"Ay, to findYour Red desiderated article,Where every scratch and scrape provokes my WhiteTo all the more superb a prominence!Why, 't is the story served up fresh again—How it befell the restive prophet oldWho came and tried to curse but blessed the land.Come, your last chance! he disinheritedChildren: he made his widow mourn too muchBy this endowment of the other Bride—Nor understood that gold and jewelryAdorn her in a figure, not a fact.You make that White I want, so very white,'T is I say now—some trace of Red should beSomewhere in this Miranda-sanctitude!"Not here, at all events, sweet mocking friend!For he was childless; and what heirs he hadWere an uncertain sort of CousinryScarce claiming kindred so as to withholdThe donor's purpose though fantastical:Heirs, for that matter, wanting no increaseOf wealth, since rich already as himself;Heirs that had taken trouble off his hands,Bought that productive goldsmith-business he,With abnegation wise as rare, renouncedPrecisely at a time of life when youth,Nigh on departure, bids mid-age discardLife's other loves and likings in a pack,To keep, in lucre, comfort worth them all.This Cousinry are they who boast the shopOf "Firm-Miranda, London and New York."Cousins are an unconscionable kind;But these—pretension surely on their partTo share inheritance were too absurd!"Remains then, he dealt wrongly by his wife,Despoiled her somehow by such testament?"Farther than ever from the mark, fair friend!The man's love for his wife exceeded boundsRather than failed the limit. 'T was to liveHers and hers only, to abolish earthOutside—since Paris holds the pick of earth—He turned his back, shut eyes, stopped ears, to allDelicious Paris tempts her children with,And fled away to this far solitude—She peopling solitude sufficiently!She, partner in each heavenward flight sublime,Was, with each condescension to the ground,Duly associate also: hand in hand,... Or side by side, I say by preference—On every good work sidlingly they went.Hers was the instigation—none but sheWilled that, if death should summon first her lord,Though she, sad relict, must drag residueOf days encumbered by this load of wealth—(Submitted to with something of a graceSo long as her surviving vigilanceMight worthily administer, convertWealth to God's glory and the good of man,Give, as in life, so now in death, effectTo cherished purpose)—yet she begged and prayedThat, when no longer she could superviseThe House, it should become a Hospital:For the support whereof, lands, goods, and cashAlike will go, in happy guardianship,To yonder church, La Ravissante: who debtTo God and man undoubtedly will pay."Not of the world, your heroine!"Do you knowI saw her yesterday—set eyes uponThe veritable personage, no dream?I in the morning strolled this way, as oft,And stood at entry of the avenue.When, out from that first garden-gate, we gazedUpon and through, a small procession swept—Madame Miranda with attendants five.First, of herself: she wore a soft and whiteEngaging dress, with velvet stripes and squaresSeverely black, yet scarce discouraging:Fresh Paris-manufacture! (Vire's would do?I doubt it, but confess my ignorance.)Her figure? somewhat small and darling-like.Her face? well, singularly colorless,For first thing: which scarce suits a blonde, you know.Pretty you would not call her: though perhapsAttaining to the ends of prettiness,And somewhat more, suppose enough of soul.Then she is forty full: you cannot judgeWhat beauty was her portion at eighteen,The age she married at. So, colorlessI stick to, and if featureless I add,Your notion grows completer: for, althoughI noticed that her nose was aquiline,The whole effect amounts with me to—blank!I never saw what I could less describe.The eyes, for instance, unforgettableWhich ought to be, are out of mind as sight.Yet is there not conceivably a face,A set of wax-like features, blank at first,Which, as you bendingly grow warm above,Begins to take impressment from your breath?Which, as your will itself were plastic hereNor needed exercise of handicraft,From formless moulds itself to correspondWith all you think and feel and are—in fineGrows a new revelation of yourself,Who know now for the first time what you want?Here has been something that could wait awhile,Learn your requirement, nor take shape before,But, by adopting it, make palpableYour right to an importance of your own,Companions somehow were so slow to see!—Far delicater solace to conceitThan should some absolute and final face,Fit representative of soul inside,Summon you to surrender—in no wayYour breath's impressment, nor, in stranger's guise,Yourself—or why of force to challenge you?Why should your soul's reflection rule your soul?("You" means not you, nor me, nor any oneFramed, for a reason I shall keep suppressed,To rather want a master than a slave:The slavish still aspires to dominate!)So, all I say is, that the face, to meOne blur of blank, might flash significanceTo who had seen his soul reflected thereBy that symmetric silvery phantom-likeFigure, with other five processional.The first, a black-dressed matron—maybe, maid—Mature, and dragonish of aspect,—marched;Then four came tripping in a joyous flock,Two giant goats and two prodigious sheepPure as the arctic fox that suits the snow,Tripped, trotted, turned the march to merriment,But ambled at their mistress' heel—for why?A rod of guidance marked the Châtelaine,And ever and anon would sceptre wave,And silky subject leave meandering.Nay, one great naked sheep-face stopped to askWho was the stranger, snuffed inquisitiveMy hand that made acquaintance with its nose,Examined why the hand—of man at least—Patted so lightly, warmly, so like life!Are they such silly natures after all?And thus accompanied, the paled-off space,Isleted shrubs and verdure, gained the group;Till, as I gave a furtive glance, and sawHer back-hair was a block of solid gold,The gate shut out my harmless question—HairSo young and yellow, crowning sanctity,And claiming solitude ... can hair be false?"Shut in the hair and with it your last hope,Yellow might on inspection pass for Red!—Red, Red, where is the tinge of promised RedIn this old tale of town and country life,This rise and progress of a family?First comes the bustling man of enterprise,The fortune-founding father, rightly rough,As who must grub and grab, play pioneer.Then, with a light and airy step, succeedsThe son, surveys the fabric of his sire,And enters home, unsmirched from top to toe.Polish and education qualifyTheir fortunate possessor to confineHis occupancy to the first-floor suiteRather than keep exploring needlesslyWhere dwelt his sire content with cellarage:Industry bustles underneath, no doubt,And supervisors should not sit too close.Next, rooms built, there 's the furniture to buy,And what adornment like a worthy wife?In comes she like some foreign cabinet,Purchased indeed, but purifying quickWhat space receives it from all traffic-taint.She tells of other habits, palace-life;Royalty may have pried into those depthsOf sandal-wooded drawer, and set a-creakThat pygmy portal pranked with lazuli.More fit by far the ignoble we replaceBy objects suited to such visitant,Than that we desecrate her dignityBy neighborhood of vulgar table, chair,Which haply helped old age to smoke and doze.The end is, an exchange of city stirAnd too intrusive burgess-fellowship,For rural isolated elegance,Careless simplicity, how preferable!There one may fairly throw behind one's backThe used-up worn-out Past, we want away,And make a fresh beginning of stale life.'In just the place'—does any one object?—'Where aboriginal gentilityWill scout the upstart, twit him with each trickOf townish trade-mark that stamps word and deed,And most of all resent that here town-drossHe daubs with money-color to deceive!'Rashly objected! Is there not the ChurchTo intercede and bring benefic truceAt outset? She it is shall equalizeThe laborers i' the vineyard, last as first.Pay court to her, she stops impertinence.'Duke, once your sires crusaded it, we know:Our friend the newcomer observes, no less,Your chapel, rich with their emblazonry,Wants roofing—might he but supply the means!Marquise, you gave the honor of your name,Titular patronage, abundant willTo what should be an Orphan Institute:Gave everything but funds, in brief; and these,Our friend, the lady newly resident,Proposes to contribute, by your leave!'Brothers and sisters lie they in thy lap,Thou none-excluding, all-collecting Church!Sure, one has half a foot i' the hierarchyOf birth, when 'Nay, my dear,' laughs out the Duke,'I 'm the crown's cushion-carrier, but the crown—Who gave its central glory, I or you?'When Marquise jokes, 'My quest, forsooth? Each doitI scrape together goes for Peter-penceTo purvey bread and water in his bondsFor Peter's self imprisoned—Lord, how long?Yours, yours alone the bounty, dear my dame,You plumped the purse, which, poured into the plate,Made the Archbishop open brows so broad!And if you really mean to give that lengthOf lovely lace to edge the robe!' ... Ah, friends,Gem better serves so than by calling crowd,Round shop-front to admire the million's-worth!Lace gets more homage than from lorgnette-stare,And comment coarse to match, (should one displayOne's robe a trifle o'er the baignoire-edge,)'Well may she line her slippers with the like,If minded so! their shop it was producedThat wonderfulparure, the other day,Whereof the Baron said, it beggared him.'And so the paired Mirandas built their house,Enjoyed their fortune, sighed for family,Found friends would serve their purpose quite as well,And come, at need, from Paris—anyhow,With evident alacrity, from Vire—Endeavor at the chase, at least succeedIn smoking, eating, drinking, laughing, andPreferring country, oh so much to town!Thus lived the husband; though his wife would sighIn confidence, when Countesses were kind,'Cut off from Paris and society!'White, White, I once more round you in the ears!Though you have marked it, in a corner, yoursHenceforth,—Red-lettered 'Failure,' very plain,I shall acknowledge, on the snowy hemOf ordinary Night-cap! Come, enough!We have gone round its cotton vastitude,Or half-round, for the end 's consistent still,Acul-de-sacwith stoppage at the sea.Here we return upon our steps. One lookMay bid good-morning—properly good-night—To civic bliss, Miranda and his mate!Are we to rise and go?"No, sit and stay!Now comes my moment, with the thrilling throwOf curtain from each side a shrouded case.Don't the rings shriek an ominous "Ha! ha!So you take Human Nature upon trust"?List but with like trust to an incidentWhich speedily shall make quite Red enoughBurn out of yonder spotless napery!Sit on the little mound here, whence you seizeThe whole of the gay front sun-satisfied,One laugh of color and embellishment!Because it was there,—past those laurustines,On that smooth gravel-sweep 'twixt flowers and sward,—There tragic death befell; and not one graceOutspread before you but is registeredIn that sinistrous coil these last two yearsWere occupied in winding smooth again."True?" Well, at least it was concluded so,Sworn to be truth, allowed by Law as such,(With my concurrence, if it matter here,)A month ago: at Vire they tried the case.IIMonsieur Léonce Miranda, then, ... but stay!Permit me a preliminary word,And, after, all shall go so straight to end!Have you, the travelled lady, found yourselfInside a ruin, fane or bath or cirque,Renowned in story, dear through youthful dream?If not,—imagination serves as well.Try fancy-land, go back a thousand years,Or forward, half the number, and confrontSome work of art gnawn hollow by Time's tooth,—Hellenic temple, Roman theatre,Gothic cathedral, Gallic Tuileries,But ruined, one and whichsoe'er you like.Obstructions choke what still remains intact,Yet proffer change that 's picturesque in turn;Since little life begins where great life ends,And vegetation soon amalgamates,Smooths novel shape from out the shapeless old,Till broken column, battered cornice-block,The centre with a bulk half weeds and flowers,Half relics you devoutly recognize.Devoutly recognizing,—hark, a voiceNot to be disregarded! "Man worked hereOnce on a time; here needs again to work;Ruins obstruct, which man must remedy."Would you demur "Let Time fulfil his task,And, till the scythe-sweep find no obstacle,Let man be patient"?The reply were prompt:"Glisteningly beneath the May-night moon,Herbage and floral coverture bedeckYon splintered mass amidst the solitude:Wolves occupy the background, or some snakeGlides by at distance: picturesque enough!Therefore, preserve it? Nay, pour daylight in,—The mound proves swarming with humanity.There never was a thorough solitude,Now you look nearer: mortal busy lifeFirst of all brought the crumblings down on pate,Which trip man's foot still, plague his passage much,And prove—what seems to you so picturesqueTo him is ... but experiment yourselfOn how conducive to a happy homeWill be the circumstance, your bed for baseBoasts tessellated pavement,—equallyAffected by the scorpion for his nest,—While what o'er-roofs bed is an architrave,Marble, and not unlikely to crush manTo mummy, should its venerable prop,Some figtree-stump, play traitor underneath.Be wise! Decide! For conservation's sake,Clear the arena forthwith! lest the treadOf too-much-tried impatience trample outSolid and unsubstantial to one blankMud-mixture, picturesque to nobody,—And, task done, quarrel with the parts intactWhence came the filtered fine dust, whence the crashBides but its time to follow. Quick concludeRemoval, time effects so tardily,Of what is plain obstruction; rubbish cleared,Let partial-ruin stand while ruin may,And serve world's use, since use is manifold.Repair wreck, stanchion wall to heart's content,But never think of renovation pureAnd simple, which involves creation too:Transform and welcome! Yon tall tower may help(Though built to be a belfry and naught else)Some Father Secchi, to tick Venus offIn transit: never bring there bell again,To damage him aloft, brain us below,When new vibrations bury both in brick!"Monsieur Léonce Miranda, furnishingThe application at his cost, poor soul!Was instanced how,—because the world lay strewnWith ravage of opinions in his path,And neither he, nor any friendly wit,Knew and could teach him which was firm, which frail,In his adventure to walk straight through lifeThe partial-ruin,—in such enterprise,He straggled into rubbish, struggled on,And stumbled out again observably."Yon buttress still can back me up," he judged:And at a touch down came both he and it."A certain statue, I was warned against,Now, by good fortune, lies well underfoot,And cannot tempt to folly any more:"So, lifting eye, aloft since safety lay,What did he light on? the Idalian shape,The undeposed, erectly Victrix still!"These steps ascend the labyrinthine stairWhence, darkling and on all-fours, out I standExalt and safe, and bid low earth adieu—For so instructs 'Advice to who