Chapter 128

IAnd so, here happily we meet, fair friend!Again once more, as if the years rolled backAnd this our meeting-place were just that RomeOut in the champaign, say, o'er-riotedBy verdure, ravage, and gay winds that warAgainst strong sunshine settled to his sleep;Or on the Paris Boulevard, might it prove,You and I came together saunteringly,Bound for some shop-front in the Place Vendôme—Goldsmithy and Golconda mine, that makes"The Firm—Miranda" blazed about the world—Or, what if it were London, where my toeTrespassed upon your flounce? "Small blame," you smile,Seeing the Staircase Party in the SquareWas Small and Early, and you broke no rib.Even as we met where we have met so oft,Now meet we on this unpretending beachBelow the little village: little, ay!But pleasant, may my gratitude subjoin?Meek, hitherto un-Murrayed bathing-place,Best loved of seacoast-nookful Normandy!That, just behind you, is mine own hired house:With right of pathway through the field in front,No prejudice to all its growth unsheavedOf emerald luzern bursting into blue.Be sure I keep the path that hugs the wall,Of mornings, as I pad from door to gate!Yon yellow—what if not wild—mustard flower?—Of that, my naked sole makes lawful prize,Bruising the acrid aromatics out,Till, what they preface, good salt savors stingFrom, first, the sifted sands, then sands in slab,Smooth save for pipy wreath-work of the worm:(Granite and mussel-shell are ground alikeTo glittering paste,—the live worm troubles yet.)Then, dry and moist, the varech limit-line,Burnt cinder-black, with brown uncrumpled swatheOf berried softness, sea-swoln thrice its size;And, lo, the wave protrudes a lip at last,And flecks my foot with froth, nor tempts in vain.Such is Saint-Rambert, wilder very muchThan Joyeux, that famed Joyous-Gard of yours,Some five miles farther down; much homelier too—Right for me,—right for you the fine and fair!Only, I could endure a transfer—wroughtBy angels famed still, through our countryside,For weights they fetched and carried in old timeWhen nothing like the need was—transfer, justOf Joyeux church, exchanged for yonder prig,Our brand-new stone cream-colored masterpiece.Well—and you know, and not since this one year,The quiet seaside country? So do I:Who like it, in a manner, just becauseNothing is prominently likableTo vulgar eye without a soul behind,Which, breaking surface, brings before the ballOf sight, a beauty buried everywhere.If we have souls, know how to see and use,One place performs, like any other place,The proper service every place on earthWas framed to furnish man with: serves alikeTo give him note that, through the place he sees,A place is signified he never saw,But, if he lack not soul, may learn to know.Earth's ugliest walled and ceiled imprisonmentMay suffer, through its single rent in roof,Admittance of a cataract of lightBeyond attainment through earth's palace-panesPinholed athwart their windowed filigreeBy twinklings sobered from the sun outside.Doubtless the High Street of our village hereImposes hardly as Rome's Corso could:And our projected race for sailing-boatsNext Sunday, when we celebrate our Saint,Falls very short of that attractiveness,That artistry in festive spectacle,Paris ensures you when she welcomes back(When shall it be?) the Assembly from Versailles;While the best fashion and intelligenceCollected at the counter of our Mayor(Dry-goods he deals in, grocery beside)What time the post-bag brings the news from Vire,—I fear me much, it scarce would hold its own,That circle, that assorted sense and wit,With Five-o'clock Tea in a house we know.Still, 'tis the check that gives the leap its lift.The nullity of cultivated souls,Even advantaged by their news from Vire,Only conduces to enforce the truthThat, thirty paces off, this natural blueBroods o'er a bag of secrets, all unbroached,Beneath the bosom of the placid deep,Since first the Post Director sealed them safe;And formidable I perceive this fact—Little Saint-Rambert touches the great sea.From London, Paris, Rome, where men are men,Not mice, and mice not Mayors presumably,Thought scarce may leap so fast, alight so far.But this is a pretence, you understand,Disparagement in play, to parry thrustOf possible objector: nullityAnd ugliness, the taunt be his, not mineNor yours,—I think we know the world too well!Did you walk hither, jog it by the plain,Or jaunt it by the highway, braving bruiseFrom springless and uncushioned vehicle?Much, was there not, in place and people both,To lend an eye to? and what eye like yours—The learned eye is still the loving one!Our land; its quietude, productiveness,Is length and breadth of grain-crop, meadow-ground,Its orchards in the pasture, farms a-field,And hamlets on the road-edge, naught you missedOf one and all the sweet rusticities!From stalwart strider by the wagon-side,Brightening the acre with his purple blouse,To those dark-featured comely women-folk,Healthy and tall, at work, and work indeed,On every cottage doorstep, plying briskBobbins that bob you ladies out such lace!Oh, you observed! and how that nimble playOf finger formed the sole exception, bobbedThe one disturbance to the peace of things,Where nobody esteems it worth his while,If time upon the clock-face goes asleep,To give the rusted hands a helpful push.Nobody lifts an energetic thumbAnd index to remove some dead and goneNotice which, posted on the barn, repeatsFor truth what two years' passage made a lie.Still is for sale, next June, that same châteauWith all its immobilities,—were soldDuly next June behind the last but last;And, woe's me, still placards the EmperorHis confidence in war he means to wage,God aiding and the rural populace.No: rain and wind must rub the rags awayAnd let the lazy land untroubled snore.Ah, in good truth? and did the drowsiheadSo suit, so soothe the learned loving eye,That you were minded to confer a crown,(Does not the poppy boast such?)—call the landBy one slow hither-thither stretching, fastSubsiding-into-slumber sort of name,Symbolic of the place and people too,"White Cotton Night-cap Country?" Excellent!For they do, all, dear women young and old,Upon the heads of them bear notablyThis badge of soul and body in repose;Nor its fine thimble fits the acorn-top,Keeps woolly ward above that oval brown,Its placid feature, more than muffler makesA safeguard, circumvents intelligenceIn—what shall evermore be named and famed,If happy nomenclature aught avail,"White Cotton Night-cap Country."Do I hear—Oh, better, very best of all the news—You mean to catch and cage the wingèd word,And make it breed and multiply at homeTill Norman idlesse stock our England too?Normandy shown minute yet magnifiedIn one of those small books, the truly great,We never know enough, yet know so well?How I foresee the cursive diamond-dints,—Composite pen that plays the pencil too,—As, touch the page and up the glamour goes,And filmily o'er grain-crop, meadow-ground,O'er orchard in the pasture, farm a-field,And hamlet on the road-edge, floats and formsAnd falls, at lazy last of all, the CapThat crowns the country! we, awake outside,Farther than ever from the imminenceOf what cool comfort, what close covertureYour magic, deftly weaving, shall surroundThe unconscious captive with. Be theirs to drowseTrammelled, and ours to watch the trammel-trick!Ours be it, as we con the book of books,To wonder how is winking possible!All hail, "White Cotton Night-cap Country," then!And yet, as on the beach you promise book,—On beach, mere razor-edge 'twixt earth and sea,I stand at such a distance from the worldThat 'tis the whole world which obtains regard,Rather than any part, though part presumedA perfect little province in itself,When wayfare made acquaintance first therewith.So standing, therefore, on this edge of things,What if the backward glance I gave, returnLoaded with other spoils of vagrancyThan I dispatched it for, till I proposeThe question—puzzled by the sudden storeOfficious fancy plumps beneath my nose—"Which sort of Night-cap have you glorified?"You would be gracious to my ignorance:What other Night-cap than the normal one?—Old honest guardian of man's head and hairIn its elastic yet continuous, soft,No less persisting, circumambient gripe,—Night's notice, life is respited from day!Its form and fashion vary, suiting soEach seasonable want of youth and age.In infancy, the rosy naked ballOf brain, and that faint golden fluff it bears,Are smothered from disaster,—nurses knowBy what foam-fabric; but when youth succeeds,The sterling value of the articleDiscards adornment, cap is cap henceforthUnfeathered by the futile row on row.Manhood strains hard a sturdy stocking-stuffO'er well-deserving head and ears: the coneIs tassel-tipt, commendably takes pride,Announcing workday done and wages pouched,And liberty obtained to sleep, nay, snore.Unwise, he peradventure shall essayThe sweets of independency for once—Waive its advantage on his wedding-night:Fool, only to resume it, night the next,And never part companionship again.Since, with advancing years, night's solace soonIntrudes upon the daybreak dubious lifePersuades it to appear the thing it isHalf-sleep; and so, encroaching more and more,It lingers long past the abstemious mealOf morning, and, as prompt to serve, precedesThe supper-summons, gruel grown a feast.Finally, when the last sleep finds the eyeSo tired it cannot even shut itself,Does not a kind domestic hand uniteFriend to friend, lid from lid to part no more,Consigned alike to that receptacleSo bleak without, so warm and white within?"Night-caps, night's comfort of the human race:Their usage may be growing obsolete,Still, in the main, the institution stays.And though yourself may possibly have lived,And probably will die, undignified—The Never-night-capped—more experienced folkLaugh you back answer—What should Night-cap beSave Night-cap pure and simple? Sorts of such?Take cotton for the medium, cast an eyeThis side to comfort, lambswool, or the like,That side to frilly cambric costliness,And all between proves Night-cap proper." Add"Fiddle!" and I confess the argument.Only, your ignoramus here againProceeds as tardily to recognizeDistinctions: ask him what a fiddle means,And "Just a fiddle" seems the apt reply.Yet, is not there, while we two pace the beach,This blessed moment, at your Kensington,A special Fiddle-Show and rare arrayOf all the sorts were ever set to cheek,'Stablished on clavicle, sawn bow-hand-wise,Or touched lute-fashion and forefinger-plucked?I doubt not there be duly cataloguedAchievements all and some of Italy,Guarnerius, Straduarius,—old and new,Augustly rude, refined to finicking,This mammoth with his belly full of blare,That mouse of music—inch-long silvery wheeze,And here a specimen has efflorescedInto the scroll-head, there subsides supreme,And with the tailpiece satisfies mankind.Why should I speak of woods, grains, stains and streaks,The topaz varnish or the ruby gum?We preferably pause where tickets teach,"Over this sample would Corelli croon,Grieving, by minors, like the cushat-dove,Most dulcet Giga, dreamiest Saraband.""From this did Paganini comb the fierceElectric sparks, or to tenuityPull forth the inmost wailing of the wire—No cat-gut could swoon out so much of soul!"Three hundred violin-varietiesExposed to public view! And dare I doubtSome future enterprise shall give the worldQuite as remarkable a Night-cap-show?Methinks, we, arm-in-arm, that festal day,Pace the long range of relics shrined aright,Framed, glazed, each cushioned curiosity,And so begin to smile and to inspect:"Pope's sickly head-sustainment, damped with dewsWrung from the all-unfair fight: such a frame—Though doctor and the devil helped their best—Fought such a world that, waiving doctor's help,Had the mean devil at its service too!Voltaire's imperial velvet! Hogarth eyedThe thumb-nail record of some alley-phiz,Then chucklingly clapped yonder cosinessOn pate, and painted with true flesh and blood!Poor hectic Cowper's soothing sarsnet-stripe!"And so we profit by the catalogue,Somehow our smile subsiding more and more,Till we decline into ... but no! shut eyesAnd hurry past the shame uncoffined here,The hangman's toilet! If we needs must trench,For science' sake which craves completeness still,On the sad confine, not the district's self,The object that shall close review may be ...Well, it is French, and here are we in France:It is historic, and we live to learn,And try to learn by reading story-books.It is an incident of 'Ninety-two,And, twelve months since, the Commune had the sway.Therefore resolve that, after all the WhitesPresented you, a solitary RedShall pain us both, a minute and no more!Do not you see poor Louis pushed to frontOf palace-window, in persuasion's name,A spectacle above the howling mobWho tasted, as it were, with tiger-smack,The outstart, the first spurt of blood on brow,The Phrygian symbol, the new crown of thorns,The Cap of Freedom? See the feeble mirthAt odds with that half-purpose to be strongAnd merely patient under misery!And note the ejaculation, ground so hardBetween his teeth, that only God could hear,As the lean pale proud insignificanceWith the sharp-featured liver-worried stareOut of the two gray points that did him stead,And passed their eagle-owner to the frontBetter than his mob-elbowed undersize,—The Corsican lieutenant commented,"Had I but one good regiment of my own,How soon should volleys to the due amountLay stiff upon the street-flags this canaille!As for the droll there, he that plays the king,And screws out smile with a Red night-cap on,He 's done for! somebody must take his place."White Cotton Night-cap Country: excellent!Why not Red Cotton Night-cap Country too?"Why not say swans are black and blackbirds white,Because the instances exist?" you ask."Enough that white, not red, predominates.Is normal, typical, in cleric phraseQuod semel, semper, et ubique." Here,Applying such a name to such a land,Especially you find inopportune,Impertinent, my scruple whether whiteOr red describes the local color best."Let be," (you say,) "the universe at largeSupplied us with exceptions to the rule,So manifold, they bore no passing-by,—Little Saint-Rambert has conserved at leastThe pure tradition: white from head to heel,Where is a hint of the ungracious hue?See, we have traversed with hop, step, and jump,From heel to head, the main-street in a trice,Measured the garment (help my metaphor!)Not merely criticised the cap, forsooth;And were you pricked by that collecting-itch,That pruriency for writing o'er your reds,'Rare, rarer, rarest, not rare but unique,'—The shelf, Saint-Rambert, of your cabinet,Unlabelled,—virginal, no Rahab-threadFor blushing-token of the spy's success,—Would taunt with vacancy, I undertake!What, yonder is your best apology,Pretence at most approach to naughtiness,Impingement of the ruddy on the blank?This is the criminal Saint-RamberteseWho smuggled in tobacco, half-a-pound!The Octroi found it out and fined the wretch.This other is the culprit who dispatchedA hare, he thought a hedgehog, (clods obstruct,)Unfurnished with Permission for the Chase!As to the womankind—renounce from thoseThe hope of getting a companion-tinge,First faint touch promising romantic fault!"Enough: there stands Red Cotton Night-cap shelf—A cavern's ostentatious vacancy—My contribution to the show; while yours—Whites heap your row of pegs from every hedgeOutside, and house inside Saint-Rambert here—We soon have