Di.’Tis gone, the fierce inordinate desire,The burning thirst for action—utterly;Gone, like a ship that passes in the nightOn the high seas: gone, yet will come again:Gone, yet expresses something that exists.Is it a thing ordained, then? is it a clueFor my life’s conduct? is it a law for meThat opportunity shall breed distrust,Not passing until that pass? Chance and resolve,Like two loose comets wandering wide in space,Crossing each other’s orbits time on time,Meet never. Void indifference and doubtLet through the present boon, which ne’er turns backTo await the after sure-arriving wish.How shall I then explain it to myself,That in blank thought my purpose lives?The uncharged cannon mocking still the sparkWhencome, whicherecome it had loudly claimed.Am I to let it be so still? For trulyThe need exists, I know; the wish but sleeps(Sleeps, and anon will wake and cry for food);And to put by these unreturning gifts,Because the feeling is not with me now,Seems folly more than merest babyhood’s.But must I then do violence to myself,And push on nature, force desire (that’s ill),Because of knowledge? which is great, but worksBy rules of large exception; to tell whichNought is more fallible than mere caprice.What need for action yet? I am happy now,I feel no lack—what cause is there for haste?Am I not happy? is not that enough?Depart!Sp.O yes! you thought you had escaped, no doubt,This worldly fiend that follows you about,This compound of convention and impiety,This mongrel of uncleanness and propriety.What else were bad enough? but, let me say,I too have mygrandes manièresin my way;Could speak high sentiment as well as you,And out-blank-verse you without much ado;Have my religion also in my kind,For dreaming unfit, because not designed.What! you know not that I too can be serious,Can speak big words, and use the tone imperious;Can speak, not honiedly, of love and beauty,But sternly of a something much like duty.Oh, do you look surprised? were never told,Perhaps, that all that glitters is not gold.The Devil oft the Holy Scripture uses,But God can act the Devil when He chooses.Farewell! But,verbum sapienti satis—I do not make this revelation gratis.Farewell: beware!Di.Ill spirits can quote holy books I knew;What will theynotsay? what not dare to do?Sp.Beware, beware!Di.What, loitering still? Still, O foul spirit, there?Go hence, I tell thee, go! Iwillbeware.(Alone.) It must be then. I feel it in my soul;The iron enters, sundering flesh and bone,And sharper than the two-edged sword of God.I come into deep waters—help, O help!The floods run over me.Therefore, farewell! a long and last farewell,Ye pious sweet simplicities of life,Good books, good friends, and holy moods, and allThat lent rough life sweet Sunday seeming rests,Making earth heaven-like. Welcome, wicked world,The hardening heart, the calculating brainNarrowing its doors to thought, the lying lips,The calm-dissembling eyes; the greedy flesh,The world, the Devil—welcome, welcome, welcome!Sp.(from within.) This stern necessity of thingsOn every side our being rings;Our sallying eager actions fallVainly against that iron wall.Where once her finger points the way,The wise thinks only to obey;Take life as she has ordered it,And come what may of it, submit,Submit, submit!Who take implicitly her will,For these her vassal chances stillBring store of joys, successes, pleasures;But whoso ponders, weighs, and measures,She calls her torturers up to goadWith spur and scourges on the road;He does at last with pain whate’erHe spurned at first. Of such, beware,Beware, beware!Di.O God, O God! The great floods of the soulFlow over me! I come into deep watersWhere no ground is!Sp.Don’t be the least afraid;There’s not the slightest reason for alarm;I only meant by a perhaps rough shakeTo rouse you from a dreamy, unhealthy sleep.Up, then—up, and be going: the large world,The thronged life waits us.Come, my pretty boy,You have been making mows to the blank skyQuite long enough for good. We’ll put you upInto the higher form. ’Tis time you learnThe Second Reverence, for things around.Up, then, and go amongst them; don’t be timid;Look at them quietly a bit: by-and-byRespect will come, and healthy appetite.So let us go.How now! not yet awake?Oh, you will sleep yet, will you! Oh, you shirk,You try and slink away! You cannot, eh?Nay now, what folly’s this? Why will you fool yourself?Why will you walk about thus with your eyes shut?Treating for facts the self-made hues that flashOn tight-pressed pupils, which you know are not facts.To use the undistorted light of the sunIs not a crime; to look straight out uponThe big plain things that stare one in the faceDoes not contaminate; to see pollutes notWhat one must feel if one won’t see, whatis,And will be too, howe’er we blink, and mustOne way or other make itself observed.Free walking’s better than being led about; andWhat will the blind man do, I wonder, ifSome one should cut the string of his dog? Just think!What could you do, if I should go away?Oh, you have paths of your own before you, have you?What shall it take to? literature, no doubt?Novels, reviews? or poems! if you please!The strong fresh gale of life will feel, no doubt,The influx of your mouthful of soft air.Well, make the most of that small stock of knowledgeYou’ve condescended to receive from me;That’s your best chance. Oh, you despise that! Oh.Prate then of passions you have known in dreams,Of huge experience gathered by the eye;Be large of aspiration, pure in hope,Sweet in fond longings, but in all things vague;Breathe out your dreamy scepticism, relievedBy snatches of old songs. People will like that, doubtless.Or will you write about philosophy?For a waste far-offmaybeoverlookingThe fruitfulisclose by, live in metaphysic,With transcendental logic fill your stomach,Schematise joy, effigiate meat and drink;Or, let me see, a mighty work, a volume,The Complemental of the inferior Kant,The Critic of Pure Practice, based uponThe Antinomies of the Moral Sense: for, look you,We cannot act without assumingx,And at the same timey, its contradictory;Ergo, to act. People will buy that, doubtless.Or you’ll perhaps teach youth (I do not questionSome downward turn you may find, some evasionOf the broad highway’s glaring white ascent);Teach youth, in a small way, that is, always,So as to have much time left you for yourself;This you can’t sacrifice, your leisure’s precious.Heartily you will not take to anything;Whatever happen, don’t I see you still,Living no life at all? Even as nowAn o’ergrown baby, sucking at the dugsOf instinct, dry long since. Come, come, you are old enoughFor spoon-meat surely.Will you go on thusUntil death end you? if indeed it does.For what it does, none knows. Yet as for you,You’ll hardly have the courage to die outright;You’ll somehow halve even it. Methinks I see you,Through everlasting limbos of void time,Twirling and twiddling ineffectively,And indeterminately swaying for ever.Come, come, spoon-meat at any rate.Well, well,I will not persecute you more, my friend.Only do think, as I observed before,What can you do, if I should go away?Di.Is the hour here, then? Is the minute come—The irreprievable instant of stern time?O for a few, few grains in the running glass,Or for some power to hold them! O for a fewOf all that went so wastefully before!It must be then, e’en now.Sp.(from within.) It must, it must.’Tis common sense! and human witCan claim no higher name than it.Submit, submit!Necessity! and who shall dareBring toherfeet excuse or prayer?Beware, beware!We must, we must.Howe’er we turn, and pause and tremble—Howe’er we shrink, deceive, dissemble—Whate’er our doubting, grief, disgust,The hand is on us, and we must,We must, we must.’Tis common sense! and human witCan find no better name thanSubmit, submit!