would climb:'"And all at once the climbing landed him—Where, is my story.Take its moral first.Do you advise a climber? Have respectTo the poor head, with more or less of brainsTo spill, should breakage follow your advice!Head-break to him will be heart-break to youFor having preached "Disturb no ruins here!Are not they crumbling of their own accord?Meantime, let poets, painters keep a prize!Beside, a sage pedestrian picks his way."A sage pedestrian—such as you and I!What if there trip, in merry carelessness,And come to grief, a weak and foolish child?Be cautious how you counsel climbing, then!Are you adventurous and climb yourself?Plant the foot warily, accept a staff,Stamp only where you probe the standing-point,Move forward, well assured that move you may:Where you mistrust advance, stop short, there stick!This makes advancing slow and difficult?Hear what comes of the endeavor of brisk youthTo foot it fast and easy! Keep this sameNotion of outside mound and inside mash,Towers yet intact round turfy rottenness,Symbolic partial-ravage,—keep in mind!Here fortune placed his feet who first of allFound no incumbrance, till head found ... But hear!This son and heir then of the jeweller,Monsieur Léonce Miranda, at his birth,Mixed the Castilian passionate blind bloodWith answerable gush, his mother's gift,Of spirit, French and critical and cold.Such mixture makes a battle in the brain,Ending as faith or doubt gets uppermost;Then will has way a moment, but no more:So nicely balanced are the adverse strengths,That victory entails reverse next time.The tactics of the two are differentAnd equalize the odds: for blood comes first,Surrounding life with undisputed faith.But presently a new antagonist,By scarce-suspected passage in the dark,Steals spirit, fingers at each crevice foundAthwart faith's stronghold, fronts the astonished man:"Such pains to keep me far, yet here stand I,Your doubt inside the faith-defence of you!"With faith it was friends bulwarked him aboutFrom infancy to boyhood; so, by youth,He stood impenetrably circuited,Heaven-high and low as hell: what lacked he thus,Guarded against aggression, storm or sap?What foe would dare approach? Historic Doubt?Ay, were there some half-knowledge to attack!Batter doubt's best, sheer ignorance will beat.Acumen metaphysic?—drills its wayThrough what, I wonder! A thick feather-bedOf thoughtlessness, no operating tool—Framed to transpierce the flint-stone—fumbles at,With chance of finding an impediment!This Ravissante, now: when he saw the churchFor the first time, and to his dying-day,His firm belief was that the name fell fitFrom the Delivering Virgin, niched and known;As if there wanted records to attestThe appellation was a pleasantry,A pious rendering of Rare Vissante,The proper name which erst our province bore.He would have told you that Saint AldabertFounded the church, (Heaven early favored France,)About the second century from Christ;Though the true man was Bishop of Raimbaux,Eleventh in succession, Eldobert,Who flourished after some six hundred years.He it was brought the image "from afar,"(Made out of stone the place produces still,)"Infantine Art divinely artless," (ArtIn the decrepitude of Decadence,)And set it up a-working miraclesUntil the Northmen's fury laid it low,Not long, however: an egregious sheep,Zealous with scratching hoof and routing horn,Unearthed the image in good Mailleville's time,Count of the country. "If the tale be false,Why stands it carved above the portal plain?"Monsieur Léonce Miranda used to ask.To Londres went the prize in solemn pomp,But, liking old abode and loathing new,Was borne—this time, by angels—back again.And, reinaugurated, miracleSucceeded miracle, a lengthy list,Until indeed the culmination came—Archbishop Chaumont prayed a prayer and vowedA vow—gained prayer and paid vow properly—For the conversion of Prince Vertgalant.These facts, sucked in along with mother's-milk,Monsieur Léonce Miranda would disputeAs soon as that his hands were flesh and bone,Milk-nourished two-and-twenty years before.So fortified by blind Castilian blood,What say you to the chances of French coldCritical spirit, should Voltaire besiege"Alp, Apennine, and fortified redoubt"?Ay, would such spirit please to play faith's gameFaith's way, attack where faith defends so well!But then it shifts, tries other strategy.Coldness grows warmth, the critical becomesUnquestioning acceptance. "Share and shareAlike in facts, to truth add other truth!Why with old truth needs new truth disagree?"Thus doubt was found invading faith, this time,By help of not the spirit but the flesh:Fat Rabelais chuckled, where faith lay in waitFor lean Voltaire's grimace—French, either foe.Accordingly, while round about our friendRan faith without a break which learned eyeCould find at two-and-twenty years of age,The twenty-two-years-old frank footstep soonAssured itself there spread a standing-spaceFlowery and comfortable, nowise rockNor pebble-pavement roughed for champion's treadWho scorns discomfort, pacing at his post.Tall, long-limbed, shoulder right and shoulder left,And 'twixtacromiasuch a latitude,Black heaps of hair on head, and blacker bushO'er-rioting chin, cheek and throat and chest,—His brown meridional temperamentTold him—or rather pricked into his sensePlainer than language—"Pleasant station here!Youth, strength, and lustihood can sleep on turfYet pace the stony platform afterward:First signal of a foe and up they start!Saint Eldobert, at all such vanity,Nay—sinfulness, had shaken head austere.Had he? But did Prince Vertgalant? And yet,After how long a slumber, of what sort,Was it, he stretched octogenary joints,And, nigh on Day-of-Judgment trumpet-blast,Jumped up and manned wall, brisk as any bee?"Nor Rabelais nor Voltaire, but Sganarelle,You comprehend, was pushing through the chink!That stager in the saint's correct costume,Who ever has his speech in readinessFor thick-head juvenility at fault:"Go pace yon platform and play sentinel!You won't? The worse! but still a worse might hap.Stay then, provided that you keep in sightThe battlement, one bold leap lands you by!Resolve not desperately 'Wall or turf,Choose this, choose that, but no alternative!'No! Earth left once were left for good and all:'With Heaven you may accommodate yourself.'"Saint Eldobert—I much approve his mode;With sinner Vertgalant I sympathize;But histrionic Sganarelle, who promptsWhile pulling back, refuses yet concedes,—Whether he preach in chair, or print in book,Or whisper due sustainment to weak flesh,Counting his sham beads threaded on a lie—Surely, one should bid pack that mountebank!Surely, he must have momentary fitsOf self-sufficient stage-forgetfulness,Escapings of the actor-lassitudeWhen he allows the grace to show the grin,Which ought to let even thickheads recognize(Through all the busy and benefic part,—Bridge-building, or rock-riving, or good cleanTransport of church and congregation bothFrom this to that place with no harm at all,)The Devil, that old stager, at his trickOf general utility, who leadsDownward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!Therefore, no sooner does our candidateFor saintship spotlessly emerge soul-cleansedFrom First Communion to mount guard at post,Paris-proof, top to toe, than up there startThe Spirit of the Boulevard—you know Who—With jocund "So, a structure fixed as fate,Faith's tower joins on to tower, no ring more round,Full fifty years at distance, too, from youth!Once reach that precinct and there fight your best,As looking back you wonder what has comeOf daisy-dappled turf you danced across!Few flowers that played with youth shall pester age,However age esteem the courtesy;And Eldobert was something past his prime,Stocked Caen with churches ere he tried hand here.Saint-Sauveur, Notre-Dame, Saint-Pierre, Saint-JeanAttest his handiwork commenced betimes.He probably would preach that turf is mud.Suppose it mud, through mud one picks a way,And when, clay-clogged, the struggler steps to stone,He uncakes shoe, arrives in manlier guiseThan carried pick-a-back by EldobertBig-baby-fashion, lest his leathers leak!All that parade about Prince VertgalantAmounts to—your Castilian helps enough—Inveni ovem quæ perierat.But ask the pretty votive statue-thingWhat the lost sheep's meantime amusements wereTill the Archbishop found him! That stays blank:They washed the fleece well and forgot the rest.Make haste, since time flies, to determine, though!"Thus opportunely took up parable,—Admonishing Miranda just emergedPure from The Ravissante and Paris-proof,—Saint Sganarelle: then slipped aside, changed mask,And made re-entry as a gentlemanBorn of the Boulevard, with another speech,I spare you.So, the year or two revolved,And ever the young man was dutifulTo altar and to hearth: had confidenceIn the whole Ravissantish history.Voltaire? Who ought to know so much of him,—Old sciolist, whom only boys think sage,—As one whose father's house upon the QuaiNeighbored the very house where that VoltaireDied mad and raving, not without a burstOf squibs and crackers too significant?Father and mother hailed their best of sons,Type of obedience, domesticity,Never such an example inside doors!Outside, as well not keep too close a watch;Youth must be left to some discretion there.And what discretion proved, I find deposedAt Vire, confirmed by his own words: to wit,How, with the spriteliness of twenty-five,Five—and not twenty, for he gave their namesWith laudable precision—were the fewAppointed by him unto mistress-ship;While, meritoriously the whole long weekA votary of commerce only, weekEnded, "at shut of shop on Saturday,Do I, as is my wont, get drunk," he writesIn airy record to a confidant."Bragging and lies!" replies the apologist:"And do I lose by that?" laughed Somebody,At the Court-edge a-tiptoe, 'mid the crowd,In his own clothes, a-listening to men's Law.Thus while, prospectively a combatant,The volunteer bent brows, clenched jaws, and fierceWhistled the march-tune "Warrior to the wall!"Something like flowery laughters round his feetTangled him of a sudden with "Sleep first!"And fairly flat upon the turf sprawled he,And let strange creatures make his mouth their home.Anyhow, 't is the nature of the soulTo seek a show of durability,Nor, changing, plainly be the slave of change.Outside the turf, the towers: but, round the turf,A tent may rise, a temporary shroud,Mock-faith to suit a mimic dwelling-place:Tent which, while screening jollity insideFrom the external circuit—evermoreA menace to who lags when he should march—Yet stands a-tremble, ready to collapseAt touch of foot: turf is acknowledged grass,And grass, though pillowy, held contemptibleCompared with solid rock, the rampired ridge.To truth a pretty homage thus we payBy testifying—what we dally with,Falsehood, (which, never fear we take for truth!)We may enjoy, but then—how we despise!Accordingly, on weighty business bound,Monsieur Léonce Miranda stooped to play,But, with experience, soon reduced the gameTo principles, and thenceforth played by rule:Rule, dignifying sport as sport, proclaimedNo less that sport was sport, and nothing more.He understood the worth of womankind,—To furnish man—provisionally—sport:Sport transitive—such earth's amusements are:But, seeing that amusements pall by use,Variety therein is requisite.And since the serious work of life were wrongedShould we bestow importance on our play,It follows, in such womankind-pursuit,Cheating is lawful chase. We have to spendAn hour—they want a lifetime thrown away:We seek to tickle sense—they ask for soul,As if soul had no higher ends to serve!A stag-hunt gives the royal creature law:Bat-fowling is all fair with birds at roost,The lantern and the clap-net suit the hedge.Which must explain why, bent on Boulevard game,Monsieur Léonce Miranda decentlyWas prudent in his pleasure—passed himselfOff on the fragile fair about his pathAs the gay devil rich in mere good looks,Youth, hope—what matter though the purse be void?"If I were only young Miranda, now,Instead of a poor clerkly drudge at deskAll day, poor artist vainly bruising brushOn palette, poor musician scraping gutWith horsehair teased that no harmonics come!Then would I love with liberality,Then would I pay!—who now shall be repaid,Repaid alike for present pain and past,If Mademoiselle permit the contre-danse,Sing 'Gay in garret youth at twenty lives,'And afterward accept a lemonade!"Such sweet facilities of intercourseAfford the Winter-Garden and Mabille!"Oh, I unite"—runs on the confidence,Poor fellow, that was read in open Court,—"Amusement with discretion: never fearMy escapades cost more than market-price!No durably-attached Miranda-dupe,Sucked dry of substance by two clinging lips,Promising marriage, and performing it!Trust me, I know the world, and know myself,And know where duty takes me—in good time!"Thus fortified and realistic, then,At all points thus against illusion armed,He wisely did New Year inaugurateBy playing truant to the favored five:And sat installed at "The Varieties,"—Playhouse appropriately named,—to note(Prying amid the turf that 's flowery there)What primrose, firstling of the year, might pushThe snows aside to deck his buttonhole—Unnoticed by that outline sad, severe,(Though fifty good long years removed from youth,)That tower and tower,—our image bear in mind!No sooner was he seated than, behold,Out burst a polyanthus! He was 'wareOf a young woman niched in neighborhood;And ere one moment flitted, fast was heFound captive to the beauty evermore,For life, for death, for heaven, for hell, her own.Philosophy, bewail thy fate! Adieu,Youth realistic and illusion-proof!Monsieur Léonce Miranda,—hero lateWho "understood the worth of womankind,""Who found therein—provisionally—sport,"—Felt, in the flitting of a moment, foolWas he, and folly all that seemed so wise,And the best proof of wisdom's birth would beThat he made all endeavor, body, soul,By any means, at any sacrificeOf labor, wealth, repute, and (—well, the timeFor choosing between heaven on earth, and heavenIn heaven, was not at hand immediately—)Made all endeavor, without loss incurredOf one least minute, to obtain her love."Sport transitive?" "Variety required?""In loving were a lifetime thrown away?"How singularly may young men mistake!The fault must be repaired with energy.Monsieur Léonce Miranda ate her upWith eye-devouring; when the unconscious fairPassed from the close-packed hall, he pressed behind;She mounted vehicle, he did the same,Coach stopped, and cab fast followed, at one door—Good house in unexceptionable street.Out stepped the lady,—never think, alone!A mother was not wanting to the maid,Or, maybe, wife, or widow, might one say?Out stepped and properly down flung himselfMonsieur Léonce Miranda at her feet—And never left them after, so to speak,For twenty years, till his last hour of life,When he released them, as precipitate.Love proffered and accepted then and there!Such potency in word and look has truth.