come to end of. See, the churchWith its white steeple gives your challenge point,Perks as it were the night-cap of the town,Starchedly warrants all beneath is matchedBy all above, one snowy innocence!You put me on my mettle. British maidAnd British man, suppose we have it outHere in the fields, decide the question so?Then, British fashion, shake hands hard again,Go home together, friends the more confirmedThat one of us—assuredly myself—Looks puffy about eye, and pink at nose?Which "pink" reminds me that the arduousnessWe both acknowledge in the enterprise,Claims, counts upon a large and liberalAcceptance of as good as victoryIn whatsoever just escapes defeat.You must be generous, strain point, and callVictory, any the least flush of pinkMade prize of, labelled scarlet for the nonce—Faintest pretension to be wrong and redAnd picturesque, that varies by a splotchThe righteous flat of insipidity.Quick to the quest, then—forward, the firm foot!Onward, the quarry-overtaking eye!For, what is this, by way of march-tune, makesThe musicalest buzzing at my earBy reassurance of that promise old,Though sins as scarlet they shall be as wool?Whence—what fantastic hope do I deduce?I am no Liebig: when the dyer dyesA texture, can the red dye prime the white?And if we washed well, wrung the texture hard,Would we arrive, here, there and everywhere,At a fierce ground beneath the surface meek?I take the first chance, rub to threads what ragShall flutter snowily in sight. For see!Already these few yards upon the rise,Our back to brave Saint-Rambert, how we reachThe open, at a dozen steps or strides!Turn round and look about, a breathing-while!There lie, outspread at equidistance, thorpesAnd villages and towns along the coast,Distinguishable, each and all alike,By white persistent Night-cap, spire on spire.Take the left: yonder town is—what say youIf I say "Londres"? Ay, the mother-mouse(Reversing fable, as truth can and will)Which gave our mountain of a London birth!This is the Conqueror's country, bear in mind,And Londres-district blooms with London-pride.Turn round; La Roche, to right, where oysters thrive:Monlieu—the lighthouse is a telegraph;This, full in front, Saint-Rambert; then succeedsVilleneuve, and Pons the Young with Pons the Old,And—ere faith points to Joyeux, out of sight,A little nearer—oh, La Ravissante!There now is something like a Night-cap spire,Donned by no ordinary Notre-Dame!For, one of the three safety-guards of France,You front now, lady! Nothing interceptsThe privilege, by crow-flight, two miles far.She and her sisters Lourdes and La SaletteAre at this moment hailed the cynosureOf poor dear France, such waves have buffetedSince she eschewed infallibilityAnd chose to steer by the vague compass-box.This same midsummer month, a week ago,Was not the memorable day observedFor reinstatement of the misused ThreeIn old supremacy forevermore?Did not the faithful flock in pilgrimageBy railway, diligence, and steamer—nay,On foot with staff and scrip, to see the sightsAssured them? And I say best sight was here:And nothing justified the rival TwoIn their pretension to equality;Our folk laid out their ticket-money best,And wiseliest, if they walked, wore shoe away;Not who went farther only to fare worse.For, what was seen at Lourdes and La SaletteExcept a couple of the common curesSuch as all three can boast of, any day?While here it was, here and by no means there,That the Pope's self sent two great real gold crownsAs thick with jewelry as thick could stick,His present to the Virgin and her Babe—Provided for—who knows not?—by that fund,Count Alessandro Sforza's legacy,Which goes to crown some Virgin every year.But this year, poor Pope was in prison-house,And money had to go for something else;And therefore, though their present seemed the Pope's,The faithful of our province raised the sumPreached and prayed out of—nowise purse alone.Gentle and simple paid in kind, not cash,The most part: the great lady gave her brooch,The peasant-girl, her hairpin; 't was the roughBluff farmer mainly who,—admonished wellBy wife to care lest his new colewort-cropStray sorrowfully sparse like last year's seed,—Lugged from reluctant pouch the fifty-franc,And had the Curés hope that rain would cease.And so, the sum in evidence at length,Next step was to obtain the donativeBy the spontaneous bounty of the Pope—No easy matter, since his HolinessHad turned a deaf ear, long and long ago,To much entreaty on our Bishop's part,Commendably we boast. "But no," quoth he,"Image and image needs must take their turn:Here stand a dozen as importunate."Well, we were patient; but the cup ran o'erWhen—who was it pressed in and took the prizeBut our own offset, set far off indeedTo grow by help of our especial name,She of the Ravissante—in Martinique!"What!" cried our patience at the boiling-point,"The daughter crowned, the mother's head goes bare?Bishop of Raimbaux!"—that 's our diocese—"Thou hast a summons to repair to Rome,Be efficacious at the Council there:Now is the time or never! Right our wrong!Hie thee away, thou valued Morillon,And have the promise, thou who hast the vote!"So said, so done, so followed in due course(To cut the story short) this festival,This famous Twenty-second, seven days since.Oh, but you heard at Joyeux! Pilgrimage,Concourse, procession with, to head the host,Cardinal Mirecourt, quenching lesser lights:The leafy street-length through, decked end to endWith August-strippage, and adorned with flags,That would have waved right well but that it rainedJust this picked day, by some perversity.And so were placed, on Mother and on Babe,The pair of crowns: the Mother's, you must see!Miranda, the great Paris goldsmith, madeThe marvel,—he 's a neighbor: that 's his parkBefore you, tree-topped wall we walk toward.His shop it was turned out the masterpiece,Probably at his own expenditure;Anyhow, his was the munificenceContributed the central and supremeSplendor that crowns the crown itself, The Stone.Not even Paris, ransacked, could supplyThat gem: he had to forage in New York,This jeweller, and country-gentleman,And most undoubted devotee beside!Worthily wived, too: since his wife it wasBestowed "with friendly hand"—befitting phrase!The lace which trims the coronation-robe—Stiff wear—a mint of wealth on the brocade.Do go and see what I saw yesterday!And, for that matter, see in fancy still,Since ...There now! Even for unthankful me,Who stuck to my devotions at high-tideThat festal morning, never had a mindTo trudge the little league and join the crowd—Even for me is miracle vouchsafed!How pointless proves the sneer at miracles!As if, contrariwise to all we wantAnd reasonably look to find, they gracedMerely those graced-before, grace helps no whit,Unless, made whole, they need physician still.I—sceptical in every inch of me—Did I deserve that, from the liquid name"Miranda,"—faceted as lovelilyAs his own gift, the gem,—a shaft should shine,Bear me along, another Abaris,Nor let me light till, lo, the Red is reached,And yonder lies in luminosity!Look, lady! where I bade you glance but now!Next habitation, though two miles away,—No tenement for man or beast between,—That, park and domicile, is country-seatOf this same good Miranda! I acceptThe augury. Or there, or nowhere else,Will I establish that a Night-cap gleamsOf visionary Red, not White for once!"Heaven," saith the sage, "is with us, here insideEach man:" "Hell also," simpleness subjoins,By White and Red describing human flesh.And yet as we continue, quicken pace,Approach the object which determines meVictorious or defeated, more forlornMy chance seems,—that is certainty at least.Halt midway, reconnoitre! Either sideThe path we traverse (turn and see) stretch fieldsWithout a hedge: one level, scallop-stripedWith bands of beet and turnip and luzern,Limited only by each color's end,Shelves down—we stand upon an eminence—To where the earth-shell scallops out the sea,A sweep of semicircle; and at edge—Just as the milk-white incrustations studAt intervals some shell-extremity,So do the little growths attract us here,Towns with each name I told you: say, they touchThe sea, and the sea them, and all is said,So sleeps and sets to slumber that broad blue!The people are as peaceful as the place.This, that I call "the path" is road, highway;But has there passed us by a market-cart,Man, woman, child, or dog to wag a tail?True, I saw weeders stooping in a field;But—formidably white the Cap's extent!Round again! Come, appearance promises!The boundary, the park-wall, ancient brick,Upholds a second wall of tree-heads highWhich overlean its top, a solid green.That surely ought to shut in mysteries!A jeweller—no unsuggestive craft!Trade that admits of much romance, indeed.For, whom but goldsmiths used old monarchs pledgeRegalia to, or seek a ransom from,Or pray to furnish dowry, at a pinch,According to authentic story-books?Why, such have revolutionized this landWith diamond-necklace-dealing! not to speakOf families turned upside-down, becauseThe gay "wives went and pawned clandestinelyJewels, and figured, till found out, with paste,Or else redeemed them—how, is horrible!Then there are those enormous criminalsThat love their ware and cannot lose their love,And murder you to get your purchase back.Others go courting after such a stone,Make it their mistress, marry for their wife,And find out, some day, it was false the while,As ever wife or mistress, man too fondHas named his Pilgrim, Hermit, Ace of Hearts.Beside—what style of edifice beginsTo grow in sight at last and top the scene?That gray roof, with the range of lucarnes, fourI count, and that erection in the midst—Clock-house, or chapel-spire, or what, above?Conventual, that, beyond, manorial, sure!And reason good; for Clairvaux, such its name,Was built of old to be a Priory,Dependence on that Abbey-for-the-MalesOur Conqueror founded in world-famous Caen,And where his body sought the sepulture,It was not to retain: you know the tale.Such Priory was Clairvaux, prosperousHundreds of years; but nothing lasts below,And when the Red Cap pushed the Crown aside,The Priory became, like all its peers,A National Domain: which, bought and soldAnd resold, needs must change, with ownership.Both outside show and inside use; at lengthThe messuage, three-and-twenty years ago,Became the purchase of rewarded worthImpersonate in Father—I must stoopTo French phrase for precision's sake, I fear—Father Miranda, goldsmith of renown:By birth a Madrilene, by domicileAnd sojourning accepted French at last.His energy it was which, trade transferredTo Paris, throve as with a golden thumb,Established in the Place Vendôme. He boughtNot building only, but belongings farAnd wide, at Gonthier there, Monlieu, Villeneuve,A plentiful estate: which, twelve years since,Passed, at the good man's natural demise,To Son and Heir Miranda—Clairvaux here,The Paris shop, the mansion—not to sayPalatial residence on Quai Rousseau,With money, movables, a mine of wealth—And young Léonce Miranda got it all.Ah, but—whose might the transformation be?Were you prepared for this, now? As we talked,We walked, we entered the half-privacy,The partly-guarded precinct: passed besideThe little paled-off islet, trees and turf,Then found us in the main ash-avenueUnder the blessing of its branchage-roof:Till, on emergence, what affronts our gaze?Priory—Conqueror—Abbey-for-the-Males—Hey, presto, pass, who conjured all away?Look through the railwork of the gate: a park—Yes, butà l'Anglaise, as they compliment!Grass like green velvet, gravel-walks like gold,Bosses of shrubs, embosomings of flowers,Lead you—through sprinkled trees of tiny breedDisporting, within reach of coverture.By some habitual acquiescent oakOr elm, that thinks, and lets the youngsters laugh—Lead, lift at last your soul that walks the air,Up to the house-front, or its back perhaps—Whether facade or no, one coquetryOf colored brick and carved stone! Stucco? Well,The daintiness is cheery, that I know,And all the sportive floral framework fitsThe lightsome purpose of the architect.Those lucarnes which I called conventual, late,Those are the outlets in the mansard-roof;And, underneath, what long light eleganceOf windows here suggests how brave insideLurk eyeballed gems they play the eyelids to!Festive arrangements look through such, be sure!And now the tower a-top, I took for clock'sOr bell's abode, turns out a quaint device,Pillared and temple-treated Belvedere—Pavilion safe within its railed-aboutSublimity of area—whence what stretch,Of sea and land, throughout the seasons' change,Must greet the solitary! Or suppose,—If what the husband likes, the wife likes too,—The happy pair of students cloistered high,Alone in April kiss when Spring arrives!Or no, he mounts there by himself to meetWinds, welcome wafts of sea-smell, first white birdThat flaps thus far to taste the land again,And all the promise of the youthful year;Then he descends, unbosoms straight his storeOf blessings in the bud, and both embrace,Husband and wife, since earth is Paradise,And man at peace with God. You see it all?Let us complete our survey, go right roundThe place: for here, it may be, we surpriseThe Priory,—these solid walls, big barns,Gray orchard-grounds, huge four-square stores for stock,Betoken where the Church was busy once.Soon must we come upon the Chapel's self.No doubt next turn will treat us to ... Aha,Again our expectation proves at fault!Still the bright graceful modern—not to sayModish adornment, meets us:Parc Anglais,Tree-sprinkle, shrub-embossment as before.See, the sun splits on yonder bauble worldOf silvered glass concentring, every side,All the adjacent wonder, made minuteAnd touched grotesque by ball-convexity!Just so, a sense that something is amiss,Something is out of sorts in the display,Affects us, past denial, everywhere.The right erection for the Fields, the Wood,(Fields—butElysées, wood—butde Boulogne)Is peradventure wrong for wood and fieldsWhen Vire, not Paris, plays the Capital.So may a good man have deficient taste;Since Son and Heir Miranda, he it wasWho, six years now elapsed, achieved the workAnd truly made a wilderness to smile.Here did their domesticity reside,A happy husband and as happy wife,Till ... how can I in conscience longer keepMy little secret that the man is deadI, for artistic purpose, talk aboutAs if he lived still? No, these two years nowHas he been dead. You ought to sympathize,Not mock the sturdy effort to redeemMy pledge, and wring you out some tragedyFrom even such a perfect commonplace!Suppose I boast the death of such desertMy tragic bit of Red? Who contravenesAssertion that a tragedy existsIn any stoppage of benevolence,Utility, devotion above all?Benevolent? There never was his like:For poverty, he had an open hand... Or stop—I use the wrong expression here—An open purse, then, ever at appeal;So that the unreflecting rather taxedProfusion than penuriousness in alms.One, in his day and generation, deemedOf use to the community? I trust,Clairvaux thus renovated, regalized,Paris expounded thus to Normandy,Answers that question. Was the man devout?After a life—one mere munificenceTo Church and all things churchly, men or mice,—Dying, his last bequeathment gave land, goods,Cash, every stick and stiver, to the Church,And notably to that church yonder, thatBeloved of his soul, La Ravissante—Wherefrom, the latest of his gifts, the StoneGratefully bore me as on arrow-flashTo Clairvaux, as I told you.

