Chapter 124

LXXWe come to terms.I need to be proved true; and nothing so confirmsOne's faith in the prime point that one 's alive, not dead,In all Descents to Hell whereof I ever read,As when a phantom there, male enemy or friend,Or merely stranger-shade, is struck, is forced suspendHis passage: "You that breathe, along with us the ghosts?"Here, why must it be still a woman that accosts?LXXIBecause, one woman 's worth, in that respect, such hairy hostsOf the other sex and sort! Men? Say you have the powerTo make them yours, rule men, throughout life's little hour,According to the phrase; what follows? Men, you make,By ruling them, your own: each man for his own sakeAccepts you as his guide, avails him of what worthHe apprehends in you to sublimate his earthWith fire: content, if so you convoy him through night,That you shall play the sun, and he, the satellite,Pilfer your light and heat and virtue, starry pelf,While, caught up by your course, he turns upon himself.Women rush into you, and there remain absorbed.Beside, 't is only men completely formed, full-orbed,Are fit to follow track, keep pace, illustrate soThe leader: any sort of woman may bestowHer atom on the star, or clod she counts for such,—-Each little making less bigger by just that much.Women grow you, while men depend on you at best.And what dependence! Bring and put him to the test,Your specimen disciple, a handbreadth separateFrom you, he almost seemed to touch before! AbateComplacency you will, I judge, at what 's divulged!Some flabbiness you fixed, some vacancy out-bulged,Some—much—nay, all, perhaps, the outward man 's your work:But, inside man?—find him, wherever he may lurk,And where 's a touch of you in his true self?LXXIII wishSome wind would waft this way a glassy bubble-fishO' the kind the sea inflates, and show you, once detachedFrom wave ... or no, the event is better told than watched:Still may the thing float free, globose and opalineAll over, save where just the amethysts combineTo blue their best, rim-round the sea-flower with a tingeEarth's violet never knew! Well, 'neath that gem-tipped fringe,A head lurks—of a kind—that acts as stomach too;Then comes the emptiness which out the water blewSo big and belly-like, but, dry of water drained,Withers away nine-tenths. Ah, but a tenth remained!That was the creature's self: no more akin to sea,Poor rudimental head and stomach, you agree,Than sea 's akin to sun who yonder dips his edge.LXXIIIBut take the rill which ends a race o'er yonder ledgeO' the fissured cliff, to find its fate in smoke below!Disengage that, and ask—what news of life, you knowIt led, that long lone way, through pasture, plain and waste?All 's gone to give the sea! no touch of earth, no tasteOf air, reserved to tell how rushes used to bringThe butterfly and bee, and fisher-bird that 's kingO' the purple kind, about the snow-soft silver-sweetInfant of mist and dew; only these atoms fleet,Embittered evermore, to make the sea one dropMore big thereby—if thought keep count where sense must stop.LXXIVThe full-blown ingrate, mere recipient of the brine,That takes all and gives naught, is Man; the feminineRillet that, taking all and giving naught in turn,Goes headlong to her death i' the sea, without concernFor the old inland life, snow-soft and silver-clear,That 's woman—typified from Fifine to Elvire.LXXVThen, how diverse the modes prescribed to who would dealWith either kind of creature! 'T is Man, you seek to sealYour very own? Resolve, for first step, to discardNine-tenths of what you are! To make, you must be marred,—To raise your race, must stoop,—to teach them aught, must learnIgnorance, meet halfway what most you hope to spurnI' the sequel. Change yourself, dissimulate the thoughtAnd vulgarize the word, and see the deed be broughtTo look like nothing done with any such intentAs teach men—though perchance it teach, by accident!So may you master men: assured that if you showOne point of mastery, departure from the lowAnd level,—head or heart-revolt at long disguise,Immurement, stifling soul in mediocrities,—If inadvertently a gesture, much more, wordReveal the hunter no companion for the herd,His chance of capture 's gone. Success means, they may snuff,Examine, and report,—a brother, sure enough,Disports him in brute-guise; for skin is truly skin,Horns, hoofs, are hoofs and horns, and all, outside and in,Is veritable beast, whom fellow-beasts resignedMay follow, made a prize in honest pride, behindOne of themselves and not creation's upstart lord!Well, there 's your prize i' the pound—much joy may it affordMy Indian! Make survey and tell me,—was it worthYou acted part so well, went all-fours upon earthThe live-long day, brayed, belled, and all to bring to passThat stags should deign eat hay when winter stints them grass?LXXVISo much for men, and how disguise may make them mindTheir master. But you have to deal with womankind?Abandon stratagem for strategy! Cast quiteThe vile disguise away, try truth clean-oppositeSuch creep-and-crawl, stand forth all man and, might it chance,Somewhat of angel too!—whate'er inheritance,Actual on earth, in heaven prospective, be your boast,Lay claim to! Your best self revealed at uttermost,—That 's the wise way o' the strong! And e'en should falsehood temptThe weaker sort to swerve,—at least the lie 's exemptFrom slur, that 's loathlier still, of aiming to debaseRather than elevate its object. Mimic grace,Not make deformity your mask! Be sick by stealth,Nor traffic with disease—malingering in health!No more of: "Countrymen, I boast me one like you—My lot, the common strength, the common weakness too!I think the thoughts you think; and if I have the knackOf fitting thoughts to words, you peradventure lack,Envy me not the chance, yourselves more fortunate!Many the loaded ship self-sunk through treasure freight,Many the pregnant brain brought never child to birth,Many the great heart broke beneath its girdle-girth!Be mine the privilege to supplement defect,Give dumbness voice, and let the laboring intellectFind utterance in word, or possibly in deed!What though I seem to go before? 't is you that lead!I follow what I see so plain—the general mindProjected pillar-wise, flame kindled by the kind,Which dwarfs the unit—me—to insignificance!Halt you, I stop forthwith,—proceed, I too advance!"LXXVIIAy, that 's the way to take with men you wish to lead,Instruct and benefit. Small prospect you succeedWith women so! Be all that 's great and good and wise,August, sublime—swell out your frog the right ox-size—He 's buoyed like a balloon, to soar, not burst, you 'll see!The more you prove yourself, less fear the prize will fleeThe captor. Here you start after no pompous stagWho condescends be snared, with toss of horn, and bragOf bray, and ramp of hoof; you have not to subdueThe foe through letting him imagine he snares you!'T is rather with ...LXXVIIIAh, thanks! quick—where the dipping diskShows red against the rise and fall o' the fin! there friskIn shoal the—porpoises? Dolphins, they shall and mustCut through the freshening clear—dolphins, my instance just!'T is fable, therefore truth: who has to do with these,Needs never practice trick of going hands and kneesAs beasts require. Art fain the fish to captivate?Gather thy greatness round, Arion! Stand in state,As when the banqueting thrilled conscious—like a roseThroughout its hundred leaves at that approach it knowsOf music in the bird—while Corinth grew one breastA-throb for song and thee; nay, Periander pressedThe Methymnæan hand, and felt a king indeed, and guessedHow Phœbus' self might give that great mouth of the godsSuch a magnificence of song! The pillar nods,Rocks roof, and trembles door, gigantic, post and jamb,As harp and voice rend air—the shattering dithyramb!So stand thou, and assume the robe that tingles yetWith triumph; strike the harp, whose every golden fretStill smoulders with the flame, was late at fingers' end—So, standing on the bench o' the ship, let voice expendThy soul, sing, unalloyed by meaner mode, thine own,The Orthian lay; then leap from music's lofty throneInto the lowest surge, make fearlessly thy launch!Whatever storm may threat, some dolphin will be stanch!Whatever roughness rage, some exquisite sea-thingWill surely rise to save, will bear—palpitating—One proud humility of love beneath its load—Stem tide, part wave, till both roll on, thy jewell'd roadOf triumph, and the grim o' the gulf grow wonder-whiteI' the phosphorescent wake; and still the exquisiteSea-thing stems on, saves still, palpitatingly thus,Lands safe at length its load of love at Tænarus,True woman-creature!LXXIXMan? Ah, would you prove what powerMarks man,—what fruit his tree may yield, beyond the sourAnd stinted crab, he calls love-apple, which remainsAfter you toil and moil your utmost,—all, love gainsBy lavishing manure?—try quite the other plan!And, to obtain the strong true product of a man,Set him to hate a little! Leave cherishing his root,And rather prune his branch, nip off the pettiest shootSuperfluous on his bough! I promise, you shall learnBy what grace came the goat, of all beasts else, to earnSuch favor with the god o' the grape: 't was only heWho, browsing on its tops, first stung fertilityInto the stock's heart, stayed much growth of tendril-twine,Some faintish flower, perhaps, but gained the indignant wine,Wrath of the red press! Catch the puniest of the kind—Man-animalcule, starved body, stunted mind,And, as you nip the blotch 'twixt thumb and finger-nail,Admire how heaven above and earth below availNo jot to soothe the mite, sore at God's prime offenceIn making mites at all,—coax from its impotenceOne virile drop of thought, or word, or deed, by strainTo propagate for once—which nature rendered vain,Who lets first failure stay, yet cares not to recordMistake that seems to cast opprobrium on the Lord!Such were the gain from love's best pains! But let the elfBe touched with hate, because some real man bears himselfManlike in body and soul, and, since he lives, must thwartAnd furify and set a-fizz this counterpartO' the pismire that 's surprised to effervescence, if,By chance, black bottle come in contact with chalk cliff,Acid with alkali! Then thrice the bulk, out blowsOur insect, does its kind, and cuckoo-spits some rose!LXXXNo—'t is ungainly work, the ruling men, at best!The graceful instinct 's right: 't is women stand confessedAuxiliary, the gain that never goes away,Takes nothing and gives all: Elvire, Fifine, 't is theyConvince,—if little, much, no matter!—one degreeThe more, at least, convince unreasonable meThat I am, anyhow, a truth, though all else seemAnd be not: if I dream, at least I know I dream.The falsity, beside, is fleeting: I can standStill, and let truth come back,—your steadying touch of handAssists me to remain self-centred, fixed amidAll on the move. Believe in me, at once you bidMyself believe that, since one soul has disengagedMine from the shows of things, so much is fact: I wagedNo foolish warfare, then, with shades, myself a shade,Here in the world—may hope my pains will be repaid!How false things are, I judge: how changeable, I learn:When, where, and how it is I shall see truth return,That I expect to know, because Fifine knows me!—How much more, if Elvire!LXXXI"And why not, only she?Since there can be for each, one Best, no more, such Best,For body and mind of him, abolishes the restO' the simply Good and Better. You please select ElvireTo give you this belief in truth, dispel the fearYourself are, after all, as false as what surrounds;And why not be content? When we two watched the roundsThe boatman made, 'twixt shoal and sandbank, yesterday,As, at dead slack of tide, he chose to push his way,With oar and pole, across the creek, and reach the isleAfter a world of pains—my word provoked your smile,Yet none the less deserved reply: ''T were wiser waitThe turn o' the tide, and find conveyance for his freight—How easily—within the ship to purpose moored,Managed by sails, not oars! But no,—the man 's alluredBy liking for the new and hard in his exploit!First come shall serve! He makes—courageous and adroit—The merest willow-leaf of boat do duty, bearHis merchandise across: once over, needs he careIf folk arrive by ship, six hours hence, fresh and gay?'No: he scorns commonplace, affects the unusual way;And good Elvire is moored, with not a breath to flapThe yards of her, no lift of ripple to o'erlapKeel, much less, prow. What care? since here 's a cockle-shell,Fifine, that 's taut and crank, and carries just as wellSuch seamanship as yours!"LXXXIIAlack, our life is lent,From first to last, the whole, for this experimentOf proving what I say—that we ourselves are true!I would there were one voyage, and then no more to doBut tread the firm-land, tempt the uncertain sea no moreI would we might dispense with change of shore for shoreTo evidence our skill, demonstrate—in no dreamIt was, we tided o'er the trouble of the stream.I would the steady voyage, and not the fitful trip,—Elvire, and not Fifine,—might test our seamanship.But why expend one's breath to tell you, change of boatMeans change of tactics too? Come see the same afloatTo-morrow, all the change, new stowage fore and aftO' the cargo; then, to cross requires new sailor-craft!To-day, one step from stern to bow keeps boat in trim:To-morrow, some big stone—or woe to boat and him!—Must ballast both. That man stands for Mind, paramountThroughout the adventure: ay, howe'er you make account,'T is mind that navigates,—skips over, twists betweenThe bales i' the boat,—now gives importance to the mean,And now abates the pride of life, accepts all fact,Discards all fiction,—steers Fifine, and cries, i' the act,"Thou art so bad, and yet so delicate a brown!Wouldst tell no end of lies: I talk to smile or frown!Wouldst rob me: do men blame a squirrel, lithe and sly,For pilfering the nut she adds to hoard? Nor I."Elvire is true, as truth, honesty's self, alack!The worse! too safe the ship, the transport there and backToo certain! one may loll and lounge and leave the helm,Let wind and tide do work: no fear that waves o'erwhelmThe steady-going bark, as sure to feel her wayBlindfold across, reach land, next year as yesterday!How can I but suspect, the true feat were to slipDown side, transfer myself to cockle-shell from ship,And try if, trusting to sea-tracklessness, I classWith those around whose breast grew oak and triple brass:Who dreaded no degree of death, but, with dry eyes,Surveyed the turgid main and its monstrosities—And rendered futile so, the prudent Power's decreeOf separate earth and disassociating sea;Since, how is it observed, if impious vessels leapAcross, and tempt a thing they should not touch—the deep?(See Horace to the boat, wherein, for Athens bound,When Virgil must embark—Jove keep him safe and sound!