Chapter 132

Therefore the course to take is—spare your pains,And trouble uselessly with discontentNor soul nor body, by parading proofThat neither haply had known ailment, placedPrecisely where the circumstance forbadeTheir lot should fall to either of the pair.But try and, what you find wrong, remedy,Accepting the conditions: never ask"How came you to be born here with those lungs,That liver?" But bid asthma smoke a pipe,Stramonium, just as if no Tropics were,And ply with calomel the sluggish duct,Nor taunt "The born Norwegian breeds no bile!"And as with body, so proceed with soul:Nor less discerningly, where faith you found,However foolish and fantastic, grudgeTo play the doctor and amend mistake,Because a wisdom were conceivableWhence faith had sprung robust above disease.Far beyond human help, that source of things!Since, in the first stage, so to speak,—first stareOf apprehension at the invisible,—Begins divergency of mind from mind,Superior from inferior: leave this first!Little you change there! What comes afterward—From apprehended thing, each inferenceWith practicality concerning life,This you may test and try, confirm the rightOr contravene the wrong which reasons there.The offspring of the sickly faith must proveSickly act also: stop a monster-birth!When water 's in the cup, and not the cloud,Then is the proper time for chemic test:Belief permits your skill to operateWhen, drop by drop condensed from misty heaven,'T is wrung out, lies a bowl-full in the fleece.How dew by spoonfuls came, let Gideon say:What purpose water serves, your word or twoMay teach him, should he fancy it lights fire.Concerning, then, our vaporous Ravissante—How fable first precipitated faith.—Silence you get upon such point from me.But when I see come posting to the pairAt Clairvaux, for the cure of soul-disease,This Father of the Mission, Parish-priest,This Mother of the Convent, Nun I know—They practise in that second stage of things;They boast no fresh distillery of faith;'T is dogma in the bottle, bright and old,They bring; and I pretend to pharmacy.They undertake the cure with all my heart!He trusts them, and they surely trust themselves.I ask no better. Never mind the cause,Fons et origoof the malady:Apply the drug with courage! Here 's our case.Monsieur Léonce Miranda asks of God,—May a man, living in illicit tie,Continue, by connivance of the Church,No matter what amends he please to makeShort of forthwith relinquishing the sin?Physicians, what do you propose for cure?Father and Mother of The Ravissante,Read your own records, and you find prescribedAs follows, when a couple out of sortsRather than gravely suffering, sought your skillAnd thereby got their health again. Perpend!Two and a half good centuries ago,Luc de la Maison Rouge, a noblemanOf Claise, (the river gives this country name,)And, just as noblewoman, Maude his wife,Having been married many happy yearsSpent in God's honor and man's service too,Conceived, while yet in flower of youth and hope,The project of departing each from eachForever, and dissolving marriage-bondsThat both might enter a religious life.Needing, before they came to such resolve,Divine illumination,—course was clear,—They visited your church in pilgrimage,On Christmas morn: communicating straight,They heard three Masses proper for the day,"It is incredible with what effect"—Quoth the Cistercian monk I copy from—And, next day, came, again communicants,Again heard Masses manifold, but nowWith added thanks to Christ for special graceAnd consolation granted: in the night,Had been divorce from marriage, manifestBy signs and tokens. So, they made great gifts,Left money for more Masses, and returnedHomeward rejoicing—he, to take the rules,As Brother Dionysius, Capucin!She, to become first postulant, then nunAccording to the rules of Benedict,Sister Scolastica: so ended they,And so do I—not end nor yet commenceOne note or comment. What was done was done.Now, Father of the Mission, here 's your case!And, Mother of the Convent, here 's its cure!If separation was permissible,And that decree of Christ "What God hath joinedLet no man put asunder" nullifiedBecause a couple, blameless in the world,Had the conceit that, still more blamelessly,Out of the world, by breach of marriage-vow,Their life was like to pass,—you oraclesOf God,—since holy Paul says such you are,—Hesitate, not one moment, to pronounceWhen questioned by the pair now needing help,"Each from the other go, you guilty ones,Preliminary to your least approachNearer the Power that thus could strain a pointIn favor of a pair of innocentsWho thought their wedded hands not clean enoughTo touch and leave unsullied their souls' snowAre not your hands found filthy by the world,Mere human law and custom? Not a stepNearer till hands be washed and purified!"What they did say is immaterial, sinceCertainly it was nothing of the kind.There was no washing hands of him (alack,You take me?—in the figurative sense!)But, somehow, gloves were drawn o'er dirt and all,And practice with the Church procured thereby.Seeing that,—all remonstrance proved in vain,Persuasives tried and terrors put to use,I nowise question,—still the guilty pairOnly embraced the closelier, obstinate,—Father and Mother went from Clairvaux backTheir weary way, with heaviness of heart,I grant you, but each palm well crossed with coin,And nothing like a smutch perceptible.Monsieur Léonce Miranda might compoundFor sin?—no, surely! but by gifts—prepareHis soul the better for contrition, say!Gift followed upon gift, at all events.Good counsel was rejected, on one part:Hard money, on the other—may we hopeWas unreflectingly consigned to purse?Two years did this experiment engageMonsieur Léonce Miranda: how, by giftsTo God and to God's poor, a man might stayIn sin and yet stave off sin's punishment.No salve could be conceived more nicely mixedFor this man's nature: generosity,—Susceptibility to human ills,Corporeal, mental,—self-devotednessMade up Miranda—whether strong or weakElsewhere, may be inquired another time.In mercy he was strong, at all events.Enough! he could not see a beast in pain,Much less a man, without the will to aid;And where the will was, oft the means were too,Since that good bargain with the Cousinry.The news flew fast about the countrysideThat, with the kind man, it was ask and have;And ask and have they did. To instance you:—A mob of beggars at The RavissanteClung to his skirts one day, and cried "We thirst!"Forthwith he bade a cask of wine be broachedTo satisfy all comers, till, dead-drunkSo satisfied, they strewed the holy place.For this was grown religious and a rite:Such slips of judgment, gifts irregular,Showed but as spillings of the golden gristOn either side the hopper, through blind zeal;Steadily the main stream went pouring onFrom mill to mouth of sack—held wide and closeBy Father of the Mission, Parish-priest,And Mother of the Convent, Nun I know,With such effect that, in the sequel, proofWas tendered to the Court at Vire, last month,That in these same two years, expenditureAt quiet Clairvaux rose to the amountOf Forty Thousand English Pounds: whereofA trifle went, no inappropriate closeOf bounty, to supply the Virgin's crownWith that stupendous jewel from New York,Now blazing as befits the Star of Sea.Such signs of grace, outward and visible,I rather give you, for your sake and mine,Than put in evidence the inward strife,Spiritual effort to compound for faultBy payment of devotion—thank the phrase!That payment was as punctual, do not doubt,As its far easier fellow. YesterdayI trudged the distance from The RavissanteTo Clairvaux, with my two feet: but our friend,The more to edify the country-folk,Was wont to make that journey on both knees."Maliciously perverted incident!"Snarled the retort, when this was told at Vire:"The man paid mere devotion as he passed,Knelt decently at just each wayside shrine!"Alas, my lawyer, I trudged yesterday—On my two feet, and with both eyes wide ope,—The distance, and could find no shrine at all!According to his lights, I praise the man.Enough! incessant was devotion, say—With her, you know of, praying at his side.Still, there be relaxations of the tense:Or life indemnifies itself for strain,Or finds its very strain grow feebleness.Monsieur Léonce Miranda's days were passedMuch as of old, in simple work and play.His first endeavor, on recoveryFrom that sad ineffectual sacrifice,Had been to set about repairing loss:Never admitting, loss was to repair.No word at any time escaped his lips—Betrayed a lurking presence, in his heart,Of sorrow; no regret for mischief done—Punishment suffered, he would rather say.Good-tempered schoolboy-fashion, he preferredTo laugh away his flogging, fair price paidFor pleasure out of bounds: if needs must be,Get pleasure and get flogged a second time!A sullen subject would have nursed the scarsAnd made excuse, for throwing grammar by,That bench was grown uneasy to the seat.No: this poor fellow cheerfully got handsFit for his stumps, and what hands failed to do,The other members did in their degree—Unwonted service. With his mouth aloneHe wrote, nay, painted pictures—think of that!He played on a piano pedal-keyed,Kicked out—if it was Bach's—good music thence.He rode, that 's readily conceivable,But then he shot and never missed his bird,With other feats as dexterous: I inferHe was not ignorant what hands are worth,When he resolved on ruining his own.So the two years passed somehow—who shall sayFoolishly,—as one estimates mankind,The work they do, the play they leave undone?—Two whole years spent in that experimentI told you of, at Clairvaux all the time,From April on to April: why that monthMore than another, notable in life?Does the awakening of the year arouseMan to new projects, nerve him for fresh featsOf what proves, for the most part of mankindPlaying or working, novel folly too?At any rate, I see no slightest signOf folly (let me tell you in advance),Nothing but wisdom meets me manifestIn the procedure of the Twentieth DayOf April, 'Seventy,—folly's year in France.It was delightful Spring, and out of doorsTemptation to adventure. Walk or ride?There was a wild young horse to exercise,And teach the way to go, and pace to keep:Monsieur Léonce Miranda chose to ride.So, while they clapped soft saddle straight on back,And bitted jaw to satisfaction,—sinceThe partner of his days must stay at home,Teased by some trifling legacy of MarchTo throat or shoulder,—visit duly paidAnd "farewell" given and received again,—As chamber-door considerately closedBehind him, still five minutes were to spend.How better, than by clearing, two and two,The staircase-steps and coming out aloftUpon the platform yonder (raise your eyes!)And tasting, just as those two years before,Spring's bright advance upon the tower a-top,The feature of the front, the Belvedere?Look at it for a moment while I breathe.IVReady to hear the rest? How good you are!Now for this Twentieth splendid day of Spring,All in a tale,—sun, wind, sky, earth and sea,—To bid man, "Up, be doing!" Mount the stair,Monsieur Léonce Miranda mounts so brisk,And look—ere his elastic foot arrive—Your longest, far and wide, o'er fronting space.Yon white streak—Havre lighthouse! Name and name,How the mind runs from each to each relay,Town after town, till Paris' self be touched,Superlatively big with life and deathTo all the world, that very day perhaps!He who stepped out upon the platform here,Pinnacled over the expanse, gave thoughtNeither to Rouher nor Ollivier, RoonNor Bismarck, Emperor nor King, but justTo steeple, church, and shrine, The Ravissante!He saw Her, whom myself saw, but when SpringWas passing into Fall: not robed and crownedAs, thanks to him, and her you know about,She stands at present; but She smiled the same.Thither he turned—to never turn away.He thought ...(Suppose I should prefer "He said"?Along with every act—and speech is act—There go, a multitude impalpableTo ordinary human faculty,The thoughts which give the act significance.Who is a poet needs must apprehendAlike both speech and thoughts which prompt to speak.Part these, and thought withdraws to poetry:Speech is reported in the newspaper.)He said, then, probably no word at all,But thought as follows—in a minute's space—One particle of ore beats out such leaf!"This Spring-morn I am forty-three years old:In prime of life, perfection of estateBodily, mental, nay, material too,—My whole of worldly fortunes reach their height.Body and soul alike on eminence:It is not probable I ever raiseSoul above standard by increase of worth,Nor reasonably may expect to liftBody beyond the present altitude."Behold me, Lady called The Ravissante!Such as I am, I—gave myself to youSo long since, that I cannot say 'I give.'All my belongings, what is summed in life,I have submitted wholly—as man might,At least, asImight, who am weak, not strong,—Wholly, then, to your rule and governance,So far as I had strength. My weakness was—I felt a fascination, at each pointAnd pore of me, a Power as absoluteClaiming that soul should recognize her sway.Oh, you were no whit clearlier Queen, I see,Throughout the life that rolls out ribbon-likeIts shot-silk length behind me, than the strangeMystery—how shall I denominateThe unrobed One? Robed you go and crowned as well,Named by the nations: she is hard to name,Though you have spelt out certain charactersObscure upon what fillet binds her brow,Lust of the flesh, lust of the eye, life's pride.'So call her, and contemn the enchantress!'—'CrushThe despot, and recover liberty!'Cried despot and enchantress at each ear.You were conspicuous and pre-eminent,Authoritative and imperial,—youSpoke first, claimed homage: did I hesitate?Born for no mastery, but servitude,Men cannot serve two masters, says the Book;Master should measure strength with master, then,Before on servant is imposed a task.You spoke first, promised best, and threatened most;The other never threatened, promised, spokeA single word, but, when your part was done,Lifted a finger, and I, prostrate, knewFilms were about me, though you stood aloofSmiling or frowning 'Where is power like mineTo punish or reward thee? Rise, thou fool!Will to be free, and, lo, I lift thee loose!'Did I not will, and could I rise a whit?Lay I, at any time, content to lie?'To lie, at all events, brings pleasure: makeAmends by undemanded pain!' I said.Did not you prompt me? 'Purchase now by painPleasure hereafter in the world to come!'I could not pluck my heart out, as you bade:Unbidden, I burned off my hands at least.My soul retained its treasure; but my purseLightened itself with much alacrity.Well, where is the reward? what promised fruitOf sacrifice in peace, content? what senseOf added strength to bear or to forbear?What influx of new light assists me nowEven to guess you recognize a gainIn what was loss enough to mortal me?But she, the less authoritative voice,Oh, how distinct enunciating, howPlain dealing! Gain she gave was gain indeed!That, you deny: that, you contemptuous callAcorns, swine's food not man's meat! 