Chapter 110

He read. Then—"Murder 's out,—'There are no Gods,'Man has no master, owns, by consequence,No right, no wrong, except to please or plague!His nature: what man likes be man's sole lawStill, since he likes Saperdion, honey, figs,Man may reach freedom by your roundabout!'Never believe yourselves the freer thence!There are no gods, but there 's "Necessity,"—Duty enjoined you, fact in figment's place,Throned on no mountain, native to the mind!Therefore deny yourselves Saperdion, figsAnd honey, for the sake of—what I dream,A-sitting with my legs up!'"Infamy!The poet casts in calm his lot with theseAssailants of Apollon! Sworn to serveEach Grace, the Furies call him minister—He, who was born for just that roseate worldRenounced so madly, where what 's false is fact,Where he makes beauty out of ugliness,Where he lives, life itself disguised for himAs immortality—so works the spell,The enthusiastic mood which marks a manMuse-mad, dream-drunken, wrapt around by verse,Encircled with poetic atmosphere,As lark emballed by its own crystal song,Or rose enmisted by that scent it makes!No, this were unreality! the realHe wants, not falsehood,—truth alone he seeks,Truth, for all beauty! Beauty, in all truth—That 's certain somehow! Must the eagle liltLark-like, needs fir-tree blossom rose-like? No!Strength and utility charm more than grace,And what 's most ugly proves most beautiful.So much assistance from Euripides!"Whereupon I betake me, since needs must,To a concluding—'Go and feed the crows!Do! Spoil your art as you renounce your life,Poetize your so precious system, do,Degrade the hero, nullify the god,Exhibit women, slaves and men as peers,—Your castigation follows prompt enough!When all 's concocted upstairs, heels o'erhead,Down must submissive drop the masterpieceFor public praise or blame: so, praise away,Friend Sokrates, wife's-friend Kephisophon!Boast innovations, cramp phrase, uncouth song,Hard matter and harsh manner, gods, men, slavesAnd women jumbled to a laughing-stockWhich Hellas shall hold sides at lest she split!Hellas, on these, shall have her word to say!'"She has it and she says it—there 's the curse!—She finds he makes the shag-rag hero-race,The noble slaves, wise women, move as muchPity and terror as true tragic types:Applauds inventiveness—the plot so new,The turn and trick subsidiary so strange!She relishes that homely phrase of life,That common town-talk, more than trumpet-blasts;Accords him right to chop and change a myth:What better right had he, who told the taleIn the first instance, to embellish fact?This last may disembellish yet improve!Both find a block: this man carves back to bullWhat first his predecessor cut to sphinx:Such genuine actual roarer, nature's brute,Intelligible to our time, was sureThe old-world artist's purpose, had he workedTo mind; this both means and makes the thing!If, past dispute, the verse slips oily-bathedIn unctuous music—say, effeminate—We also say, like Kuthereia's self,A lulling effluence which enswathes some isleWhere hides a nymph, not seen but felt the more.That 's Hellas' verdict!"Does EuripidesEven so far absolved, remain content?Nowise! His task is to refine, refine,Divide, distinguish, subtilize awayWhatever seemed a solid planting-placeFor footfall,—not in that phantasmal sphereProper to poet, but on vulgar earthWhere people used to tread with confidence.There 's left no longer one plain positiveEnunciation incontestableOf what is good, right, decent here on earth.Nobody now can say, 'This plot is mine,Though but a plethron square,—my duty!'—'Yours?Mine, or at least not yours,' snaps somebody!And, whether the dispute be parent-rightOr children's service, husband's privilegeOr wife's submission, there 's a snarling straight,Smart passage of opposing 'yea' and 'nay,''Should,' 'should not,' till, howe'er the contest end,Spectators go off sighing 'Clever thrust!Why was I so much hurried to pay debt,Attend my mother, sacrifice an ox,And set my name down "for a trireme, good"?Something I might have urged on t' other side!No doubt, Chresphontes or BellerophonWe don't meet every day; but Stab-and-stitchThe tailor—ere I turn the drachmas o'erI owe him for a chiton, as he thinks,I 'll pose the blockhead with an argument!'"So has he triumphed, your Euripides!Oh, I concede, he rarely gained a prize:That 's quite another matter! cause for that!Still, when 't was got by Ions, Iophons,Off he would pace confoundedly superb,Supreme, no smile at movement on his mouthTill Sokrates winked, whispered: out it broke!And Aristullos jotted down the jest,While Iophons or Ions, bay on brow,Looked queerly, and the foreigners—like you—Asked o'er the border with a puzzled smile,—'And so, you value Ions, Iophons,Euphorions! How about Euripides?'(Eh, brave bard's-champion? Does the anger boil?Keep within bounds a moment,—eye and lipShall loose their doom on me, their fiery worst!)What strangers? Archelaos heads the file!He sympathizes, he concerns himself,He pens epistle, each successless play:'Athenai sinks effete; there 's younger bloodIn Makedonia. Visit where I rule!Do honor to me and take gratitude!Live the guest's life, or work the poet's way,Which also means the statesman's: he who wrote"Erechtheus" may seem rawly politicAt home where Kleophon is ripe; but hereMy council-board permits him choice of seats.'"Now, this was operating,—what should proveA poison-tree, had flowered far on to fruitFor many a year,—when I was moved, first man,To dare the adventure, down with root and branch.So, from its sheath I drew my Comic steel,And dared what I am now to justify.A serious question first, though!"Once again!Do you believe, when I aspired in youth,I made no estimate of power at all,Nor paused long, nor considered much, what classOf fighters I might claim to join, besideThat class wherewith I cast in company?Say, you—profuse of praise no less than blame—Could not I have competed—franker phraseMight trulier correspond to meaning—still,Competed with your Tragic paragon?Suppose me minded simply to make verse,To fabricate, parade resplendent arms,Flourish and sparkle out a Trilogy,—Where was the hindrance? But my soul bade 'Fight!Leave flourishing for mock-foe, pleasure-time;Prove arms efficient on real heads and hearts!'How? With degeneracy sapping fastThe Marathonian muscle, nerved of oldTo maul the Mede, now strung at best to help—How did I fable?—War and Hubbub mashTo mincemeat Fatherland and Brotherhood,Pound in their mortar Hellas, State by State,That greed might gorge, the while frivolityRubbed hands and smacked lips o'er the dainty dish!Authority, experience—pushed asideBy any upstart who pleads throng and press,O' the people! 'Think, say, do thus!' Wherefore, pray?'We are the people: who impugns our rightOf choosing Kleon that tans hide so well,Huperbolos that turns out lamps so trim,Hemp-seller Eukrates or LusiklesSheep-dealer, Kephalos the potter's son,Diitriphes who weaves the willow-workTo go round bottles, and NausikudesThe meal-man? Such we choose and more, their mates,To think and say and do in our behalf!'While sophistry wagged tongue, emboldened still,Found matter to propose, contest, defend,'Stablish, turn topsyturvy,—all the same,No matter what, provided the resultWere something new in place of something old,—Set wagging by pure insolence of soulWhich needs must pry into, have warrant forEach right, each privilege good policyProtects from curious eye and prating mouth!Everywhere lust to shape the world anew,Spurn this Athenai as we find her, buildA new impossible CloudcuckooburgFor feather-headed birds, once solid men,Where rules, discarding jolly habitude,Nourished on myrtle-berries and stray ants,King Tereus who, turned Hoopoe Triple-Crest,Shall terrify and bring the gods to terms!"Where was I? Oh! Things ailing thus—I ask,What cure? Cut, thrust, hack, hew at heap-on-heapedAbomination with the exquisitePalaistra-tool of polished Tragedy?Erechtheus shall harangue Amphiktuon,And incidentally drop word of weightOn justice, righteousness, so turn asideThe audience from attacking Sicily!—The more that Choros, after he recountsHow Phrixos rode the ram, the far-famed Fleece,Shall add—at last fall of grave dancing-foot—'Aggression never yet was helped by Zeus!'That helps or hinders Alkibiades?As well expect, should Pheidias carve Zeus' selfAnd set him up, some half a mile away,His frown would frighten sparrows from your field!Eagles may recognize their lord, belike,But as for vulgar sparrows,—change the god,And plant some big Priapos with a pole!I wield the Comic weapon rather—hate!Hate! honest, earnest, and directest hate—Warfare wherein I close with enemy,Call him one name and fifty epithets,Remind you his great-grandfather sold bran,Describe the new exomion, sleeveless coatHe knocked me down last night and robbed me of,Protest he voted for a tax on air!And all this hate—if I write Comedy—Finds tolerance, most like—applause, perhapsTrue veneration; for I praise the godPresent in person of his minister,And pay—the wilder my extravagance—The more appropriate worship to the PowerAdulterous, night-roaming, and the rest:Otherwise,—that originative forceOf nature, impulse stirring death to life,Which, underlying law, seems lawlessness,Yet is the outbreak which, ere order be,Must thrill creation through, warm stocks and stones,Phales Iacchos."Comedy for me!Why not for you, my Tragic masters? SneaksWhose art is mere desertion of a trust!Such weapons lay to hand, the ready club,The clay-ball, on the ground a stone to snatch,—Arms fit to bruise the boar's neck, break the chineO' the wolf,—and you must impiously—despise?No, I 'll say, furtively let fall that trustConsigned you! 'T was not 'take or leave alone,'But 'take and, wielding, recognize your godIn his prime attributes!' And though full soonYou sneaked, subsided into poetry,Nor met your due reward, still,—heroizeAnd speechify and sing-song and foregoFar as you may your function,—still its pactEndures, one piece of early homage stillExacted of you; after your three boutsAt hoitytoity, great men with long words,And so forth,—at the end, must tack itselfThe genuine sample, the Satyric Play,Concession, with its wood-boys' fun and freak,To the true taste of the mere multitude.Yet, there again! What does your Still-at-itch,Always-the-innovator? Shrugs and shirks!Out of his fifty Trilogies, some fiveAre somehow suited: Satyrs dance and sing,Try merriment, a grimly prank or two,Sour joke squeezed through pursed lips and teeth on edge,Then quick on top of toe to pastoral sport,Goat-tending and sheep-herding, cheese and cream,Soft grass and silver rillets, country-fare—When throats were promised Thasian! Five such feats,—Then frankly off he threw the yoke: next Droll,Next festive drama, covenanted fun,Decent reversion to indecency,Proved—your 'Alkestis'! There 's quite fun enough,Herakles drunk! From out fate's blackening waveCalamitous, just zigzags some shot star,Poor promise of faint joy, and turns the laughOn dupes whose fears and tears were all in waste!"For which sufficient reasons, in truth's name,I closed with whom you count the Meaner Muse,Classed me with Comic Poets who should weldDark with bright metal, show their blade may keepIts adamantine birthright though ablazeWith poetry, the gold, and wit, the gem,And strike mere gold, unstiffened out by steel,Or gem, no iron joints its strength around,From hand of—posturer, not combatant!"Such was my purpose: it succeeds, I say!Have not we beaten Kallikratidas,Not humbled Sparté? Peace awaits our word,Spite of Theramenes, and fools his like.Since my previsions—warranted too wellBy the long war now waged and worn to end—Had spared such heritage of misery,My after-counsels scarce need fear repulse.Athenai, taught prosperity has wings,Cages the glad recapture. Demos, see,From folly's premature decrepitudeBoiled young again, emerges from the stewOf twenty-five years' trouble, sits and sways,One brilliance and one balsam,—sways and sitsMonarch of Hellas! ay, and, sage again,No longer jeopardizes chieftainship,No longer loves the brutish demagogueAppointed by a bestial multitude,But seeks out sound advisers. Who are they?Ourselves, of parentage proved wise and good!To such may hap strains thwarting quality,(As where shall want its flaw mere human stuff?)Still, the right grain is proper to right race;What 's contrary, call curious accident!Hold by the usual! Orchard-grafted tree,Not wilding, racehorse-sired, not rouncey-born,Aristocrat, no sausage-selling snob!Nay, why not Alkibiades, come backFilled by the Genius, freed of petulance,Frailty,—mere youthfulness that 's all at fault,—Advanced to Perikles and something more?—Being at least our duly born and bred,—Curse on what chaunoprockt first gained his earAnd got his ... well, once true man in right place,Our commonalty soon content themselvesWith doing just what they are born to do,Eat, drink, make merry, mind their own affairsAnd leave state-business to the larger brain!I do not stickle for their punishment;But certain culprits have a cloak to twitch,A purse to pay the piper: flog, say I,Your fine fantastics, paragons of parts,Who choose to play the important! Far from sideWith us, their natural supports, allies,—And, best by brain, help who are best by birthTo fortify each weak point in the wallBuilt broad and wide and deep for permanenceBetween what 's high and low, what 's rare and vile,—They cast their lot perversely in with lowAnd vile, lay flat the barrier, lift the mobTo dizzy heights where Privilege stood firm.And then, simplicity become conceit,—Woman, slave, common soldier, artisan,Crazy with new-found worth, new-fangled claims,—These must be taught next how to use their headsAnd hands in driving man's right to mob's rule!What fellows thus inflame the multitude?Your Sokrates, still crying 'Understand!'Your Aristullos,—'Argue!' Last and worst,Should, by good fortune, mob still hesitate,Remember there 's degree in heaven and earth,Cry 'Aischulos enjoined us fear the gods,And Sophokles advised respect the kings!'Why, your Euripides informs them—Gods?They are not! Kings? They are, but ... do not I,In 'Suppliants,' make my Theseus,—yours, no more,—Fire up at insult of who styles him King?Play off that Herald, I despise the most,As patronizing kings' prerogativeAgainst a Theseus proud to dare no stepTill he consult the people?"Such as these—Ah, you expect I am for strangling straight?Nowise, Balaustion! All my roundaboutEnds at beginning, with my own defence!I dose each culprit just with—Comedy.Let each be doctored in exact the modeHimself prescribes: by words, the word-monger—My words to his words,—my lies, if you like,To his lies. Sokrates I nickname thief,Quack, necromancer; Aristullos,—say,Male Kirké who bewitches and bewraysAnd changes folk to swine; Euripides,—Well, I acknowledge! Every word is false,Looked close at; but stand distant and stare through,All 's absolute indubitable truthBehind lies, truth which only lies declare!For come, concede me truth 's in thing not word,Meaning not manner! Love smiles 'rogue' and 'wretch'When 'sweet' and 'dear' seem vapid; Hate adoptsLove's 'sweet' and 'dear,' when 'rogue' and 'wretch' fall flat;Love, Hate—are truths, then, each, in sense not sound.Further: if Love, remaining Love, fell backOn 'sweet' and 'dear,'—if Hate, though Hate the same,Dropped down to 'rogue' and 'wretch,'—each phrase were false.Good! and now grant I hate no matter whomWith reason: I must therefore fight my foe,Finish the mischief which made enmity.How? By employing means to most hurt himWho much harmed me. What way did he do harm?Through word or deed? Through word? with word, wage war!Word with myself directly? As directReply shall follow: word to you, the wise,Whence indirectly came the harm to me?What wisdom I can muster waits on such!Word to the populace which, misconceivedBy ignorance and incapacity,Ends in no such effect as follows causeWhen I, or you the wise, are reasoned with,So damages what I and you hold dear?In that event, I ply the populaceWith just such word as leavens their whole lumpTo the right ferment for my purpose.TheyArbitrate properly between us both?Theyweigh my answer with his argument,Match quip with quibble, wit with eloquence?All they attain to understand is—blank!Two adversaries differ; which is rightAnd which is wrong, none takes on him to say,Since both are unintelligible. Pooh!Swear my foe's mother vended herbs she stole,They fall a-laughing! Add,—his household drudgeOf all-work justifies that office well,Kisses the wife, composing him the play,—They grin at whom they gaped in wonderment,And go off—'Was he such a sorry scrub?This other seems to know! we praised too fast!'When then, my lies have done the work of truth,Since 'scrub,' improper designation, meansExactly what the proper argument—Had such been comprehensible—proposedTo proper audience—were I graced with such—Would properly result in; so your friendGets an impartial verdict on his verse,'The tongue swears, but the soul remains unsworn!'"There, my Balaustion! All is summed and said.No other cause of quarrel with yourself!Euripides and AristophanesDiffer: he needs must round our differenceInto the mob's ear; with the mob I plead.You angrily start forward 'This to me?'No speck of this on you the thrice refined!Could parley be restricted to us two,My first of duties were to clear up doubtAs to our true divergence each from each.Does my opinion so diverge from yours?Probably less than little—not at all!To know a matter, for my very selfAnd intimates—that 's one thing: to implyBy 'knowledge'—loosing whatsoe'er I knowAmong the vulgar who, by mere mistake,May brain themselves and me in consequence,—That 's quite another. 