—The poet bade his friend start on the watery road,Much reassured by this so comfortable ode.)LXXXIIIThen, never grudge my poor Fifine her compliment!The rakish craft could slip her moorings in the tent,And, hoisting every stitch of spangled canvas, steerThrough divers rocks and shoals,—in fine, deposit hereYour Virgil of a spouse, in Attica: yea, thridThe mob of men, select the special virtue hidIn him, forsooth, and say—or rather, smile so sweet,"Of all the multitude, you—I prefer to cheat!Are you for Athens bound? I can perform the trip,Shove little pinnace off, while yon superior ship,The Elvire, refits in port!" So, off we push from beachOf Pornic town, and lo, ere eye can wink, we reachThe Long Walls, and I prove that Athens is no dream,For there the temples rise! they are, they nowise seem!Earth is not all one lie, this truth attests me true!Thanks therefore to Fifine! Elvire, I 'm back with you!Share in the memories! Embark I trust we shallTogether some fine day, and so, for good and all,Bid Pornic Town adieu,—then, just the strait to cross,And we reach harbor, safe, in Iostephanos!LXXXIVHow quickly night comes! Lo, already 't is the landTurns sea-like; overcrept by gray, the plains expand,Assume significance; while ocean dwindles, shrinksInto a pettier bound: its plash and plaint, methinks,Six steps away, how both retire, as if their partWere played, another force were free to prove her art,Protagonist in turn! Are you unterrified?All false, all fleeting too! And nowhere things abide,And everywhere we strain that things should stay,—the oneTruth, that ourselves are true!LXXXVA word, and I have done.Is it not just our hate of falsehood, fleetingness,And the mere part, things play, that constitutes expressThe inmost charm of this Fifine and all her tribe?Actors! We also act, but only they inscribeTheir style and title so, and preface, only they,Performance with "A lie is all we do or say."Wherein but there can be the attraction, Falsehood's bribe,That wins so surely o'er to Fifine and her tribeThe liking, nay the love of who hate Falsehood most,Except that these alone of mankind make their boast"Frankly, we simulate!" To feign, means—to have graceAnd so get gratitude! This ruler of the race,Crowned, sceptred, stoled to suit,—'t is not that you detectThe cobbler in the king, but that he makes effectBy seeming the reverse of what you know to beThe man, the mind, whole form, fashion, and quality.Mistake his false for true, one minute,—there 's an endOf the admiration! Truth, we grieve at or rejoice:'T is only falsehood, plain in gesture, look and voice,That brings the praise desired, since profit comes thereby.The histrionic truth is in the natural lie.Because the man who wept the tears was, all the time,Happy enough; because the other man, a-grimeWith guilt was, at the least, as white as I and you;Because the timid type of bashful maidhood, whoStarts at her own pure shade, already numbers sevenBorn babes and, in a month, will turn their odd to even;Because the saucy prince would prove, could you unfurlSome yards of wrap, a meek and meritorious girl—Precisely as you see success attained by eachO' the mimes, do you approve, not foolishly impeachThe falsehood!LXXXVIThat 's the first o' the truths found: all things, slowOr quick i' the passage, come at last to that, you know!Each has a false outside, whereby a truth is forcedTo issue from within: truth, falsehood, are divorcedBy the excepted eye, at the rare season, forThe happy moment. Life means—learning to abhorThe false, and love the true, truth treasured snatch by snatch,Waifs counted at their worth. And when with strays they matchI' the particolored world,—when, under foul, shines fair,And truth, displayed i' the point, flashes forth everywhereI' the circle, manifest to soul, though hid from sense,And no obstruction more affects this confidence,—When faith is ripe for sight,—why, reasonably, thenComes the great clearing-up. Wait threescore years and ten!LXXXVIITherefore I prize stage-play, the honest cheating; thenceThe impulse pricked, when fife and drum bade Fair commence,To bid you trip and skip, link arm in arm with me,Like husband and like wife, and so together seeThe tumbling-troop arrayed, the strollers on their stageDrawn up and under arms, and ready to engage.And if I started thence upon abstruser themes ...Well, 't was a dream, pricked too!LXXXVIIIA poet never dreams:We prose-folk always do: we miss the proper ductFor thoughts on things unseen, which stagnate and obstructThe system, therefore; mind, sound in a body sane,Keeps thoughts apart from facts, and to one flowing veinConfines its sense of that which is not, but might be,And leaves the rest alone. What ghosts do poets see?What demons fear? what man or thing misapprehend?Unchecked, the channel 's flush, the fancy 's free to spendIts special self aright in manner, time and place.Never believe that who create the busy raceO' the brain, bring poetry to birth, such act performed,Feel trouble them, the same, such residue as warmedMy prosy blood, this morn,—intrusive fancies, meantFor outbreak and escape by quite another vent!Whence follows that, asleep, my dreamings oft exceedThe bound. But you shall hear.LXXXIXI smoked. The webs o' the weed,With many a break i' the mesh, were floating to re-formCupola-wise above: chased thither by soft warmInflow of air without; since I—of mind to muse, to clenchThe gain of soul and body, got by their noonday drenchIn sun and sea—had flung both frames o' the window wide,To soak my body still and let soul soar beside.In came the country sounds and sights and smells—that fineSharp needle in the nose from our fermenting wine!In came a dragon-fly with whir and stir, then out,Off and away: in came,—kept coming, rather,—poutSucceeding smile, and take-away still close on give,—One loose long creeper-branch, tremblingly sensitiveTo risks, which blooms and leaves,—each leaf tongue-broad, each bloomMidfinger-deep,—must run by prying in the roomOf one who loves and grasps and spoils and speculates.All so far plain enough to sight and sense: but, weights,Measures and numbers,—ah, could one apply such testTo other visitants that came at no requestOf who kept open house,—to fancies manifoldFrom this four-cornered world, the memories new and old,The antenatal prime experience—what know I?—The initiatory love preparing us to die—Such were a crowd to count, a sight to see, a prizeTo turn to profit, were but fleshly ears and eyesAble to cope with those o' the spirit!XCTherefore,—sinceThought hankers after speech, while no speech may evinceFeeling like music,—mine, o'erburdened with each giftFrom every visitant, at last resolved to shiftIts burden to the back of some musician deadAnd gone, who feeling once what I feel now, insteadOf words, sought sounds, and saved forever, in the same,Truth that escapes prose,—nay, puts poetry to shame.I read the note, I strike the key, I bidrecordThe instrument,—thanks greet the veritable word!And not in vain I urge: "O dead and gone away,Assist who struggles yet, thy strength become my stay,Thy record serve as well to register—I feltAnd knew thus much of truth! With me, must knowledge meltInto surmise and doubt and disbelief, unlessThy music reassure—I gave no idle guess,But gained a certitude, I yet may hardly keep!What care? since round is piled a monumental heapOf music that conserves the assurance, thou as wellWast certain of the same! thou, master of the spell,Mad'st moonbeams marble, didstrecordwhat other menFeel only to forget!" Who was it helped me, then?What master's work first came responsive to my call,Found my eye, fixed my choice?XCIWhy, Schumann's "Carnival"!My choice chimed in, you see, exactly with the soundsAnd sights of yestereve, when, going on my rounds,Where both roads join the bridge, I heard across the duskCreak a slow caravan, and saw arrive the huskO' the spice-nut, which peeled off this morning, and displayed,'Twixt tree and tree, a tent whence the red pennon madeIts vivid reach for home and ocean-idleness—And where, my heart surmised, at that same moment,—yes,—Tugging her tricot on—yet tenderly, lest stitchAnnounce the crack of doom, reveal disaster whichOur Pornic's modest stock of merceries in vainWere ransacked to retrieve,—there, cautiously a-strain,(My heart surmised) must crouch in that tent's corner, curvedLike Spring-month's russet moon, some girl by fate reservedTo give me once again the electric snap and sparkWhich prove, when finger finds out finger in the darkO' the world, there 's fire and life and truth there, link but handsAnd pass the secret on. Lo, link by link, expandsThe circle, lengthens out the chain, till one embraceOf high with low is found uniting the whole race,Not simply you and me and our Fifine, but allThe world: the Fair expands into the Carnival,And Carnival again to ... ah, but that 's my dream!XCIII somehow played the piece: remarked on each old themeI' the new dress; saw how food o' the soul, the stuff that 's madeTo furnish man with thought and feeling, is purveyedSubstantially the same from age to age, with changeOf the outside only for successive feasters, RangeThe banquet-room o' the world, from the dim farthest headO' the table, to its foot, for you and me bespread,This merry morn, we find sufficient fare, I trow.But, novel? Scrape away the sauce; and taste, below,The verity o' the viand,—you shall perceive there wentTo board-head just the dish which other condimentMakes palatable now: guests came, sat down, fell-to,Rose up, wiped mouth, went way,—lived, died,—and never knewThat generations yet should, seeking sustenance,Still find the selfsame fare, with somewhat to enhanceIts flavor, in the kind of cooking. As with hatesAnd loves and fears and hopes, so with what emulatesThe same, expresses hates, loves, fears, and hopes in Art:The forms, the themes—no one without its counterpartAges ago; no one but, mumbled the due timeI' the mouth of the eater, needs be cooked again in rhyme,Dished up anew in paint, sauce-smothered fresh in sound,To suit the wisdom-tooth, just cut, of the age, that 's foundWith gums obtuse to gust and smack which relished soThe meat o' the meal folk made some fifty years ago.But don't suppose the new was able to effaceThe old without a struggle, a pang! The commonplaceStill clung about his heart, long after all the restO' the natural man, at eye and ear, was caught, confessedThe charm of change, although wry lip and wrinkled noseOwned ancient virtue more conducive to reposeThan modern nothings roused to somethings by some shredOf pungency, perchance garlic in amber's stead.And so on, till one day, another age, by dueRotation, pries, sniffs, smacks, discovers old is new,And sauce, our sires pronounced insipid, proves againSole piquant, may resume its titillating reign—With music, most of all the arts, since change is thereThe law, and not the lapse: the precious means the rare,And not the absolute in all good save surprise.So I remarked upon our Schumann's victoriesOver the commonplace, how faded phrase grew fine,And palled perfection—piqued, up-startled by that brine,His pickle—bit the mouth and burnt the tongue aright,Beyond the merely good no longer exquisite:Then took things as I found, and thanked without demurThe pretty piece—played through that movement, you preferWhere dance and shuffle past,—he scolding while she pouts,She canting while he calms,—in those eternal boutsOf age, the dog—with youth, the cat—by rose-festoonTied teasingly enough—Columbine, Pantaloon:She, toe-tips andstaccato,—legato, shakes his pollAnd shambles in pursuit, the senior.Fi la folle!Lie to him! get his gold and pay its price! beginYour trade betimes, nor wait till you 've wed HarlequinAnd need, at the week's end, to play the duteous wife,And swear you still love slaps and leapings more than life!Pretty! I say.XCIIIAnd so, I somehow-nohow playedThe whole o' the pretty piece; and then ... whatever weighedMy eyes down, furled the films about my wits? suppose,The morning-bath,—the sweet monotony of thoseThree keys, flat, flat and flat, never a sharp at all,—Or else the brain's fatigue, forced even here to fallInto the same old track, and recognize the shiftFrom old to new, and back to old again, and,—swiftOr slow, no matter,—still the certainty of change,Conviction we shall find the false, where'er we range,In art no less than nature: or what if wrist were numb,And over-tense the muscle, abductor of the thumb,Taxed by those tenths' and twelfths' unconscionable stretch?Howe'er it came to pass, I soon was far to fetch—Gone off in company with Music!XCIVWhither boundExcept for Venice? She it was, by instinct foundCarnival-country proper, who far below the perchWhere I was pinnacled, showed, opposite, Mark's Church,And, underneath, Mark's Square, with those two lines of street,Procuratié-sides, each leading to my feet—Since from above I gazed, however I got there.XCVAnd what I gazed upon was a prodigious Fair,Concourse immense of men and women, crowned or casqued,Turbaned or tiar'd, wreathed, plumed, hatted or wigged, but masked—Always masked,—only, how? No face-shape, beast or bird,Nay, fish and reptile even, but some one had preferred,From out its frontispiece, feathered or scaled or curled,To make the vizard whence himself should view the world,And where the world believed himself was manifest.Yet when you came to look, mixed up among the restMore funnily by far, were masks to imitateHumanity's mishap: the wrinkled brow, bald pate,And rheumy eyes of Age, peak'd chin and parchment chap,Were signs of day-work done, and wage-time near,—mishapMerely; but, Age reduced to simple greed and guile,Worn apathetic else as some smooth slab, ere-whileA clear-cut man-at-arms i' the pavement, till foot's treadEffaced the sculpture, left the stone you saw instead,—Was not that terrible beyond the mere uncouth?Well, and perhaps the next revolting you was Youth,Stark ignorance and crude conceit, half smirk, half stareOn that frank fool-face, gay beneath its head of hairWhich covers nothing.XCVIThese, you are to understand,Were the mere hard and sharp distinctions. On each hand,I soon became aware, flocked the infinitudeOf passions, loves and hates, man pampers till his moodBecomes himself, the whole sole face we name him by,Nor want denotement else, if age or youth supplyThe rest of him: old, young,—classed creature: in the mainA love, a hate, a hope, a fear, each soul astrainSome one way through the flesh—the face, an evidenceO' the soul at work inside; and, all the more intense,So much the more grotesque.XCVII"Why should each soul be taskedSome one way, by one love or else one hate?" I asked.When it occurred to me, from all these sights beneathThere rose not any sound: a crowd, yet dumb as death!XCVIIISoon I knew why. (Propose a riddle, and 't is solvedForthwith—in dream!) They spoke; but, since on me devolvedTo see, and understand by sight,—the vulgar speechMight be dispensed with. "He who cannot see, must reachAs best he may the truth of men by help of wordsThey please to speak, must fare at will of who affordsThe banquet,"—so I thought. "Who sees not, hears and soGets to believe; myself it is that, seeing, know,And, knowing, can dispense with voice and vanityOf speech. What hinders then, that, drawing closer, IPut privilege to use, see and know better stillThesesimulacra, taste the profit of my skill,Down in the midst?"