'Spurn the draff!'Ay, but those life-tree apples I prefer,Am I to die of hunger till they drop?Husks keep flesh from starvation, anyhow.Give those life-apples!—one, worth woods of oak,Worth acorns by the wagon-load,—one shootThrough heart and brain, assurance bright and briefThat you, my Lady, my own Ravissante,Feel, through my famine, served and satisfied,Own me, your starveling, soldier of a sort!Your soldier! do I read my title clearEven to call myself your friend, not foe?What is the pact between us but a truce?At best I shall have staved off enmity,Obtained a respite, ransomed me from wrath.I pay, instalment by instalment, life,Earth's tribute-money, pleasures great and small,Whereof should at the last one penny pieceFall short, the whole heap becomes forfeiture.You find in me deficient soldiership:Want the whole life or none. I grudge that whole,Because I am not sure of recompense:Because I want faith. Whose the fault? I ask.If insufficient faith have done thus much,Contributed thus much of sacrifice,More would move mountains, you are warrant. Well,Grant, you, the grace, I give the gratitude!And what were easier? 'Ask and have' folk callMiranda's method: 'Have, nor need to ask!'So do they formulate your qualitySuperlative beyond my human grace.The Ravissante, you ravish men awayFrom puny aches and petty pains, assuagedBy man's own art with small expenditureOf pill or potion, unless, put to shame,Nature is roused and sets things right herself.Your miracles are grown our commonplace;No day but pilgrim hobbles his last mile,Kneels down and rises up, flings crutch away,Or else appends it to the reverend heapBeneath you, votive cripple-carpentry.Some few meet failure—oh, they wanted faith,And may betake themselves to La Salette,Or seek Lourdes, so that hence the scandal limp!The many get their grace and go their wayRejoicing, with a tale to tell,—most like,A staff to borrow, since the crutch is gone,Should the first telling happen at my house,And teller wet his whistle with my wine.Itell this to a doctor and he laughs:'Give me permission to cry—Out of bed,You loth rheumatic sluggard! Cheat yon chairOf laziness, its gouty occupant!—You should see miracles performed! But now,I give advice, and take as fee ten francs,And do as much as does your Ravissante.Send her that case of cancer to be curedI have refused to treat for any fee,Bring back my would-be patient sound and whole,And see me laugh on t'other side my mouth!'Can he be right, and are you hampered thus!Such pettiness restricts a miracleWrought by the Great Physician, who hears prayer,Visibly seated in your mother-lap!He, out of nothing, made sky, earth, and sea,And all that in them is, man, beast, bird, fish,Down to this insect on my parapet.Look how the marvel of a minim crawls!Were I to kneel among the halt and maimed,And pray 'Who mad'st the insect with ten legs,Make me one finger grow where ten were once!'The very priests would thrust me out of church.'What folly does the madman dare expect?No faith obtains—in this late age, at least—Such cure as that! We ease rheumatics, though!'"Ay, bring the early ages back again,What prodigy were unattainable?I read your annals. Here came Louis Onze,Gave thrice the sum he ever gave beforeAt one time, some three hundred crowns, to wit—On pilgrimage to pray for—health, he found?Did he? I do not read it in Commines.Here sent poor joyous Marie-AntoinetteTo thank you that a Dauphin dignifiedHer motherhood—called Duke of NormandyAnd Martyr of the Temple, much the sameAs if no robe of hers had dressed you rich;No silver lamps, she gave, illume your shrine!Here, following example, fifty yearsAgo, in gratitude for birth againOf yet another destined King of France,Did not the Duchess fashion with her hands,And frame in gold and crystal, and presentA bouquet made of artificial flowers?And was he King of France, and is not heStill Count of Chambord?"Such the days of faith,And such their produce to encourage mine!What now, if I too count without my host?I too have given money, ornament,And 'artificial flowers'—which, when I plucked,Seemed rooting at my heart and real enough:What if I gain thereby nor health of mind,Nor youth renewed which perished in its prime,Burnt to a cinder 'twixt the red-hot bars,Nor gain to see my second baby-hopeOf managing to live on terms with bothOpposing potentates, the Power and you,Crowned with success? I dawdle out my daysIn exile here at Clairvaux, with mock love,That gives, while whispering 'Would I dared refuse!'—What the loud voice declares my heart's free gift!Mock worship, mock superiorityO'er those I style the world's benighted ones,That irreligious sort I pity so,Dumas and even Hertford, who is Duke."Impiety? Not if I know myself!Not if you know the heart and soul I bare,I bid you cut, hack, slash, anatomize,Till peccant part be found and flung away!Demonstrate where I need more faith! DescribeWhat act shall evidence sufficiencyOf faith, your warrant for such exerciseOf power, in my behalf, as all the world,Except poor praying me, declares profuse?Poor me? It is that world, not me alone,That world which prates of fixed laws and the like,I fain would save, poor world so ignorant!And your part were—what easy miracle?Oh, Lady, could I make your want like mine!"Then his face grew one luminosity."Simple, sufficient! Happiness at height!I solve the riddle, I persuade mankind.I have been just the simpleton who stands—Summoned to claim his patrimonial rights—At shilly-shally, may he knock or noAt his own door in his own house and homeWhereof he holds the very title-deeds!Here is my title to this property,This power you hold for profit of myselfAnd all the world at need—which need is now!"My title—let me hear who controverts!Count Mailleville built yon church. Why did he so?Because he found your image. How came that?His shepherd told him that a certain sheepWas wont to scratch with hoof and scrape with hornAt ground where once the Danes had razed a church.Thither he went, and there he dug, and thenceHe disinterred the image he conveyedIn pomp to Londres yonder, his domain.You liked the old place better than the new.The Count might surely have divined as much:He did not; some one might have spoke a word:No one did. A mere dream had warned enough,That back again in pomp you best were borne:No dream warned, and no need of convoy was;An angel caught you up and clapped you down,—No mighty task; you stand one metre high,And people carry you about at times.Why, then, did you despise the simple course?Because you are the Queen of Angels: whenYou front us in a picture, there flock they,Angels around you, here and everywhere."Therefore, to prove indubitable faith,Those angels that acknowledge you their queen,I summon them to bear me to your feetFrom Clairvaux through the air, an easy trip!Faith without flaw! I trust your potency,Benevolence, your will to save the world—By such a simplest of procedures, too!Not even by affording angel-help,Unless it please you: there 's a simpler mode:Only suspend the law of gravity,And, while at back, permitted to propel,The air helps onward, let the air in frontCease to oppose my passage through the midst!"Thus I bestride the railing, leg o'er leg,Thus, lo, I stand, a single inch away,At dizzy edge of death,—no touch of fear,As safe on tower above as turf below!Your smile enswathes me in beatitude,You lift along the votary—who vaults,Who, in the twinkling of an eye, revives,Dropt safely in the space before the church—How crowded, since this morn is market-day!I shall not need to speak. The news will runLike wild-fire. 'Thousands saw Miranda's flight!''T is telegraphed to Paris in a trice.The Boulevard is one buzz—'Do you believe?Well, this time, thousands saw Miranda's flight:You know him, goldsmith in the Place Vendôme.'In goes the Empress to the Emperor:'Now—will you hesitate to make disgorgeYour wicked King of Italy his gains,Give the Legations to the Pope once more?'Which done,—why, grace goes back to operate,They themselves set a good example first,Resign the empire twenty years usurped,And Henry, the Desired One, reigns o'er France!Regenerated France makes all things new!My house no longer stands on Quai Rousseau,But Quai rechristened Alacoque: a quaiWhere Renan burns his book, and Veuillot burnsRenan beside, since Veuillot rules the roast,Re-edits now indeed 'The Universe.'O blessing, O superlatively bigWith blessedness beyond all blessing dreamedBy man! for just that promise has effect,'Old things shall pass away and all be new!'Then, for a culminating mercy-feat,Wherefore should I dare dream impossibleThat I too have my portion in the change?My past with all its sorrow, sin and shame,Becomes a blank, a nothing! There she stands,Clara de Millefleurs, all deodorized,Twenty years' stain wiped off her innocence!There never was Muhlhausen, nor at allDuke Hertford: naught that was, remains, exceptThe beauty,—yes, the beauty is unchanged!Well, and the soul too, that must keep the same!And so the trembling little virgin handMelts into mine, that 's back again, of course!—Think not I care about my poor old self!I only want my hand for that one use,To take her hand, and say 'I marry you—Men, women, angels, you behold my wife!There is no secret, nothing wicked here,Nothing she does not wish the world to know!'None of your married women have the rightTo mutter 'Yes, indeed, she beats us allIn beauty,—but our lives are pure at least!'Bear witness, for our marriage is no thingDone in a corner! 'T is The RavissanteRepairs the wrong of Paris. See, She smiles,She beckons, She bids 'Hither, both of you!'And may we kneel? And will you bless us both?And may I worship you, and yet love her?Then!"—A sublime spring from the balustradeAbout the tower so often talked about,A flash in middle air, and stone-dead layMonsieur Léonce Miranda on the turf.A gardener who watched, at work the whileDibbling a flower-bed for geranium-shoots,Saw the catastrophe, and, straightening back,Stood up and shook his brows. "Poor soul, poor soul,Just what I prophesied the end would be!Ugh—the Red Night-cap!" (as he raised the head)"This must be what he meant by those strange wordsWhile I was weeding larkspurs, yesterday,'Angels would take him!' Mad!"No! sane, I saySuch being the conditions of his life,Such end of life was not irrational.Hold a belief, you only half-believe,With all-momentous issues either way,—And I advise you imitate this leap,Put faith to proof, be cured or killed at once!Call you men, killed through cutting cancer out,The worse for such an act of bravery?That 's more thanIknow. In my estimate,Better lie prostrate on his turf at peace,Than, wistful, eye, from out the tent, the tower,Racked with a doubt, "Will going on bare kneesAll the way to The Ravissante and back,Saying my Ave Mary all the time,Somewhat excuse if I postpone my march?—Make due amends for that one kiss I gaveIn gratitude to her who held me outSuperior Fricquot's sermon, hot from press,A-spread with hands so sinful yet so smooth?"And now, sincerely do I pray she stand,Clara, with interposing sweep of robe,Between us and this horror! Any screenTurns white by contrast with the tragic pall;And her dubiety distracts at least,As well as snow, from such decided black.With womanhood, at least, we have to do:Ending with Clara—is the word too kind?Let pass the shock! There 's poignancy enoughWhen what one parted with, a minute since,Alive and happy, is returned a wreck—All that was, all that seemed about to be,Razed out and ruined now forevermore,Because a straw descended on this scaleRather than that, made death o'erbalance life.But think of cage-mates in captivity,Inured to day-long, night-long vigilanceEach of the other's tread and angry turnIf behind prison bars the jailer knocked:These whom society shut out, and thusPenned in, to settle down and regulateBy the strange law, the solitary life—When death divorces such a fellowship,Theirs may pair off with that prodigious woeImagined of a ghastly brotherhood—One watcher left in lighthouse out at sea,With leagues of surf between the land and him,Alive with his dead partner on the rock;One galley-slave, whom curse and blow compelTo labor on, ply oar—beside his chain,Encumbered with a corpse-companion now.Such these: although, no prisoners, self-entrenched,They kept the world off from their barricade.Memory, gratitude, was poignant, sure,Though pride brought consolation of a kind.Twenty years long had Clara been—of whomThe rival, nay, the victor, past dispute?What if in turn The Ravissante at lengthProved victor—which was doubtful—anyhow,Here lay the inconstant with, conspicuous too,The fruit of his good fortune!"Has he gainedBy leaving me?" she might soliloquize:"All love could do, I did for him. I learnedBy heart his nature, what he loved and loathed.Leaned to with liking, turned from with distaste.No matter what his least velleity,I was determined he should want no wish,And in conformity administeredTo his requirement; most of joy I mixedWith least of sorrow in life's daily draught,Twenty years long, life's proper average.And when he got to quarrel with my cup,Would needs out-sweeten honey, and discardThat gall-drop we require lest nectar cloy,—I did not call him fool, and vex my friend,But quietly allowed experiment,Encouraged him to spice his drink, and nowGratelignum vitæ" now bruise so-called grainsOf Paradise, and pour now, for perfume,Distilment rare, the rose of Jericho,Holy-thorn, passion-flower, and what know I?Till beverage obtained the fancied smack.'T was wild-flower-wine that neither helped nor harmedWho sipped and held it for restorative—What harm? But here has he been through the hedgeStraying in search of simples, while my backWas turned a minute, and he finds a prize,Monkshood and belladonna! O my child,My truant little boy, despite the beard,The body two feet broad and six feet long,And what the calendar counts middle age—You wanted, did you, to enjoy a flight?Why not have taken into confidenceMe, that was mother to you?—never mindWhat mock disguise of mistress held you mine!Had you come laughing, crying, with request,'Make me fly, mother!' I had run upstairsAnd held you tight the while I danced you highIn air from tower-top, singing 'Off we go(On pilgrimage to Lourdes some day next month),And swift we soar (to Rome with Peter-pence),And low we light (at Paris where we pickAnother jewel from our store of stonesAnd send it for a present to the Pope)!'So, dropt indeed you were, but on my knees,Rolling and crowing, not a whit the worseFor journey to your Ravissante and back.Now, no more Clairvaux—which I made you build,And think an inspiration of your own—No more fine house, trim garden, pretty park,Nothing I used to busy you about,And make believe you worked for my surprise!What weariness to me will work becomeNow that I need not seem surprised again!This boudoir, for example, with the doves(My stupid maid has damaged, dusting one)Embossed in stucco o'er the looking-glassBeside the toilet-table! dear—dear me!"

