Chapter 118

You have seen better days, dear? So have I—And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouthAs yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,And wished and had their trouble for their pains.Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at lastUnder a pork-pie hat and crinoline,And, latish, pounce on Sphinx in Leicester Square?Or likelier, what if Sphinx in wise old age,Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,And jealous for her riddle's proper rede,—Jealous that the good trick which served the turnHave justice rendered it, nor class one dayWith friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—What if the once redoubted Sphinx, I say,(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,And desert-whispers grow a prophecy,)Tell all to Corinth of her own accord,Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Laïs' sake,Who finds me hardly gray, and likes my nose,And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!But listen, for we must co-operate;I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!First, how to make the matter plain, of course—What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:Ay, we must take one instant of my lifeSpent sitting by your side in this neat room:Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!Here 's paper on the table, pen and ink:Give me the soiled bit—not the pretty rose!See! having sat an hour, I 'm rested now,Therefore want work: and spy no better workFor eye and hand and mind that guides them both,During this instant, than to draw my penFrom blot One—thus—up, up to blot Two—thus—Which I at last reach, thus, and here 's my lineFive inches long and tolerably straight:Better to draw than leave undrawn, I think,Fitter to do than let alone, I hold,Though better, fitter, by but one degree.Therefore it was that, rather than sit stillSimply, my right-hand drew it while my leftPulled smooth and pinched the moustache to a point.Now I permit your plump lips to unpurse:"So far, one possibly may understandWithout recourse to witchcraft!" True, my dear.Thus folks begin with Euclid,—finish, how?Trying to square the circle!—at any rate,Solving abstruser problems than this first,"How find the nearest way 'twixt point and point."Deal but with moral mathematics so—Master one merest moment's work of mine,Even this practising with pen and ink,—Demonstrate why I rather plied the quillThan left the space a blank,—you gain a fact,And God knows what a fact 's worth! So proceedBy inference from just this moral fact—I don't say, to that plaguy quadrature,"What the whole man meant, whom you wish you knew,"But, what meant certain things he did of old,Which puzzled Europe,—why, you 'll find them plain,This way, not otherwise: I guarantee,Understand one, you comprehend the rest.Rays from all round converge to any point:Study the point then ere you track the rays!The size o' the circle 's nothing; subdivideEarth, and earth's smallest grain of mustard-seed,You count as many parts, small matching largeIf you can use the mind's eye: otherwise,Material optics, being gross at best,Prefer the large and leave our mind the small—And pray how many folk have minds can see?Certainly you—and somebody in ThraceWhose name escapes me at the moment. You—Lend me your mind then! Analyze with meThis instance of the line 'twixt blot and blotI rather chose to draw than leave a blank,Things else being equal. You are taught therebyThat 't is my nature, when I am at ease,Rather than idle out my life too long,To want to do a thing—to put a thought,Whether a great thought or a little one,Into an act, as nearly as may be.Make what is absolutely new—I can't,Mar what is made already well enough—I won't: but turn to best account the thingThat 's half-made—that I can. Two blots, you sawI knew how to extend into a lineSymmetric on the sheet they blurred before—Such little act sufficed, this time, such thought.Now, we 'll extend rays, widen out the verge,Describe a larger circle; leave this firstClod of an instance we began with, riseTo the complete world many clods effect.Only continue patient while I throw,Delver-like, spadeful after spadeful up,Just as truths come, the subsoil of me, mouldWhence spring my moods: your object,—just to find,Alike from handlift and from barrow-load,What salts and silts may constitute the earth—If it be proper stuff to blow man glass,Or bake him pottery, bear him oaks or wheat—What 's born of me, in brief; which found, all 's known.If it were genius did the digging-job,Logic would speedily sift its product smoothAnd leave the crude truths bare for poetry;But I 'm no poet, and am stiff i' the back.What one spread fails to bring, another may.In goes the shovel and out comes scoop—as here!I live to please myself. I recognizePower passing mine, immeasurable, God—Above me, whom he made, as heaven beyondEarth—to use figures which assist our sense.I know that he is there as I am here,By the same proof, which seems no proof at all,It so exceeds familiar forms of proof.Why "there," not "here"? Because, when I say "there"I treat the feeling with distincter shapeThat space exists between us: I,—not he,—Live, think, do human work here—no machine,His will moves, but a being by myself,His, and not he who made me for a work,Watches my working, judges its effect,But does not interpose. He did so once,And probably will again some time—not now,Life being the minute of mankind, not God's,In a certain sense, like time before and timeAfter man's earthly life, so far as manNeeds apprehend the matter. Am I clear?Suppose I bid a courier take to-night—(... Once for all, let me talk as if I smokedYet in the Residenz, a personage:I must still represent the thing I was,Galvanically make dead muscle play,Or how shall I illustrate muscle's use?)I could then, last July, bid courier takeMessage for me, post-haste, a thousand miles.I bid him, since I have the right to bid,And, my part done so far, his part begins;He starts with due equipment, will and power,Means he may use, misuse, not use at all,At his discretion, at his peril too.I leave him to himself: but, journey done,I count the minutes, call for the resultIn quickness and the courier quality,Weigh its worth, and then punish or rewardAccording to proved service; not before.Meantime, he sleeps through noontide, rides till dawn,Sticks to the straight road, tries the crooked path,Measures and manages resource, trusts, doubtsAdvisers by the wayside, does his bestAt his discretion, lags or launches forth,(He knows and I know) at his peril too.You see? Exactly thus men stand to God:I with my courier, God with me. Just soI have his bidding to perform; but mindAnd body, all of me, though made and meantFor that sole service, must consult, concertWith my own self and nobody beside,How to effect the same: God helps not else.'T is I who, with my stock of craft and strength,Choose the directer cut across the hedge,Or keep the foot-track that respects a crop.Lie down and rest, rise up and ran,—live spare,Feed free,—all that 's my business: but, arrive,Deliver message, bring the answer back,And make my bow, I must: then God will speak,Praise me or haply blame as service proves.To other men, to each and every one,Another law! what likelier? God, perchance,Grants each new man, by some as new a mode,Intercommunication with himself,Wreaking on finiteness infinitude;By such a series of effects, gives eachLast his own imprint: old yet ever newThe process: 't is the way of Deity.How it succeeds, he knows: I only knowThat varied modes of creatureship abound,Implying just as varied intercourseFor each with the creator of them all.Each has his own mind and no other's mode.What mode may yours be? I shall sympathize!No doubt, you, good young lady that you are,Despite a natural naughtiness or two,Turn eyes up like a Pradier MagdalenAnd see an outspread providential handAbove the owl's-wing aigrette—guard and guide—Visibly o'er your path, about your bed,Through all your practisings with London-town.It points, you go; it stays fixed, and you stop;You quicken its procedure by a wordSpoken, a thought in silence, prayer and praise.Well, I believe that such a hand may stoop,And such appeals to it may stave off harm,Pacify the grim guardian of this Square,And stand you in good stead on quarter-day:Quite possible in your case; not in mine."Ah, but I choose to make the difference,Find the emancipation?" No, I hope!If I deceive myself, take noon for night,Please to become determinedly blindTo the true ordinance of human life,Through mere presumption—that is my affair,And truly a grave one; but as grave I thinkYour affair, yours, the specially observed,—Each favored person that perceives his pathPointed him, inch by inch, and looks aboveFor guidance, through the mazes of this world,In what we call its meanest life-career—Not how to manage Europe properly,But how keep open shop, and yet pay rent,Rear household, and make both ends meet, the same.I say, such man is no less tasked than ITo duly take the path appointed himBy whatsoever sign he recognize.Our insincerity on both our heads!No matter what the object of a life,Small work or large,—the making thrive a shop,Or seeing that an empire take no harm,—There are known fruits to judge obedience by.You 've read a ton's weight, now, of newspaper—Lives of me, gabble about the kind of prince—You know my work i' the rough; I ask you, then,Do I appear subordinated lessTo hand-impulsion, one prime push for all,Than little lives of men, the multitudeThat cried out, every quarter of an hour,For fresh instructions, did or did not work,And praised in the odd minutes?Eh, my dear?Such is the reason why I acquiescedIn doing what seemed best for me to do,So as to please myself on the great scale,Having regard to immortalityNo less than life—did that which head and heartPrescribed my hand, in measure with its meansOf doing—used my special stock of power—Not from the aforesaid head and heart alone,But every sort of helpful circumstance,Some problematic and some nondescript:All regulated by the single careI' the last resort—that I made thoroughly serveThe when and how, toiled where was need, reposedAs resolutely at the proper point,Braved sorrow, courted joy, to just one end:Namely, that just the creature I was boundTo be, I should become, nor thwart at allGod's purpose in creation. I conceiveNo other duty possible to man,—Highest mind, lowest mind,—no other lawBy which to judge life failure or success:What folk call being saved or cast away.Such was my rule of life; I worked my best,Subject to ultimate judgment, God's not man's.Well then, this settled,—take your tea, I beg,And meditate the fact, 'twixt sip and sip,—This settled—why I pleased myself, you saw,By turning blot and blot into a line,O' the little scale,—we 'll try now (as your tongueTries the concluding sugar-drop) what 's meantTo please me most o' the great scale. Why, just now,With nothing else to do within my reach,Did I prefer making two blots one lineTo making yet another separateThird blot, and leaving those I found unlinked?It meant, I like to use the thing I find,Rather than strive at unfound novelty:I make the best of the old, nor try for new.Such will to act, such choice of action's way,Constitute—when at work on the great scale,Driven to their farthest natural consequenceBy all the help from all the means—my ownParticular faculty of serving God,Instinct for putting power to exerciseUpon some wish and want o' the time, I provePossible to mankind as best I may.This constitutes my mission,—grant the phrase,—Namely, to rule men—men within my reach,To order, influence and dispose them soAs render solid and stabilifyMankind in particles, the light and loose,For their good and my pleasure in the act.Such good accomplished proves twice good to me—Good for its own sake, as the just and right,And, in the effecting also, good againTo me its agent, tasked as suits my taste.Is this much easy to be understoodAt first glance? Now begin the steady gaze!My rank—(if I must tell you simple truth—Telling were else not worth the whiff o' the weedI lose for the tale's sake)—dear, my rank i' the worldIs hard to know and name precisely: errI may, but scarcely overestimateMy style and title. Do I class with menMost useful to their fellows? Possibly,—Therefore, in some sort, best; but, greatest mindAnd rarest nature? Evidently no.A conservator, call me, if you please,Not a creator nor destroyer: oneWho keeps the world safe. I profess to traceThe broken circle of society,Dim actual order, I can redescribeNot only where some segment silver-trueStays clear, but where the breaks of black commenceBaffling you all who want the eye to probe—As I make out yon problematic thinWhite paring of your thumb-nail outside there,Above the plaster-monarch on his steed—See an inch, name an ell, and prophesyO' the rest that ought to follow, the round moonNow hiding in the night of things: that round,I labor to demonstrate moon enoughFor the month's purpose,—that society,Render efficient for the age's need:Preserving you in either case the old,Nor aiming at a new and greater thing,A sun for moon, a future to be madeBy first abolishing the present law:No such proud task for me by any means!History shows you men whose master-touchNot so much modifies as makes anew:Minds that transmute nor need restore at all.A breath of God made manifest in fleshSubjects the world to change, from time to time,Alters the whole conditions of our raceAbruptly, not by unperceived degreesNor play of elements already there,But quite new leaven, leavening the lump,And liker, so, the natural process. See!Where winter reigned for ages—by a turnI' the time, some star-change, (ask geologists,)The ice-tracts split, clash, splinter and disperse,And there 's an end of immobility,Silence, and all that tinted pageant, baseTo pinnacle, one flush from fairy-landDead-asleep and deserted somewhere,—see!—As a fresh sun, wave, spring and joy outburst.Or else the earth it is, time starts from trance,Her mountains tremble into fire, her plainsHeave blinded by confusion: what result?New teeming growth, surprises of strange lifeImpossible before, a world, broke upAnd re-made, order gained by law destroyed.Not otherwise, in our societyFollow like portents, all as absoluteRegenerations: they have birth at rareUncertain unexpected intervalsO' the world, by ministry impossibleBefore and after fulness of the days:Some dervish desert-spectre, swordsman, saint,Lawgiver, lyrist,—oh, we know the names!Quite other these than I. Our time requiresNo such strange potentate,—who else would dawn,—No fresh force till the old have spent itself.Such seems the natural economy.To shoot a beam into the dark, assists:To make that beam do fuller service, spreadAnd utilize such bounty to the height,That assists also,—and that work is mine.I recognize, contemplate, and approveThe general compact of society,Not simply as I see effected good,But good i' the germ, each chance that 's possibleI' the plan traced so far: all results, in short,For better or worse of the operation dueTo those exceptional natures, unlike mine,Who, helping, thwarting, conscious, unaware,Did somehow manage to so far describeThis diagram left ready to my hand,Waiting my turn of trial. I see success,See failure, see what makes or mars throughout.How shall I else but help complete this planOf which I know the purpose and approve,By letting stay therein what seems to stand,And adding good thereto of easier reachTo-day than yesterday?So much, no more!Whereon, "No more than that?"—inquire aggrievedHalf of my critics: "nothing new at all?The old plan saved, instead of a sponged slateAnd fresh-drawn figure?"