And so, here happily we meet, fair friend!Again once more, as if the years rolled backAnd this our meeting-place were just that RomeOut in the champaign, say, o'er-riotedBy verdure, ravage, and gay winds that warAgainst strong sunshine settled to his sleep;Or on the Paris Boulevard, might it prove,You and I came together saunteringly,Bound for some shop-front in the Place Vendôme—Goldsmithy and Golconda mine, that makes"The Firm—Miranda" blazed about the world—Or, what if it were London, where my toeTrespassed upon your flounce? "Small blame," you smile,Seeing the Staircase Party in the SquareWas Small and Early, and you broke no rib.Even as we met where we have met so oft,Now meet we on this unpretending beachBelow the little village: little, ay!But pleasant, may my gratitude subjoin?Meek, hitherto un-Murrayed bathing-place,Best loved of seacoast-nookful Normandy!That, just behind you, is mine own hired house:With right of pathway through the field in front,No prejudice to all its growth unsheavedOf emerald luzern bursting into blue.Be sure I keep the path that hugs the wall,Of mornings, as I pad from door to gate!Yon yellow—what if not wild—mustard flower?—Of that, my naked sole makes lawful prize,Bruising the acrid aromatics out,Till, what they preface, good salt savors stingFrom, first, the sifted sands, then sands in slab,Smooth save for pipy wreath-work of the worm:(Granite and mussel-shell are ground alikeTo glittering paste,—the live worm troubles yet.)Then, dry and moist, the varech limit-line,Burnt cinder-black, with brown uncrumpled swatheOf berried softness, sea-swoln thrice its size;And, lo, the wave protrudes a lip at last,And flecks my foot with froth, nor tempts in vain.

And so, here happily we meet, fair friend!

Again once more, as if the years rolled back

And this our meeting-place were just that Rome

Out in the champaign, say, o'er-rioted

By verdure, ravage, and gay winds that war

Against strong sunshine settled to his sleep;

Or on the Paris Boulevard, might it prove,

You and I came together saunteringly,

Bound for some shop-front in the Place Vendôme—

Goldsmithy and Golconda mine, that makes

"The Firm—Miranda" blazed about the world—

Or, what if it were London, where my toe

Trespassed upon your flounce? "Small blame," you smile,

Seeing the Staircase Party in the Square

Was Small and Early, and you broke no rib.

Even as we met where we have met so oft,

Now meet we on this unpretending beach

Below the little village: little, ay!

But pleasant, may my gratitude subjoin?

Meek, hitherto un-Murrayed bathing-place,

Best loved of seacoast-nookful Normandy!

That, just behind you, is mine own hired house:

With right of pathway through the field in front,

No prejudice to all its growth unsheaved

Of emerald luzern bursting into blue.

Be sure I keep the path that hugs the wall,

Of mornings, as I pad from door to gate!

Yon yellow—what if not wild—mustard flower?—

Of that, my naked sole makes lawful prize,

Bruising the acrid aromatics out,

Till, what they preface, good salt savors sting

From, first, the sifted sands, then sands in slab,

Smooth save for pipy wreath-work of the worm:

(Granite and mussel-shell are ground alike

To glittering paste,—the live worm troubles yet.)

Then, dry and moist, the varech limit-line,

Burnt cinder-black, with brown uncrumpled swathe

Of berried softness, sea-swoln thrice its size;

And, lo, the wave protrudes a lip at last,

And flecks my foot with froth, nor tempts in vain.

Such is Saint-Rambert, wilder very muchThan Joyeux, that famed Joyous-Gard of yours,Some five miles farther down; much homelier too—Right for me,—right for you the fine and fair!Only, I could endure a transfer—wroughtBy angels famed still, through our countryside,For weights they fetched and carried in old timeWhen nothing like the need was—transfer, justOf Joyeux church, exchanged for yonder prig,Our brand-new stone cream-colored masterpiece.

Such is Saint-Rambert, wilder very much

Than Joyeux, that famed Joyous-Gard of yours,

Some five miles farther down; much homelier too—

Right for me,—right for you the fine and fair!

