APPARENT FAILURE

"We shall soon lose a celebrated building."Paris Newspaper

"We shall soon lose a celebrated building."

Paris Newspaper

No, for I 'll save it! Seven years since,I passed through Paris, stopped a dayTo see the baptism of your Prince;Saw, made my bow, and went my way:Walking the heat and headache off,I took the Seine-side, you surmise,Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff,Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies,So sauntered till—what met my eyes?Only the Doric little Morgue!The dead-house where you show your drowned:Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue,Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.One pays one's debt in such a case;I plucked up heart and entered,—stalked,Keeping a tolerable faceCompared with some whose cheeks were chalked:Let them! No Briton 's to be balked!First came the silent gazers; next,A screen of glass, we 're thankful for;Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text,The three men who did most abhorTheir life in Paris yesterday,So killed themselves: and now, enthronedEach on his copper couch, they layFronting me, waiting to be owned.I thought, and think, their sin 's atoned.Poor men, God made, and all for that!The reverence struck me; o'er each headReligiously was hung its hat,Each coat dripped by the owner's bed,Sacred from touch: each had his berth,His bounds, his proper place of rest,Who last night tenanted on earthSome arch, where twelve such slept abreast,—Unless the plain asphalt seemed best.How did it happen, my poor boy?You wanted to be BuonaparteAnd have the Tuileries for toy,And could not, so it broke your heart?You, old one by his side, I judge,Were, red as blood, a socialist,A leveller! Does the Empire grudgeYou 've gained what no Republic missed?Be quiet, and unclench your fist!And this—why, he was red in vain,Or black,—poor fellow that is blue!What fancy was it, turned your brain?Oh, women were the prize for you!Money gets women, cards and diceGet money, and ill-luck gets justThe copper couch and one clear niceCool squirt of water o'er your bust,The right thing to extinguish lust!It 's wiser being good than bad;It 's safer being meek than fierce:It 's fitter being sane than mad.My own hope is, a sun will pierceThe thickest cloud earth ever stretched;That, after Last, returns the First,Though a wide compass round be fetched;That what began best, can't end worst,Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.

No, for I 'll save it! Seven years since,

I passed through Paris, stopped a day

To see the baptism of your Prince;

Saw, made my bow, and went my way:

Walking the heat and headache off,

I took the Seine-side, you surmise,

Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff,

Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies,

So sauntered till—what met my eyes?

Only the Doric little Morgue!The dead-house where you show your drowned:Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue,Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.One pays one's debt in such a case;I plucked up heart and entered,—stalked,Keeping a tolerable faceCompared with some whose cheeks were chalked:Let them! No Briton 's to be balked!

Only the Doric little Morgue!

The dead-house where you show your drowned:

Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue,

Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.

One pays one's debt in such a case;

I plucked up heart and entered,—stalked,

Keeping a tolerable face

Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked:

Let them! No Briton 's to be balked!

First came the silent gazers; next,A screen of glass, we 're thankful for;Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text,The three men who did most abhorTheir life in Paris yesterday,So killed themselves: and now, enthronedEach on his copper couch, they layFronting me, waiting to be owned.I thought, and think, their sin 's atoned.

First came the silent gazers; next,

A screen of glass, we 're thankful for;

Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text,

The three men who did most abhor

Their life in Paris yesterday,

So killed themselves: and now, enthroned

Each on his copper couch, they lay

Fronting me, waiting to be owned.

I thought, and think, their sin 's atoned.

Poor men, God made, and all for that!The reverence struck me; o'er each headReligiously was hung its hat,Each coat dripped by the owner's bed,Sacred from touch: each had his berth,His bounds, his proper place of rest,Who last night tenanted on earthSome arch, where twelve such slept abreast,—Unless the plain asphalt seemed best.

Poor men, God made, and all for that!

The reverence struck me; o'er each head

Religiously was hung its hat,

Each coat dripped by the owner's bed,

Sacred from touch: each had his berth,

His bounds, his proper place of rest,

Who last night tenanted on earth

Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast,—

Unless the plain asphalt seemed best.