'O the daring flight!This only bard maintains the exalted brow,Nor grovels in the slime nor fears the gods!'DidIfear—Iplay superstitious fool,Who, with the due proviso, introduced,Active and passive, their whole companyAs creatures too absurd for scorn itself?Zeus? I have styled him—'slave, mere thrashing-block!'I 'll tell you: in my very next of plays,At Bacchos' feast, in Bacchos' honor, fullIn front of Bacchos' representative.I mean to make main-actor—Bacchos' self!Forth shall he strut, apparent, first to last,A blockhead, coward, braggart, liar, thief,Demonstrated all these by his own mereXanthias the man-slave: such man shows such godShamed to brute-beastship by comparison!And when ears have their fill of his abuse,And eyes are sated with his pummelling,—My Choros taking care, by, all the whileSinging his glory, that men recognizeA god in the abused and pummelled beast,—Then, should one ear be stopped of auditor,Should one spectator shut revolted eye,—Why, the Priest's self will first raise outraged voice:'Back, thou barbarian, thou ineptitude!Does not most license hallow best our day,And least decorum prove its strictest rite?Since Bacchos bids his followers play the fool,And there 's no fooling like a majestyMocked at,—who mocks the god, obeys the law—Law which, impute but indiscretion to,And ... why, the spirit of EuripidesIs evidently active in the world!'Do I stop here? No! feat of flightier force!See Hermes! what commotion raged,—reflect!—When imaged god alone got injuryBy drunkards' frolic! How Athenai staredAghast, then fell to frenzy, fit on fit,—Ever the last, the longest! At this hour,The craze abates a little: so, my PlayShall have up Hermes: and a Karion, slave,(Since there 's no getting lower) calls our friendThe profitable god, we honor so,Whatever contumely fouls the mouth—Bids him go earn more honest livelihoodBy washing tripe in well-trough—wash he does,Duly obedient! Have I dared my best?Asklepios, answer!—deity in vogue,Who visits Sophokles familiarly,If you believe the old man,—at his age,Living is dreaming, and strange guests haunt doorOf house, belike, peep through and tap at timesWhen a friend yawns there, waiting to be fetched,—At any rate, to memorize the fact,He has spent money, set an altar upIn the god's temple, now in much repute.That temple-service trust me to describe—Cheaters and choused, the god, his brace of girls,Their snake, and how they manage to snap gifts'And consecrate the same into a bag,'For whimsies done away with in the dark!As if, a stone's throw from that theatreWhereon I thus unmask their dupery,The thing were not religious and august!"Of Sophokles himself—nor word nor signBeyond a harmless parody or so!He founds no anti-school, upsets no faith,But, living, lets live, the good easy soulWho,—if he saves his cash, unpoetlike,Loves wine and—never mind what other sport,Boasts for his father just a swordblade-smith,Proves but queer captain when the people claim,For one who conquered with 'Antigone,'The right to undertake a squadron's charge,—And needs the son's help now to finish plays,Seeing his dotage calls for governanceAnd Iophon to share his property,—Why, of all this, reported true, I breatheNot one word—true or false, I like the man!Sophokles lives and lets live: long live he!Otherwise,—sharp the scourge and hard the blow!"And what 's my teaching but—accept the old,Contest the strange! acknowledge work that 's done,Misdoubt men who have still their work to do!Religions, laws and customs, poetries,Are old? So much achieved victorious truth!Each work was product of a lifetime, wrungFrom each man by an adverse world: for why?He worked, destroying other older workWhich the world loved and so was loth to lose.Whom the world beat in battle—dust and ash!Who beat the world, left work in evidence,And wears its crown till new men live new lives,And fight new fights, and triumph in their turn.I mean to show you on the stage! you 'll seeMy Just Judge only venture to decideBetween two suitors, which is god, which man,By thrashing both of them as flesh can bear.You shall agree,—whichever bellows first,He 's human; who holds longest out, divine:That is the only equitable test!Cruelty? Pray, who pricked them on to courtMy thong's award? Must they needs dominate?Then I—rebel! Their instinct grasps the new?Mine bids retain the old: a fight must be,And which is stronger the event will show.Oh, but the pain! Your proved divinityStill smarts all reddened? And the rightlier served!Was not some man's-flesh in him, after all?Do let us lack no frank acknowledgmentThere 's nature common to both gods and men!All of them—spirit? What so winced was clay!Away pretence to some exclusive sphereCloud-nourishing a sole selected fewFume-fed with self-superiority!I stand up for the common coarse-as-clayExistence,—stamp and ramp with heel and hoofOn solid vulgar life, you fools disown!Make haste from your unreal eminence,And measure lengths with me upon that groundWhence this mud-pellet sings and summons you!I know the soul, too, how the spark ascendsAnd how it drops apace and dies away.I am your poet-peer, man thrice your match!I too can lead an airy life when dead,Fly like Kinesias when I 'm cloud-ward bound;But here, no death shall mix with life it mars!"So, my old enemy who caused the fight,Own I have beaten you, Euripides!Or,—if your advocate would contravene,—Help him, Balaustion! Use the rosy strength!I have not done my utmost,—treated youAs I might Aristullos, mint-perfumed,—Still, let the whole rage burst in brave attack!Don't pay the poor ambiguous complimentOf fearing any pearl-white knuckled fistWill damage this broad buttress of a brow!Fancy yourself my Aristonumos,Ameipsias or Sannurion: punch and pound!Three cuckoos who cry 'cuckoo'! much I care!They boil a stone!Neblaretai! Rattei!"Cannot your task have end here, Euthukles?Day by day glides our galley on its path:Still sunrise and still sunset, Rhodes half-reached,And still, my patient scribe! no sunset's peaceDescends more punctual than that brow's inclineO'er tablets which your serviceable handPrepares to trace. Why treasure up, forsooth,These relics of a night that make me rich,But, half-remembered merely, leave so poorEach stranger to Athenai and her past?For—how remembered! As some greedy hindPersuades a honeycomb, beyond the due,To yield its hoarding,—heedless what alloyOf the poor bee's own substance taints the goldWhich, unforced, yields few drops, but purity,—So would you fain relieve of load this brain,Though the hived thoughts must bring away, with strength,What words and weakness, strength's receptacle—Wax from the store! Yet,—aching soothed away,—Accept the compound! No suspected scentBut proves some rose was rifled, though its ghostScarce lingers with what promised musk and myrrh.No need of farther squeezing! What remainsCan only be Balaustion, just her speech!Ah, but—because speech serves a purpose still!—He ended with that flourish. I replied:"Fancy myself your Aristonumos?Advise me, rather, to remain myself,Balaustion,—mindful what mere mouse confrontsThe forest-monarch Aristophanes!I who, a woman, claim no qualityBeside the love of all things lovableCreated by a power pre-eminentIn knowledge, as in love I stand perchance,—You, the consummately-creative! HowShould I, then, dare deny submissive trustTo any process aiming at resultSuch as you say your songs are pregnant with?Result, all judge: means, let none scrutinizeSave those aware how glory best is gainedBy daring means to end, ashamed of shame,Constant in faith that only good works good,While evil yields no fruit but impotence!Graced with such plain good, I accept the means!Nay, if result itself in turn becomeMeans,—who shall say?—to ends still loftier yet,—Though still the good prove hard to understand,The bad still seemingly predominate,—Never may I forget which order bearsThe burden, toils to win the great reward,And finds, in failure, the grave punishment,So, meantime, claims of me a faith I yield!Moreover, a mere woman, I recoilFrom what may prove man's-work permissible,Imperative. Rough strokes surprise: what then?Some lusty armsweep needs must cause the crashOf thorn and bramble, ere those shrubs, those flowers,We fain would have earth yield exclusively,Are sown, matured and garlanded for boysAnd girls, who know not how the growth was gained.Finally, am I not a foreigner?No born and bred Athenian,—isled about,I scarce can drink, like you, at every breath,Just some particular doctrine which may bestExplain the strange thing I revolt against—How—by involvement, who may extricate?—Religion perks up through impiety,Law leers with license, folly wise-like frowns,The seemly lurks inside the abominable.But opposites,—each neutralizes eachHaply by mixture: what should promise death,May haply give the good ingredient force,Disperse in fume the antagonistic ill.This institution, therefore,—Comedy,—By origin, a rite; by exercise,Proved an achievement tasking poet's powerTo utmost, eking legislation outBeyond the legislator's faculty,Playing the censor where the moralistDeclines his function, far too dignifiedFor dealing with minute absurdities;By efficacy,—virtue's guard, the scourgeOf vice, each folly's fly-flap, arm in aidOf all that 's righteous, customary, soundAnd wholesome; sanctioned therefore,—better say,Prescribed for fit acceptance of this ageBy, not alone the long recorded rollOf earlier triumphs, but, success to-day—(The multitude as prompt recipient stillOf good gay teaching from that monitorThey crowned this morning—Aristophanes—As when Sousarion's car first traversed street)—This product of Athenai—Idispute,Impugn? There 's just one only circumstanceExplains that! I, poor critic, see, hear, feel;But eyes, ears, senses prove me—foreigner!Who shall gainsay that the raw new-come guestBlames oft, too sensitive? On every sideOf—larger than your stage—life's spectacle,Convention here permits and there forbidsImpulse and action, nor alleges moreThan some mysterious 'So do all, and soDoes no one:' which the hasty stranger blamesBecause, who bends the head unquestioning,Transgresses, turns to wrong what else were right,By failure of a reference to lawBeyond convention; blames unjustly, too—As if, through that defect, all gained were lostAnd slave-brand set on brow indelibly;—Blames unobservant or experiencelessThat men, like trees, if stout and sound and sane,Show stem no more affected at the rootBy bough's exceptional submissive dipOf leaf and bell, light danced at end of sprayTo windy fitfulness in wayward sport,—No more lie prostrate,—than low files of flowerWhich, when the blast goes by, unruffled raiseEach head again o'er ruder meadow-wreckOf thorn and thistle that refractoryDemurred to cower at passing wind's caprice.Why shall not guest extend like charity,Conceive how,—even when astounded mostThat natives seem to acquiesce in muckChanged by prescription, they affirm, to gold,—Such may still bring to test, still bear awaySafely and surely much of good and trueThough latent ore, themselves unspecked, unspoiled?Fresh bathed i' the icebrook, any hand may passA placid moment through the lamp's fierce flame:And who has read your 'Lemnians,' seen 'The Hours,'Heard 'Female-Playhouse-seat-Preoccupants,'May feel no worse effect than, once a year,Those who leave decent vesture, dress in ragsAnd play the mendicant, conform therebyTo country's rite, and then, no beggar-taintRetained, don vesture due next morrow-day.What if I share the stranger's weakness then?Well, could I also show his strength, his senseUntutored, ay!—but then untampered with!"I fancy, though the world seems old enough,Though Hellas be the sole unbarbarous land,Years may conduct to such extreme of age,And outside Hellas so isles new may lurk,That haply,—when and where remain a dream!—In fresh days when no Hellas fills the world,In novel lands as strange where, all the same,Their men and women yet behold, as we,Blue heaven, black earth, and love, hate, hope and fear.Over again, unhelped by Attiké—Haply some philanthropic god steers bark,Gift-laden, to the lonely ignoranceIslanded, say, where mist and snow mass hardTo metal—ay, those Kassiterides!Then asks: 'Ye apprehend the human form.What of this statue, made to Pheidias' mind,This picture, as it pleased our Zeuxis paint?Ye too feel truth, love beauty: judge of these!'Such strangers may judge feebly, stranger-like:'Each hair too indistinct—for, see our own!Hands, not skin-colored as these hands we have,And lo, the want of due decorum here!A citizen, arrayed in civic garb,Just as he walked your streets apparently,Yet wears no sword by side, adventures thus,In thronged Athenai! foolish painter's-freak!While here 's his brother-sculptor found at faultStill more egregiously, who shames the world,Shows wrestler, wrestling at the public games,Atrociously exposed from head to foot!'Sure, the Immortal would impart at onceOur slow-stored knowledge, how small truths suppressedConduce to the far greater truth's display,—Would replace simple by instructed sense,And teach them how Athenai first so tamedThe natural fierceness that her progenyDiscarded arms nor feared the beast in man:Wherefore at games, where earth's wise gratitude,Proved by responsive culture, claimed the prizeFor man's mind, body, each in excellence,—When mind had bared itself, came body's turn,And only irreligion grudged the godsOne naked glory of their master-workWhere all is glorious rightly understood,—The human frame; enough that man mistakes:Let him not think the gods mistaken too!

