Chapter 135

I"That oblong book 's the Album; hand it here!Exactly! page on page of gratitudeFor breakfast, dinner, supper, and the view!I praise these poets, they leave margin-space;Each stanza seems to gather skirts around,And primly, trimly, keep the foot's confine,Modest and maidlike; lubber prose o'ersprawlsAnd straddling stops the path from left to right.Since I want space to do my cipher-work,Which poem spares a corner? What comes first?'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'(Open the window, we burn daylight, boy!)Or see—succincter beauty, brief and bold—'If a fellow can dine On rump-steaks and port wine,He needs not despair Of dining well here'—'Here!' I myself could find a better rhyme!That bard 's a Browning; he neglects the form:But ah, the sense, ye gods, the weighty sense!Still, I prefer this classic. Ay, throw wide!I 'll quench the bits of candle yet unburnt.A minute's fresh air, then to cipher-work!Three little columns hold the whole account:Ecarté, after which Blind Hookey, thenCutting-the-Pack, five hundred pounds the cut.'T is easy reckoning: I have lost, I think."Two personages occupy this roomShabby-genteel, that 's parlor to the innPerched on a view-commanding eminence;—Inn which may be a veritable houseWhere somebody once lived and pleased good tasteTill tourists found his coigne of vantage out,And fingered blunt the individual mark,And vulgarized things comfortably smooth.On a sprig-pattern-papered wall there braysComplaint to sky Sir Edwin's dripping stag;His couchant coast-guard creature corresponds;They face the Huguenot and Light o' the World.Grim o'er the mirror on the mantelpiece,Varnished and coffined,Salmo feroxglares,—Possibly at the List of Wines which, framedAnd glazed, hangs somewhat prominent on peg.So much describes the stuffy little room—Vulgar flat smooth respectability:Not so the burst of landscape surging in,Sunrise and all, as he who of the pairIs, plain enough, the younger personageDraws sharp the shrieking curtain, sends aloftThe sash, spreads wide and fastens back to wallShutter and shutter, shows you England's best.He leans into a living glory-bathOf air and light where seems to float and moveThe wooded watered country, hill and daleAnd steel-bright thread of stream, a-smoke with mist,A-sparkle with May morning, diamond driftO' the sun-touched dew. Except the red-roofed patchOf half a dozen dwellings that, crept closeFor hillside shelter, make the village-clump,This inn is perched above to dominate—Except such sign of human neighborhood,"And this surmised rather than sensible"There 's nothing to disturb absolute peace,The reign of English nature—which means artAnd civilized existence. Wildness' selfIs just the cultured triumph. PresentlyDeep solitude, be sure, reveals a PlaceThat knows the right way to defend itself:Silence hems round a burning spot of life.Now, where a Place burns, must a village brood,And where a village broods, an inn should boast—Close and convenient: here you have them both.This inn, the Something-arms—the family's—(Don't trouble Guillim: heralds leave out half!)Is dear to lovers of the picturesque,And epics have been planned here; but who planTake holy orders and find work to do.Painters are more productive, stop a week,Declare the prospect quite a Corot,—ay,For tender sentiment,—themselves inclineRather to handsweep large and liberal;Then go, but not without success achieved—Haply some pencil-drawing, oak or beech,Ferns at the base and ivies up the bole,On this a slug, on that a butterfly.Nay, he who hooked thesalmopendent here,Also exhibited, this same May-month,"Foxgloves: a study"—so inspires the scene,The air, which now the younger personageInflates him with till lungs o'erfraught are fainSigh forth a satisfaction might bestirEven those tufts of tree-tops to the SouthI' the distance where the green dies off to gray,Which, easy of conjecture, front the Place;He eyes them, elbows wide, each hand to cheek.His fellow, the much older—either sayA youngish-old man or man oldish-young—Sits at the table: wicks are noisome-deepIn wax, to detriment of plated ware;Above—piled, strewn—is store of playing-cards,Counters and all that 's proper for a game.He sets down, rubs out figures in the book,Adds and subtracts, puts back here, carries there,Until the summed-up satisfaction standsApparent, and he pauses o'er the work:Soothes what of brain was busy under brow,By passage of the hard palm, curing soWrinkle and crowfoot for a second's space;Then lays down book and laughs out. No mistake,Such the sum-total—ask Colenso else!Roused by which laugh, the other turns, laughs too—The youth, the good strong fellow, rough perhaps."Well, what 's the damage—three, or four, or five?How many figures in a row? Hand here!Come now, there's one expense all yours not mine—Scribbling the people's Album over, leafThe first and foremost too! You think, perhaps,They 'll only charge you for a brand-new bookNor estimate the literary loss?Wait till the small account comes! 'To one night'sLodging,' for—'beds' they can't say,—'pound or so;Dinner, Apollinaris,—what they please,Attendance not included;' last looms large'Defacement of our Album, late enrichedWith'—let 's see what! Here, at the window, though!Ay, breathe the morning and forgive your luck!Fine enough country for a fool like meTo own, as next month I suppose I shall!Eh? True fool's-fortune! so console yourself,Let 's see, however—hand the book, I say!Well, you 've improved the classic by romance.Queer reading! Verse with parenthetic prose—'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'(Three-two fives) 'life how profitably spent'(Five-naught, five-nine fives) 'yonder humble cot,'(More and more naughts and fives) 'in mild content;And did my feelings find the natural ventIn friendship and in love, how blest my lot!'Then follow the dread figures—five! 'Content?'That 's appetite! Are you content as he—Simpkin the sonneteer?Ten thousand poundsGive point to his effusion—by so muchLeave me the richer and the poorer youAfter our night's play; who 's content the most,If, you, or Simpkin?"So the polished snob.The elder man, refinement every inchFrom brow to boot-end, quietly replies:"Simpkin 's no name I know. I had my whim.""Ay, had you! And such things make friendship thick.Intimates, I may boast we were; henceforth,Friends—shall it not be?—who discard reserve,Use plain words, put each dot upon each i,Till death us twain do part? The bargain 's struck!Old fellow, if you fancy—(to begin—)I failed to penetrate your scheme last week,You wrong your poor disciple. Oh, no airs!Because you happen to be twice my ageAnd twenty times my master, must perforceNo blink of daylight struggle through the webThere 's no unwinding? You entoil my legs,And welcome, for I like it: blind me,—no!A very pretty piece of shuttle-workWas that—your mere chance question at the club—'Do you go anywhere this Whitsuntide?I'm off for Paris, there 's the Opera—there 'sThe Salon, there 's a china-sale,—besideChantilly; and, for good companionship,There 's Such-and-such and So-and-so. SupposeWe start together?' 