Only, I could endure a transfer—wrought

By angels famed still, through our countryside,

For weights they fetched and carried in old time

When nothing like the need was—transfer, just

Of Joyeux church, exchanged for yonder prig,

Our brand-new stone cream-colored masterpiece.

Well—and you know, and not since this one year,The quiet seaside country? So do I:Who like it, in a manner, just becauseNothing is prominently likableTo vulgar eye without a soul behind,Which, breaking surface, brings before the ballOf sight, a beauty buried everywhere.If we have souls, know how to see and use,One place performs, like any other place,The proper service every place on earthWas framed to furnish man with: serves alikeTo give him note that, through the place he sees,A place is signified he never saw,But, if he lack not soul, may learn to know.Earth's ugliest walled and ceiled imprisonmentMay suffer, through its single rent in roof,Admittance of a cataract of lightBeyond attainment through earth's palace-panesPinholed athwart their windowed filigreeBy twinklings sobered from the sun outside.Doubtless the High Street of our village hereImposes hardly as Rome's Corso could:And our projected race for sailing-boatsNext Sunday, when we celebrate our Saint,Falls very short of that attractiveness,That artistry in festive spectacle,Paris ensures you when she welcomes back(When shall it be?) the Assembly from Versailles;While the best fashion and intelligenceCollected at the counter of our Mayor(Dry-goods he deals in, grocery beside)What time the post-bag brings the news from Vire,—I fear me much, it scarce would hold its own,That circle, that assorted sense and wit,With Five-o'clock Tea in a house we know.

Well—and you know, and not since this one year,

The quiet seaside country? So do I:

Who like it, in a manner, just because

Nothing is prominently likable

To vulgar eye without a soul behind,

Which, breaking surface, brings before the ball

Of sight, a beauty buried everywhere.

If we have souls, know how to see and use,

One place performs, like any other place,

The proper service every place on earth

Was framed to furnish man with: serves alike

To give him note that, through the place he sees,

A place is signified he never saw,

But, if he lack not soul, may learn to know.

Earth's ugliest walled and ceiled imprisonment

May suffer, through its single rent in roof,

Admittance of a cataract of light

Beyond attainment through earth's palace-panes

Pinholed athwart their windowed filigree

By twinklings sobered from the sun outside.

Doubtless the High Street of our village here

Imposes hardly as Rome's Corso could:

And our projected race for sailing-boats

Next Sunday, when we celebrate our Saint,

Falls very short of that attractiveness,

That artistry in festive spectacle,

Paris ensures you when she welcomes back

(When shall it be?) the Assembly from Versailles;

While the best fashion and intelligence

Collected at the counter of our Mayor

(Dry-goods he deals in, grocery beside)

What time the post-bag brings the news from Vire,—

I fear me much, it scarce would hold its own,

That circle, that assorted sense and wit,

With Five-o'clock Tea in a house we know.

Still, 'tis the check that gives the leap its lift.The nullity of cultivated souls,Even advantaged by their news from Vire,Only conduces to enforce the truthThat, thirty paces off, this natural blueBroods o'er a bag of secrets, all unbroached,Beneath the bosom of the placid deep,Since first the Post Director sealed them safe;And formidable I perceive this fact—Little Saint-Rambert touches the great sea.From London, Paris, Rome, where men are men,Not mice, and mice not Mayors presumably,Thought scarce may leap so fast, alight so far.But this is a pretence, you understand,Disparagement in play, to parry thrustOf possible objector: nullityAnd ugliness, the taunt be his, not mineNor yours,—I think we know the world too well!Did you walk hither, jog it by the plain,Or jaunt it by the highway, braving bruiseFrom springless and uncushioned vehicle?Much, was there not, in place and people both,To lend an eye to? and what eye like yours—The learned eye is still the loving one!Our land; its quietude, productiveness,Is length and breadth of grain-crop, meadow-ground,Its orchards in the pasture, farms a-field,And hamlets on the road-edge, naught you missedOf one and all the sweet rusticities!From stalwart strider by the wagon-side,Brightening the acre with his purple blouse,To those dark-featured comely women-folk,Healthy and tall, at work, and work indeed,On every cottage doorstep, plying briskBobbins that bob you ladies out such lace!Oh, you observed! and how that nimble playOf finger formed the sole exception, bobbedThe one disturbance to the peace of things,Where nobody esteems it worth his while,If time upon the clock-face goes asleep,To give the rusted hands a helpful push.Nobody lifts an energetic thumbAnd index to remove some dead and goneNotice which, posted on the barn, repeatsFor truth what two years' passage made a lie.Still is for sale, next June, that same châteauWith all its immobilities,—were soldDuly next June behind the last but last;And, woe's me, still placards the EmperorHis confidence in war he means to wage,God aiding and the rural populace.No: rain and wind must rub the rags awayAnd let the lazy land untroubled snore.

Still, 'tis the check that gives the leap its lift.

The nullity of cultivated souls,

Even advantaged by their news from Vire,

Only conduces to enforce the truth

That, thirty paces off, this natural blue

Broods o'er a bag of secrets, all unbroached,

Beneath the bosom of the placid deep,

Since first the Post Director sealed them safe;

And formidable I perceive this fact—

Little Saint-Rambert touches the great sea.

From London, Paris, Rome, where men are men,

Not mice, and mice not Mayors presumably,

Thought scarce may leap so fast, alight so far.

But this is a pretence, you understand,

Disparagement in play, to parry thrust

Of possible objector: nullity

And ugliness, the taunt be his, not mine

Nor yours,—I think we know the world too well!

Did you walk hither, jog it by the plain,

Or jaunt it by the highway, braving bruise

From springless and uncushioned vehicle?

Much, was there not, in place and people both,

To lend an eye to? and what eye like yours—

The learned eye is still the loving one!

Our land; its quietude, productiveness,

Is length and breadth of grain-crop, meadow-ground,

Its orchards in the pasture, farms a-field,

And hamlets on the road-edge, naught you missed

Of one and all the sweet rusticities!

From stalwart strider by the wagon-side,

Brightening the acre with his purple blouse,

To those dark-featured comely women-folk,

Healthy and tall, at work, and work indeed,

On every cottage doorstep, plying brisk

Bobbins that bob you ladies out such lace!

Oh, you observed! and how that nimble play

Of finger formed the sole exception, bobbed

The one disturbance to the peace of things,

Where nobody esteems it worth his while,

If time upon the clock-face goes asleep,

To give the rusted hands a helpful push.

Nobody lifts an energetic thumb

And index to remove some dead and gone

Notice which, posted on the barn, repeats

For truth what two years' passage made a lie.

Still is for sale, next June, that same château

With all its immobilities,—were sold

Duly next June behind the last but last;

And, woe's me, still placards the Emperor

His confidence in war he means to wage,

God aiding and the rural populace.

No: rain and wind must rub the rags away

And let the lazy land untroubled snore.

Ah, in good truth? and did the drowsiheadSo suit, so soothe the learned loving eye,That you were minded to confer a crown,(Does not the poppy boast such?)—call the landBy one slow hither-thither stretching, fastSubsiding-into-slumber sort of name,Symbolic of the place and people too,"White Cotton Night-cap Country?" Excellent!For they do, all, dear women young and old,Upon the heads of them bear notablyThis badge of soul and body in repose;Nor its fine thimble fits the acorn-top,Keeps woolly ward above that oval brown,Its placid feature, more than muffler makesA safeguard, circumvents intelligenceIn—what shall evermore be named and famed,If happy nomenclature aught avail,"White Cotton Night-cap Country."

Ah, in good truth? and did the drowsihead

So suit, so soothe the learned loving eye,

That you were minded to confer a crown,

(Does not the poppy boast such?)—call the land

By one slow hither-thither stretching, fast

Subsiding-into-slumber sort of name,

Symbolic of the place and people too,

"White Cotton Night-cap Country?" Excellent!

For they do, all, dear women young and old,

Upon the heads of them bear notably

This badge of soul and body in repose;

Nor its fine thimble fits the acorn-top,

Keeps woolly ward above that oval brown,

Its placid feature, more than muffler makes

A safeguard, circumvents intelligence

In—what shall evermore be named and famed,

If happy nomenclature aught avail,

"White Cotton Night-cap Country."

Do I hear—Oh, better, very best of all the news—You mean to catch and cage the wingèd word,And make it breed and multiply at homeTill Norman idlesse stock our England too?Normandy shown minute yet magnifiedIn one of those small books, the truly great,We never know enough, yet know so well?How I foresee the cursive diamond-dints,—Composite pen that plays the pencil too,—As, touch the page and up the glamour goes,And filmily o'er grain-crop, meadow-ground,O'er orchard in the pasture, farm a-field,And hamlet on the road-edge, floats and formsAnd falls, at lazy last of all, the CapThat crowns the country! we, awake outside,Farther than ever from the imminenceOf what cool comfort, what close covertureYour magic, deftly weaving, shall surroundThe unconscious captive with. Be theirs to drowseTrammelled, and ours to watch the trammel-trick!Ours be it, as we con the book of books,To wonder how is winking possible!

Do I hear—

Oh, better, very best of all the news—

You mean to catch and cage the wingèd word,

And make it breed and multiply at home

Till Norman idlesse stock our England too?

Normandy shown minute yet magnified

In one of those small books, the truly great,

We never know enough, yet know so well?

How I foresee the cursive diamond-dints,—

Composite pen that plays the pencil too,—

As, touch the page and up the glamour goes,

And filmily o'er grain-crop, meadow-ground,

O'er orchard in the pasture, farm a-field,

And hamlet on the road-edge, floats and forms

And falls, at lazy last of all, the Cap

That crowns the country! we, awake outside,

Farther than ever from the imminence

Of what cool comfort, what close coverture

Your magic, deftly weaving, shall surround

The unconscious captive with. Be theirs to drowse

Trammelled, and ours to watch the trammel-trick!

Ours be it, as we con the book of books,

To wonder how is winking possible!

All hail, "White Cotton Night-cap Country," then!And yet, as on the beach you promise book,—On beach, mere razor-edge 'twixt earth and sea,I stand at such a distance from the worldThat 'tis the whole world which obtains regard,Rather than any part, though part presumedA perfect little province in itself,When wayfare made acquaintance first therewith.So standing, therefore, on this edge of things,What if the backward glance I gave, returnLoaded with other spoils of vagrancyThan I dispatched it for, till I proposeThe question—puzzled by the sudden storeOfficious fancy plumps beneath my nose—"Which sort of Night-cap have you glorified?"

All hail, "White Cotton Night-cap Country," then!

And yet, as on the beach you promise book,—

On beach, mere razor-edge 'twixt earth and sea,

I stand at such a distance from the world

That 'tis the whole world which obtains regard,

Rather than any part, though part presumed

A perfect little province in itself,

When wayfare made acquaintance first therewith.

So standing, therefore, on this edge of things,

What if the backward glance I gave, return

Loaded with other spoils of vagrancy

Than I dispatched it for, till I propose

The question—puzzled by the sudden store

Officious fancy plumps beneath my nose—

"Which sort of Night-cap have you glorified?"