He read. Then—"Murder 's out,—'There are no Gods,'

Man has no master, owns, by consequence,

No right, no wrong, except to please or plague!

His nature: what man likes be man's sole law

Still, since he likes Saperdion, honey, figs,

Man may reach freedom by your roundabout!

'Never believe yourselves the freer thence!

There are no gods, but there 's "Necessity,"—

Duty enjoined you, fact in figment's place,

Throned on no mountain, native to the mind!

Therefore deny yourselves Saperdion, figs

And honey, for the sake of—what I dream,

A-sitting with my legs up!'

"Infamy!The poet casts in calm his lot with theseAssailants of Apollon! Sworn to serveEach Grace, the Furies call him minister—He, who was born for just that roseate worldRenounced so madly, where what 's false is fact,Where he makes beauty out of ugliness,Where he lives, life itself disguised for himAs immortality—so works the spell,The enthusiastic mood which marks a manMuse-mad, dream-drunken, wrapt around by verse,Encircled with poetic atmosphere,As lark emballed by its own crystal song,Or rose enmisted by that scent it makes!No, this were unreality! the realHe wants, not falsehood,—truth alone he seeks,Truth, for all beauty! Beauty, in all truth—That 's certain somehow! Must the eagle liltLark-like, needs fir-tree blossom rose-like? No!Strength and utility charm more than grace,And what 's most ugly proves most beautiful.So much assistance from Euripides!

"Infamy!

The poet casts in calm his lot with these

Assailants of Apollon! Sworn to serve

Each Grace, the Furies call him minister—

He, who was born for just that roseate world

Renounced so madly, where what 's false is fact,

Where he makes beauty out of ugliness,

Where he lives, life itself disguised for him

As immortality—so works the spell,

The enthusiastic mood which marks a man

Muse-mad, dream-drunken, wrapt around by verse,

Encircled with poetic atmosphere,

As lark emballed by its own crystal song,

Or rose enmisted by that scent it makes!

No, this were unreality! the real

He wants, not falsehood,—truth alone he seeks,

Truth, for all beauty! Beauty, in all truth—

That 's certain somehow! Must the eagle lilt

Lark-like, needs fir-tree blossom rose-like? No!

Strength and utility charm more than grace,

And what 's most ugly proves most beautiful.

So much assistance from Euripides!

"Whereupon I betake me, since needs must,To a concluding—'Go and feed the crows!Do! Spoil your art as you renounce your life,Poetize your so precious system, do,Degrade the hero, nullify the god,Exhibit women, slaves and men as peers,—Your castigation follows prompt enough!When all 's concocted upstairs, heels o'erhead,Down must submissive drop the masterpieceFor public praise or blame: so, praise away,Friend Sokrates, wife's-friend Kephisophon!Boast innovations, cramp phrase, uncouth song,Hard matter and harsh manner, gods, men, slavesAnd women jumbled to a laughing-stockWhich Hellas shall hold sides at lest she split!Hellas, on these, shall have her word to say!'

"Whereupon I betake me, since needs must,

To a concluding—'Go and feed the crows!

Do! Spoil your art as you renounce your life,

Poetize your so precious system, do,

Degrade the hero, nullify the god,

Exhibit women, slaves and men as peers,—

Your castigation follows prompt enough!

When all 's concocted upstairs, heels o'erhead,

Down must submissive drop the masterpiece

For public praise or blame: so, praise away,

Friend Sokrates, wife's-friend Kephisophon!

Boast innovations, cramp phrase, uncouth song,

Hard matter and harsh manner, gods, men, slaves

And women jumbled to a laughing-stock

Which Hellas shall hold sides at lest she split!

Hellas, on these, shall have her word to say!'