Therefore the course to take is—spare your pains,

And trouble uselessly with discontent

Nor soul nor body, by parading proof

That neither haply had known ailment, placed

Precisely where the circumstance forbade

Their lot should fall to either of the pair.

But try and, what you find wrong, remedy,

Accepting the conditions: never ask

"How came you to be born here with those lungs,

That liver?" But bid asthma smoke a pipe,

Stramonium, just as if no Tropics were,

And ply with calomel the sluggish duct,

Nor taunt "The born Norwegian breeds no bile!"

And as with body, so proceed with soul:

Nor less discerningly, where faith you found,

However foolish and fantastic, grudge

To play the doctor and amend mistake,

Because a wisdom were conceivable

Whence faith had sprung robust above disease.

Far beyond human help, that source of things!

Since, in the first stage, so to speak,—first stare

Of apprehension at the invisible,—

Begins divergency of mind from mind,

Superior from inferior: leave this first!

Little you change there! What comes afterward—

From apprehended thing, each inference

With practicality concerning life,

This you may test and try, confirm the right

Or contravene the wrong which reasons there.

The offspring of the sickly faith must prove

Sickly act also: stop a monster-birth!

When water 's in the cup, and not the cloud,

Then is the proper time for chemic test:

Belief permits your skill to operate

When, drop by drop condensed from misty heaven,

'T is wrung out, lies a bowl-full in the fleece.

How dew by spoonfuls came, let Gideon say:

What purpose water serves, your word or two

May teach him, should he fancy it lights fire.

Concerning, then, our vaporous Ravissante—How fable first precipitated faith.—Silence you get upon such point from me.But when I see come posting to the pairAt Clairvaux, for the cure of soul-disease,This Father of the Mission, Parish-priest,This Mother of the Convent, Nun I know—They practise in that second stage of things;They boast no fresh distillery of faith;'T is dogma in the bottle, bright and old,They bring; and I pretend to pharmacy.They undertake the cure with all my heart!He trusts them, and they surely trust themselves.I ask no better. Never mind the cause,Fons et origoof the malady:Apply the drug with courage! Here 's our case.Monsieur Léonce Miranda asks of God,—May a man, living in illicit tie,Continue, by connivance of the Church,No matter what amends he please to makeShort of forthwith relinquishing the sin?Physicians, what do you propose for cure?

Concerning, then, our vaporous Ravissante—

How fable first precipitated faith.—

Silence you get upon such point from me.

But when I see come posting to the pair

At Clairvaux, for the cure of soul-disease,

This Father of the Mission, Parish-priest,

This Mother of the Convent, Nun I know—

They practise in that second stage of things;

They boast no fresh distillery of faith;

'T is dogma in the bottle, bright and old,

They bring; and I pretend to pharmacy.

They undertake the cure with all my heart!

He trusts them, and they surely trust themselves.

I ask no better. Never mind the cause,

Fons et origoof the malady:

Apply the drug with courage! Here 's our case.

Monsieur Léonce Miranda asks of God,

—May a man, living in illicit tie,

Continue, by connivance of the Church,

No matter what amends he please to make

Short of forthwith relinquishing the sin?

Physicians, what do you propose for cure?