Di.’Tis gone, the fierce inordinate desire,The burning thirst for action—utterly;Gone, like a ship that passes in the nightOn the high seas: gone, yet will come again:Gone, yet expresses something that exists.Is it a thing ordained, then? is it a clueFor my life’s conduct? is it a law for meThat opportunity shall breed distrust,Not passing until that pass? Chance and resolve,Like two loose comets wandering wide in space,Crossing each other’s orbits time on time,Meet never. Void indifference and doubtLet through the present boon, which ne’er turns backTo await the after sure-arriving wish.How shall I then explain it to myself,That in blank thought my purpose lives?The uncharged cannon mocking still the sparkWhencome, whicherecome it had loudly claimed.Am I to let it be so still? For trulyThe need exists, I know; the wish but sleeps(Sleeps, and anon will wake and cry for food);And to put by these unreturning gifts,Because the feeling is not with me now,Seems folly more than merest babyhood’s.But must I then do violence to myself,And push on nature, force desire (that’s ill),Because of knowledge? which is great, but worksBy rules of large exception; to tell whichNought is more fallible than mere caprice.What need for action yet? I am happy now,I feel no lack—what cause is there for haste?Am I not happy? is not that enough?Depart!Sp.O yes! you thought you had escaped, no doubt,This worldly fiend that follows you about,This compound of convention and impiety,This mongrel of uncleanness and propriety.What else were bad enough? but, let me say,I too have mygrandes manièresin my way;Could speak high sentiment as well as you,And out-blank-verse you without much ado;Have my religion also in my kind,For dreaming unfit, because not designed.What! you know not that I too can be serious,Can speak big words, and use the tone imperious;Can speak, not honiedly, of love and beauty,But sternly of a something much like duty.Oh, do you look surprised? were never told,Perhaps, that all that glitters is not gold.The Devil oft the Holy Scripture uses,But God can act the Devil when He chooses.Farewell! But,verbum sapienti satis—I do not make this revelation gratis.Farewell: beware!Di.Ill spirits can quote holy books I knew;What will theynotsay? what not dare to do?Sp.Beware, beware!Di.What, loitering still? Still, O foul spirit, there?Go hence, I tell thee, go! Iwillbeware.(Alone.) It must be then. I feel it in my soul;The iron enters, sundering flesh and bone,And sharper than the two-edged sword of God.I come into deep waters—help, O help!The floods run over me.Therefore, farewell! a long and last farewell,Ye pious sweet simplicities of life,Good books, good friends, and holy moods, and allThat lent rough life sweet Sunday seeming rests,Making earth heaven-like. Welcome, wicked world,The hardening heart, the calculating brainNarrowing its doors to thought, the lying lips,The calm-dissembling eyes; the greedy flesh,The world, the Devil—welcome, welcome, welcome!Sp.(from within.) This stern necessity of thingsOn every side our being rings;Our sallying eager actions fallVainly against that iron wall.Where once her finger points the way,The wise thinks only to obey;Take life as she has ordered it,And come what may of it, submit,Submit, submit!Who take implicitly her will,For these her vassal chances stillBring store of joys, successes, pleasures;But whoso ponders, weighs, and measures,She calls her torturers up to goadWith spur and scourges on the road;He does at last with pain whate’erHe spurned at first. Of such, beware,Beware, beware!Di.O God, O God! The great floods of the soulFlow over me! I come into deep watersWhere no ground is!Sp.Don’t be the least afraid;There’s not the slightest reason for alarm;I only meant by a perhaps rough shakeTo rouse you from a dreamy, unhealthy sleep.Up, then—up, and be going: the large world,The thronged life waits us.Come, my pretty boy,You have been making mows to the blank skyQuite long enough for good. We’ll put you upInto the higher form. ’Tis time you learnThe Second Reverence, for things around.Up, then, and go amongst them; don’t be timid;Look at them quietly a bit: by-and-byRespect will come, and healthy appetite.So let us go.How now! not yet awake?Oh, you will sleep yet, will you! Oh, you shirk,You try and slink away! You cannot, eh?Nay now, what folly’s this? Why will you fool yourself?Why will you walk about thus with your eyes shut?Treating for facts the self-made hues that flashOn tight-pressed pupils, which you know are not facts.To use the undistorted light of the sunIs not a crime; to look straight out uponThe big plain things that stare one in the faceDoes not contaminate; to see pollutes notWhat one must feel if one won’t see, whatis,And will be too, howe’er we blink, and mustOne way or other make itself observed.Free walking’s better than being led about; andWhat will the blind man do, I wonder, ifSome one should cut the string of his dog? Just think!What could you do, if I should go away?Oh, you have paths of your own before you, have you?What shall it take to? literature, no doubt?Novels, reviews? or poems! if you please!The strong fresh gale of life will feel, no doubt,The influx of your mouthful of soft air.Well, make the most of that small stock of knowledgeYou’ve condescended to receive from me;That’s your best chance. Oh, you despise that! Oh.Prate then of passions you have known in dreams,Of huge experience gathered by the eye;Be large of aspiration, pure in hope,Sweet in fond longings, but in all things vague;Breathe out your dreamy scepticism, relievedBy snatches of old songs. People will like that, doubtless.Or will you write about philosophy?For a waste far-offmaybeoverlookingThe fruitfulisclose by, live in metaphysic,With transcendental logic fill your stomach,Schematise joy, effigiate meat and drink;Or, let me see, a mighty work, a volume,The Complemental of the inferior Kant,The Critic of Pure Practice, based uponThe Antinomies of the Moral Sense: for, look you,We cannot act without assumingx,And at the same timey, its contradictory;Ergo, to act. People will buy that, doubtless.Or you’ll perhaps teach youth (I do not questionSome downward turn you may find, some evasionOf the broad highway’s glaring white ascent);Teach youth, in a small way, that is, always,So as to have much time left you for yourself;This you can’t sacrifice, your leisure’s precious.Heartily you will not take to anything;Whatever happen, don’t I see you still,Living no life at all? Even as nowAn o’ergrown baby, sucking at the dugsOf instinct, dry long since. Come, come, you are old enoughFor spoon-meat surely.Will you go on thusUntil death end you? if indeed it does.For what it does, none knows. Yet as for you,You’ll hardly have the courage to die outright;You’ll somehow halve even it. Methinks I see you,Through everlasting limbos of void time,Twirling and twiddling ineffectively,And indeterminately swaying for ever.Come, come, spoon-meat at any rate.Well, well,I will not persecute you more, my friend.Only do think, as I observed before,What can you do, if I should go away?Di.Is the hour here, then? Is the minute come—The irreprievable instant of stern time?O for a few, few grains in the running glass,Or for some power to hold them! O for a fewOf all that went so wastefully before!It must be then, e’en now.Sp.(from within.) It must, it must.’Tis common sense! and human witCan claim no higher name than it.Submit, submit!Necessity! and who shall dareBring toherfeet excuse or prayer?Beware, beware!We must, we must.Howe’er we turn, and pause and tremble—Howe’er we shrink, deceive, dissemble—Whate’er our doubting, grief, disgust,The hand is on us, and we must,We must, we must.’Tis common sense! and human witCan find no better name thanSubmit, submit!