LXX

We come to terms.I need to be proved true; and nothing so confirmsOne's faith in the prime point that one 's alive, not dead,In all Descents to Hell whereof I ever read,As when a phantom there, male enemy or friend,Or merely stranger-shade, is struck, is forced suspendHis passage: "You that breathe, along with us the ghosts?"Here, why must it be still a woman that accosts?

We come to terms.

I need to be proved true; and nothing so confirms

One's faith in the prime point that one 's alive, not dead,

In all Descents to Hell whereof I ever read,

As when a phantom there, male enemy or friend,

Or merely stranger-shade, is struck, is forced suspend

His passage: "You that breathe, along with us the ghosts?"

Here, why must it be still a woman that accosts?

LXXI

Because, one woman 's worth, in that respect, such hairy hostsOf the other sex and sort! Men? Say you have the powerTo make them yours, rule men, throughout life's little hour,According to the phrase; what follows? Men, you make,By ruling them, your own: each man for his own sakeAccepts you as his guide, avails him of what worthHe apprehends in you to sublimate his earthWith fire: content, if so you convoy him through night,That you shall play the sun, and he, the satellite,Pilfer your light and heat and virtue, starry pelf,While, caught up by your course, he turns upon himself.Women rush into you, and there remain absorbed.Beside, 't is only men completely formed, full-orbed,Are fit to follow track, keep pace, illustrate soThe leader: any sort of woman may bestowHer atom on the star, or clod she counts for such,—-Each little making less bigger by just that much.Women grow you, while men depend on you at best.And what dependence! Bring and put him to the test,Your specimen disciple, a handbreadth separateFrom you, he almost seemed to touch before! AbateComplacency you will, I judge, at what 's divulged!Some flabbiness you fixed, some vacancy out-bulged,Some—much—nay, all, perhaps, the outward man 's your work:But, inside man?—find him, wherever he may lurk,And where 's a touch of you in his true self?

Because, one woman 's worth, in that respect, such hairy hosts

Of the other sex and sort! Men? Say you have the power

To make them yours, rule men, throughout life's little hour,

According to the phrase; what follows? Men, you make,

By ruling them, your own: each man for his own sake

Accepts you as his guide, avails him of what worth

He apprehends in you to sublimate his earth

With fire: content, if so you convoy him through night,

That you shall play the sun, and he, the satellite,

Pilfer your light and heat and virtue, starry pelf,

While, caught up by your course, he turns upon himself.

Women rush into you, and there remain absorbed.

Beside, 't is only men completely formed, full-orbed,

Are fit to follow track, keep pace, illustrate so

The leader: any sort of woman may bestow

Her atom on the star, or clod she counts for such,—-

Each little making less bigger by just that much.

Women grow you, while men depend on you at best.

And what dependence! Bring and put him to the test,

Your specimen disciple, a handbreadth separate

From you, he almost seemed to touch before! Abate

Complacency you will, I judge, at what 's divulged!

Some flabbiness you fixed, some vacancy out-bulged,

Some—much—nay, all, perhaps, the outward man 's your work:

But, inside man?—find him, wherever he may lurk,

And where 's a touch of you in his true self?

LXXII

I wishSome wind would waft this way a glassy bubble-fishO' the kind the sea inflates, and show you, once detachedFrom wave ... or no, the event is better told than watched:Still may the thing float free, globose and opalineAll over, save where just the amethysts combineTo blue their best, rim-round the sea-flower with a tingeEarth's violet never knew! Well, 'neath that gem-tipped fringe,A head lurks—of a kind—that acts as stomach too;Then comes the emptiness which out the water blewSo big and belly-like, but, dry of water drained,Withers away nine-tenths. Ah, but a tenth remained!That was the creature's self: no more akin to sea,Poor rudimental head and stomach, you agree,Than sea 's akin to sun who yonder dips his edge.