'No such holiday!'I told you:'Paris and the rest be hanged!Why plague me who am pledged to home-delights?I 'm the engaged now; through whose fault but yours?On duty. As you well know. Don't I drowseThe week away down with the Aunt and Niece?No help: it 's leisure, loneliness, and love.'Wish I could take you; but fame travels fast,—A man of much newspaper-paragraph,You scare domestic circles; and besideWould not you like your lot, that second tasteOf nature and approval of the grounds!You might walk early or lie late, so shirkWeek-day devotions: but stay Sunday o'er,And morning church is obligatory:No mundane garb permissible, or dreadThe butler's privileged monition!No!Pack off to Paris, nor wipe tear away!'Whereon how artlessly the happy flashFollowed, by inspiration! ''Tell you what—Let 's turn their flank, try things on t' other side!Inns for my money! Liberty 's the life!We 'll lie in hiding: there 's the crow-nest nook,The tourist's joy, the Inn they rave about,Inn that 's out—out of sight and out of mindAnd out of mischief to all four of us—Aunt and niece, you and me. At night arrive;At morn, find time for just a Pisgah-viewOf my friend's Land of Promise; then depart.And while I'm whizzing onward by first train,Bound for our own place (since my Brother sulksAnd says I shun him like the plague) yourself—Why, you have stepped thence, start from platform, gayDespite the sleepless journey,—love lends wings,—Hug aunt and niece who, none the wiser, waitThe faithful advent! Eh?' 'With all my heart,'Said I to you; said I to mine own self:'Does he believe I fail to comprehendHe wants just one more final friendly snackAt friend's exchequer ere friend runs to earth,Marries, renounces yielding friends such sport?'And did I spoil sport, pull face grim,—nay, grave?Your pupil does you better credit! No!I parleyed with my pass-book,—rubbed my pairAt the big balance in my banker's hands,—Folded a check cigar-case-shape,—just wantsFilling and signing,—and took train, resolvedTo execute myself with decencyAnd let you win—if not Ten thousand quite,Something by way of wind-up-farewell burstOf firework-nosegay! Where 's your fortune fled?Or is not fortune constant after all?You lose ten thousand pounds: had I lost halfOr half that, I should bite my lips, I think.You man of marble! Strut and stretch my bestOn tiptoe, I shall never reach your height.How does the loss feel! Just one lesson more!"The more refined man smiles a frown away."The lesson shall be—only boys like youPut such a question at the present stage.I had a ball lodge in my shoulder once,And, full five minutes, never guessed the fact;Next day, I felt decidedly: and still,At twelve years' distance, when I lift my armA twinge reminds me of the surgeon's probe.Ask me, this day month, how I feel my luck!And meantime please to stop impertinence,For—don't I know its object? All this chaffCovers the corn, this preface leads to speech,This boy stands forth a hero. 'There, my lord!Our play was true play, fun not earnest! IEmpty your purse, inside out, while my pokeBulges to bursting? You can badly spareA doit, confess now, Duke though brother be!While I 'm gold-daubed so thickly, spangles dropAnd show my father's warehouse-apron: pshaw!Enough! We 've had a palpitating night!Good morning! Breakfast and forget our dreams!My mouth 's shut, mind! I tell nor man nor mouse.'There, see! He don't deny it! Thanks, my boy!Hero and welcome—only, not on meMake trial of your 'prentice-hand! Enough!We 've played, I 've lost and owe ten thousand pounds,Whereof I muster, at the moment,—well,What 's for the bill here and the back to town.Still, I 've my little character to keep;You may expect your money at month's end."The young man at the window turns round quick—A clumsy giant handsome creature; graspsIn his large red the little lean white handOf the other, looks him in the sallow face."I say now—is it right to so mistakeA fellow, force him in mere self-defenceTo spout like MisterMild AcclivityIn album-language? You know well enoughWhether I like you—like's no album-word,Anyhow: point me to one soul besideIn the wide world I care one straw about!I first set eyes on you a year ago;Since when you 've done me good—I 'll stick to it—More than I got in the whole twenty-fiveThat make my life up, Oxford years and all—Throw in the three I fooled away abroad,Seeing myself and nobody more sageUntil I met you, and you made me manSuch as the sort is and the fates allow.I do think, since we two kept company,I 've learnt to know a little—all through you!It 's nature if I like you. Taunt away!As if I need you teaching me my place—The snob I am, the Duke your brother is,When just the good you did was—teaching meMy own trade, how a snob and millionaireMay lead his life and let the Duke's alone,Clap wings, free jackdaw, on his steeple-perch,Burnish his black to gold in sun and air,Nor pick up stray plumes, strive to match in strutRegular peacocks who can't fly an inchOver the courtyard-paling. Head and heart(That 's album-style) are older than you know,For all your knowledge: boy, perhaps—ay, boyHad his adventure, just as he were man—His ball-experience in the shoulder-blade,His bit of life-long ache to recognize,Although he bears it cheerily about,Because you came and clapped him on the back,Advised him 'Walk and wear the aching off!'Why, I was minded to sit down for lifeJust in Dalmatia, build a seaside towerHigh on a rock, and so expend my daysPursuing chemistry or botanyOr, very like, astronomy becauseI noticed stars shone when I passed the place.Letting my cash accumulate the whileIn England—to lay out in lump at lastAs Ruskin should direct me! All or someOf which should I have done or tried to do,And preciously repented, one fine day,Had you discovered Timon, climbed his rockAnd scaled his tower, some ten years thence, suppose,And coaxed his story from him! Don't I seeThe pair conversing! It 's a novel writAlready, I 'll be bound,—our dialogue!'What?' cried the elder and yet youthful man—So did the eye flash 'neath the lordly front,And the imposing presence swell with scorn,As the haught high-bred bearing and disposeContrasted with his interlocutorThe flabby low-born who, of bulk before,Had steadily increased, one stone per week,Since his abstention from horse-exercise:—'What? you, as rich as Rothschild, left, you sayLondon the very year you came of age,Because your father manufactured goods—Commission-agent hight of Manchester—Partly, and partly through a baby caseOf disappointment I've pumped out at last—And here you spend life 's prime in gaining fleshAnd giving science one more asteroid?'Brief, my dear fellow, you instructed me,At Alfred's and not Istria! proved a snobMay turn a million to account althoughHis brother be no Duke, and see good daysWithout the girl he lost and some one gained.The end is, after one year's tutelage,Having, by your help, touched society,Polo, Tent-pegging, Hurlingham, the Rink—I leave all these delights, by your advice,And marry my young pretty cousin hereWhose place, whose oaks ancestral you behold.