battle,
Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills them:
Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian.
Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claudebeing selfish;
He wasmostuseful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of April.
Do not write here any more; we are starting directly for Florence:
We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get horses;
All have been seized everywhere for the use of this dreadful Mazzini.
P.S.Mary has seen thus far.—I am really so angry, Louisa,—Quite out of patience, my dearest! What can the man be intending?I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment,Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dismiss him.
P.S.
Mary has seen thus far.—I am really so angry, Louisa,—
Quite out of patience, my dearest! What can the man be intending?
I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment,
Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dismiss him.
It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (inMerely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people.Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly tranquil;And one cannot conceive that this easy andnonchalantcrowd, thatFlows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, enteringShady recesses and bays of church,osteria, andcaffè,Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava,Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion.Ah, ’tis an excellent race,—and even in old degradation,Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating,E’en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people.Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption!—but clearlyThat is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all journals,Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer!Honour to speech! and all honour to thee, thou noble Mazzini!
It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (inMerely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people.Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly tranquil;And one cannot conceive that this easy andnonchalantcrowd, thatFlows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, enteringShady recesses and bays of church,osteria, andcaffè,Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava,Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion.Ah, ’tis an excellent race,—and even in old degradation,Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating,E’en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people.Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption!—but clearlyThat is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all journals,Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer!Honour to speech! and all honour to thee, thou noble Mazzini!
It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (inMerely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people.Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly tranquil;And one cannot conceive that this easy andnonchalantcrowd, thatFlows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, enteringShady recesses and bays of church,osteria, andcaffè,Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava,Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion.Ah, ’tis an excellent race,—and even in old degradation,Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating,E’en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people.Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption!—but clearlyThat is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all journals,Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer!Honour to speech! and all honour to thee, thou noble Mazzini!
It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (in
Merely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people.
Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly tranquil;
And one cannot conceive that this easy andnonchalantcrowd, that
Flows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, entering
Shady recesses and bays of church,osteria, andcaffè,
Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava,
Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion.
Ah, ’tis an excellent race,—and even in old degradation,
Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating,
E’en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people.
Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption!—but clearly
That is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all journals,
Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer!
Honour to speech! and all honour to thee, thou noble Mazzini!
I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so.I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so.I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant youIt is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift,Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, canSpeak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking,Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment,Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents toStep from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vainConscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind.No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; ’tisSong, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded,Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning.I am in love, you say: I do not think so, exactly.
I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so.I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so.I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant youIt is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift,Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, canSpeak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking,Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment,Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents toStep from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vainConscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind.No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; ’tisSong, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded,Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning.I am in love, you say: I do not think so, exactly.
I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so.I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so.I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant youIt is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift,Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, canSpeak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking,Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment,Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents toStep from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vainConscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind.No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; ’tisSong, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded,Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning.I am in love, you say: I do not think so, exactly.
I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would think so.
I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so.
I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant you
It is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh, rare gift,
Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, can
Speak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking,
Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment,
Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents to
Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vain
Conscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind.
No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; ’tis
Song, though you hear in the song the articulate vocables sounded,
Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning.
I am in love, you say: I do not think so, exactly.
There are two different kinds, I believe, of human attraction:One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you uneasy,And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds you.I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the latter.I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was growing,There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had languished.I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and actionIs a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something factitious,Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process;We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions of duty.
There are two different kinds, I believe, of human attraction:One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you uneasy,And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds you.I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the latter.I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was growing,There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had languished.I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and actionIs a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something factitious,Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process;We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions of duty.
There are two different kinds, I believe, of human attraction:One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you uneasy,And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds you.I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the latter.I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was growing,There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had languished.I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and actionIs a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something factitious,Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process;We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions of duty.
There are two different kinds, I believe, of human attraction:
One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you uneasy,
And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds you.
I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the latter.
I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was growing,
There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had languished.
I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and action
Is a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something factitious,
Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process;
We are so prone to these things, with our terrible notions of duty.
Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried, unprompted!Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present!Say not, Time flies, and Occasion, that never returns, is departing!Drive me not out, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden,Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own inspiration!Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ,Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort,Break into audible words? And love be its own inspiration?
Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried, unprompted!Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present!Say not, Time flies, and Occasion, that never returns, is departing!Drive me not out, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden,Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own inspiration!Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ,Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort,Break into audible words? And love be its own inspiration?
Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried, unprompted!Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present!Say not, Time flies, and Occasion, that never returns, is departing!Drive me not out, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden,Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own inspiration!Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ,Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort,Break into audible words? And love be its own inspiration?
Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried, unprompted!
Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present!
Say not, Time flies, and Occasion, that never returns, is departing!
Drive me not out, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden,
Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own inspiration!
Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ,
Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort,
Break into audible words? And love be its own inspiration?
Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but itisso.She doesn’t like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me.Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways?Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly?’Tis not her fault; ’tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them:’Tis not her fault; ’tis her beautiful nature, not ever to know me.Hopeless it seems,—yet I cannot, though hopeless, determine to leave it:She goes—therefore I go; she moves,—I move, not to lose her.
Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but itisso.She doesn’t like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me.Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways?Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly?’Tis not her fault; ’tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them:’Tis not her fault; ’tis her beautiful nature, not ever to know me.Hopeless it seems,—yet I cannot, though hopeless, determine to leave it:She goes—therefore I go; she moves,—I move, not to lose her.
Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but itisso.She doesn’t like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me.Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways?Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly?’Tis not her fault; ’tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them:’Tis not her fault; ’tis her beautiful nature, not ever to know me.Hopeless it seems,—yet I cannot, though hopeless, determine to leave it:She goes—therefore I go; she moves,—I move, not to lose her.
Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but itisso.
She doesn’t like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me.
Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways?
Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly?
’Tis not her fault; ’tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them:
’Tis not her fault; ’tis her beautiful nature, not ever to know me.
Hopeless it seems,—yet I cannot, though hopeless, determine to leave it:
She goes—therefore I go; she moves,—I move, not to lose her.
Oh, ’tisn’t manly, of course, ’tisn’t manly, this method of wooing;’Tisn’t the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell you,Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero;She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and for knowledge,—Knowledge, O ye Gods!—when did they appreciate knowledge?Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire it.Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me!(Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?)But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant;Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her;Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence,Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me.Not that I care very much!—any way I escape from the boy’s ownFolly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy.Not that I mind very much! Why should I? I am not in love, andAm prepared, I think, if not by previous habit,Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is like it;It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures,Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly;We, discontented indeed with things in particular, idle,Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things in general,Manage to hold on our way without, like others around us,Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support us.Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it.All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is,Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance.You couldn’t come, I suppose, as far as Florence to see her?