Di.’Tis gone, the fierce inordinate desire,The burning thirst for action—utterly;Gone, like a ship that passes in the nightOn the high seas: gone, yet will come again:Gone, yet expresses something that exists.Is it a thing ordained, then? is it a clueFor my life’s conduct? is it a law for meThat opportunity shall breed distrust,Not passing until that pass? Chance and resolve,Like two loose comets wandering wide in space,Crossing each other’s orbits time on time,Meet never. Void indifference and doubtLet through the present boon, which ne’er turns backTo await the after sure-arriving wish.How shall I then explain it to myself,That in blank thought my purpose lives?The uncharged cannon mocking still the sparkWhencome, whicherecome it had loudly claimed.Am I to let it be so still? For trulyThe need exists, I know; the wish but sleeps(Sleeps, and anon will wake and cry for food);And to put by these unreturning gifts,Because the feeling is not with me now,Seems folly more than merest babyhood’s.But must I then do violence to myself,And push on nature, force desire (that’s ill),Because of knowledge? which is great, but worksBy rules of large exception; to tell whichNought is more fallible than mere caprice.
Di.’Tis gone, the fierce inordinate desire,
The burning thirst for action—utterly;
Gone, like a ship that passes in the night
On the high seas: gone, yet will come again:
Gone, yet expresses something that exists.
Is it a thing ordained, then? is it a clue
For my life’s conduct? is it a law for me
That opportunity shall breed distrust,
Not passing until that pass? Chance and resolve,
Like two loose comets wandering wide in space,
Crossing each other’s orbits time on time,
Meet never. Void indifference and doubt
Let through the present boon, which ne’er turns back
To await the after sure-arriving wish.
How shall I then explain it to myself,
That in blank thought my purpose lives?
The uncharged cannon mocking still the spark
Whencome, whicherecome it had loudly claimed.
Am I to let it be so still? For truly
The need exists, I know; the wish but sleeps
(Sleeps, and anon will wake and cry for food);
And to put by these unreturning gifts,
Because the feeling is not with me now,
Seems folly more than merest babyhood’s.
But must I then do violence to myself,
And push on nature, force desire (that’s ill),
Because of knowledge? which is great, but works
By rules of large exception; to tell which
Nought is more fallible than mere caprice.
What need for action yet? I am happy now,I feel no lack—what cause is there for haste?Am I not happy? is not that enough?Depart!
What need for action yet? I am happy now,
I feel no lack—what cause is there for haste?
Am I not happy? is not that enough?
Depart!
Sp.O yes! you thought you had escaped, no doubt,This worldly fiend that follows you about,This compound of convention and impiety,This mongrel of uncleanness and propriety.What else were bad enough? but, let me say,I too have mygrandes manièresin my way;Could speak high sentiment as well as you,And out-blank-verse you without much ado;Have my religion also in my kind,For dreaming unfit, because not designed.What! you know not that I too can be serious,Can speak big words, and use the tone imperious;Can speak, not honiedly, of love and beauty,But sternly of a something much like duty.Oh, do you look surprised? were never told,Perhaps, that all that glitters is not gold.The Devil oft the Holy Scripture uses,But God can act the Devil when He chooses.Farewell! But,verbum sapienti satis—I do not make this revelation gratis.Farewell: beware!
Sp.O yes! you thought you had escaped, no doubt,
This worldly fiend that follows you about,
This compound of convention and impiety,
This mongrel of uncleanness and propriety.
What else were bad enough? but, let me say,
I too have mygrandes manièresin my way;
Could speak high sentiment as well as you,
And out-blank-verse you without much ado;
Have my religion also in my kind,
For dreaming unfit, because not designed.
What! you know not that I too can be serious,
Can speak big words, and use the tone imperious;
Can speak, not honiedly, of love and beauty,
But sternly of a something much like duty.
Oh, do you look surprised? were never told,
Perhaps, that all that glitters is not gold.
The Devil oft the Holy Scripture uses,
But God can act the Devil when He chooses.
Farewell! But,verbum sapienti satis—
I do not make this revelation gratis.
Farewell: beware!
Di.Ill spirits can quote holy books I knew;What will theynotsay? what not dare to do?
Di.Ill spirits can quote holy books I knew;
What will theynotsay? what not dare to do?
Sp.Beware, beware!
Sp.Beware, beware!
Di.What, loitering still? Still, O foul spirit, there?Go hence, I tell thee, go! Iwillbeware.(Alone.) It must be then. I feel it in my soul;The iron enters, sundering flesh and bone,And sharper than the two-edged sword of God.I come into deep waters—help, O help!The floods run over me.
Di.What, loitering still? Still, O foul spirit, there?
Go hence, I tell thee, go! Iwillbeware.
(Alone.) It must be then. I feel it in my soul;
The iron enters, sundering flesh and bone,
And sharper than the two-edged sword of God.
I come into deep waters—help, O help!
The floods run over me.
Therefore, farewell! a long and last farewell,Ye pious sweet simplicities of life,Good books, good friends, and holy moods, and allThat lent rough life sweet Sunday seeming rests,Making earth heaven-like. Welcome, wicked world,The hardening heart, the calculating brainNarrowing its doors to thought, the lying lips,The calm-dissembling eyes; the greedy flesh,The world, the Devil—welcome, welcome, welcome!
Therefore, farewell! a long and last farewell,
Ye pious sweet simplicities of life,
Good books, good friends, and holy moods, and all
That lent rough life sweet Sunday seeming rests,
Making earth heaven-like. Welcome, wicked world,
The hardening heart, the calculating brain
Narrowing its doors to thought, the lying lips,
The calm-dissembling eyes; the greedy flesh,
The world, the Devil—welcome, welcome, welcome!
Sp.(from within.) This stern necessity of thingsOn every side our being rings;Our sallying eager actions fallVainly against that iron wall.Where once her finger points the way,The wise thinks only to obey;Take life as she has ordered it,And come what may of it, submit,Submit, submit!
Sp.(from within.) This stern necessity of things
On every side our being rings;
Our sallying eager actions fall
Vainly against that iron wall.
Where once her finger points the way,
The wise thinks only to obey;
Take life as she has ordered it,
And come what may of it, submit,
Submit, submit!
Who take implicitly her will,For these her vassal chances stillBring store of joys, successes, pleasures;But whoso ponders, weighs, and measures,She calls her torturers up to goadWith spur and scourges on the road;He does at last with pain whate’erHe spurned at first. Of such, beware,Beware, beware!
Who take implicitly her will,
For these her vassal chances still
Bring store of joys, successes, pleasures;
But whoso ponders, weighs, and measures,
She calls her torturers up to goad
With spur and scourges on the road;
He does at last with pain whate’er
He spurned at first. Of such, beware,
Beware, beware!
Di.O God, O God! The great floods of the soulFlow over me! I come into deep watersWhere no ground is!
Di.O God, O God! The great floods of the soul
Flow over me! I come into deep waters
Where no ground is!