—while, "So much as that?"Object their fellows of the other faith:"Leave uneffaced the crazy labyrinthOf alteration and amendment, linesWhich every dabster felt in duty boundTo signalize his power of pen and inkBy adding to a plan once plain enough?Why keep each fool's bequeathment, scratch and blurWhich overscrawl and underscore the piece—Nay, strengthen them by touches of your own?"Well, that 's my mission, so I serve the world,Figure as man o' the moment,—in defaultOf somebody inspired to strike such changeInto society—from round to square,The ellipsis to the rhomboid, how you please,As suits the size and shape o' the world he finds.But this I can,—and nobody my peer,—Do the best with the least change possible:Carry the incompleteness on, a stage,Make what was crooked straight, and roughness smooth,And weakness strong: wherein if I succeed,It will not prove the worst achievement, sure,In the eyes at least of one man, one I lookNowise to catch in critic company:To wit, the man inspired, the genius' selfDestined to come and change things thoroughly.He, at least, finds his business simplified,Distinguishes the done from undone, readsPlainly what meant and did not mean this timeWe live in, and I work on, and transmitTo such successor: he will operateOn good hard substance, not mere shade and shine.Let all my critics, born to idlenessAnd impotency, get their good, and haveTheir hooting at the giver: I am deaf—Who find great good in this society,Great gain, the purchase of great labor. TouchThe work I may and must, but—reverentIn every fall o' the finger-tip, no doubt.Perhaps I find all good there 's warrant forI' the world as yet: nay, to the end of time,—Since evil never means part companyWith mankind, only shift side and change shape.I find advance i' the main, and notablyThe Present an improvement on the Past,And promise for the Future—which shall proveOnly the Present with its rough made smooth,Its indistinctness emphasized; I hopeNo better, nothing newer for mankind,But something equably smoothed everywhere,Good, reconciled with hardly-quite-as-good,Instead of good and bad each jostling each."And that 's all?" Ay, and quite enough for me!We have toiled so long to gain what gain I findI' the Present,—let us keep it! We shall toilSo long before we gain—if gain God grant—A Future with one touch of differenceI' the heart of things, and not their outside face,—Let us not risk the whiff of my cigarFor Fourier, Comte, and all that ends in smoke!This I see clearest probably of menWith power to act and influence, now alive:Juster than they to the true state of things;In consequence, more tolerant that, sideBy side, shall co-exist and thrive alikeIn the age, the various sorts of happinessMoral, mark!—not material—moods o' the mindSuited to man and man his opposite:Say, minor modes of movement—hence to there,Or thence to here, or simply round about—So long as each toe spares its neighbor's kibe,Nor spoils the major march and main advance.The love of peace, care for the family,Contentment with what 's bad but might be worse—Good movements these! and good, too, discontent,So long as that spurs good, which might be best,Into becoming better, anyhow:Good—pride of country, putting hearth and homeI' the background, out of undue prominence:Good—yearning after change, strife, victory,And triumph. Each shall have its orbit marked,But no more,—none impede the other's pathIn this wide world,—though each and all alike,Save for me, fain would spread itself through spaceAnd leave its fellow not an inch of way.I rule and regulate the course, excite,Restrain: because the whole machine should marchImpelled by those diversely-moving parts,Each blind to aught beside its little bent.Out of the turnings round and round inside,Comes that straightforward world-advance, I want,And none of them supposes God wants tooAnd gets through just their hindrance and my help.I think that to have held the balance straightFor twenty years, say, weighing claim and claimAnd giving each its due, no less no more,This was good service to humanity,Right usage of my power in head and heart,And reasonable piety beside.Keep those three points in mind while judging me!You stand, perhaps, for some one man, not men,—Represent this or the other interest,Nor mind the general welfare,—so, impugnMy practice and dispute my value: why?You man of faith, I did not tread the worldInto a paste, and thereof make a smoothUniform mound whereon to plant your flag,The lily-white, above the blood and brains!Nor yet did I, you man of faithlessness,So roll things to the level which you love,That you could stand at ease there and surveyThe universal Nothing undisgracedBy pert obtrusion of some old church-spireI' the distance! Neither friend would I content,Nor, as the world were simply meant for him,Thrust out his fellow and mend God's mistake.Why, you two fools,—my dear friends all the same,—Is it some change o' the world and nothing elseContents you? Should whatever was, not be?How thanklessly you view things! There 's the rootOf the evil, source of the entire mistake:You see no worth i' the world, nature and life,Unless we change what is to what may be,Which means,—may be, i' the brain of one of you!"Reject what is?"—all capabilities—Nay, you may style them chances if you choose—All chances, then, of happiness that lieOpen to anybody that is born,Tumbles into this life and out again,—All that may happen, good and evil too,I' the space between, to each adventurerUpon this 'sixty, Anno Domini:A life to live—and such a life! a worldTo learn, one's lifetime in,—and such a world!How did the foolish ever pass for wiseBy calling life a burden, man a flyOr worm or what 's most insignificant?"O littleness of man!" deplores the bard;And then, for fear the Powers should punish him,"O grandeur of the visible universeOur human littleness contrasts withal!O sun, O moon, ye mountains and thou sea,Thou emblem of immensity, thou this,That and the other,—what impertinenceIn man to eat and drink and walk aboutAnd have his little notions of his own,The while some wave sheds foam upon the shore!"First of all, 't is a lie some three-times thick:The bard,—this sort of speech being poetry,—The bard puts mankind well outside himselfAnd then begins instructing them: "This wayI and my friend the sea conceive of you!What would you give to think such thoughts as oursOf you and the sea together?" Down they goOn the humbled knees of them: at once they drawDistinction, recognize no mate of theirsIn one, despite his mock humility,So plain a match for what he plays with. Next,The turn of the great ocean-playfellow,When the bard, leaving Bond Street very farFrom ear-shot, cares not to ventriloquize,But tells the sea its home-truths: "You, my match?You, all this terror and immensityAnd what not? Shall I tell you what you are?Just fit to hitch into a stanza, soWake up and set in motion who 's asleepO' the other side of you in England, elseUnaware, as folk pace their Bond Street now,Somebody here despises them so much!Between us,—they are the ultimate! to themAnd their perception go these lordly thoughts:Since what were ocean—mane and tail, to boot—Mused I not here, how make thoughts thinkable?Start forth my stanza and astound the world!Back, billows, to your insignificance!Deep, you are done with!"Learn, my gifted friend,There are two things i' the world, still wiser folkAccept—intelligence and sympathy.You pant about unutterable powerI' the ocean, all you feel but cannot speak?Why, that 's the plainest speech about it all.You did not feel what was not to be felt.Well, then, all else but what man feels is naught—The wash o' the liquor that o'erbrims the cupCalled man, and runs to waste adown his side,Perhaps to feed a cataract,—who cares?I 'll tell you: all the more I know mankind,The more I thank God, like my grandmother,For making me a little lower thanThe angels, honor-clothed and glory-crowned:This is the honor,—that no thing I know,Feel or conceive, but I can make my ownSomehow, by use of hand or head or heart:This is the glory,—that in all conceived,Or felt or known, I recognize a mindNot mine but like mine,—for the double joy,—Making all things for me and me for Him.There 's folly for you at this time of day!So think it! and enjoy your ignoranceOf what—no matter for the worthy's name—Wisdom set working in a noble heart,When he, who was earth's best geometerUp to that time of day, consigned his lifeWith its results into one matchless book,The triumph of the human mind so far,All in geometry man yet could do:And then wrote on the dedication-pageIn place of name the universe applauds,"But, God, what a geometer art Thou!"I suppose Heaven is, through Eternity,The equalizing, ever and anon,In momentary rapture, great with small,Omniscience with intelligency, GodWith man,—the thunder-glow from pole to poleAbolishing, a blissful moment-space,Great cloud alike and small cloud, in one fire—As sure to ebb as sure again to flowWhen the new receptivity deservesThe new completion. There 's the Heaven for me.And I say, therefore, to live out one's lifeI' the world here, with the chance,—whether by painOr pleasure be the process, long or shortThe time, august or mean the circumstanceTo human eye,—of learning how set footDecidedly on some one path to Heaven,Touch segment in the circle whence all linesLead to the centre equally, red linesOr black lines, so they but produce themselves—This, I do say,—and here my sermon ends,—This makes it worth our while to tenderlyHandle a state of things which mend we might,Mar we may, but which meanwhile helps so far.Therefore my end is—save society!"And that 's all?" twangs the never-failing tauntO' the foe—"No novelty, creativeness,Mark of the master that renews the age?""Nay, all that?" rather will demur my judgeI look to hear some day, nor friend nor foe—"Did you attain, then, to perceive that GodKnew what he undertook when he made things?"Ay: that my task was to co-operateRather than play the rival, chop and changeThe order whence comes all the good we know,With this,—good's last expression to our sense,—That there 's a further good conceivableBeyond the utmost earth can realize:And, therefore, that to change the agency,The evil whereby good is brought about—Try to make good do good as evil does—Were just as if a chemist, wanting white,And knowing black ingredients bred the dye,Insisted these too should be white forsooth!Correct the evil, mitigate your best,Blend mild with harsh, and soften black to grayIf gray may follow with no detrimentTo the eventual perfect purity!But as for hazarding the main resultBy hoping to anticipate one halfIn the intermediate process,—no, my friends!This bad world, I experience and approve;Your good world,—with no pity, courage, hope,Fear, sorrow, joy,—devotedness, in short,Which I account the ultimate of man,Of which there 's not one day nor hour but brings,In flower or fruit, some sample of success,Out of this same society I save—None of it for me! That I might have none,I rapped your tampering knuckles twenty years,Such was the task imposed me, such my end.Now for the means thereto. Ah, confidence—Keep we together or part company?This is the critical minute! "Such my end?"Certainly; how could it be otherwise?Can there be question which was the right task—To save or to destroy society?Why, even prove that, by some miracle,Destruction were the proper work to choose,And that a torch best remedies what 's wrongI' the temple, whence the long procession woundOf powers and beauties, earth's achievements all,The human strength that strove and overthrew,—The human love that, weak itself, crowned strength,—The instinct crying, "God is whence I came!"—The reason laying down the law, "And suchHis will i' the world must be!"—the leap and shoutOf genius, "For I hold his very thoughts,The meaning of the mind of him!"—nay, moreThe ingenuities, each active forceThat turning in a circle on itselfLooks neither up nor down but keeps the spot,Mere creature-like and, for religion, works,Works only and works ever, makes and shapesAnd changes, still wrings more of good from less,Still stamps some bad out, where was worst before,So leaves the handiwork, the act and deed,Were it but house and land and wealth, to showHere was a creature perfect in the kind—Whether as bee, beaver, or behemoth,What 's the importance? he has done his workFor work's sake, worked well, earned a creature's praise;—I say, concede that same fane, whence deploysAge after age, all this humanity,Diverse but ever dear, out of the darkBehind the altar into the broad dayBy the portal—enter, and, concede there mocksEach lover of free motion and much spaceA perplexed length of apse and aisle and nave,—Pillared roof and carved screen, and what care I?—Which irk the movement and impede the march,—Nay, possibly, bring flat upon his noseAt some odd breakneck angle, by some freakOf old-world artistry, that personageWho, could he but have kept his skirts from griefAnd catching at the hooks and crooks about,Had stepped out on the daylight of our timePlainly the man of the age,—still, still, I barExcessive conflagration in the case."Shake the flame freely!" shout the multitude:The architect approves I stuck my torchInside a good stout lantern, hung its lightAbove the hooks and crooks, and ended so.To save society was well: the meansWhereby to save it,—there begins the doubtPermitted you, imperative on me;Were mine the best means? Did I work arightWith powers appointed me?—since powers deniedConcern me nothing.Well, my work reviewedFairly, leaves more hope than discouragement.First, there 's the deed done: what I found, I leave,—What tottered, I kept stable: if it standOne month, without sustainment, still thank meThe twenty years' sustainer! Now, observe,Sustaining is no brilliant self-displayLike knocking down or even setting up:Much bustle these necessitate; and stillTo vulgar eye, the mightier of the mythIs Hercules, who substitutes his ownFor Atlas' shoulder and supports the globeA whole day,—not the passive and obscureAtlas who bore, ere Hercules was born,And is to go on bearing that same loadWhen Hercules turns ash on Œta's top.'T is the transition-stage, the tug and strain.That strike men: standing still is stupid-like,My pressure was too constant on the wholeFor any part's eruption into space'Mid sparkles, crackling, and much praise of me.I saw that, in the ordinary life,Many of the little make a mass of menImportant beyond greatness here and there;As certainly as, in life exceptional,When old things terminate and new commence,A solitary great man 's worth the world.God takes the business into his own handsAt such time: who creates the novel flowerContrives to guard and give it breathing-room:I merely tend the cornfield, care for crop,And weed no acre thin to let emergeWhat prodigy may stifle there perchance,—No, though my eye have noted where he lurks.Oh those mute myriads that spoke loud to me—The eyes that craved to see the light, the mouthsThat sought the daily bread and nothing more,The hands that supplicated exercise,Men that had wives, and women that had babes,And all these making suit to only live!Was I to turn aside from husbandry,Leave hope of harvest for the corn, my care,To play at horticulture, rear some roseOr poppy into perfect leaf and bloomWhen, 'mid the furrows, up was pleased to sproutSome man, cause, system, special interestI ought to study, stop the world meanwhile?"But I am Liberty, Philanthropy,Enlightenment, or Patriotism, the powerWhereby you are to stand or fall!" cries each:"Mine and mine only be the flag you flaunt!"And, when I venture to object, "Meantime,What of yon myriads with no flag at all—My crop which, who flaunts flag must tread across?""Now, this it is to have a puny mind!"Admire my mental prodigies: "down—down—Ever at home o' the level and the low,There hides he brooding! Could he look above,With less of the owl and more of the eagle eye,He 'd see there 's no way helps the little causeLike the attainment of the great. Dare firstThe chief emprise; dispel yon cloud betweenThe sun and us; nor fear that, though our headsFind earlier warmth and comfort from his ray,What lies about our feet, the multitude,Will fail of benefaction presently.Come now, let each of us awhile cry truceTo special interests, make common causeAgainst the adversary—or perchanceMere dullard to his own plain interest!Which of us will you choose?—since needs must beSome one o' the warring causes you inclineTo hold, i' the main, has right and should prevail:Why not adopt and give it prevalence?Choose strict Faith or lax Incredulity,—King, Caste, and Cultus—or the Rights of Man,Sovereignty of each Proudhon o'er himself,And all that follows in just consequence!Go free the stranger from a foreign yoke;Or stay, concentrate energy at home;Succeed!—when he deserves, the stranger will.Comply with the Great Nation's impulse, printBy force of arms,—since reason pleads in vain,And, 'mid the sweet compulsion, pity weeps,—Hohenstiel-Schwangau on the universe!Snub the Great Nation, cure the impulsive itchWith smartest fillip on a restless noseWas ever launched by thumb and finger! BidHohenstiel-Schwangau first repeal the taxOn pig-tails and pomatum, and then mindAbstruser matters for next century!Is your choice made? Why then, act up to choice!Leave the illogical touch now here now thereI' the way of work, the tantalizing helpFirst to this, then the other opposite:The blowing hot and cold, sham policy,Sure ague of the mind and nothing more,Disease of the perception or the will,That fain would hide in a fine name! Your choice,Speak it out and condemn yourself thereby!"