"Ay, to findYour Red desiderated article,Where every scratch and scrape provokes my WhiteTo all the more superb a prominence!Why, 't is the story served up fresh again—How it befell the restive prophet oldWho came and tried to curse but blessed the land.Come, your last chance! he disinheritedChildren: he made his widow mourn too muchBy this endowment of the other Bride—Nor understood that gold and jewelryAdorn her in a figure, not a fact.You make that White I want, so very white,'T is I say now—some trace of Red should beSomewhere in this Miranda-sanctitude!"Not here, at all events, sweet mocking friend!For he was childless; and what heirs he hadWere an uncertain sort of CousinryScarce claiming kindred so as to withholdThe donor's purpose though fantastical:Heirs, for that matter, wanting no increaseOf wealth, since rich already as himself;Heirs that had taken trouble off his hands,Bought that productive goldsmith-business he,With abnegation wise as rare, renouncedPrecisely at a time of life when youth,Nigh on departure, bids mid-age discardLife's other loves and likings in a pack,To keep, in lucre, comfort worth them all.This Cousinry are they who boast the shopOf "Firm-Miranda, London and New York."Cousins are an unconscionable kind;But these—pretension surely on their partTo share inheritance were too absurd!"Remains then, he dealt wrongly by his wife,Despoiled her somehow by such testament?"Farther than ever from the mark, fair friend!The man's love for his wife exceeded boundsRather than failed the limit. 'T was to liveHers and hers only, to abolish earthOutside—since Paris holds the pick of earth—He turned his back, shut eyes, stopped ears, to allDelicious Paris tempts her children with,And fled away to this far solitude—She peopling solitude sufficiently!She, partner in each heavenward flight sublime,Was, with each condescension to the ground,Duly associate also: hand in hand,... Or side by side, I say by preference—On every good work sidlingly they went.Hers was the instigation—none but sheWilled that, if death should summon first her lord,Though she, sad relict, must drag residueOf days encumbered by this load of wealth—(Submitted to with something of a graceSo long as her surviving vigilanceMight worthily administer, convertWealth to God's glory and the good of man,Give, as in life, so now in death, effectTo cherished purpose)—yet she begged and prayedThat, when no longer she could superviseThe House, it should become a Hospital:For the support whereof, lands, goods, and cashAlike will go, in happy guardianship,To yonder church, La Ravissante: who debtTo God and man undoubtedly will pay."Not of the world, your heroine!"Do you knowI saw her yesterday—set eyes uponThe veritable personage, no dream?I in the morning strolled this way, as oft,And stood at entry of the avenue.When, out from that first garden-gate, we gazedUpon and through, a small procession swept—Madame Miranda with attendants five.First, of herself: she wore a soft and whiteEngaging dress, with velvet stripes and squaresSeverely black, yet scarce discouraging:Fresh Paris-manufacture! (Vire's would do?I doubt it, but confess my ignorance.)Her figure? somewhat small and darling-like.Her face? well, singularly colorless,For first thing: which scarce suits a blonde, you know.Pretty you would not call her: though perhapsAttaining to the ends of prettiness,And somewhat more, suppose enough of soul.Then she is forty full: you cannot judgeWhat beauty was her portion at eighteen,The age she married at. So, colorlessI stick to, and if featureless I add,Your notion grows completer: for, althoughI noticed that her nose was aquiline,The whole effect amounts with me to—blank!I never saw what I could less describe.The eyes, for instance, unforgettableWhich ought to be, are out of mind as sight.Yet is there not conceivably a face,A set of wax-like features, blank at first,Which, as you bendingly grow warm above,Begins to take impressment from your breath?Which, as your will itself were plastic hereNor needed exercise of handicraft,From formless moulds itself to correspondWith all you think and feel and are—in fineGrows a new revelation of yourself,Who know now for the first time what you want?Here has been something that could wait awhile,Learn your requirement, nor take shape before,But, by adopting it, make palpableYour right to an importance of your own,Companions somehow were so slow to see!—Far delicater solace to conceitThan should some absolute and final face,Fit representative of soul inside,Summon you to surrender—in no wayYour breath's impressment, nor, in stranger's guise,Yourself—or why of force to challenge you?Why should your soul's reflection rule your soul?("You" means not you, nor me, nor any oneFramed, for a reason I shall keep suppressed,To rather want a master than a slave:The slavish still aspires to dominate!)So, all I say is, that the face, to meOne blur of blank, might flash significanceTo who had seen his soul reflected thereBy that symmetric silvery phantom-likeFigure, with other five processional.The first, a black-dressed matron—maybe, maid—Mature, and dragonish of aspect,—marched;Then four came tripping in a joyous flock,Two giant goats and two prodigious sheepPure as the arctic fox that suits the snow,Tripped, trotted, turned the march to merriment,But ambled at their mistress' heel—for why?A rod of guidance marked the Châtelaine,And ever and anon would sceptre wave,And silky subject leave meandering.Nay, one great naked sheep-face stopped to askWho was the stranger, snuffed inquisitiveMy hand that made acquaintance with its nose,Examined why the hand—of man at least—Patted so lightly, warmly, so like life!Are they such silly natures after all?And thus accompanied, the paled-off space,Isleted shrubs and verdure, gained the group;Till, as I gave a furtive glance, and sawHer back-hair was a block of solid gold,The gate shut out my harmless question—HairSo young and yellow, crowning sanctity,And claiming solitude ... can hair be false?"Shut in the hair and with it your last hope,Yellow might on inspection pass for Red!—Red, Red, where is the tinge of promised RedIn this old tale of town and country life,This rise and progress of a family?First comes the bustling man of enterprise,The fortune-founding father, rightly rough,As who must grub and grab, play pioneer.Then, with a light and airy step, succeedsThe son, surveys the fabric of his sire,And enters home, unsmirched from top to toe.Polish and education qualifyTheir fortunate possessor to confineHis occupancy to the first-floor suiteRather than keep exploring needlesslyWhere dwelt his sire content with cellarage:Industry bustles underneath, no doubt,And supervisors should not sit too close.Next, rooms built, there 's the furniture to buy,And what adornment like a worthy wife?In comes she like some foreign cabinet,Purchased indeed, but purifying quickWhat space receives it from all traffic-taint.She tells of other habits, palace-life;Royalty may have pried into those depthsOf sandal-wooded drawer, and set a-creakThat pygmy portal pranked with lazuli.More fit by far the ignoble we replaceBy objects suited to such visitant,Than that we desecrate her dignityBy neighborhood of vulgar table, chair,Which haply helped old age to smoke and doze.The end is, an exchange of city stirAnd too intrusive burgess-fellowship,For rural isolated elegance,Careless simplicity, how preferable!There one may fairly throw behind one's backThe used-up worn-out Past, we want away,And make a fresh beginning of stale life.'In just the place'—does any one object?—'Where aboriginal gentilityWill scout the upstart, twit him with each trickOf townish trade-mark that stamps word and deed,And most of all resent that here town-drossHe daubs with money-color to deceive!'Rashly objected! Is there not the ChurchTo intercede and bring benefic truceAt outset? She it is shall equalizeThe laborers i' the vineyard, last as first.Pay court to her, she stops impertinence.'Duke, once your sires crusaded it, we know:Our friend the newcomer observes, no less,Your chapel, rich with their emblazonry,Wants roofing—might he but supply the means!Marquise, you gave the honor of your name,Titular patronage, abundant willTo what should be an Orphan Institute:Gave everything but funds, in brief; and these,Our friend, the lady newly resident,Proposes to contribute, by your leave!'Brothers and sisters lie they in thy lap,Thou none-excluding, all-collecting Church!Sure, one has half a foot i' the hierarchyOf birth, when 'Nay, my dear,' laughs out the Duke,'I 'm the crown's cushion-carrier, but the crown—Who gave its central glory, I or you?'When Marquise jokes, 'My quest, forsooth? Each doitI scrape together goes for Peter-penceTo purvey bread and water in his bondsFor Peter's self imprisoned—Lord, how long?Yours, yours alone the bounty, dear my dame,You plumped the purse, which, poured into the plate,Made the Archbishop open brows so broad!And if you really mean to give that lengthOf lovely lace to edge the robe!' ... Ah, friends,Gem better serves so than by calling crowd,Round shop-front to admire the million's-worth!Lace gets more homage than from lorgnette-stare,And comment coarse to match, (should one displayOne's robe a trifle o'er the baignoire-edge,)'Well may she line her slippers with the like,If minded so! their shop it was producedThat wonderfulparure, the other day,Whereof the Baron said, it beggared him.'And so the paired Mirandas built their house,Enjoyed their fortune, sighed for family,Found friends would serve their purpose quite as well,And come, at need, from Paris—anyhow,With evident alacrity, from Vire—Endeavor at the chase, at least succeedIn smoking, eating, drinking, laughing, andPreferring country, oh so much to town!Thus lived the husband; though his wife would sighIn confidence, when Countesses were kind,'Cut off from Paris and society!'White, White, I once more round you in the ears!Though you have marked it, in a corner, yoursHenceforth,—Red-lettered 'Failure,' very plain,I shall acknowledge, on the snowy hemOf ordinary Night-cap! Come, enough!We have gone round its cotton vastitude,Or half-round, for the end 's consistent still,Acul-de-sacwith stoppage at the sea.Here we return upon our steps. One lookMay bid good-morning—properly good-night—To civic bliss, Miranda and his mate!Are we to rise and go?"No, sit and stay!Now comes my moment, with the thrilling throwOf curtain from each side a shrouded case.Don't the rings shriek an ominous "Ha! ha!So you take Human Nature upon trust"?List but with like trust to an incidentWhich speedily shall make quite Red enoughBurn out of yonder spotless napery!Sit on the little mound here, whence you seizeThe whole of the gay front sun-satisfied,One laugh of color and embellishment!Because it was there,—past those laurustines,On that smooth gravel-sweep 'twixt flowers and sward,—There tragic death befell; and not one graceOutspread before you but is registeredIn that sinistrous coil these last two yearsWere occupied in winding smooth again."True?" Well, at least it was concluded so,Sworn to be truth, allowed by Law as such,(With my concurrence, if it matter here,)A month ago: at Vire they tried the case.IIMonsieur Léonce Miranda, then, ... but stay!Permit me a preliminary word,And, after, all shall go so straight to end!Have you, the travelled lady, found yourselfInside a ruin, fane or bath or cirque,Renowned in story, dear through youthful dream?If not,—imagination serves as well.Try fancy-land, go back a thousand years,Or forward, half the number, and confrontSome work of art gnawn hollow by Time's tooth,—Hellenic temple, Roman theatre,Gothic cathedral, Gallic Tuileries,But ruined, one and whichsoe'er you like.Obstructions choke what still remains intact,Yet proffer change that 's picturesque in turn;Since little life begins where great life ends,And vegetation soon amalgamates,Smooths novel shape from out the shapeless old,Till broken column, battered cornice-block,The centre with a bulk half weeds and flowers,Half relics you devoutly recognize.Devoutly recognizing,—hark, a voiceNot to be disregarded! "Man worked hereOnce on a time; here needs again to work;Ruins obstruct, which man must remedy."Would you demur "Let Time fulfil his task,And, till the scythe-sweep find no obstacle,Let man be patient"?The reply were prompt:"Glisteningly beneath the May-night moon,Herbage and floral coverture bedeckYon splintered mass amidst the solitude:Wolves occupy the background, or some snakeGlides by at distance: picturesque enough!Therefore, preserve it? Nay, pour daylight in,—The mound proves swarming with humanity.There never was a thorough solitude,Now you look nearer: mortal busy lifeFirst of all brought the crumblings down on pate,Which trip man's foot still, plague his passage much,And prove—what seems to you so picturesqueTo him is ... but experiment yourselfOn how conducive to a happy homeWill be the circumstance, your bed for baseBoasts tessellated pavement,—equallyAffected by the scorpion for his nest,—While what o'er-roofs bed is an architrave,Marble, and not unlikely to crush manTo mummy, should its venerable prop,Some figtree-stump, play traitor underneath.Be wise! Decide! For conservation's sake,Clear the arena forthwith! lest the treadOf too-much-tried impatience trample outSolid and unsubstantial to one blankMud-mixture, picturesque to nobody,—And, task done, quarrel with the parts intactWhence came the filtered fine dust, whence the crashBides but its time to follow. Quick concludeRemoval, time effects so tardily,Of what is plain obstruction; rubbish cleared,Let partial-ruin stand while ruin may,And serve world's use, since use is manifold.Repair wreck, stanchion wall to heart's content,But never think of renovation pureAnd simple, which involves creation too:Transform and welcome! Yon tall tower may help(Though built to be a belfry and naught else)Some Father Secchi, to tick Venus offIn transit: never bring there bell again,To damage him aloft, brain us below,When new vibrations bury both in brick!"Monsieur Léonce Miranda, furnishingThe application at his cost, poor soul!Was instanced how,—because the world lay strewnWith ravage of opinions in his path,And neither he, nor any friendly wit,Knew and could teach him which was firm, which frail,In his adventure to walk straight through lifeThe partial-ruin,—in such enterprise,He straggled into rubbish, struggled on,And stumbled out again observably."Yon buttress still can back me up," he judged:And at a touch down came both he and it."A certain statue, I was warned against,Now, by good fortune, lies well underfoot,And cannot tempt to folly any more:"So, lifting eye, aloft since safety lay,What did he light on? the Idalian shape,The undeposed, erectly Victrix still!"These steps ascend the labyrinthine stairWhence, darkling and on all-fours, out I standExalt and safe, and bid low earth adieu—For so instructs 'Advice to who would climb:'"And all at once the climbing landed him—Where, is my story.Take its moral first.Do you advise a climber? Have respectTo the poor head, with more or less of brainsTo spill, should breakage follow your advice!Head-break to him will be heart-break to youFor having preached "Disturb no ruins here!Are not they crumbling of their own accord?Meantime, let poets, painters keep a prize!Beside, a sage pedestrian picks his way."A sage pedestrian—such as you and I!What if there trip, in merry carelessness,And come to grief, a weak and foolish child?Be cautious how you counsel climbing, then!Are you adventurous and climb yourself?Plant the foot warily, accept a staff,Stamp only where you probe the standing-point,Move forward, well assured that move you may:Where you mistrust advance, stop short, there stick!This makes advancing slow and difficult?Hear what comes of the endeavor of brisk youthTo foot it fast and easy! Keep this sameNotion of outside mound and inside mash,Towers yet intact round turfy rottenness,Symbolic partial-ravage,—keep in mind!Here fortune placed his feet who first of allFound no incumbrance, till head found ... But hear!This son and heir then of the jeweller,Monsieur Léonce Miranda, at his birth,Mixed the Castilian passionate blind bloodWith answerable gush, his mother's gift,Of spirit, French and critical and cold.Such mixture makes a battle in the brain,Ending as faith or doubt gets uppermost;Then will has way a moment, but no more:So nicely balanced are the adverse strengths,That victory entails reverse next time.The tactics of the two are differentAnd equalize the odds: for blood comes first,Surrounding life with undisputed faith.But presently a new antagonist,By scarce-suspected passage in the dark,Steals spirit, fingers at each crevice foundAthwart faith's stronghold, fronts the astonished man:"Such pains to keep me far, yet here stand I,Your doubt inside the faith-defence of you!"With faith it was friends bulwarked him aboutFrom infancy to boyhood; so, by youth,He stood impenetrably circuited,Heaven-high and low as hell: what lacked he thus,Guarded against aggression, storm or sap?What foe would dare approach? Historic Doubt?Ay, were there some half-knowledge to attack!Batter doubt's best, sheer ignorance will beat.Acumen metaphysic?