I wish

Some wind would waft this way a glassy bubble-fish

O' the kind the sea inflates, and show you, once detached

From wave ... or no, the event is better told than watched:

Still may the thing float free, globose and opaline

All over, save where just the amethysts combine

To blue their best, rim-round the sea-flower with a tinge

Earth's violet never knew! Well, 'neath that gem-tipped fringe,

A head lurks—of a kind—that acts as stomach too;

Then comes the emptiness which out the water blew

So big and belly-like, but, dry of water drained,

Withers away nine-tenths. Ah, but a tenth remained!

That was the creature's self: no more akin to sea,

Poor rudimental head and stomach, you agree,

Than sea 's akin to sun who yonder dips his edge.

LXXIII

But take the rill which ends a race o'er yonder ledgeO' the fissured cliff, to find its fate in smoke below!Disengage that, and ask—what news of life, you knowIt led, that long lone way, through pasture, plain and waste?All 's gone to give the sea! no touch of earth, no tasteOf air, reserved to tell how rushes used to bringThe butterfly and bee, and fisher-bird that 's kingO' the purple kind, about the snow-soft silver-sweetInfant of mist and dew; only these atoms fleet,Embittered evermore, to make the sea one dropMore big thereby—if thought keep count where sense must stop.

But take the rill which ends a race o'er yonder ledge

O' the fissured cliff, to find its fate in smoke below!

Disengage that, and ask—what news of life, you know

It led, that long lone way, through pasture, plain and waste?

All 's gone to give the sea! no touch of earth, no taste

Of air, reserved to tell how rushes used to bring

The butterfly and bee, and fisher-bird that 's king

O' the purple kind, about the snow-soft silver-sweet

Infant of mist and dew; only these atoms fleet,

Embittered evermore, to make the sea one drop

More big thereby—if thought keep count where sense must stop.

LXXIV

The full-blown ingrate, mere recipient of the brine,That takes all and gives naught, is Man; the feminineRillet that, taking all and giving naught in turn,Goes headlong to her death i' the sea, without concernFor the old inland life, snow-soft and silver-clear,That 's woman—typified from Fifine to Elvire.

The full-blown ingrate, mere recipient of the brine,

That takes all and gives naught, is Man; the feminine

Rillet that, taking all and giving naught in turn,

Goes headlong to her death i' the sea, without concern

For the old inland life, snow-soft and silver-clear,

That 's woman—typified from Fifine to Elvire.

LXXV

Then, how diverse the modes prescribed to who would dealWith either kind of creature! 'T is Man, you seek to sealYour very own? Resolve, for first step, to discardNine-tenths of what you are! To make, you must be marred,—To raise your race, must stoop,—to teach them aught, must learnIgnorance, meet halfway what most you hope to spurnI' the sequel. Change yourself, dissimulate the thoughtAnd vulgarize the word, and see the deed be broughtTo look like nothing done with any such intentAs teach men—though perchance it teach, by accident!So may you master men: assured that if you showOne point of mastery, departure from the lowAnd level,—head or heart-revolt at long disguise,Immurement, stifling soul in mediocrities,—If inadvertently a gesture, much more, wordReveal the hunter no companion for the herd,His chance of capture 's gone. Success means, they may snuff,Examine, and report,—a brother, sure enough,Disports him in brute-guise; for skin is truly skin,Horns, hoofs, are hoofs and horns, and all, outside and in,Is veritable beast, whom fellow-beasts resignedMay follow, made a prize in honest pride, behindOne of themselves and not creation's upstart lord!Well, there 's your prize i' the pound—much joy may it affordMy Indian! Make survey and tell me,—was it worthYou acted part so well, went all-fours upon earthThe live-long day, brayed, belled, and all to bring to passThat stags should deign eat hay when winter stints them grass?

Then, how diverse the modes prescribed to who would deal

With either kind of creature! 'T is Man, you seek to seal

Your very own? Resolve, for first step, to discard

Nine-tenths of what you are! To make, you must be marred,—

To raise your race, must stoop,—to teach them aught, must learn

Ignorance, meet halfway what most you hope to spurn

I' the sequel. Change yourself, dissimulate the thought

And vulgarize the word, and see the deed be brought

To look like nothing done with any such intent

As teach men—though perchance it teach, by accident!

So may you master men: assured that if you show

One point of mastery, departure from the low

And level,—head or heart-revolt at long disguise,

Immurement, stifling soul in mediocrities,—

If inadvertently a gesture, much more, word

Reveal the hunter no companion for the herd,

His chance of capture 's gone. Success means, they may snuff,

Examine, and report,—a brother, sure enough,

Disports him in brute-guise; for skin is truly skin,

Horns, hoofs, are hoofs and horns, and all, outside and in,

Is veritable beast, whom fellow-beasts resigned

May follow, made a prize in honest pride, behind

One of themselves and not creation's upstart lord!

Well, there 's your prize i' the pound—much joy may it afford

My Indian! Make survey and tell me,—was it worth

You acted part so well, went all-fours upon earth

The live-long day, brayed, belled, and all to bring to pass

That stags should deign eat hay when winter stints them grass?

LXXVI

So much for men, and how disguise may make them mindTheir master. But you have to deal with womankind?Abandon stratagem for strategy! Cast quiteThe vile disguise away, try truth clean-oppositeSuch creep-and-crawl, stand forth all man and, might it chance,Somewhat of angel too!—whate'er inheritance,Actual on earth, in heaven prospective, be your boast,Lay claim to! Your best self revealed at uttermost,—That 's the wise way o' the strong! And e'en should falsehood temptThe weaker sort to swerve,—at least the lie 's exemptFrom slur, that 's loathlier still, of aiming to debaseRather than elevate its object. Mimic grace,Not make deformity your mask! Be sick by stealth,Nor traffic with disease—malingering in health!No more of: "Countrymen, I boast me one like you—My lot, the common strength, the common weakness too!I think the thoughts you think; and if I have the knackOf fitting thoughts to words, you peradventure lack,Envy me not the chance, yourselves more fortunate!Many the loaded ship self-sunk through treasure freight,Many the pregnant brain brought never child to birth,Many the great heart broke beneath its girdle-girth!Be mine the privilege to supplement defect,Give dumbness voice, and let the laboring intellectFind utterance in word, or possibly in deed!What though I seem to go before? 't is you that lead!I follow what I see so plain—the general mindProjected pillar-wise, flame kindled by the kind,Which dwarfs the unit—me—to insignificance!Halt you, I stop forthwith,—proceed, I too advance!"

So much for men, and how disguise may make them mind

Their master. But you have to deal with womankind?

Abandon stratagem for strategy! Cast quite

The vile disguise away, try truth clean-opposite

Such creep-and-crawl, stand forth all man and, might it chance,

Somewhat of angel too!—whate'er inheritance,

Actual on earth, in heaven prospective, be your boast,

Lay claim to! Your best self revealed at uttermost,—

That 's the wise way o' the strong! And e'en should falsehood tempt

The weaker sort to swerve,—at least the lie 's exempt

From slur, that 's loathlier still, of aiming to debase

Rather than elevate its object. Mimic grace,

Not make deformity your mask! Be sick by stealth,

Nor traffic with disease—malingering in health!

No more of: "Countrymen, I boast me one like you—

My lot, the common strength, the common weakness too!

I think the thoughts you think; and if I have the knack

Of fitting thoughts to words, you peradventure lack,

Envy me not the chance, yourselves more fortunate!

Many the loaded ship self-sunk through treasure freight,

Many the pregnant brain brought never child to birth,

Many the great heart broke beneath its girdle-girth!

Be mine the privilege to supplement defect,

Give dumbness voice, and let the laboring intellect

Find utterance in word, or possibly in deed!

What though I seem to go before? 't is you that lead!

I follow what I see so plain—the general mind

Projected pillar-wise, flame kindled by the kind,

Which dwarfs the unit—me—to insignificance!

Halt you, I stop forthwith,—proceed, I too advance!"

LXXVII

Ay, that 's the way to take with men you wish to lead,Instruct and benefit. Small prospect you succeedWith women so! Be all that 's great and good and wise,August, sublime—swell out your frog the right ox-size—He 's buoyed like a balloon, to soar, not burst, you 'll see!The more you prove yourself, less fear the prize will fleeThe captor. Here you start after no pompous stagWho condescends be snared, with toss of horn, and bragOf bray, and ramp of hoof; you have not to subdueThe foe through letting him imagine he snares you!'T is rather with ...

Ay, that 's the way to take with men you wish to lead,

Instruct and benefit. Small prospect you succeed

With women so! Be all that 's great and good and wise,

August, sublime—swell out your frog the right ox-size—

He 's buoyed like a balloon, to soar, not burst, you 'll see!

The more you prove yourself, less fear the prize will flee

The captor. Here you start after no pompous stag

Who condescends be snared, with toss of horn, and brag

Of bray, and ramp of hoof; you have not to subdue

The foe through letting him imagine he snares you!

'T is rather with ...

LXXVIII

Ah, thanks! quick—where the dipping diskShows red against the rise and fall o' the fin! there friskIn shoal the—porpoises? Dolphins, they shall and mustCut through the freshening clear—dolphins, my instance just!'T is fable, therefore truth: who has to do with these,Needs never practice trick of going hands and kneesAs beasts require. Art fain the fish to captivate?Gather thy greatness round, Arion! Stand in state,As when the banqueting thrilled conscious—like a roseThroughout its hundred leaves at that approach it knowsOf music in the bird—while Corinth grew one breastA-throb for song and thee; nay, Periander pressedThe Methymnæan hand, and felt a king indeed, and guessedHow Phœbus' self might give that great mouth of the godsSuch a magnificence of song! The pillar nods,Rocks roof, and trembles door, gigantic, post and jamb,As harp and voice rend air—the shattering dithyramb!So stand thou, and assume the robe that tingles yetWith triumph; strike the harp, whose every golden fretStill smoulders with the flame, was late at fingers' end—So, standing on the bench o' the ship, let voice expendThy soul, sing, unalloyed by meaner mode, thine own,The Orthian lay; then leap from music's lofty throneInto the lowest surge, make fearlessly thy launch!Whatever storm may threat, some dolphin will be stanch!Whatever roughness rage, some exquisite sea-thingWill surely rise to save, will bear—palpitating—One proud humility of love beneath its load—Stem tide, part wave, till both roll on, thy jewell'd roadOf triumph, and the grim o' the gulf grow wonder-whiteI' the phosphorescent wake; and still the exquisiteSea-thing stems on, saves still, palpitatingly thus,Lands safe at length its load of love at Tænarus,True woman-creature!