"She has it and she says it—there 's the curse!—She finds he makes the shag-rag hero-race,The noble slaves, wise women, move as muchPity and terror as true tragic types:Applauds inventiveness—the plot so new,The turn and trick subsidiary so strange!She relishes that homely phrase of life,That common town-talk, more than trumpet-blasts;Accords him right to chop and change a myth:What better right had he, who told the taleIn the first instance, to embellish fact?This last may disembellish yet improve!Both find a block: this man carves back to bullWhat first his predecessor cut to sphinx:Such genuine actual roarer, nature's brute,Intelligible to our time, was sureThe old-world artist's purpose, had he workedTo mind; this both means and makes the thing!If, past dispute, the verse slips oily-bathedIn unctuous music—say, effeminate—We also say, like Kuthereia's self,A lulling effluence which enswathes some isleWhere hides a nymph, not seen but felt the more.That 's Hellas' verdict!

"She has it and she says it—there 's the curse!—

She finds he makes the shag-rag hero-race,

The noble slaves, wise women, move as much

Pity and terror as true tragic types:

Applauds inventiveness—the plot so new,

The turn and trick subsidiary so strange!

She relishes that homely phrase of life,

That common town-talk, more than trumpet-blasts;

Accords him right to chop and change a myth:

What better right had he, who told the tale

In the first instance, to embellish fact?

This last may disembellish yet improve!

Both find a block: this man carves back to bull

What first his predecessor cut to sphinx:

Such genuine actual roarer, nature's brute,

Intelligible to our time, was sure

The old-world artist's purpose, had he worked

To mind; this both means and makes the thing!

If, past dispute, the verse slips oily-bathed

In unctuous music—say, effeminate—

We also say, like Kuthereia's self,

A lulling effluence which enswathes some isle

Where hides a nymph, not seen but felt the more.

That 's Hellas' verdict!

"Does EuripidesEven so far absolved, remain content?Nowise! His task is to refine, refine,Divide, distinguish, subtilize awayWhatever seemed a solid planting-placeFor footfall,—not in that phantasmal sphereProper to poet, but on vulgar earthWhere people used to tread with confidence.There 's left no longer one plain positiveEnunciation incontestableOf what is good, right, decent here on earth.Nobody now can say, 'This plot is mine,Though but a plethron square,—my duty!'—'Yours?Mine, or at least not yours,' snaps somebody!And, whether the dispute be parent-rightOr children's service, husband's privilegeOr wife's submission, there 's a snarling straight,Smart passage of opposing 'yea' and 'nay,''Should,' 'should not,' till, howe'er the contest end,Spectators go off sighing 'Clever thrust!Why was I so much hurried to pay debt,Attend my mother, sacrifice an ox,And set my name down "for a trireme, good"?Something I might have urged on t' other side!No doubt, Chresphontes or BellerophonWe don't meet every day; but Stab-and-stitchThe tailor—ere I turn the drachmas o'erI owe him for a chiton, as he thinks,I 'll pose the blockhead with an argument!'

"Does Euripides

Even so far absolved, remain content?

Nowise! His task is to refine, refine,

Divide, distinguish, subtilize away

Whatever seemed a solid planting-place

For footfall,—not in that phantasmal sphere

Proper to poet, but on vulgar earth

Where people used to tread with confidence.

There 's left no longer one plain positive

Enunciation incontestable

Of what is good, right, decent here on earth.

Nobody now can say, 'This plot is mine,

Though but a plethron square,—my duty!'—'Yours?

Mine, or at least not yours,' snaps somebody!

And, whether the dispute be parent-right

Or children's service, husband's privilege

Or wife's submission, there 's a snarling straight,

Smart passage of opposing 'yea' and 'nay,'

'Should,' 'should not,' till, howe'er the contest end,

Spectators go off sighing 'Clever thrust!

Why was I so much hurried to pay debt,

Attend my mother, sacrifice an ox,

And set my name down "for a trireme, good"?

Something I might have urged on t' other side!

No doubt, Chresphontes or Bellerophon

We don't meet every day; but Stab-and-stitch

The tailor—ere I turn the drachmas o'er

I owe him for a chiton, as he thinks,

I 'll pose the blockhead with an argument!'

"So has he triumphed, your Euripides!Oh, I concede, he rarely gained a prize:That 's quite another matter! cause for that!Still, when 't was got by Ions, Iophons,Off he would pace confoundedly superb,Supreme, no smile at movement on his mouthTill Sokrates winked, whispered: out it broke!And Aristullos jotted down the jest,While Iophons or Ions, bay on brow,Looked queerly, and the foreigners—like you—Asked o'er the border with a puzzled smile,—'And so, you value Ions, Iophons,Euphorions! How about Euripides?'(Eh, brave bard's-champion? Does the anger boil?Keep within bounds a moment,—eye and lipShall loose their doom on me, their fiery worst!)What strangers? Archelaos heads the file!He sympathizes, he concerns himself,He pens epistle, each successless play:'Athenai sinks effete; there 's younger bloodIn Makedonia. Visit where I rule!Do honor to me and take gratitude!Live the guest's life, or work the poet's way,Which also means the statesman's: he who wrote"Erechtheus" may seem rawly politicAt home where Kleophon is ripe; but hereMy council-board permits him choice of seats.'

"So has he triumphed, your Euripides!

Oh, I concede, he rarely gained a prize:

That 's quite another matter! cause for that!

Still, when 't was got by Ions, Iophons,

Off he would pace confoundedly superb,

Supreme, no smile at movement on his mouth

Till Sokrates winked, whispered: out it broke!

And Aristullos jotted down the jest,

While Iophons or Ions, bay on brow,

Looked queerly, and the foreigners—like you—

Asked o'er the border with a puzzled smile,

—'And so, you value Ions, Iophons,

Euphorions! How about Euripides?'

(Eh, brave bard's-champion? Does the anger boil?

Keep within bounds a moment,—eye and lip

Shall loose their doom on me, their fiery worst!)

What strangers? Archelaos heads the file!

He sympathizes, he concerns himself,

He pens epistle, each successless play:

'Athenai sinks effete; there 's younger blood

In Makedonia. Visit where I rule!

Do honor to me and take gratitude!

Live the guest's life, or work the poet's way,

Which also means the statesman's: he who wrote

"Erechtheus" may seem rawly politic

At home where Kleophon is ripe; but here

My council-board permits him choice of seats.'

"Now, this was operating,—what should proveA poison-tree, had flowered far on to fruitFor many a year,—when I was moved, first man,To dare the adventure, down with root and branch.So, from its sheath I drew my Comic steel,And dared what I am now to justify.A serious question first, though!

"Now, this was operating,—what should prove

A poison-tree, had flowered far on to fruit

For many a year,—when I was moved, first man,

To dare the adventure, down with root and branch.

So, from its sheath I drew my Comic steel,

And dared what I am now to justify.

A serious question first, though!

"Once again!Do you believe, when I aspired in youth,I made no estimate of power at all,Nor paused long, nor considered much, what classOf fighters I might claim to join, besideThat class wherewith I cast in company?Say, you—profuse of praise no less than blame—Could not I have competed—franker phraseMight trulier correspond to meaning—still,Competed with your Tragic paragon?Suppose me minded simply to make verse,To fabricate, parade resplendent arms,Flourish and sparkle out a Trilogy,—Where was the hindrance? But my soul bade 'Fight!Leave flourishing for mock-foe, pleasure-time;Prove arms efficient on real heads and hearts!'How? With degeneracy sapping fastThe Marathonian muscle, nerved of oldTo maul the Mede, now strung at best to help—How did I fable?—War and Hubbub mashTo mincemeat Fatherland and Brotherhood,Pound in their mortar Hellas, State by State,That greed might gorge, the while frivolityRubbed hands and smacked lips o'er the dainty dish!Authority, experience—pushed asideBy any upstart who pleads throng and press,O' the people! 'Think, say, do thus!' Wherefore, pray?'We are the people: who impugns our rightOf choosing Kleon that tans hide so well,Huperbolos that turns out lamps so trim,Hemp-seller Eukrates or LusiklesSheep-dealer, Kephalos the potter's son,Diitriphes who weaves the willow-workTo go round bottles, and NausikudesThe meal-man? Such we choose and more, their mates,To think and say and do in our behalf!'While sophistry wagged tongue, emboldened still,Found matter to propose, contest, defend,'Stablish, turn topsyturvy,—all the same,No matter what, provided the resultWere something new in place of something old,—Set wagging by pure insolence of soulWhich needs must pry into, have warrant forEach right, each privilege good policyProtects from curious eye and prating mouth!Everywhere lust to shape the world anew,Spurn this Athenai as we find her, buildA new impossible CloudcuckooburgFor feather-headed birds, once solid men,Where rules, discarding jolly habitude,Nourished on myrtle-berries and stray ants,King Tereus who, turned Hoopoe Triple-Crest,Shall terrify and bring the gods to terms!

"Once again!

Do you believe, when I aspired in youth,

I made no estimate of power at all,

Nor paused long, nor considered much, what class

Of fighters I might claim to join, beside

That class wherewith I cast in company?

Say, you—profuse of praise no less than blame—

Could not I have competed—franker phrase

Might trulier correspond to meaning—still,

Competed with your Tragic paragon?

Suppose me minded simply to make verse,

To fabricate, parade resplendent arms,

Flourish and sparkle out a Trilogy,—

Where was the hindrance? But my soul bade 'Fight!

Leave flourishing for mock-foe, pleasure-time;

Prove arms efficient on real heads and hearts!'

How? With degeneracy sapping fast

The Marathonian muscle, nerved of old

To maul the Mede, now strung at best to help

—How did I fable?—War and Hubbub mash

To mincemeat Fatherland and Brotherhood,

Pound in their mortar Hellas, State by State,

That greed might gorge, the while frivolity

Rubbed hands and smacked lips o'er the dainty dish!

Authority, experience—pushed aside

By any upstart who pleads throng and press,

O' the people! 'Think, say, do thus!' Wherefore, pray?

'We are the people: who impugns our right

Of choosing Kleon that tans hide so well,

Huperbolos that turns out lamps so trim,

Hemp-seller Eukrates or Lusikles

Sheep-dealer, Kephalos the potter's son,

Diitriphes who weaves the willow-work

To go round bottles, and Nausikudes

The meal-man? Such we choose and more, their mates,

To think and say and do in our behalf!'

While sophistry wagged tongue, emboldened still,

Found matter to propose, contest, defend,

'Stablish, turn topsyturvy,—all the same,

No matter what, provided the result

Were something new in place of something old,—

Set wagging by pure insolence of soul

Which needs must pry into, have warrant for

Each right, each privilege good policy

Protects from curious eye and prating mouth!

Everywhere lust to shape the world anew,

Spurn this Athenai as we find her, build

A new impossible Cloudcuckooburg

For feather-headed birds, once solid men,

Where rules, discarding jolly habitude,

Nourished on myrtle-berries and stray ants,

King Tereus who, turned Hoopoe Triple-Crest,

Shall terrify and bring the gods to terms!