—drills its wayThrough what, I wonder! A thick feather-bedOf thoughtlessness, no operating tool—Framed to transpierce the flint-stone—fumbles at,With chance of finding an impediment!This Ravissante, now: when he saw the churchFor the first time, and to his dying-day,His firm belief was that the name fell fitFrom the Delivering Virgin, niched and known;As if there wanted records to attestThe appellation was a pleasantry,A pious rendering of Rare Vissante,The proper name which erst our province bore.He would have told you that Saint AldabertFounded the church, (Heaven early favored France,)About the second century from Christ;Though the true man was Bishop of Raimbaux,Eleventh in succession, Eldobert,Who flourished after some six hundred years.He it was brought the image "from afar,"(Made out of stone the place produces still,)"Infantine Art divinely artless," (ArtIn the decrepitude of Decadence,)And set it up a-working miraclesUntil the Northmen's fury laid it low,Not long, however: an egregious sheep,Zealous with scratching hoof and routing horn,Unearthed the image in good Mailleville's time,Count of the country. "If the tale be false,Why stands it carved above the portal plain?"Monsieur Léonce Miranda used to ask.To Londres went the prize in solemn pomp,But, liking old abode and loathing new,Was borne—this time, by angels—back again.And, reinaugurated, miracleSucceeded miracle, a lengthy list,Until indeed the culmination came—Archbishop Chaumont prayed a prayer and vowedA vow—gained prayer and paid vow properly—For the conversion of Prince Vertgalant.These facts, sucked in along with mother's-milk,Monsieur Léonce Miranda would disputeAs soon as that his hands were flesh and bone,Milk-nourished two-and-twenty years before.So fortified by blind Castilian blood,What say you to the chances of French coldCritical spirit, should Voltaire besiege"Alp, Apennine, and fortified redoubt"?Ay, would such spirit please to play faith's gameFaith's way, attack where faith defends so well!But then it shifts, tries other strategy.Coldness grows warmth, the critical becomesUnquestioning acceptance. "Share and shareAlike in facts, to truth add other truth!Why with old truth needs new truth disagree?"Thus doubt was found invading faith, this time,By help of not the spirit but the flesh:Fat Rabelais chuckled, where faith lay in waitFor lean Voltaire's grimace—French, either foe.Accordingly, while round about our friendRan faith without a break which learned eyeCould find at two-and-twenty years of age,The twenty-two-years-old frank footstep soonAssured itself there spread a standing-spaceFlowery and comfortable, nowise rockNor pebble-pavement roughed for champion's treadWho scorns discomfort, pacing at his post.Tall, long-limbed, shoulder right and shoulder left,And 'twixtacromiasuch a latitude,Black heaps of hair on head, and blacker bushO'er-rioting chin, cheek and throat and chest,—His brown meridional temperamentTold him—or rather pricked into his sensePlainer than language—"Pleasant station here!Youth, strength, and lustihood can sleep on turfYet pace the stony platform afterward:First signal of a foe and up they start!Saint Eldobert, at all such vanity,Nay—sinfulness, had shaken head austere.Had he? But did Prince Vertgalant? And yet,After how long a slumber, of what sort,Was it, he stretched octogenary joints,And, nigh on Day-of-Judgment trumpet-blast,Jumped up and manned wall, brisk as any bee?"Nor Rabelais nor Voltaire, but Sganarelle,You comprehend, was pushing through the chink!That stager in the saint's correct costume,Who ever has his speech in readinessFor thick-head juvenility at fault:"Go pace yon platform and play sentinel!You won't? The worse! but still a worse might hap.Stay then, provided that you keep in sightThe battlement, one bold leap lands you by!Resolve not desperately 'Wall or turf,Choose this, choose that, but no alternative!'No! Earth left once were left for good and all:'With Heaven you may accommodate yourself.'"Saint Eldobert—I much approve his mode;With sinner Vertgalant I sympathize;But histrionic Sganarelle, who promptsWhile pulling back, refuses yet concedes,—Whether he preach in chair, or print in book,Or whisper due sustainment to weak flesh,Counting his sham beads threaded on a lie—Surely, one should bid pack that mountebank!Surely, he must have momentary fitsOf self-sufficient stage-forgetfulness,Escapings of the actor-lassitudeWhen he allows the grace to show the grin,Which ought to let even thickheads recognize(Through all the busy and benefic part,—Bridge-building, or rock-riving, or good cleanTransport of church and congregation bothFrom this to that place with no harm at all,)The Devil, that old stager, at his trickOf general utility, who leadsDownward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!Therefore, no sooner does our candidateFor saintship spotlessly emerge soul-cleansedFrom First Communion to mount guard at post,Paris-proof, top to toe, than up there startThe Spirit of the Boulevard—you know Who—With jocund "So, a structure fixed as fate,Faith's tower joins on to tower, no ring more round,Full fifty years at distance, too, from youth!Once reach that precinct and there fight your best,As looking back you wonder what has comeOf daisy-dappled turf you danced across!Few flowers that played with youth shall pester age,However age esteem the courtesy;And Eldobert was something past his prime,Stocked Caen with churches ere he tried hand here.Saint-Sauveur, Notre-Dame, Saint-Pierre, Saint-JeanAttest his handiwork commenced betimes.He probably would preach that turf is mud.Suppose it mud, through mud one picks a way,And when, clay-clogged, the struggler steps to stone,He uncakes shoe, arrives in manlier guiseThan carried pick-a-back by EldobertBig-baby-fashion, lest his leathers leak!All that parade about Prince VertgalantAmounts to—your Castilian helps enough—Inveni ovem quæ perierat.But ask the pretty votive statue-thingWhat the lost sheep's meantime amusements wereTill the Archbishop found him! That stays blank:They washed the fleece well and forgot the rest.Make haste, since time flies, to determine, though!"Thus opportunely took up parable,—Admonishing Miranda just emergedPure from The Ravissante and Paris-proof,—Saint Sganarelle: then slipped aside, changed mask,And made re-entry as a gentlemanBorn of the Boulevard, with another speech,I spare you.So, the year or two revolved,And ever the young man was dutifulTo altar and to hearth: had confidenceIn the whole Ravissantish history.Voltaire? Who ought to know so much of him,—Old sciolist, whom only boys think sage,—As one whose father's house upon the QuaiNeighbored the very house where that VoltaireDied mad and raving, not without a burstOf squibs and crackers too significant?Father and mother hailed their best of sons,Type of obedience, domesticity,Never such an example inside doors!Outside, as well not keep too close a watch;Youth must be left to some discretion there.And what discretion proved, I find deposedAt Vire, confirmed by his own words: to wit,How, with the spriteliness of twenty-five,Five—and not twenty, for he gave their namesWith laudable precision—were the fewAppointed by him unto mistress-ship;While, meritoriously the whole long weekA votary of commerce only, weekEnded, "at shut of shop on Saturday,Do I, as is my wont, get drunk," he writesIn airy record to a confidant."Bragging and lies!" replies the apologist:"And do I lose by that?" laughed Somebody,At the Court-edge a-tiptoe, 'mid the crowd,In his own clothes, a-listening to men's Law.Thus while, prospectively a combatant,The volunteer bent brows, clenched jaws, and fierceWhistled the march-tune "Warrior to the wall!"Something like flowery laughters round his feetTangled him of a sudden with "Sleep first!"And fairly flat upon the turf sprawled he,And let strange creatures make his mouth their home.Anyhow, 't is the nature of the soulTo seek a show of durability,Nor, changing, plainly be the slave of change.Outside the turf, the towers: but, round the turf,A tent may rise, a temporary shroud,Mock-faith to suit a mimic dwelling-place:Tent which, while screening jollity insideFrom the external circuit—evermoreA menace to who lags when he should march—Yet stands a-tremble, ready to collapseAt touch of foot: turf is acknowledged grass,And grass, though pillowy, held contemptibleCompared with solid rock, the rampired ridge.To truth a pretty homage thus we payBy testifying—what we dally with,Falsehood, (which, never fear we take for truth!)We may enjoy, but then—how we despise!Accordingly, on weighty business bound,Monsieur Léonce Miranda stooped to play,But, with experience, soon reduced the gameTo principles, and thenceforth played by rule:Rule, dignifying sport as sport, proclaimedNo less that sport was sport, and nothing more.He understood the worth of womankind,—To furnish man—provisionally—sport:Sport transitive—such earth's amusements are:But, seeing that amusements pall by use,Variety therein is requisite.And since the serious work of life were wrongedShould we bestow importance on our play,It follows, in such womankind-pursuit,Cheating is lawful chase. We have to spendAn hour—they want a lifetime thrown away:We seek to tickle sense—they ask for soul,As if soul had no higher ends to serve!A stag-hunt gives the royal creature law:Bat-fowling is all fair with birds at roost,The lantern and the clap-net suit the hedge.Which must explain why, bent on Boulevard game,Monsieur Léonce Miranda decentlyWas prudent in his pleasure—passed himselfOff on the fragile fair about his pathAs the gay devil rich in mere good looks,Youth, hope—what matter though the purse be void?"If I were only young Miranda, now,Instead of a poor clerkly drudge at deskAll day, poor artist vainly bruising brushOn palette, poor musician scraping gutWith horsehair teased that no harmonics come!Then would I love with liberality,Then would I pay!—who now shall be repaid,Repaid alike for present pain and past,If Mademoiselle permit the contre-danse,Sing 'Gay in garret youth at twenty lives,'And afterward accept a lemonade!"Such sweet facilities of intercourseAfford the Winter-Garden and Mabille!"Oh, I unite"—runs on the confidence,Poor fellow, that was read in open Court,—"Amusement with discretion: never fearMy escapades cost more than market-price!No durably-attached Miranda-dupe,Sucked dry of substance by two clinging lips,Promising marriage, and performing it!Trust me, I know the world, and know myself,And know where duty takes me—in good time!"Thus fortified and realistic, then,At all points thus against illusion armed,He wisely did New Year inaugurateBy playing truant to the favored five:And sat installed at "The Varieties,"—Playhouse appropriately named,—to note(Prying amid the turf that 's flowery there)What primrose, firstling of the year, might pushThe snows aside to deck his buttonhole—Unnoticed by that outline sad, severe,(Though fifty good long years removed from youth,)That tower and tower,—our image bear in mind!No sooner was he seated than, behold,Out burst a polyanthus! He was 'wareOf a young woman niched in neighborhood;And ere one moment flitted, fast was heFound captive to the beauty evermore,For life, for death, for heaven, for hell, her own.Philosophy, bewail thy fate! Adieu,Youth realistic and illusion-proof!Monsieur Léonce Miranda,—hero lateWho "understood the worth of womankind,""Who found therein—provisionally—sport,"—Felt, in the flitting of a moment, foolWas he, and folly all that seemed so wise,And the best proof of wisdom's birth would beThat he made all endeavor, body, soul,By any means, at any sacrificeOf labor, wealth, repute, and (—well, the timeFor choosing between heaven on earth, and heavenIn heaven, was not at hand immediately—)Made all endeavor, without loss incurredOf one least minute, to obtain her love."Sport transitive?" "Variety required?""In loving were a lifetime thrown away?"How singularly may young men mistake!The fault must be repaired with energy.Monsieur Léonce Miranda ate her upWith eye-devouring; when the unconscious fairPassed from the close-packed hall, he pressed behind;She mounted vehicle, he did the same,Coach stopped, and cab fast followed, at one door—Good house in unexceptionable street.Out stepped the lady,—never think, alone!A mother was not wanting to the maid,Or, maybe, wife, or widow, might one say?Out stepped and properly down flung himselfMonsieur Léonce Miranda at her feet—And never left them after, so to speak,For twenty years, till his last hour of life,When he released them, as precipitate.Love proffered and accepted then and there!Such potency in word and look has truth.
"Ay, to findYour Red desiderated article,Where every scratch and scrape provokes my WhiteTo all the more superb a prominence!Why, 't is the story served up fresh again—How it befell the restive prophet oldWho came and tried to curse but blessed the land.Come, your last chance! he disinheritedChildren: he made his widow mourn too muchBy this endowment of the other Bride—Nor understood that gold and jewelryAdorn her in a figure, not a fact.You make that White I want, so very white,'T is I say now—some trace of Red should beSomewhere in this Miranda-sanctitude!"
"Ay, to find
Your Red desiderated article,
Where every scratch and scrape provokes my White
To all the more superb a prominence!
Why, 't is the story served up fresh again—
How it befell the restive prophet old
Who came and tried to curse but blessed the land.