Ah, thanks! quick—where the dipping disk

Shows red against the rise and fall o' the fin! there frisk

In shoal the—porpoises? Dolphins, they shall and must

Cut through the freshening clear—dolphins, my instance just!

'T is fable, therefore truth: who has to do with these,

Needs never practice trick of going hands and knees

As beasts require. Art fain the fish to captivate?

Gather thy greatness round, Arion! Stand in state,

As when the banqueting thrilled conscious—like a rose

Throughout its hundred leaves at that approach it knows

Of music in the bird—while Corinth grew one breast

A-throb for song and thee; nay, Periander pressed

The Methymnæan hand, and felt a king indeed, and guessed

How Phœbus' self might give that great mouth of the gods

Such a magnificence of song! The pillar nods,

Rocks roof, and trembles door, gigantic, post and jamb,

As harp and voice rend air—the shattering dithyramb!

So stand thou, and assume the robe that tingles yet

With triumph; strike the harp, whose every golden fret

Still smoulders with the flame, was late at fingers' end—

So, standing on the bench o' the ship, let voice expend

Thy soul, sing, unalloyed by meaner mode, thine own,

The Orthian lay; then leap from music's lofty throne

Into the lowest surge, make fearlessly thy launch!

Whatever storm may threat, some dolphin will be stanch!

Whatever roughness rage, some exquisite sea-thing

Will surely rise to save, will bear—palpitating—

One proud humility of love beneath its load—

Stem tide, part wave, till both roll on, thy jewell'd road

Of triumph, and the grim o' the gulf grow wonder-white

I' the phosphorescent wake; and still the exquisite

Sea-thing stems on, saves still, palpitatingly thus,

Lands safe at length its load of love at Tænarus,

True woman-creature!

LXXIX

Man? Ah, would you prove what powerMarks man,—what fruit his tree may yield, beyond the sourAnd stinted crab, he calls love-apple, which remainsAfter you toil and moil your utmost,—all, love gainsBy lavishing manure?—try quite the other plan!And, to obtain the strong true product of a man,Set him to hate a little! Leave cherishing his root,And rather prune his branch, nip off the pettiest shootSuperfluous on his bough! I promise, you shall learnBy what grace came the goat, of all beasts else, to earnSuch favor with the god o' the grape: 't was only heWho, browsing on its tops, first stung fertilityInto the stock's heart, stayed much growth of tendril-twine,Some faintish flower, perhaps, but gained the indignant wine,Wrath of the red press! Catch the puniest of the kind—Man-animalcule, starved body, stunted mind,And, as you nip the blotch 'twixt thumb and finger-nail,Admire how heaven above and earth below availNo jot to soothe the mite, sore at God's prime offenceIn making mites at all,—coax from its impotenceOne virile drop of thought, or word, or deed, by strainTo propagate for once—which nature rendered vain,Who lets first failure stay, yet cares not to recordMistake that seems to cast opprobrium on the Lord!Such were the gain from love's best pains! But let the elfBe touched with hate, because some real man bears himselfManlike in body and soul, and, since he lives, must thwartAnd furify and set a-fizz this counterpartO' the pismire that 's surprised to effervescence, if,By chance, black bottle come in contact with chalk cliff,Acid with alkali! Then thrice the bulk, out blowsOur insect, does its kind, and cuckoo-spits some rose!

Man? Ah, would you prove what power

Marks man,—what fruit his tree may yield, beyond the sour

And stinted crab, he calls love-apple, which remains

After you toil and moil your utmost,—all, love gains

By lavishing manure?—try quite the other plan!

And, to obtain the strong true product of a man,

Set him to hate a little! Leave cherishing his root,

And rather prune his branch, nip off the pettiest shoot

Superfluous on his bough! I promise, you shall learn

By what grace came the goat, of all beasts else, to earn

Such favor with the god o' the grape: 't was only he

Who, browsing on its tops, first stung fertility

Into the stock's heart, stayed much growth of tendril-twine,

Some faintish flower, perhaps, but gained the indignant wine,

Wrath of the red press! Catch the puniest of the kind—

Man-animalcule, starved body, stunted mind,

And, as you nip the blotch 'twixt thumb and finger-nail,

Admire how heaven above and earth below avail

No jot to soothe the mite, sore at God's prime offence

In making mites at all,—coax from its impotence

One virile drop of thought, or word, or deed, by strain

To propagate for once—which nature rendered vain,

Who lets first failure stay, yet cares not to record

Mistake that seems to cast opprobrium on the Lord!

Such were the gain from love's best pains! But let the elf

Be touched with hate, because some real man bears himself

Manlike in body and soul, and, since he lives, must thwart

And furify and set a-fizz this counterpart

O' the pismire that 's surprised to effervescence, if,

By chance, black bottle come in contact with chalk cliff,

Acid with alkali! Then thrice the bulk, out blows

Our insect, does its kind, and cuckoo-spits some rose!

LXXX

No—'t is ungainly work, the ruling men, at best!The graceful instinct 's right: 't is women stand confessedAuxiliary, the gain that never goes away,Takes nothing and gives all: Elvire, Fifine, 't is theyConvince,—if little, much, no matter!—one degreeThe more, at least, convince unreasonable meThat I am, anyhow, a truth, though all else seemAnd be not: if I dream, at least I know I dream.The falsity, beside, is fleeting: I can standStill, and let truth come back,—your steadying touch of handAssists me to remain self-centred, fixed amidAll on the move. Believe in me, at once you bidMyself believe that, since one soul has disengagedMine from the shows of things, so much is fact: I wagedNo foolish warfare, then, with shades, myself a shade,Here in the world—may hope my pains will be repaid!How false things are, I judge: how changeable, I learn:When, where, and how it is I shall see truth return,That I expect to know, because Fifine knows me!—How much more, if Elvire!

No—'t is ungainly work, the ruling men, at best!

The graceful instinct 's right: 't is women stand confessed

Auxiliary, the gain that never goes away,

Takes nothing and gives all: Elvire, Fifine, 't is they

Convince,—if little, much, no matter!—one degree

The more, at least, convince unreasonable me

That I am, anyhow, a truth, though all else seem

And be not: if I dream, at least I know I dream.

The falsity, beside, is fleeting: I can stand

Still, and let truth come back,—your steadying touch of hand

Assists me to remain self-centred, fixed amid

All on the move. Believe in me, at once you bid

Myself believe that, since one soul has disengaged

Mine from the shows of things, so much is fact: I waged

No foolish warfare, then, with shades, myself a shade,

Here in the world—may hope my pains will be repaid!

How false things are, I judge: how changeable, I learn:

When, where, and how it is I shall see truth return,

That I expect to know, because Fifine knows me!—

How much more, if Elvire!

LXXXI

"And why not, only she?Since there can be for each, one Best, no more, such Best,For body and mind of him, abolishes the restO' the simply Good and Better. You please select ElvireTo give you this belief in truth, dispel the fearYourself are, after all, as false as what surrounds;And why not be content? When we two watched the roundsThe boatman made, 'twixt shoal and sandbank, yesterday,As, at dead slack of tide, he chose to push his way,With oar and pole, across the creek, and reach the isleAfter a world of pains—my word provoked your smile,Yet none the less deserved reply: ''T were wiser waitThe turn o' the tide, and find conveyance for his freight—How easily—within the ship to purpose moored,Managed by sails, not oars! But no,—the man 's alluredBy liking for the new and hard in his exploit!First come shall serve! He makes—courageous and adroit—The merest willow-leaf of boat do duty, bearHis merchandise across: once over, needs he careIf folk arrive by ship, six hours hence, fresh and gay?'No: he scorns commonplace, affects the unusual way;And good Elvire is moored, with not a breath to flapThe yards of her, no lift of ripple to o'erlapKeel, much less, prow. What care? since here 's a cockle-shell,Fifine, that 's taut and crank, and carries just as wellSuch seamanship as yours!"

"And why not, only she?

Since there can be for each, one Best, no more, such Best,

For body and mind of him, abolishes the rest

O' the simply Good and Better. You please select Elvire

To give you this belief in truth, dispel the fear

Yourself are, after all, as false as what surrounds;

And why not be content? When we two watched the rounds

The boatman made, 'twixt shoal and sandbank, yesterday,

As, at dead slack of tide, he chose to push his way,

With oar and pole, across the creek, and reach the isle

After a world of pains—my word provoked your smile,

Yet none the less deserved reply: ''T were wiser wait

The turn o' the tide, and find conveyance for his freight—

How easily—within the ship to purpose moored,

Managed by sails, not oars! But no,—the man 's allured

By liking for the new and hard in his exploit!

First come shall serve! He makes—courageous and adroit—

The merest willow-leaf of boat do duty, bear

His merchandise across: once over, needs he care

If folk arrive by ship, six hours hence, fresh and gay?'

No: he scorns commonplace, affects the unusual way;

And good Elvire is moored, with not a breath to flap

The yards of her, no lift of ripple to o'erlap

Keel, much less, prow. What care? since here 's a cockle-shell,

Fifine, that 's taut and crank, and carries just as well

Such seamanship as yours!"

LXXXII

Alack, our life is lent,From first to last, the whole, for this experimentOf proving what I say—that we ourselves are true!I would there were one voyage, and then no more to doBut tread the firm-land, tempt the uncertain sea no moreI would we might dispense with change of shore for shoreTo evidence our skill, demonstrate—in no dreamIt was, we tided o'er the trouble of the stream.I would the steady voyage, and not the fitful trip,—Elvire, and not Fifine,—might test our seamanship.But why expend one's breath to tell you, change of boatMeans change of tactics too? Come see the same afloatTo-morrow, all the change, new stowage fore and aftO' the cargo; then, to cross requires new sailor-craft!To-day, one step from stern to bow keeps boat in trim:To-morrow, some big stone—or woe to boat and him!—Must ballast both. That man stands for Mind, paramountThroughout the adventure: ay, howe'er you make account,'T is mind that navigates,—skips over, twists betweenThe bales i' the boat,—now gives importance to the mean,And now abates the pride of life, accepts all fact,Discards all fiction,—steers Fifine, and cries, i' the act,"Thou art so bad, and yet so delicate a brown!Wouldst tell no end of lies: I talk to smile or frown!Wouldst rob me: do men blame a squirrel, lithe and sly,For pilfering the nut she adds to hoard? Nor I."Elvire is true, as truth, honesty's self, alack!The worse! too safe the ship, the transport there and backToo certain! one may loll and lounge and leave the helm,Let wind and tide do work: no fear that waves o'erwhelmThe steady-going bark, as sure to feel her wayBlindfold across, reach land, next year as yesterday!How can I but suspect, the true feat were to slipDown side, transfer myself to cockle-shell from ship,And try if, trusting to sea-tracklessness, I classWith those around whose breast grew oak and triple brass:Who dreaded no degree of death, but, with dry eyes,Surveyed the turgid main and its monstrosities—And rendered futile so, the prudent Power's decreeOf separate earth and disassociating sea;Since, how is it observed, if impious vessels leapAcross, and tempt a thing they should not touch—the deep?(See Horace to the boat, wherein, for Athens bound,When Virgil must embark—Jove keep him safe and sound!—The poet bade his friend start on the watery road,Much reassured by this so comfortable ode.)