You would be gracious to my ignorance:What other Night-cap than the normal one?—Old honest guardian of man's head and hairIn its elastic yet continuous, soft,No less persisting, circumambient gripe,—Night's notice, life is respited from day!Its form and fashion vary, suiting soEach seasonable want of youth and age.In infancy, the rosy naked ballOf brain, and that faint golden fluff it bears,Are smothered from disaster,—nurses knowBy what foam-fabric; but when youth succeeds,The sterling value of the articleDiscards adornment, cap is cap henceforthUnfeathered by the futile row on row.Manhood strains hard a sturdy stocking-stuffO'er well-deserving head and ears: the coneIs tassel-tipt, commendably takes pride,Announcing workday done and wages pouched,And liberty obtained to sleep, nay, snore.Unwise, he peradventure shall essayThe sweets of independency for once—Waive its advantage on his wedding-night:Fool, only to resume it, night the next,And never part companionship again.Since, with advancing years, night's solace soonIntrudes upon the daybreak dubious lifePersuades it to appear the thing it isHalf-sleep; and so, encroaching more and more,It lingers long past the abstemious mealOf morning, and, as prompt to serve, precedesThe supper-summons, gruel grown a feast.Finally, when the last sleep finds the eyeSo tired it cannot even shut itself,Does not a kind domestic hand uniteFriend to friend, lid from lid to part no more,Consigned alike to that receptacleSo bleak without, so warm and white within?

You would be gracious to my ignorance:

What other Night-cap than the normal one?—

Old honest guardian of man's head and hair

In its elastic yet continuous, soft,

No less persisting, circumambient gripe,—

Night's notice, life is respited from day!

Its form and fashion vary, suiting so

Each seasonable want of youth and age.

In infancy, the rosy naked ball

Of brain, and that faint golden fluff it bears,

Are smothered from disaster,—nurses know

By what foam-fabric; but when youth succeeds,

The sterling value of the article

Discards adornment, cap is cap henceforth

Unfeathered by the futile row on row.

Manhood strains hard a sturdy stocking-stuff

O'er well-deserving head and ears: the cone

Is tassel-tipt, commendably takes pride,

Announcing workday done and wages pouched,

And liberty obtained to sleep, nay, snore.

Unwise, he peradventure shall essay

The sweets of independency for once—

Waive its advantage on his wedding-night:

Fool, only to resume it, night the next,

And never part companionship again.

Since, with advancing years, night's solace soon

Intrudes upon the daybreak dubious life

Persuades it to appear the thing it is

Half-sleep; and so, encroaching more and more,

It lingers long past the abstemious meal

Of morning, and, as prompt to serve, precedes

The supper-summons, gruel grown a feast.

Finally, when the last sleep finds the eye

So tired it cannot even shut itself,

Does not a kind domestic hand unite

Friend to friend, lid from lid to part no more,

Consigned alike to that receptacle

So bleak without, so warm and white within?

"Night-caps, night's comfort of the human race:Their usage may be growing obsolete,Still, in the main, the institution stays.And though yourself may possibly have lived,And probably will die, undignified—The Never-night-capped—more experienced folkLaugh you back answer—What should Night-cap beSave Night-cap pure and simple? Sorts of such?Take cotton for the medium, cast an eyeThis side to comfort, lambswool, or the like,That side to frilly cambric costliness,And all between proves Night-cap proper." Add"Fiddle!" and I confess the argument.

"Night-caps, night's comfort of the human race:

Their usage may be growing obsolete,

Still, in the main, the institution stays.

And though yourself may possibly have lived,

And probably will die, undignified—

The Never-night-capped—more experienced folk

Laugh you back answer—What should Night-cap be

Save Night-cap pure and simple? Sorts of such?

Take cotton for the medium, cast an eye

This side to comfort, lambswool, or the like,

That side to frilly cambric costliness,

And all between proves Night-cap proper." Add

"Fiddle!" and I confess the argument.

Only, your ignoramus here againProceeds as tardily to recognizeDistinctions: ask him what a fiddle means,And "Just a fiddle" seems the apt reply.Yet, is not there, while we two pace the beach,This blessed moment, at your Kensington,A special Fiddle-Show and rare arrayOf all the sorts were ever set to cheek,'Stablished on clavicle, sawn bow-hand-wise,Or touched lute-fashion and forefinger-plucked?I doubt not there be duly cataloguedAchievements all and some of Italy,Guarnerius, Straduarius,—old and new,Augustly rude, refined to finicking,This mammoth with his belly full of blare,That mouse of music—inch-long silvery wheeze,And here a specimen has efflorescedInto the scroll-head, there subsides supreme,And with the tailpiece satisfies mankind.Why should I speak of woods, grains, stains and streaks,The topaz varnish or the ruby gum?We preferably pause where tickets teach,"Over this sample would Corelli croon,Grieving, by minors, like the cushat-dove,Most dulcet Giga, dreamiest Saraband.""From this did Paganini comb the fierceElectric sparks, or to tenuityPull forth the inmost wailing of the wire—No cat-gut could swoon out so much of soul!"

Only, your ignoramus here again

Proceeds as tardily to recognize

Distinctions: ask him what a fiddle means,

And "Just a fiddle" seems the apt reply.

Yet, is not there, while we two pace the beach,

This blessed moment, at your Kensington,

A special Fiddle-Show and rare array

Of all the sorts were ever set to cheek,

'Stablished on clavicle, sawn bow-hand-wise,

Or touched lute-fashion and forefinger-plucked?

I doubt not there be duly catalogued

Achievements all and some of Italy,

Guarnerius, Straduarius,—old and new,

Augustly rude, refined to finicking,

This mammoth with his belly full of blare,

That mouse of music—inch-long silvery wheeze,

And here a specimen has effloresced

Into the scroll-head, there subsides supreme,

And with the tailpiece satisfies mankind.

Why should I speak of woods, grains, stains and streaks,

The topaz varnish or the ruby gum?

We preferably pause where tickets teach,

"Over this sample would Corelli croon,

Grieving, by minors, like the cushat-dove,

Most dulcet Giga, dreamiest Saraband."

"From this did Paganini comb the fierce

Electric sparks, or to tenuity

Pull forth the inmost wailing of the wire—

No cat-gut could swoon out so much of soul!"

Three hundred violin-varietiesExposed to public view! And dare I doubtSome future enterprise shall give the worldQuite as remarkable a Night-cap-show?Methinks, we, arm-in-arm, that festal day,Pace the long range of relics shrined aright,Framed, glazed, each cushioned curiosity,And so begin to smile and to inspect:"Pope's sickly head-sustainment, damped with dewsWrung from the all-unfair fight: such a frame—Though doctor and the devil helped their best—Fought such a world that, waiving doctor's help,Had the mean devil at its service too!Voltaire's imperial velvet! Hogarth eyedThe thumb-nail record of some alley-phiz,Then chucklingly clapped yonder cosinessOn pate, and painted with true flesh and blood!Poor hectic Cowper's soothing sarsnet-stripe!"And so we profit by the catalogue,Somehow our smile subsiding more and more,Till we decline into ... but no! shut eyesAnd hurry past the shame uncoffined here,The hangman's toilet! If we needs must trench,For science' sake which craves completeness still,On the sad confine, not the district's self,The object that shall close review may be ...Well, it is French, and here are we in France:It is historic, and we live to learn,And try to learn by reading story-books.It is an incident of 'Ninety-two,And, twelve months since, the Commune had the sway.Therefore resolve that, after all the WhitesPresented you, a solitary RedShall pain us both, a minute and no more!Do not you see poor Louis pushed to frontOf palace-window, in persuasion's name,A spectacle above the howling mobWho tasted, as it were, with tiger-smack,The outstart, the first spurt of blood on brow,The Phrygian symbol, the new crown of thorns,The Cap of Freedom? See the feeble mirthAt odds with that half-purpose to be strongAnd merely patient under misery!And note the ejaculation, ground so hardBetween his teeth, that only God could hear,As the lean pale proud insignificanceWith the sharp-featured liver-worried stareOut of the two gray points that did him stead,And passed their eagle-owner to the frontBetter than his mob-elbowed undersize,—The Corsican lieutenant commented,"Had I but one good regiment of my own,How soon should volleys to the due amountLay stiff upon the street-flags this canaille!As for the droll there, he that plays the king,And screws out smile with a Red night-cap on,He 's done for! somebody must take his place."White Cotton Night-cap Country: excellent!Why not Red Cotton Night-cap Country too?

Three hundred violin-varieties

Exposed to public view! And dare I doubt

Some future enterprise shall give the world

Quite as remarkable a Night-cap-show?

Methinks, we, arm-in-arm, that festal day,

Pace the long range of relics shrined aright,

Framed, glazed, each cushioned curiosity,

And so begin to smile and to inspect:

"Pope's sickly head-sustainment, damped with dews

Wrung from the all-unfair fight: such a frame—

Though doctor and the devil helped their best—

Fought such a world that, waiving doctor's help,

Had the mean devil at its service too!

Voltaire's imperial velvet! Hogarth eyed

The thumb-nail record of some alley-phiz,

Then chucklingly clapped yonder cosiness

On pate, and painted with true flesh and blood!

Poor hectic Cowper's soothing sarsnet-stripe!"

And so we profit by the catalogue,

Somehow our smile subsiding more and more,

Till we decline into ... but no! shut eyes

And hurry past the shame uncoffined here,

The hangman's toilet! If we needs must trench,

For science' sake which craves completeness still,

On the sad confine, not the district's self,

The object that shall close review may be ...

Well, it is French, and here are we in France:

It is historic, and we live to learn,

And try to learn by reading story-books.

It is an incident of 'Ninety-two,

And, twelve months since, the Commune had the sway.

Therefore resolve that, after all the Whites

Presented you, a solitary Red

Shall pain us both, a minute and no more!

Do not you see poor Louis pushed to front

Of palace-window, in persuasion's name,

A spectacle above the howling mob

Who tasted, as it were, with tiger-smack,

The outstart, the first spurt of blood on brow,

The Phrygian symbol, the new crown of thorns,

The Cap of Freedom? See the feeble mirth

At odds with that half-purpose to be strong

And merely patient under misery!

And note the ejaculation, ground so hard

Between his teeth, that only God could hear,

As the lean pale proud insignificance

With the sharp-featured liver-worried stare

Out of the two gray points that did him stead,

And passed their eagle-owner to the front

Better than his mob-elbowed undersize,—

The Corsican lieutenant commented,

"Had I but one good regiment of my own,

How soon should volleys to the due amount

Lay stiff upon the street-flags this canaille!

As for the droll there, he that plays the king,

And screws out smile with a Red night-cap on,

He 's done for! somebody must take his place."

White Cotton Night-cap Country: excellent!

Why not Red Cotton Night-cap Country too?