Come, your last chance! he disinherited
Children: he made his widow mourn too much
By this endowment of the other Bride—
Nor understood that gold and jewelry
Adorn her in a figure, not a fact.
You make that White I want, so very white,
'T is I say now—some trace of Red should be
Somewhere in this Miranda-sanctitude!"
Not here, at all events, sweet mocking friend!For he was childless; and what heirs he hadWere an uncertain sort of CousinryScarce claiming kindred so as to withholdThe donor's purpose though fantastical:Heirs, for that matter, wanting no increaseOf wealth, since rich already as himself;Heirs that had taken trouble off his hands,Bought that productive goldsmith-business he,With abnegation wise as rare, renouncedPrecisely at a time of life when youth,Nigh on departure, bids mid-age discardLife's other loves and likings in a pack,To keep, in lucre, comfort worth them all.This Cousinry are they who boast the shopOf "Firm-Miranda, London and New York."Cousins are an unconscionable kind;But these—pretension surely on their partTo share inheritance were too absurd!
Not here, at all events, sweet mocking friend!
For he was childless; and what heirs he had
Were an uncertain sort of Cousinry
Scarce claiming kindred so as to withhold
The donor's purpose though fantastical:
Heirs, for that matter, wanting no increase
Of wealth, since rich already as himself;
Heirs that had taken trouble off his hands,
Bought that productive goldsmith-business he,
With abnegation wise as rare, renounced
Precisely at a time of life when youth,
Nigh on departure, bids mid-age discard
Life's other loves and likings in a pack,
To keep, in lucre, comfort worth them all.
This Cousinry are they who boast the shop
Of "Firm-Miranda, London and New York."
Cousins are an unconscionable kind;
But these—pretension surely on their part
To share inheritance were too absurd!
"Remains then, he dealt wrongly by his wife,Despoiled her somehow by such testament?"Farther than ever from the mark, fair friend!The man's love for his wife exceeded boundsRather than failed the limit. 'T was to liveHers and hers only, to abolish earthOutside—since Paris holds the pick of earth—He turned his back, shut eyes, stopped ears, to allDelicious Paris tempts her children with,And fled away to this far solitude—She peopling solitude sufficiently!She, partner in each heavenward flight sublime,Was, with each condescension to the ground,Duly associate also: hand in hand,... Or side by side, I say by preference—On every good work sidlingly they went.Hers was the instigation—none but sheWilled that, if death should summon first her lord,Though she, sad relict, must drag residueOf days encumbered by this load of wealth—(Submitted to with something of a graceSo long as her surviving vigilanceMight worthily administer, convertWealth to God's glory and the good of man,Give, as in life, so now in death, effectTo cherished purpose)—yet she begged and prayedThat, when no longer she could superviseThe House, it should become a Hospital:For the support whereof, lands, goods, and cashAlike will go, in happy guardianship,To yonder church, La Ravissante: who debtTo God and man undoubtedly will pay.
"Remains then, he dealt wrongly by his wife,
Despoiled her somehow by such testament?"
Farther than ever from the mark, fair friend!
The man's love for his wife exceeded bounds
Rather than failed the limit. 'T was to live
Hers and hers only, to abolish earth
Outside—since Paris holds the pick of earth—
He turned his back, shut eyes, stopped ears, to all
Delicious Paris tempts her children with,
And fled away to this far solitude—
She peopling solitude sufficiently!
She, partner in each heavenward flight sublime,
Was, with each condescension to the ground,
Duly associate also: hand in hand,
... Or side by side, I say by preference—
On every good work sidlingly they went.
Hers was the instigation—none but she
Willed that, if death should summon first her lord,
Though she, sad relict, must drag residue
Of days encumbered by this load of wealth—
(Submitted to with something of a grace
So long as her surviving vigilance
Might worthily administer, convert
Wealth to God's glory and the good of man,
Give, as in life, so now in death, effect
To cherished purpose)—yet she begged and prayed
That, when no longer she could supervise
The House, it should become a Hospital:
For the support whereof, lands, goods, and cash
Alike will go, in happy guardianship,
To yonder church, La Ravissante: who debt
To God and man undoubtedly will pay.
"Not of the world, your heroine!"
"Not of the world, your heroine!"
Do you knowI saw her yesterday—set eyes uponThe veritable personage, no dream?I in the morning strolled this way, as oft,And stood at entry of the avenue.When, out from that first garden-gate, we gazedUpon and through, a small procession swept—Madame Miranda with attendants five.First, of herself: she wore a soft and whiteEngaging dress, with velvet stripes and squaresSeverely black, yet scarce discouraging:Fresh Paris-manufacture! (Vire's would do?I doubt it, but confess my ignorance.)Her figure? somewhat small and darling-like.Her face? well, singularly colorless,For first thing: which scarce suits a blonde, you know.Pretty you would not call her: though perhapsAttaining to the ends of prettiness,And somewhat more, suppose enough of soul.Then she is forty full: you cannot judgeWhat beauty was her portion at eighteen,The age she married at. So, colorlessI stick to, and if featureless I add,Your notion grows completer: for, althoughI noticed that her nose was aquiline,The whole effect amounts with me to—blank!I never saw what I could less describe.The eyes, for instance, unforgettableWhich ought to be, are out of mind as sight.
Do you know
I saw her yesterday—set eyes upon
The veritable personage, no dream?
I in the morning strolled this way, as oft,
And stood at entry of the avenue.
When, out from that first garden-gate, we gazed
Upon and through, a small procession swept—
Madame Miranda with attendants five.
First, of herself: she wore a soft and white
Engaging dress, with velvet stripes and squares
Severely black, yet scarce discouraging:
Fresh Paris-manufacture! (Vire's would do?
I doubt it, but confess my ignorance.)
Her figure? somewhat small and darling-like.
Her face? well, singularly colorless,
For first thing: which scarce suits a blonde, you know.
Pretty you would not call her: though perhaps
Attaining to the ends of prettiness,
And somewhat more, suppose enough of soul.
Then she is forty full: you cannot judge
What beauty was her portion at eighteen,
The age she married at. So, colorless
I stick to, and if featureless I add,
Your notion grows completer: for, although
I noticed that her nose was aquiline,
The whole effect amounts with me to—blank!
I never saw what I could less describe.
The eyes, for instance, unforgettable
Which ought to be, are out of mind as sight.
Yet is there not conceivably a face,A set of wax-like features, blank at first,Which, as you bendingly grow warm above,Begins to take impressment from your breath?Which, as your will itself were plastic hereNor needed exercise of handicraft,From formless moulds itself to correspondWith all you think and feel and are—in fineGrows a new revelation of yourself,Who know now for the first time what you want?Here has been something that could wait awhile,Learn your requirement, nor take shape before,But, by adopting it, make palpableYour right to an importance of your own,Companions somehow were so slow to see!—Far delicater solace to conceitThan should some absolute and final face,Fit representative of soul inside,Summon you to surrender—in no wayYour breath's impressment, nor, in stranger's guise,Yourself—or why of force to challenge you?Why should your soul's reflection rule your soul?("You" means not you, nor me, nor any oneFramed, for a reason I shall keep suppressed,To rather want a master than a slave:The slavish still aspires to dominate!)So, all I say is, that the face, to meOne blur of blank, might flash significanceTo who had seen his soul reflected thereBy that symmetric silvery phantom-likeFigure, with other five processional.The first, a black-dressed matron—maybe, maid—Mature, and dragonish of aspect,—marched;Then four came tripping in a joyous flock,Two giant goats and two prodigious sheepPure as the arctic fox that suits the snow,Tripped, trotted, turned the march to merriment,But ambled at their mistress' heel—for why?A rod of guidance marked the Châtelaine,And ever and anon would sceptre wave,And silky subject leave meandering.Nay, one great naked sheep-face stopped to askWho was the stranger, snuffed inquisitiveMy hand that made acquaintance with its nose,Examined why the hand—of man at least—Patted so lightly, warmly, so like life!Are they such silly natures after all?And thus accompanied, the paled-off space,Isleted shrubs and verdure, gained the group;Till, as I gave a furtive glance, and sawHer back-hair was a block of solid gold,The gate shut out my harmless question—HairSo young and yellow, crowning sanctity,And claiming solitude ... can hair be false?
Yet is there not conceivably a face,
A set of wax-like features, blank at first,
Which, as you bendingly grow warm above,
Begins to take impressment from your breath?
Which, as your will itself were plastic here
Nor needed exercise of handicraft,
From formless moulds itself to correspond
With all you think and feel and are—in fine
Grows a new revelation of yourself,
Who know now for the first time what you want?
Here has been something that could wait awhile,
Learn your requirement, nor take shape before,
But, by adopting it, make palpable
Your right to an importance of your own,
Companions somehow were so slow to see!
—Far delicater solace to conceit
Than should some absolute and final face,
Fit representative of soul inside,
Summon you to surrender—in no way
Your breath's impressment, nor, in stranger's guise,
Yourself—or why of force to challenge you?
Why should your soul's reflection rule your soul?
("You" means not you, nor me, nor any one
Framed, for a reason I shall keep suppressed,
To rather want a master than a slave:
The slavish still aspires to dominate!)
So, all I say is, that the face, to me
One blur of blank, might flash significance
To who had seen his soul reflected there
By that symmetric silvery phantom-like
Figure, with other five processional.
The first, a black-dressed matron—maybe, maid—
Mature, and dragonish of aspect,—marched;
Then four came tripping in a joyous flock,
Two giant goats and two prodigious sheep
Pure as the arctic fox that suits the snow,
Tripped, trotted, turned the march to merriment,
But ambled at their mistress' heel—for why?
A rod of guidance marked the Châtelaine,
And ever and anon would sceptre wave,
And silky subject leave meandering.
Nay, one great naked sheep-face stopped to ask
Who was the stranger, snuffed inquisitive
My hand that made acquaintance with its nose,
Examined why the hand—of man at least—
Patted so lightly, warmly, so like life!
Are they such silly natures after all?
And thus accompanied, the paled-off space,
Isleted shrubs and verdure, gained the group;
Till, as I gave a furtive glance, and saw
Her back-hair was a block of solid gold,
The gate shut out my harmless question—Hair
So young and yellow, crowning sanctity,
And claiming solitude ... can hair be false?
"Shut in the hair and with it your last hope,Yellow might on inspection pass for Red!—Red, Red, where is the tinge of promised RedIn this old tale of town and country life,This rise and progress of a family?First comes the bustling man of enterprise,The fortune-founding father, rightly rough,As who must grub and grab, play pioneer.Then, with a light and airy step, succeedsThe son, surveys the fabric of his sire,And enters home, unsmirched from top to toe.Polish and education qualifyTheir fortunate possessor to confineHis occupancy to the first-floor suiteRather than keep exploring needlesslyWhere dwelt his sire content with cellarage:Industry bustles underneath, no doubt,And supervisors should not sit too close.Next, rooms built, there 's the furniture to buy,And what adornment like a worthy wife?In comes she like some foreign cabinet,Purchased indeed, but purifying quickWhat space receives it from all traffic-taint.She tells of other habits, palace-life;Royalty may have pried into those depthsOf sandal-wooded drawer, and set a-creakThat pygmy portal pranked with lazuli.More fit by far the ignoble we replaceBy objects suited to such visitant,Than that we desecrate her dignityBy neighborhood of vulgar table, chair,Which haply helped old age to smoke and doze.The end is, an exchange of city stirAnd too intrusive burgess-fellowship,For rural isolated elegance,Careless simplicity, how preferable!There one may fairly throw behind one's backThe used-up worn-out Past, we want away,And make a fresh beginning of stale life.'In just the place'—does any one object?—'Where aboriginal gentilityWill scout the upstart, twit him with each trickOf townish trade-mark that stamps word and deed,And most of all resent that here town-drossHe daubs with money-color to deceive!'Rashly objected! Is there not the ChurchTo intercede and bring benefic truceAt outset? She it is shall equalizeThe laborers i' the vineyard, last as first.Pay court to her, she stops impertinence.'Duke, once your sires crusaded it, we know:Our friend the newcomer observes, no less,Your chapel, rich with their emblazonry,Wants roofing—might he but supply the means!Marquise, you gave the honor of your name,Titular patronage, abundant willTo what should be an Orphan Institute:Gave everything but funds, in brief; and these,Our friend, the lady newly resident,Proposes to contribute, by your leave!'Brothers and sisters lie they in thy lap,Thou none-excluding, all-collecting Church!Sure, one has half a foot i' the hierarchyOf birth, when 'Nay, my dear,' laughs out the Duke,'I 'm the crown's cushion-carrier, but the crown—Who gave its central glory, I or you?'When Marquise jokes, 'My quest, forsooth? Each doitI scrape together goes for Peter-penceTo purvey bread and water in his bondsFor Peter's self imprisoned—Lord, how long?Yours, yours alone the bounty, dear my dame,You plumped the purse, which, poured into the plate,Made the Archbishop open brows so broad!And if you really mean to give that lengthOf lovely lace to edge the robe!' ... Ah, friends,Gem better serves so than by calling crowd,Round shop-front to admire the million's-worth!Lace gets more homage than from lorgnette-stare,And comment coarse to match, (should one displayOne's robe a trifle o'er the baignoire-edge,)'Well may she line her slippers with the like,If minded so! their shop it was producedThat wonderfulparure, the other day,Whereof the Baron said, it beggared him.'And so the paired Mirandas built their house,Enjoyed their fortune, sighed for family,Found friends would serve their purpose quite as well,And come, at need, from Paris—anyhow,With evident alacrity, from Vire—Endeavor at the chase, at least succeedIn smoking, eating, drinking, laughing, andPreferring country, oh so much to town!Thus lived the husband; though his wife would sighIn confidence, when Countesses were kind,'Cut off from Paris and society!'White, White, I once more round you in the ears!Though you have marked it, in a corner, yoursHenceforth,—Red-lettered 'Failure,' very plain,I shall acknowledge, on the snowy hemOf ordinary Night-cap! Come, enough!We have gone round its cotton vastitude,Or half-round, for the end 's consistent still,Acul-de-sacwith stoppage at the sea.Here we return upon our steps. One lookMay bid good-morning—properly good-night—To civic bliss, Miranda and his mate!Are we to rise and go?"