You have seen better days, dear? So have I—

And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth

As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,

Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,

And wished and had their trouble for their pains.

Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last

Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,

And, latish, pounce on Sphinx in Leicester Square?

Or likelier, what if Sphinx in wise old age,

Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,

And jealous for her riddle's proper rede,—

Jealous that the good trick which served the turn

Have justice rendered it, nor class one day

With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—

What if the once redoubted Sphinx, I say,

(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,

And desert-whispers grow a prophecy,)

Tell all to Corinth of her own accord,

Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Laïs' sake,

Who finds me hardly gray, and likes my nose,

And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?

Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!

But listen, for we must co-operate;

I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!

First, how to make the matter plain, of course—What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:Ay, we must take one instant of my lifeSpent sitting by your side in this neat room:Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!Here 's paper on the table, pen and ink:Give me the soiled bit—not the pretty rose!See! having sat an hour, I 'm rested now,Therefore want work: and spy no better workFor eye and hand and mind that guides them both,During this instant, than to draw my penFrom blot One—thus—up, up to blot Two—thus—Which I at last reach, thus, and here 's my lineFive inches long and tolerably straight:Better to draw than leave undrawn, I think,Fitter to do than let alone, I hold,Though better, fitter, by but one degree.Therefore it was that, rather than sit stillSimply, my right-hand drew it while my leftPulled smooth and pinched the moustache to a point.

First, how to make the matter plain, of course—

What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:

Ay, we must take one instant of my life

Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:

Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!

Here 's paper on the table, pen and ink:

Give me the soiled bit—not the pretty rose!

See! having sat an hour, I 'm rested now,

Therefore want work: and spy no better work

For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,

During this instant, than to draw my pen

From blot One—thus—up, up to blot Two—thus—

Which I at last reach, thus, and here 's my line

Five inches long and tolerably straight:

Better to draw than leave undrawn, I think,

Fitter to do than let alone, I hold,

Though better, fitter, by but one degree.

Therefore it was that, rather than sit still

Simply, my right-hand drew it while my left

Pulled smooth and pinched the moustache to a point.

Now I permit your plump lips to unpurse:"So far, one possibly may understandWithout recourse to witchcraft!" True, my dear.Thus folks begin with Euclid,—finish, how?Trying to square the circle!—at any rate,Solving abstruser problems than this first,"How find the nearest way 'twixt point and point."Deal but with moral mathematics so—Master one merest moment's work of mine,Even this practising with pen and ink,—Demonstrate why I rather plied the quillThan left the space a blank,—you gain a fact,And God knows what a fact 's worth! So proceedBy inference from just this moral fact—I don't say, to that plaguy quadrature,"What the whole man meant, whom you wish you knew,"But, what meant certain things he did of old,Which puzzled Europe,—why, you 'll find them plain,This way, not otherwise: I guarantee,Understand one, you comprehend the rest.Rays from all round converge to any point:Study the point then ere you track the rays!The size o' the circle 's nothing; subdivideEarth, and earth's smallest grain of mustard-seed,You count as many parts, small matching largeIf you can use the mind's eye: otherwise,Material optics, being gross at best,Prefer the large and leave our mind the small—And pray how many folk have minds can see?Certainly you—and somebody in ThraceWhose name escapes me at the moment. You—Lend me your mind then! Analyze with meThis instance of the line 'twixt blot and blotI rather chose to draw than leave a blank,Things else being equal. You are taught therebyThat 't is my nature, when I am at ease,Rather than idle out my life too long,To want to do a thing—to put a thought,Whether a great thought or a little one,Into an act, as nearly as may be.Make what is absolutely new—I can't,Mar what is made already well enough—I won't: but turn to best account the thingThat 's half-made—that I can. Two blots, you sawI knew how to extend into a lineSymmetric on the sheet they blurred before—Such little act sufficed, this time, such thought.

Now I permit your plump lips to unpurse:

"So far, one possibly may understand

Without recourse to witchcraft!" True, my dear.