(Her father was in partnership with mine—Does not his purchase look a pedigree?)My million will be tails and tassels smartTo this plump-bodied kite, this house and landWhich, set a-soaring, pulls me, soft as sleep,Along life's pleasant meadow,—arm left freeTo lock a friend's in,—whose, but yours, old boy?Arm in arm glide we over rough and smooth,While hand, to pocket held, saves cash from cards.Now, if you don't esteem ten thousand pounds(—Which I shall probably discover snugHid somewhere in the column-corner cappedWith 'Credit,' based on 'Balance,'—which, I swear,By this time next month I shall quite forgetWhether I lost or won—ten thousand pounds,Which at this instant I would give ... let 's see,For Galopin—nay, for that GainsboroughSir Richard won't sell, and, if bought by me,Would get my glance and praise some twice a year,—)Well, if you don't esteem that price dirt-cheapFor teaching me Dalmatia was mistake—Why then, my last illusion-bubble breaks,My one discovered phœnix proves a goose,My cleverest of all companions—oh,Was worth nor ten pence nor ten thousand pounds!Come! Be yourself again! So endeth hereThe morning's lesson! Never while life lastsDo I touch card again. To breakfast now!To bed—I can't say, since you needs must startFor station early—oh, the down-train still,First plan and best plan—townward trip be hanged!You 're due at your big brother's—pay that debt,Then owe me not a farthing! Order eggs—And who knows but there 's trout obtainable?"The fine man looks wellnigh malignant: then—"Sir, please subdue your manner! Debts are debts:I pay mine—debts of this sort—certainly.What do I care how you regard your gains,Want them or want them not? The thingIwantIs—not to have a story circulateFrom club to club—how, bent on clearing out,Young So-and-so, young So-and-so cleaned me,Then set the empty kennel flush again,Ignored advantage and forgave his friend—For why? There was no wringing blood from stone!Oh, don't be savage! You would hold your tongue,Bite it in two, as man may; but those smallHours in the smoking-room, when instance aptRises to tongue's root, tingles on to tip,And the thinned company consists of sixCapital well-known fellows one may trust!Next week, it 's in the 'World.' No, thank you much.I owe ten thousand pounds: I 'll pay them!""Now,—This becomes funny. You 've made friends with me:I can't help knowing of the ways and means!Or stay! they say your brother closets upCorreggio's long lost Leda: if he meansTo give you that, and if you give it me" ..."Ipolished snob off to aristocrat?You compliment me! father's apron stillSticks out from son's court-vesture; still silk purseRoughs finger with some bristle sow-ear-born!Well, neither I nor you mean harm at heart!I owe you and shall pay you: which premised,Why should what follows sound like flattery?The fact is—you do compliment too muchYour humble master, as I own I am;You owe me no such thanks as you protest.The polisher needs precious stone no lessThan precious stone needs polisher: believeI struck no tint from out you but I foundSnug lying first 'neath surface hairbreadth-deep!Beside, I liked the exercise: with skillGoes love to show skill for skill's sake. You see,I 'm old and understand things: too absurdIt were you pitched and tossed away your life,As diamond were Scotch-pebble! all the more,That I myself misused a stone of price.Born and bred clever—people used to sayClever as most men, if not something more—Yet here I stand a failure, cut awryOr left opaque,—no brilliant named and known.Whate'er my inner stuff, my outside 's blank;I 'm nobody—or rather, look that same—I 'm—who I am—and know it; but I holdWhatin my hand out for the world to see?What ministry, what mission, or what book—I 'll say, book even? Not a sign of these!I began—laughing—'All these when I like!'I end with—well, you 've hit it!—'This boy's checkFor just as many thousands as he he 'll spare!'The first—I could, and would not; your spare cashI would, and could not: have no scruple, pray,But, as I hoped to pocket yours, pouch mine—When you are able!""Which is—when to be?I 've heard, great characters require a fallOf fortune to show greatness by uprise:They touch the ground to jollily rebound,Add to the Album! Let a fellow shareYour secret of superiority!I know, my banker makes the money breedMoney; I eat and sleep, he simply takesThe dividends and cuts the coupons off,Sells out, buys in, keeps doubling, tripling cash,While I do nothing but receive and spend.But you, spontaneous generator, hatchA wind-egg; cluck, and forth struts CapitalAs Interest to me from egg of gold.I am grown curious: pay me by all means!How will you make the money?""Mind your own—Not my affair. Enough: or money, orMoney's worth, as the case may be, expectEre month's end,—keep but patient for a month!Who 's for a stroll to station? Ten 's the time;Your man, with my things, follow in the trap;At stoppage of the down-train, play the arrivedOn platform, and you 'll show the due fatigueOf the night-journey,—not much sleep,—perhaps,Your thoughts were on before you—yes, indeed,You join them, being happily awakeWith thought's sole object as she smiling sitsAt breakfast-table. I shall dodge meantimeIn and out station-precinct, wile awayThe hour till up my engine pants and smokes.No doubt, she goes to fetch you. Never fear!She gets no glance at me, who shame such saints!"IISo, they ring bell, give orders, pay, departAmid profuse acknowledgment from hostWho well knows what may bring the younger back.They light cigar, descend in twenty stepsThe "calm acclivity," inhale—beyondTobacco's balm—the better smoke of turfAnd wood fire,—cottages at cookeryI' the morning,—reach the main road straightening on'Twixt wood and wood, two black walls full of nightSlow to disperse, though mists thin fast beforeThe advancing foot, and leave the flint-dust fineEach speck with its fire-sparkle. PresentlyThe road's end with the sky's beginning mixIn one magnificence of glare, due East,So high the sun rides,—May 's the merry month.They slacken pace: the younger stops abrupt,Discards cigar, looks his friend full in face."All right; the station comes in view at end;Five minutes from the beech-clump, there you are!I say: let 's halt, let 's borrow yonder gateOf its two magpies, sit and have a talk!Do let a fellow speak a moment! MoreI think about and less I like the thing—No, you must let me! Now, be good for once!Ten thousand pounds be done for, dead and damned!We played for love, not hate: yes, hate! I hateThinking you beg or borrow or reduceTo strychnine some poor devil of a lordLicked at Unlimited Loo. I had the cashTo lose—you knew that!—lose and none the lessWhistle to-morrow: it 's not every chapAffords to take his punishment so well!Now, don't be angry with a friend whose faultIs that he thinks—upon my soul, I do—Your head the best head going. Oh, one seesNames in the newspaper—great This, great That,Gladstone, Carlyle, the Laureate:—much I care!Others have their opinion, I keep mine:Which means—by right you ought to have the thingsI want a head for. Here 's a pretty place,My cousin's place, and presently my place,Not yours! I 'll tell you how it strikes a man.My cousin 's fond of music and of coursePlays the piano (it won't be for long!)A brand-new bore she calls a 'semi-grand'Rosewood and pearl, that blocks the drawing-room,And cost no end of money. Twice a weekDown comes Herr Somebody and seats himself,Sets to work teaching—with his teeth on edge—I 've watched the rascal. 'Does he play first-rate?'I ask: 'I rather think so,' answers she—'He's What's-his-Name!'—'Why give you lessons then?'—'I pay three guineas and the train beside.'—'This instrument, has he one such at home?'—'He? Has to practise on a table-top,When he can't hire the proper thing.'