"Shut in the hair and with it your last hope,
Yellow might on inspection pass for Red!—
Red, Red, where is the tinge of promised Red
In this old tale of town and country life,
This rise and progress of a family?
First comes the bustling man of enterprise,
The fortune-founding father, rightly rough,
As who must grub and grab, play pioneer.
Then, with a light and airy step, succeeds
The son, surveys the fabric of his sire,
And enters home, unsmirched from top to toe.
Polish and education qualify
Their fortunate possessor to confine
His occupancy to the first-floor suite
Rather than keep exploring needlessly
Where dwelt his sire content with cellarage:
Industry bustles underneath, no doubt,
And supervisors should not sit too close.
Next, rooms built, there 's the furniture to buy,
And what adornment like a worthy wife?
In comes she like some foreign cabinet,
Purchased indeed, but purifying quick
What space receives it from all traffic-taint.
She tells of other habits, palace-life;
Royalty may have pried into those depths
Of sandal-wooded drawer, and set a-creak
That pygmy portal pranked with lazuli.
More fit by far the ignoble we replace
By objects suited to such visitant,
Than that we desecrate her dignity
By neighborhood of vulgar table, chair,
Which haply helped old age to smoke and doze.
The end is, an exchange of city stir
And too intrusive burgess-fellowship,
For rural isolated elegance,
Careless simplicity, how preferable!
There one may fairly throw behind one's back
The used-up worn-out Past, we want away,
And make a fresh beginning of stale life.
'In just the place'—does any one object?—
'Where aboriginal gentility
Will scout the upstart, twit him with each trick
Of townish trade-mark that stamps word and deed,
And most of all resent that here town-dross
He daubs with money-color to deceive!'
Rashly objected! Is there not the Church
To intercede and bring benefic truce
At outset? She it is shall equalize
The laborers i' the vineyard, last as first.
Pay court to her, she stops impertinence.
'Duke, once your sires crusaded it, we know:
Our friend the newcomer observes, no less,
Your chapel, rich with their emblazonry,
Wants roofing—might he but supply the means!
Marquise, you gave the honor of your name,
Titular patronage, abundant will
To what should be an Orphan Institute:
Gave everything but funds, in brief; and these,
Our friend, the lady newly resident,
Proposes to contribute, by your leave!'
Brothers and sisters lie they in thy lap,
Thou none-excluding, all-collecting Church!
Sure, one has half a foot i' the hierarchy
Of birth, when 'Nay, my dear,' laughs out the Duke,
'I 'm the crown's cushion-carrier, but the crown—
Who gave its central glory, I or you?'
When Marquise jokes, 'My quest, forsooth? Each doit
I scrape together goes for Peter-pence
To purvey bread and water in his bonds
For Peter's self imprisoned—Lord, how long?
Yours, yours alone the bounty, dear my dame,
You plumped the purse, which, poured into the plate,
Made the Archbishop open brows so broad!
And if you really mean to give that length
Of lovely lace to edge the robe!' ... Ah, friends,
Gem better serves so than by calling crowd,
Round shop-front to admire the million's-worth!
Lace gets more homage than from lorgnette-stare,
And comment coarse to match, (should one display
One's robe a trifle o'er the baignoire-edge,)
'Well may she line her slippers with the like,
If minded so! their shop it was produced
That wonderfulparure, the other day,
Whereof the Baron said, it beggared him.'
And so the paired Mirandas built their house,
Enjoyed their fortune, sighed for family,
Found friends would serve their purpose quite as well,
And come, at need, from Paris—anyhow,
With evident alacrity, from Vire—
Endeavor at the chase, at least succeed
In smoking, eating, drinking, laughing, and
Preferring country, oh so much to town!
Thus lived the husband; though his wife would sigh
In confidence, when Countesses were kind,
'Cut off from Paris and society!'
White, White, I once more round you in the ears!
Though you have marked it, in a corner, yours
Henceforth,—Red-lettered 'Failure,' very plain,
I shall acknowledge, on the snowy hem
Of ordinary Night-cap! Come, enough!
We have gone round its cotton vastitude,
Or half-round, for the end 's consistent still,
Acul-de-sacwith stoppage at the sea.
Here we return upon our steps. One look
May bid good-morning—properly good-night—
To civic bliss, Miranda and his mate!
Are we to rise and go?"
No, sit and stay!Now comes my moment, with the thrilling throwOf curtain from each side a shrouded case.Don't the rings shriek an ominous "Ha! ha!So you take Human Nature upon trust"?List but with like trust to an incidentWhich speedily shall make quite Red enoughBurn out of yonder spotless napery!Sit on the little mound here, whence you seizeThe whole of the gay front sun-satisfied,One laugh of color and embellishment!Because it was there,—past those laurustines,On that smooth gravel-sweep 'twixt flowers and sward,—There tragic death befell; and not one graceOutspread before you but is registeredIn that sinistrous coil these last two yearsWere occupied in winding smooth again.
No, sit and stay!
Now comes my moment, with the thrilling throw
Of curtain from each side a shrouded case.
Don't the rings shriek an ominous "Ha! ha!
So you take Human Nature upon trust"?
List but with like trust to an incident
Which speedily shall make quite Red enough
Burn out of yonder spotless napery!
Sit on the little mound here, whence you seize
The whole of the gay front sun-satisfied,
One laugh of color and embellishment!
Because it was there,—past those laurustines,
On that smooth gravel-sweep 'twixt flowers and sward,—
There tragic death befell; and not one grace
Outspread before you but is registered
In that sinistrous coil these last two years
Were occupied in winding smooth again.
"True?" Well, at least it was concluded so,Sworn to be truth, allowed by Law as such,(With my concurrence, if it matter here,)A month ago: at Vire they tried the case.
"True?" Well, at least it was concluded so,
Sworn to be truth, allowed by Law as such,
(With my concurrence, if it matter here,)
A month ago: at Vire they tried the case.
II
II
Monsieur Léonce Miranda, then, ... but stay!Permit me a preliminary word,And, after, all shall go so straight to end!
Monsieur Léonce Miranda, then, ... but stay!
Permit me a preliminary word,
And, after, all shall go so straight to end!
Have you, the travelled lady, found yourselfInside a ruin, fane or bath or cirque,Renowned in story, dear through youthful dream?If not,—imagination serves as well.Try fancy-land, go back a thousand years,Or forward, half the number, and confrontSome work of art gnawn hollow by Time's tooth,—Hellenic temple, Roman theatre,Gothic cathedral, Gallic Tuileries,But ruined, one and whichsoe'er you like.Obstructions choke what still remains intact,Yet proffer change that 's picturesque in turn;Since little life begins where great life ends,And vegetation soon amalgamates,Smooths novel shape from out the shapeless old,Till broken column, battered cornice-block,The centre with a bulk half weeds and flowers,Half relics you devoutly recognize.Devoutly recognizing,—hark, a voiceNot to be disregarded! "Man worked hereOnce on a time; here needs again to work;Ruins obstruct, which man must remedy."Would you demur "Let Time fulfil his task,And, till the scythe-sweep find no obstacle,Let man be patient"?
Have you, the travelled lady, found yourself
Inside a ruin, fane or bath or cirque,
Renowned in story, dear through youthful dream?
If not,—imagination serves as well.
Try fancy-land, go back a thousand years,
Or forward, half the number, and confront
Some work of art gnawn hollow by Time's tooth,—
Hellenic temple, Roman theatre,
Gothic cathedral, Gallic Tuileries,
But ruined, one and whichsoe'er you like.
Obstructions choke what still remains intact,
Yet proffer change that 's picturesque in turn;
Since little life begins where great life ends,
And vegetation soon amalgamates,
Smooths novel shape from out the shapeless old,
Till broken column, battered cornice-block,
The centre with a bulk half weeds and flowers,
Half relics you devoutly recognize.
Devoutly recognizing,—hark, a voice
Not to be disregarded! "Man worked here
Once on a time; here needs again to work;
Ruins obstruct, which man must remedy."
Would you demur "Let Time fulfil his task,
And, till the scythe-sweep find no obstacle,
Let man be patient"?
The reply were prompt:"Glisteningly beneath the May-night moon,Herbage and floral coverture bedeckYon splintered mass amidst the solitude:Wolves occupy the background, or some snakeGlides by at distance: picturesque enough!Therefore, preserve it? Nay, pour daylight in,—The mound proves swarming with humanity.There never was a thorough solitude,Now you look nearer: mortal busy lifeFirst of all brought the crumblings down on pate,Which trip man's foot still, plague his passage much,And prove—what seems to you so picturesqueTo him is ... but experiment yourselfOn how conducive to a happy homeWill be the circumstance, your bed for baseBoasts tessellated pavement,—equallyAffected by the scorpion for his nest,—While what o'er-roofs bed is an architrave,Marble, and not unlikely to crush manTo mummy, should its venerable prop,Some figtree-stump, play traitor underneath.Be wise! Decide! For conservation's sake,Clear the arena forthwith! lest the treadOf too-much-tried impatience trample outSolid and unsubstantial to one blankMud-mixture, picturesque to nobody,—And, task done, quarrel with the parts intactWhence came the filtered fine dust, whence the crashBides but its time to follow. Quick concludeRemoval, time effects so tardily,Of what is plain obstruction; rubbish cleared,Let partial-ruin stand while ruin may,And serve world's use, since use is manifold.Repair wreck, stanchion wall to heart's content,But never think of renovation pureAnd simple, which involves creation too:Transform and welcome! Yon tall tower may help(Though built to be a belfry and naught else)Some Father Secchi, to tick Venus offIn transit: never bring there bell again,To damage him aloft, brain us below,When new vibrations bury both in brick!"
The reply were prompt:
"Glisteningly beneath the May-night moon,
Herbage and floral coverture bedeck
Yon splintered mass amidst the solitude:
Wolves occupy the background, or some snake
Glides by at distance: picturesque enough!
Therefore, preserve it? Nay, pour daylight in,—
The mound proves swarming with humanity.
There never was a thorough solitude,
Now you look nearer: mortal busy life
First of all brought the crumblings down on pate,
Which trip man's foot still, plague his passage much,
And prove—what seems to you so picturesque
To him is ... but experiment yourself
On how conducive to a happy home
Will be the circumstance, your bed for base
Boasts tessellated pavement,—equally
Affected by the scorpion for his nest,—
While what o'er-roofs bed is an architrave,
Marble, and not unlikely to crush man
To mummy, should its venerable prop,
Some figtree-stump, play traitor underneath.
Be wise! Decide! For conservation's sake,
Clear the arena forthwith! lest the tread
Of too-much-tried impatience trample out
Solid and unsubstantial to one blank
Mud-mixture, picturesque to nobody,—
And, task done, quarrel with the parts intact
Whence came the filtered fine dust, whence the crash
Bides but its time to follow. Quick conclude
Removal, time effects so tardily,
Of what is plain obstruction; rubbish cleared,
Let partial-ruin stand while ruin may,
And serve world's use, since use is manifold.
Repair wreck, stanchion wall to heart's content,
But never think of renovation pure
And simple, which involves creation too:
Transform and welcome! Yon tall tower may help
(Though built to be a belfry and naught else)
Some Father Secchi, to tick Venus off
In transit: never bring there bell again,
To damage him aloft, brain us below,
When new vibrations bury both in brick!"
Monsieur Léonce Miranda, furnishingThe application at his cost, poor soul!Was instanced how,—because the world lay strewnWith ravage of opinions in his path,And neither he, nor any friendly wit,Knew and could teach him which was firm, which frail,In his adventure to walk straight through lifeThe partial-ruin,—in such enterprise,He straggled into rubbish, struggled on,And stumbled out again observably."Yon buttress still can back me up," he judged:And at a touch down came both he and it."A certain statue, I was warned against,Now, by good fortune, lies well underfoot,And cannot tempt to folly any more:"So, lifting eye, aloft since safety lay,What did he light on? the Idalian shape,The undeposed, erectly Victrix still!"These steps ascend the labyrinthine stairWhence, darkling and on all-fours, out I standExalt and safe, and bid low earth adieu—For so instructs 'Advice to who would climb:'"And all at once the climbing landed him—Where, is my story.
Monsieur Léonce Miranda, furnishing
The application at his cost, poor soul!
Was instanced how,—because the world lay strewn
With ravage of opinions in his path,
And neither he, nor any friendly wit,
Knew and could teach him which was firm, which frail,
In his adventure to walk straight through life
The partial-ruin,—in such enterprise,
He straggled into rubbish, struggled on,
And stumbled out again observably.
"Yon buttress still can back me up," he judged:
And at a touch down came both he and it.
"A certain statue, I was warned against,
Now, by good fortune, lies well underfoot,
And cannot tempt to folly any more:"
So, lifting eye, aloft since safety lay,
What did he light on? the Idalian shape,
The undeposed, erectly Victrix still!
"These steps ascend the labyrinthine stair
Whence, darkling and on all-fours, out I stand
Exalt and safe, and bid low earth adieu—
For so instructs 'Advice to who would climb:'"
And all at once the climbing landed him
—Where, is my story.
Take its moral first.Do you advise a climber? Have respectTo the poor head, with more or less of brainsTo spill, should breakage follow your advice!Head-break to him will be heart-break to youFor having preached "Disturb no ruins here!Are not they crumbling of their own accord?Meantime, let poets, painters keep a prize!Beside, a sage pedestrian picks his way."A sage pedestrian—such as you and I!What if there trip, in merry carelessness,And come to grief, a weak and foolish child?Be cautious how you counsel climbing, then!
Take its moral first.