Thus folks begin with Euclid,—finish, how?

Trying to square the circle!—at any rate,

Solving abstruser problems than this first,

"How find the nearest way 'twixt point and point."

Deal but with moral mathematics so—

Master one merest moment's work of mine,

Even this practising with pen and ink,—

Demonstrate why I rather plied the quill

Than left the space a blank,—you gain a fact,

And God knows what a fact 's worth! So proceed

By inference from just this moral fact

—I don't say, to that plaguy quadrature,

"What the whole man meant, whom you wish you knew,"

But, what meant certain things he did of old,

Which puzzled Europe,—why, you 'll find them plain,

This way, not otherwise: I guarantee,

Understand one, you comprehend the rest.

Rays from all round converge to any point:

Study the point then ere you track the rays!

The size o' the circle 's nothing; subdivide

Earth, and earth's smallest grain of mustard-seed,

You count as many parts, small matching large

If you can use the mind's eye: otherwise,

Material optics, being gross at best,

Prefer the large and leave our mind the small—

And pray how many folk have minds can see?

Certainly you—and somebody in Thrace

Whose name escapes me at the moment. You—

Lend me your mind then! Analyze with me

This instance of the line 'twixt blot and blot

I rather chose to draw than leave a blank,

Things else being equal. You are taught thereby

That 't is my nature, when I am at ease,

Rather than idle out my life too long,

To want to do a thing—to put a thought,

Whether a great thought or a little one,

Into an act, as nearly as may be.

Make what is absolutely new—I can't,

Mar what is made already well enough—

I won't: but turn to best account the thing

That 's half-made—that I can. Two blots, you saw

I knew how to extend into a line

Symmetric on the sheet they blurred before—

Such little act sufficed, this time, such thought.

Now, we 'll extend rays, widen out the verge,Describe a larger circle; leave this firstClod of an instance we began with, riseTo the complete world many clods effect.Only continue patient while I throw,Delver-like, spadeful after spadeful up,Just as truths come, the subsoil of me, mouldWhence spring my moods: your object,—just to find,Alike from handlift and from barrow-load,What salts and silts may constitute the earth—If it be proper stuff to blow man glass,Or bake him pottery, bear him oaks or wheat—What 's born of me, in brief; which found, all 's known.If it were genius did the digging-job,Logic would speedily sift its product smoothAnd leave the crude truths bare for poetry;But I 'm no poet, and am stiff i' the back.What one spread fails to bring, another may.In goes the shovel and out comes scoop—as here!

Now, we 'll extend rays, widen out the verge,

Describe a larger circle; leave this first

Clod of an instance we began with, rise

To the complete world many clods effect.

Only continue patient while I throw,

Delver-like, spadeful after spadeful up,

Just as truths come, the subsoil of me, mould

Whence spring my moods: your object,—just to find,

Alike from handlift and from barrow-load,

What salts and silts may constitute the earth—

If it be proper stuff to blow man glass,

Or bake him pottery, bear him oaks or wheat—

What 's born of me, in brief; which found, all 's known.

If it were genius did the digging-job,

Logic would speedily sift its product smooth

And leave the crude truths bare for poetry;

But I 'm no poet, and am stiff i' the back.

What one spread fails to bring, another may.

In goes the shovel and out comes scoop—as here!

I live to please myself. I recognizePower passing mine, immeasurable, God—Above me, whom he made, as heaven beyondEarth—to use figures which assist our sense.I know that he is there as I am here,By the same proof, which seems no proof at all,It so exceeds familiar forms of proof.Why "there," not "here"? Because, when I say "there"I treat the feeling with distincter shapeThat space exists between us: I,—not he,—Live, think, do human work here—no machine,His will moves, but a being by myself,His, and not he who made me for a work,Watches my working, judges its effect,But does not interpose. He did so once,And probably will again some time—not now,Life being the minute of mankind, not God's,In a certain sense, like time before and timeAfter man's earthly life, so far as manNeeds apprehend the matter. Am I clear?Suppose I bid a courier take to-night—(... Once for all, let me talk as if I smokedYet in the Residenz, a personage:I must still represent the thing I was,Galvanically make dead muscle play,Or how shall I illustrate muscle's use?)I could then, last July, bid courier takeMessage for me, post-haste, a thousand miles.I bid him, since I have the right to bid,And, my part done so far, his part begins;He starts with due equipment, will and power,Means he may use, misuse, not use at all,At his discretion, at his peril too.I leave him to himself: but, journey done,I count the minutes, call for the resultIn quickness and the courier quality,Weigh its worth, and then punish or rewardAccording to proved service; not before.Meantime, he sleeps through noontide, rides till dawn,Sticks to the straight road, tries the crooked path,Measures and manages resource, trusts, doubtsAdvisers by the wayside, does his bestAt his discretion, lags or launches forth,(He knows and I know) at his peril too.You see? Exactly thus men stand to God:I with my courier, God with me. Just soI have his bidding to perform; but mindAnd body, all of me, though made and meantFor that sole service, must consult, concertWith my own self and nobody beside,How to effect the same: God helps not else.'T is I who, with my stock of craft and strength,Choose the directer cut across the hedge,Or keep the foot-track that respects a crop.Lie down and rest, rise up and ran,—live spare,Feed free,—all that 's my business: but, arrive,Deliver message, bring the answer back,And make my bow, I must: then God will speak,Praise me or haply blame as service proves.To other men, to each and every one,Another law! what likelier? God, perchance,Grants each new man, by some as new a mode,Intercommunication with himself,Wreaking on finiteness infinitude;By such a series of effects, gives eachLast his own imprint: old yet ever newThe process: 't is the way of Deity.How it succeeds, he knows: I only knowThat varied modes of creatureship abound,Implying just as varied intercourseFor each with the creator of them all.Each has his own mind and no other's mode.What mode may yours be? I shall sympathize!No doubt, you, good young lady that you are,Despite a natural naughtiness or two,Turn eyes up like a Pradier MagdalenAnd see an outspread providential handAbove the owl's-wing aigrette—guard and guide—Visibly o'er your path, about your bed,Through all your practisings with London-town.It points, you go; it stays fixed, and you stop;You quicken its procedure by a wordSpoken, a thought in silence, prayer and praise.Well, I believe that such a hand may stoop,And such appeals to it may stave off harm,Pacify the grim guardian of this Square,And stand you in good stead on quarter-day:Quite possible in your case; not in mine."Ah, but I choose to make the difference,Find the emancipation?" No, I hope!If I deceive myself, take noon for night,Please to become determinedly blindTo the true ordinance of human life,Through mere presumption—that is my affair,And truly a grave one; but as grave I thinkYour affair, yours, the specially observed,—Each favored person that perceives his pathPointed him, inch by inch, and looks aboveFor guidance, through the mazes of this world,In what we call its meanest life-career—Not how to manage Europe properly,But how keep open shop, and yet pay rent,Rear household, and make both ends meet, the same.I say, such man is no less tasked than ITo duly take the path appointed himBy whatsoever sign he recognize.Our insincerity on both our heads!No matter what the object of a life,Small work or large,—the making thrive a shop,Or seeing that an empire take no harm,—There are known fruits to judge obedience by.You 've read a ton's weight, now, of newspaper—Lives of me, gabble about the kind of prince—You know my work i' the rough; I ask you, then,Do I appear subordinated lessTo hand-impulsion, one prime push for all,Than little lives of men, the multitudeThat cried out, every quarter of an hour,For fresh instructions, did or did not work,And praised in the odd minutes?

I live to please myself. I recognize

Power passing mine, immeasurable, God—

Above me, whom he made, as heaven beyond

Earth—to use figures which assist our sense.

I know that he is there as I am here,

By the same proof, which seems no proof at all,

It so exceeds familiar forms of proof.

Why "there," not "here"? Because, when I say "there"

I treat the feeling with distincter shape

That space exists between us: I,—not he,—

Live, think, do human work here—no machine,

His will moves, but a being by myself,

His, and not he who made me for a work,

Watches my working, judges its effect,

But does not interpose. He did so once,

And probably will again some time—not now,

Life being the minute of mankind, not God's,

In a certain sense, like time before and time

After man's earthly life, so far as man

Needs apprehend the matter. Am I clear?

Suppose I bid a courier take to-night—

(... Once for all, let me talk as if I smoked

Yet in the Residenz, a personage:

I must still represent the thing I was,

Galvanically make dead muscle play,

Or how shall I illustrate muscle's use?)

I could then, last July, bid courier take

Message for me, post-haste, a thousand miles.

I bid him, since I have the right to bid,

And, my part done so far, his part begins;

He starts with due equipment, will and power,

Means he may use, misuse, not use at all,

At his discretion, at his peril too.

I leave him to himself: but, journey done,

I count the minutes, call for the result

In quickness and the courier quality,

Weigh its worth, and then punish or reward

According to proved service; not before.

Meantime, he sleeps through noontide, rides till dawn,

Sticks to the straight road, tries the crooked path,

Measures and manages resource, trusts, doubts

Advisers by the wayside, does his best

At his discretion, lags or launches forth,

(He knows and I know) at his peril too.

You see? Exactly thus men stand to God:

I with my courier, God with me. Just so

I have his bidding to perform; but mind

And body, all of me, though made and meant

For that sole service, must consult, concert

With my own self and nobody beside,

How to effect the same: God helps not else.

'T is I who, with my stock of craft and strength,

Choose the directer cut across the hedge,

Or keep the foot-track that respects a crop.

Lie down and rest, rise up and ran,—live spare,

Feed free,—all that 's my business: but, arrive,

Deliver message, bring the answer back,

And make my bow, I must: then God will speak,

Praise me or haply blame as service proves.

To other men, to each and every one,

Another law! what likelier? God, perchance,

Grants each new man, by some as new a mode,

Intercommunication with himself,

Wreaking on finiteness infinitude;

By such a series of effects, gives each

Last his own imprint: old yet ever new

The process: 't is the way of Deity.

How it succeeds, he knows: I only know

That varied modes of creatureship abound,

Implying just as varied intercourse

For each with the creator of them all.

Each has his own mind and no other's mode.

What mode may yours be? I shall sympathize!

No doubt, you, good young lady that you are,

Despite a natural naughtiness or two,

Turn eyes up like a Pradier Magdalen

And see an outspread providential hand

Above the owl's-wing aigrette—guard and guide—

Visibly o'er your path, about your bed,

Through all your practisings with London-town.

It points, you go; it stays fixed, and you stop;

You quicken its procedure by a word

Spoken, a thought in silence, prayer and praise.

Well, I believe that such a hand may stoop,

And such appeals to it may stave off harm,

Pacify the grim guardian of this Square,

And stand you in good stead on quarter-day:

Quite possible in your case; not in mine.

"Ah, but I choose to make the difference,

Find the emancipation?" No, I hope!