How did it happen, my poor boy?You wanted to be BuonaparteAnd have the Tuileries for toy,And could not, so it broke your heart?You, old one by his side, I judge,Were, red as blood, a socialist,A leveller! Does the Empire grudgeYou 've gained what no Republic missed?Be quiet, and unclench your fist!

How did it happen, my poor boy?

You wanted to be Buonaparte

And have the Tuileries for toy,

And could not, so it broke your heart?

You, old one by his side, I judge,

Were, red as blood, a socialist,

A leveller! Does the Empire grudge

You 've gained what no Republic missed?

Be quiet, and unclench your fist!

And this—why, he was red in vain,Or black,—poor fellow that is blue!What fancy was it, turned your brain?Oh, women were the prize for you!Money gets women, cards and diceGet money, and ill-luck gets justThe copper couch and one clear niceCool squirt of water o'er your bust,The right thing to extinguish lust!

And this—why, he was red in vain,

Or black,—poor fellow that is blue!

What fancy was it, turned your brain?

Oh, women were the prize for you!

Money gets women, cards and dice

Get money, and ill-luck gets just

The copper couch and one clear nice

Cool squirt of water o'er your bust,

The right thing to extinguish lust!

It 's wiser being good than bad;It 's safer being meek than fierce:It 's fitter being sane than mad.My own hope is, a sun will pierceThe thickest cloud earth ever stretched;That, after Last, returns the First,Though a wide compass round be fetched;That what began best, can't end worst,Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.

It 's wiser being good than bad;

It 's safer being meek than fierce:

It 's fitter being sane than mad.

My own hope is, a sun will pierce

The thickest cloud earth ever stretched;

That, after Last, returns the First,

Though a wide compass round be fetched;

That what began best, can't end worst,

Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.

First Speaker,as David

On the first of the Feast of Feasts,The Dedication Day,When the Levites joined the PriestsAt the Altar in robed array,Gave signal to sound and say,—When the thousands, rear and van,Swarming with one accord,Became as a single man(Look, gesture, thought and word)In praising and thanking the Lord,—When the singers lift up their voice,And the trumpets made endeavor,Sounding, "In God rejoice!"Saying, "In Him rejoiceWhose mercy endureth forever!"—Then the Temple filled with a cloud,Even the House of the Lord;Porch bent and pillar bowed:For the presence of the Lord,In the glory of his cloud,Had filled the House of the Lord.

On the first of the Feast of Feasts,The Dedication Day,When the Levites joined the PriestsAt the Altar in robed array,Gave signal to sound and say,—

On the first of the Feast of Feasts,

The Dedication Day,

When the Levites joined the Priests

At the Altar in robed array,

Gave signal to sound and say,—

When the thousands, rear and van,Swarming with one accord,Became as a single man(Look, gesture, thought and word)In praising and thanking the Lord,—

When the thousands, rear and van,

Swarming with one accord,

Became as a single man

(Look, gesture, thought and word)

In praising and thanking the Lord,—

When the singers lift up their voice,And the trumpets made endeavor,Sounding, "In God rejoice!"Saying, "In Him rejoiceWhose mercy endureth forever!"—

When the singers lift up their voice,

And the trumpets made endeavor,

Sounding, "In God rejoice!"

Saying, "In Him rejoice

Whose mercy endureth forever!"—

Then the Temple filled with a cloud,Even the House of the Lord;Porch bent and pillar bowed:For the presence of the Lord,In the glory of his cloud,Had filled the House of the Lord.

Then the Temple filled with a cloud,

Even the House of the Lord;

Porch bent and pillar bowed:

For the presence of the Lord,

In the glory of his cloud,

Had filled the House of the Lord.