"Where was I? Oh! Things ailing thus—I ask,What cure? Cut, thrust, hack, hew at heap-on-heapedAbomination with the exquisitePalaistra-tool of polished Tragedy?Erechtheus shall harangue Amphiktuon,And incidentally drop word of weightOn justice, righteousness, so turn asideThe audience from attacking Sicily!—The more that Choros, after he recountsHow Phrixos rode the ram, the far-famed Fleece,Shall add—at last fall of grave dancing-foot—'Aggression never yet was helped by Zeus!'That helps or hinders Alkibiades?As well expect, should Pheidias carve Zeus' selfAnd set him up, some half a mile away,His frown would frighten sparrows from your field!Eagles may recognize their lord, belike,But as for vulgar sparrows,—change the god,And plant some big Priapos with a pole!I wield the Comic weapon rather—hate!Hate! honest, earnest, and directest hate—Warfare wherein I close with enemy,Call him one name and fifty epithets,Remind you his great-grandfather sold bran,Describe the new exomion, sleeveless coatHe knocked me down last night and robbed me of,Protest he voted for a tax on air!And all this hate—if I write Comedy—Finds tolerance, most like—applause, perhapsTrue veneration; for I praise the godPresent in person of his minister,And pay—the wilder my extravagance—The more appropriate worship to the PowerAdulterous, night-roaming, and the rest:Otherwise,—that originative forceOf nature, impulse stirring death to life,Which, underlying law, seems lawlessness,Yet is the outbreak which, ere order be,Must thrill creation through, warm stocks and stones,Phales Iacchos.

"Where was I? Oh! Things ailing thus—I ask,

What cure? Cut, thrust, hack, hew at heap-on-heaped

Abomination with the exquisite

Palaistra-tool of polished Tragedy?

Erechtheus shall harangue Amphiktuon,

And incidentally drop word of weight

On justice, righteousness, so turn aside

The audience from attacking Sicily!—

The more that Choros, after he recounts

How Phrixos rode the ram, the far-famed Fleece,

Shall add—at last fall of grave dancing-foot—

'Aggression never yet was helped by Zeus!'

That helps or hinders Alkibiades?

As well expect, should Pheidias carve Zeus' self

And set him up, some half a mile away,

His frown would frighten sparrows from your field!

Eagles may recognize their lord, belike,

But as for vulgar sparrows,—change the god,

And plant some big Priapos with a pole!

I wield the Comic weapon rather—hate!

Hate! honest, earnest, and directest hate—

Warfare wherein I close with enemy,

Call him one name and fifty epithets,

Remind you his great-grandfather sold bran,

Describe the new exomion, sleeveless coat

He knocked me down last night and robbed me of,

Protest he voted for a tax on air!

And all this hate—if I write Comedy—

Finds tolerance, most like—applause, perhaps

True veneration; for I praise the god

Present in person of his minister,

And pay—the wilder my extravagance—

The more appropriate worship to the Power

Adulterous, night-roaming, and the rest:

Otherwise,—that originative force

Of nature, impulse stirring death to life,

Which, underlying law, seems lawlessness,

Yet is the outbreak which, ere order be,

Must thrill creation through, warm stocks and stones,

Phales Iacchos.

"Comedy for me!Why not for you, my Tragic masters? SneaksWhose art is mere desertion of a trust!Such weapons lay to hand, the ready club,The clay-ball, on the ground a stone to snatch,—Arms fit to bruise the boar's neck, break the chineO' the wolf,—and you must impiously—despise?No, I 'll say, furtively let fall that trustConsigned you! 'T was not 'take or leave alone,'But 'take and, wielding, recognize your godIn his prime attributes!' And though full soonYou sneaked, subsided into poetry,Nor met your due reward, still,—heroizeAnd speechify and sing-song and foregoFar as you may your function,—still its pactEndures, one piece of early homage stillExacted of you; after your three boutsAt hoitytoity, great men with long words,And so forth,—at the end, must tack itselfThe genuine sample, the Satyric Play,Concession, with its wood-boys' fun and freak,To the true taste of the mere multitude.Yet, there again! What does your Still-at-itch,Always-the-innovator? Shrugs and shirks!Out of his fifty Trilogies, some fiveAre somehow suited: Satyrs dance and sing,Try merriment, a grimly prank or two,Sour joke squeezed through pursed lips and teeth on edge,Then quick on top of toe to pastoral sport,Goat-tending and sheep-herding, cheese and cream,Soft grass and silver rillets, country-fare—When throats were promised Thasian! Five such feats,—Then frankly off he threw the yoke: next Droll,Next festive drama, covenanted fun,Decent reversion to indecency,Proved—your 'Alkestis'! There 's quite fun enough,Herakles drunk! From out fate's blackening waveCalamitous, just zigzags some shot star,Poor promise of faint joy, and turns the laughOn dupes whose fears and tears were all in waste!

"Comedy for me!

Why not for you, my Tragic masters? Sneaks

Whose art is mere desertion of a trust!

Such weapons lay to hand, the ready club,

The clay-ball, on the ground a stone to snatch,—

Arms fit to bruise the boar's neck, break the chine

O' the wolf,—and you must impiously—despise?

No, I 'll say, furtively let fall that trust

Consigned you! 'T was not 'take or leave alone,'

But 'take and, wielding, recognize your god

In his prime attributes!' And though full soon

You sneaked, subsided into poetry,

Nor met your due reward, still,—heroize

And speechify and sing-song and forego

Far as you may your function,—still its pact

Endures, one piece of early homage still

Exacted of you; after your three bouts

At hoitytoity, great men with long words,

And so forth,—at the end, must tack itself

The genuine sample, the Satyric Play,

Concession, with its wood-boys' fun and freak,

To the true taste of the mere multitude.

Yet, there again! What does your Still-at-itch,

Always-the-innovator? Shrugs and shirks!

Out of his fifty Trilogies, some five

Are somehow suited: Satyrs dance and sing,

Try merriment, a grimly prank or two,

Sour joke squeezed through pursed lips and teeth on edge,

Then quick on top of toe to pastoral sport,

Goat-tending and sheep-herding, cheese and cream,

Soft grass and silver rillets, country-fare—

When throats were promised Thasian! Five such feats,—

Then frankly off he threw the yoke: next Droll,

Next festive drama, covenanted fun,

Decent reversion to indecency,

Proved—your 'Alkestis'! There 's quite fun enough,

Herakles drunk! From out fate's blackening wave

Calamitous, just zigzags some shot star,

Poor promise of faint joy, and turns the laugh

On dupes whose fears and tears were all in waste!

"For which sufficient reasons, in truth's name,I closed with whom you count the Meaner Muse,Classed me with Comic Poets who should weldDark with bright metal, show their blade may keepIts adamantine birthright though ablazeWith poetry, the gold, and wit, the gem,And strike mere gold, unstiffened out by steel,Or gem, no iron joints its strength around,From hand of—posturer, not combatant!

"For which sufficient reasons, in truth's name,

I closed with whom you count the Meaner Muse,

Classed me with Comic Poets who should weld

Dark with bright metal, show their blade may keep

Its adamantine birthright though ablaze

With poetry, the gold, and wit, the gem,

And strike mere gold, unstiffened out by steel,

Or gem, no iron joints its strength around,

From hand of—posturer, not combatant!

"Such was my purpose: it succeeds, I say!Have not we beaten Kallikratidas,Not humbled Sparté? Peace awaits our word,Spite of Theramenes, and fools his like.Since my previsions—warranted too wellBy the long war now waged and worn to end—Had spared such heritage of misery,My after-counsels scarce need fear repulse.Athenai, taught prosperity has wings,Cages the glad recapture. Demos, see,From folly's premature decrepitudeBoiled young again, emerges from the stewOf twenty-five years' trouble, sits and sways,One brilliance and one balsam,—sways and sitsMonarch of Hellas! ay, and, sage again,No longer jeopardizes chieftainship,No longer loves the brutish demagogueAppointed by a bestial multitude,But seeks out sound advisers. Who are they?Ourselves, of parentage proved wise and good!To such may hap strains thwarting quality,(As where shall want its flaw mere human stuff?)Still, the right grain is proper to right race;What 's contrary, call curious accident!Hold by the usual! Orchard-grafted tree,Not wilding, racehorse-sired, not rouncey-born,Aristocrat, no sausage-selling snob!Nay, why not Alkibiades, come backFilled by the Genius, freed of petulance,Frailty,—mere youthfulness that 's all at fault,—Advanced to Perikles and something more?—Being at least our duly born and bred,—Curse on what chaunoprockt first gained his earAnd got his ... well, once true man in right place,Our commonalty soon content themselvesWith doing just what they are born to do,Eat, drink, make merry, mind their own affairsAnd leave state-business to the larger brain!I do not stickle for their punishment;But certain culprits have a cloak to twitch,A purse to pay the piper: flog, say I,Your fine fantastics, paragons of parts,Who choose to play the important! Far from sideWith us, their natural supports, allies,—And, best by brain, help who are best by birthTo fortify each weak point in the wallBuilt broad and wide and deep for permanenceBetween what 's high and low, what 's rare and vile,—They cast their lot perversely in with lowAnd vile, lay flat the barrier, lift the mobTo dizzy heights where Privilege stood firm.And then, simplicity become conceit,—Woman, slave, common soldier, artisan,Crazy with new-found worth, new-fangled claims,—These must be taught next how to use their headsAnd hands in driving man's right to mob's rule!What fellows thus inflame the multitude?Your Sokrates, still crying 'Understand!'Your Aristullos,—'Argue!' Last and worst,Should, by good fortune, mob still hesitate,Remember there 's degree in heaven and earth,Cry 'Aischulos enjoined us fear the gods,And Sophokles advised respect the kings!'Why, your Euripides informs them—Gods?They are not! Kings? They are, but ... do not I,In 'Suppliants,' make my Theseus,—yours, no more,—Fire up at insult of who styles him King?Play off that Herald, I despise the most,As patronizing kings' prerogativeAgainst a Theseus proud to dare no stepTill he consult the people?

"Such was my purpose: it succeeds, I say!

Have not we beaten Kallikratidas,

Not humbled Sparté? Peace awaits our word,

Spite of Theramenes, and fools his like.

Since my previsions—warranted too well

By the long war now waged and worn to end—

Had spared such heritage of misery,

My after-counsels scarce need fear repulse.

Athenai, taught prosperity has wings,

Cages the glad recapture. Demos, see,

From folly's premature decrepitude

Boiled young again, emerges from the stew

Of twenty-five years' trouble, sits and sways,

One brilliance and one balsam,—sways and sits

Monarch of Hellas! ay, and, sage again,

No longer jeopardizes chieftainship,

No longer loves the brutish demagogue

Appointed by a bestial multitude,

But seeks out sound advisers. Who are they?

Ourselves, of parentage proved wise and good!

To such may hap strains thwarting quality,

(As where shall want its flaw mere human stuff?)

Still, the right grain is proper to right race;

What 's contrary, call curious accident!

Hold by the usual! Orchard-grafted tree,

Not wilding, racehorse-sired, not rouncey-born,

Aristocrat, no sausage-selling snob!

Nay, why not Alkibiades, come back

Filled by the Genius, freed of petulance,

Frailty,—mere youthfulness that 's all at fault,—

Advanced to Perikles and something more?

—Being at least our duly born and bred,—

Curse on what chaunoprockt first gained his ear

And got his ... well, once true man in right place,

Our commonalty soon content themselves

With doing just what they are born to do,

Eat, drink, make merry, mind their own affairs

And leave state-business to the larger brain!