—'I see!You 've the piano, he the skill, and GodThe distribution of such gifts.' So here:After your teaching, I shall sit and strumPolkas on this piano of a PlaceYou 'd make resound with 'Rule Britannia'!""Thanks!I don't say but this pretty cousin's place,Appendaged with your million, tempts my handAs key-board I might touch with some effect.""Then, why not have obtained the like? House, land,Money, are things obtainable, you see,By clever head-work: ask my father else!You, who teach me, why not have learned, yourself?Played like Herr Somebody with power to thumpAnd flourish and the rest, not bend demurePointing out blunders—'Sharp, not natural!Permit me—on the black key use the thumb!'There 's some fatality, I 'm sure! You say'Marry the cousin, that's your proper move!'And I do use the thumb and hit the sharp:You should have listened to your own head's hint,As I to you! The puzzle 's past my power,How you have managed—with such stuff, such means—Not to be rich nor great nor happy man:Of which three good things where 's a sign at all?Just look at Dizzy! Come,—what tripped your heels?Instruct a goose that boasts wings and can't fly!I wager I have guessed it!—never foundThe old solution of the riddle fail!'Who was the woman?' I don't ask, but—'WhereI' the path of life stood she who tripped you?'""GooseYou truly are! I own to fifty years.Why don't I interpose and cut out—you?Compete with five-and-twenty? Age, my boy!""Old man, no nonsense!—even to a boyThat 's ripe at least for rationalityRapped into him, as maybe mine was, once!I 've had my small adventure lesson meOver the knuckles!—likely, I forgetThe sort of figure youth cuts now and then,Competing with old shoulders but young headDespite the fifty grizzling years!""Aha?Then that means—just the bullet in the bladeWhich brought Dalmatia on the brain,—that, too,Came of a fatal creature? Can't pretendNow for the first time to surmise as much!Make a clean breast! Recount! a secret 's safe'Twixt you, me, and the gate-post!""—Can't pretend,Neither, to never have surmised your wish!It 's no use,—case of unextracted ball—Winces at finger-touching. Let things be!""Ah, if you love your love still! I hate mine.""I can't hate.""I won't teach you; and won't tellYou, therefore, what you please to ask of me:As if I, also, may not have my ache!""My sort of ache? No, no! and yet—perhaps!All comes of thinking you superior still.But live and learn! I say! Time 's up! Good jump!You old, indeed! I fancy there 's a cutAcross the wood, a grass-path: shall we try?It 's venturesome, however!""Stop, my boy!Don't think I 'm stingy of experience! Life—It 's like this wood we leave. Should you and IGo wandering about there, though the gapsWe went in and came out by were opposedAs the two poles still, somehow, all the sameBy nightfall we should probably have chancedOn much the same main points of interest—Both of us measured girth, of mossy trunk,Stript ivy from its strangled prey, clapped handsAt squirrel, sent a fir-cone after crow,And so forth,—never mind what time betwixt.So in our lives; allow I entered mineAnother way than you: 't is possibleI ended just by knocking head againstThat plaguy low-hung branch yourself beganBy getting bump from; as at last you tooMay stumble o'er that stump which first of allBade me walk circumspectly. Head and feetAre vulnerable both, and I, foot-sure,Forgot that ducking down saves brow from bruise.I, early old, played young man four years sinceAnd failed confoundedly: so, hate alikeFailure and who caused failure,—curse her cant!""Oh, I see! You, though somewhat past the prime,Were taken with a rosebud beauty! Ah—But how should chits distinguish? She admiredYour marvel of a mind, I 'll undertake!But as to body ... nay, I mean ... that is,When years have told on face and figure" ..."Thanks,MisterSufficiently-Instructed!SuchNo doubt was bound to be the consequenceTo suit your self-complacency: she likedMy head enough, but loved some heart beneathSome head with plenty of brown hair a-topAfter my young friend's fashion! What becomesOf that fine speech you made a minute sinceAbout the man of middle age you foundA formidable peer at twenty-one?So much for your mock-modesty! and yetI back your first against this second sproutOf observation, insight, what you please.My middle age, Sir, had too much success!It 's odd: my case occurred four years ago—I finished just while you commenced that turnI' the wood of life that takes us to the wealthOf honeysuckle, heaped for who can reach.Now, I don't boast: it 's bad style, and beside,The feat proves easier than it looks: I pluckedFull many a flower unnamed in that bouquet(Mostly of peonies and poppies, though!)Good-nature sticks into my buttonhole.Therefore it was with nose in want of snuffRather than Ess or Psidium, that I chancedOn what—so far from 'rosebud beauty' ... Well—She 's dead: at least you never heard her name;She was no courtly creature, had nor birthNor breeding—mere fine-lady-breeding; butOh, such a wonder of a woman! GrandAs a Greek statue! Stick fine clothes on that,Style that a Duchess or a Queen,—you know,Artists would make an outcry: all the more,That she had just a statue's sleepy graceWhich broods o'er its own beauty. Nay, her fault(Don't laugh!) was just perfection: for supposeOnly the little flaw, and I had peepedInside it, learned what soul inside was like.At Rome some tourist raised the grit beneathA Venus' forehead with his whittling-knife—I wish—now—I had played that brute, brought bloodTo surface from the depths I fancied chalk!As it was, her mere face surprised so muchThat I stopped short there, struck on heap, as staresThe cockney stranger at a certain bustWith drooped eyes,—she 's the thing I have in mind,—Down at my Brother's. All sufficient prize—Such outside! Now,—confound me for a prig!—Who cares? I 'll make a clean breast once for all!Beside, you 've heard the gossip. My life longI 've been a woman-liker,—liking meansLoving and so on. There 's a lengthy listBy this time I shall have to answer for—So say the good folk: and they don't guess half—For the worst is, let once collecting-itchPossess you, and, with perspicacity,Keeps growing such a greediness that theftFollows at no long distance,—there 's the fact!I knew that on my Leporello-listMight figure this, that, and the other nameOf feminine desirability,But if I happened to desire inscribe,Along with these, the only Beautiful—Here was the unique specimen to snatchOr now or never. 'Beautiful' I said—'Beautiful' say in cold blood,—boiling thenTo tune of 'Haste, secure whatever the costThis rarity, die in the act, be damned,So you complete collection, crown your list!'It seemed as though the whole world, once arousedBy the first notice of such wonder's birth,Would break bounds to contest my prize with meThe first discoverer, should she but emergeFrom that safe den of darkness where she dozedTill I stole in, that country-parsonageWhere, country-parson's daughter, motherless,Brotherless, sisterless, for eighteen yearsShe had been vegetating lily-like.Her father was my brother's tutor, gotThe living that way: him I chanced to see—Her I saw—her the world would grow one eyeTo see, I felt no sort of doubt at all!'Secure her!' cried the devil: 'afterwardArrange for the disposal of the prize!'The devil's doing! yet I seem to think—Now, when all 's done,—think with 'a head reposed'In French phrase—hope I think I meant to doAll requisite for such a rarityWhen I should be at leisure, have due timeTo learn requirement. But in evil day—Bless me, at week's end, long as any year,The father must begin, 'Young Somebody,Much recommended—for I break a rule—Comes here to read, next Long Vacation.'—'Young!'That did it. Had the epithet been 'rich,''Noble,' 'a genius,' even 'handsome,'—but—'Young'!"