Do you advise a climber? Have respect
To the poor head, with more or less of brains
To spill, should breakage follow your advice!
Head-break to him will be heart-break to you
For having preached "Disturb no ruins here!
Are not they crumbling of their own accord?
Meantime, let poets, painters keep a prize!
Beside, a sage pedestrian picks his way."
A sage pedestrian—such as you and I!
What if there trip, in merry carelessness,
And come to grief, a weak and foolish child?
Be cautious how you counsel climbing, then!
Are you adventurous and climb yourself?Plant the foot warily, accept a staff,Stamp only where you probe the standing-point,Move forward, well assured that move you may:Where you mistrust advance, stop short, there stick!This makes advancing slow and difficult?Hear what comes of the endeavor of brisk youthTo foot it fast and easy! Keep this sameNotion of outside mound and inside mash,Towers yet intact round turfy rottenness,Symbolic partial-ravage,—keep in mind!Here fortune placed his feet who first of allFound no incumbrance, till head found ... But hear!
Are you adventurous and climb yourself?
Plant the foot warily, accept a staff,
Stamp only where you probe the standing-point,
Move forward, well assured that move you may:
Where you mistrust advance, stop short, there stick!
This makes advancing slow and difficult?
Hear what comes of the endeavor of brisk youth
To foot it fast and easy! Keep this same
Notion of outside mound and inside mash,
Towers yet intact round turfy rottenness,
Symbolic partial-ravage,—keep in mind!
Here fortune placed his feet who first of all
Found no incumbrance, till head found ... But hear!
This son and heir then of the jeweller,Monsieur Léonce Miranda, at his birth,Mixed the Castilian passionate blind bloodWith answerable gush, his mother's gift,Of spirit, French and critical and cold.Such mixture makes a battle in the brain,Ending as faith or doubt gets uppermost;Then will has way a moment, but no more:So nicely balanced are the adverse strengths,That victory entails reverse next time.The tactics of the two are differentAnd equalize the odds: for blood comes first,Surrounding life with undisputed faith.But presently a new antagonist,By scarce-suspected passage in the dark,Steals spirit, fingers at each crevice foundAthwart faith's stronghold, fronts the astonished man:"Such pains to keep me far, yet here stand I,Your doubt inside the faith-defence of you!"
This son and heir then of the jeweller,
Monsieur Léonce Miranda, at his birth,
Mixed the Castilian passionate blind blood
With answerable gush, his mother's gift,
Of spirit, French and critical and cold.
Such mixture makes a battle in the brain,
Ending as faith or doubt gets uppermost;
Then will has way a moment, but no more:
So nicely balanced are the adverse strengths,
That victory entails reverse next time.
The tactics of the two are different
And equalize the odds: for blood comes first,
Surrounding life with undisputed faith.
But presently a new antagonist,
By scarce-suspected passage in the dark,
Steals spirit, fingers at each crevice found
Athwart faith's stronghold, fronts the astonished man:
"Such pains to keep me far, yet here stand I,
Your doubt inside the faith-defence of you!"
With faith it was friends bulwarked him aboutFrom infancy to boyhood; so, by youth,He stood impenetrably circuited,Heaven-high and low as hell: what lacked he thus,Guarded against aggression, storm or sap?What foe would dare approach? Historic Doubt?Ay, were there some half-knowledge to attack!Batter doubt's best, sheer ignorance will beat.Acumen metaphysic?—drills its wayThrough what, I wonder! A thick feather-bedOf thoughtlessness, no operating tool—Framed to transpierce the flint-stone—fumbles at,With chance of finding an impediment!This Ravissante, now: when he saw the churchFor the first time, and to his dying-day,His firm belief was that the name fell fitFrom the Delivering Virgin, niched and known;As if there wanted records to attestThe appellation was a pleasantry,A pious rendering of Rare Vissante,The proper name which erst our province bore.He would have told you that Saint AldabertFounded the church, (Heaven early favored France,)About the second century from Christ;Though the true man was Bishop of Raimbaux,Eleventh in succession, Eldobert,Who flourished after some six hundred years.He it was brought the image "from afar,"(Made out of stone the place produces still,)"Infantine Art divinely artless," (ArtIn the decrepitude of Decadence,)And set it up a-working miraclesUntil the Northmen's fury laid it low,Not long, however: an egregious sheep,Zealous with scratching hoof and routing horn,Unearthed the image in good Mailleville's time,Count of the country. "If the tale be false,Why stands it carved above the portal plain?"Monsieur Léonce Miranda used to ask.To Londres went the prize in solemn pomp,But, liking old abode and loathing new,Was borne—this time, by angels—back again.And, reinaugurated, miracleSucceeded miracle, a lengthy list,Until indeed the culmination came—Archbishop Chaumont prayed a prayer and vowedA vow—gained prayer and paid vow properly—For the conversion of Prince Vertgalant.These facts, sucked in along with mother's-milk,Monsieur Léonce Miranda would disputeAs soon as that his hands were flesh and bone,Milk-nourished two-and-twenty years before.So fortified by blind Castilian blood,What say you to the chances of French coldCritical spirit, should Voltaire besiege"Alp, Apennine, and fortified redoubt"?Ay, would such spirit please to play faith's gameFaith's way, attack where faith defends so well!But then it shifts, tries other strategy.Coldness grows warmth, the critical becomesUnquestioning acceptance. "Share and shareAlike in facts, to truth add other truth!Why with old truth needs new truth disagree?"
With faith it was friends bulwarked him about
From infancy to boyhood; so, by youth,
He stood impenetrably circuited,
Heaven-high and low as hell: what lacked he thus,
Guarded against aggression, storm or sap?
What foe would dare approach? Historic Doubt?
Ay, were there some half-knowledge to attack!
Batter doubt's best, sheer ignorance will beat.
Acumen metaphysic?—drills its way
Through what, I wonder! A thick feather-bed
Of thoughtlessness, no operating tool—
Framed to transpierce the flint-stone—fumbles at,
With chance of finding an impediment!
This Ravissante, now: when he saw the church
For the first time, and to his dying-day,
His firm belief was that the name fell fit
From the Delivering Virgin, niched and known;
As if there wanted records to attest
The appellation was a pleasantry,
A pious rendering of Rare Vissante,
The proper name which erst our province bore.
He would have told you that Saint Aldabert
Founded the church, (Heaven early favored France,)
About the second century from Christ;
Though the true man was Bishop of Raimbaux,
Eleventh in succession, Eldobert,
Who flourished after some six hundred years.
He it was brought the image "from afar,"
(Made out of stone the place produces still,)
"Infantine Art divinely artless," (Art
In the decrepitude of Decadence,)
And set it up a-working miracles
Until the Northmen's fury laid it low,
Not long, however: an egregious sheep,
Zealous with scratching hoof and routing horn,
Unearthed the image in good Mailleville's time,
Count of the country. "If the tale be false,
Why stands it carved above the portal plain?"
Monsieur Léonce Miranda used to ask.
To Londres went the prize in solemn pomp,
But, liking old abode and loathing new,
Was borne—this time, by angels—back again.
And, reinaugurated, miracle
Succeeded miracle, a lengthy list,
Until indeed the culmination came—
Archbishop Chaumont prayed a prayer and vowed
A vow—gained prayer and paid vow properly—
For the conversion of Prince Vertgalant.
These facts, sucked in along with mother's-milk,
Monsieur Léonce Miranda would dispute
As soon as that his hands were flesh and bone,
Milk-nourished two-and-twenty years before.
So fortified by blind Castilian blood,
What say you to the chances of French cold
Critical spirit, should Voltaire besiege
"Alp, Apennine, and fortified redoubt"?
Ay, would such spirit please to play faith's game
Faith's way, attack where faith defends so well!
But then it shifts, tries other strategy.
Coldness grows warmth, the critical becomes
Unquestioning acceptance. "Share and share
Alike in facts, to truth add other truth!
Why with old truth needs new truth disagree?"
Thus doubt was found invading faith, this time,By help of not the spirit but the flesh:Fat Rabelais chuckled, where faith lay in waitFor lean Voltaire's grimace—French, either foe.Accordingly, while round about our friendRan faith without a break which learned eyeCould find at two-and-twenty years of age,The twenty-two-years-old frank footstep soonAssured itself there spread a standing-spaceFlowery and comfortable, nowise rockNor pebble-pavement roughed for champion's treadWho scorns discomfort, pacing at his post.Tall, long-limbed, shoulder right and shoulder left,And 'twixtacromiasuch a latitude,Black heaps of hair on head, and blacker bushO'er-rioting chin, cheek and throat and chest,—His brown meridional temperamentTold him—or rather pricked into his sensePlainer than language—"Pleasant station here!Youth, strength, and lustihood can sleep on turfYet pace the stony platform afterward:First signal of a foe and up they start!Saint Eldobert, at all such vanity,Nay—sinfulness, had shaken head austere.Had he? But did Prince Vertgalant? And yet,After how long a slumber, of what sort,Was it, he stretched octogenary joints,And, nigh on Day-of-Judgment trumpet-blast,Jumped up and manned wall, brisk as any bee?"
Thus doubt was found invading faith, this time,
By help of not the spirit but the flesh:
Fat Rabelais chuckled, where faith lay in wait
For lean Voltaire's grimace—French, either foe.
Accordingly, while round about our friend
Ran faith without a break which learned eye
Could find at two-and-twenty years of age,
The twenty-two-years-old frank footstep soon
Assured itself there spread a standing-space
Flowery and comfortable, nowise rock
Nor pebble-pavement roughed for champion's tread
Who scorns discomfort, pacing at his post.
Tall, long-limbed, shoulder right and shoulder left,
And 'twixtacromiasuch a latitude,
Black heaps of hair on head, and blacker bush
O'er-rioting chin, cheek and throat and chest,—
His brown meridional temperament
Told him—or rather pricked into his sense
Plainer than language—"Pleasant station here!
Youth, strength, and lustihood can sleep on turf
Yet pace the stony platform afterward:
First signal of a foe and up they start!
Saint Eldobert, at all such vanity,
Nay—sinfulness, had shaken head austere.
Had he? But did Prince Vertgalant? And yet,
After how long a slumber, of what sort,
Was it, he stretched octogenary joints,
And, nigh on Day-of-Judgment trumpet-blast,
Jumped up and manned wall, brisk as any bee?"
Nor Rabelais nor Voltaire, but Sganarelle,You comprehend, was pushing through the chink!That stager in the saint's correct costume,Who ever has his speech in readinessFor thick-head juvenility at fault:"Go pace yon platform and play sentinel!You won't? The worse! but still a worse might hap.Stay then, provided that you keep in sightThe battlement, one bold leap lands you by!Resolve not desperately 'Wall or turf,Choose this, choose that, but no alternative!'No! Earth left once were left for good and all:'With Heaven you may accommodate yourself.'"
Nor Rabelais nor Voltaire, but Sganarelle,
You comprehend, was pushing through the chink!
That stager in the saint's correct costume,
Who ever has his speech in readiness
For thick-head juvenility at fault:
"Go pace yon platform and play sentinel!
You won't? The worse! but still a worse might hap.
Stay then, provided that you keep in sight
The battlement, one bold leap lands you by!
Resolve not desperately 'Wall or turf,
Choose this, choose that, but no alternative!'
No! Earth left once were left for good and all:
'With Heaven you may accommodate yourself.'"
Saint Eldobert—I much approve his mode;With sinner Vertgalant I sympathize;But histrionic Sganarelle, who promptsWhile pulling back, refuses yet concedes,—Whether he preach in chair, or print in book,Or whisper due sustainment to weak flesh,Counting his sham beads threaded on a lie—Surely, one should bid pack that mountebank!Surely, he must have momentary fitsOf self-sufficient stage-forgetfulness,Escapings of the actor-lassitudeWhen he allows the grace to show the grin,Which ought to let even thickheads recognize(Through all the busy and benefic part,—Bridge-building, or rock-riving, or good cleanTransport of church and congregation bothFrom this to that place with no harm at all,)The Devil, that old stager, at his trickOf general utility, who leadsDownward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!
Saint Eldobert—I much approve his mode;
With sinner Vertgalant I sympathize;
But histrionic Sganarelle, who prompts
While pulling back, refuses yet concedes,—
Whether he preach in chair, or print in book,
Or whisper due sustainment to weak flesh,
Counting his sham beads threaded on a lie—
Surely, one should bid pack that mountebank!
Surely, he must have momentary fits
Of self-sufficient stage-forgetfulness,
Escapings of the actor-lassitude
When he allows the grace to show the grin,
Which ought to let even thickheads recognize
(Through all the busy and benefic part,—
Bridge-building, or rock-riving, or good clean
Transport of church and congregation both
From this to that place with no harm at all,)
The Devil, that old stager, at his trick
Of general utility, who leads
Downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!
Therefore, no sooner does our candidateFor saintship spotlessly emerge soul-cleansedFrom First Communion to mount guard at post,Paris-proof, top to toe, than up there startThe Spirit of the Boulevard—you know Who—With jocund "So, a structure fixed as fate,Faith's tower joins on to tower, no ring more round,Full fifty years at distance, too, from youth!Once reach that precinct and there fight your best,As looking back you wonder what has comeOf daisy-dappled turf you danced across!Few flowers that played with youth shall pester age,However age esteem the courtesy;And Eldobert was something past his prime,Stocked Caen with churches ere he tried hand here.Saint-Sauveur, Notre-Dame, Saint-Pierre, Saint-JeanAttest his handiwork commenced betimes.He probably would preach that turf is mud.Suppose it mud, through mud one picks a way,And when, clay-clogged, the struggler steps to stone,He uncakes shoe, arrives in manlier guiseThan carried pick-a-back by EldobertBig-baby-fashion, lest his leathers leak!All that parade about Prince VertgalantAmounts to—your Castilian helps enough—Inveni ovem quæ perierat.But ask the pretty votive statue-thingWhat the lost sheep's meantime amusements wereTill the Archbishop found him! That stays blank:They washed the fleece well and forgot the rest.Make haste, since time flies, to determine, though!"