Father and Mother of The Ravissante,Read your own records, and you find prescribedAs follows, when a couple out of sortsRather than gravely suffering, sought your skillAnd thereby got their health again. Perpend!Two and a half good centuries ago,Luc de la Maison Rouge, a noblemanOf Claise, (the river gives this country name,)And, just as noblewoman, Maude his wife,Having been married many happy yearsSpent in God's honor and man's service too,Conceived, while yet in flower of youth and hope,The project of departing each from eachForever, and dissolving marriage-bondsThat both might enter a religious life.Needing, before they came to such resolve,Divine illumination,—course was clear,—They visited your church in pilgrimage,On Christmas morn: communicating straight,They heard three Masses proper for the day,"It is incredible with what effect"—Quoth the Cistercian monk I copy from—And, next day, came, again communicants,Again heard Masses manifold, but nowWith added thanks to Christ for special graceAnd consolation granted: in the night,Had been divorce from marriage, manifestBy signs and tokens. So, they made great gifts,Left money for more Masses, and returnedHomeward rejoicing—he, to take the rules,As Brother Dionysius, Capucin!She, to become first postulant, then nunAccording to the rules of Benedict,Sister Scolastica: so ended they,And so do I—not end nor yet commenceOne note or comment. What was done was done.Now, Father of the Mission, here 's your case!And, Mother of the Convent, here 's its cure!If separation was permissible,And that decree of Christ "What God hath joinedLet no man put asunder" nullifiedBecause a couple, blameless in the world,Had the conceit that, still more blamelessly,Out of the world, by breach of marriage-vow,Their life was like to pass,—you oraclesOf God,—since holy Paul says such you are,—Hesitate, not one moment, to pronounceWhen questioned by the pair now needing help,"Each from the other go, you guilty ones,Preliminary to your least approachNearer the Power that thus could strain a pointIn favor of a pair of innocentsWho thought their wedded hands not clean enoughTo touch and leave unsullied their souls' snowAre not your hands found filthy by the world,Mere human law and custom? Not a stepNearer till hands be washed and purified!"

Father and Mother of The Ravissante,

Read your own records, and you find prescribed

As follows, when a couple out of sorts

Rather than gravely suffering, sought your skill

And thereby got their health again. Perpend!

Two and a half good centuries ago,

Luc de la Maison Rouge, a nobleman

Of Claise, (the river gives this country name,)

And, just as noblewoman, Maude his wife,

Having been married many happy years

Spent in God's honor and man's service too,

Conceived, while yet in flower of youth and hope,

The project of departing each from each

Forever, and dissolving marriage-bonds

That both might enter a religious life.

Needing, before they came to such resolve,

Divine illumination,—course was clear,—

They visited your church in pilgrimage,

On Christmas morn: communicating straight,

They heard three Masses proper for the day,

"It is incredible with what effect"—

Quoth the Cistercian monk I copy from—

And, next day, came, again communicants,

Again heard Masses manifold, but now

With added thanks to Christ for special grace

And consolation granted: in the night,

Had been divorce from marriage, manifest

By signs and tokens. So, they made great gifts,

Left money for more Masses, and returned

Homeward rejoicing—he, to take the rules,

As Brother Dionysius, Capucin!

She, to become first postulant, then nun

According to the rules of Benedict,

Sister Scolastica: so ended they,

And so do I—not end nor yet commence

One note or comment. What was done was done.

Now, Father of the Mission, here 's your case!

And, Mother of the Convent, here 's its cure!

If separation was permissible,

And that decree of Christ "What God hath joined

Let no man put asunder" nullified

Because a couple, blameless in the world,

Had the conceit that, still more blamelessly,

Out of the world, by breach of marriage-vow,

Their life was like to pass,—you oracles

Of God,—since holy Paul says such you are,—

Hesitate, not one moment, to pronounce

When questioned by the pair now needing help,

"Each from the other go, you guilty ones,

Preliminary to your least approach

Nearer the Power that thus could strain a point

In favor of a pair of innocents

Who thought their wedded hands not clean enough

To touch and leave unsullied their souls' snow

Are not your hands found filthy by the world,

Mere human law and custom? Not a step

Nearer till hands be washed and purified!"

What they did say is immaterial, sinceCertainly it was nothing of the kind.There was no washing hands of him (alack,You take me?—in the figurative sense!)But, somehow, gloves were drawn o'er dirt and all,And practice with the Church procured thereby.Seeing that,—all remonstrance proved in vain,Persuasives tried and terrors put to use,I nowise question,—still the guilty pairOnly embraced the closelier, obstinate,—Father and Mother went from Clairvaux backTheir weary way, with heaviness of heart,I grant you, but each palm well crossed with coin,And nothing like a smutch perceptible.Monsieur Léonce Miranda might compoundFor sin?—no, surely! but by gifts—prepareHis soul the better for contrition, say!

What they did say is immaterial, since

Certainly it was nothing of the kind.

There was no washing hands of him (alack,

You take me?—in the figurative sense!)

But, somehow, gloves were drawn o'er dirt and all,

And practice with the Church procured thereby.

Seeing that,—all remonstrance proved in vain,

Persuasives tried and terrors put to use,

I nowise question,—still the guilty pair

Only embraced the closelier, obstinate,—

Father and Mother went from Clairvaux back

Their weary way, with heaviness of heart,

I grant you, but each palm well crossed with coin,

And nothing like a smutch perceptible.

Monsieur Léonce Miranda might compound

For sin?—no, surely! but by gifts—prepare

His soul the better for contrition, say!

Gift followed upon gift, at all events.Good counsel was rejected, on one part:Hard money, on the other—may we hopeWas unreflectingly consigned to purse?

Gift followed upon gift, at all events.

Good counsel was rejected, on one part:

Hard money, on the other—may we hope

Was unreflectingly consigned to purse?

Two years did this experiment engageMonsieur Léonce Miranda: how, by giftsTo God and to God's poor, a man might stayIn sin and yet stave off sin's punishment.No salve could be conceived more nicely mixedFor this man's nature: generosity,—Susceptibility to human ills,Corporeal, mental,—self-devotednessMade up Miranda—whether strong or weakElsewhere, may be inquired another time.In mercy he was strong, at all events.Enough! he could not see a beast in pain,Much less a man, without the will to aid;And where the will was, oft the means were too,Since that good bargain with the Cousinry.

Two years did this experiment engage

Monsieur Léonce Miranda: how, by gifts

To God and to God's poor, a man might stay

In sin and yet stave off sin's punishment.

No salve could be conceived more nicely mixed

For this man's nature: generosity,—

Susceptibility to human ills,

Corporeal, mental,—self-devotedness

Made up Miranda—whether strong or weak

Elsewhere, may be inquired another time.

In mercy he was strong, at all events.

Enough! he could not see a beast in pain,

Much less a man, without the will to aid;

And where the will was, oft the means were too,

Since that good bargain with the Cousinry.

The news flew fast about the countrysideThat, with the kind man, it was ask and have;And ask and have they did. To instance you:—A mob of beggars at The RavissanteClung to his skirts one day, and cried "We thirst!"Forthwith he bade a cask of wine be broachedTo satisfy all comers, till, dead-drunkSo satisfied, they strewed the holy place.For this was grown religious and a rite:Such slips of judgment, gifts irregular,Showed but as spillings of the golden gristOn either side the hopper, through blind zeal;Steadily the main stream went pouring onFrom mill to mouth of sack—held wide and closeBy Father of the Mission, Parish-priest,And Mother of the Convent, Nun I know,With such effect that, in the sequel, proofWas tendered to the Court at Vire, last month,That in these same two years, expenditureAt quiet Clairvaux rose to the amountOf Forty Thousand English Pounds: whereofA trifle went, no inappropriate closeOf bounty, to supply the Virgin's crownWith that stupendous jewel from New York,Now blazing as befits the Star of Sea.

The news flew fast about the countryside

That, with the kind man, it was ask and have;

And ask and have they did. To instance you:—

A mob of beggars at The Ravissante

Clung to his skirts one day, and cried "We thirst!"

Forthwith he bade a cask of wine be broached

To satisfy all comers, till, dead-drunk

So satisfied, they strewed the holy place.

For this was grown religious and a rite:

Such slips of judgment, gifts irregular,

Showed but as spillings of the golden grist

On either side the hopper, through blind zeal;

Steadily the main stream went pouring on

From mill to mouth of sack—held wide and close

By Father of the Mission, Parish-priest,

And Mother of the Convent, Nun I know,

With such effect that, in the sequel, proof

Was tendered to the Court at Vire, last month,

That in these same two years, expenditure

At quiet Clairvaux rose to the amount

Of Forty Thousand English Pounds: whereof

A trifle went, no inappropriate close

Of bounty, to supply the Virgin's crown

With that stupendous jewel from New York,

Now blazing as befits the Star of Sea.

Such signs of grace, outward and visible,I rather give you, for your sake and mine,Than put in evidence the inward strife,Spiritual effort to compound for faultBy payment of devotion—thank the phrase!That payment was as punctual, do not doubt,As its far easier fellow. YesterdayI trudged the distance from The RavissanteTo Clairvaux, with my two feet: but our friend,The more to edify the country-folk,Was wont to make that journey on both knees."Maliciously perverted incident!"Snarled the retort, when this was told at Vire:"The man paid mere devotion as he passed,Knelt decently at just each wayside shrine!"Alas, my lawyer, I trudged yesterday—On my two feet, and with both eyes wide ope,—The distance, and could find no shrine at all!According to his lights, I praise the man.Enough! incessant was devotion, say—With her, you know of, praying at his side.Still, there be relaxations of the tense:Or life indemnifies itself for strain,Or finds its very strain grow feebleness.Monsieur Léonce Miranda's days were passedMuch as of old, in simple work and play.His first endeavor, on recoveryFrom that sad ineffectual sacrifice,Had been to set about repairing loss:Never admitting, loss was to repair.No word at any time escaped his lips—Betrayed a lurking presence, in his heart,Of sorrow; no regret for mischief done—Punishment suffered, he would rather say.Good-tempered schoolboy-fashion, he preferredTo laugh away his flogging, fair price paidFor pleasure out of bounds: if needs must be,Get pleasure and get flogged a second time!A sullen subject would have nursed the scarsAnd made excuse, for throwing grammar by,That bench was grown uneasy to the seat.No: this poor fellow cheerfully got handsFit for his stumps, and what hands failed to do,The other members did in their degree—Unwonted service. With his mouth aloneHe wrote, nay, painted pictures—think of that!He played on a piano pedal-keyed,Kicked out—if it was Bach's—good music thence.He rode, that 's readily conceivable,But then he shot and never missed his bird,With other feats as dexterous: I inferHe was not ignorant what hands are worth,When he resolved on ruining his own.So the two years passed somehow—who shall sayFoolishly,—as one estimates mankind,The work they do, the play they leave undone?—Two whole years spent in that experimentI told you of, at Clairvaux all the time,From April on to April: why that monthMore than another, notable in life?Does the awakening of the year arouseMan to new projects, nerve him for fresh featsOf what proves, for the most part of mankindPlaying or working, novel folly too?At any rate, I see no slightest signOf folly (let me tell you in advance),Nothing but wisdom meets me manifestIn the procedure of the Twentieth DayOf April, 'Seventy,—folly's year in France.