I do not stickle for their punishment;

But certain culprits have a cloak to twitch,

A purse to pay the piper: flog, say I,

Your fine fantastics, paragons of parts,

Who choose to play the important! Far from side

With us, their natural supports, allies,—

And, best by brain, help who are best by birth

To fortify each weak point in the wall

Built broad and wide and deep for permanence

Between what 's high and low, what 's rare and vile,—

They cast their lot perversely in with low

And vile, lay flat the barrier, lift the mob

To dizzy heights where Privilege stood firm.

And then, simplicity become conceit,—

Woman, slave, common soldier, artisan,

Crazy with new-found worth, new-fangled claims,—

These must be taught next how to use their heads

And hands in driving man's right to mob's rule!

What fellows thus inflame the multitude?

Your Sokrates, still crying 'Understand!'

Your Aristullos,—'Argue!' Last and worst,

Should, by good fortune, mob still hesitate,

Remember there 's degree in heaven and earth,

Cry 'Aischulos enjoined us fear the gods,

And Sophokles advised respect the kings!'

Why, your Euripides informs them—Gods?

They are not! Kings? They are, but ... do not I,

In 'Suppliants,' make my Theseus,—yours, no more,—

Fire up at insult of who styles him King?

Play off that Herald, I despise the most,

As patronizing kings' prerogative

Against a Theseus proud to dare no step

Till he consult the people?

"Such as these—Ah, you expect I am for strangling straight?Nowise, Balaustion! All my roundaboutEnds at beginning, with my own defence!I dose each culprit just with—Comedy.Let each be doctored in exact the modeHimself prescribes: by words, the word-monger—My words to his words,—my lies, if you like,To his lies. Sokrates I nickname thief,Quack, necromancer; Aristullos,—say,Male Kirké who bewitches and bewraysAnd changes folk to swine; Euripides,—Well, I acknowledge! Every word is false,Looked close at; but stand distant and stare through,All 's absolute indubitable truthBehind lies, truth which only lies declare!For come, concede me truth 's in thing not word,Meaning not manner! Love smiles 'rogue' and 'wretch'When 'sweet' and 'dear' seem vapid; Hate adoptsLove's 'sweet' and 'dear,' when 'rogue' and 'wretch' fall flat;Love, Hate—are truths, then, each, in sense not sound.Further: if Love, remaining Love, fell backOn 'sweet' and 'dear,'—if Hate, though Hate the same,Dropped down to 'rogue' and 'wretch,'—each phrase were false.Good! and now grant I hate no matter whomWith reason: I must therefore fight my foe,Finish the mischief which made enmity.How? By employing means to most hurt himWho much harmed me. What way did he do harm?Through word or deed? Through word? with word, wage war!Word with myself directly? As directReply shall follow: word to you, the wise,Whence indirectly came the harm to me?What wisdom I can muster waits on such!Word to the populace which, misconceivedBy ignorance and incapacity,Ends in no such effect as follows causeWhen I, or you the wise, are reasoned with,So damages what I and you hold dear?In that event, I ply the populaceWith just such word as leavens their whole lumpTo the right ferment for my purpose.TheyArbitrate properly between us both?Theyweigh my answer with his argument,Match quip with quibble, wit with eloquence?All they attain to understand is—blank!Two adversaries differ; which is rightAnd which is wrong, none takes on him to say,Since both are unintelligible. Pooh!Swear my foe's mother vended herbs she stole,They fall a-laughing! Add,—his household drudgeOf all-work justifies that office well,Kisses the wife, composing him the play,—They grin at whom they gaped in wonderment,And go off—'Was he such a sorry scrub?This other seems to know! we praised too fast!'When then, my lies have done the work of truth,Since 'scrub,' improper designation, meansExactly what the proper argument—Had such been comprehensible—proposedTo proper audience—were I graced with such—Would properly result in; so your friendGets an impartial verdict on his verse,'The tongue swears, but the soul remains unsworn!'

"Such as these—

Ah, you expect I am for strangling straight?

Nowise, Balaustion! All my roundabout

Ends at beginning, with my own defence!

I dose each culprit just with—Comedy.

Let each be doctored in exact the mode

Himself prescribes: by words, the word-monger—

My words to his words,—my lies, if you like,

To his lies. Sokrates I nickname thief,

Quack, necromancer; Aristullos,—say,

Male Kirké who bewitches and bewrays

And changes folk to swine; Euripides,—

Well, I acknowledge! Every word is false,

Looked close at; but stand distant and stare through,

All 's absolute indubitable truth

Behind lies, truth which only lies declare!

For come, concede me truth 's in thing not word,

Meaning not manner! Love smiles 'rogue' and 'wretch'

When 'sweet' and 'dear' seem vapid; Hate adopts

Love's 'sweet' and 'dear,' when 'rogue' and 'wretch' fall flat;

Love, Hate—are truths, then, each, in sense not sound.

Further: if Love, remaining Love, fell back

On 'sweet' and 'dear,'—if Hate, though Hate the same,

Dropped down to 'rogue' and 'wretch,'—each phrase were false.

Good! and now grant I hate no matter whom

With reason: I must therefore fight my foe,

Finish the mischief which made enmity.

How? By employing means to most hurt him

Who much harmed me. What way did he do harm?

Through word or deed? Through word? with word, wage war!

Word with myself directly? As direct

Reply shall follow: word to you, the wise,

Whence indirectly came the harm to me?

What wisdom I can muster waits on such!

Word to the populace which, misconceived

By ignorance and incapacity,

Ends in no such effect as follows cause

When I, or you the wise, are reasoned with,

So damages what I and you hold dear?

In that event, I ply the populace

With just such word as leavens their whole lump

To the right ferment for my purpose.They

Arbitrate properly between us both?

Theyweigh my answer with his argument,

Match quip with quibble, wit with eloquence?

All they attain to understand is—blank!

Two adversaries differ; which is right

And which is wrong, none takes on him to say,

Since both are unintelligible. Pooh!

Swear my foe's mother vended herbs she stole,

They fall a-laughing! Add,—his household drudge

Of all-work justifies that office well,

Kisses the wife, composing him the play,—

They grin at whom they gaped in wonderment,

And go off—'Was he such a sorry scrub?

This other seems to know! we praised too fast!'

When then, my lies have done the work of truth,

Since 'scrub,' improper designation, means

Exactly what the proper argument

—Had such been comprehensible—proposed

To proper audience—were I graced with such—

Would properly result in; so your friend

Gets an impartial verdict on his verse,

'The tongue swears, but the soul remains unsworn!'

"There, my Balaustion! All is summed and said.No other cause of quarrel with yourself!Euripides and AristophanesDiffer: he needs must round our differenceInto the mob's ear; with the mob I plead.You angrily start forward 'This to me?'No speck of this on you the thrice refined!Could parley be restricted to us two,My first of duties were to clear up doubtAs to our true divergence each from each.Does my opinion so diverge from yours?Probably less than little—not at all!To know a matter, for my very selfAnd intimates—that 's one thing: to implyBy 'knowledge'—loosing whatsoe'er I knowAmong the vulgar who, by mere mistake,May brain themselves and me in consequence,—That 's quite another. 'O the daring flight!This only bard maintains the exalted brow,Nor grovels in the slime nor fears the gods!'DidIfear—Iplay superstitious fool,Who, with the due proviso, introduced,Active and passive, their whole companyAs creatures too absurd for scorn itself?Zeus? I have styled him—'slave, mere thrashing-block!'I 'll tell you: in my very next of plays,At Bacchos' feast, in Bacchos' honor, fullIn front of Bacchos' representative.I mean to make main-actor—Bacchos' self!Forth shall he strut, apparent, first to last,A blockhead, coward, braggart, liar, thief,Demonstrated all these by his own mereXanthias the man-slave: such man shows such godShamed to brute-beastship by comparison!And when ears have their fill of his abuse,And eyes are sated with his pummelling,—My Choros taking care, by, all the whileSinging his glory, that men recognizeA god in the abused and pummelled beast,—Then, should one ear be stopped of auditor,Should one spectator shut revolted eye,—Why, the Priest's self will first raise outraged voice:'Back, thou barbarian, thou ineptitude!Does not most license hallow best our day,And least decorum prove its strictest rite?Since Bacchos bids his followers play the fool,And there 's no fooling like a majestyMocked at,—who mocks the god, obeys the law—Law which, impute but indiscretion to,And ... why, the spirit of EuripidesIs evidently active in the world!'Do I stop here? No! feat of flightier force!See Hermes! what commotion raged,—reflect!—When imaged god alone got injuryBy drunkards' frolic! How Athenai staredAghast, then fell to frenzy, fit on fit,—Ever the last, the longest! At this hour,The craze abates a little: so, my PlayShall have up Hermes: and a Karion, slave,(Since there 's no getting lower) calls our friendThe profitable god, we honor so,Whatever contumely fouls the mouth—Bids him go earn more honest livelihoodBy washing tripe in well-trough—wash he does,Duly obedient! Have I dared my best?Asklepios, answer!—deity in vogue,Who visits Sophokles familiarly,If you believe the old man,—at his age,Living is dreaming, and strange guests haunt doorOf house, belike, peep through and tap at timesWhen a friend yawns there, waiting to be fetched,—At any rate, to memorize the fact,He has spent money, set an altar upIn the god's temple, now in much repute.That temple-service trust me to describe—Cheaters and choused, the god, his brace of girls,Their snake, and how they manage to snap gifts'And consecrate the same into a bag,'For whimsies done away with in the dark!As if, a stone's throw from that theatreWhereon I thus unmask their dupery,The thing were not religious and august!

"There, my Balaustion! All is summed and said.

No other cause of quarrel with yourself!

Euripides and Aristophanes

Differ: he needs must round our difference

Into the mob's ear; with the mob I plead.

You angrily start forward 'This to me?'

No speck of this on you the thrice refined!

Could parley be restricted to us two,

My first of duties were to clear up doubt

As to our true divergence each from each.

Does my opinion so diverge from yours?

Probably less than little—not at all!

To know a matter, for my very self

And intimates—that 's one thing: to imply

By 'knowledge'—loosing whatsoe'er I know

Among the vulgar who, by mere mistake,

May brain themselves and me in consequence,—

That 's quite another. 'O the daring flight!

This only bard maintains the exalted brow,

Nor grovels in the slime nor fears the gods!'

DidIfear—Iplay superstitious fool,

Who, with the due proviso, introduced,

Active and passive, their whole company

As creatures too absurd for scorn itself?

Zeus? I have styled him—'slave, mere thrashing-block!'

I 'll tell you: in my very next of plays,

At Bacchos' feast, in Bacchos' honor, full

In front of Bacchos' representative.

I mean to make main-actor—Bacchos' self!

Forth shall he strut, apparent, first to last,

A blockhead, coward, braggart, liar, thief,

Demonstrated all these by his own mere

Xanthias the man-slave: such man shows such god

Shamed to brute-beastship by comparison!