Oh, ’tisn’t manly, of course, ’tisn’t manly, this method of wooing;’Tisn’t the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell you,Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero;She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and for knowledge,—Knowledge, O ye Gods!—when did they appreciate knowledge?Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire it.Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me!(Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?)But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant;Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her;Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence,Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me.Not that I care very much!—any way I escape from the boy’s ownFolly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy.Not that I mind very much! Why should I? I am not in love, andAm prepared, I think, if not by previous habit,Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is like it;It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures,Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly;We, discontented indeed with things in particular, idle,Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things in general,Manage to hold on our way without, like others around us,Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support us.Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it.All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is,Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance.You couldn’t come, I suppose, as far as Florence to see her?
Oh, ’tisn’t manly, of course, ’tisn’t manly, this method of wooing;’Tisn’t the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell you,Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero;She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and for knowledge,—Knowledge, O ye Gods!—when did they appreciate knowledge?Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire it.Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me!(Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?)But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant;Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her;Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence,Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me.Not that I care very much!—any way I escape from the boy’s ownFolly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy.Not that I mind very much! Why should I? I am not in love, andAm prepared, I think, if not by previous habit,Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is like it;It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures,Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly;We, discontented indeed with things in particular, idle,Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things in general,Manage to hold on our way without, like others around us,Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support us.Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it.All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is,Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance.You couldn’t come, I suppose, as far as Florence to see her?
Oh, ’tisn’t manly, of course, ’tisn’t manly, this method of wooing;
’Tisn’t the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell you,
Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero;
She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and for knowledge,—
Knowledge, O ye Gods!—when did they appreciate knowledge?
Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire it.
Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me!
(Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?)
But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant;
Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her;
Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence,
Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me.
Not that I care very much!—any way I escape from the boy’s own
Folly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy.
Not that I mind very much! Why should I? I am not in love, and
Am prepared, I think, if not by previous habit,
Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is like it;
It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures,
Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly;
We, discontented indeed with things in particular, idle,
Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things in general,
Manage to hold on our way without, like others around us,
Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support us.
Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it.
All I can say for myself, for present alike and for past, is,
Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your acquaintance.
You couldn’t come, I suppose, as far as Florence to see her?
...To-morrow we’re starting for Florence,Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican terrors;Mr. C. and Papa to escort us; we byvetturaThrough Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leghorn.Then—Ah, what shall I say, my dearest? I tremble in thinking!You will imagine my feelings,—the blending of hope and of sorrow.How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my Sisters?Dearest Louise, indeed it is very alarming; but, trust meEver, whatever may change, to remain your loving Georgina.
...To-morrow we’re starting for Florence,Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican terrors;Mr. C. and Papa to escort us; we byvetturaThrough Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leghorn.Then—Ah, what shall I say, my dearest? I tremble in thinking!You will imagine my feelings,—the blending of hope and of sorrow.How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my Sisters?Dearest Louise, indeed it is very alarming; but, trust meEver, whatever may change, to remain your loving Georgina.
...To-morrow we’re starting for Florence,Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican terrors;Mr. C. and Papa to escort us; we byvetturaThrough Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leghorn.Then—Ah, what shall I say, my dearest? I tremble in thinking!You will imagine my feelings,—the blending of hope and of sorrow.How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my Sisters?Dearest Louise, indeed it is very alarming; but, trust meEver, whatever may change, to remain your loving Georgina.
...To-morrow we’re starting for Florence,
Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican terrors;
Mr. C. and Papa to escort us; we byvettura
Through Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by Leghorn.
Then—Ah, what shall I say, my dearest? I tremble in thinking!
You will imagine my feelings,—the blending of hope and of sorrow.
How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my Sisters?
Dearest Louise, indeed it is very alarming; but, trust me
Ever, whatever may change, to remain your loving Georgina.
...‘Do I like Mr. Claude any better?’I am to tell you,—and, ‘Pray, is it Susan or I that attract him?’This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask him.All I can say for myself is, alas! that he rather repels me.There! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive.So be content, dear Louisa; for one satisfactory marriageSurely will do in one year for the family you would establish;Neither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a second.
...‘Do I like Mr. Claude any better?’I am to tell you,—and, ‘Pray, is it Susan or I that attract him?’This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask him.All I can say for myself is, alas! that he rather repels me.There! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive.So be content, dear Louisa; for one satisfactory marriageSurely will do in one year for the family you would establish;Neither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a second.
...‘Do I like Mr. Claude any better?’I am to tell you,—and, ‘Pray, is it Susan or I that attract him?’This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask him.All I can say for myself is, alas! that he rather repels me.There! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive.So be content, dear Louisa; for one satisfactory marriageSurely will do in one year for the family you would establish;Neither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a second.
...‘Do I like Mr. Claude any better?’
I am to tell you,—and, ‘Pray, is it Susan or I that attract him?’
This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask him.
All I can say for myself is, alas! that he rather repels me.
There! I think him agreeable, but also a little repulsive.
So be content, dear Louisa; for one satisfactory marriage
Surely will do in one year for the family you would establish;
Neither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a second.
Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better;He and Papa are great friends; but he really is tooshilly-shally,—So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matter is going on fairly.I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something.Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people together!
Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better;He and Papa are great friends; but he really is tooshilly-shally,—So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matter is going on fairly.I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something.Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people together!
Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better;He and Papa are great friends; but he really is tooshilly-shally,—So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matter is going on fairly.I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something.Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people together!
Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit better;
He and Papa are great friends; but he really is tooshilly-shally,—
So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matter is going on fairly.
I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say something.
Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people together!
Is it to Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer,E’en amid clamour of arms, here in the city of old,Seeking from clamour of arms in the Past and the Arts to be hidden,Vainly ’mid Arts and the Past seeking one life to forget?Ah, fair shadow, scarce seen, go forth! for anon he shall follow,—He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest must go!Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and find thee!She, should she linger in Rome, were not dissevered from thee!
Is it to Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer,E’en amid clamour of arms, here in the city of old,Seeking from clamour of arms in the Past and the Arts to be hidden,Vainly ’mid Arts and the Past seeking one life to forget?Ah, fair shadow, scarce seen, go forth! for anon he shall follow,—He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest must go!Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and find thee!She, should she linger in Rome, were not dissevered from thee!
Is it to Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer,E’en amid clamour of arms, here in the city of old,Seeking from clamour of arms in the Past and the Arts to be hidden,Vainly ’mid Arts and the Past seeking one life to forget?Ah, fair shadow, scarce seen, go forth! for anon he shall follow,—He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest must go!Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and find thee!She, should she linger in Rome, were not dissevered from thee!
Is it to Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer,
E’en amid clamour of arms, here in the city of old,
Seeking from clamour of arms in the Past and the Arts to be hidden,
Vainly ’mid Arts and the Past seeking one life to forget?