"That oblong book 's the Album; hand it here!Exactly! page on page of gratitudeFor breakfast, dinner, supper, and the view!I praise these poets, they leave margin-space;Each stanza seems to gather skirts around,And primly, trimly, keep the foot's confine,Modest and maidlike; lubber prose o'ersprawlsAnd straddling stops the path from left to right.Since I want space to do my cipher-work,Which poem spares a corner? What comes first?'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'(Open the window, we burn daylight, boy!)Or see—succincter beauty, brief and bold—'If a fellow can dine On rump-steaks and port wine,He needs not despair Of dining well here'—'Here!' I myself could find a better rhyme!That bard 's a Browning; he neglects the form:But ah, the sense, ye gods, the weighty sense!Still, I prefer this classic. Ay, throw wide!I 'll quench the bits of candle yet unburnt.A minute's fresh air, then to cipher-work!Three little columns hold the whole account:Ecarté, after which Blind Hookey, thenCutting-the-Pack, five hundred pounds the cut.'T is easy reckoning: I have lost, I think."

"That oblong book 's the Album; hand it here!

Exactly! page on page of gratitude

For breakfast, dinner, supper, and the view!

I praise these poets, they leave margin-space;

Each stanza seems to gather skirts around,

And primly, trimly, keep the foot's confine,

Modest and maidlike; lubber prose o'ersprawls

And straddling stops the path from left to right.

Since I want space to do my cipher-work,

Which poem spares a corner? What comes first?

'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'

(Open the window, we burn daylight, boy!)

Or see—succincter beauty, brief and bold—'

If a fellow can dine On rump-steaks and port wine,

He needs not despair Of dining well here'—

'Here!' I myself could find a better rhyme!

That bard 's a Browning; he neglects the form:

But ah, the sense, ye gods, the weighty sense!

Still, I prefer this classic. Ay, throw wide!

I 'll quench the bits of candle yet unburnt.

A minute's fresh air, then to cipher-work!

Three little columns hold the whole account:

Ecarté, after which Blind Hookey, then

Cutting-the-Pack, five hundred pounds the cut.

'T is easy reckoning: I have lost, I think."

Two personages occupy this roomShabby-genteel, that 's parlor to the innPerched on a view-commanding eminence;—Inn which may be a veritable houseWhere somebody once lived and pleased good tasteTill tourists found his coigne of vantage out,And fingered blunt the individual mark,And vulgarized things comfortably smooth.On a sprig-pattern-papered wall there braysComplaint to sky Sir Edwin's dripping stag;His couchant coast-guard creature corresponds;They face the Huguenot and Light o' the World.Grim o'er the mirror on the mantelpiece,Varnished and coffined,Salmo feroxglares,—Possibly at the List of Wines which, framedAnd glazed, hangs somewhat prominent on peg.

Two personages occupy this room

Shabby-genteel, that 's parlor to the inn

Perched on a view-commanding eminence;

—Inn which may be a veritable house

Where somebody once lived and pleased good taste

Till tourists found his coigne of vantage out,

And fingered blunt the individual mark,

And vulgarized things comfortably smooth.