If I deceive myself, take noon for night,

Please to become determinedly blind

To the true ordinance of human life,

Through mere presumption—that is my affair,

And truly a grave one; but as grave I think

Your affair, yours, the specially observed,—

Each favored person that perceives his path

Pointed him, inch by inch, and looks above

For guidance, through the mazes of this world,

In what we call its meanest life-career

—Not how to manage Europe properly,

But how keep open shop, and yet pay rent,

Rear household, and make both ends meet, the same.

I say, such man is no less tasked than I

To duly take the path appointed him

By whatsoever sign he recognize.

Our insincerity on both our heads!

No matter what the object of a life,

Small work or large,—the making thrive a shop,

Or seeing that an empire take no harm,—

There are known fruits to judge obedience by.

You 've read a ton's weight, now, of newspaper—

Lives of me, gabble about the kind of prince—

You know my work i' the rough; I ask you, then,

Do I appear subordinated less

To hand-impulsion, one prime push for all,

Than little lives of men, the multitude

That cried out, every quarter of an hour,

For fresh instructions, did or did not work,

And praised in the odd minutes?

Eh, my dear?Such is the reason why I acquiescedIn doing what seemed best for me to do,So as to please myself on the great scale,Having regard to immortalityNo less than life—did that which head and heartPrescribed my hand, in measure with its meansOf doing—used my special stock of power—Not from the aforesaid head and heart alone,But every sort of helpful circumstance,Some problematic and some nondescript:All regulated by the single careI' the last resort—that I made thoroughly serveThe when and how, toiled where was need, reposedAs resolutely at the proper point,Braved sorrow, courted joy, to just one end:Namely, that just the creature I was boundTo be, I should become, nor thwart at allGod's purpose in creation. I conceiveNo other duty possible to man,—Highest mind, lowest mind,—no other lawBy which to judge life failure or success:What folk call being saved or cast away.

Eh, my dear?

Such is the reason why I acquiesced

In doing what seemed best for me to do,

So as to please myself on the great scale,

Having regard to immortality

No less than life—did that which head and heart

Prescribed my hand, in measure with its means

Of doing—used my special stock of power—

Not from the aforesaid head and heart alone,

But every sort of helpful circumstance,

Some problematic and some nondescript:

All regulated by the single care

I' the last resort—that I made thoroughly serve

The when and how, toiled where was need, reposed

As resolutely at the proper point,

Braved sorrow, courted joy, to just one end:

Namely, that just the creature I was bound

To be, I should become, nor thwart at all

God's purpose in creation. I conceive

No other duty possible to man,—

Highest mind, lowest mind,—no other law

By which to judge life failure or success:

What folk call being saved or cast away.

Such was my rule of life; I worked my best,Subject to ultimate judgment, God's not man's.Well then, this settled,—take your tea, I beg,And meditate the fact, 'twixt sip and sip,—This settled—why I pleased myself, you saw,By turning blot and blot into a line,O' the little scale,—we 'll try now (as your tongueTries the concluding sugar-drop) what 's meantTo please me most o' the great scale. Why, just now,With nothing else to do within my reach,Did I prefer making two blots one lineTo making yet another separateThird blot, and leaving those I found unlinked?It meant, I like to use the thing I find,Rather than strive at unfound novelty:I make the best of the old, nor try for new.Such will to act, such choice of action's way,Constitute—when at work on the great scale,Driven to their farthest natural consequenceBy all the help from all the means—my ownParticular faculty of serving God,Instinct for putting power to exerciseUpon some wish and want o' the time, I provePossible to mankind as best I may.This constitutes my mission,—grant the phrase,—Namely, to rule men—men within my reach,To order, influence and dispose them soAs render solid and stabilifyMankind in particles, the light and loose,For their good and my pleasure in the act.Such good accomplished proves twice good to me—Good for its own sake, as the just and right,And, in the effecting also, good againTo me its agent, tasked as suits my taste.

Such was my rule of life; I worked my best,

Subject to ultimate judgment, God's not man's.

Well then, this settled,—take your tea, I beg,

And meditate the fact, 'twixt sip and sip,—

This settled—why I pleased myself, you saw,

By turning blot and blot into a line,

O' the little scale,—we 'll try now (as your tongue

Tries the concluding sugar-drop) what 's meant

To please me most o' the great scale. Why, just now,

With nothing else to do within my reach,

Did I prefer making two blots one line

To making yet another separate

Third blot, and leaving those I found unlinked?

It meant, I like to use the thing I find,

Rather than strive at unfound novelty:

I make the best of the old, nor try for new.

Such will to act, such choice of action's way,

Constitute—when at work on the great scale,

Driven to their farthest natural consequence

By all the help from all the means—my own

Particular faculty of serving God,

Instinct for putting power to exercise

Upon some wish and want o' the time, I prove

Possible to mankind as best I may.

This constitutes my mission,—grant the phrase,—

Namely, to rule men—men within my reach,

To order, influence and dispose them so

As render solid and stabilify

Mankind in particles, the light and loose,

For their good and my pleasure in the act.

Such good accomplished proves twice good to me—

Good for its own sake, as the just and right,

And, in the effecting also, good again

To me its agent, tasked as suits my taste.

Is this much easy to be understoodAt first glance? Now begin the steady gaze!

Is this much easy to be understood

At first glance? Now begin the steady gaze!

My rank—(if I must tell you simple truth—Telling were else not worth the whiff o' the weedI lose for the tale's sake)—dear, my rank i' the worldIs hard to know and name precisely: errI may, but scarcely overestimateMy style and title. Do I class with menMost useful to their fellows? Possibly,—Therefore, in some sort, best; but, greatest mindAnd rarest nature? Evidently no.A conservator, call me, if you please,Not a creator nor destroyer: oneWho keeps the world safe. I profess to traceThe broken circle of society,Dim actual order, I can redescribeNot only where some segment silver-trueStays clear, but where the breaks of black commenceBaffling you all who want the eye to probe—As I make out yon problematic thinWhite paring of your thumb-nail outside there,Above the plaster-monarch on his steed—See an inch, name an ell, and prophesyO' the rest that ought to follow, the round moonNow hiding in the night of things: that round,I labor to demonstrate moon enoughFor the month's purpose,—that society,Render efficient for the age's need:Preserving you in either case the old,Nor aiming at a new and greater thing,A sun for moon, a future to be madeBy first abolishing the present law:No such proud task for me by any means!History shows you men whose master-touchNot so much modifies as makes anew:Minds that transmute nor need restore at all.A breath of God made manifest in fleshSubjects the world to change, from time to time,Alters the whole conditions of our raceAbruptly, not by unperceived degreesNor play of elements already there,But quite new leaven, leavening the lump,And liker, so, the natural process. See!Where winter reigned for ages—by a turnI' the time, some star-change, (ask geologists,)The ice-tracts split, clash, splinter and disperse,And there 's an end of immobility,Silence, and all that tinted pageant, baseTo pinnacle, one flush from fairy-landDead-asleep and deserted somewhere,—see!—As a fresh sun, wave, spring and joy outburst.Or else the earth it is, time starts from trance,Her mountains tremble into fire, her plainsHeave blinded by confusion: what result?New teeming growth, surprises of strange lifeImpossible before, a world, broke upAnd re-made, order gained by law destroyed.Not otherwise, in our societyFollow like portents, all as absoluteRegenerations: they have birth at rareUncertain unexpected intervalsO' the world, by ministry impossibleBefore and after fulness of the days:Some dervish desert-spectre, swordsman, saint,Lawgiver, lyrist,—oh, we know the names!Quite other these than I. Our time requiresNo such strange potentate,—who else would dawn,—No fresh force till the old have spent itself.Such seems the natural economy.To shoot a beam into the dark, assists:To make that beam do fuller service, spreadAnd utilize such bounty to the height,That assists also,—and that work is mine.I recognize, contemplate, and approveThe general compact of society,Not simply as I see effected good,But good i' the germ, each chance that 's possibleI' the plan traced so far: all results, in short,For better or worse of the operation dueTo those exceptional natures, unlike mine,Who, helping, thwarting, conscious, unaware,Did somehow manage to so far describeThis diagram left ready to my hand,Waiting my turn of trial. I see success,See failure, see what makes or mars throughout.How shall I else but help complete this planOf which I know the purpose and approve,By letting stay therein what seems to stand,And adding good thereto of easier reachTo-day than yesterday?

My rank—(if I must tell you simple truth—

Telling were else not worth the whiff o' the weed

I lose for the tale's sake)—dear, my rank i' the world

Is hard to know and name precisely: err

I may, but scarcely overestimate

My style and title. Do I class with men

Most useful to their fellows? Possibly,—

Therefore, in some sort, best; but, greatest mind

And rarest nature? Evidently no.

A conservator, call me, if you please,

Not a creator nor destroyer: one

Who keeps the world safe. I profess to trace

The broken circle of society,

Dim actual order, I can redescribe

Not only where some segment silver-true

Stays clear, but where the breaks of black commence

Baffling you all who want the eye to probe—

As I make out yon problematic thin

White paring of your thumb-nail outside there,

Above the plaster-monarch on his steed—

See an inch, name an ell, and prophesy

O' the rest that ought to follow, the round moon

Now hiding in the night of things: that round,

I labor to demonstrate moon enough

For the month's purpose,—that society,

Render efficient for the age's need:

Preserving you in either case the old,

Nor aiming at a new and greater thing,

A sun for moon, a future to be made

By first abolishing the present law:

No such proud task for me by any means!

History shows you men whose master-touch

Not so much modifies as makes anew:

Minds that transmute nor need restore at all.

A breath of God made manifest in flesh

Subjects the world to change, from time to time,

Alters the whole conditions of our race

Abruptly, not by unperceived degrees

Nor play of elements already there,

But quite new leaven, leavening the lump,

And liker, so, the natural process. See!

Where winter reigned for ages—by a turn

I' the time, some star-change, (ask geologists,)

The ice-tracts split, clash, splinter and disperse,

And there 's an end of immobility,

Silence, and all that tinted pageant, base

To pinnacle, one flush from fairy-land

Dead-asleep and deserted somewhere,—see!—

As a fresh sun, wave, spring and joy outburst.

Or else the earth it is, time starts from trance,

Her mountains tremble into fire, her plains

Heave blinded by confusion: what result?

New teeming growth, surprises of strange life

Impossible before, a world, broke up

And re-made, order gained by law destroyed.

Not otherwise, in our society

Follow like portents, all as absolute

Regenerations: they have birth at rare

Uncertain unexpected intervals

O' the world, by ministry impossible

Before and after fulness of the days:

Some dervish desert-spectre, swordsman, saint,

Lawgiver, lyrist,—oh, we know the names!

Quite other these than I. Our time requires

No such strange potentate,—who else would dawn,—

No fresh force till the old have spent itself.

Such seems the natural economy.

To shoot a beam into the dark, assists:

To make that beam do fuller service, spread

And utilize such bounty to the height,

That assists also,—and that work is mine.