Sp.Don’t be the least afraid;There’s not the slightest reason for alarm;I only meant by a perhaps rough shakeTo rouse you from a dreamy, unhealthy sleep.Up, then—up, and be going: the large world,The thronged life waits us.Come, my pretty boy,You have been making mows to the blank skyQuite long enough for good. We’ll put you upInto the higher form. ’Tis time you learnThe Second Reverence, for things around.Up, then, and go amongst them; don’t be timid;Look at them quietly a bit: by-and-byRespect will come, and healthy appetite.So let us go.How now! not yet awake?Oh, you will sleep yet, will you! Oh, you shirk,You try and slink away! You cannot, eh?Nay now, what folly’s this? Why will you fool yourself?Why will you walk about thus with your eyes shut?Treating for facts the self-made hues that flashOn tight-pressed pupils, which you know are not facts.To use the undistorted light of the sunIs not a crime; to look straight out uponThe big plain things that stare one in the faceDoes not contaminate; to see pollutes notWhat one must feel if one won’t see, whatis,And will be too, howe’er we blink, and mustOne way or other make itself observed.Free walking’s better than being led about; andWhat will the blind man do, I wonder, ifSome one should cut the string of his dog? Just think!What could you do, if I should go away?Oh, you have paths of your own before you, have you?What shall it take to? literature, no doubt?Novels, reviews? or poems! if you please!The strong fresh gale of life will feel, no doubt,The influx of your mouthful of soft air.Well, make the most of that small stock of knowledgeYou’ve condescended to receive from me;That’s your best chance. Oh, you despise that! Oh.Prate then of passions you have known in dreams,Of huge experience gathered by the eye;Be large of aspiration, pure in hope,Sweet in fond longings, but in all things vague;Breathe out your dreamy scepticism, relievedBy snatches of old songs. People will like that, doubtless.Or will you write about philosophy?For a waste far-offmaybeoverlookingThe fruitfulisclose by, live in metaphysic,With transcendental logic fill your stomach,Schematise joy, effigiate meat and drink;Or, let me see, a mighty work, a volume,The Complemental of the inferior Kant,The Critic of Pure Practice, based uponThe Antinomies of the Moral Sense: for, look you,We cannot act without assumingx,And at the same timey, its contradictory;Ergo, to act. People will buy that, doubtless.Or you’ll perhaps teach youth (I do not questionSome downward turn you may find, some evasionOf the broad highway’s glaring white ascent);Teach youth, in a small way, that is, always,So as to have much time left you for yourself;This you can’t sacrifice, your leisure’s precious.Heartily you will not take to anything;Whatever happen, don’t I see you still,Living no life at all? Even as nowAn o’ergrown baby, sucking at the dugsOf instinct, dry long since. Come, come, you are old enoughFor spoon-meat surely.Will you go on thusUntil death end you? if indeed it does.For what it does, none knows. Yet as for you,You’ll hardly have the courage to die outright;You’ll somehow halve even it. Methinks I see you,Through everlasting limbos of void time,Twirling and twiddling ineffectively,And indeterminately swaying for ever.Come, come, spoon-meat at any rate.Well, well,I will not persecute you more, my friend.Only do think, as I observed before,What can you do, if I should go away?
Sp.Don’t be the least afraid;
There’s not the slightest reason for alarm;
I only meant by a perhaps rough shake
To rouse you from a dreamy, unhealthy sleep.
Up, then—up, and be going: the large world,
The thronged life waits us.
Come, my pretty boy,
You have been making mows to the blank sky
Quite long enough for good. We’ll put you up
Into the higher form. ’Tis time you learn
The Second Reverence, for things around.
Up, then, and go amongst them; don’t be timid;
Look at them quietly a bit: by-and-by
Respect will come, and healthy appetite.
So let us go.
How now! not yet awake?
Oh, you will sleep yet, will you! Oh, you shirk,
You try and slink away! You cannot, eh?
Nay now, what folly’s this? Why will you fool yourself?
Why will you walk about thus with your eyes shut?
Treating for facts the self-made hues that flash
On tight-pressed pupils, which you know are not facts.
To use the undistorted light of the sun
Is not a crime; to look straight out upon
The big plain things that stare one in the face
Does not contaminate; to see pollutes not
What one must feel if one won’t see, whatis,
And will be too, howe’er we blink, and must
One way or other make itself observed.
Free walking’s better than being led about; and
What will the blind man do, I wonder, if
Some one should cut the string of his dog? Just think!
What could you do, if I should go away?
Oh, you have paths of your own before you, have you?
What shall it take to? literature, no doubt?
Novels, reviews? or poems! if you please!
The strong fresh gale of life will feel, no doubt,
The influx of your mouthful of soft air.
Well, make the most of that small stock of knowledge
You’ve condescended to receive from me;
That’s your best chance. Oh, you despise that! Oh.
Prate then of passions you have known in dreams,
Of huge experience gathered by the eye;
Be large of aspiration, pure in hope,
Sweet in fond longings, but in all things vague;
Breathe out your dreamy scepticism, relieved
By snatches of old songs. People will like that, doubtless.
Or will you write about philosophy?
For a waste far-offmaybeoverlooking
The fruitfulisclose by, live in metaphysic,
With transcendental logic fill your stomach,
Schematise joy, effigiate meat and drink;
Or, let me see, a mighty work, a volume,
The Complemental of the inferior Kant,
The Critic of Pure Practice, based upon
The Antinomies of the Moral Sense: for, look you,
We cannot act without assumingx,
And at the same timey, its contradictory;
Ergo, to act. People will buy that, doubtless.
Or you’ll perhaps teach youth (I do not question
Some downward turn you may find, some evasion
Of the broad highway’s glaring white ascent);
Teach youth, in a small way, that is, always,
So as to have much time left you for yourself;
This you can’t sacrifice, your leisure’s precious.
Heartily you will not take to anything;
Whatever happen, don’t I see you still,
Living no life at all? Even as now
An o’ergrown baby, sucking at the dugs
Of instinct, dry long since. Come, come, you are old enough
For spoon-meat surely.
Will you go on thus
Until death end you? if indeed it does.
For what it does, none knows. Yet as for you,
You’ll hardly have the courage to die outright;
You’ll somehow halve even it. Methinks I see you,
Through everlasting limbos of void time,
Twirling and twiddling ineffectively,
And indeterminately swaying for ever.
Come, come, spoon-meat at any rate.
Well, well,
I will not persecute you more, my friend.
Only do think, as I observed before,
What can you do, if I should go away?
Di.Is the hour here, then? Is the minute come—The irreprievable instant of stern time?O for a few, few grains in the running glass,Or for some power to hold them! O for a fewOf all that went so wastefully before!It must be then, e’en now.
Di.Is the hour here, then? Is the minute come—
The irreprievable instant of stern time?
O for a few, few grains in the running glass,
Or for some power to hold them! O for a few
Of all that went so wastefully before!
It must be then, e’en now.
Sp.(from within.) It must, it must.’Tis common sense! and human witCan claim no higher name than it.Submit, submit!
Sp.(from within.) It must, it must.
’Tis common sense! and human wit
Can claim no higher name than it.
Submit, submit!
Necessity! and who shall dareBring toherfeet excuse or prayer?Beware, beware!We must, we must.Howe’er we turn, and pause and tremble—Howe’er we shrink, deceive, dissemble—Whate’er our doubting, grief, disgust,The hand is on us, and we must,We must, we must.’Tis common sense! and human witCan find no better name thanSubmit, submit!
Necessity! and who shall dare
Bring toherfeet excuse or prayer?
Beware, beware!
We must, we must.
Howe’er we turn, and pause and tremble—
Howe’er we shrink, deceive, dissemble—
Whate’er our doubting, grief, disgust,
The hand is on us, and we must,
We must, we must.
’Tis common sense! and human wit
Can find no better name than
Submit, submit!