And when ears have their fill of his abuse,

And eyes are sated with his pummelling,—

My Choros taking care, by, all the while

Singing his glory, that men recognize

A god in the abused and pummelled beast,—

Then, should one ear be stopped of auditor,

Should one spectator shut revolted eye,—

Why, the Priest's self will first raise outraged voice:

'Back, thou barbarian, thou ineptitude!

Does not most license hallow best our day,

And least decorum prove its strictest rite?

Since Bacchos bids his followers play the fool,

And there 's no fooling like a majesty

Mocked at,—who mocks the god, obeys the law—

Law which, impute but indiscretion to,

And ... why, the spirit of Euripides

Is evidently active in the world!'

Do I stop here? No! feat of flightier force!

See Hermes! what commotion raged,—reflect!—

When imaged god alone got injury

By drunkards' frolic! How Athenai stared

Aghast, then fell to frenzy, fit on fit,—

Ever the last, the longest! At this hour,

The craze abates a little: so, my Play

Shall have up Hermes: and a Karion, slave,

(Since there 's no getting lower) calls our friend

The profitable god, we honor so,

Whatever contumely fouls the mouth—

Bids him go earn more honest livelihood

By washing tripe in well-trough—wash he does,

Duly obedient! Have I dared my best?

Asklepios, answer!—deity in vogue,

Who visits Sophokles familiarly,

If you believe the old man,—at his age,

Living is dreaming, and strange guests haunt door

Of house, belike, peep through and tap at times

When a friend yawns there, waiting to be fetched,—

At any rate, to memorize the fact,

He has spent money, set an altar up

In the god's temple, now in much repute.

That temple-service trust me to describe—

Cheaters and choused, the god, his brace of girls,

Their snake, and how they manage to snap gifts

'And consecrate the same into a bag,'

For whimsies done away with in the dark!

As if, a stone's throw from that theatre

Whereon I thus unmask their dupery,

The thing were not religious and august!

"Of Sophokles himself—nor word nor signBeyond a harmless parody or so!He founds no anti-school, upsets no faith,But, living, lets live, the good easy soulWho,—if he saves his cash, unpoetlike,Loves wine and—never mind what other sport,Boasts for his father just a swordblade-smith,Proves but queer captain when the people claim,For one who conquered with 'Antigone,'The right to undertake a squadron's charge,—And needs the son's help now to finish plays,Seeing his dotage calls for governanceAnd Iophon to share his property,—Why, of all this, reported true, I breatheNot one word—true or false, I like the man!Sophokles lives and lets live: long live he!Otherwise,—sharp the scourge and hard the blow!

"Of Sophokles himself—nor word nor sign

Beyond a harmless parody or so!

He founds no anti-school, upsets no faith,

But, living, lets live, the good easy soul

Who,—if he saves his cash, unpoetlike,

Loves wine and—never mind what other sport,

Boasts for his father just a swordblade-smith,

Proves but queer captain when the people claim,

For one who conquered with 'Antigone,'

The right to undertake a squadron's charge,—

And needs the son's help now to finish plays,

Seeing his dotage calls for governance

And Iophon to share his property,—

Why, of all this, reported true, I breathe

Not one word—true or false, I like the man!

Sophokles lives and lets live: long live he!

Otherwise,—sharp the scourge and hard the blow!

"And what 's my teaching but—accept the old,Contest the strange! acknowledge work that 's done,Misdoubt men who have still their work to do!Religions, laws and customs, poetries,Are old? So much achieved victorious truth!Each work was product of a lifetime, wrungFrom each man by an adverse world: for why?He worked, destroying other older workWhich the world loved and so was loth to lose.Whom the world beat in battle—dust and ash!Who beat the world, left work in evidence,And wears its crown till new men live new lives,And fight new fights, and triumph in their turn.I mean to show you on the stage! you 'll seeMy Just Judge only venture to decideBetween two suitors, which is god, which man,By thrashing both of them as flesh can bear.You shall agree,—whichever bellows first,He 's human; who holds longest out, divine:That is the only equitable test!Cruelty? Pray, who pricked them on to courtMy thong's award? Must they needs dominate?Then I—rebel! Their instinct grasps the new?Mine bids retain the old: a fight must be,And which is stronger the event will show.Oh, but the pain! Your proved divinityStill smarts all reddened? And the rightlier served!Was not some man's-flesh in him, after all?Do let us lack no frank acknowledgmentThere 's nature common to both gods and men!All of them—spirit? What so winced was clay!Away pretence to some exclusive sphereCloud-nourishing a sole selected fewFume-fed with self-superiority!I stand up for the common coarse-as-clayExistence,—stamp and ramp with heel and hoofOn solid vulgar life, you fools disown!Make haste from your unreal eminence,And measure lengths with me upon that groundWhence this mud-pellet sings and summons you!I know the soul, too, how the spark ascendsAnd how it drops apace and dies away.I am your poet-peer, man thrice your match!I too can lead an airy life when dead,Fly like Kinesias when I 'm cloud-ward bound;But here, no death shall mix with life it mars!

"And what 's my teaching but—accept the old,

Contest the strange! acknowledge work that 's done,

Misdoubt men who have still their work to do!

Religions, laws and customs, poetries,

Are old? So much achieved victorious truth!

Each work was product of a lifetime, wrung

From each man by an adverse world: for why?

He worked, destroying other older work

Which the world loved and so was loth to lose.

Whom the world beat in battle—dust and ash!

Who beat the world, left work in evidence,

And wears its crown till new men live new lives,

And fight new fights, and triumph in their turn.

I mean to show you on the stage! you 'll see

My Just Judge only venture to decide

Between two suitors, which is god, which man,

By thrashing both of them as flesh can bear.

You shall agree,—whichever bellows first,

He 's human; who holds longest out, divine:

That is the only equitable test!

Cruelty? Pray, who pricked them on to court

My thong's award? Must they needs dominate?

Then I—rebel! Their instinct grasps the new?

Mine bids retain the old: a fight must be,

And which is stronger the event will show.

Oh, but the pain! Your proved divinity

Still smarts all reddened? And the rightlier served!

Was not some man's-flesh in him, after all?

Do let us lack no frank acknowledgment

There 's nature common to both gods and men!

All of them—spirit? What so winced was clay!

Away pretence to some exclusive sphere

Cloud-nourishing a sole selected few

Fume-fed with self-superiority!

I stand up for the common coarse-as-clay

Existence,—stamp and ramp with heel and hoof

On solid vulgar life, you fools disown!

Make haste from your unreal eminence,

And measure lengths with me upon that ground

Whence this mud-pellet sings and summons you!

I know the soul, too, how the spark ascends

And how it drops apace and dies away.

I am your poet-peer, man thrice your match!

I too can lead an airy life when dead,

Fly like Kinesias when I 'm cloud-ward bound;

But here, no death shall mix with life it mars!

"So, my old enemy who caused the fight,Own I have beaten you, Euripides!Or,—if your advocate would contravene,—Help him, Balaustion! Use the rosy strength!I have not done my utmost,—treated youAs I might Aristullos, mint-perfumed,—Still, let the whole rage burst in brave attack!Don't pay the poor ambiguous complimentOf fearing any pearl-white knuckled fistWill damage this broad buttress of a brow!Fancy yourself my Aristonumos,Ameipsias or Sannurion: punch and pound!Three cuckoos who cry 'cuckoo'! much I care!They boil a stone!Neblaretai! Rattei!"

"So, my old enemy who caused the fight,

Own I have beaten you, Euripides!

Or,—if your advocate would contravene,—

Help him, Balaustion! Use the rosy strength!

I have not done my utmost,—treated you

As I might Aristullos, mint-perfumed,—

Still, let the whole rage burst in brave attack!

Don't pay the poor ambiguous compliment

Of fearing any pearl-white knuckled fist

Will damage this broad buttress of a brow!

Fancy yourself my Aristonumos,

Ameipsias or Sannurion: punch and pound!

Three cuckoos who cry 'cuckoo'! much I care!

They boil a stone!Neblaretai! Rattei!"

Cannot your task have end here, Euthukles?Day by day glides our galley on its path:Still sunrise and still sunset, Rhodes half-reached,And still, my patient scribe! no sunset's peaceDescends more punctual than that brow's inclineO'er tablets which your serviceable handPrepares to trace. Why treasure up, forsooth,These relics of a night that make me rich,But, half-remembered merely, leave so poorEach stranger to Athenai and her past?For—how remembered! As some greedy hindPersuades a honeycomb, beyond the due,To yield its hoarding,—heedless what alloyOf the poor bee's own substance taints the goldWhich, unforced, yields few drops, but purity,—So would you fain relieve of load this brain,Though the hived thoughts must bring away, with strength,What words and weakness, strength's receptacle—Wax from the store! Yet,—aching soothed away,—Accept the compound! No suspected scentBut proves some rose was rifled, though its ghostScarce lingers with what promised musk and myrrh.No need of farther squeezing! What remainsCan only be Balaustion, just her speech!

Cannot your task have end here, Euthukles?

Day by day glides our galley on its path:

Still sunrise and still sunset, Rhodes half-reached,

And still, my patient scribe! no sunset's peace

Descends more punctual than that brow's incline

O'er tablets which your serviceable hand

Prepares to trace. Why treasure up, forsooth,

These relics of a night that make me rich,

But, half-remembered merely, leave so poor

Each stranger to Athenai and her past?

For—how remembered! As some greedy hind

Persuades a honeycomb, beyond the due,

To yield its hoarding,—heedless what alloy

Of the poor bee's own substance taints the gold

Which, unforced, yields few drops, but purity,—

So would you fain relieve of load this brain,

Though the hived thoughts must bring away, with strength,

What words and weakness, strength's receptacle—

Wax from the store! Yet,—aching soothed away,—

Accept the compound! No suspected scent

But proves some rose was rifled, though its ghost

Scarce lingers with what promised musk and myrrh.

No need of farther squeezing! What remains

Can only be Balaustion, just her speech!