I recognize, contemplate, and approve

The general compact of society,

Not simply as I see effected good,

But good i' the germ, each chance that 's possible

I' the plan traced so far: all results, in short,

For better or worse of the operation due

To those exceptional natures, unlike mine,

Who, helping, thwarting, conscious, unaware,

Did somehow manage to so far describe

This diagram left ready to my hand,

Waiting my turn of trial. I see success,

See failure, see what makes or mars throughout.

How shall I else but help complete this plan

Of which I know the purpose and approve,

By letting stay therein what seems to stand,

And adding good thereto of easier reach

To-day than yesterday?

So much, no more!Whereon, "No more than that?"—inquire aggrievedHalf of my critics: "nothing new at all?The old plan saved, instead of a sponged slateAnd fresh-drawn figure?"—while, "So much as that?"Object their fellows of the other faith:"Leave uneffaced the crazy labyrinthOf alteration and amendment, linesWhich every dabster felt in duty boundTo signalize his power of pen and inkBy adding to a plan once plain enough?Why keep each fool's bequeathment, scratch and blurWhich overscrawl and underscore the piece—Nay, strengthen them by touches of your own?"

So much, no more!

Whereon, "No more than that?"—inquire aggrieved

Half of my critics: "nothing new at all?

The old plan saved, instead of a sponged slate

And fresh-drawn figure?"—while, "So much as that?"

Object their fellows of the other faith:

"Leave uneffaced the crazy labyrinth

Of alteration and amendment, lines

Which every dabster felt in duty bound

To signalize his power of pen and ink

By adding to a plan once plain enough?

Why keep each fool's bequeathment, scratch and blur

Which overscrawl and underscore the piece—

Nay, strengthen them by touches of your own?"

Well, that 's my mission, so I serve the world,Figure as man o' the moment,—in defaultOf somebody inspired to strike such changeInto society—from round to square,The ellipsis to the rhomboid, how you please,As suits the size and shape o' the world he finds.But this I can,—and nobody my peer,—Do the best with the least change possible:Carry the incompleteness on, a stage,Make what was crooked straight, and roughness smooth,And weakness strong: wherein if I succeed,It will not prove the worst achievement, sure,In the eyes at least of one man, one I lookNowise to catch in critic company:To wit, the man inspired, the genius' selfDestined to come and change things thoroughly.He, at least, finds his business simplified,Distinguishes the done from undone, readsPlainly what meant and did not mean this timeWe live in, and I work on, and transmitTo such successor: he will operateOn good hard substance, not mere shade and shine.Let all my critics, born to idlenessAnd impotency, get their good, and haveTheir hooting at the giver: I am deaf—Who find great good in this society,Great gain, the purchase of great labor. TouchThe work I may and must, but—reverentIn every fall o' the finger-tip, no doubt.Perhaps I find all good there 's warrant forI' the world as yet: nay, to the end of time,—Since evil never means part companyWith mankind, only shift side and change shape.I find advance i' the main, and notablyThe Present an improvement on the Past,And promise for the Future—which shall proveOnly the Present with its rough made smooth,Its indistinctness emphasized; I hopeNo better, nothing newer for mankind,But something equably smoothed everywhere,Good, reconciled with hardly-quite-as-good,Instead of good and bad each jostling each."And that 's all?" Ay, and quite enough for me!We have toiled so long to gain what gain I findI' the Present,—let us keep it! We shall toilSo long before we gain—if gain God grant—A Future with one touch of differenceI' the heart of things, and not their outside face,—Let us not risk the whiff of my cigarFor Fourier, Comte, and all that ends in smoke!

Well, that 's my mission, so I serve the world,

Figure as man o' the moment,—in default

Of somebody inspired to strike such change

Into society—from round to square,

The ellipsis to the rhomboid, how you please,

As suits the size and shape o' the world he finds.

But this I can,—and nobody my peer,—

Do the best with the least change possible:

Carry the incompleteness on, a stage,

Make what was crooked straight, and roughness smooth,

And weakness strong: wherein if I succeed,

It will not prove the worst achievement, sure,

In the eyes at least of one man, one I look

Nowise to catch in critic company:

To wit, the man inspired, the genius' self

Destined to come and change things thoroughly.

He, at least, finds his business simplified,

Distinguishes the done from undone, reads

Plainly what meant and did not mean this time

We live in, and I work on, and transmit

To such successor: he will operate

On good hard substance, not mere shade and shine.

Let all my critics, born to idleness

And impotency, get their good, and have

Their hooting at the giver: I am deaf—

Who find great good in this society,

Great gain, the purchase of great labor. Touch

The work I may and must, but—reverent

In every fall o' the finger-tip, no doubt.

Perhaps I find all good there 's warrant for

I' the world as yet: nay, to the end of time,—

Since evil never means part company

With mankind, only shift side and change shape.

I find advance i' the main, and notably

The Present an improvement on the Past,

And promise for the Future—which shall prove

Only the Present with its rough made smooth,

Its indistinctness emphasized; I hope

No better, nothing newer for mankind,

But something equably smoothed everywhere,

Good, reconciled with hardly-quite-as-good,

Instead of good and bad each jostling each.

"And that 's all?" Ay, and quite enough for me!

We have toiled so long to gain what gain I find

I' the Present,—let us keep it! We shall toil

So long before we gain—if gain God grant—

A Future with one touch of difference

I' the heart of things, and not their outside face,—

Let us not risk the whiff of my cigar

For Fourier, Comte, and all that ends in smoke!

This I see clearest probably of menWith power to act and influence, now alive:Juster than they to the true state of things;In consequence, more tolerant that, sideBy side, shall co-exist and thrive alikeIn the age, the various sorts of happinessMoral, mark!—not material—moods o' the mindSuited to man and man his opposite:Say, minor modes of movement—hence to there,Or thence to here, or simply round about—So long as each toe spares its neighbor's kibe,Nor spoils the major march and main advance.The love of peace, care for the family,Contentment with what 's bad but might be worse—Good movements these! and good, too, discontent,So long as that spurs good, which might be best,Into becoming better, anyhow:Good—pride of country, putting hearth and homeI' the background, out of undue prominence:Good—yearning after change, strife, victory,And triumph. Each shall have its orbit marked,But no more,—none impede the other's pathIn this wide world,—though each and all alike,Save for me, fain would spread itself through spaceAnd leave its fellow not an inch of way.I rule and regulate the course, excite,Restrain: because the whole machine should marchImpelled by those diversely-moving parts,Each blind to aught beside its little bent.Out of the turnings round and round inside,Comes that straightforward world-advance, I want,And none of them supposes God wants tooAnd gets through just their hindrance and my help.I think that to have held the balance straightFor twenty years, say, weighing claim and claimAnd giving each its due, no less no more,This was good service to humanity,Right usage of my power in head and heart,And reasonable piety beside.Keep those three points in mind while judging me!You stand, perhaps, for some one man, not men,—Represent this or the other interest,Nor mind the general welfare,—so, impugnMy practice and dispute my value: why?You man of faith, I did not tread the worldInto a paste, and thereof make a smoothUniform mound whereon to plant your flag,The lily-white, above the blood and brains!Nor yet did I, you man of faithlessness,So roll things to the level which you love,That you could stand at ease there and surveyThe universal Nothing undisgracedBy pert obtrusion of some old church-spireI' the distance! Neither friend would I content,Nor, as the world were simply meant for him,Thrust out his fellow and mend God's mistake.Why, you two fools,—my dear friends all the same,—Is it some change o' the world and nothing elseContents you? Should whatever was, not be?How thanklessly you view things! There 's the rootOf the evil, source of the entire mistake:You see no worth i' the world, nature and life,Unless we change what is to what may be,Which means,—may be, i' the brain of one of you!"Reject what is?"—all capabilities—Nay, you may style them chances if you choose—All chances, then, of happiness that lieOpen to anybody that is born,Tumbles into this life and out again,—All that may happen, good and evil too,I' the space between, to each adventurerUpon this 'sixty, Anno Domini:A life to live—and such a life! a worldTo learn, one's lifetime in,—and such a world!How did the foolish ever pass for wiseBy calling life a burden, man a flyOr worm or what 's most insignificant?"O littleness of man!" deplores the bard;And then, for fear the Powers should punish him,"O grandeur of the visible universeOur human littleness contrasts withal!O sun, O moon, ye mountains and thou sea,Thou emblem of immensity, thou this,That and the other,—what impertinenceIn man to eat and drink and walk aboutAnd have his little notions of his own,The while some wave sheds foam upon the shore!"First of all, 't is a lie some three-times thick:The bard,—this sort of speech being poetry,—The bard puts mankind well outside himselfAnd then begins instructing them: "This wayI and my friend the sea conceive of you!What would you give to think such thoughts as oursOf you and the sea together?" Down they goOn the humbled knees of them: at once they drawDistinction, recognize no mate of theirsIn one, despite his mock humility,So plain a match for what he plays with. Next,The turn of the great ocean-playfellow,When the bard, leaving Bond Street very farFrom ear-shot, cares not to ventriloquize,But tells the sea its home-truths: "You, my match?You, all this terror and immensityAnd what not? Shall I tell you what you are?Just fit to hitch into a stanza, soWake up and set in motion who 's asleepO' the other side of you in England, elseUnaware, as folk pace their Bond Street now,Somebody here despises them so much!Between us,—they are the ultimate! to themAnd their perception go these lordly thoughts:Since what were ocean—mane and tail, to boot—Mused I not here, how make thoughts thinkable?Start forth my stanza and astound the world!Back, billows, to your insignificance!Deep, you are done with!"

This I see clearest probably of men

With power to act and influence, now alive:

Juster than they to the true state of things;

In consequence, more tolerant that, side

By side, shall co-exist and thrive alike

In the age, the various sorts of happiness

Moral, mark!—not material—moods o' the mind

Suited to man and man his opposite:

Say, minor modes of movement—hence to there,

Or thence to here, or simply round about—

So long as each toe spares its neighbor's kibe,

Nor spoils the major march and main advance.

The love of peace, care for the family,

Contentment with what 's bad but might be worse—

Good movements these! and good, too, discontent,

So long as that spurs good, which might be best,

Into becoming better, anyhow:

Good—pride of country, putting hearth and home

I' the background, out of undue prominence:

Good—yearning after change, strife, victory,

And triumph. Each shall have its orbit marked,

But no more,—none impede the other's path

In this wide world,—though each and all alike,

Save for me, fain would spread itself through space

And leave its fellow not an inch of way.

I rule and regulate the course, excite,

Restrain: because the whole machine should march

Impelled by those diversely-moving parts,

Each blind to aught beside its little bent.

Out of the turnings round and round inside,

Comes that straightforward world-advance, I want,

And none of them supposes God wants too

And gets through just their hindrance and my help.

I think that to have held the balance straight

For twenty years, say, weighing claim and claim

And giving each its due, no less no more,

This was good service to humanity,

Right usage of my power in head and heart,

And reasonable piety beside.