Alack, our life is lent,

From first to last, the whole, for this experiment

Of proving what I say—that we ourselves are true!

I would there were one voyage, and then no more to do

But tread the firm-land, tempt the uncertain sea no more

I would we might dispense with change of shore for shore

To evidence our skill, demonstrate—in no dream

It was, we tided o'er the trouble of the stream.

I would the steady voyage, and not the fitful trip,—

Elvire, and not Fifine,—might test our seamanship.

But why expend one's breath to tell you, change of boat

Means change of tactics too? Come see the same afloat

To-morrow, all the change, new stowage fore and aft

O' the cargo; then, to cross requires new sailor-craft!

To-day, one step from stern to bow keeps boat in trim:

To-morrow, some big stone—or woe to boat and him!—

Must ballast both. That man stands for Mind, paramount

Throughout the adventure: ay, howe'er you make account,

'T is mind that navigates,—skips over, twists between

The bales i' the boat,—now gives importance to the mean,

And now abates the pride of life, accepts all fact,

Discards all fiction,—steers Fifine, and cries, i' the act,

"Thou art so bad, and yet so delicate a brown!

Wouldst tell no end of lies: I talk to smile or frown!

Wouldst rob me: do men blame a squirrel, lithe and sly,

For pilfering the nut she adds to hoard? Nor I."

Elvire is true, as truth, honesty's self, alack!

The worse! too safe the ship, the transport there and back

Too certain! one may loll and lounge and leave the helm,

Let wind and tide do work: no fear that waves o'erwhelm

The steady-going bark, as sure to feel her way

Blindfold across, reach land, next year as yesterday!

How can I but suspect, the true feat were to slip

Down side, transfer myself to cockle-shell from ship,

And try if, trusting to sea-tracklessness, I class

With those around whose breast grew oak and triple brass:

Who dreaded no degree of death, but, with dry eyes,

Surveyed the turgid main and its monstrosities—

And rendered futile so, the prudent Power's decree

Of separate earth and disassociating sea;

Since, how is it observed, if impious vessels leap

Across, and tempt a thing they should not touch—the deep?

(See Horace to the boat, wherein, for Athens bound,

When Virgil must embark—Jove keep him safe and sound!—

The poet bade his friend start on the watery road,

Much reassured by this so comfortable ode.)

LXXXIII

Then, never grudge my poor Fifine her compliment!The rakish craft could slip her moorings in the tent,And, hoisting every stitch of spangled canvas, steerThrough divers rocks and shoals,—in fine, deposit hereYour Virgil of a spouse, in Attica: yea, thridThe mob of men, select the special virtue hidIn him, forsooth, and say—or rather, smile so sweet,"Of all the multitude, you—I prefer to cheat!Are you for Athens bound? I can perform the trip,Shove little pinnace off, while yon superior ship,The Elvire, refits in port!" So, off we push from beachOf Pornic town, and lo, ere eye can wink, we reachThe Long Walls, and I prove that Athens is no dream,For there the temples rise! they are, they nowise seem!Earth is not all one lie, this truth attests me true!Thanks therefore to Fifine! Elvire, I 'm back with you!Share in the memories! Embark I trust we shallTogether some fine day, and so, for good and all,Bid Pornic Town adieu,—then, just the strait to cross,And we reach harbor, safe, in Iostephanos!

Then, never grudge my poor Fifine her compliment!

The rakish craft could slip her moorings in the tent,

And, hoisting every stitch of spangled canvas, steer

Through divers rocks and shoals,—in fine, deposit here

Your Virgil of a spouse, in Attica: yea, thrid

The mob of men, select the special virtue hid

In him, forsooth, and say—or rather, smile so sweet,

"Of all the multitude, you—I prefer to cheat!

Are you for Athens bound? I can perform the trip,

Shove little pinnace off, while yon superior ship,

The Elvire, refits in port!" So, off we push from beach

Of Pornic town, and lo, ere eye can wink, we reach

The Long Walls, and I prove that Athens is no dream,

For there the temples rise! they are, they nowise seem!

Earth is not all one lie, this truth attests me true!

Thanks therefore to Fifine! Elvire, I 'm back with you!

Share in the memories! Embark I trust we shall

Together some fine day, and so, for good and all,

Bid Pornic Town adieu,—then, just the strait to cross,

And we reach harbor, safe, in Iostephanos!

LXXXIV

How quickly night comes! Lo, already 't is the landTurns sea-like; overcrept by gray, the plains expand,Assume significance; while ocean dwindles, shrinksInto a pettier bound: its plash and plaint, methinks,Six steps away, how both retire, as if their partWere played, another force were free to prove her art,Protagonist in turn! Are you unterrified?All false, all fleeting too! And nowhere things abide,And everywhere we strain that things should stay,—the oneTruth, that ourselves are true!

How quickly night comes! Lo, already 't is the land

Turns sea-like; overcrept by gray, the plains expand,

Assume significance; while ocean dwindles, shrinks

Into a pettier bound: its plash and plaint, methinks,

Six steps away, how both retire, as if their part

Were played, another force were free to prove her art,

Protagonist in turn! Are you unterrified?

All false, all fleeting too! And nowhere things abide,

And everywhere we strain that things should stay,—the one

Truth, that ourselves are true!

LXXXV

A word, and I have done.Is it not just our hate of falsehood, fleetingness,And the mere part, things play, that constitutes expressThe inmost charm of this Fifine and all her tribe?Actors! We also act, but only they inscribeTheir style and title so, and preface, only they,Performance with "A lie is all we do or say."Wherein but there can be the attraction, Falsehood's bribe,That wins so surely o'er to Fifine and her tribeThe liking, nay the love of who hate Falsehood most,Except that these alone of mankind make their boast"Frankly, we simulate!" To feign, means—to have graceAnd so get gratitude! This ruler of the race,Crowned, sceptred, stoled to suit,—'t is not that you detectThe cobbler in the king, but that he makes effectBy seeming the reverse of what you know to beThe man, the mind, whole form, fashion, and quality.Mistake his false for true, one minute,—there 's an endOf the admiration! Truth, we grieve at or rejoice:'T is only falsehood, plain in gesture, look and voice,That brings the praise desired, since profit comes thereby.The histrionic truth is in the natural lie.Because the man who wept the tears was, all the time,Happy enough; because the other man, a-grimeWith guilt was, at the least, as white as I and you;Because the timid type of bashful maidhood, whoStarts at her own pure shade, already numbers sevenBorn babes and, in a month, will turn their odd to even;Because the saucy prince would prove, could you unfurlSome yards of wrap, a meek and meritorious girl—Precisely as you see success attained by eachO' the mimes, do you approve, not foolishly impeachThe falsehood!

A word, and I have done.

Is it not just our hate of falsehood, fleetingness,

And the mere part, things play, that constitutes express

The inmost charm of this Fifine and all her tribe?

Actors! We also act, but only they inscribe

Their style and title so, and preface, only they,

Performance with "A lie is all we do or say."

Wherein but there can be the attraction, Falsehood's bribe,

That wins so surely o'er to Fifine and her tribe

The liking, nay the love of who hate Falsehood most,

Except that these alone of mankind make their boast

"Frankly, we simulate!" To feign, means—to have grace

And so get gratitude! This ruler of the race,

Crowned, sceptred, stoled to suit,—'t is not that you detect

The cobbler in the king, but that he makes effect

By seeming the reverse of what you know to be

The man, the mind, whole form, fashion, and quality.

Mistake his false for true, one minute,—there 's an end

Of the admiration! Truth, we grieve at or rejoice:

'T is only falsehood, plain in gesture, look and voice,

That brings the praise desired, since profit comes thereby.

The histrionic truth is in the natural lie.

Because the man who wept the tears was, all the time,

Happy enough; because the other man, a-grime

With guilt was, at the least, as white as I and you;

Because the timid type of bashful maidhood, who

Starts at her own pure shade, already numbers seven

Born babes and, in a month, will turn their odd to even;

Because the saucy prince would prove, could you unfurl

Some yards of wrap, a meek and meritorious girl—

Precisely as you see success attained by each

O' the mimes, do you approve, not foolishly impeach

The falsehood!

LXXXVI

That 's the first o' the truths found: all things, slowOr quick i' the passage, come at last to that, you know!Each has a false outside, whereby a truth is forcedTo issue from within: truth, falsehood, are divorcedBy the excepted eye, at the rare season, forThe happy moment. Life means—learning to abhorThe false, and love the true, truth treasured snatch by snatch,Waifs counted at their worth. And when with strays they matchI' the particolored world,—when, under foul, shines fair,And truth, displayed i' the point, flashes forth everywhereI' the circle, manifest to soul, though hid from sense,And no obstruction more affects this confidence,—When faith is ripe for sight,—why, reasonably, thenComes the great clearing-up. Wait threescore years and ten!

That 's the first o' the truths found: all things, slow

Or quick i' the passage, come at last to that, you know!

Each has a false outside, whereby a truth is forced

To issue from within: truth, falsehood, are divorced

By the excepted eye, at the rare season, for

The happy moment. Life means—learning to abhor

The false, and love the true, truth treasured snatch by snatch,

Waifs counted at their worth. And when with strays they match

I' the particolored world,—when, under foul, shines fair,

And truth, displayed i' the point, flashes forth everywhere

I' the circle, manifest to soul, though hid from sense,

And no obstruction more affects this confidence,—

When faith is ripe for sight,—why, reasonably, then

Comes the great clearing-up. Wait threescore years and ten!

LXXXVII

Therefore I prize stage-play, the honest cheating; thenceThe impulse pricked, when fife and drum bade Fair commence,To bid you trip and skip, link arm in arm with me,Like husband and like wife, and so together seeThe tumbling-troop arrayed, the strollers on their stageDrawn up and under arms, and ready to engage.And if I started thence upon abstruser themes ...Well, 't was a dream, pricked too!