"Why not say swans are black and blackbirds white,Because the instances exist?" you ask."Enough that white, not red, predominates.Is normal, typical, in cleric phraseQuod semel, semper, et ubique." Here,Applying such a name to such a land,Especially you find inopportune,Impertinent, my scruple whether whiteOr red describes the local color best."Let be," (you say,) "the universe at largeSupplied us with exceptions to the rule,So manifold, they bore no passing-by,—Little Saint-Rambert has conserved at leastThe pure tradition: white from head to heel,Where is a hint of the ungracious hue?See, we have traversed with hop, step, and jump,From heel to head, the main-street in a trice,Measured the garment (help my metaphor!)Not merely criticised the cap, forsooth;And were you pricked by that collecting-itch,That pruriency for writing o'er your reds,'Rare, rarer, rarest, not rare but unique,'—The shelf, Saint-Rambert, of your cabinet,Unlabelled,—virginal, no Rahab-threadFor blushing-token of the spy's success,—Would taunt with vacancy, I undertake!What, yonder is your best apology,Pretence at most approach to naughtiness,Impingement of the ruddy on the blank?This is the criminal Saint-RamberteseWho smuggled in tobacco, half-a-pound!The Octroi found it out and fined the wretch.This other is the culprit who dispatchedA hare, he thought a hedgehog, (clods obstruct,)Unfurnished with Permission for the Chase!As to the womankind—renounce from thoseThe hope of getting a companion-tinge,First faint touch promising romantic fault!"

"Why not say swans are black and blackbirds white,

Because the instances exist?" you ask.

"Enough that white, not red, predominates.

Is normal, typical, in cleric phrase

Quod semel, semper, et ubique." Here,

Applying such a name to such a land,

Especially you find inopportune,

Impertinent, my scruple whether white

Or red describes the local color best.

"Let be," (you say,) "the universe at large

Supplied us with exceptions to the rule,

So manifold, they bore no passing-by,—

Little Saint-Rambert has conserved at least

The pure tradition: white from head to heel,

Where is a hint of the ungracious hue?

See, we have traversed with hop, step, and jump,

From heel to head, the main-street in a trice,

Measured the garment (help my metaphor!)

Not merely criticised the cap, forsooth;

And were you pricked by that collecting-itch,

That pruriency for writing o'er your reds,

'Rare, rarer, rarest, not rare but unique,'—

The shelf, Saint-Rambert, of your cabinet,

Unlabelled,—virginal, no Rahab-thread

For blushing-token of the spy's success,—

Would taunt with vacancy, I undertake!

What, yonder is your best apology,

Pretence at most approach to naughtiness,

Impingement of the ruddy on the blank?

This is the criminal Saint-Rambertese

Who smuggled in tobacco, half-a-pound!

The Octroi found it out and fined the wretch.

This other is the culprit who dispatched

A hare, he thought a hedgehog, (clods obstruct,)

Unfurnished with Permission for the Chase!

As to the womankind—renounce from those

The hope of getting a companion-tinge,

First faint touch promising romantic fault!"

Enough: there stands Red Cotton Night-cap shelf—A cavern's ostentatious vacancy—My contribution to the show; while yours—Whites heap your row of pegs from every hedgeOutside, and house inside Saint-Rambert here—We soon have come to end of. See, the churchWith its white steeple gives your challenge point,Perks as it were the night-cap of the town,Starchedly warrants all beneath is matchedBy all above, one snowy innocence!

Enough: there stands Red Cotton Night-cap shelf—

A cavern's ostentatious vacancy—

My contribution to the show; while yours—

Whites heap your row of pegs from every hedge

Outside, and house inside Saint-Rambert here—

We soon have come to end of. See, the church

With its white steeple gives your challenge point,

Perks as it were the night-cap of the town,

Starchedly warrants all beneath is matched

By all above, one snowy innocence!

You put me on my mettle. British maidAnd British man, suppose we have it outHere in the fields, decide the question so?Then, British fashion, shake hands hard again,Go home together, friends the more confirmedThat one of us—assuredly myself—Looks puffy about eye, and pink at nose?Which "pink" reminds me that the arduousnessWe both acknowledge in the enterprise,Claims, counts upon a large and liberalAcceptance of as good as victoryIn whatsoever just escapes defeat.You must be generous, strain point, and callVictory, any the least flush of pinkMade prize of, labelled scarlet for the nonce—Faintest pretension to be wrong and redAnd picturesque, that varies by a splotchThe righteous flat of insipidity.

You put me on my mettle. British maid

And British man, suppose we have it out

Here in the fields, decide the question so?

Then, British fashion, shake hands hard again,

Go home together, friends the more confirmed

That one of us—assuredly myself—

Looks puffy about eye, and pink at nose?

Which "pink" reminds me that the arduousness

We both acknowledge in the enterprise,

Claims, counts upon a large and liberal

Acceptance of as good as victory

In whatsoever just escapes defeat.

You must be generous, strain point, and call

Victory, any the least flush of pink

Made prize of, labelled scarlet for the nonce—

Faintest pretension to be wrong and red

And picturesque, that varies by a splotch

The righteous flat of insipidity.

Quick to the quest, then—forward, the firm foot!Onward, the quarry-overtaking eye!For, what is this, by way of march-tune, makesThe musicalest buzzing at my earBy reassurance of that promise old,Though sins as scarlet they shall be as wool?Whence—what fantastic hope do I deduce?I am no Liebig: when the dyer dyesA texture, can the red dye prime the white?And if we washed well, wrung the texture hard,Would we arrive, here, there and everywhere,At a fierce ground beneath the surface meek?

Quick to the quest, then—forward, the firm foot!

Onward, the quarry-overtaking eye!

For, what is this, by way of march-tune, makes

The musicalest buzzing at my ear

By reassurance of that promise old,

Though sins as scarlet they shall be as wool?

Whence—what fantastic hope do I deduce?

I am no Liebig: when the dyer dyes

A texture, can the red dye prime the white?

And if we washed well, wrung the texture hard,

Would we arrive, here, there and everywhere,

At a fierce ground beneath the surface meek?

I take the first chance, rub to threads what ragShall flutter snowily in sight. For see!Already these few yards upon the rise,Our back to brave Saint-Rambert, how we reachThe open, at a dozen steps or strides!Turn round and look about, a breathing-while!There lie, outspread at equidistance, thorpesAnd villages and towns along the coast,Distinguishable, each and all alike,By white persistent Night-cap, spire on spire.Take the left: yonder town is—what say youIf I say "Londres"? Ay, the mother-mouse(Reversing fable, as truth can and will)Which gave our mountain of a London birth!This is the Conqueror's country, bear in mind,And Londres-district blooms with London-pride.Turn round; La Roche, to right, where oysters thrive:Monlieu—the lighthouse is a telegraph;This, full in front, Saint-Rambert; then succeedsVilleneuve, and Pons the Young with Pons the Old,And—ere faith points to Joyeux, out of sight,A little nearer—oh, La Ravissante!

I take the first chance, rub to threads what rag

Shall flutter snowily in sight. For see!

Already these few yards upon the rise,

Our back to brave Saint-Rambert, how we reach

The open, at a dozen steps or strides!

Turn round and look about, a breathing-while!

There lie, outspread at equidistance, thorpes

And villages and towns along the coast,

Distinguishable, each and all alike,

By white persistent Night-cap, spire on spire.

Take the left: yonder town is—what say you

If I say "Londres"? Ay, the mother-mouse

(Reversing fable, as truth can and will)

Which gave our mountain of a London birth!

This is the Conqueror's country, bear in mind,

And Londres-district blooms with London-pride.

Turn round; La Roche, to right, where oysters thrive:

Monlieu—the lighthouse is a telegraph;

This, full in front, Saint-Rambert; then succeeds

Villeneuve, and Pons the Young with Pons the Old,

And—ere faith points to Joyeux, out of sight,

A little nearer—oh, La Ravissante!

There now is something like a Night-cap spire,Donned by no ordinary Notre-Dame!For, one of the three safety-guards of France,You front now, lady! Nothing interceptsThe privilege, by crow-flight, two miles far.She and her sisters Lourdes and La SaletteAre at this moment hailed the cynosureOf poor dear France, such waves have buffetedSince she eschewed infallibilityAnd chose to steer by the vague compass-box.This same midsummer month, a week ago,Was not the memorable day observedFor reinstatement of the misused ThreeIn old supremacy forevermore?Did not the faithful flock in pilgrimageBy railway, diligence, and steamer—nay,On foot with staff and scrip, to see the sightsAssured them? And I say best sight was here:And nothing justified the rival TwoIn their pretension to equality;Our folk laid out their ticket-money best,And wiseliest, if they walked, wore shoe away;Not who went farther only to fare worse.For, what was seen at Lourdes and La SaletteExcept a couple of the common curesSuch as all three can boast of, any day?While here it was, here and by no means there,That the Pope's self sent two great real gold crownsAs thick with jewelry as thick could stick,His present to the Virgin and her Babe—Provided for—who knows not?—by that fund,Count Alessandro Sforza's legacy,Which goes to crown some Virgin every year.But this year, poor Pope was in prison-house,And money had to go for something else;And therefore, though their present seemed the Pope's,The faithful of our province raised the sumPreached and prayed out of—nowise purse alone.Gentle and simple paid in kind, not cash,The most part: the great lady gave her brooch,The peasant-girl, her hairpin; 't was the roughBluff farmer mainly who,—admonished wellBy wife to care lest his new colewort-cropStray sorrowfully sparse like last year's seed,—Lugged from reluctant pouch the fifty-franc,And had the Curés hope that rain would cease.And so, the sum in evidence at length,Next step was to obtain the donativeBy the spontaneous bounty of the Pope—No easy matter, since his HolinessHad turned a deaf ear, long and long ago,To much entreaty on our Bishop's part,Commendably we boast. "But no," quoth he,"Image and image needs must take their turn:Here stand a dozen as importunate."Well, we were patient; but the cup ran o'erWhen—who was it pressed in and took the prizeBut our own offset, set far off indeedTo grow by help of our especial name,She of the Ravissante—in Martinique!"What!" cried our patience at the boiling-point,"The daughter crowned, the mother's head goes bare?Bishop of Raimbaux!"—that 's our diocese—"Thou hast a summons to repair to Rome,Be efficacious at the Council there:Now is the time or never! Right our wrong!Hie thee away, thou valued Morillon,And have the promise, thou who hast the vote!"So said, so done, so followed in due course(To cut the story short) this festival,This famous Twenty-second, seven days since.

There now is something like a Night-cap spire,

Donned by no ordinary Notre-Dame!

For, one of the three safety-guards of France,

You front now, lady! Nothing intercepts

The privilege, by crow-flight, two miles far.

She and her sisters Lourdes and La Salette

Are at this moment hailed the cynosure

Of poor dear France, such waves have buffeted

Since she eschewed infallibility

And chose to steer by the vague compass-box.