Such signs of grace, outward and visible,

I rather give you, for your sake and mine,

Than put in evidence the inward strife,

Spiritual effort to compound for fault

By payment of devotion—thank the phrase!

That payment was as punctual, do not doubt,

As its far easier fellow. Yesterday

I trudged the distance from The Ravissante

To Clairvaux, with my two feet: but our friend,

The more to edify the country-folk,

Was wont to make that journey on both knees.

"Maliciously perverted incident!"

Snarled the retort, when this was told at Vire:

"The man paid mere devotion as he passed,

Knelt decently at just each wayside shrine!"

Alas, my lawyer, I trudged yesterday—

On my two feet, and with both eyes wide ope,—

The distance, and could find no shrine at all!

According to his lights, I praise the man.

Enough! incessant was devotion, say—

With her, you know of, praying at his side.

Still, there be relaxations of the tense:

Or life indemnifies itself for strain,

Or finds its very strain grow feebleness.

Monsieur Léonce Miranda's days were passed

Much as of old, in simple work and play.

His first endeavor, on recovery

From that sad ineffectual sacrifice,

Had been to set about repairing loss:

Never admitting, loss was to repair.

No word at any time escaped his lips

—Betrayed a lurking presence, in his heart,

Of sorrow; no regret for mischief done—

Punishment suffered, he would rather say.

Good-tempered schoolboy-fashion, he preferred

To laugh away his flogging, fair price paid

For pleasure out of bounds: if needs must be,

Get pleasure and get flogged a second time!

A sullen subject would have nursed the scars

And made excuse, for throwing grammar by,

That bench was grown uneasy to the seat.

No: this poor fellow cheerfully got hands

Fit for his stumps, and what hands failed to do,

The other members did in their degree—

Unwonted service. With his mouth alone

He wrote, nay, painted pictures—think of that!

He played on a piano pedal-keyed,

Kicked out—if it was Bach's—good music thence.

He rode, that 's readily conceivable,

But then he shot and never missed his bird,

With other feats as dexterous: I infer

He was not ignorant what hands are worth,

When he resolved on ruining his own.

So the two years passed somehow—who shall say

Foolishly,—as one estimates mankind,

The work they do, the play they leave undone?—

Two whole years spent in that experiment

I told you of, at Clairvaux all the time,

From April on to April: why that month

More than another, notable in life?

Does the awakening of the year arouse

Man to new projects, nerve him for fresh feats

Of what proves, for the most part of mankind

Playing or working, novel folly too?

At any rate, I see no slightest sign

Of folly (let me tell you in advance),

Nothing but wisdom meets me manifest

In the procedure of the Twentieth Day

Of April, 'Seventy,—folly's year in France.

It was delightful Spring, and out of doorsTemptation to adventure. Walk or ride?There was a wild young horse to exercise,And teach the way to go, and pace to keep:Monsieur Léonce Miranda chose to ride.So, while they clapped soft saddle straight on back,And bitted jaw to satisfaction,—sinceThe partner of his days must stay at home,Teased by some trifling legacy of MarchTo throat or shoulder,—visit duly paidAnd "farewell" given and received again,—As chamber-door considerately closedBehind him, still five minutes were to spend.How better, than by clearing, two and two,The staircase-steps and coming out aloftUpon the platform yonder (raise your eyes!)And tasting, just as those two years before,Spring's bright advance upon the tower a-top,The feature of the front, the Belvedere?

It was delightful Spring, and out of doors

Temptation to adventure. Walk or ride?

There was a wild young horse to exercise,

And teach the way to go, and pace to keep:

Monsieur Léonce Miranda chose to ride.

So, while they clapped soft saddle straight on back,

And bitted jaw to satisfaction,—since

The partner of his days must stay at home,

Teased by some trifling legacy of March

To throat or shoulder,—visit duly paid

And "farewell" given and received again,—

As chamber-door considerately closed

Behind him, still five minutes were to spend.

How better, than by clearing, two and two,

The staircase-steps and coming out aloft

Upon the platform yonder (raise your eyes!)

And tasting, just as those two years before,

Spring's bright advance upon the tower a-top,

The feature of the front, the Belvedere?

Look at it for a moment while I breathe.

Ready to hear the rest? How good you are!

Now for this Twentieth splendid day of Spring,All in a tale,—sun, wind, sky, earth and sea,—To bid man, "Up, be doing!" Mount the stair,Monsieur Léonce Miranda mounts so brisk,And look—ere his elastic foot arrive—Your longest, far and wide, o'er fronting space.Yon white streak—Havre lighthouse! Name and name,How the mind runs from each to each relay,Town after town, till Paris' self be touched,Superlatively big with life and deathTo all the world, that very day perhaps!He who stepped out upon the platform here,Pinnacled over the expanse, gave thoughtNeither to Rouher nor Ollivier, RoonNor Bismarck, Emperor nor King, but justTo steeple, church, and shrine, The Ravissante!

Now for this Twentieth splendid day of Spring,

All in a tale,—sun, wind, sky, earth and sea,—

To bid man, "Up, be doing!" Mount the stair,

Monsieur Léonce Miranda mounts so brisk,

And look—ere his elastic foot arrive—

Your longest, far and wide, o'er fronting space.

Yon white streak—Havre lighthouse! Name and name,

How the mind runs from each to each relay,

Town after town, till Paris' self be touched,

Superlatively big with life and death

To all the world, that very day perhaps!

He who stepped out upon the platform here,

Pinnacled over the expanse, gave thought

Neither to Rouher nor Ollivier, Roon

Nor Bismarck, Emperor nor King, but just

To steeple, church, and shrine, The Ravissante!

He saw Her, whom myself saw, but when SpringWas passing into Fall: not robed and crownedAs, thanks to him, and her you know about,She stands at present; but She smiled the same.Thither he turned—to never turn away.

He saw Her, whom myself saw, but when Spring

Was passing into Fall: not robed and crowned

As, thanks to him, and her you know about,

She stands at present; but She smiled the same.

Thither he turned—to never turn away.

He thought ...

(Suppose I should prefer "He said"?Along with every act—and speech is act—There go, a multitude impalpableTo ordinary human faculty,The thoughts which give the act significance.Who is a poet needs must apprehendAlike both speech and thoughts which prompt to speak.Part these, and thought withdraws to poetry:Speech is reported in the newspaper.)

(Suppose I should prefer "He said"?

Along with every act—and speech is act—

There go, a multitude impalpable

To ordinary human faculty,

The thoughts which give the act significance.

Who is a poet needs must apprehend

Alike both speech and thoughts which prompt to speak.

Part these, and thought withdraws to poetry:

Speech is reported in the newspaper.)

He said, then, probably no word at all,But thought as follows—in a minute's space—One particle of ore beats out such leaf!

He said, then, probably no word at all,

But thought as follows—in a minute's space—

One particle of ore beats out such leaf!

"This Spring-morn I am forty-three years old:In prime of life, perfection of estateBodily, mental, nay, material too,—My whole of worldly fortunes reach their height.Body and soul alike on eminence:It is not probable I ever raiseSoul above standard by increase of worth,Nor reasonably may expect to liftBody beyond the present altitude.

"This Spring-morn I am forty-three years old:

In prime of life, perfection of estate

Bodily, mental, nay, material too,—

My whole of worldly fortunes reach their height.

Body and soul alike on eminence:

It is not probable I ever raise

Soul above standard by increase of worth,

Nor reasonably may expect to lift

Body beyond the present altitude.