Second Speaker,as Renan

Gone now! All gone across the dark so far,Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still,Dwindling into the distance, dies that starWhich came, stood, opened once! We gazed our fillWith upturned faces on as real a FaceThat, stooping from grave music and mild fire,Took in our homage, made a visible placeThrough many a depth of glory, gyre on gyre,For the dim human tribute. Was this true?Could man indeed avail, mere praise of his,To help by rapture God's own rapture too,Thrill with a heart's red tinge that pure pale bliss?Why did it end? Who failed to beat the breast,And shriek, and throw the arms protesting wide,When a first shadow showed the star addressedItself to motion, and on either sideThe rims contracted as the rays retired;The music, like a fountain's sickening pulse,Subsided on itself; awhile transpiredSome vestige of a Face no pangs convulse,No prayers retard; then even this was gone,Lost in the night at last. We, lone and leftSilent through centuries, ever and anonVenture to probe again the vault bereftOf all now save the lesser lights, a mistOf multitudinous points, yet suns, men say—And this leaps ruby, this lurks amethyst,But where may hide what came and loved our clay?How shall the sage detect in yon expanseThe star which chose to stoop and stay for us?Unroll the records! Hailed ye such advanceIndeed, and did your hope evanish thus?Watchers of twilight, is the worst averred?We shall not look up, know ourselves are seen,Speak, and be sure that we again are heard,Acting or suffering, have the disk's sereneReflect our life, absorb an earthly flame,Nor doubt that, were mankind inert and numb,Its core had never crimsoned all the same,Nor, missing ours, its music fallen dumb?Oh, dread succession to a dizzy post,Sad sway of sceptre whose mere touch appalls,Ghastly dethronement, cursed by those the mostOn whose repugnant brow the crown next falls!

Gone now! All gone across the dark so far,

Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still,

Dwindling into the distance, dies that star

Which came, stood, opened once! We gazed our fill

With upturned faces on as real a Face

That, stooping from grave music and mild fire,

Took in our homage, made a visible place

Through many a depth of glory, gyre on gyre,

For the dim human tribute. Was this true?

Could man indeed avail, mere praise of his,

To help by rapture God's own rapture too,

Thrill with a heart's red tinge that pure pale bliss?

Why did it end? Who failed to beat the breast,

And shriek, and throw the arms protesting wide,

When a first shadow showed the star addressed

Itself to motion, and on either side

The rims contracted as the rays retired;

The music, like a fountain's sickening pulse,

Subsided on itself; awhile transpired

Some vestige of a Face no pangs convulse,

No prayers retard; then even this was gone,

Lost in the night at last. We, lone and left

Silent through centuries, ever and anon

Venture to probe again the vault bereft

Of all now save the lesser lights, a mist

Of multitudinous points, yet suns, men say—

And this leaps ruby, this lurks amethyst,

But where may hide what came and loved our clay?

How shall the sage detect in yon expanse

The star which chose to stoop and stay for us?

Unroll the records! Hailed ye such advance

Indeed, and did your hope evanish thus?

Watchers of twilight, is the worst averred?

We shall not look up, know ourselves are seen,

Speak, and be sure that we again are heard,

Acting or suffering, have the disk's serene

Reflect our life, absorb an earthly flame,

Nor doubt that, were mankind inert and numb,

Its core had never crimsoned all the same,

Nor, missing ours, its music fallen dumb?

Oh, dread succession to a dizzy post,

Sad sway of sceptre whose mere touch appalls,

Ghastly dethronement, cursed by those the most

On whose repugnant brow the crown next falls!

Third Speaker

Witless alike of will and way divine,How heaven's high with earth's low should intertwine!Friends, I have seen through your eyes: now use mine!Take the least man of all mankind, as I;Look at his head and heart, find how and whyHe differs from his fellows utterly:Then, like me, watch when nature by degreesGrows alive round him, as in Arctic seas(They said of old) the instinctive water fleesToward some elected point of central rock,As though, for its sake only, roamed the flockOf waves about the waste: awhile they mockWith radiance caught for the occasion,—huesOf blackest hell now, now such reds and bluesAs only heaven could fitly interfuse,—The mimic monarch of the whirlpool, kingO' the current for a minute: then they wringUp by the roots and oversweep the thing,And hasten off, to play again elsewhereThe same part, choose another peak as bare,They find and flatter, feast and finish there.When you see what I tell you,—nature danceAbout each man of us, retire, advance,As though the pageant's end were to enhanceHis worth, and—once the life, his product, gained—Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife sustained,And show thus real, a thing the North but feigned—When you acknowledge that one world could doAll the diverse work, old yet ever new,Divide us, each from other, me from you,—Why, where 's the need of Temple, when the wallsO' the world are that? What use of swells and fallsFrom Levites' choir, Priests' cries, and trumpet-calls?That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows,Or decomposes but to recompose,Become my universe that feels and knows!