This same midsummer month, a week ago,

Was not the memorable day observed

For reinstatement of the misused Three

In old supremacy forevermore?

Did not the faithful flock in pilgrimage

By railway, diligence, and steamer—nay,

On foot with staff and scrip, to see the sights

Assured them? And I say best sight was here:

And nothing justified the rival Two

In their pretension to equality;

Our folk laid out their ticket-money best,

And wiseliest, if they walked, wore shoe away;

Not who went farther only to fare worse.

For, what was seen at Lourdes and La Salette

Except a couple of the common cures

Such as all three can boast of, any day?

While here it was, here and by no means there,

That the Pope's self sent two great real gold crowns

As thick with jewelry as thick could stick,

His present to the Virgin and her Babe—

Provided for—who knows not?—by that fund,

Count Alessandro Sforza's legacy,

Which goes to crown some Virgin every year.

But this year, poor Pope was in prison-house,

And money had to go for something else;

And therefore, though their present seemed the Pope's,

The faithful of our province raised the sum

Preached and prayed out of—nowise purse alone.

Gentle and simple paid in kind, not cash,

The most part: the great lady gave her brooch,

The peasant-girl, her hairpin; 't was the rough

Bluff farmer mainly who,—admonished well

By wife to care lest his new colewort-crop

Stray sorrowfully sparse like last year's seed,—

Lugged from reluctant pouch the fifty-franc,

And had the Curés hope that rain would cease.

And so, the sum in evidence at length,

Next step was to obtain the donative

By the spontaneous bounty of the Pope—

No easy matter, since his Holiness

Had turned a deaf ear, long and long ago,

To much entreaty on our Bishop's part,

Commendably we boast. "But no," quoth he,

"Image and image needs must take their turn:

Here stand a dozen as importunate."

Well, we were patient; but the cup ran o'er

When—who was it pressed in and took the prize

But our own offset, set far off indeed

To grow by help of our especial name,

She of the Ravissante—in Martinique!

"What!" cried our patience at the boiling-point,

"The daughter crowned, the mother's head goes bare?

Bishop of Raimbaux!"—that 's our diocese—

"Thou hast a summons to repair to Rome,

Be efficacious at the Council there:

Now is the time or never! Right our wrong!

Hie thee away, thou valued Morillon,

And have the promise, thou who hast the vote!"

So said, so done, so followed in due course

(To cut the story short) this festival,

This famous Twenty-second, seven days since.

Oh, but you heard at Joyeux! Pilgrimage,Concourse, procession with, to head the host,Cardinal Mirecourt, quenching lesser lights:The leafy street-length through, decked end to endWith August-strippage, and adorned with flags,That would have waved right well but that it rainedJust this picked day, by some perversity.And so were placed, on Mother and on Babe,The pair of crowns: the Mother's, you must see!Miranda, the great Paris goldsmith, madeThe marvel,—he 's a neighbor: that 's his parkBefore you, tree-topped wall we walk toward.His shop it was turned out the masterpiece,Probably at his own expenditure;Anyhow, his was the munificenceContributed the central and supremeSplendor that crowns the crown itself, The Stone.Not even Paris, ransacked, could supplyThat gem: he had to forage in New York,This jeweller, and country-gentleman,And most undoubted devotee beside!Worthily wived, too: since his wife it wasBestowed "with friendly hand"—befitting phrase!The lace which trims the coronation-robe—Stiff wear—a mint of wealth on the brocade.Do go and see what I saw yesterday!And, for that matter, see in fancy still,Since ...

Oh, but you heard at Joyeux! Pilgrimage,

Concourse, procession with, to head the host,

Cardinal Mirecourt, quenching lesser lights:

The leafy street-length through, decked end to end

With August-strippage, and adorned with flags,

That would have waved right well but that it rained

Just this picked day, by some perversity.

And so were placed, on Mother and on Babe,

The pair of crowns: the Mother's, you must see!

Miranda, the great Paris goldsmith, made

The marvel,—he 's a neighbor: that 's his park

Before you, tree-topped wall we walk toward.

His shop it was turned out the masterpiece,

Probably at his own expenditure;

Anyhow, his was the munificence

Contributed the central and supreme

Splendor that crowns the crown itself, The Stone.

Not even Paris, ransacked, could supply

That gem: he had to forage in New York,

This jeweller, and country-gentleman,

And most undoubted devotee beside!

Worthily wived, too: since his wife it was

Bestowed "with friendly hand"—befitting phrase!

The lace which trims the coronation-robe—

Stiff wear—a mint of wealth on the brocade.

Do go and see what I saw yesterday!

And, for that matter, see in fancy still,

Since ...

There now! Even for unthankful me,Who stuck to my devotions at high-tideThat festal morning, never had a mindTo trudge the little league and join the crowd—Even for me is miracle vouchsafed!How pointless proves the sneer at miracles!As if, contrariwise to all we wantAnd reasonably look to find, they gracedMerely those graced-before, grace helps no whit,Unless, made whole, they need physician still.I—sceptical in every inch of me—Did I deserve that, from the liquid name"Miranda,"—faceted as lovelilyAs his own gift, the gem,—a shaft should shine,Bear me along, another Abaris,Nor let me light till, lo, the Red is reached,And yonder lies in luminosity!

There now! Even for unthankful me,

Who stuck to my devotions at high-tide

That festal morning, never had a mind

To trudge the little league and join the crowd—

Even for me is miracle vouchsafed!

How pointless proves the sneer at miracles!

As if, contrariwise to all we want

And reasonably look to find, they graced

Merely those graced-before, grace helps no whit,

Unless, made whole, they need physician still.

I—sceptical in every inch of me—

Did I deserve that, from the liquid name

"Miranda,"—faceted as lovelily

As his own gift, the gem,—a shaft should shine,

Bear me along, another Abaris,

Nor let me light till, lo, the Red is reached,

And yonder lies in luminosity!

Look, lady! where I bade you glance but now!Next habitation, though two miles away,—No tenement for man or beast between,—That, park and domicile, is country-seatOf this same good Miranda! I acceptThe augury. Or there, or nowhere else,Will I establish that a Night-cap gleamsOf visionary Red, not White for once!"Heaven," saith the sage, "is with us, here insideEach man:" "Hell also," simpleness subjoins,By White and Red describing human flesh.

Look, lady! where I bade you glance but now!

Next habitation, though two miles away,—

No tenement for man or beast between,—

That, park and domicile, is country-seat

Of this same good Miranda! I accept

The augury. Or there, or nowhere else,

Will I establish that a Night-cap gleams

Of visionary Red, not White for once!

"Heaven," saith the sage, "is with us, here inside

Each man:" "Hell also," simpleness subjoins,

By White and Red describing human flesh.

And yet as we continue, quicken pace,Approach the object which determines meVictorious or defeated, more forlornMy chance seems,—that is certainty at least.Halt midway, reconnoitre! Either sideThe path we traverse (turn and see) stretch fieldsWithout a hedge: one level, scallop-stripedWith bands of beet and turnip and luzern,Limited only by each color's end,Shelves down—we stand upon an eminence—To where the earth-shell scallops out the sea,A sweep of semicircle; and at edge—Just as the milk-white incrustations studAt intervals some shell-extremity,So do the little growths attract us here,Towns with each name I told you: say, they touchThe sea, and the sea them, and all is said,So sleeps and sets to slumber that broad blue!The people are as peaceful as the place.This, that I call "the path" is road, highway;But has there passed us by a market-cart,Man, woman, child, or dog to wag a tail?True, I saw weeders stooping in a field;But—formidably white the Cap's extent!

And yet as we continue, quicken pace,

Approach the object which determines me

Victorious or defeated, more forlorn

My chance seems,—that is certainty at least.

Halt midway, reconnoitre! Either side

The path we traverse (turn and see) stretch fields

Without a hedge: one level, scallop-striped

With bands of beet and turnip and luzern,

Limited only by each color's end,

Shelves down—we stand upon an eminence—

To where the earth-shell scallops out the sea,

A sweep of semicircle; and at edge—

Just as the milk-white incrustations stud

At intervals some shell-extremity,

So do the little growths attract us here,

Towns with each name I told you: say, they touch

The sea, and the sea them, and all is said,

So sleeps and sets to slumber that broad blue!

The people are as peaceful as the place.

This, that I call "the path" is road, highway;

But has there passed us by a market-cart,

Man, woman, child, or dog to wag a tail?

True, I saw weeders stooping in a field;

But—formidably white the Cap's extent!

Round again! Come, appearance promises!The boundary, the park-wall, ancient brick,Upholds a second wall of tree-heads highWhich overlean its top, a solid green.That surely ought to shut in mysteries!A jeweller—no unsuggestive craft!Trade that admits of much romance, indeed.For, whom but goldsmiths used old monarchs pledgeRegalia to, or seek a ransom from,Or pray to furnish dowry, at a pinch,According to authentic story-books?Why, such have revolutionized this landWith diamond-necklace-dealing! not to speakOf families turned upside-down, becauseThe gay "wives went and pawned clandestinelyJewels, and figured, till found out, with paste,Or else redeemed them—how, is horrible!Then there are those enormous criminalsThat love their ware and cannot lose their love,And murder you to get your purchase back.Others go courting after such a stone,Make it their mistress, marry for their wife,And find out, some day, it was false the while,As ever wife or mistress, man too fondHas named his Pilgrim, Hermit, Ace of Hearts.

Round again! Come, appearance promises!

The boundary, the park-wall, ancient brick,

Upholds a second wall of tree-heads high

Which overlean its top, a solid green.

That surely ought to shut in mysteries!

A jeweller—no unsuggestive craft!

Trade that admits of much romance, indeed.

For, whom but goldsmiths used old monarchs pledge

Regalia to, or seek a ransom from,

Or pray to furnish dowry, at a pinch,

According to authentic story-books?

Why, such have revolutionized this land

With diamond-necklace-dealing! not to speak

Of families turned upside-down, because

The gay "wives went and pawned clandestinely

Jewels, and figured, till found out, with paste,

Or else redeemed them—how, is horrible!

Then there are those enormous criminals

That love their ware and cannot lose their love,

And murder you to get your purchase back.

Others go courting after such a stone,

Make it their mistress, marry for their wife,

And find out, some day, it was false the while,

As ever wife or mistress, man too fond

Has named his Pilgrim, Hermit, Ace of Hearts.