"Behold me, Lady called The Ravissante!Such as I am, I—gave myself to youSo long since, that I cannot say 'I give.'All my belongings, what is summed in life,I have submitted wholly—as man might,At least, asImight, who am weak, not strong,—Wholly, then, to your rule and governance,So far as I had strength. My weakness was—I felt a fascination, at each pointAnd pore of me, a Power as absoluteClaiming that soul should recognize her sway.Oh, you were no whit clearlier Queen, I see,Throughout the life that rolls out ribbon-likeIts shot-silk length behind me, than the strangeMystery—how shall I denominateThe unrobed One? Robed you go and crowned as well,Named by the nations: she is hard to name,Though you have spelt out certain charactersObscure upon what fillet binds her brow,Lust of the flesh, lust of the eye, life's pride.'So call her, and contemn the enchantress!'—'CrushThe despot, and recover liberty!'Cried despot and enchantress at each ear.You were conspicuous and pre-eminent,Authoritative and imperial,—youSpoke first, claimed homage: did I hesitate?Born for no mastery, but servitude,Men cannot serve two masters, says the Book;Master should measure strength with master, then,Before on servant is imposed a task.You spoke first, promised best, and threatened most;The other never threatened, promised, spokeA single word, but, when your part was done,Lifted a finger, and I, prostrate, knewFilms were about me, though you stood aloofSmiling or frowning 'Where is power like mineTo punish or reward thee? Rise, thou fool!Will to be free, and, lo, I lift thee loose!'Did I not will, and could I rise a whit?Lay I, at any time, content to lie?'To lie, at all events, brings pleasure: makeAmends by undemanded pain!' I said.Did not you prompt me? 'Purchase now by painPleasure hereafter in the world to come!'I could not pluck my heart out, as you bade:Unbidden, I burned off my hands at least.My soul retained its treasure; but my purseLightened itself with much alacrity.Well, where is the reward? what promised fruitOf sacrifice in peace, content? what senseOf added strength to bear or to forbear?What influx of new light assists me nowEven to guess you recognize a gainIn what was loss enough to mortal me?But she, the less authoritative voice,Oh, how distinct enunciating, howPlain dealing! Gain she gave was gain indeed!That, you deny: that, you contemptuous callAcorns, swine's food not man's meat! 'Spurn the draff!'Ay, but those life-tree apples I prefer,Am I to die of hunger till they drop?Husks keep flesh from starvation, anyhow.Give those life-apples!—one, worth woods of oak,Worth acorns by the wagon-load,—one shootThrough heart and brain, assurance bright and briefThat you, my Lady, my own Ravissante,Feel, through my famine, served and satisfied,Own me, your starveling, soldier of a sort!Your soldier! do I read my title clearEven to call myself your friend, not foe?What is the pact between us but a truce?At best I shall have staved off enmity,Obtained a respite, ransomed me from wrath.I pay, instalment by instalment, life,Earth's tribute-money, pleasures great and small,Whereof should at the last one penny pieceFall short, the whole heap becomes forfeiture.You find in me deficient soldiership:Want the whole life or none. I grudge that whole,Because I am not sure of recompense:Because I want faith. Whose the fault? I ask.If insufficient faith have done thus much,Contributed thus much of sacrifice,More would move mountains, you are warrant. Well,Grant, you, the grace, I give the gratitude!And what were easier? 'Ask and have' folk callMiranda's method: 'Have, nor need to ask!'So do they formulate your qualitySuperlative beyond my human grace.The Ravissante, you ravish men awayFrom puny aches and petty pains, assuagedBy man's own art with small expenditureOf pill or potion, unless, put to shame,Nature is roused and sets things right herself.Your miracles are grown our commonplace;No day but pilgrim hobbles his last mile,Kneels down and rises up, flings crutch away,Or else appends it to the reverend heapBeneath you, votive cripple-carpentry.Some few meet failure—oh, they wanted faith,And may betake themselves to La Salette,Or seek Lourdes, so that hence the scandal limp!The many get their grace and go their wayRejoicing, with a tale to tell,—most like,A staff to borrow, since the crutch is gone,Should the first telling happen at my house,And teller wet his whistle with my wine.Itell this to a doctor and he laughs:'Give me permission to cry—Out of bed,You loth rheumatic sluggard! Cheat yon chairOf laziness, its gouty occupant!—You should see miracles performed! But now,I give advice, and take as fee ten francs,And do as much as does your Ravissante.Send her that case of cancer to be curedI have refused to treat for any fee,Bring back my would-be patient sound and whole,And see me laugh on t'other side my mouth!'Can he be right, and are you hampered thus!Such pettiness restricts a miracleWrought by the Great Physician, who hears prayer,Visibly seated in your mother-lap!He, out of nothing, made sky, earth, and sea,And all that in them is, man, beast, bird, fish,Down to this insect on my parapet.Look how the marvel of a minim crawls!Were I to kneel among the halt and maimed,And pray 'Who mad'st the insect with ten legs,Make me one finger grow where ten were once!'The very priests would thrust me out of church.'What folly does the madman dare expect?No faith obtains—in this late age, at least—Such cure as that! We ease rheumatics, though!'

"Behold me, Lady called The Ravissante!

Such as I am, I—gave myself to you

So long since, that I cannot say 'I give.'

All my belongings, what is summed in life,

I have submitted wholly—as man might,

At least, asImight, who am weak, not strong,—

Wholly, then, to your rule and governance,

So far as I had strength. My weakness was—

I felt a fascination, at each point

And pore of me, a Power as absolute

Claiming that soul should recognize her sway.

Oh, you were no whit clearlier Queen, I see,

Throughout the life that rolls out ribbon-like

Its shot-silk length behind me, than the strange

Mystery—how shall I denominate

The unrobed One? Robed you go and crowned as well,

Named by the nations: she is hard to name,

Though you have spelt out certain characters

Obscure upon what fillet binds her brow,

Lust of the flesh, lust of the eye, life's pride.

'So call her, and contemn the enchantress!'—'Crush

The despot, and recover liberty!'

Cried despot and enchantress at each ear.

You were conspicuous and pre-eminent,

Authoritative and imperial,—you

Spoke first, claimed homage: did I hesitate?

Born for no mastery, but servitude,

Men cannot serve two masters, says the Book;

Master should measure strength with master, then,

Before on servant is imposed a task.

You spoke first, promised best, and threatened most;

The other never threatened, promised, spoke

A single word, but, when your part was done,

Lifted a finger, and I, prostrate, knew

Films were about me, though you stood aloof

Smiling or frowning 'Where is power like mine

To punish or reward thee? Rise, thou fool!

Will to be free, and, lo, I lift thee loose!'

Did I not will, and could I rise a whit?

Lay I, at any time, content to lie?

'To lie, at all events, brings pleasure: make

Amends by undemanded pain!' I said.

Did not you prompt me? 'Purchase now by pain

Pleasure hereafter in the world to come!'

I could not pluck my heart out, as you bade:

Unbidden, I burned off my hands at least.

My soul retained its treasure; but my purse

Lightened itself with much alacrity.

Well, where is the reward? what promised fruit

Of sacrifice in peace, content? what sense

Of added strength to bear or to forbear?

What influx of new light assists me now

Even to guess you recognize a gain

In what was loss enough to mortal me?

But she, the less authoritative voice,

Oh, how distinct enunciating, how

Plain dealing! Gain she gave was gain indeed!

That, you deny: that, you contemptuous call

Acorns, swine's food not man's meat! 'Spurn the draff!'

Ay, but those life-tree apples I prefer,

Am I to die of hunger till they drop?

Husks keep flesh from starvation, anyhow.

Give those life-apples!—one, worth woods of oak,

Worth acorns by the wagon-load,—one shoot

Through heart and brain, assurance bright and brief

That you, my Lady, my own Ravissante,

Feel, through my famine, served and satisfied,

Own me, your starveling, soldier of a sort!

Your soldier! do I read my title clear

Even to call myself your friend, not foe?

What is the pact between us but a truce?

At best I shall have staved off enmity,

Obtained a respite, ransomed me from wrath.

I pay, instalment by instalment, life,

Earth's tribute-money, pleasures great and small,

Whereof should at the last one penny piece

Fall short, the whole heap becomes forfeiture.

You find in me deficient soldiership:

Want the whole life or none. I grudge that whole,

Because I am not sure of recompense:

Because I want faith. Whose the fault? I ask.

If insufficient faith have done thus much,

Contributed thus much of sacrifice,

More would move mountains, you are warrant. Well,

Grant, you, the grace, I give the gratitude!

And what were easier? 'Ask and have' folk call

Miranda's method: 'Have, nor need to ask!'

So do they formulate your quality

Superlative beyond my human grace.

The Ravissante, you ravish men away

From puny aches and petty pains, assuaged

By man's own art with small expenditure

Of pill or potion, unless, put to shame,

Nature is roused and sets things right herself.

Your miracles are grown our commonplace;

No day but pilgrim hobbles his last mile,

Kneels down and rises up, flings crutch away,

Or else appends it to the reverend heap

Beneath you, votive cripple-carpentry.

Some few meet failure—oh, they wanted faith,

And may betake themselves to La Salette,

Or seek Lourdes, so that hence the scandal limp!

The many get their grace and go their way

Rejoicing, with a tale to tell,—most like,

A staff to borrow, since the crutch is gone,

Should the first telling happen at my house,

And teller wet his whistle with my wine.

Itell this to a doctor and he laughs:

'Give me permission to cry—Out of bed,

You loth rheumatic sluggard! Cheat yon chair

Of laziness, its gouty occupant!—

You should see miracles performed! But now,

I give advice, and take as fee ten francs,

And do as much as does your Ravissante.

Send her that case of cancer to be cured

I have refused to treat for any fee,

Bring back my would-be patient sound and whole,

And see me laugh on t'other side my mouth!'

Can he be right, and are you hampered thus!

Such pettiness restricts a miracle

Wrought by the Great Physician, who hears prayer,

Visibly seated in your mother-lap!

He, out of nothing, made sky, earth, and sea,

And all that in them is, man, beast, bird, fish,

Down to this insect on my parapet.

Look how the marvel of a minim crawls!

Were I to kneel among the halt and maimed,

And pray 'Who mad'st the insect with ten legs,

Make me one finger grow where ten were once!'

The very priests would thrust me out of church.

'What folly does the madman dare expect?

No faith obtains—in this late age, at least—

Such cure as that! We ease rheumatics, though!'

"Ay, bring the early ages back again,What prodigy were unattainable?I read your annals. Here came Louis Onze,Gave thrice the sum he ever gave beforeAt one time, some three hundred crowns, to wit—On pilgrimage to pray for—health, he found?Did he? I do not read it in Commines.Here sent poor joyous Marie-AntoinetteTo thank you that a Dauphin dignifiedHer motherhood—called Duke of NormandyAnd Martyr of the Temple, much the sameAs if no robe of hers had dressed you rich;No silver lamps, she gave, illume your shrine!Here, following example, fifty yearsAgo, in gratitude for birth againOf yet another destined King of France,Did not the Duchess fashion with her hands,And frame in gold and crystal, and presentA bouquet made of artificial flowers?And was he King of France, and is not heStill Count of Chambord?

"Ay, bring the early ages back again,

What prodigy were unattainable?

I read your annals. Here came Louis Onze,

Gave thrice the sum he ever gave before

At one time, some three hundred crowns, to wit—

On pilgrimage to pray for—health, he found?

Did he? I do not read it in Commines.

Here sent poor joyous Marie-Antoinette

To thank you that a Dauphin dignified

Her motherhood—called Duke of Normandy

And Martyr of the Temple, much the same

As if no robe of hers had dressed you rich;

No silver lamps, she gave, illume your shrine!

Here, following example, fifty years

Ago, in gratitude for birth again

Of yet another destined King of France,

Did not the Duchess fashion with her hands,

And frame in gold and crystal, and present

A bouquet made of artificial flowers?

And was he King of France, and is not he

Still Count of Chambord?