Ah, but—because speech serves a purpose still!—

He ended with that flourish. I replied:

"Fancy myself your Aristonumos?Advise me, rather, to remain myself,Balaustion,—mindful what mere mouse confrontsThe forest-monarch Aristophanes!I who, a woman, claim no qualityBeside the love of all things lovableCreated by a power pre-eminentIn knowledge, as in love I stand perchance,—You, the consummately-creative! HowShould I, then, dare deny submissive trustTo any process aiming at resultSuch as you say your songs are pregnant with?Result, all judge: means, let none scrutinizeSave those aware how glory best is gainedBy daring means to end, ashamed of shame,Constant in faith that only good works good,While evil yields no fruit but impotence!Graced with such plain good, I accept the means!Nay, if result itself in turn becomeMeans,—who shall say?—to ends still loftier yet,—Though still the good prove hard to understand,The bad still seemingly predominate,—Never may I forget which order bearsThe burden, toils to win the great reward,And finds, in failure, the grave punishment,So, meantime, claims of me a faith I yield!Moreover, a mere woman, I recoilFrom what may prove man's-work permissible,Imperative. Rough strokes surprise: what then?Some lusty armsweep needs must cause the crashOf thorn and bramble, ere those shrubs, those flowers,We fain would have earth yield exclusively,Are sown, matured and garlanded for boysAnd girls, who know not how the growth was gained.Finally, am I not a foreigner?No born and bred Athenian,—isled about,I scarce can drink, like you, at every breath,Just some particular doctrine which may bestExplain the strange thing I revolt against—How—by involvement, who may extricate?—Religion perks up through impiety,Law leers with license, folly wise-like frowns,The seemly lurks inside the abominable.But opposites,—each neutralizes eachHaply by mixture: what should promise death,May haply give the good ingredient force,Disperse in fume the antagonistic ill.This institution, therefore,—Comedy,—By origin, a rite; by exercise,Proved an achievement tasking poet's powerTo utmost, eking legislation outBeyond the legislator's faculty,Playing the censor where the moralistDeclines his function, far too dignifiedFor dealing with minute absurdities;By efficacy,—virtue's guard, the scourgeOf vice, each folly's fly-flap, arm in aidOf all that 's righteous, customary, soundAnd wholesome; sanctioned therefore,—better say,Prescribed for fit acceptance of this ageBy, not alone the long recorded rollOf earlier triumphs, but, success to-day—(The multitude as prompt recipient stillOf good gay teaching from that monitorThey crowned this morning—Aristophanes—As when Sousarion's car first traversed street)—This product of Athenai—Idispute,Impugn? There 's just one only circumstanceExplains that! I, poor critic, see, hear, feel;But eyes, ears, senses prove me—foreigner!Who shall gainsay that the raw new-come guestBlames oft, too sensitive? On every sideOf—larger than your stage—life's spectacle,Convention here permits and there forbidsImpulse and action, nor alleges moreThan some mysterious 'So do all, and soDoes no one:' which the hasty stranger blamesBecause, who bends the head unquestioning,Transgresses, turns to wrong what else were right,By failure of a reference to lawBeyond convention; blames unjustly, too—As if, through that defect, all gained were lostAnd slave-brand set on brow indelibly;—Blames unobservant or experiencelessThat men, like trees, if stout and sound and sane,Show stem no more affected at the rootBy bough's exceptional submissive dipOf leaf and bell, light danced at end of sprayTo windy fitfulness in wayward sport,—No more lie prostrate,—than low files of flowerWhich, when the blast goes by, unruffled raiseEach head again o'er ruder meadow-wreckOf thorn and thistle that refractoryDemurred to cower at passing wind's caprice.Why shall not guest extend like charity,Conceive how,—even when astounded mostThat natives seem to acquiesce in muckChanged by prescription, they affirm, to gold,—Such may still bring to test, still bear awaySafely and surely much of good and trueThough latent ore, themselves unspecked, unspoiled?Fresh bathed i' the icebrook, any hand may passA placid moment through the lamp's fierce flame:And who has read your 'Lemnians,' seen 'The Hours,'Heard 'Female-Playhouse-seat-Preoccupants,'May feel no worse effect than, once a year,Those who leave decent vesture, dress in ragsAnd play the mendicant, conform therebyTo country's rite, and then, no beggar-taintRetained, don vesture due next morrow-day.What if I share the stranger's weakness then?Well, could I also show his strength, his senseUntutored, ay!—but then untampered with!

"Fancy myself your Aristonumos?

Advise me, rather, to remain myself,

Balaustion,—mindful what mere mouse confronts

The forest-monarch Aristophanes!

I who, a woman, claim no quality

Beside the love of all things lovable

Created by a power pre-eminent

In knowledge, as in love I stand perchance,

—You, the consummately-creative! How

Should I, then, dare deny submissive trust

To any process aiming at result

Such as you say your songs are pregnant with?

Result, all judge: means, let none scrutinize

Save those aware how glory best is gained

By daring means to end, ashamed of shame,

Constant in faith that only good works good,

While evil yields no fruit but impotence!

Graced with such plain good, I accept the means!

Nay, if result itself in turn become

Means,—who shall say?—to ends still loftier yet,—

Though still the good prove hard to understand,

The bad still seemingly predominate,—

Never may I forget which order bears

The burden, toils to win the great reward,

And finds, in failure, the grave punishment,

So, meantime, claims of me a faith I yield!

Moreover, a mere woman, I recoil

From what may prove man's-work permissible,

Imperative. Rough strokes surprise: what then?

Some lusty armsweep needs must cause the crash

Of thorn and bramble, ere those shrubs, those flowers,

We fain would have earth yield exclusively,

Are sown, matured and garlanded for boys

And girls, who know not how the growth was gained.

Finally, am I not a foreigner?

No born and bred Athenian,—isled about,

I scarce can drink, like you, at every breath,

Just some particular doctrine which may best

Explain the strange thing I revolt against—

How—by involvement, who may extricate?—

Religion perks up through impiety,

Law leers with license, folly wise-like frowns,

The seemly lurks inside the abominable.

But opposites,—each neutralizes each

Haply by mixture: what should promise death,

May haply give the good ingredient force,

Disperse in fume the antagonistic ill.

This institution, therefore,—Comedy,—

By origin, a rite; by exercise,

Proved an achievement tasking poet's power

To utmost, eking legislation out

Beyond the legislator's faculty,

Playing the censor where the moralist

Declines his function, far too dignified

For dealing with minute absurdities;

By efficacy,—virtue's guard, the scourge

Of vice, each folly's fly-flap, arm in aid

Of all that 's righteous, customary, sound

And wholesome; sanctioned therefore,—better say,

Prescribed for fit acceptance of this age

By, not alone the long recorded roll

Of earlier triumphs, but, success to-day—

(The multitude as prompt recipient still

Of good gay teaching from that monitor

They crowned this morning—Aristophanes—

As when Sousarion's car first traversed street)—

This product of Athenai—Idispute,

Impugn? There 's just one only circumstance

Explains that! I, poor critic, see, hear, feel;

But eyes, ears, senses prove me—foreigner!

Who shall gainsay that the raw new-come guest

Blames oft, too sensitive? On every side

Of—larger than your stage—life's spectacle,

Convention here permits and there forbids

Impulse and action, nor alleges more

Than some mysterious 'So do all, and so

Does no one:' which the hasty stranger blames

Because, who bends the head unquestioning,

Transgresses, turns to wrong what else were right,

By failure of a reference to law

Beyond convention; blames unjustly, too—

As if, through that defect, all gained were lost

And slave-brand set on brow indelibly;—

Blames unobservant or experienceless

That men, like trees, if stout and sound and sane,

Show stem no more affected at the root

By bough's exceptional submissive dip

Of leaf and bell, light danced at end of spray

To windy fitfulness in wayward sport,—

No more lie prostrate,—than low files of flower

Which, when the blast goes by, unruffled raise

Each head again o'er ruder meadow-wreck

Of thorn and thistle that refractory

Demurred to cower at passing wind's caprice.

Why shall not guest extend like charity,

Conceive how,—even when astounded most

That natives seem to acquiesce in muck

Changed by prescription, they affirm, to gold,—

Such may still bring to test, still bear away

Safely and surely much of good and true

Though latent ore, themselves unspecked, unspoiled?

Fresh bathed i' the icebrook, any hand may pass

A placid moment through the lamp's fierce flame:

And who has read your 'Lemnians,' seen 'The Hours,'

Heard 'Female-Playhouse-seat-Preoccupants,'

May feel no worse effect than, once a year,

Those who leave decent vesture, dress in rags

And play the mendicant, conform thereby

To country's rite, and then, no beggar-taint

Retained, don vesture due next morrow-day.

What if I share the stranger's weakness then?

Well, could I also show his strength, his sense

Untutored, ay!—but then untampered with!

"I fancy, though the world seems old enough,Though Hellas be the sole unbarbarous land,Years may conduct to such extreme of age,And outside Hellas so isles new may lurk,That haply,—when and where remain a dream!—In fresh days when no Hellas fills the world,In novel lands as strange where, all the same,Their men and women yet behold, as we,Blue heaven, black earth, and love, hate, hope and fear.Over again, unhelped by Attiké—Haply some philanthropic god steers bark,Gift-laden, to the lonely ignoranceIslanded, say, where mist and snow mass hardTo metal—ay, those Kassiterides!Then asks: 'Ye apprehend the human form.What of this statue, made to Pheidias' mind,This picture, as it pleased our Zeuxis paint?Ye too feel truth, love beauty: judge of these!'Such strangers may judge feebly, stranger-like:'Each hair too indistinct—for, see our own!Hands, not skin-colored as these hands we have,And lo, the want of due decorum here!A citizen, arrayed in civic garb,Just as he walked your streets apparently,Yet wears no sword by side, adventures thus,In thronged Athenai! foolish painter's-freak!While here 's his brother-sculptor found at faultStill more egregiously, who shames the world,Shows wrestler, wrestling at the public games,Atrociously exposed from head to foot!'Sure, the Immortal would impart at onceOur slow-stored knowledge, how small truths suppressedConduce to the far greater truth's display,—Would replace simple by instructed sense,And teach them how Athenai first so tamedThe natural fierceness that her progenyDiscarded arms nor feared the beast in man:Wherefore at games, where earth's wise gratitude,Proved by responsive culture, claimed the prizeFor man's mind, body, each in excellence,—When mind had bared itself, came body's turn,And only irreligion grudged the godsOne naked glory of their master-workWhere all is glorious rightly understood,—The human frame; enough that man mistakes:Let him not think the gods mistaken too!

"I fancy, though the world seems old enough,

Though Hellas be the sole unbarbarous land,

Years may conduct to such extreme of age,

And outside Hellas so isles new may lurk,

That haply,—when and where remain a dream!—

In fresh days when no Hellas fills the world,

In novel lands as strange where, all the same,

Their men and women yet behold, as we,

Blue heaven, black earth, and love, hate, hope and fear.

Over again, unhelped by Attiké—

Haply some philanthropic god steers bark,

Gift-laden, to the lonely ignorance

Islanded, say, where mist and snow mass hard

To metal—ay, those Kassiterides!

Then asks: 'Ye apprehend the human form.

What of this statue, made to Pheidias' mind,

This picture, as it pleased our Zeuxis paint?

Ye too feel truth, love beauty: judge of these!'

Such strangers may judge feebly, stranger-like:

'Each hair too indistinct—for, see our own!

Hands, not skin-colored as these hands we have,

And lo, the want of due decorum here!

A citizen, arrayed in civic garb,

Just as he walked your streets apparently,

Yet wears no sword by side, adventures thus,

In thronged Athenai! foolish painter's-freak!

While here 's his brother-sculptor found at fault

Still more egregiously, who shames the world,

Shows wrestler, wrestling at the public games,

Atrociously exposed from head to foot!'

Sure, the Immortal would impart at once

Our slow-stored knowledge, how small truths suppressed

Conduce to the far greater truth's display,—

Would replace simple by instructed sense,

And teach them how Athenai first so tamed

The natural fierceness that her progeny

Discarded arms nor feared the beast in man:

Wherefore at games, where earth's wise gratitude,

Proved by responsive culture, claimed the prize

For man's mind, body, each in excellence,—

When mind had bared itself, came body's turn,

And only irreligion grudged the gods

One naked glory of their master-work

Where all is glorious rightly understood,—

The human frame; enough that man mistakes:

Let him not think the gods mistaken too!

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