Witless alike of will and way divine,How heaven's high with earth's low should intertwine!Friends, I have seen through your eyes: now use mine!

Witless alike of will and way divine,

How heaven's high with earth's low should intertwine!

Friends, I have seen through your eyes: now use mine!

Take the least man of all mankind, as I;Look at his head and heart, find how and whyHe differs from his fellows utterly:

Take the least man of all mankind, as I;

Look at his head and heart, find how and why

He differs from his fellows utterly:

Then, like me, watch when nature by degreesGrows alive round him, as in Arctic seas(They said of old) the instinctive water flees

Then, like me, watch when nature by degrees

Grows alive round him, as in Arctic seas

(They said of old) the instinctive water flees

Toward some elected point of central rock,As though, for its sake only, roamed the flockOf waves about the waste: awhile they mock

Toward some elected point of central rock,

As though, for its sake only, roamed the flock

Of waves about the waste: awhile they mock

With radiance caught for the occasion,—huesOf blackest hell now, now such reds and bluesAs only heaven could fitly interfuse,—

With radiance caught for the occasion,—hues

Of blackest hell now, now such reds and blues

As only heaven could fitly interfuse,—

The mimic monarch of the whirlpool, kingO' the current for a minute: then they wringUp by the roots and oversweep the thing,

The mimic monarch of the whirlpool, king

O' the current for a minute: then they wring

Up by the roots and oversweep the thing,

And hasten off, to play again elsewhereThe same part, choose another peak as bare,They find and flatter, feast and finish there.

And hasten off, to play again elsewhere

The same part, choose another peak as bare,

They find and flatter, feast and finish there.

When you see what I tell you,—nature danceAbout each man of us, retire, advance,As though the pageant's end were to enhance

When you see what I tell you,—nature dance

About each man of us, retire, advance,

As though the pageant's end were to enhance

His worth, and—once the life, his product, gained—Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife sustained,And show thus real, a thing the North but feigned—

His worth, and—once the life, his product, gained—

Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife sustained,

And show thus real, a thing the North but feigned—

When you acknowledge that one world could doAll the diverse work, old yet ever new,Divide us, each from other, me from you,—

When you acknowledge that one world could do

All the diverse work, old yet ever new,

Divide us, each from other, me from you,—

Why, where 's the need of Temple, when the wallsO' the world are that? What use of swells and fallsFrom Levites' choir, Priests' cries, and trumpet-calls?

Why, where 's the need of Temple, when the walls

O' the world are that? What use of swells and falls

From Levites' choir, Priests' cries, and trumpet-calls?

That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows,Or decomposes but to recompose,Become my universe that feels and knows!

That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows,

Or decomposes but to recompose,

Become my universe that feels and knows!

This, the most long sustained of Browning's writings, was published originally in four volumes, successively in November, December, 1868, January, February, 1869. Mrs. Orr has given so circumstantial an account of the inception of the work, that the main facts are here reproduced from herHand-Book.

"Mr. Browning was strolling one day through a square in Florence, the Piazza San Lorenzo, which is a standing market for old clothes, old furniture, and old curiosities of every kind, when a parchment-covered book attracted his eye, from amidst the artistic or nondescript rubbish of one of the stalls. It was the record of a murder which had taken place in Rome, and bore inside it an inscription [in Latin] which Mr. Browning transcribes [on p.415].

"The book proved, on examination, to contain the whole history of the case, as carried on in writing, after the fashion of those days: pleadings and counter-pleadings, the depositions of defendants and witnesses; manuscript letters announcing the execution of the murderer, and the 'instrument of the Definitive Sentence' which established the perfect innocence of the murdered wife: these various documents having been collected and bound together by some person interested in the trial, possibly the very Cencini, friend of the Franceschini family, to whom the manuscript letters are addressed. Mr. Browning bought the whole for the value of eightpence, and it became the raw material of what appeared four years later asThe Ring and the Book."

In another place Mrs. Orr states that the subject was conceived about four years before the poet took it actually in hand, and that, before he wrote it himself, he offered the theme for prose treatment to Miss Ogle, the author ofA Lost Love.

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