Keep those three points in mind while judging me!

You stand, perhaps, for some one man, not men,—

Represent this or the other interest,

Nor mind the general welfare,—so, impugn

My practice and dispute my value: why?

You man of faith, I did not tread the world

Into a paste, and thereof make a smooth

Uniform mound whereon to plant your flag,

The lily-white, above the blood and brains!

Nor yet did I, you man of faithlessness,

So roll things to the level which you love,

That you could stand at ease there and survey

The universal Nothing undisgraced

By pert obtrusion of some old church-spire

I' the distance! Neither friend would I content,

Nor, as the world were simply meant for him,

Thrust out his fellow and mend God's mistake.

Why, you two fools,—my dear friends all the same,—

Is it some change o' the world and nothing else

Contents you? Should whatever was, not be?

How thanklessly you view things! There 's the root

Of the evil, source of the entire mistake:

You see no worth i' the world, nature and life,

Unless we change what is to what may be,

Which means,—may be, i' the brain of one of you!

"Reject what is?"—all capabilities—

Nay, you may style them chances if you choose—

All chances, then, of happiness that lie

Open to anybody that is born,

Tumbles into this life and out again,—

All that may happen, good and evil too,

I' the space between, to each adventurer

Upon this 'sixty, Anno Domini:

A life to live—and such a life! a world

To learn, one's lifetime in,—and such a world!

How did the foolish ever pass for wise

By calling life a burden, man a fly

Or worm or what 's most insignificant?

"O littleness of man!" deplores the bard;

And then, for fear the Powers should punish him,

"O grandeur of the visible universe

Our human littleness contrasts withal!

O sun, O moon, ye mountains and thou sea,

Thou emblem of immensity, thou this,

That and the other,—what impertinence

In man to eat and drink and walk about

And have his little notions of his own,

The while some wave sheds foam upon the shore!"

First of all, 't is a lie some three-times thick:

The bard,—this sort of speech being poetry,—

The bard puts mankind well outside himself

And then begins instructing them: "This way

I and my friend the sea conceive of you!

What would you give to think such thoughts as ours

Of you and the sea together?" Down they go

On the humbled knees of them: at once they draw

Distinction, recognize no mate of theirs

In one, despite his mock humility,

So plain a match for what he plays with. Next,

The turn of the great ocean-playfellow,

When the bard, leaving Bond Street very far

From ear-shot, cares not to ventriloquize,

But tells the sea its home-truths: "You, my match?

You, all this terror and immensity

And what not? Shall I tell you what you are?

Just fit to hitch into a stanza, so

Wake up and set in motion who 's asleep

O' the other side of you in England, else

Unaware, as folk pace their Bond Street now,

Somebody here despises them so much!

Between us,—they are the ultimate! to them

And their perception go these lordly thoughts:

Since what were ocean—mane and tail, to boot—

Mused I not here, how make thoughts thinkable?

Start forth my stanza and astound the world!

Back, billows, to your insignificance!

Deep, you are done with!"

Learn, my gifted friend,There are two things i' the world, still wiser folkAccept—intelligence and sympathy.You pant about unutterable powerI' the ocean, all you feel but cannot speak?Why, that 's the plainest speech about it all.You did not feel what was not to be felt.Well, then, all else but what man feels is naught—The wash o' the liquor that o'erbrims the cupCalled man, and runs to waste adown his side,Perhaps to feed a cataract,—who cares?I 'll tell you: all the more I know mankind,The more I thank God, like my grandmother,For making me a little lower thanThe angels, honor-clothed and glory-crowned:This is the honor,—that no thing I know,Feel or conceive, but I can make my ownSomehow, by use of hand or head or heart:This is the glory,—that in all conceived,Or felt or known, I recognize a mindNot mine but like mine,—for the double joy,—Making all things for me and me for Him.There 's folly for you at this time of day!So think it! and enjoy your ignoranceOf what—no matter for the worthy's name—Wisdom set working in a noble heart,When he, who was earth's best geometerUp to that time of day, consigned his lifeWith its results into one matchless book,The triumph of the human mind so far,All in geometry man yet could do:And then wrote on the dedication-pageIn place of name the universe applauds,"But, God, what a geometer art Thou!"I suppose Heaven is, through Eternity,The equalizing, ever and anon,In momentary rapture, great with small,Omniscience with intelligency, GodWith man,—the thunder-glow from pole to poleAbolishing, a blissful moment-space,Great cloud alike and small cloud, in one fire—As sure to ebb as sure again to flowWhen the new receptivity deservesThe new completion. There 's the Heaven for me.And I say, therefore, to live out one's lifeI' the world here, with the chance,—whether by painOr pleasure be the process, long or shortThe time, august or mean the circumstanceTo human eye,—of learning how set footDecidedly on some one path to Heaven,Touch segment in the circle whence all linesLead to the centre equally, red linesOr black lines, so they but produce themselves—This, I do say,—and here my sermon ends,—This makes it worth our while to tenderlyHandle a state of things which mend we might,Mar we may, but which meanwhile helps so far.Therefore my end is—save society!

Learn, my gifted friend,

There are two things i' the world, still wiser folk

Accept—intelligence and sympathy.

You pant about unutterable power

I' the ocean, all you feel but cannot speak?

Why, that 's the plainest speech about it all.

You did not feel what was not to be felt.

Well, then, all else but what man feels is naught—

The wash o' the liquor that o'erbrims the cup

Called man, and runs to waste adown his side,

Perhaps to feed a cataract,—who cares?

I 'll tell you: all the more I know mankind,

The more I thank God, like my grandmother,

For making me a little lower than

The angels, honor-clothed and glory-crowned:

This is the honor,—that no thing I know,

Feel or conceive, but I can make my own

Somehow, by use of hand or head or heart:

This is the glory,—that in all conceived,

Or felt or known, I recognize a mind

Not mine but like mine,—for the double joy,—

Making all things for me and me for Him.

There 's folly for you at this time of day!

So think it! and enjoy your ignorance

Of what—no matter for the worthy's name—

Wisdom set working in a noble heart,

When he, who was earth's best geometer

Up to that time of day, consigned his life

With its results into one matchless book,

The triumph of the human mind so far,

All in geometry man yet could do:

And then wrote on the dedication-page

In place of name the universe applauds,

"But, God, what a geometer art Thou!"

I suppose Heaven is, through Eternity,

The equalizing, ever and anon,

In momentary rapture, great with small,

Omniscience with intelligency, God

With man,—the thunder-glow from pole to pole

Abolishing, a blissful moment-space,

Great cloud alike and small cloud, in one fire—

As sure to ebb as sure again to flow

When the new receptivity deserves

The new completion. There 's the Heaven for me.

And I say, therefore, to live out one's life

I' the world here, with the chance,—whether by pain

Or pleasure be the process, long or short

The time, august or mean the circumstance

To human eye,—of learning how set foot

Decidedly on some one path to Heaven,

Touch segment in the circle whence all lines

Lead to the centre equally, red lines

Or black lines, so they but produce themselves—

This, I do say,—and here my sermon ends,—

This makes it worth our while to tenderly

Handle a state of things which mend we might,

Mar we may, but which meanwhile helps so far.

Therefore my end is—save society!

"And that 's all?" twangs the never-failing tauntO' the foe—"No novelty, creativeness,Mark of the master that renews the age?""Nay, all that?" rather will demur my judgeI look to hear some day, nor friend nor foe—"Did you attain, then, to perceive that GodKnew what he undertook when he made things?"Ay: that my task was to co-operateRather than play the rival, chop and changeThe order whence comes all the good we know,With this,—good's last expression to our sense,—That there 's a further good conceivableBeyond the utmost earth can realize:And, therefore, that to change the agency,The evil whereby good is brought about—Try to make good do good as evil does—Were just as if a chemist, wanting white,And knowing black ingredients bred the dye,Insisted these too should be white forsooth!Correct the evil, mitigate your best,Blend mild with harsh, and soften black to grayIf gray may follow with no detrimentTo the eventual perfect purity!But as for hazarding the main resultBy hoping to anticipate one halfIn the intermediate process,—no, my friends!This bad world, I experience and approve;Your good world,—with no pity, courage, hope,Fear, sorrow, joy,—devotedness, in short,Which I account the ultimate of man,Of which there 's not one day nor hour but brings,In flower or fruit, some sample of success,Out of this same society I save—None of it for me! That I might have none,I rapped your tampering knuckles twenty years,Such was the task imposed me, such my end.

"And that 's all?" twangs the never-failing taunt

O' the foe—"No novelty, creativeness,

Mark of the master that renews the age?"

"Nay, all that?" rather will demur my judge

I look to hear some day, nor friend nor foe—

"Did you attain, then, to perceive that God

Knew what he undertook when he made things?"

Ay: that my task was to co-operate

Rather than play the rival, chop and change

The order whence comes all the good we know,

With this,—good's last expression to our sense,—

That there 's a further good conceivable

Beyond the utmost earth can realize:

And, therefore, that to change the agency,

The evil whereby good is brought about—

Try to make good do good as evil does—

Were just as if a chemist, wanting white,

And knowing black ingredients bred the dye,

Insisted these too should be white forsooth!

Correct the evil, mitigate your best,

Blend mild with harsh, and soften black to gray

If gray may follow with no detriment

To the eventual perfect purity!

But as for hazarding the main result

By hoping to anticipate one half

In the intermediate process,—no, my friends!

This bad world, I experience and approve;

Your good world,—with no pity, courage, hope,

Fear, sorrow, joy,—devotedness, in short,

Which I account the ultimate of man,

Of which there 's not one day nor hour but brings,

In flower or fruit, some sample of success,

Out of this same society I save—

None of it for me! That I might have none,

I rapped your tampering knuckles twenty years,

Such was the task imposed me, such my end.

Now for the means thereto. Ah, confidence—Keep we together or part company?This is the critical minute! "Such my end?"Certainly; how could it be otherwise?Can there be question which was the right task—To save or to destroy society?Why, even prove that, by some miracle,Destruction were the proper work to choose,And that a torch best remedies what 's wrongI' the temple, whence the long procession woundOf powers and beauties, earth's achievements all,The human strength that strove and overthrew,—The human love that, weak itself, crowned strength,—The instinct crying, "God is whence I came!"—The reason laying down the law, "And suchHis will i' the world must be!"—the leap and shoutOf genius, "For I hold his very thoughts,The meaning of the mind of him!"—nay, moreThe ingenuities, each active forceThat turning in a circle on itselfLooks neither up nor down but keeps the spot,Mere creature-like and, for religion, works,Works only and works ever, makes and shapesAnd changes, still wrings more of good from less,Still stamps some bad out, where was worst before,So leaves the handiwork, the act and deed,Were it but house and land and wealth, to showHere was a creature perfect in the kind—Whether as bee, beaver, or behemoth,What 's the importance? he has done his workFor work's sake, worked well, earned a creature's praise;—I say, concede that same fane, whence deploysAge after age, all this humanity,Diverse but ever dear, out of the darkBehind the altar into the broad dayBy the portal—enter, and, concede there mocksEach lover of free motion and much spaceA perplexed length of apse and aisle and nave,—Pillared roof and carved screen, and what care I?—Which irk the movement and impede the march,—Nay, possibly, bring flat upon his noseAt some odd breakneck angle, by some freakOf old-world artistry, that personageWho, could he but have kept his skirts from griefAnd catching at the hooks and crooks about,Had stepped out on the daylight of our timePlainly the man of the age,—still, still, I barExcessive conflagration in the case."Shake the flame freely!" shout the multitude:The architect approves I stuck my torchInside a good stout lantern, hung its lightAbove the hooks and crooks, and ended so.To save society was well: the meansWhereby to save it,—there begins the doubtPermitted you, imperative on me;Were mine the best means? Did I work arightWith powers appointed me?—since powers deniedConcern me nothing.