On a sprig-pattern-papered wall there brays

Complaint to sky Sir Edwin's dripping stag;

His couchant coast-guard creature corresponds;

They face the Huguenot and Light o' the World.

Grim o'er the mirror on the mantelpiece,

Varnished and coffined,Salmo feroxglares,

—Possibly at the List of Wines which, framed

And glazed, hangs somewhat prominent on peg.

So much describes the stuffy little room—Vulgar flat smooth respectability:Not so the burst of landscape surging in,Sunrise and all, as he who of the pairIs, plain enough, the younger personageDraws sharp the shrieking curtain, sends aloftThe sash, spreads wide and fastens back to wallShutter and shutter, shows you England's best.He leans into a living glory-bathOf air and light where seems to float and moveThe wooded watered country, hill and daleAnd steel-bright thread of stream, a-smoke with mist,A-sparkle with May morning, diamond driftO' the sun-touched dew. Except the red-roofed patchOf half a dozen dwellings that, crept closeFor hillside shelter, make the village-clump,This inn is perched above to dominate—Except such sign of human neighborhood,"And this surmised rather than sensible"There 's nothing to disturb absolute peace,The reign of English nature—which means artAnd civilized existence. Wildness' selfIs just the cultured triumph. PresentlyDeep solitude, be sure, reveals a PlaceThat knows the right way to defend itself:Silence hems round a burning spot of life.Now, where a Place burns, must a village brood,And where a village broods, an inn should boast—Close and convenient: here you have them both.This inn, the Something-arms—the family's—(Don't trouble Guillim: heralds leave out half!)Is dear to lovers of the picturesque,And epics have been planned here; but who planTake holy orders and find work to do.Painters are more productive, stop a week,Declare the prospect quite a Corot,—ay,For tender sentiment,—themselves inclineRather to handsweep large and liberal;Then go, but not without success achieved—Haply some pencil-drawing, oak or beech,Ferns at the base and ivies up the bole,On this a slug, on that a butterfly.Nay, he who hooked thesalmopendent here,Also exhibited, this same May-month,"Foxgloves: a study"—so inspires the scene,The air, which now the younger personageInflates him with till lungs o'erfraught are fainSigh forth a satisfaction might bestirEven those tufts of tree-tops to the SouthI' the distance where the green dies off to gray,Which, easy of conjecture, front the Place;He eyes them, elbows wide, each hand to cheek.His fellow, the much older—either sayA youngish-old man or man oldish-young—Sits at the table: wicks are noisome-deepIn wax, to detriment of plated ware;Above—piled, strewn—is store of playing-cards,Counters and all that 's proper for a game.He sets down, rubs out figures in the book,Adds and subtracts, puts back here, carries there,Until the summed-up satisfaction standsApparent, and he pauses o'er the work:Soothes what of brain was busy under brow,By passage of the hard palm, curing soWrinkle and crowfoot for a second's space;Then lays down book and laughs out. No mistake,Such the sum-total—ask Colenso else!

So much describes the stuffy little room—

Vulgar flat smooth respectability:

Not so the burst of landscape surging in,

Sunrise and all, as he who of the pair

Is, plain enough, the younger personage

Draws sharp the shrieking curtain, sends aloft

The sash, spreads wide and fastens back to wall

Shutter and shutter, shows you England's best.

He leans into a living glory-bath

Of air and light where seems to float and move

The wooded watered country, hill and dale

And steel-bright thread of stream, a-smoke with mist,

A-sparkle with May morning, diamond drift

O' the sun-touched dew. Except the red-roofed patch

Of half a dozen dwellings that, crept close

For hillside shelter, make the village-clump,

This inn is perched above to dominate—

Except such sign of human neighborhood,

"And this surmised rather than sensible"

There 's nothing to disturb absolute peace,

The reign of English nature—which means art

And civilized existence. Wildness' self

Is just the cultured triumph. Presently

Deep solitude, be sure, reveals a Place

That knows the right way to defend itself:

Silence hems round a burning spot of life.

Now, where a Place burns, must a village brood,

And where a village broods, an inn should boast—

Close and convenient: here you have them both.

This inn, the Something-arms—the family's—

(Don't trouble Guillim: heralds leave out half!)

Is dear to lovers of the picturesque,

And epics have been planned here; but who plan

Take holy orders and find work to do.

Painters are more productive, stop a week,

Declare the prospect quite a Corot,—ay,

For tender sentiment,—themselves incline

Rather to handsweep large and liberal;

Then go, but not without success achieved

—Haply some pencil-drawing, oak or beech,

Ferns at the base and ivies up the bole,

On this a slug, on that a butterfly.

Nay, he who hooked thesalmopendent here,

Also exhibited, this same May-month,

"Foxgloves: a study"—so inspires the scene,

The air, which now the younger personage

Inflates him with till lungs o'erfraught are fain

Sigh forth a satisfaction might bestir

Even those tufts of tree-tops to the South

I' the distance where the green dies off to gray,

Which, easy of conjecture, front the Place;

He eyes them, elbows wide, each hand to cheek.

His fellow, the much older—either say

A youngish-old man or man oldish-young—

Sits at the table: wicks are noisome-deep

In wax, to detriment of plated ware;

Above—piled, strewn—is store of playing-cards,

Counters and all that 's proper for a game.

He sets down, rubs out figures in the book,

Adds and subtracts, puts back here, carries there,

Until the summed-up satisfaction stands

Apparent, and he pauses o'er the work:

Soothes what of brain was busy under brow,

By passage of the hard palm, curing so

Wrinkle and crowfoot for a second's space;

Then lays down book and laughs out. No mistake,

Such the sum-total—ask Colenso else!

Roused by which laugh, the other turns, laughs too—The youth, the good strong fellow, rough perhaps.

Roused by which laugh, the other turns, laughs too—

The youth, the good strong fellow, rough perhaps.