Therefore, no sooner does our candidate
For saintship spotlessly emerge soul-cleansed
From First Communion to mount guard at post,
Paris-proof, top to toe, than up there start
The Spirit of the Boulevard—you know Who—
With jocund "So, a structure fixed as fate,
Faith's tower joins on to tower, no ring more round,
Full fifty years at distance, too, from youth!
Once reach that precinct and there fight your best,
As looking back you wonder what has come
Of daisy-dappled turf you danced across!
Few flowers that played with youth shall pester age,
However age esteem the courtesy;
And Eldobert was something past his prime,
Stocked Caen with churches ere he tried hand here.
Saint-Sauveur, Notre-Dame, Saint-Pierre, Saint-Jean
Attest his handiwork commenced betimes.
He probably would preach that turf is mud.
Suppose it mud, through mud one picks a way,
And when, clay-clogged, the struggler steps to stone,
He uncakes shoe, arrives in manlier guise
Than carried pick-a-back by Eldobert
Big-baby-fashion, lest his leathers leak!
All that parade about Prince Vertgalant
Amounts to—your Castilian helps enough—
Inveni ovem quæ perierat.
But ask the pretty votive statue-thing
What the lost sheep's meantime amusements were
Till the Archbishop found him! That stays blank:
They washed the fleece well and forgot the rest.
Make haste, since time flies, to determine, though!"
Thus opportunely took up parable,—Admonishing Miranda just emergedPure from The Ravissante and Paris-proof,—Saint Sganarelle: then slipped aside, changed mask,And made re-entry as a gentlemanBorn of the Boulevard, with another speech,I spare you.
Thus opportunely took up parable,—
Admonishing Miranda just emerged
Pure from The Ravissante and Paris-proof,—
Saint Sganarelle: then slipped aside, changed mask,
And made re-entry as a gentleman
Born of the Boulevard, with another speech,
I spare you.
So, the year or two revolved,And ever the young man was dutifulTo altar and to hearth: had confidenceIn the whole Ravissantish history.Voltaire? Who ought to know so much of him,—Old sciolist, whom only boys think sage,—As one whose father's house upon the QuaiNeighbored the very house where that VoltaireDied mad and raving, not without a burstOf squibs and crackers too significant?Father and mother hailed their best of sons,Type of obedience, domesticity,Never such an example inside doors!Outside, as well not keep too close a watch;Youth must be left to some discretion there.And what discretion proved, I find deposedAt Vire, confirmed by his own words: to wit,How, with the spriteliness of twenty-five,Five—and not twenty, for he gave their namesWith laudable precision—were the fewAppointed by him unto mistress-ship;While, meritoriously the whole long weekA votary of commerce only, weekEnded, "at shut of shop on Saturday,Do I, as is my wont, get drunk," he writesIn airy record to a confidant."Bragging and lies!" replies the apologist:"And do I lose by that?" laughed Somebody,At the Court-edge a-tiptoe, 'mid the crowd,In his own clothes, a-listening to men's Law.
So, the year or two revolved,
And ever the young man was dutiful
To altar and to hearth: had confidence
In the whole Ravissantish history.
Voltaire? Who ought to know so much of him,—
Old sciolist, whom only boys think sage,—
As one whose father's house upon the Quai
Neighbored the very house where that Voltaire
Died mad and raving, not without a burst
Of squibs and crackers too significant?
Father and mother hailed their best of sons,
Type of obedience, domesticity,
Never such an example inside doors!
Outside, as well not keep too close a watch;
Youth must be left to some discretion there.
And what discretion proved, I find deposed
At Vire, confirmed by his own words: to wit,
How, with the spriteliness of twenty-five,
Five—and not twenty, for he gave their names
With laudable precision—were the few
Appointed by him unto mistress-ship;
While, meritoriously the whole long week
A votary of commerce only, week
Ended, "at shut of shop on Saturday,
Do I, as is my wont, get drunk," he writes
In airy record to a confidant.
"Bragging and lies!" replies the apologist:
"And do I lose by that?" laughed Somebody,
At the Court-edge a-tiptoe, 'mid the crowd,
In his own clothes, a-listening to men's Law.
Thus while, prospectively a combatant,The volunteer bent brows, clenched jaws, and fierceWhistled the march-tune "Warrior to the wall!"Something like flowery laughters round his feetTangled him of a sudden with "Sleep first!"And fairly flat upon the turf sprawled he,And let strange creatures make his mouth their home.
Thus while, prospectively a combatant,
The volunteer bent brows, clenched jaws, and fierce
Whistled the march-tune "Warrior to the wall!"
Something like flowery laughters round his feet
Tangled him of a sudden with "Sleep first!"
And fairly flat upon the turf sprawled he,
And let strange creatures make his mouth their home.
Anyhow, 't is the nature of the soulTo seek a show of durability,Nor, changing, plainly be the slave of change.Outside the turf, the towers: but, round the turf,A tent may rise, a temporary shroud,Mock-faith to suit a mimic dwelling-place:Tent which, while screening jollity insideFrom the external circuit—evermoreA menace to who lags when he should march—Yet stands a-tremble, ready to collapseAt touch of foot: turf is acknowledged grass,And grass, though pillowy, held contemptibleCompared with solid rock, the rampired ridge.To truth a pretty homage thus we payBy testifying—what we dally with,Falsehood, (which, never fear we take for truth!)We may enjoy, but then—how we despise!
Anyhow, 't is the nature of the soul
To seek a show of durability,
Nor, changing, plainly be the slave of change.
Outside the turf, the towers: but, round the turf,
A tent may rise, a temporary shroud,
Mock-faith to suit a mimic dwelling-place:
Tent which, while screening jollity inside
From the external circuit—evermore
A menace to who lags when he should march—
Yet stands a-tremble, ready to collapse
At touch of foot: turf is acknowledged grass,
And grass, though pillowy, held contemptible
Compared with solid rock, the rampired ridge.
To truth a pretty homage thus we pay
By testifying—what we dally with,
Falsehood, (which, never fear we take for truth!)
We may enjoy, but then—how we despise!
Accordingly, on weighty business bound,Monsieur Léonce Miranda stooped to play,But, with experience, soon reduced the gameTo principles, and thenceforth played by rule:Rule, dignifying sport as sport, proclaimedNo less that sport was sport, and nothing more.He understood the worth of womankind,—To furnish man—provisionally—sport:Sport transitive—such earth's amusements are:But, seeing that amusements pall by use,Variety therein is requisite.And since the serious work of life were wrongedShould we bestow importance on our play,It follows, in such womankind-pursuit,Cheating is lawful chase. We have to spendAn hour—they want a lifetime thrown away:We seek to tickle sense—they ask for soul,As if soul had no higher ends to serve!A stag-hunt gives the royal creature law:Bat-fowling is all fair with birds at roost,The lantern and the clap-net suit the hedge.Which must explain why, bent on Boulevard game,Monsieur Léonce Miranda decentlyWas prudent in his pleasure—passed himselfOff on the fragile fair about his pathAs the gay devil rich in mere good looks,Youth, hope—what matter though the purse be void?"If I were only young Miranda, now,Instead of a poor clerkly drudge at deskAll day, poor artist vainly bruising brushOn palette, poor musician scraping gutWith horsehair teased that no harmonics come!Then would I love with liberality,Then would I pay!—who now shall be repaid,Repaid alike for present pain and past,If Mademoiselle permit the contre-danse,Sing 'Gay in garret youth at twenty lives,'And afterward accept a lemonade!"
Accordingly, on weighty business bound,
Monsieur Léonce Miranda stooped to play,
But, with experience, soon reduced the game
To principles, and thenceforth played by rule:
Rule, dignifying sport as sport, proclaimed
No less that sport was sport, and nothing more.
He understood the worth of womankind,—
To furnish man—provisionally—sport:
Sport transitive—such earth's amusements are:
But, seeing that amusements pall by use,
Variety therein is requisite.
And since the serious work of life were wronged
Should we bestow importance on our play,
It follows, in such womankind-pursuit,
Cheating is lawful chase. We have to spend
An hour—they want a lifetime thrown away:
We seek to tickle sense—they ask for soul,
As if soul had no higher ends to serve!
A stag-hunt gives the royal creature law:
Bat-fowling is all fair with birds at roost,
The lantern and the clap-net suit the hedge.
Which must explain why, bent on Boulevard game,
Monsieur Léonce Miranda decently
Was prudent in his pleasure—passed himself
Off on the fragile fair about his path
As the gay devil rich in mere good looks,
Youth, hope—what matter though the purse be void?
"If I were only young Miranda, now,
Instead of a poor clerkly drudge at desk
All day, poor artist vainly bruising brush
On palette, poor musician scraping gut
With horsehair teased that no harmonics come!
Then would I love with liberality,
Then would I pay!—who now shall be repaid,
Repaid alike for present pain and past,
If Mademoiselle permit the contre-danse,
Sing 'Gay in garret youth at twenty lives,'
And afterward accept a lemonade!"
Such sweet facilities of intercourseAfford the Winter-Garden and Mabille!"Oh, I unite"—runs on the confidence,Poor fellow, that was read in open Court,—"Amusement with discretion: never fearMy escapades cost more than market-price!No durably-attached Miranda-dupe,Sucked dry of substance by two clinging lips,Promising marriage, and performing it!Trust me, I know the world, and know myself,And know where duty takes me—in good time!"
Such sweet facilities of intercourse
Afford the Winter-Garden and Mabille!
"Oh, I unite"—runs on the confidence,
Poor fellow, that was read in open Court,
—"Amusement with discretion: never fear
My escapades cost more than market-price!
No durably-attached Miranda-dupe,
Sucked dry of substance by two clinging lips,
Promising marriage, and performing it!
Trust me, I know the world, and know myself,
And know where duty takes me—in good time!"
Thus fortified and realistic, then,At all points thus against illusion armed,He wisely did New Year inaugurateBy playing truant to the favored five:And sat installed at "The Varieties,"—Playhouse appropriately named,—to note(Prying amid the turf that 's flowery there)What primrose, firstling of the year, might pushThe snows aside to deck his buttonhole—Unnoticed by that outline sad, severe,(Though fifty good long years removed from youth,)That tower and tower,—our image bear in mind!
Thus fortified and realistic, then,
At all points thus against illusion armed,
He wisely did New Year inaugurate
By playing truant to the favored five:
And sat installed at "The Varieties,"—
Playhouse appropriately named,—to note
(Prying amid the turf that 's flowery there)
What primrose, firstling of the year, might push
The snows aside to deck his buttonhole—
Unnoticed by that outline sad, severe,
(Though fifty good long years removed from youth,)
That tower and tower,—our image bear in mind!
No sooner was he seated than, behold,Out burst a polyanthus! He was 'wareOf a young woman niched in neighborhood;And ere one moment flitted, fast was heFound captive to the beauty evermore,For life, for death, for heaven, for hell, her own.Philosophy, bewail thy fate! Adieu,Youth realistic and illusion-proof!Monsieur Léonce Miranda,—hero lateWho "understood the worth of womankind,""Who found therein—provisionally—sport,"—Felt, in the flitting of a moment, foolWas he, and folly all that seemed so wise,And the best proof of wisdom's birth would beThat he made all endeavor, body, soul,By any means, at any sacrificeOf labor, wealth, repute, and (—well, the timeFor choosing between heaven on earth, and heavenIn heaven, was not at hand immediately—)Made all endeavor, without loss incurredOf one least minute, to obtain her love."Sport transitive?" "Variety required?""In loving were a lifetime thrown away?"How singularly may young men mistake!The fault must be repaired with energy.Monsieur Léonce Miranda ate her upWith eye-devouring; when the unconscious fairPassed from the close-packed hall, he pressed behind;She mounted vehicle, he did the same,Coach stopped, and cab fast followed, at one door—Good house in unexceptionable street.Out stepped the lady,—never think, alone!A mother was not wanting to the maid,Or, maybe, wife, or widow, might one say?Out stepped and properly down flung himselfMonsieur Léonce Miranda at her feet—And never left them after, so to speak,For twenty years, till his last hour of life,When he released them, as precipitate.Love proffered and accepted then and there!Such potency in word and look has truth.
No sooner was he seated than, behold,
Out burst a polyanthus! He was 'ware
Of a young woman niched in neighborhood;
And ere one moment flitted, fast was he
Found captive to the beauty evermore,
For life, for death, for heaven, for hell, her own.
Philosophy, bewail thy fate! Adieu,
Youth realistic and illusion-proof!
Monsieur Léonce Miranda,—hero late
Who "understood the worth of womankind,"
"Who found therein—provisionally—sport,"—
Felt, in the flitting of a moment, fool
Was he, and folly all that seemed so wise,
And the best proof of wisdom's birth would be
That he made all endeavor, body, soul,
By any means, at any sacrifice
Of labor, wealth, repute, and (—well, the time
For choosing between heaven on earth, and heaven
In heaven, was not at hand immediately—)
Made all endeavor, without loss incurred
Of one least minute, to obtain her love.
"Sport transitive?" "Variety required?"
"In loving were a lifetime thrown away?"
How singularly may young men mistake!
The fault must be repaired with energy.
Monsieur Léonce Miranda ate her up
With eye-devouring; when the unconscious fair
Passed from the close-packed hall, he pressed behind;
She mounted vehicle, he did the same,
Coach stopped, and cab fast followed, at one door—
Good house in unexceptionable street.
Out stepped the lady,—never think, alone!
A mother was not wanting to the maid,
Or, maybe, wife, or widow, might one say?
Out stepped and properly down flung himself
Monsieur Léonce Miranda at her feet—
And never left them after, so to speak,
For twenty years, till his last hour of life,
When he released them, as precipitate.
Love proffered and accepted then and there!
Such potency in word and look has truth.