Ah, fair shadow, scarce seen, go forth! for anon he shall follow,—
He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest must go!
Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and find thee!
She, should she linger in Rome, were not dissevered from thee!
Yet to the wondrous St. Peter’s, and yet to the solemn Rotonda,Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls,Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above us,Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme;Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner around us;Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber remain;Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance.—Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,Where, under mulberry-branches, the diligent rivulet sparkles,Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,—Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!
Yet to the wondrous St. Peter’s, and yet to the solemn Rotonda,Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls,Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above us,Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme;Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner around us;Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber remain;Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance.—Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,Where, under mulberry-branches, the diligent rivulet sparkles,Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,—Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!
Yet to the wondrous St. Peter’s, and yet to the solemn Rotonda,Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls,Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above us,Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme;Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner around us;Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber remain;Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance.—Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,Where, under mulberry-branches, the diligent rivulet sparkles,Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,—Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!
Yet to the wondrous St. Peter’s, and yet to the solemn Rotonda,
Mingling with heroes and gods, yet to the Vatican Walls,
Yet may we go, and recline, while a whole mighty world seems above us,
Gathered and fixed to all time into one roofing supreme;
Yet may we, thinking on these things, exclude what is meaner around us;
Yet, at the worst of the worst, books and a chamber remain;
Yet may we think, and forget, and possess our souls in resistance.—
Ah, but away from the stir, shouting, and gossip of war,
Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,
Where, amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,
Where, under mulberry-branches, the diligent rivulet sparkles,
Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,
Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,
Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,—
Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,
Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!
Why doesn’t Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.—We don’t know,You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican marbles;But I can’t wholly believe that this was the actual reason,—He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us.Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change soSuddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the party,—Not quite right. I declare, I really almost am offended:I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to be so.Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctlyWishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. But, oh, myPen will not write any more;—let us say nothing further about it.Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him repulsive;So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the expressionQuite as your pupil should; yet he does most truly repel me.Was it to you I made use of the word? or who was it told you?Yes, repulsive; observe, it is but when he talks of ideasThat he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and easy;I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual being.—When does he make advances?—He thinks that women should woo him;Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and disgusted.She that should love him must look for small love in return,—like the ivyOn the stone wall, must expect but a rigid and niggard support, andE’en to get that must go searching all round with her humble embraces.
Why doesn’t Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.—We don’t know,You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican marbles;But I can’t wholly believe that this was the actual reason,—He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us.Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change soSuddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the party,—Not quite right. I declare, I really almost am offended:I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to be so.Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctlyWishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. But, oh, myPen will not write any more;—let us say nothing further about it.Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him repulsive;So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the expressionQuite as your pupil should; yet he does most truly repel me.Was it to you I made use of the word? or who was it told you?Yes, repulsive; observe, it is but when he talks of ideasThat he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and easy;I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual being.—When does he make advances?—He thinks that women should woo him;Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and disgusted.She that should love him must look for small love in return,—like the ivyOn the stone wall, must expect but a rigid and niggard support, andE’en to get that must go searching all round with her humble embraces.
Why doesn’t Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.—We don’t know,You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican marbles;But I can’t wholly believe that this was the actual reason,—He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us.Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change soSuddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the party,—Not quite right. I declare, I really almost am offended:I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to be so.Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctlyWishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. But, oh, myPen will not write any more;—let us say nothing further about it.
Why doesn’t Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.—We don’t know,
You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican marbles;
But I can’t wholly believe that this was the actual reason,—
He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us.
Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change so
Suddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the party,—
Not quite right. I declare, I really almost am offended:
I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to be so.
Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctly
Wishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. But, oh, my
Pen will not write any more;—let us say nothing further about it.
Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him repulsive;So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the expressionQuite as your pupil should; yet he does most truly repel me.Was it to you I made use of the word? or who was it told you?Yes, repulsive; observe, it is but when he talks of ideasThat he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and easy;I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual being.—When does he make advances?—He thinks that women should woo him;Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and disgusted.She that should love him must look for small love in return,—like the ivyOn the stone wall, must expect but a rigid and niggard support, andE’en to get that must go searching all round with her humble embraces.
Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him repulsive;
So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the expression
Quite as your pupil should; yet he does most truly repel me.
Was it to you I made use of the word? or who was it told you?
Yes, repulsive; observe, it is but when he talks of ideas
That he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and easy;
I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual being.—
When does he make advances?—He thinks that women should woo him;
Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and disgusted.
She that should love him must look for small love in return,—like the ivy
On the stone wall, must expect but a rigid and niggard support, and
E’en to get that must go searching all round with her humble embraces.
Tell me, my friend, do you think that the grain would sprout in the furrow,Did it not truly accept as itssummumandultimum bonumThat mere common and may-be indifferent soil it is set in?Would it have force to develop and open its young cotyledons,Could it compare, and reflect, and examine one thing with another?Would it endure to accomplish the round of its natural functionsWere it endowed with a sense of the general scheme of existence?While from Marseilles in the steamer we voyage to Civita Vecchia,Vexed in the squally seas as we lay by Capraja and Elba,Standing, uplifted, alone on the heaving poop of the vessel,Looking around on the waste of the rushing incurious billows,‘This is Nature,’ I said: ‘we are born as it were from her waters;Over her billows that buffet and beat us, her offspring uncared-for,Casting one single regard of a painful victorious knowledge,Into her billows that buffet and beat us we sink and are swallowed.’This was the sense in my soul, as I swayed with the poop of the steamer;And as unthinking I sat in the hall of the famed Ariadne,Lo, it looked at me there from the face of a Triton in marble.It is the simpler thought, and I can believe it the truer.Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
Tell me, my friend, do you think that the grain would sprout in the furrow,Did it not truly accept as itssummumandultimum bonumThat mere common and may-be indifferent soil it is set in?Would it have force to develop and open its young cotyledons,Could it compare, and reflect, and examine one thing with another?Would it endure to accomplish the round of its natural functionsWere it endowed with a sense of the general scheme of existence?While from Marseilles in the steamer we voyage to Civita Vecchia,Vexed in the squally seas as we lay by Capraja and Elba,Standing, uplifted, alone on the heaving poop of the vessel,Looking around on the waste of the rushing incurious billows,‘This is Nature,’ I said: ‘we are born as it were from her waters;Over her billows that buffet and beat us, her offspring uncared-for,Casting one single regard of a painful victorious knowledge,Into her billows that buffet and beat us we sink and are swallowed.’This was the sense in my soul, as I swayed with the poop of the steamer;And as unthinking I sat in the hall of the famed Ariadne,Lo, it looked at me there from the face of a Triton in marble.It is the simpler thought, and I can believe it the truer.Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
Tell me, my friend, do you think that the grain would sprout in the furrow,Did it not truly accept as itssummumandultimum bonumThat mere common and may-be indifferent soil it is set in?Would it have force to develop and open its young cotyledons,Could it compare, and reflect, and examine one thing with another?Would it endure to accomplish the round of its natural functionsWere it endowed with a sense of the general scheme of existence?While from Marseilles in the steamer we voyage to Civita Vecchia,Vexed in the squally seas as we lay by Capraja and Elba,Standing, uplifted, alone on the heaving poop of the vessel,Looking around on the waste of the rushing incurious billows,‘This is Nature,’ I said: ‘we are born as it were from her waters;Over her billows that buffet and beat us, her offspring uncared-for,Casting one single regard of a painful victorious knowledge,Into her billows that buffet and beat us we sink and are swallowed.’This was the sense in my soul, as I swayed with the poop of the steamer;And as unthinking I sat in the hall of the famed Ariadne,Lo, it looked at me there from the face of a Triton in marble.It is the simpler thought, and I can believe it the truer.Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
Tell me, my friend, do you think that the grain would sprout in the furrow,
Did it not truly accept as itssummumandultimum bonum
That mere common and may-be indifferent soil it is set in?