Di.I had a vision; was it in my sleep?And if it were, what then? But sleep or wake,I saw a great light open o’er my head;And sleep or wake, uplifted to that light,Out of that light proceeding heard a voiceUttering high words, which, whether sleep or wake,In me were fixed, and in me must abide.When the enemy is near thee,Call on us!In our hands we will upbear thee,He shall neither scathe nor scare thee,He shall fly thee, and shall fear thee.Call on us!Call when all good friends have left thee,Of all good sights and sounds bereft thee;Call when hope and heart are sinking,And the brain is sick with thinking,Help, O help!Call, and following close behind theeThere shall haste, and there shall find thee,Help, sure help.When the panic comes upon thee,When necessity seems on thee,Hope and choice have all foregone thee,Fate and force are closing o’er thee,And but one way stands before thee—Call on us!Oh, and if thou dost not call,Be but faithful, that is all.Go right on, and close behind theeThere shall follow still and find thee,Help, sure help.
Di.I had a vision; was it in my sleep?And if it were, what then? But sleep or wake,I saw a great light open o’er my head;And sleep or wake, uplifted to that light,Out of that light proceeding heard a voiceUttering high words, which, whether sleep or wake,In me were fixed, and in me must abide.When the enemy is near thee,Call on us!In our hands we will upbear thee,He shall neither scathe nor scare thee,He shall fly thee, and shall fear thee.Call on us!Call when all good friends have left thee,Of all good sights and sounds bereft thee;Call when hope and heart are sinking,And the brain is sick with thinking,Help, O help!Call, and following close behind theeThere shall haste, and there shall find thee,Help, sure help.When the panic comes upon thee,When necessity seems on thee,Hope and choice have all foregone thee,Fate and force are closing o’er thee,And but one way stands before thee—Call on us!Oh, and if thou dost not call,Be but faithful, that is all.Go right on, and close behind theeThere shall follow still and find thee,Help, sure help.
Di.I had a vision; was it in my sleep?And if it were, what then? But sleep or wake,I saw a great light open o’er my head;And sleep or wake, uplifted to that light,Out of that light proceeding heard a voiceUttering high words, which, whether sleep or wake,In me were fixed, and in me must abide.When the enemy is near thee,Call on us!In our hands we will upbear thee,He shall neither scathe nor scare thee,He shall fly thee, and shall fear thee.Call on us!Call when all good friends have left thee,Of all good sights and sounds bereft thee;Call when hope and heart are sinking,And the brain is sick with thinking,Help, O help!Call, and following close behind theeThere shall haste, and there shall find thee,Help, sure help.
Di.I had a vision; was it in my sleep?
And if it were, what then? But sleep or wake,
I saw a great light open o’er my head;
And sleep or wake, uplifted to that light,
Out of that light proceeding heard a voice
Uttering high words, which, whether sleep or wake,
In me were fixed, and in me must abide.
When the enemy is near thee,
Call on us!
In our hands we will upbear thee,
He shall neither scathe nor scare thee,
He shall fly thee, and shall fear thee.
Call on us!
Call when all good friends have left thee,
Of all good sights and sounds bereft thee;
Call when hope and heart are sinking,
And the brain is sick with thinking,
Help, O help!
Call, and following close behind thee
There shall haste, and there shall find thee,
Help, sure help.
When the panic comes upon thee,When necessity seems on thee,Hope and choice have all foregone thee,Fate and force are closing o’er thee,And but one way stands before thee—Call on us!Oh, and if thou dost not call,Be but faithful, that is all.Go right on, and close behind theeThere shall follow still and find thee,Help, sure help.
When the panic comes upon thee,
When necessity seems on thee,
Hope and choice have all foregone thee,
Fate and force are closing o’er thee,
And but one way stands before thee—
Call on us!
Oh, and if thou dost not call,
Be but faithful, that is all.
Go right on, and close behind thee
There shall follow still and find thee,
Help, sure help.
Di.Not for thy service, thou imperious fiend,Not to do thy work, or the like of thine;Not to please thee, O base and fallen spirit!But One Most High, Most True, whom without theeIt seems I cannot.O the miseryThat one must truck and pactise with the worldTo gain the ’vantage-ground to assail it from,To set upon the Giant one must first,O perfidy! have eat the Giant’s bread.If I submit, it is but to gain timeAnd arms and stature: ’tis but to lie safeUntil the hour strike to arise and slay:’Tis the old story of the adder’s broodFeeding and nestling till the fangs be grown.Were it not nobler done, then, to act fair,To accept the service with the wages, doFrankly the devil’s work for the devil’s pay?Oh, but another my allegiance holdsInalienably his. How much soe’erI might submit, it must be to rebel.Submit then sullenly, that’s no dishonour.Yet I could deem it better too to starveAnd die untraitored. O, who sent me, though?Sent me, and to do something—O hard master!—To do a treachery. But indeed ’tis done;I have already taken of the payAnd curst the payer; take I must, curse too.Alas! the little strength that I possessDerives, I think, of him. So still it is,The timid child that clung unto her skirts,A boy, will slight his mother, and, grown a man,His father too. There’s Scripture too for that!Do we owe fathers nothing—mothers nought?Is filial duty folly? Yet He says,‘He that loves father, mother more than me;’Yea, and ‘the man his parents shall desert,’The Ordinance says, ‘and cleave unto his wife.’O man, behold thy wife, the hard naked world;Adam, accept thy Eve.So still it is,The tree exhausts the soil; creepers kill it,Their insects them: the lever finds its fulcrumOn what it then o’erthrows; the homely spadeIn labour’s hand unscrupulously seeksIts first momentum on the very clodWhich next will be upturned. It seems a law.And am not I, though I but ill recallMy happier age, a kidnapped child of Heaven,Whom these uncircumcised PhilistinesHave by foul play shorn, blinded, maimed, and keptFor what more glorious than to make them sport?Wait, then, wait, O my soul! grow, grow, ye locks,Then perish they, and if need is, I too.Sp.(aside.) A truly admirable proceeding!Could there be finer special pleadingWhen scruples would be interceding?There’s no occasion I should stay;He is working out, his own queer way,The sum I set him; and this dayWill bring it, neither less nor bigger,Exact to my predestined figure.
Di.Not for thy service, thou imperious fiend,Not to do thy work, or the like of thine;Not to please thee, O base and fallen spirit!But One Most High, Most True, whom without theeIt seems I cannot.O the miseryThat one must truck and pactise with the worldTo gain the ’vantage-ground to assail it from,To set upon the Giant one must first,O perfidy! have eat the Giant’s bread.If I submit, it is but to gain timeAnd arms and stature: ’tis but to lie safeUntil the hour strike to arise and slay:’Tis the old story of the adder’s broodFeeding and nestling till the fangs be grown.Were it not nobler done, then, to act fair,To accept the service with the wages, doFrankly the devil’s work for the devil’s pay?Oh, but another my allegiance holdsInalienably his. How much soe’erI might submit, it must be to rebel.Submit then sullenly, that’s no dishonour.Yet I could deem it better too to starveAnd die untraitored. O, who sent me, though?Sent me, and to do something—O hard master!—To do a treachery. But indeed ’tis done;I have already taken of the payAnd curst the payer; take I must, curse too.Alas! the little strength that I possessDerives, I think, of him. So still it is,The timid child that clung unto her skirts,A boy, will slight his mother, and, grown a man,His father too. There’s Scripture too for that!Do we owe fathers nothing—mothers nought?Is filial duty folly? Yet He says,‘He that loves father, mother more than me;’Yea, and ‘the man his parents shall desert,’The Ordinance says, ‘and cleave unto his wife.’O man, behold thy wife, the hard naked world;Adam, accept thy Eve.So still it is,The tree exhausts the soil; creepers kill it,Their insects them: the lever finds its fulcrumOn what it then o’erthrows; the homely spadeIn labour’s hand unscrupulously seeksIts first momentum on the very clodWhich next will be upturned. It seems a law.And am not I, though I but ill recallMy happier age, a kidnapped child of Heaven,Whom these uncircumcised PhilistinesHave by foul play shorn, blinded, maimed, and keptFor what more glorious than to make them sport?Wait, then, wait, O my soul! grow, grow, ye locks,Then perish they, and if need is, I too.Sp.(aside.) A truly admirable proceeding!Could there be finer special pleadingWhen scruples would be interceding?There’s no occasion I should stay;He is working out, his own queer way,The sum I set him; and this dayWill bring it, neither less nor bigger,Exact to my predestined figure.