"Such the days of faith,And such their produce to encourage mine!What now, if I too count without my host?I too have given money, ornament,And 'artificial flowers'—which, when I plucked,Seemed rooting at my heart and real enough:What if I gain thereby nor health of mind,Nor youth renewed which perished in its prime,Burnt to a cinder 'twixt the red-hot bars,Nor gain to see my second baby-hopeOf managing to live on terms with bothOpposing potentates, the Power and you,Crowned with success? I dawdle out my daysIn exile here at Clairvaux, with mock love,That gives, while whispering 'Would I dared refuse!'—What the loud voice declares my heart's free gift!Mock worship, mock superiorityO'er those I style the world's benighted ones,That irreligious sort I pity so,Dumas and even Hertford, who is Duke.

"Such the days of faith,

And such their produce to encourage mine!

What now, if I too count without my host?

I too have given money, ornament,

And 'artificial flowers'—which, when I plucked,

Seemed rooting at my heart and real enough:

What if I gain thereby nor health of mind,

Nor youth renewed which perished in its prime,

Burnt to a cinder 'twixt the red-hot bars,

Nor gain to see my second baby-hope

Of managing to live on terms with both

Opposing potentates, the Power and you,

Crowned with success? I dawdle out my days

In exile here at Clairvaux, with mock love,

That gives, while whispering 'Would I dared refuse!'—

What the loud voice declares my heart's free gift!

Mock worship, mock superiority

O'er those I style the world's benighted ones,

That irreligious sort I pity so,

Dumas and even Hertford, who is Duke.

"Impiety? Not if I know myself!Not if you know the heart and soul I bare,I bid you cut, hack, slash, anatomize,Till peccant part be found and flung away!Demonstrate where I need more faith! DescribeWhat act shall evidence sufficiencyOf faith, your warrant for such exerciseOf power, in my behalf, as all the world,Except poor praying me, declares profuse?Poor me? It is that world, not me alone,That world which prates of fixed laws and the like,I fain would save, poor world so ignorant!And your part were—what easy miracle?Oh, Lady, could I make your want like mine!"

"Impiety? Not if I know myself!

Not if you know the heart and soul I bare,

I bid you cut, hack, slash, anatomize,

Till peccant part be found and flung away!

Demonstrate where I need more faith! Describe

What act shall evidence sufficiency

Of faith, your warrant for such exercise

Of power, in my behalf, as all the world,

Except poor praying me, declares profuse?

Poor me? It is that world, not me alone,

That world which prates of fixed laws and the like,

I fain would save, poor world so ignorant!

And your part were—what easy miracle?

Oh, Lady, could I make your want like mine!"

Then his face grew one luminosity.

"Simple, sufficient! Happiness at height!I solve the riddle, I persuade mankind.I have been just the simpleton who stands—Summoned to claim his patrimonial rights—At shilly-shally, may he knock or noAt his own door in his own house and homeWhereof he holds the very title-deeds!Here is my title to this property,This power you hold for profit of myselfAnd all the world at need—which need is now!

"Simple, sufficient! Happiness at height!

I solve the riddle, I persuade mankind.

I have been just the simpleton who stands—

Summoned to claim his patrimonial rights—

At shilly-shally, may he knock or no

At his own door in his own house and home

Whereof he holds the very title-deeds!

Here is my title to this property,

This power you hold for profit of myself

And all the world at need—which need is now!

"My title—let me hear who controverts!Count Mailleville built yon church. Why did he so?Because he found your image. How came that?His shepherd told him that a certain sheepWas wont to scratch with hoof and scrape with hornAt ground where once the Danes had razed a church.Thither he went, and there he dug, and thenceHe disinterred the image he conveyedIn pomp to Londres yonder, his domain.You liked the old place better than the new.The Count might surely have divined as much:He did not; some one might have spoke a word:No one did. A mere dream had warned enough,That back again in pomp you best were borne:No dream warned, and no need of convoy was;An angel caught you up and clapped you down,—No mighty task; you stand one metre high,And people carry you about at times.Why, then, did you despise the simple course?Because you are the Queen of Angels: whenYou front us in a picture, there flock they,Angels around you, here and everywhere.

"My title—let me hear who controverts!

Count Mailleville built yon church. Why did he so?

Because he found your image. How came that?

His shepherd told him that a certain sheep

Was wont to scratch with hoof and scrape with horn

At ground where once the Danes had razed a church.

Thither he went, and there he dug, and thence

He disinterred the image he conveyed

In pomp to Londres yonder, his domain.

You liked the old place better than the new.

The Count might surely have divined as much:

He did not; some one might have spoke a word:

No one did. A mere dream had warned enough,

That back again in pomp you best were borne:

No dream warned, and no need of convoy was;

An angel caught you up and clapped you down,—

No mighty task; you stand one metre high,

And people carry you about at times.

Why, then, did you despise the simple course?

Because you are the Queen of Angels: when

You front us in a picture, there flock they,

Angels around you, here and everywhere.

"Therefore, to prove indubitable faith,Those angels that acknowledge you their queen,I summon them to bear me to your feetFrom Clairvaux through the air, an easy trip!Faith without flaw! I trust your potency,Benevolence, your will to save the world—By such a simplest of procedures, too!Not even by affording angel-help,Unless it please you: there 's a simpler mode:Only suspend the law of gravity,And, while at back, permitted to propel,The air helps onward, let the air in frontCease to oppose my passage through the midst!

"Therefore, to prove indubitable faith,

Those angels that acknowledge you their queen,

I summon them to bear me to your feet

From Clairvaux through the air, an easy trip!

Faith without flaw! I trust your potency,

Benevolence, your will to save the world—

By such a simplest of procedures, too!

Not even by affording angel-help,

Unless it please you: there 's a simpler mode:

Only suspend the law of gravity,

And, while at back, permitted to propel,

The air helps onward, let the air in front

Cease to oppose my passage through the midst!

"Thus I bestride the railing, leg o'er leg,Thus, lo, I stand, a single inch away,At dizzy edge of death,—no touch of fear,As safe on tower above as turf below!Your smile enswathes me in beatitude,You lift along the votary—who vaults,Who, in the twinkling of an eye, revives,Dropt safely in the space before the church—How crowded, since this morn is market-day!I shall not need to speak. The news will runLike wild-fire. 'Thousands saw Miranda's flight!''T is telegraphed to Paris in a trice.The Boulevard is one buzz—'Do you believe?Well, this time, thousands saw Miranda's flight:You know him, goldsmith in the Place Vendôme.'In goes the Empress to the Emperor:'Now—will you hesitate to make disgorgeYour wicked King of Italy his gains,Give the Legations to the Pope once more?'Which done,—why, grace goes back to operate,They themselves set a good example first,Resign the empire twenty years usurped,And Henry, the Desired One, reigns o'er France!Regenerated France makes all things new!My house no longer stands on Quai Rousseau,But Quai rechristened Alacoque: a quaiWhere Renan burns his book, and Veuillot burnsRenan beside, since Veuillot rules the roast,Re-edits now indeed 'The Universe.'O blessing, O superlatively bigWith blessedness beyond all blessing dreamedBy man! for just that promise has effect,'Old things shall pass away and all be new!'Then, for a culminating mercy-feat,Wherefore should I dare dream impossibleThat I too have my portion in the change?My past with all its sorrow, sin and shame,Becomes a blank, a nothing! There she stands,Clara de Millefleurs, all deodorized,Twenty years' stain wiped off her innocence!There never was Muhlhausen, nor at allDuke Hertford: naught that was, remains, exceptThe beauty,—yes, the beauty is unchanged!Well, and the soul too, that must keep the same!And so the trembling little virgin handMelts into mine, that 's back again, of course!—Think not I care about my poor old self!I only want my hand for that one use,To take her hand, and say 'I marry you—Men, women, angels, you behold my wife!There is no secret, nothing wicked here,Nothing she does not wish the world to know!'None of your married women have the rightTo mutter 'Yes, indeed, she beats us allIn beauty,—but our lives are pure at least!'Bear witness, for our marriage is no thingDone in a corner! 'T is The RavissanteRepairs the wrong of Paris. See, She smiles,She beckons, She bids 'Hither, both of you!'And may we kneel? And will you bless us both?And may I worship you, and yet love her?Then!"—A sublime spring from the balustradeAbout the tower so often talked about,A flash in middle air, and stone-dead layMonsieur Léonce Miranda on the turf.

"Thus I bestride the railing, leg o'er leg,

Thus, lo, I stand, a single inch away,

At dizzy edge of death,—no touch of fear,

As safe on tower above as turf below!

Your smile enswathes me in beatitude,

You lift along the votary—who vaults,

Who, in the twinkling of an eye, revives,

Dropt safely in the space before the church—

How crowded, since this morn is market-day!

I shall not need to speak. The news will run

Like wild-fire. 'Thousands saw Miranda's flight!'

'T is telegraphed to Paris in a trice.

The Boulevard is one buzz—'Do you believe?

Well, this time, thousands saw Miranda's flight:

You know him, goldsmith in the Place Vendôme.'

In goes the Empress to the Emperor:

'Now—will you hesitate to make disgorge

Your wicked King of Italy his gains,

Give the Legations to the Pope once more?'

Which done,—why, grace goes back to operate,

They themselves set a good example first,

Resign the empire twenty years usurped,

And Henry, the Desired One, reigns o'er France!

Regenerated France makes all things new!

My house no longer stands on Quai Rousseau,

But Quai rechristened Alacoque: a quai

Where Renan burns his book, and Veuillot burns

Renan beside, since Veuillot rules the roast,

Re-edits now indeed 'The Universe.'

O blessing, O superlatively big

With blessedness beyond all blessing dreamed

By man! for just that promise has effect,

'Old things shall pass away and all be new!'

Then, for a culminating mercy-feat,

Wherefore should I dare dream impossible

That I too have my portion in the change?

My past with all its sorrow, sin and shame,

Becomes a blank, a nothing! There she stands,

Clara de Millefleurs, all deodorized,

Twenty years' stain wiped off her innocence!

There never was Muhlhausen, nor at all

Duke Hertford: naught that was, remains, except

The beauty,—yes, the beauty is unchanged!

Well, and the soul too, that must keep the same!

And so the trembling little virgin hand

Melts into mine, that 's back again, of course!

—Think not I care about my poor old self!

I only want my hand for that one use,

To take her hand, and say 'I marry you—

Men, women, angels, you behold my wife!

There is no secret, nothing wicked here,

Nothing she does not wish the world to know!'