Would it have force to develop and open its young cotyledons,
Could it compare, and reflect, and examine one thing with another?
Would it endure to accomplish the round of its natural functions
Were it endowed with a sense of the general scheme of existence?
While from Marseilles in the steamer we voyage to Civita Vecchia,
Vexed in the squally seas as we lay by Capraja and Elba,
Standing, uplifted, alone on the heaving poop of the vessel,
Looking around on the waste of the rushing incurious billows,
‘This is Nature,’ I said: ‘we are born as it were from her waters;
Over her billows that buffet and beat us, her offspring uncared-for,
Casting one single regard of a painful victorious knowledge,
Into her billows that buffet and beat us we sink and are swallowed.’
This was the sense in my soul, as I swayed with the poop of the steamer;
And as unthinking I sat in the hall of the famed Ariadne,
Lo, it looked at me there from the face of a Triton in marble.
It is the simpler thought, and I can believe it the truer.
Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
Farewell, Politics, utterly! What can I do? I cannotFight, you know; and to talk I am wholly ashamed. And although IGnash my teeth when I look in your French or your English papers,What is the good of that? Will swearing, I wonder, mend matters?Cursing and scolding repel the assailants? No, it is idle;No, whatever befalls, I will hide, will ignore or forget it.Let the tail shift for itself; I will bury my head. And what’s theRoman Republic to me, or I to the Roman Republic?Why not fight?—In the first place, I haven’t so much as a musket;In the next, if I had, I shouldn’t know how I should use it;In the third, just at present I’m studying ancient marbles;In the fourth, I consider I owe my life to my country;In the fifth—I forget, but four good reasons are ample.Meantime, pray let ’em fight, and be killed. I delight in devotion.So that I ’list not, hurrah for the glorious army of martyrs!Sanguis martyrum semen Ecclesiæ; though it would seem thisChurch is indeed of the purely Invisible, Kingdom-come kind:Militant here on earth! Triumphant, of course, then, elsewhere!Ah, good Heaven, but I would I were out far away from the pother!
Farewell, Politics, utterly! What can I do? I cannotFight, you know; and to talk I am wholly ashamed. And although IGnash my teeth when I look in your French or your English papers,What is the good of that? Will swearing, I wonder, mend matters?Cursing and scolding repel the assailants? No, it is idle;No, whatever befalls, I will hide, will ignore or forget it.Let the tail shift for itself; I will bury my head. And what’s theRoman Republic to me, or I to the Roman Republic?Why not fight?—In the first place, I haven’t so much as a musket;In the next, if I had, I shouldn’t know how I should use it;In the third, just at present I’m studying ancient marbles;In the fourth, I consider I owe my life to my country;In the fifth—I forget, but four good reasons are ample.Meantime, pray let ’em fight, and be killed. I delight in devotion.So that I ’list not, hurrah for the glorious army of martyrs!Sanguis martyrum semen Ecclesiæ; though it would seem thisChurch is indeed of the purely Invisible, Kingdom-come kind:Militant here on earth! Triumphant, of course, then, elsewhere!Ah, good Heaven, but I would I were out far away from the pother!
Farewell, Politics, utterly! What can I do? I cannotFight, you know; and to talk I am wholly ashamed. And although IGnash my teeth when I look in your French or your English papers,What is the good of that? Will swearing, I wonder, mend matters?Cursing and scolding repel the assailants? No, it is idle;No, whatever befalls, I will hide, will ignore or forget it.Let the tail shift for itself; I will bury my head. And what’s theRoman Republic to me, or I to the Roman Republic?Why not fight?—In the first place, I haven’t so much as a musket;In the next, if I had, I shouldn’t know how I should use it;In the third, just at present I’m studying ancient marbles;In the fourth, I consider I owe my life to my country;In the fifth—I forget, but four good reasons are ample.Meantime, pray let ’em fight, and be killed. I delight in devotion.So that I ’list not, hurrah for the glorious army of martyrs!Sanguis martyrum semen Ecclesiæ; though it would seem thisChurch is indeed of the purely Invisible, Kingdom-come kind:Militant here on earth! Triumphant, of course, then, elsewhere!Ah, good Heaven, but I would I were out far away from the pother!
Farewell, Politics, utterly! What can I do? I cannot
Fight, you know; and to talk I am wholly ashamed. And although I
Gnash my teeth when I look in your French or your English papers,
What is the good of that? Will swearing, I wonder, mend matters?
Cursing and scolding repel the assailants? No, it is idle;
No, whatever befalls, I will hide, will ignore or forget it.
Let the tail shift for itself; I will bury my head. And what’s the
Roman Republic to me, or I to the Roman Republic?
Why not fight?—In the first place, I haven’t so much as a musket;
In the next, if I had, I shouldn’t know how I should use it;
In the third, just at present I’m studying ancient marbles;
In the fourth, I consider I owe my life to my country;
In the fifth—I forget, but four good reasons are ample.
Meantime, pray let ’em fight, and be killed. I delight in devotion.
So that I ’list not, hurrah for the glorious army of martyrs!
Sanguis martyrum semen Ecclesiæ; though it would seem this
Church is indeed of the purely Invisible, Kingdom-come kind:
Militant here on earth! Triumphant, of course, then, elsewhere!
Ah, good Heaven, but I would I were out far away from the pother!
Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration,Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in;But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden,Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever,Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge,—Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless unfruitful blossom.Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine,Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike ProtesilaüsRose sympathetic in grief to his love-lorn Laodamia,Evermore growing, and when in their growth to the prospect attaining,Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city,Withering still at the sight which still they upgrow to encounter.Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces,Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions,Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we discern not,Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the crested billow,Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the tide shall return to,Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination!Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration,Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in;But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden,Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever,Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge,—Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless unfruitful blossom.Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine,Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike ProtesilaüsRose sympathetic in grief to his love-lorn Laodamia,Evermore growing, and when in their growth to the prospect attaining,Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city,Withering still at the sight which still they upgrow to encounter.Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces,Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions,Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we discern not,Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the crested billow,Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the tide shall return to,Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination!Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration,Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in;But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden,Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever,Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge,—Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless unfruitful blossom.Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine,Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike ProtesilaüsRose sympathetic in grief to his love-lorn Laodamia,Evermore growing, and when in their growth to the prospect attaining,Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city,Withering still at the sight which still they upgrow to encounter.Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces,Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions,Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we discern not,Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the crested billow,Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the tide shall return to,Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination!Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration,
Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in;
But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden,
Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever,
Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge,—
Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless unfruitful blossom.
Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine,
Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike Protesilaüs
Rose sympathetic in grief to his love-lorn Laodamia,
Evermore growing, and when in their growth to the prospect attaining,
Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city,
Withering still at the sight which still they upgrow to encounter.
Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces,
Ye over stormy seas leading long and dreary processions,
Ye, too, brood of the wind, whose coming is whence we discern not,
Making your nest on the wave, and your bed on the crested billow,
Skimming rough waters, and crowding wet sands that the tide shall return to,
Cormorants, ducks, and gulls, fill ye my imagination!
Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.
Dearest Miss Roper,—Alas! we are all at Florence quite safe, andYou, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly distressing!We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did from the troubles.Now you are really besieged; they tell us it soon will be over;Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city.Do you see Mr. Claude?—I thought he might do something for you.I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be useful.What is he doing? I wonder;—still studying Vatican marbles?Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is better.
Dearest Miss Roper,—Alas! we are all at Florence quite safe, andYou, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly distressing!We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did from the troubles.Now you are really besieged; they tell us it soon will be over;Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city.Do you see Mr. Claude?—I thought he might do something for you.I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be useful.What is he doing? I wonder;—still studying Vatican marbles?Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is better.
Dearest Miss Roper,—Alas! we are all at Florence quite safe, andYou, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly distressing!We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did from the troubles.Now you are really besieged; they tell us it soon will be over;Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city.Do you see Mr. Claude?—I thought he might do something for you.I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be useful.What is he doing? I wonder;—still studying Vatican marbles?Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is better.
Dearest Miss Roper,—Alas! we are all at Florence quite safe, and
You, we hear, are shut up! indeed, it is sadly distressing!
We were most lucky, they say, to get off when we did from the troubles.
Now you are really besieged; they tell us it soon will be over;
Only I hope and trust without any fight in the city.
Do you see Mr. Claude?—I thought he might do something for you.
I am quite sure on occasion he really would wish to be useful.
What is he doing? I wonder;—still studying Vatican marbles?
Letters, I hope, pass through. We trust your brother is better.
Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition?Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage or steamer,And,pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey be ended,Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is next one;And,pour passer le temps, with the terminus all but in prospect,Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven.Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the illusion!Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the Only!Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion of passion,Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light of our knowledge!But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance,Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession?But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service?But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract?But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous doorway?—Ah, but the bride, meantime,—do you think she sees it as he does?But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger existence,Think you that man could consent to be circumscribed here into action?But for assurance within of a limitless ocean divine, o’erWhose great tranquil depths unconscious the wind-tost surfaceBreaks into ripples of trouble that come and change and endure not,—But that in this, of a truth, we have our being, and know it,Think you we men could submit to live and move as we do here?Ah, but the women,—God bless them! they don’t think at all about it.Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. And as limited beingsScarcely can hope to attain upon earth to an Actual Abstract,Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands knowledge confiding,Sure that in us if it perish, in Him it abideth and dies not,Let us in His sight accomplish our petty particular doings,—Yes, and contented sit down to the victual that He has provided.Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his prophet.Ah, but the women, alas! they don’t look at it in that way.Juxtaposition is great;—but, my friend, I fear me, the maidenHardly would thank or acknowledge the lover that sought to obtain her,Not as the thing he would wish, but the thing he must even put up with,—Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer that candidly told herThat she is but for a space, anad-interimsolace and pleasure,—That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and absolute something,Which I then for myself shall behold, and not another,—Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I forget not, forsake not.Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving, and so exacting,Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to deceive you?Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and revolts you,Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter and—leave you?
Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition?Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage or steamer,And,pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey be ended,Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is next one;And,pour passer le temps, with the terminus all but in prospect,Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven.Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the illusion!Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the Only!Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion of passion,Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light of our knowledge!But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance,Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession?But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service?But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract?But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous doorway?—Ah, but the bride, meantime,—do you think she sees it as he does?But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger existence,Think you that man could consent to be circumscribed here into action?But for assurance within of a limitless ocean divine, o’erWhose great tranquil depths unconscious the wind-tost surfaceBreaks into ripples of trouble that come and change and endure not,—But that in this, of a truth, we have our being, and know it,Think you we men could submit to live and move as we do here?Ah, but the women,—God bless them! they don’t think at all about it.Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. And as limited beingsScarcely can hope to attain upon earth to an Actual Abstract,Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands knowledge confiding,Sure that in us if it perish, in Him it abideth and dies not,Let us in His sight accomplish our petty particular doings,—Yes, and contented sit down to the victual that He has provided.Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his prophet.Ah, but the women, alas! they don’t look at it in that way.Juxtaposition is great;—but, my friend, I fear me, the maidenHardly would thank or acknowledge the lover that sought to obtain her,Not as the thing he would wish, but the thing he must even put up with,—Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer that candidly told herThat she is but for a space, anad-interimsolace and pleasure,—That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and absolute something,Which I then for myself shall behold, and not another,—Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I forget not, forsake not.Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving, and so exacting,Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to deceive you?Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and revolts you,Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter and—leave you?
Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition?Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage or steamer,And,pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey be ended,Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is next one;And,pour passer le temps, with the terminus all but in prospect,Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven.Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the illusion!Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the Only!Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion of passion,Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light of our knowledge!But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance,Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession?But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service?But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract?But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous doorway?—Ah, but the bride, meantime,—do you think she sees it as he does?But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger existence,Think you that man could consent to be circumscribed here into action?But for assurance within of a limitless ocean divine, o’erWhose great tranquil depths unconscious the wind-tost surfaceBreaks into ripples of trouble that come and change and endure not,—But that in this, of a truth, we have our being, and know it,Think you we men could submit to live and move as we do here?Ah, but the women,—God bless them! they don’t think at all about it.Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. And as limited beingsScarcely can hope to attain upon earth to an Actual Abstract,Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands knowledge confiding,Sure that in us if it perish, in Him it abideth and dies not,Let us in His sight accomplish our petty particular doings,—Yes, and contented sit down to the victual that He has provided.Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his prophet.Ah, but the women, alas! they don’t look at it in that way.Juxtaposition is great;—but, my friend, I fear me, the maidenHardly would thank or acknowledge the lover that sought to obtain her,Not as the thing he would wish, but the thing he must even put up with,—Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer that candidly told herThat she is but for a space, anad-interimsolace and pleasure,—That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and absolute something,Which I then for myself shall behold, and not another,—Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I forget not, forsake not.Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving, and so exacting,Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to deceive you?Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and revolts you,Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter and—leave you?
Juxtaposition, in fine; and what is juxtaposition?
Look you, we travel along in the railway-carriage or steamer,
And,pour passer le temps, till the tedious journey be ended,
Lay aside paper or book, to talk with the girl that is next one;
And,pour passer le temps, with the terminus all but in prospect,
Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in heaven.
Ah, did we really accept with a perfect heart the illusion!
Ah, did we really believe that the Present indeed is the Only!
Or through all transmutation, all shock and convulsion of passion,
Feel we could carry undimmed, unextinguished, the light of our knowledge!
But for his funeral train which the bridegroom sees in the distance,
Would he so joyfully, think you, fall in with the marriage procession?
But for that final discharge, would he dare to enlist in that service?
But for that certain release, ever sign to that perilous contract?
But for that exit secure, ever bend to that treacherous doorway?—
Ah, but the bride, meantime,—do you think she sees it as he does?
But for the steady fore-sense of a freer and larger existence,
Think you that man could consent to be circumscribed here into action?
But for assurance within of a limitless ocean divine, o’er
Whose great tranquil depths unconscious the wind-tost surface
Breaks into ripples of trouble that come and change and endure not,—
But that in this, of a truth, we have our being, and know it,
Think you we men could submit to live and move as we do here?
Ah, but the women,—God bless them! they don’t think at all about it.
Yet we must eat and drink, as you say. And as limited beings
Scarcely can hope to attain upon earth to an Actual Abstract,
Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands knowledge confiding,
Sure that in us if it perish, in Him it abideth and dies not,
Let us in His sight accomplish our petty particular doings,—
Yes, and contented sit down to the victual that He has provided.
Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition his prophet.
Ah, but the women, alas! they don’t look at it in that way.
Juxtaposition is great;—but, my friend, I fear me, the maiden
Hardly would thank or acknowledge the lover that sought to obtain her,
Not as the thing he would wish, but the thing he must even put up with,—
Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer that candidly told her
That she is but for a space, anad-interimsolace and pleasure,—
That in the end she shall yield to a perfect and absolute something,
Which I then for myself shall behold, and not another,—
Which amid fondest endearments, meantime I forget not, forsake not.
Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving, and so exacting,
Since we cannot escape, must we even submit to deceive you?
Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks and revolts you,
Will you have us your slaves to lie to you, flatter and—leave you?
Juxtaposition is great,—but, you tell me, affinity greater.Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and lesser,Stronger and weaker; and each, by the favour of juxtaposition,Potent, efficient, in force,—for a time; but none, let me tell you,Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the will, ah,None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and perfect.Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the princess,Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,—Vir sum, nihil fæminei,—and e’en to the uttermost circle,All that is Nature’s is I, and I all things that are Nature’s.Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition,That I can be and become anything that I meet with or look at:I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff panniers;I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the window,On sunny slab of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard,Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing about me;Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint but a faithful assurance,E’en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees of the forestSomething of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, greets me;And to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, and perversions,Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive silence,Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid embraces.
Juxtaposition is great,—but, you tell me, affinity greater.Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and lesser,Stronger and weaker; and each, by the favour of juxtaposition,Potent, efficient, in force,—for a time; but none, let me tell you,Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the will, ah,None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and perfect.Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the princess,Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,—Vir sum, nihil fæminei,—and e’en to the uttermost circle,All that is Nature’s is I, and I all things that are Nature’s.Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition,That I can be and become anything that I meet with or look at:I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff panniers;I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the window,On sunny slab of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard,Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing about me;Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint but a faithful assurance,E’en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees of the forestSomething of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, greets me;And to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, and perversions,Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive silence,Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid embraces.
Juxtaposition is great,—but, you tell me, affinity greater.Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and lesser,Stronger and weaker; and each, by the favour of juxtaposition,Potent, efficient, in force,—for a time; but none, let me tell you,Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the will, ah,None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and perfect.Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the princess,Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,—Vir sum, nihil fæminei,—and e’en to the uttermost circle,All that is Nature’s is I, and I all things that are Nature’s.Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition,That I can be and become anything that I meet with or look at:I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff panniers;I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the window,On sunny slab of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard,Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing about me;Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint but a faithful assurance,E’en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees of the forestSomething of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, greets me;And to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, and perversions,Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive silence,Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid embraces.
Juxtaposition is great,—but, you tell me, affinity greater.
Ah, my friend, there are many affinities, greater and lesser,
Stronger and weaker; and each, by the favour of juxtaposition,
Potent, efficient, in force,—for a time; but none, let me tell you,
Save by the law of the land and the ruinous force of the will, ah,
None, I fear me, at last quite sure to be final and perfect.
Lo, as I pace in the street, from the peasant-girl to the princess,
Homo sum, nihil humani a me alienum puto,—
Vir sum, nihil fæminei,—and e’en to the uttermost circle,
All that is Nature’s is I, and I all things that are Nature’s.
Yes, as I walk, I behold, in a luminous, large intuition,
That I can be and become anything that I meet with or look at:
I am the ox in the dray, the ass with the garden-stuff panniers;
I am the dog in the doorway, the kitten that plays in the window,
On sunny slab of the ruin the furtive and fugitive lizard,
Swallow above me that twitters, and fly that is buzzing about me;
Yea, and detect, as I go, by a faint but a faithful assurance,
E’en from the stones of the street, as from rocks or trees of the forest
Something of kindred, a common, though latent vitality, greets me;
And to escape from our strivings, mistakings, misgrowths, and perversions,
Fain could demand to return to that perfect and primitive silence,
Fain be enfolded and fixed, as of old, in their rigid embraces.
And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and coupling;Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful,All as I go on my way, with a pleasure sincere and unmingled.Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at;As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing,As a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures,Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate onlyThis vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving,Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction.