"Well, what 's the damage—three, or four, or five?How many figures in a row? Hand here!Come now, there's one expense all yours not mine—Scribbling the people's Album over, leafThe first and foremost too! You think, perhaps,They 'll only charge you for a brand-new bookNor estimate the literary loss?Wait till the small account comes! 'To one night'sLodging,' for—'beds' they can't say,—'pound or so;Dinner, Apollinaris,—what they please,Attendance not included;' last looms large'Defacement of our Album, late enrichedWith'—let 's see what! Here, at the window, though!Ay, breathe the morning and forgive your luck!Fine enough country for a fool like meTo own, as next month I suppose I shall!Eh? True fool's-fortune! so console yourself,Let 's see, however—hand the book, I say!Well, you 've improved the classic by romance.Queer reading! Verse with parenthetic prose—'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'(Three-two fives) 'life how profitably spent'(Five-naught, five-nine fives) 'yonder humble cot,'(More and more naughts and fives) 'in mild content;And did my feelings find the natural ventIn friendship and in love, how blest my lot!'Then follow the dread figures—five! 'Content?'That 's appetite! Are you content as he—Simpkin the sonneteer?Ten thousand poundsGive point to his effusion—by so muchLeave me the richer and the poorer youAfter our night's play; who 's content the most,If, you, or Simpkin?"So the polished snob.The elder man, refinement every inchFrom brow to boot-end, quietly replies:

"Well, what 's the damage—three, or four, or five?

How many figures in a row? Hand here!

Come now, there's one expense all yours not mine—

Scribbling the people's Album over, leaf

The first and foremost too! You think, perhaps,

They 'll only charge you for a brand-new book

Nor estimate the literary loss?

Wait till the small account comes! 'To one night's

Lodging,' for—'beds' they can't say,—'pound or so;

Dinner, Apollinaris,—what they please,

Attendance not included;' last looms large

'Defacement of our Album, late enriched

With'—let 's see what! Here, at the window, though!

Ay, breathe the morning and forgive your luck!

Fine enough country for a fool like me

To own, as next month I suppose I shall!

Eh? True fool's-fortune! so console yourself,

Let 's see, however—hand the book, I say!

Well, you 've improved the classic by romance.

Queer reading! Verse with parenthetic prose—

'Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!'

(Three-two fives) 'life how profitably spent'

(Five-naught, five-nine fives) 'yonder humble cot,'

(More and more naughts and fives) 'in mild content;

And did my feelings find the natural vent

In friendship and in love, how blest my lot!'

Then follow the dread figures—five! 'Content?'

That 's appetite! Are you content as he—

Simpkin the sonneteer?Ten thousand pounds

Give point to his effusion—by so much

Leave me the richer and the poorer you

After our night's play; who 's content the most,

If, you, or Simpkin?"

So the polished snob.

The elder man, refinement every inch

From brow to boot-end, quietly replies:

"Simpkin 's no name I know. I had my whim."

"Ay, had you! And such things make friendship thick.Intimates, I may boast we were; henceforth,Friends—shall it not be?—who discard reserve,Use plain words, put each dot upon each i,Till death us twain do part? The bargain 's struck!Old fellow, if you fancy—(to begin—)I failed to penetrate your scheme last week,You wrong your poor disciple. Oh, no airs!Because you happen to be twice my ageAnd twenty times my master, must perforceNo blink of daylight struggle through the webThere 's no unwinding? You entoil my legs,And welcome, for I like it: blind me,—no!A very pretty piece of shuttle-workWas that—your mere chance question at the club—'Do you go anywhere this Whitsuntide?I'm off for Paris, there 's the Opera—there 'sThe Salon, there 's a china-sale,—besideChantilly; and, for good companionship,There 's Such-and-such and So-and-so. SupposeWe start together?' 'No such holiday!'I told you:'Paris and the rest be hanged!Why plague me who am pledged to home-delights?I 'm the engaged now; through whose fault but yours?On duty. As you well know. Don't I drowseThe week away down with the Aunt and Niece?No help: it 's leisure, loneliness, and love.'Wish I could take you; but fame travels fast,—A man of much newspaper-paragraph,You scare domestic circles; and besideWould not you like your lot, that second tasteOf nature and approval of the grounds!You might walk early or lie late, so shirkWeek-day devotions: but stay Sunday o'er,And morning church is obligatory:No mundane garb permissible, or dreadThe butler's privileged monition!No!Pack off to Paris, nor wipe tear away!'Whereon how artlessly the happy flashFollowed, by inspiration! ''Tell you what—Let 's turn their flank, try things on t' other side!Inns for my money! Liberty 's the life!We 'll lie in hiding: there 's the crow-nest nook,The tourist's joy, the Inn they rave about,Inn that 's out—out of sight and out of mindAnd out of mischief to all four of us—Aunt and niece, you and me. At night arrive;At morn, find time for just a Pisgah-viewOf my friend's Land of Promise; then depart.And while I'm whizzing onward by first train,Bound for our own place (since my Brother sulksAnd says I shun him like the plague) yourself—Why, you have stepped thence, start from platform, gayDespite the sleepless journey,—love lends wings,—Hug aunt and niece who, none the wiser, waitThe faithful advent! Eh?' 'With all my heart,'Said I to you; said I to mine own self:'Does he believe I fail to comprehendHe wants just one more final friendly snackAt friend's exchequer ere friend runs to earth,Marries, renounces yielding friends such sport?'And did I spoil sport, pull face grim,—nay, grave?Your pupil does you better credit! No!I parleyed with my pass-book,—rubbed my pairAt the big balance in my banker's hands,—Folded a check cigar-case-shape,—just wantsFilling and signing,—and took train, resolvedTo execute myself with decencyAnd let you win—if not Ten thousand quite,Something by way of wind-up-farewell burstOf firework-nosegay! Where 's your fortune fled?Or is not fortune constant after all?You lose ten thousand pounds: had I lost halfOr half that, I should bite my lips, I think.You man of marble! Strut and stretch my bestOn tiptoe, I shall never reach your height.How does the loss feel! Just one lesson more!"

"Ay, had you! And such things make friendship thick.

Intimates, I may boast we were; henceforth,

Friends—shall it not be?—who discard reserve,

Use plain words, put each dot upon each i,

Till death us twain do part? The bargain 's struck!

Old fellow, if you fancy—(to begin—)

I failed to penetrate your scheme last week,

You wrong your poor disciple. Oh, no airs!