Beside—what style of edifice beginsTo grow in sight at last and top the scene?That gray roof, with the range of lucarnes, fourI count, and that erection in the midst—Clock-house, or chapel-spire, or what, above?Conventual, that, beyond, manorial, sure!And reason good; for Clairvaux, such its name,Was built of old to be a Priory,Dependence on that Abbey-for-the-MalesOur Conqueror founded in world-famous Caen,And where his body sought the sepulture,It was not to retain: you know the tale.Such Priory was Clairvaux, prosperousHundreds of years; but nothing lasts below,And when the Red Cap pushed the Crown aside,The Priory became, like all its peers,A National Domain: which, bought and soldAnd resold, needs must change, with ownership.Both outside show and inside use; at lengthThe messuage, three-and-twenty years ago,Became the purchase of rewarded worthImpersonate in Father—I must stoopTo French phrase for precision's sake, I fear—Father Miranda, goldsmith of renown:By birth a Madrilene, by domicileAnd sojourning accepted French at last.His energy it was which, trade transferredTo Paris, throve as with a golden thumb,Established in the Place Vendôme. He boughtNot building only, but belongings farAnd wide, at Gonthier there, Monlieu, Villeneuve,A plentiful estate: which, twelve years since,Passed, at the good man's natural demise,To Son and Heir Miranda—Clairvaux here,The Paris shop, the mansion—not to sayPalatial residence on Quai Rousseau,With money, movables, a mine of wealth—And young Léonce Miranda got it all.

Beside—what style of edifice begins

To grow in sight at last and top the scene?

That gray roof, with the range of lucarnes, four

I count, and that erection in the midst—

Clock-house, or chapel-spire, or what, above?

Conventual, that, beyond, manorial, sure!

And reason good; for Clairvaux, such its name,

Was built of old to be a Priory,

Dependence on that Abbey-for-the-Males

Our Conqueror founded in world-famous Caen,

And where his body sought the sepulture,

It was not to retain: you know the tale.

Such Priory was Clairvaux, prosperous

Hundreds of years; but nothing lasts below,

And when the Red Cap pushed the Crown aside,

The Priory became, like all its peers,

A National Domain: which, bought and sold

And resold, needs must change, with ownership.

Both outside show and inside use; at length

The messuage, three-and-twenty years ago,

Became the purchase of rewarded worth

Impersonate in Father—I must stoop

To French phrase for precision's sake, I fear—

Father Miranda, goldsmith of renown:

By birth a Madrilene, by domicile

And sojourning accepted French at last.

His energy it was which, trade transferred

To Paris, throve as with a golden thumb,

Established in the Place Vendôme. He bought

Not building only, but belongings far

And wide, at Gonthier there, Monlieu, Villeneuve,

A plentiful estate: which, twelve years since,

Passed, at the good man's natural demise,

To Son and Heir Miranda—Clairvaux here,

The Paris shop, the mansion—not to say

Palatial residence on Quai Rousseau,

With money, movables, a mine of wealth—

And young Léonce Miranda got it all.

Ah, but—whose might the transformation be?Were you prepared for this, now? As we talked,We walked, we entered the half-privacy,The partly-guarded precinct: passed besideThe little paled-off islet, trees and turf,Then found us in the main ash-avenueUnder the blessing of its branchage-roof:Till, on emergence, what affronts our gaze?Priory—Conqueror—Abbey-for-the-Males—Hey, presto, pass, who conjured all away?Look through the railwork of the gate: a park—Yes, butà l'Anglaise, as they compliment!Grass like green velvet, gravel-walks like gold,Bosses of shrubs, embosomings of flowers,Lead you—through sprinkled trees of tiny breedDisporting, within reach of coverture.By some habitual acquiescent oakOr elm, that thinks, and lets the youngsters laugh—Lead, lift at last your soul that walks the air,Up to the house-front, or its back perhaps—Whether facade or no, one coquetryOf colored brick and carved stone! Stucco? Well,The daintiness is cheery, that I know,And all the sportive floral framework fitsThe lightsome purpose of the architect.Those lucarnes which I called conventual, late,Those are the outlets in the mansard-roof;And, underneath, what long light eleganceOf windows here suggests how brave insideLurk eyeballed gems they play the eyelids to!Festive arrangements look through such, be sure!And now the tower a-top, I took for clock'sOr bell's abode, turns out a quaint device,Pillared and temple-treated Belvedere—Pavilion safe within its railed-aboutSublimity of area—whence what stretch,Of sea and land, throughout the seasons' change,Must greet the solitary! Or suppose,—If what the husband likes, the wife likes too,—The happy pair of students cloistered high,Alone in April kiss when Spring arrives!Or no, he mounts there by himself to meetWinds, welcome wafts of sea-smell, first white birdThat flaps thus far to taste the land again,And all the promise of the youthful year;Then he descends, unbosoms straight his storeOf blessings in the bud, and both embrace,Husband and wife, since earth is Paradise,And man at peace with God. You see it all?

Ah, but—whose might the transformation be?

Were you prepared for this, now? As we talked,

We walked, we entered the half-privacy,

The partly-guarded precinct: passed beside

The little paled-off islet, trees and turf,

Then found us in the main ash-avenue

Under the blessing of its branchage-roof:

Till, on emergence, what affronts our gaze?

Priory—Conqueror—Abbey-for-the-Males—

Hey, presto, pass, who conjured all away?

Look through the railwork of the gate: a park

—Yes, butà l'Anglaise, as they compliment!

Grass like green velvet, gravel-walks like gold,

Bosses of shrubs, embosomings of flowers,

Lead you—through sprinkled trees of tiny breed

Disporting, within reach of coverture.

By some habitual acquiescent oak

Or elm, that thinks, and lets the youngsters laugh—

Lead, lift at last your soul that walks the air,

Up to the house-front, or its back perhaps—

Whether facade or no, one coquetry

Of colored brick and carved stone! Stucco? Well,

The daintiness is cheery, that I know,

And all the sportive floral framework fits

The lightsome purpose of the architect.

Those lucarnes which I called conventual, late,

Those are the outlets in the mansard-roof;

And, underneath, what long light elegance

Of windows here suggests how brave inside

Lurk eyeballed gems they play the eyelids to!

Festive arrangements look through such, be sure!

And now the tower a-top, I took for clock's

Or bell's abode, turns out a quaint device,

Pillared and temple-treated Belvedere—

Pavilion safe within its railed-about

Sublimity of area—whence what stretch,

Of sea and land, throughout the seasons' change,

Must greet the solitary! Or suppose,

—If what the husband likes, the wife likes too,—

The happy pair of students cloistered high,

Alone in April kiss when Spring arrives!

Or no, he mounts there by himself to meet

Winds, welcome wafts of sea-smell, first white bird

That flaps thus far to taste the land again,

And all the promise of the youthful year;

Then he descends, unbosoms straight his store

Of blessings in the bud, and both embrace,

Husband and wife, since earth is Paradise,

And man at peace with God. You see it all?

Let us complete our survey, go right roundThe place: for here, it may be, we surpriseThe Priory,—these solid walls, big barns,Gray orchard-grounds, huge four-square stores for stock,Betoken where the Church was busy once.Soon must we come upon the Chapel's self.No doubt next turn will treat us to ... Aha,Again our expectation proves at fault!Still the bright graceful modern—not to sayModish adornment, meets us:Parc Anglais,Tree-sprinkle, shrub-embossment as before.See, the sun splits on yonder bauble worldOf silvered glass concentring, every side,All the adjacent wonder, made minuteAnd touched grotesque by ball-convexity!Just so, a sense that something is amiss,Something is out of sorts in the display,Affects us, past denial, everywhere.The right erection for the Fields, the Wood,(Fields—butElysées, wood—butde Boulogne)Is peradventure wrong for wood and fieldsWhen Vire, not Paris, plays the Capital.So may a good man have deficient taste;Since Son and Heir Miranda, he it wasWho, six years now elapsed, achieved the workAnd truly made a wilderness to smile.Here did their domesticity reside,A happy husband and as happy wife,Till ... how can I in conscience longer keepMy little secret that the man is deadI, for artistic purpose, talk aboutAs if he lived still? No, these two years nowHas he been dead. You ought to sympathize,Not mock the sturdy effort to redeemMy pledge, and wring you out some tragedyFrom even such a perfect commonplace!Suppose I boast the death of such desertMy tragic bit of Red? Who contravenesAssertion that a tragedy existsIn any stoppage of benevolence,Utility, devotion above all?Benevolent? There never was his like:For poverty, he had an open hand... Or stop—I use the wrong expression here—An open purse, then, ever at appeal;So that the unreflecting rather taxedProfusion than penuriousness in alms.One, in his day and generation, deemedOf use to the community? I trust,Clairvaux thus renovated, regalized,Paris expounded thus to Normandy,Answers that question. Was the man devout?After a life—one mere munificenceTo Church and all things churchly, men or mice,—Dying, his last bequeathment gave land, goods,Cash, every stick and stiver, to the Church,And notably to that church yonder, thatBeloved of his soul, La Ravissante—Wherefrom, the latest of his gifts, the StoneGratefully bore me as on arrow-flashTo Clairvaux, as I told you.

Let us complete our survey, go right round

The place: for here, it may be, we surprise

The Priory,—these solid walls, big barns,

Gray orchard-grounds, huge four-square stores for stock,

Betoken where the Church was busy once.

Soon must we come upon the Chapel's self.

No doubt next turn will treat us to ... Aha,

Again our expectation proves at fault!

Still the bright graceful modern—not to say

Modish adornment, meets us:Parc Anglais,

Tree-sprinkle, shrub-embossment as before.

See, the sun splits on yonder bauble world

Of silvered glass concentring, every side,

All the adjacent wonder, made minute

And touched grotesque by ball-convexity!

Just so, a sense that something is amiss,

Something is out of sorts in the display,

Affects us, past denial, everywhere.

The right erection for the Fields, the Wood,

(Fields—butElysées, wood—butde Boulogne)

Is peradventure wrong for wood and fields

When Vire, not Paris, plays the Capital.

So may a good man have deficient taste;

Since Son and Heir Miranda, he it was

Who, six years now elapsed, achieved the work

And truly made a wilderness to smile.

Here did their domesticity reside,

A happy husband and as happy wife,

Till ... how can I in conscience longer keep

My little secret that the man is dead

I, for artistic purpose, talk about

As if he lived still? No, these two years now

Has he been dead. You ought to sympathize,

Not mock the sturdy effort to redeem

My pledge, and wring you out some tragedy

From even such a perfect commonplace!

Suppose I boast the death of such desert

My tragic bit of Red? Who contravenes

Assertion that a tragedy exists

In any stoppage of benevolence,

Utility, devotion above all?

Benevolent? There never was his like:

For poverty, he had an open hand

... Or stop—I use the wrong expression here—

An open purse, then, ever at appeal;

So that the unreflecting rather taxed

Profusion than penuriousness in alms.

One, in his day and generation, deemed

Of use to the community? I trust,

Clairvaux thus renovated, regalized,

Paris expounded thus to Normandy,

Answers that question. Was the man devout?

After a life—one mere munificence

To Church and all things churchly, men or mice,—

Dying, his last bequeathment gave land, goods,

Cash, every stick and stiver, to the Church,

And notably to that church yonder, that

Beloved of his soul, La Ravissante—

Wherefrom, the latest of his gifts, the Stone

Gratefully bore me as on arrow-flash

To Clairvaux, as I told you.

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