And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and coupling;Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful,All as I go on my way, with a pleasure sincere and unmingled.Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at;As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing,As a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures,Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate onlyThis vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving,Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction.
And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and coupling;Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful,All as I go on my way, with a pleasure sincere and unmingled.Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at;As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing,As a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures,Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate onlyThis vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving,Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction.
And as I walk on my way, I behold them consorting and coupling;
Faithful it seemeth, and fond, very fond, very probably faithful,
All as I go on my way, with a pleasure sincere and unmingled.
Life is beautiful, Eustace, entrancing, enchanting to look at;
As are the streets of a city we pace while the carriage is changing,
As a chamber filled-in with harmonious, exquisite pictures,
Even so beautiful Earth; and could we eliminate only
This vile hungering impulse, this demon within us of craving,
Life were beatitude, living a perfect divine satisfaction.
Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase, aTribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can honour.But, from the tumult escaping, ’tis pleasant, of drumming and shouting,Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood,And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetingsYield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o’erMild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:Terrible word, Obligation! You should not, Eustace, you should not,No, you should not have used it. But, oh, great Heavens, I repel it!Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate whollyEvery debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonour,Yea, my own heart’s own writing, my soul’s own signature! Ah, no!I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me.No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things,This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing.No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties, as I fancied;Bind and engage myself deep;—and lo, on the following morningIt was all e’en as before, like losings in games played for nothing.Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-performanceAt the first step breaking down in its pitiful rôle of evasion,When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements,Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it,—Stood unexpecting, unconscious.Shespoke not of obligations,Knew not of debt—ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons.
Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase, aTribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can honour.But, from the tumult escaping, ’tis pleasant, of drumming and shouting,Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood,And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetingsYield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o’erMild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:Terrible word, Obligation! You should not, Eustace, you should not,No, you should not have used it. But, oh, great Heavens, I repel it!Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate whollyEvery debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonour,Yea, my own heart’s own writing, my soul’s own signature! Ah, no!I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me.No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things,This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing.No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties, as I fancied;Bind and engage myself deep;—and lo, on the following morningIt was all e’en as before, like losings in games played for nothing.Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-performanceAt the first step breaking down in its pitiful rôle of evasion,When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements,Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it,—Stood unexpecting, unconscious.Shespoke not of obligations,Knew not of debt—ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons.
Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase, aTribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can honour.But, from the tumult escaping, ’tis pleasant, of drumming and shouting,Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood,And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetingsYield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o’erMild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:Terrible word, Obligation! You should not, Eustace, you should not,No, you should not have used it. But, oh, great Heavens, I repel it!Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate whollyEvery debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonour,Yea, my own heart’s own writing, my soul’s own signature! Ah, no!I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me.No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things,This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing.No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties, as I fancied;Bind and engage myself deep;—and lo, on the following morningIt was all e’en as before, like losings in games played for nothing.Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-performanceAt the first step breaking down in its pitiful rôle of evasion,When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements,Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it,—Stood unexpecting, unconscious.Shespoke not of obligations,Knew not of debt—ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons.
Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:
So let me offer a single and celibatarian phrase, a
Tribute to those whom perhaps you do not believe I can honour.
But, from the tumult escaping, ’tis pleasant, of drumming and shouting,
Hither, oblivious awhile, to withdraw, of the fact or the falsehood,
And amid placid regards and mildly courteous greetings
Yield to the calm and composure and gentle abstraction that reign o’er
Mild monastic faces in quiet collegiate cloisters:
Terrible word, Obligation! You should not, Eustace, you should not,
No, you should not have used it. But, oh, great Heavens, I repel it!
Oh, I cancel, reject, disavow, and repudiate wholly
Every debt in this kind, disclaim every claim, and dishonour,
Yea, my own heart’s own writing, my soul’s own signature! Ah, no!
I will be free in this; you shall not, none shall, bind me.
No, my friend, if you wish to be told, it was this above all things,
This that charmed me, ah, yes, even this, that she held me to nothing.
No, I could talk as I pleased; come close; fasten ties, as I fancied;
Bind and engage myself deep;—and lo, on the following morning
It was all e’en as before, like losings in games played for nothing.
Yes, when I came, with mean fears in my soul, with a semi-performance
At the first step breaking down in its pitiful rôle of evasion,
When to shuffle I came, to compromise, not meet, engagements,
Lo, with her calm eyes there she met me and knew nothing of it,—
Stood unexpecting, unconscious.Shespoke not of obligations,
Knew not of debt—ah, no, I believe you, for excellent reasons.
Hangthis thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and what evil!Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man’s chamber,Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumber pursuing.What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of men? Have compassion;Be favourable, and hear! Take from me this regal knowledge;Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the fields, my brothers,Tranquilly, happily lie,—and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar!
Hangthis thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and what evil!Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man’s chamber,Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumber pursuing.What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of men? Have compassion;Be favourable, and hear! Take from me this regal knowledge;Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the fields, my brothers,Tranquilly, happily lie,—and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar!
Hangthis thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and what evil!Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man’s chamber,Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumber pursuing.What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of men? Have compassion;Be favourable, and hear! Take from me this regal knowledge;Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the fields, my brothers,Tranquilly, happily lie,—and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar!
Hangthis thinking, at last! what good is it? oh, and what evil!
Oh, what mischief and pain! like a clock in a sick man’s chamber,
Ticking and ticking, and still through each covert of slumber pursuing.
What shall I do to thee, O thou Preserver of men? Have compassion;
Be favourable, and hear! Take from me this regal knowledge;
Let me, contented and mute, with the beasts of the fields, my brothers,
Tranquilly, happily lie,—and eat grass, like Nebuchadnezzar!
Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the AnioFalling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;Tibur and Anio’s tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:—So not seeing I sang; so seeing and listening say I,Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,Here with Albunea’s home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;[14]Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters,Tivoli’s waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro(Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows,Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces),Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace:—So not seeing I sang; so now—Nor seeing, nor hearing,Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,Seated on Anio’s bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,But on Montorio’s height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, theCupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens,Which, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim themselves Rome of the Romans,—But on Montorio’s height, looking forth to the vapoury mountains,Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy,—But on Montorio’s height, with these weary soldiers by me,Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist.
Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the AnioFalling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;Tibur and Anio’s tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:—So not seeing I sang; so seeing and listening say I,Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,Here with Albunea’s home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;[14]Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters,Tivoli’s waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro(Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows,Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces),Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace:—So not seeing I sang; so now—Nor seeing, nor hearing,Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,Seated on Anio’s bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,But on Montorio’s height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, theCupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens,Which, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim themselves Rome of the Romans,—But on Montorio’s height, looking forth to the vapoury mountains,Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy,—But on Montorio’s height, with these weary soldiers by me,Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist.
Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the AnioFalling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;Tibur and Anio’s tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:—So not seeing I sang; so seeing and listening say I,Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,Here with Albunea’s home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;[14]Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters,Tivoli’s waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro(Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows,Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces),Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace:—So not seeing I sang; so now—Nor seeing, nor hearing,Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,Seated on Anio’s bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,But on Montorio’s height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, theCupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens,Which, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim themselves Rome of the Romans,—But on Montorio’s height, looking forth to the vapoury mountains,Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy,—But on Montorio’s height, with these weary soldiers by me,Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist.
Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio
Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;
Tibur and Anio’s tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,
With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,
Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:—
So not seeing I sang; so seeing and listening say I,
Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,
Here with Albunea’s home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;[14]
Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,
Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters,
Tivoli’s waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro
(Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows,
Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces),
Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,
Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace:—
So not seeing I sang; so now—Nor seeing, nor hearing,
Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,
Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,
Seated on Anio’s bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,
But on Montorio’s height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, the
Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchen-gardens,
Which, by the grace of the Tibur, proclaim themselves Rome of the Romans,—
But on Montorio’s height, looking forth to the vapoury mountains,
Cheating the prisoner Hope with illusions of vision and fancy,—
But on Montorio’s height, with these weary soldiers by me,
Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate Pope and Tourist.
Dear Miss Roper,—It seems, George Vernon, before we left Rome, saidSomething to Mr. Claude about what they call his attentions.Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this from Georgina.It issodisagreeable andsoannoying to think of!If it could only be known, though we may never meet him again, thatIt was all George’s doing, and we were entirely unconscious,It would extremely relieve—Your ever affectionate Mary.P.S. (1)Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I wanted.So you have seen him,—indeed, and guessed,—how dreadfully clever!What did he really say? and what was your answer exactly?Charming!—but wait for a moment, I haven’t read through the letter.P.S. (2)Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about it.If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do so.Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I could manage.It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled forDo as you please; you know I trust implicitly to you.Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter.Only don’t tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a secret,That I should like very well to show him myself I forget it.P.S. (3)I am to say that the wedding is finally settled for Tuesday.Ah, my dear Miss Roper, you surely, surely can manageNot to let it appear that I know of that odious matter.It would be pleasanter far for myself to treat it exactlyAs if it had not occurred: and I do not think he would like it.I must remember to add, that as soon as the wedding is overWe shall be off, I believe, in a hurry, and travel to Milan;There to meet friends of Papa’s, I am told, at the Croce di Malta;Then I cannot say whither, but not at present to England.
Dear Miss Roper,—It seems, George Vernon, before we left Rome, saidSomething to Mr. Claude about what they call his attentions.Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this from Georgina.It issodisagreeable andsoannoying to think of!If it could only be known, though we may never meet him again, thatIt was all George’s doing, and we were entirely unconscious,It would extremely relieve—Your ever affectionate Mary.P.S. (1)Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I wanted.So you have seen him,—indeed, and guessed,—how dreadfully clever!What did he really say? and what was your answer exactly?Charming!—but wait for a moment, I haven’t read through the letter.P.S. (2)Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about it.If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do so.Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I could manage.It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled forDo as you please; you know I trust implicitly to you.Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter.Only don’t tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a secret,That I should like very well to show him myself I forget it.P.S. (3)I am to say that the wedding is finally settled for Tuesday.Ah, my dear Miss Roper, you surely, surely can manageNot to let it appear that I know of that odious matter.It would be pleasanter far for myself to treat it exactlyAs if it had not occurred: and I do not think he would like it.I must remember to add, that as soon as the wedding is overWe shall be off, I believe, in a hurry, and travel to Milan;There to meet friends of Papa’s, I am told, at the Croce di Malta;Then I cannot say whither, but not at present to England.
Dear Miss Roper,—It seems, George Vernon, before we left Rome, saidSomething to Mr. Claude about what they call his attentions.Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this from Georgina.It issodisagreeable andsoannoying to think of!If it could only be known, though we may never meet him again, thatIt was all George’s doing, and we were entirely unconscious,It would extremely relieve—Your ever affectionate Mary.
Dear Miss Roper,—It seems, George Vernon, before we left Rome, said
Something to Mr. Claude about what they call his attentions.
Susan, two nights ago, for the first time, heard this from Georgina.
It issodisagreeable andsoannoying to think of!
If it could only be known, though we may never meet him again, that
It was all George’s doing, and we were entirely unconscious,
It would extremely relieve—Your ever affectionate Mary.
P.S. (1)Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I wanted.So you have seen him,—indeed, and guessed,—how dreadfully clever!What did he really say? and what was your answer exactly?Charming!—but wait for a moment, I haven’t read through the letter.
P.S. (1)
Here is your letter arrived this moment, just as I wanted.
So you have seen him,—indeed, and guessed,—how dreadfully clever!
What did he really say? and what was your answer exactly?
Charming!—but wait for a moment, I haven’t read through the letter.
P.S. (2)Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about it.If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do so.Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I could manage.It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled forDo as you please; you know I trust implicitly to you.Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter.Only don’t tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a secret,That I should like very well to show him myself I forget it.
P.S. (2)
Ah, my dearest Miss Roper, do just as you fancy about it.
If you think it sincerer to tell him I know of it, do so.
Though I should most extremely dislike it, I know I could manage.
It is the simplest thing, but surely wholly uncalled for
Do as you please; you know I trust implicitly to you.
Say whatever is right and needful for ending the matter.
Only don’t tell Mr. Claude, what I will tell you as a secret,
That I should like very well to show him myself I forget it.
P.S. (3)I am to say that the wedding is finally settled for Tuesday.Ah, my dear Miss Roper, you surely, surely can manageNot to let it appear that I know of that odious matter.It would be pleasanter far for myself to treat it exactlyAs if it had not occurred: and I do not think he would like it.I must remember to add, that as soon as the wedding is overWe shall be off, I believe, in a hurry, and travel to Milan;There to meet friends of Papa’s, I am told, at the Croce di Malta;Then I cannot say whither, but not at present to England.
P.S. (3)
I am to say that the wedding is finally settled for Tuesday.
Ah, my dear Miss Roper, you surely, surely can manage
Not to let it appear that I know of that odious matter.
It would be pleasanter far for myself to treat it exactly
As if it had not occurred: and I do not think he would like it.
I must remember to add, that as soon as the wedding is over
We shall be off, I believe, in a hurry, and travel to Milan;
There to meet friends of Papa’s, I am told, at the Croce di Malta;
Then I cannot say whither, but not at present to England.