Therefore I prize stage-play, the honest cheating; thence

The impulse pricked, when fife and drum bade Fair commence,

To bid you trip and skip, link arm in arm with me,

Like husband and like wife, and so together see

The tumbling-troop arrayed, the strollers on their stage

Drawn up and under arms, and ready to engage.

And if I started thence upon abstruser themes ...

Well, 't was a dream, pricked too!

LXXXVIII

A poet never dreams:We prose-folk always do: we miss the proper ductFor thoughts on things unseen, which stagnate and obstructThe system, therefore; mind, sound in a body sane,Keeps thoughts apart from facts, and to one flowing veinConfines its sense of that which is not, but might be,And leaves the rest alone. What ghosts do poets see?What demons fear? what man or thing misapprehend?Unchecked, the channel 's flush, the fancy 's free to spendIts special self aright in manner, time and place.Never believe that who create the busy raceO' the brain, bring poetry to birth, such act performed,Feel trouble them, the same, such residue as warmedMy prosy blood, this morn,—intrusive fancies, meantFor outbreak and escape by quite another vent!Whence follows that, asleep, my dreamings oft exceedThe bound. But you shall hear.

A poet never dreams:

We prose-folk always do: we miss the proper duct

For thoughts on things unseen, which stagnate and obstruct

The system, therefore; mind, sound in a body sane,

Keeps thoughts apart from facts, and to one flowing vein

Confines its sense of that which is not, but might be,

And leaves the rest alone. What ghosts do poets see?

What demons fear? what man or thing misapprehend?

Unchecked, the channel 's flush, the fancy 's free to spend

Its special self aright in manner, time and place.

Never believe that who create the busy race

O' the brain, bring poetry to birth, such act performed,

Feel trouble them, the same, such residue as warmed

My prosy blood, this morn,—intrusive fancies, meant

For outbreak and escape by quite another vent!

Whence follows that, asleep, my dreamings oft exceed

The bound. But you shall hear.

LXXXIX

I smoked. The webs o' the weed,With many a break i' the mesh, were floating to re-formCupola-wise above: chased thither by soft warmInflow of air without; since I—of mind to muse, to clenchThe gain of soul and body, got by their noonday drenchIn sun and sea—had flung both frames o' the window wide,To soak my body still and let soul soar beside.In came the country sounds and sights and smells—that fineSharp needle in the nose from our fermenting wine!In came a dragon-fly with whir and stir, then out,Off and away: in came,—kept coming, rather,—poutSucceeding smile, and take-away still close on give,—One loose long creeper-branch, tremblingly sensitiveTo risks, which blooms and leaves,—each leaf tongue-broad, each bloomMidfinger-deep,—must run by prying in the roomOf one who loves and grasps and spoils and speculates.All so far plain enough to sight and sense: but, weights,Measures and numbers,—ah, could one apply such testTo other visitants that came at no requestOf who kept open house,—to fancies manifoldFrom this four-cornered world, the memories new and old,The antenatal prime experience—what know I?—The initiatory love preparing us to die—Such were a crowd to count, a sight to see, a prizeTo turn to profit, were but fleshly ears and eyesAble to cope with those o' the spirit!

I smoked. The webs o' the weed,

With many a break i' the mesh, were floating to re-form

Cupola-wise above: chased thither by soft warm

Inflow of air without; since I—of mind to muse, to clench

The gain of soul and body, got by their noonday drench

In sun and sea—had flung both frames o' the window wide,

To soak my body still and let soul soar beside.

In came the country sounds and sights and smells—that fine

Sharp needle in the nose from our fermenting wine!

In came a dragon-fly with whir and stir, then out,

Off and away: in came,—kept coming, rather,—pout

Succeeding smile, and take-away still close on give,—

One loose long creeper-branch, tremblingly sensitive

To risks, which blooms and leaves,—each leaf tongue-broad, each bloom

Midfinger-deep,—must run by prying in the room

Of one who loves and grasps and spoils and speculates.

All so far plain enough to sight and sense: but, weights,

Measures and numbers,—ah, could one apply such test

To other visitants that came at no request

Of who kept open house,—to fancies manifold

From this four-cornered world, the memories new and old,

The antenatal prime experience—what know I?—

The initiatory love preparing us to die—

Such were a crowd to count, a sight to see, a prize

To turn to profit, were but fleshly ears and eyes

Able to cope with those o' the spirit!

Therefore,—sinceThought hankers after speech, while no speech may evinceFeeling like music,—mine, o'erburdened with each giftFrom every visitant, at last resolved to shiftIts burden to the back of some musician deadAnd gone, who feeling once what I feel now, insteadOf words, sought sounds, and saved forever, in the same,Truth that escapes prose,—nay, puts poetry to shame.I read the note, I strike the key, I bidrecordThe instrument,—thanks greet the veritable word!And not in vain I urge: "O dead and gone away,Assist who struggles yet, thy strength become my stay,Thy record serve as well to register—I feltAnd knew thus much of truth! With me, must knowledge meltInto surmise and doubt and disbelief, unlessThy music reassure—I gave no idle guess,But gained a certitude, I yet may hardly keep!What care? since round is piled a monumental heapOf music that conserves the assurance, thou as wellWast certain of the same! thou, master of the spell,Mad'st moonbeams marble, didstrecordwhat other menFeel only to forget!" Who was it helped me, then?What master's work first came responsive to my call,Found my eye, fixed my choice?

Therefore,—since

Thought hankers after speech, while no speech may evince

Feeling like music,—mine, o'erburdened with each gift

From every visitant, at last resolved to shift

Its burden to the back of some musician dead

And gone, who feeling once what I feel now, instead

Of words, sought sounds, and saved forever, in the same,

Truth that escapes prose,—nay, puts poetry to shame.

I read the note, I strike the key, I bidrecord

The instrument,—thanks greet the veritable word!

And not in vain I urge: "O dead and gone away,

Assist who struggles yet, thy strength become my stay,

Thy record serve as well to register—I felt

And knew thus much of truth! With me, must knowledge melt

Into surmise and doubt and disbelief, unless

Thy music reassure—I gave no idle guess,

But gained a certitude, I yet may hardly keep!

What care? since round is piled a monumental heap

Of music that conserves the assurance, thou as well

Wast certain of the same! thou, master of the spell,

Mad'st moonbeams marble, didstrecordwhat other men

Feel only to forget!" Who was it helped me, then?

What master's work first came responsive to my call,

Found my eye, fixed my choice?

XCI

Why, Schumann's "Carnival"!My choice chimed in, you see, exactly with the soundsAnd sights of yestereve, when, going on my rounds,Where both roads join the bridge, I heard across the duskCreak a slow caravan, and saw arrive the huskO' the spice-nut, which peeled off this morning, and displayed,'Twixt tree and tree, a tent whence the red pennon madeIts vivid reach for home and ocean-idleness—And where, my heart surmised, at that same moment,—yes,—Tugging her tricot on—yet tenderly, lest stitchAnnounce the crack of doom, reveal disaster whichOur Pornic's modest stock of merceries in vainWere ransacked to retrieve,—there, cautiously a-strain,(My heart surmised) must crouch in that tent's corner, curvedLike Spring-month's russet moon, some girl by fate reservedTo give me once again the electric snap and sparkWhich prove, when finger finds out finger in the darkO' the world, there 's fire and life and truth there, link but handsAnd pass the secret on. Lo, link by link, expandsThe circle, lengthens out the chain, till one embraceOf high with low is found uniting the whole race,Not simply you and me and our Fifine, but allThe world: the Fair expands into the Carnival,And Carnival again to ... ah, but that 's my dream!

Why, Schumann's "Carnival"!

My choice chimed in, you see, exactly with the sounds

And sights of yestereve, when, going on my rounds,

Where both roads join the bridge, I heard across the dusk

Creak a slow caravan, and saw arrive the husk

O' the spice-nut, which peeled off this morning, and displayed,

'Twixt tree and tree, a tent whence the red pennon made

Its vivid reach for home and ocean-idleness—

And where, my heart surmised, at that same moment,—yes,—

Tugging her tricot on—yet tenderly, lest stitch

Announce the crack of doom, reveal disaster which

Our Pornic's modest stock of merceries in vain

Were ransacked to retrieve,—there, cautiously a-strain,

(My heart surmised) must crouch in that tent's corner, curved

Like Spring-month's russet moon, some girl by fate reserved

To give me once again the electric snap and spark

Which prove, when finger finds out finger in the dark

O' the world, there 's fire and life and truth there, link but hands

And pass the secret on. Lo, link by link, expands

The circle, lengthens out the chain, till one embrace

Of high with low is found uniting the whole race,

Not simply you and me and our Fifine, but all

The world: the Fair expands into the Carnival,

And Carnival again to ... ah, but that 's my dream!

XCII

I somehow played the piece: remarked on each old themeI' the new dress; saw how food o' the soul, the stuff that 's madeTo furnish man with thought and feeling, is purveyedSubstantially the same from age to age, with changeOf the outside only for successive feasters, RangeThe banquet-room o' the world, from the dim farthest headO' the table, to its foot, for you and me bespread,This merry morn, we find sufficient fare, I trow.But, novel? Scrape away the sauce; and taste, below,The verity o' the viand,—you shall perceive there wentTo board-head just the dish which other condimentMakes palatable now: guests came, sat down, fell-to,Rose up, wiped mouth, went way,—lived, died,—and never knewThat generations yet should, seeking sustenance,Still find the selfsame fare, with somewhat to enhanceIts flavor, in the kind of cooking. As with hatesAnd loves and fears and hopes, so with what emulatesThe same, expresses hates, loves, fears, and hopes in Art:The forms, the themes—no one without its counterpartAges ago; no one but, mumbled the due timeI' the mouth of the eater, needs be cooked again in rhyme,Dished up anew in paint, sauce-smothered fresh in sound,To suit the wisdom-tooth, just cut, of the age, that 's foundWith gums obtuse to gust and smack which relished soThe meat o' the meal folk made some fifty years ago.But don't suppose the new was able to effaceThe old without a struggle, a pang! The commonplaceStill clung about his heart, long after all the restO' the natural man, at eye and ear, was caught, confessedThe charm of change, although wry lip and wrinkled noseOwned ancient virtue more conducive to reposeThan modern nothings roused to somethings by some shredOf pungency, perchance garlic in amber's stead.And so on, till one day, another age, by dueRotation, pries, sniffs, smacks, discovers old is new,And sauce, our sires pronounced insipid, proves againSole piquant, may resume its titillating reign—With music, most of all the arts, since change is thereThe law, and not the lapse: the precious means the rare,And not the absolute in all good save surprise.So I remarked upon our Schumann's victoriesOver the commonplace, how faded phrase grew fine,And palled perfection—piqued, up-startled by that brine,His pickle—bit the mouth and burnt the tongue aright,Beyond the merely good no longer exquisite:Then took things as I found, and thanked without demurThe pretty piece—played through that movement, you preferWhere dance and shuffle past,—he scolding while she pouts,She canting while he calms,—in those eternal boutsOf age, the dog—with youth, the cat—by rose-festoonTied teasingly enough—Columbine, Pantaloon:She, toe-tips andstaccato,—legato, shakes his pollAnd shambles in pursuit, the senior.Fi la folle!Lie to him! get his gold and pay its price! beginYour trade betimes, nor wait till you 've wed HarlequinAnd need, at the week's end, to play the duteous wife,And swear you still love slaps and leapings more than life!Pretty! I say.