None of your married women have the right

To mutter 'Yes, indeed, she beats us all

In beauty,—but our lives are pure at least!'

Bear witness, for our marriage is no thing

Done in a corner! 'T is The Ravissante

Repairs the wrong of Paris. See, She smiles,

She beckons, She bids 'Hither, both of you!'

And may we kneel? And will you bless us both?

And may I worship you, and yet love her?

Then!"—

A sublime spring from the balustrade

About the tower so often talked about,

A flash in middle air, and stone-dead lay

Monsieur Léonce Miranda on the turf.

A gardener who watched, at work the whileDibbling a flower-bed for geranium-shoots,Saw the catastrophe, and, straightening back,Stood up and shook his brows. "Poor soul, poor soul,Just what I prophesied the end would be!Ugh—the Red Night-cap!" (as he raised the head)"This must be what he meant by those strange wordsWhile I was weeding larkspurs, yesterday,'Angels would take him!' Mad!"

A gardener who watched, at work the while

Dibbling a flower-bed for geranium-shoots,

Saw the catastrophe, and, straightening back,

Stood up and shook his brows. "Poor soul, poor soul,

Just what I prophesied the end would be!

Ugh—the Red Night-cap!" (as he raised the head)

"This must be what he meant by those strange words

While I was weeding larkspurs, yesterday,

'Angels would take him!' Mad!"

No! sane, I saySuch being the conditions of his life,Such end of life was not irrational.Hold a belief, you only half-believe,With all-momentous issues either way,—And I advise you imitate this leap,Put faith to proof, be cured or killed at once!Call you men, killed through cutting cancer out,The worse for such an act of bravery?That 's more thanIknow. In my estimate,Better lie prostrate on his turf at peace,Than, wistful, eye, from out the tent, the tower,Racked with a doubt, "Will going on bare kneesAll the way to The Ravissante and back,Saying my Ave Mary all the time,Somewhat excuse if I postpone my march?—Make due amends for that one kiss I gaveIn gratitude to her who held me outSuperior Fricquot's sermon, hot from press,A-spread with hands so sinful yet so smooth?"

No! sane, I say

Such being the conditions of his life,

Such end of life was not irrational.

Hold a belief, you only half-believe,

With all-momentous issues either way,—

And I advise you imitate this leap,

Put faith to proof, be cured or killed at once!

Call you men, killed through cutting cancer out,

The worse for such an act of bravery?

That 's more thanIknow. In my estimate,

Better lie prostrate on his turf at peace,

Than, wistful, eye, from out the tent, the tower,

Racked with a doubt, "Will going on bare knees

All the way to The Ravissante and back,

Saying my Ave Mary all the time,

Somewhat excuse if I postpone my march?

—Make due amends for that one kiss I gave

In gratitude to her who held me out

Superior Fricquot's sermon, hot from press,

A-spread with hands so sinful yet so smooth?"

And now, sincerely do I pray she stand,Clara, with interposing sweep of robe,Between us and this horror! Any screenTurns white by contrast with the tragic pall;And her dubiety distracts at least,As well as snow, from such decided black.With womanhood, at least, we have to do:Ending with Clara—is the word too kind?

And now, sincerely do I pray she stand,

Clara, with interposing sweep of robe,

Between us and this horror! Any screen

Turns white by contrast with the tragic pall;

And her dubiety distracts at least,

As well as snow, from such decided black.

With womanhood, at least, we have to do:

Ending with Clara—is the word too kind?

Let pass the shock! There 's poignancy enoughWhen what one parted with, a minute since,Alive and happy, is returned a wreck—All that was, all that seemed about to be,Razed out and ruined now forevermore,Because a straw descended on this scaleRather than that, made death o'erbalance life.But think of cage-mates in captivity,Inured to day-long, night-long vigilanceEach of the other's tread and angry turnIf behind prison bars the jailer knocked:These whom society shut out, and thusPenned in, to settle down and regulateBy the strange law, the solitary life—When death divorces such a fellowship,Theirs may pair off with that prodigious woeImagined of a ghastly brotherhood—One watcher left in lighthouse out at sea,With leagues of surf between the land and him,Alive with his dead partner on the rock;One galley-slave, whom curse and blow compelTo labor on, ply oar—beside his chain,Encumbered with a corpse-companion now.Such these: although, no prisoners, self-entrenched,They kept the world off from their barricade.

Let pass the shock! There 's poignancy enough

When what one parted with, a minute since,

Alive and happy, is returned a wreck—

All that was, all that seemed about to be,

Razed out and ruined now forevermore,

Because a straw descended on this scale

Rather than that, made death o'erbalance life.

But think of cage-mates in captivity,

Inured to day-long, night-long vigilance

Each of the other's tread and angry turn

If behind prison bars the jailer knocked:

These whom society shut out, and thus

Penned in, to settle down and regulate

By the strange law, the solitary life—

When death divorces such a fellowship,

Theirs may pair off with that prodigious woe

Imagined of a ghastly brotherhood—

One watcher left in lighthouse out at sea,

With leagues of surf between the land and him,

Alive with his dead partner on the rock;

One galley-slave, whom curse and blow compel

To labor on, ply oar—beside his chain,

Encumbered with a corpse-companion now.

Such these: although, no prisoners, self-entrenched,

They kept the world off from their barricade.

Memory, gratitude, was poignant, sure,Though pride brought consolation of a kind.Twenty years long had Clara been—of whomThe rival, nay, the victor, past dispute?What if in turn The Ravissante at lengthProved victor—which was doubtful—anyhow,Here lay the inconstant with, conspicuous too,The fruit of his good fortune!

Memory, gratitude, was poignant, sure,

Though pride brought consolation of a kind.

Twenty years long had Clara been—of whom

The rival, nay, the victor, past dispute?

What if in turn The Ravissante at length

Proved victor—which was doubtful—anyhow,

Here lay the inconstant with, conspicuous too,

The fruit of his good fortune!

"Has he gainedBy leaving me?" she might soliloquize:"All love could do, I did for him. I learnedBy heart his nature, what he loved and loathed.Leaned to with liking, turned from with distaste.No matter what his least velleity,I was determined he should want no wish,And in conformity administeredTo his requirement; most of joy I mixedWith least of sorrow in life's daily draught,Twenty years long, life's proper average.And when he got to quarrel with my cup,Would needs out-sweeten honey, and discardThat gall-drop we require lest nectar cloy,—I did not call him fool, and vex my friend,But quietly allowed experiment,Encouraged him to spice his drink, and nowGratelignum vitæ" now bruise so-called grainsOf Paradise, and pour now, for perfume,Distilment rare, the rose of Jericho,Holy-thorn, passion-flower, and what know I?Till beverage obtained the fancied smack.'T was wild-flower-wine that neither helped nor harmedWho sipped and held it for restorative—What harm? But here has he been through the hedgeStraying in search of simples, while my backWas turned a minute, and he finds a prize,Monkshood and belladonna! O my child,My truant little boy, despite the beard,The body two feet broad and six feet long,And what the calendar counts middle age—You wanted, did you, to enjoy a flight?Why not have taken into confidenceMe, that was mother to you?—never mindWhat mock disguise of mistress held you mine!Had you come laughing, crying, with request,'Make me fly, mother!' I had run upstairsAnd held you tight the while I danced you highIn air from tower-top, singing 'Off we go(On pilgrimage to Lourdes some day next month),And swift we soar (to Rome with Peter-pence),And low we light (at Paris where we pickAnother jewel from our store of stonesAnd send it for a present to the Pope)!'So, dropt indeed you were, but on my knees,Rolling and crowing, not a whit the worseFor journey to your Ravissante and back.Now, no more Clairvaux—which I made you build,And think an inspiration of your own—No more fine house, trim garden, pretty park,Nothing I used to busy you about,And make believe you worked for my surprise!What weariness to me will work becomeNow that I need not seem surprised again!This boudoir, for example, with the doves(My stupid maid has damaged, dusting one)Embossed in stucco o'er the looking-glassBeside the toilet-table! dear—dear me!"

"Has he gained

By leaving me?" she might soliloquize:

"All love could do, I did for him. I learned

By heart his nature, what he loved and loathed.

Leaned to with liking, turned from with distaste.

No matter what his least velleity,

I was determined he should want no wish,

And in conformity administered

To his requirement; most of joy I mixed

With least of sorrow in life's daily draught,

Twenty years long, life's proper average.

And when he got to quarrel with my cup,

Would needs out-sweeten honey, and discard

That gall-drop we require lest nectar cloy,—

I did not call him fool, and vex my friend,

But quietly allowed experiment,

Encouraged him to spice his drink, and now

Gratelignum vitæ" now bruise so-called grains

Of Paradise, and pour now, for perfume,

Distilment rare, the rose of Jericho,

Holy-thorn, passion-flower, and what know I?

Till beverage obtained the fancied smack.

'T was wild-flower-wine that neither helped nor harmed

Who sipped and held it for restorative—

What harm? But here has he been through the hedge

Straying in search of simples, while my back

Was turned a minute, and he finds a prize,

Monkshood and belladonna! O my child,

My truant little boy, despite the beard,

The body two feet broad and six feet long,

And what the calendar counts middle age—

You wanted, did you, to enjoy a flight?

Why not have taken into confidence

Me, that was mother to you?—never mind

What mock disguise of mistress held you mine!

Had you come laughing, crying, with request,

'Make me fly, mother!' I had run upstairs

And held you tight the while I danced you high

In air from tower-top, singing 'Off we go

(On pilgrimage to Lourdes some day next month),

And swift we soar (to Rome with Peter-pence),

And low we light (at Paris where we pick

Another jewel from our store of stones

And send it for a present to the Pope)!'

So, dropt indeed you were, but on my knees,

Rolling and crowing, not a whit the worse

For journey to your Ravissante and back.

Now, no more Clairvaux—which I made you build,

And think an inspiration of your own—

No more fine house, trim garden, pretty park,

Nothing I used to busy you about,

And make believe you worked for my surprise!

What weariness to me will work become

Now that I need not seem surprised again!

This boudoir, for example, with the doves

(My stupid maid has damaged, dusting one)

Embossed in stucco o'er the looking-glass

Beside the toilet-table! dear—dear me!"

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