Di.Not for thy service, thou imperious fiend,Not to do thy work, or the like of thine;Not to please thee, O base and fallen spirit!But One Most High, Most True, whom without theeIt seems I cannot.O the miseryThat one must truck and pactise with the worldTo gain the ’vantage-ground to assail it from,To set upon the Giant one must first,O perfidy! have eat the Giant’s bread.If I submit, it is but to gain timeAnd arms and stature: ’tis but to lie safeUntil the hour strike to arise and slay:’Tis the old story of the adder’s broodFeeding and nestling till the fangs be grown.Were it not nobler done, then, to act fair,To accept the service with the wages, doFrankly the devil’s work for the devil’s pay?Oh, but another my allegiance holdsInalienably his. How much soe’erI might submit, it must be to rebel.Submit then sullenly, that’s no dishonour.Yet I could deem it better too to starveAnd die untraitored. O, who sent me, though?Sent me, and to do something—O hard master!—To do a treachery. But indeed ’tis done;I have already taken of the payAnd curst the payer; take I must, curse too.Alas! the little strength that I possessDerives, I think, of him. So still it is,The timid child that clung unto her skirts,A boy, will slight his mother, and, grown a man,His father too. There’s Scripture too for that!Do we owe fathers nothing—mothers nought?Is filial duty folly? Yet He says,‘He that loves father, mother more than me;’Yea, and ‘the man his parents shall desert,’The Ordinance says, ‘and cleave unto his wife.’O man, behold thy wife, the hard naked world;Adam, accept thy Eve.So still it is,The tree exhausts the soil; creepers kill it,Their insects them: the lever finds its fulcrumOn what it then o’erthrows; the homely spadeIn labour’s hand unscrupulously seeksIts first momentum on the very clodWhich next will be upturned. It seems a law.And am not I, though I but ill recallMy happier age, a kidnapped child of Heaven,Whom these uncircumcised PhilistinesHave by foul play shorn, blinded, maimed, and keptFor what more glorious than to make them sport?Wait, then, wait, O my soul! grow, grow, ye locks,Then perish they, and if need is, I too.
Di.Not for thy service, thou imperious fiend,
Not to do thy work, or the like of thine;
Not to please thee, O base and fallen spirit!
But One Most High, Most True, whom without thee
It seems I cannot.
O the misery
That one must truck and pactise with the world
To gain the ’vantage-ground to assail it from,
To set upon the Giant one must first,
O perfidy! have eat the Giant’s bread.
If I submit, it is but to gain time
And arms and stature: ’tis but to lie safe
Until the hour strike to arise and slay:
’Tis the old story of the adder’s brood
Feeding and nestling till the fangs be grown.
Were it not nobler done, then, to act fair,
To accept the service with the wages, do
Frankly the devil’s work for the devil’s pay?
Oh, but another my allegiance holds
Inalienably his. How much soe’er
I might submit, it must be to rebel.
Submit then sullenly, that’s no dishonour.
Yet I could deem it better too to starve
And die untraitored. O, who sent me, though?
Sent me, and to do something—O hard master!—
To do a treachery. But indeed ’tis done;
I have already taken of the pay
And curst the payer; take I must, curse too.
Alas! the little strength that I possess
Derives, I think, of him. So still it is,
The timid child that clung unto her skirts,
A boy, will slight his mother, and, grown a man,
His father too. There’s Scripture too for that!
Do we owe fathers nothing—mothers nought?
Is filial duty folly? Yet He says,
‘He that loves father, mother more than me;’
Yea, and ‘the man his parents shall desert,’
The Ordinance says, ‘and cleave unto his wife.’
O man, behold thy wife, the hard naked world;
Adam, accept thy Eve.
So still it is,
The tree exhausts the soil; creepers kill it,
Their insects them: the lever finds its fulcrum
On what it then o’erthrows; the homely spade
In labour’s hand unscrupulously seeks
Its first momentum on the very clod
Which next will be upturned. It seems a law.
And am not I, though I but ill recall
My happier age, a kidnapped child of Heaven,
Whom these uncircumcised Philistines
Have by foul play shorn, blinded, maimed, and kept
For what more glorious than to make them sport?
Wait, then, wait, O my soul! grow, grow, ye locks,
Then perish they, and if need is, I too.
Sp.(aside.) A truly admirable proceeding!Could there be finer special pleadingWhen scruples would be interceding?There’s no occasion I should stay;He is working out, his own queer way,The sum I set him; and this dayWill bring it, neither less nor bigger,Exact to my predestined figure.
Sp.(aside.) A truly admirable proceeding!
Could there be finer special pleading
When scruples would be interceding?
There’s no occasion I should stay;
He is working out, his own queer way,
The sum I set him; and this day
Will bring it, neither less nor bigger,
Exact to my predestined figure.
Di.Twenty-one past—twenty-five coming on;One-third of life departed, nothing done.Out of the mammon of unrighteousnessThat we make friends, the Scripture is express.My Spirit, come, we will agree;Content, you’ll take a moiety.Sp.A moiety, ye gods, he, he!Di.Three-quarters then? O griping beast;Leave me a decimal at least.Sp.Oh, one of ten! to infect the nineAnd make the devil a one be mine!Oh, one! to jib all day, God wot,When all the rest would go full trot!One very little one, eh? to doubt with,Just to pause, think, and look about with?In course! you counted on no less—You thought it likely I’d say yes!Di.Be it then thus—since that it must, it seems.Welcome, O world, henceforth; and farewell dreams!Yet know, Mephisto, know, nor you nor ICan in this matter either sell or buy;For the fee simple of this trifling lotTo you or me, trust me, pertaineth not.I can but render what is of my will,And behind it somewhat remaineth still.Oh, your sole chance was in the childish mindWhose darkness dreamed that vows like this could bind;Thinking all lost, it made all lost, and broughtIn fact the ruin which had been but thought.Thank Heaven (or you) that’s past these many years,And we have knowledge wiser than our fears.So your poor bargain take, my man,And make the best of it you can.Sp.With reservations! oh, how treasonable!When I had let you off so reasonable.However, I don’t fear; be it so!Brutus is honourable, I know;So mindful of the dues of others,So thoughtful for his poor dear brothers,So scrupulous, considerate, kind—He wouldn’t leave the devil behindIf he assured him he had claimsFor his good company to hell-flames!No matter, no matter, the bargain’s made;And I for my part will not be afraid.With reservations! oh! ho, ho!But time, my friend, has yet to showWhich of us two will closest fitThe proverb of the Biter Bit.Di.Tell me thy name, now it is over.Sp.Oh!Why, Mephistophiles, you know—At least you’ve lately called me so;Belial it was some days ago.But take your pick; I’ve got a score—Never a royal baby more.For a brass plate upon a doorWhat think you ofCosmocrator?Di.Τοὺς κοσμοκράτορας τοῦ αἰῶνος τούτου.And that you are indeed, I do not doubt you.Sp.Ephesians, ain’t it? near the endYou dropt a word to spare your friend.What follows, too, in applicationWould be absurd exaggeration.Di.The Power of this World! hateful unto God.Sp.Cosmarchon’s shorter, but sounds odd:One wouldn’t like, even if a true devil,To be taken for a vulgar Jew devil.Di.Yet in all these things we—’tis Scripture too—Are more than conquerors, even over you.Sp.Come, come, don’t maunder any longer,Time tests the weaker and the stronger;And we, without procrastination,Must set, you know, to our vocation.O goodness; won’t you find it pleasantTo own the positive and present;To see yourself like people round,And feel your feet upon the ground! (Exeunt.)