I somehow played the piece: remarked on each old theme

I' the new dress; saw how food o' the soul, the stuff that 's made

To furnish man with thought and feeling, is purveyed

Substantially the same from age to age, with change

Of the outside only for successive feasters, Range

The banquet-room o' the world, from the dim farthest head

O' the table, to its foot, for you and me bespread,

This merry morn, we find sufficient fare, I trow.

But, novel? Scrape away the sauce; and taste, below,

The verity o' the viand,—you shall perceive there went

To board-head just the dish which other condiment

Makes palatable now: guests came, sat down, fell-to,

Rose up, wiped mouth, went way,—lived, died,—and never knew

That generations yet should, seeking sustenance,

Still find the selfsame fare, with somewhat to enhance

Its flavor, in the kind of cooking. As with hates

And loves and fears and hopes, so with what emulates

The same, expresses hates, loves, fears, and hopes in Art:

The forms, the themes—no one without its counterpart

Ages ago; no one but, mumbled the due time

I' the mouth of the eater, needs be cooked again in rhyme,

Dished up anew in paint, sauce-smothered fresh in sound,

To suit the wisdom-tooth, just cut, of the age, that 's found

With gums obtuse to gust and smack which relished so

The meat o' the meal folk made some fifty years ago.

But don't suppose the new was able to efface

The old without a struggle, a pang! The commonplace

Still clung about his heart, long after all the rest

O' the natural man, at eye and ear, was caught, confessed

The charm of change, although wry lip and wrinkled nose

Owned ancient virtue more conducive to repose

Than modern nothings roused to somethings by some shred

Of pungency, perchance garlic in amber's stead.

And so on, till one day, another age, by due

Rotation, pries, sniffs, smacks, discovers old is new,

And sauce, our sires pronounced insipid, proves again

Sole piquant, may resume its titillating reign—

With music, most of all the arts, since change is there

The law, and not the lapse: the precious means the rare,

And not the absolute in all good save surprise.

So I remarked upon our Schumann's victories

Over the commonplace, how faded phrase grew fine,

And palled perfection—piqued, up-startled by that brine,

His pickle—bit the mouth and burnt the tongue aright,

Beyond the merely good no longer exquisite:

Then took things as I found, and thanked without demur

The pretty piece—played through that movement, you prefer

Where dance and shuffle past,—he scolding while she pouts,

She canting while he calms,—in those eternal bouts

Of age, the dog—with youth, the cat—by rose-festoon

Tied teasingly enough—Columbine, Pantaloon:

She, toe-tips andstaccato,—legato, shakes his poll

And shambles in pursuit, the senior.Fi la folle!

Lie to him! get his gold and pay its price! begin

Your trade betimes, nor wait till you 've wed Harlequin

And need, at the week's end, to play the duteous wife,

And swear you still love slaps and leapings more than life!

Pretty! I say.

XCIII

And so, I somehow-nohow playedThe whole o' the pretty piece; and then ... whatever weighedMy eyes down, furled the films about my wits? suppose,The morning-bath,—the sweet monotony of thoseThree keys, flat, flat and flat, never a sharp at all,—Or else the brain's fatigue, forced even here to fallInto the same old track, and recognize the shiftFrom old to new, and back to old again, and,—swiftOr slow, no matter,—still the certainty of change,Conviction we shall find the false, where'er we range,In art no less than nature: or what if wrist were numb,And over-tense the muscle, abductor of the thumb,Taxed by those tenths' and twelfths' unconscionable stretch?Howe'er it came to pass, I soon was far to fetch—Gone off in company with Music!

And so, I somehow-nohow played

The whole o' the pretty piece; and then ... whatever weighed

My eyes down, furled the films about my wits? suppose,

The morning-bath,—the sweet monotony of those

Three keys, flat, flat and flat, never a sharp at all,—

Or else the brain's fatigue, forced even here to fall

Into the same old track, and recognize the shift

From old to new, and back to old again, and,—swift

Or slow, no matter,—still the certainty of change,

Conviction we shall find the false, where'er we range,

In art no less than nature: or what if wrist were numb,

And over-tense the muscle, abductor of the thumb,

Taxed by those tenths' and twelfths' unconscionable stretch?

Howe'er it came to pass, I soon was far to fetch—

Gone off in company with Music!

XCIV

Whither boundExcept for Venice? She it was, by instinct foundCarnival-country proper, who far below the perchWhere I was pinnacled, showed, opposite, Mark's Church,And, underneath, Mark's Square, with those two lines of street,Procuratié-sides, each leading to my feet—Since from above I gazed, however I got there.

Whither bound

Except for Venice? She it was, by instinct found

Carnival-country proper, who far below the perch

Where I was pinnacled, showed, opposite, Mark's Church,

And, underneath, Mark's Square, with those two lines of street,

Procuratié-sides, each leading to my feet—

Since from above I gazed, however I got there.

XCV

And what I gazed upon was a prodigious Fair,Concourse immense of men and women, crowned or casqued,Turbaned or tiar'd, wreathed, plumed, hatted or wigged, but masked—Always masked,—only, how? No face-shape, beast or bird,Nay, fish and reptile even, but some one had preferred,From out its frontispiece, feathered or scaled or curled,To make the vizard whence himself should view the world,And where the world believed himself was manifest.Yet when you came to look, mixed up among the restMore funnily by far, were masks to imitateHumanity's mishap: the wrinkled brow, bald pate,And rheumy eyes of Age, peak'd chin and parchment chap,Were signs of day-work done, and wage-time near,—mishapMerely; but, Age reduced to simple greed and guile,Worn apathetic else as some smooth slab, ere-whileA clear-cut man-at-arms i' the pavement, till foot's treadEffaced the sculpture, left the stone you saw instead,—Was not that terrible beyond the mere uncouth?Well, and perhaps the next revolting you was Youth,Stark ignorance and crude conceit, half smirk, half stareOn that frank fool-face, gay beneath its head of hairWhich covers nothing.

And what I gazed upon was a prodigious Fair,

Concourse immense of men and women, crowned or casqued,

Turbaned or tiar'd, wreathed, plumed, hatted or wigged, but masked—

Always masked,—only, how? No face-shape, beast or bird,

Nay, fish and reptile even, but some one had preferred,

From out its frontispiece, feathered or scaled or curled,

To make the vizard whence himself should view the world,

And where the world believed himself was manifest.

Yet when you came to look, mixed up among the rest

More funnily by far, were masks to imitate

Humanity's mishap: the wrinkled brow, bald pate,

And rheumy eyes of Age, peak'd chin and parchment chap,

Were signs of day-work done, and wage-time near,—mishap

Merely; but, Age reduced to simple greed and guile,

Worn apathetic else as some smooth slab, ere-while

A clear-cut man-at-arms i' the pavement, till foot's tread

Effaced the sculpture, left the stone you saw instead,—

Was not that terrible beyond the mere uncouth?

Well, and perhaps the next revolting you was Youth,

Stark ignorance and crude conceit, half smirk, half stare

On that frank fool-face, gay beneath its head of hair

Which covers nothing.

XCVI

These, you are to understand,Were the mere hard and sharp distinctions. On each hand,I soon became aware, flocked the infinitudeOf passions, loves and hates, man pampers till his moodBecomes himself, the whole sole face we name him by,Nor want denotement else, if age or youth supplyThe rest of him: old, young,—classed creature: in the mainA love, a hate, a hope, a fear, each soul astrainSome one way through the flesh—the face, an evidenceO' the soul at work inside; and, all the more intense,So much the more grotesque.

These, you are to understand,

Were the mere hard and sharp distinctions. On each hand,

I soon became aware, flocked the infinitude

Of passions, loves and hates, man pampers till his mood

Becomes himself, the whole sole face we name him by,

Nor want denotement else, if age or youth supply

The rest of him: old, young,—classed creature: in the main

A love, a hate, a hope, a fear, each soul astrain

Some one way through the flesh—the face, an evidence

O' the soul at work inside; and, all the more intense,

So much the more grotesque.

XCVII

"Why should each soul be taskedSome one way, by one love or else one hate?" I asked.When it occurred to me, from all these sights beneathThere rose not any sound: a crowd, yet dumb as death!

"Why should each soul be tasked

Some one way, by one love or else one hate?" I asked.

When it occurred to me, from all these sights beneath

There rose not any sound: a crowd, yet dumb as death!

XCVIII

Soon I knew why. (Propose a riddle, and 't is solvedForthwith—in dream!) They spoke; but, since on me devolvedTo see, and understand by sight,—the vulgar speechMight be dispensed with. "He who cannot see, must reachAs best he may the truth of men by help of wordsThey please to speak, must fare at will of who affordsThe banquet,"—so I thought. "Who sees not, hears and soGets to believe; myself it is that, seeing, know,And, knowing, can dispense with voice and vanityOf speech. What hinders then, that, drawing closer, IPut privilege to use, see and know better stillThesesimulacra, taste the profit of my skill,Down in the midst?"

Soon I knew why. (Propose a riddle, and 't is solved

Forthwith—in dream!) They spoke; but, since on me devolved

To see, and understand by sight,—the vulgar speech

Might be dispensed with. "He who cannot see, must reach

As best he may the truth of men by help of words

They please to speak, must fare at will of who affords

The banquet,"—so I thought. "Who sees not, hears and so

Gets to believe; myself it is that, seeing, know,

And, knowing, can dispense with voice and vanity

Of speech. What hinders then, that, drawing closer, I

Put privilege to use, see and know better still

Thesesimulacra, taste the profit of my skill,

Down in the midst?"

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