Now for the means thereto. Ah, confidence—

Keep we together or part company?

This is the critical minute! "Such my end?"

Certainly; how could it be otherwise?

Can there be question which was the right task—

To save or to destroy society?

Why, even prove that, by some miracle,

Destruction were the proper work to choose,

And that a torch best remedies what 's wrong

I' the temple, whence the long procession wound

Of powers and beauties, earth's achievements all,

The human strength that strove and overthrew,—

The human love that, weak itself, crowned strength,—

The instinct crying, "God is whence I came!"—

The reason laying down the law, "And such

His will i' the world must be!"—the leap and shout

Of genius, "For I hold his very thoughts,

The meaning of the mind of him!"—nay, more

The ingenuities, each active force

That turning in a circle on itself

Looks neither up nor down but keeps the spot,

Mere creature-like and, for religion, works,

Works only and works ever, makes and shapes

And changes, still wrings more of good from less,

Still stamps some bad out, where was worst before,

So leaves the handiwork, the act and deed,

Were it but house and land and wealth, to show

Here was a creature perfect in the kind—

Whether as bee, beaver, or behemoth,

What 's the importance? he has done his work

For work's sake, worked well, earned a creature's praise;—

I say, concede that same fane, whence deploys

Age after age, all this humanity,

Diverse but ever dear, out of the dark

Behind the altar into the broad day

By the portal—enter, and, concede there mocks

Each lover of free motion and much space

A perplexed length of apse and aisle and nave,—

Pillared roof and carved screen, and what care I?—

Which irk the movement and impede the march,—

Nay, possibly, bring flat upon his nose

At some odd breakneck angle, by some freak

Of old-world artistry, that personage

Who, could he but have kept his skirts from grief

And catching at the hooks and crooks about,

Had stepped out on the daylight of our time

Plainly the man of the age,—still, still, I bar

Excessive conflagration in the case.

"Shake the flame freely!" shout the multitude:

The architect approves I stuck my torch

Inside a good stout lantern, hung its light

Above the hooks and crooks, and ended so.

To save society was well: the means

Whereby to save it,—there begins the doubt

Permitted you, imperative on me;

Were mine the best means? Did I work aright

With powers appointed me?—since powers denied

Concern me nothing.

Well, my work reviewedFairly, leaves more hope than discouragement.First, there 's the deed done: what I found, I leave,—What tottered, I kept stable: if it standOne month, without sustainment, still thank meThe twenty years' sustainer! Now, observe,Sustaining is no brilliant self-displayLike knocking down or even setting up:Much bustle these necessitate; and stillTo vulgar eye, the mightier of the mythIs Hercules, who substitutes his ownFor Atlas' shoulder and supports the globeA whole day,—not the passive and obscureAtlas who bore, ere Hercules was born,And is to go on bearing that same loadWhen Hercules turns ash on Œta's top.'T is the transition-stage, the tug and strain.That strike men: standing still is stupid-like,My pressure was too constant on the wholeFor any part's eruption into space'Mid sparkles, crackling, and much praise of me.I saw that, in the ordinary life,Many of the little make a mass of menImportant beyond greatness here and there;As certainly as, in life exceptional,When old things terminate and new commence,A solitary great man 's worth the world.God takes the business into his own handsAt such time: who creates the novel flowerContrives to guard and give it breathing-room:I merely tend the cornfield, care for crop,And weed no acre thin to let emergeWhat prodigy may stifle there perchance,—No, though my eye have noted where he lurks.Oh those mute myriads that spoke loud to me—The eyes that craved to see the light, the mouthsThat sought the daily bread and nothing more,The hands that supplicated exercise,Men that had wives, and women that had babes,And all these making suit to only live!Was I to turn aside from husbandry,Leave hope of harvest for the corn, my care,To play at horticulture, rear some roseOr poppy into perfect leaf and bloomWhen, 'mid the furrows, up was pleased to sproutSome man, cause, system, special interestI ought to study, stop the world meanwhile?"But I am Liberty, Philanthropy,Enlightenment, or Patriotism, the powerWhereby you are to stand or fall!" cries each:"Mine and mine only be the flag you flaunt!"And, when I venture to object, "Meantime,What of yon myriads with no flag at all—My crop which, who flaunts flag must tread across?""Now, this it is to have a puny mind!"Admire my mental prodigies: "down—down—Ever at home o' the level and the low,There hides he brooding! Could he look above,With less of the owl and more of the eagle eye,He 'd see there 's no way helps the little causeLike the attainment of the great. Dare firstThe chief emprise; dispel yon cloud betweenThe sun and us; nor fear that, though our headsFind earlier warmth and comfort from his ray,What lies about our feet, the multitude,Will fail of benefaction presently.Come now, let each of us awhile cry truceTo special interests, make common causeAgainst the adversary—or perchanceMere dullard to his own plain interest!Which of us will you choose?—since needs must beSome one o' the warring causes you inclineTo hold, i' the main, has right and should prevail:Why not adopt and give it prevalence?Choose strict Faith or lax Incredulity,—King, Caste, and Cultus—or the Rights of Man,Sovereignty of each Proudhon o'er himself,And all that follows in just consequence!Go free the stranger from a foreign yoke;Or stay, concentrate energy at home;Succeed!—when he deserves, the stranger will.Comply with the Great Nation's impulse, printBy force of arms,—since reason pleads in vain,And, 'mid the sweet compulsion, pity weeps,—Hohenstiel-Schwangau on the universe!Snub the Great Nation, cure the impulsive itchWith smartest fillip on a restless noseWas ever launched by thumb and finger! BidHohenstiel-Schwangau first repeal the taxOn pig-tails and pomatum, and then mindAbstruser matters for next century!Is your choice made? Why then, act up to choice!Leave the illogical touch now here now thereI' the way of work, the tantalizing helpFirst to this, then the other opposite:The blowing hot and cold, sham policy,Sure ague of the mind and nothing more,Disease of the perception or the will,That fain would hide in a fine name! Your choice,Speak it out and condemn yourself thereby!"

Well, my work reviewed

Fairly, leaves more hope than discouragement.

First, there 's the deed done: what I found, I leave,—

What tottered, I kept stable: if it stand

One month, without sustainment, still thank me

The twenty years' sustainer! Now, observe,

Sustaining is no brilliant self-display

Like knocking down or even setting up:

Much bustle these necessitate; and still

To vulgar eye, the mightier of the myth

Is Hercules, who substitutes his own

For Atlas' shoulder and supports the globe

A whole day,—not the passive and obscure

Atlas who bore, ere Hercules was born,

And is to go on bearing that same load

When Hercules turns ash on Œta's top.

'T is the transition-stage, the tug and strain.

That strike men: standing still is stupid-like,

My pressure was too constant on the whole

For any part's eruption into space

'Mid sparkles, crackling, and much praise of me.

I saw that, in the ordinary life,

Many of the little make a mass of men

Important beyond greatness here and there;

As certainly as, in life exceptional,

When old things terminate and new commence,

A solitary great man 's worth the world.

God takes the business into his own hands

At such time: who creates the novel flower

Contrives to guard and give it breathing-room:

I merely tend the cornfield, care for crop,

And weed no acre thin to let emerge

What prodigy may stifle there perchance,

—No, though my eye have noted where he lurks.

Oh those mute myriads that spoke loud to me—

The eyes that craved to see the light, the mouths

That sought the daily bread and nothing more,

The hands that supplicated exercise,

Men that had wives, and women that had babes,

And all these making suit to only live!

Was I to turn aside from husbandry,

Leave hope of harvest for the corn, my care,

To play at horticulture, rear some rose

Or poppy into perfect leaf and bloom

When, 'mid the furrows, up was pleased to sprout

Some man, cause, system, special interest

I ought to study, stop the world meanwhile?

"But I am Liberty, Philanthropy,

Enlightenment, or Patriotism, the power

Whereby you are to stand or fall!" cries each:

"Mine and mine only be the flag you flaunt!"

And, when I venture to object, "Meantime,

What of yon myriads with no flag at all—

My crop which, who flaunts flag must tread across?"

"Now, this it is to have a puny mind!"

Admire my mental prodigies: "down—down—

Ever at home o' the level and the low,

There hides he brooding! Could he look above,

With less of the owl and more of the eagle eye,

He 'd see there 's no way helps the little cause

Like the attainment of the great. Dare first

The chief emprise; dispel yon cloud between

The sun and us; nor fear that, though our heads

Find earlier warmth and comfort from his ray,

What lies about our feet, the multitude,

Will fail of benefaction presently.

Come now, let each of us awhile cry truce

To special interests, make common cause

Against the adversary—or perchance

Mere dullard to his own plain interest!

Which of us will you choose?—since needs must be

Some one o' the warring causes you incline

To hold, i' the main, has right and should prevail:

Why not adopt and give it prevalence?

Choose strict Faith or lax Incredulity,—

King, Caste, and Cultus—or the Rights of Man,

Sovereignty of each Proudhon o'er himself,

And all that follows in just consequence!

Go free the stranger from a foreign yoke;

Or stay, concentrate energy at home;

Succeed!—when he deserves, the stranger will.

Comply with the Great Nation's impulse, print

By force of arms,—since reason pleads in vain,

And, 'mid the sweet compulsion, pity weeps,—

Hohenstiel-Schwangau on the universe!

Snub the Great Nation, cure the impulsive itch

With smartest fillip on a restless nose

Was ever launched by thumb and finger! Bid

Hohenstiel-Schwangau first repeal the tax

On pig-tails and pomatum, and then mind

Abstruser matters for next century!

Is your choice made? Why then, act up to choice!

Leave the illogical touch now here now there

I' the way of work, the tantalizing help

First to this, then the other opposite:

The blowing hot and cold, sham policy,

Sure ague of the mind and nothing more,

Disease of the perception or the will,

That fain would hide in a fine name! Your choice,

Speak it out and condemn yourself thereby!"

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