Di.Twenty-one past—twenty-five coming on;One-third of life departed, nothing done.Out of the mammon of unrighteousnessThat we make friends, the Scripture is express.My Spirit, come, we will agree;Content, you’ll take a moiety.Sp.A moiety, ye gods, he, he!Di.Three-quarters then? O griping beast;Leave me a decimal at least.Sp.Oh, one of ten! to infect the nineAnd make the devil a one be mine!Oh, one! to jib all day, God wot,When all the rest would go full trot!One very little one, eh? to doubt with,Just to pause, think, and look about with?In course! you counted on no less—You thought it likely I’d say yes!Di.Be it then thus—since that it must, it seems.Welcome, O world, henceforth; and farewell dreams!Yet know, Mephisto, know, nor you nor ICan in this matter either sell or buy;For the fee simple of this trifling lotTo you or me, trust me, pertaineth not.I can but render what is of my will,And behind it somewhat remaineth still.Oh, your sole chance was in the childish mindWhose darkness dreamed that vows like this could bind;Thinking all lost, it made all lost, and broughtIn fact the ruin which had been but thought.Thank Heaven (or you) that’s past these many years,And we have knowledge wiser than our fears.So your poor bargain take, my man,And make the best of it you can.Sp.With reservations! oh, how treasonable!When I had let you off so reasonable.However, I don’t fear; be it so!Brutus is honourable, I know;So mindful of the dues of others,So thoughtful for his poor dear brothers,So scrupulous, considerate, kind—He wouldn’t leave the devil behindIf he assured him he had claimsFor his good company to hell-flames!No matter, no matter, the bargain’s made;And I for my part will not be afraid.With reservations! oh! ho, ho!But time, my friend, has yet to showWhich of us two will closest fitThe proverb of the Biter Bit.Di.Tell me thy name, now it is over.Sp.Oh!Why, Mephistophiles, you know—At least you’ve lately called me so;Belial it was some days ago.But take your pick; I’ve got a score—Never a royal baby more.For a brass plate upon a doorWhat think you ofCosmocrator?Di.Τοὺς κοσμοκράτορας τοῦ αἰῶνος τούτου.And that you are indeed, I do not doubt you.Sp.Ephesians, ain’t it? near the endYou dropt a word to spare your friend.What follows, too, in applicationWould be absurd exaggeration.Di.The Power of this World! hateful unto God.Sp.Cosmarchon’s shorter, but sounds odd:One wouldn’t like, even if a true devil,To be taken for a vulgar Jew devil.Di.Yet in all these things we—’tis Scripture too—Are more than conquerors, even over you.Sp.Come, come, don’t maunder any longer,Time tests the weaker and the stronger;And we, without procrastination,Must set, you know, to our vocation.O goodness; won’t you find it pleasantTo own the positive and present;To see yourself like people round,And feel your feet upon the ground! (Exeunt.)
Di.Twenty-one past—twenty-five coming on;One-third of life departed, nothing done.Out of the mammon of unrighteousnessThat we make friends, the Scripture is express.My Spirit, come, we will agree;Content, you’ll take a moiety.
Di.Twenty-one past—twenty-five coming on;
One-third of life departed, nothing done.
Out of the mammon of unrighteousness
That we make friends, the Scripture is express.
My Spirit, come, we will agree;
Content, you’ll take a moiety.
Sp.A moiety, ye gods, he, he!
Sp.A moiety, ye gods, he, he!
Di.Three-quarters then? O griping beast;Leave me a decimal at least.
Di.Three-quarters then? O griping beast;
Leave me a decimal at least.
Sp.Oh, one of ten! to infect the nineAnd make the devil a one be mine!Oh, one! to jib all day, God wot,When all the rest would go full trot!One very little one, eh? to doubt with,Just to pause, think, and look about with?In course! you counted on no less—You thought it likely I’d say yes!
Sp.Oh, one of ten! to infect the nine
And make the devil a one be mine!
Oh, one! to jib all day, God wot,
When all the rest would go full trot!
One very little one, eh? to doubt with,
Just to pause, think, and look about with?
In course! you counted on no less—
You thought it likely I’d say yes!
Di.Be it then thus—since that it must, it seems.Welcome, O world, henceforth; and farewell dreams!Yet know, Mephisto, know, nor you nor ICan in this matter either sell or buy;For the fee simple of this trifling lotTo you or me, trust me, pertaineth not.I can but render what is of my will,And behind it somewhat remaineth still.Oh, your sole chance was in the childish mindWhose darkness dreamed that vows like this could bind;Thinking all lost, it made all lost, and broughtIn fact the ruin which had been but thought.Thank Heaven (or you) that’s past these many years,And we have knowledge wiser than our fears.So your poor bargain take, my man,And make the best of it you can.
Di.Be it then thus—since that it must, it seems.
Welcome, O world, henceforth; and farewell dreams!
Yet know, Mephisto, know, nor you nor I
Can in this matter either sell or buy;
For the fee simple of this trifling lot
To you or me, trust me, pertaineth not.
I can but render what is of my will,
And behind it somewhat remaineth still.
Oh, your sole chance was in the childish mind
Whose darkness dreamed that vows like this could bind;
Thinking all lost, it made all lost, and brought
In fact the ruin which had been but thought.
Thank Heaven (or you) that’s past these many years,
And we have knowledge wiser than our fears.
So your poor bargain take, my man,
And make the best of it you can.
Sp.With reservations! oh, how treasonable!When I had let you off so reasonable.However, I don’t fear; be it so!Brutus is honourable, I know;So mindful of the dues of others,So thoughtful for his poor dear brothers,So scrupulous, considerate, kind—He wouldn’t leave the devil behindIf he assured him he had claimsFor his good company to hell-flames!No matter, no matter, the bargain’s made;And I for my part will not be afraid.With reservations! oh! ho, ho!But time, my friend, has yet to showWhich of us two will closest fitThe proverb of the Biter Bit.
Sp.With reservations! oh, how treasonable!
When I had let you off so reasonable.
However, I don’t fear; be it so!
Brutus is honourable, I know;
So mindful of the dues of others,
So thoughtful for his poor dear brothers,
So scrupulous, considerate, kind—
He wouldn’t leave the devil behind
If he assured him he had claims
For his good company to hell-flames!
No matter, no matter, the bargain’s made;
And I for my part will not be afraid.
With reservations! oh! ho, ho!
But time, my friend, has yet to show
Which of us two will closest fit
The proverb of the Biter Bit.
Di.Tell me thy name, now it is over.
Di.Tell me thy name, now it is over.
Sp.Oh!Why, Mephistophiles, you know—At least you’ve lately called me so;Belial it was some days ago.But take your pick; I’ve got a score—Never a royal baby more.For a brass plate upon a doorWhat think you ofCosmocrator?
Sp.Oh!
Why, Mephistophiles, you know—
At least you’ve lately called me so;
Belial it was some days ago.
But take your pick; I’ve got a score—
Never a royal baby more.
For a brass plate upon a door
What think you ofCosmocrator?
Di.Τοὺς κοσμοκράτορας τοῦ αἰῶνος τούτου.And that you are indeed, I do not doubt you.
Di.Τοὺς κοσμοκράτορας τοῦ αἰῶνος τούτου.
And that you are indeed, I do not doubt you.
Sp.Ephesians, ain’t it? near the endYou dropt a word to spare your friend.What follows, too, in applicationWould be absurd exaggeration.
Sp.Ephesians, ain’t it? near the end
You dropt a word to spare your friend.
What follows, too, in application
Would be absurd exaggeration.
Di.The Power of this World! hateful unto God.
Di.The Power of this World! hateful unto God.
Sp.Cosmarchon’s shorter, but sounds odd:One wouldn’t like, even if a true devil,To be taken for a vulgar Jew devil.
Sp.Cosmarchon’s shorter, but sounds odd:
One wouldn’t like, even if a true devil,
To be taken for a vulgar Jew devil.
Di.Yet in all these things we—’tis Scripture too—Are more than conquerors, even over you.
Di.Yet in all these things we—’tis Scripture too—
Are more than conquerors, even over you.
Sp.Come, come, don’t maunder any longer,Time tests the weaker and the stronger;And we, without procrastination,Must set, you know, to our vocation.O goodness; won’t you find it pleasantTo own the positive and present;To see yourself like people round,And feel your feet upon the ground! (Exeunt.)
Sp.Come, come, don’t maunder any longer,
Time tests the weaker and the stronger;
And we, without procrastination,
Must set, you know, to our vocation.
O goodness; won’t you find it pleasant
To own the positive and present;
To see yourself like people round,
And feel your feet upon the ground! (Exeunt.)
END OF DIPSYCHUS.
‘I don’t very well understand what it’s all about,’ said my uncle. ‘I won’t say I didn’t drop into a doze while the young man was drivelling through his latter soliloquies. But there was a great deal that was unmeaning, vague, and involved; and what was most plain, was least decent and least moral.’
‘Dear sir,’ said I, ‘says the proverb—“Needs must when the devil drives;” and if the devil is to speak——’
‘Well,’ said my uncle, ‘why should he? Nobody asked him. Not that he didn’t say much which, if only it hadn’t been for the way he said it, and that it was he who said it, would have been sensible enough.’
‘But, sir,’ said I, ‘perhaps he wasn’t a devil after all. That’s the beauty of the poem; nobody can say. You see, dear sir, the thing which it is attempted to represent is the conflict between the tender conscience and the world. Now, the over-tender conscience will, of course, exaggerate the wickedness of the world; and the Spirit in my poem may be merely the hypothesis or subjective imagination formed——’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, my dear boy,’ interrupted my uncle, ‘don’t go into the theory of it. If you’re wrong in it, it makes bad worse; if you’re right, you may be a critic, but you can’t be a poet. And then you know very well I don’t understand all those new words. But as for that, I quite agree that consciences are much too tender in your generation—schoolboys’ consciences, too! As my old friend the Canon says of the Westminster students, “They’re all so pious.” It’s all Arnold’s doing; he spoilt the public schools.’
‘My dear uncle,’ said I, ‘how can so venerable a sexagenarianutter so juvenile a paradox? How often have I not heard you lament the idleness and listlessness, the boorishness and vulgar tyranny, the brutish manners alike, and minds——’
‘Ah!’ said my uncle, ‘I may have fallen in occasionally with the talk of the day; but at seventy one begins to see clearer into the bottom of one’s mind. In middle life one says so many things in the way of business. Not that I mean that the old schools were perfect, any more than we old boys that were there. But whatever else they were or did, they certainly were in harmony with the world, and they certainly did not disqualify the country’s youth for after-life and the country’s service.’
‘But, my dear sir, this bringing the schools of the country into harmony with public opinion is exactly——’
‘Don’t interrupt me with public opinion, my dear nephew; you’ll quote me a leading article next. “Young men must be young men,” as the worthy head of your college said to me touching a case of rustication. “My dear sir,” said I, “I only wish to heaven they would be; but as for my own nephews, they seem to me a sort of hobbadi-hoy cherub, too big to be innocent, and too simple for anything else. They’re full of the notion of the world being so wicked and of their taking a higher line, as they call it. I only fear they’ll never take any line at all.” What is the true purpose of education? Simply to make plain to the young understanding the laws of the life they will have to enter. For example—that lying won’t do, thieving still less; that idleness will get punished; that if they are cowards, the whole world will be against them; that if they will have their own way, they must fight for it. As for the conscience, mamma, I take it—such as mammas are now-a-days, at any rate—has probably set that agoing fast enough already. What a blessing to see her good little child come back a brave young devil-may-care!’
‘Exactly, my dear sir. As if at twelve or fourteen a roundabout boy, with his three meals a day inside him, is likely to be over-troubled with scruples.’
‘Put him through a strong course of confirmation and sacraments, backed up with sermons and private admonitions, and what is much the same as auricular confession, and really, my dear nephew, I can’t answer for it but he mayn’t turn out as great a goose as you—pardon me—wereabout the age of eighteen or nineteen.’
‘But to have passedthroughthat, my dear sir! surely that can be no harm.’
‘I don’t know. Your constitutions don’t seem to recover it, quite. We did without these foolish measles well enough in my time.’
‘Westminster had its Cowper, my dear sir; and other schools had theirs also, mute and inglorious, but surely not few.’
‘Ah, ah! the beginning of troubles——’
‘You see, my dear sir, you must not refer it to Arnold, at all at all. Anything that Arnold did in this direction——’
‘Why, my dear boy, how often have I not heard from you, how he used to attack offences, not as offences—the right view—against discipline, but as sin, heinous guilt, I don’t know what beside! Why didn’t he flog them and hold his tongue? Flog them he did, but why preach?’
‘If he did err in this way, sir, which I hardly think, I ascribe it to the spirit of the time. The real cause of the evil you complain of, which to a certain extent I admit, was, I take it, the religious movement of the last century, beginning with Wesleyanism, and culminating at last in Puseyism. This over-excitation of the religious sense, resulting in this irrational, almost animal irritability of consciences, was, in many ways, as foreign to Arnold as it is proper to——’
‘Well, well, my dear nephew, if you like to make a theory of it, pray write it out for yourself nicely in full; but your poor old uncle does not like theories, and is moreover sadly sleepy.’
‘Good night, dear uncle, good night. Only let me say you six more verses.’