Because you happen to be twice my age

And twenty times my master, must perforce

No blink of daylight struggle through the web

There 's no unwinding? You entoil my legs,

And welcome, for I like it: blind me,—no!

A very pretty piece of shuttle-work

Was that—your mere chance question at the club—

'Do you go anywhere this Whitsuntide?

I'm off for Paris, there 's the Opera—there 's

The Salon, there 's a china-sale,—beside

Chantilly; and, for good companionship,

There 's Such-and-such and So-and-so. Suppose

We start together?' 'No such holiday!'

I told you:'Paris and the rest be hanged!

Why plague me who am pledged to home-delights?

I 'm the engaged now; through whose fault but yours?

On duty. As you well know. Don't I drowse

The week away down with the Aunt and Niece?

No help: it 's leisure, loneliness, and love.

'Wish I could take you; but fame travels fast,—

A man of much newspaper-paragraph,

You scare domestic circles; and beside

Would not you like your lot, that second taste

Of nature and approval of the grounds!

You might walk early or lie late, so shirk

Week-day devotions: but stay Sunday o'er,

And morning church is obligatory:

No mundane garb permissible, or dread

The butler's privileged monition!No!

Pack off to Paris, nor wipe tear away!'

Whereon how artlessly the happy flash

Followed, by inspiration! ''Tell you what—

Let 's turn their flank, try things on t' other side!

Inns for my money! Liberty 's the life!

We 'll lie in hiding: there 's the crow-nest nook,

The tourist's joy, the Inn they rave about,

Inn that 's out—out of sight and out of mind

And out of mischief to all four of us—

Aunt and niece, you and me. At night arrive;

At morn, find time for just a Pisgah-view

Of my friend's Land of Promise; then depart.

And while I'm whizzing onward by first train,

Bound for our own place (since my Brother sulks

And says I shun him like the plague) yourself—

Why, you have stepped thence, start from platform, gay

Despite the sleepless journey,—love lends wings,—

Hug aunt and niece who, none the wiser, wait

The faithful advent! Eh?' 'With all my heart,'

Said I to you; said I to mine own self:

'Does he believe I fail to comprehend

He wants just one more final friendly snack

At friend's exchequer ere friend runs to earth,

Marries, renounces yielding friends such sport?'

And did I spoil sport, pull face grim,—nay, grave?

Your pupil does you better credit! No!

I parleyed with my pass-book,—rubbed my pair

At the big balance in my banker's hands,—

Folded a check cigar-case-shape,—just wants

Filling and signing,—and took train, resolved

To execute myself with decency

And let you win—if not Ten thousand quite,

Something by way of wind-up-farewell burst

Of firework-nosegay! Where 's your fortune fled?

Or is not fortune constant after all?

You lose ten thousand pounds: had I lost half

Or half that, I should bite my lips, I think.

You man of marble! Strut and stretch my best

On tiptoe, I shall never reach your height.

How does the loss feel! Just one lesson more!"

The more refined man smiles a frown away.

"The lesson shall be—only boys like youPut such a question at the present stage.I had a ball lodge in my shoulder once,And, full five minutes, never guessed the fact;Next day, I felt decidedly: and still,At twelve years' distance, when I lift my armA twinge reminds me of the surgeon's probe.Ask me, this day month, how I feel my luck!And meantime please to stop impertinence,For—don't I know its object? All this chaffCovers the corn, this preface leads to speech,This boy stands forth a hero. 'There, my lord!Our play was true play, fun not earnest! IEmpty your purse, inside out, while my pokeBulges to bursting? You can badly spareA doit, confess now, Duke though brother be!While I 'm gold-daubed so thickly, spangles dropAnd show my father's warehouse-apron: pshaw!Enough! We 've had a palpitating night!Good morning! Breakfast and forget our dreams!My mouth 's shut, mind! I tell nor man nor mouse.'There, see! He don't deny it! Thanks, my boy!Hero and welcome—only, not on meMake trial of your 'prentice-hand! Enough!We 've played, I 've lost and owe ten thousand pounds,Whereof I muster, at the moment,—well,What 's for the bill here and the back to town.Still, I 've my little character to keep;You may expect your money at month's end."

"The lesson shall be—only boys like you

Put such a question at the present stage.

I had a ball lodge in my shoulder once,

And, full five minutes, never guessed the fact;

Next day, I felt decidedly: and still,

At twelve years' distance, when I lift my arm

A twinge reminds me of the surgeon's probe.

Ask me, this day month, how I feel my luck!

And meantime please to stop impertinence,

For—don't I know its object? All this chaff

Covers the corn, this preface leads to speech,

This boy stands forth a hero. 'There, my lord!

Our play was true play, fun not earnest! I

Empty your purse, inside out, while my poke

Bulges to bursting? You can badly spare

A doit, confess now, Duke though brother be!

While I 'm gold-daubed so thickly, spangles drop

And show my father's warehouse-apron: pshaw!

Enough! We 've had a palpitating night!

Good morning! Breakfast and forget our dreams!

My mouth 's shut, mind! I tell nor man nor mouse.'

There, see! He don't deny it! Thanks, my boy!

Hero and welcome—only, not on me

Make trial of your 'prentice-hand! Enough!

We 've played, I 've lost and owe ten thousand pounds,

Whereof I muster, at the moment,—well,

What 's for the bill here and the back to town.

Still, I 've my little character to keep;

You may expect your money at month's end."

The young man at the window turns round quick—A clumsy giant handsome creature; graspsIn his large red the little lean white handOf the other, looks him in the sallow face.

The young man at the window turns round quick—

A clumsy giant handsome creature; grasps

In his large red the little lean white hand

Of the other, looks him in the sallow face.

"I say now—is it right to so mistakeA fellow, force him in mere self-defenceTo spout like MisterMild AcclivityIn album-language? You know well enoughWhether I like you—like's no album-word,Anyhow: point me to one soul besideIn the wide world I care one straw about!I first set eyes on you a year ago;Since when you 've done me good—I 'll stick to it—More than I got in the whole twenty-fiveThat make my life up, Oxford years and all—Throw in the three I fooled away abroad,Seeing myself and nobody more sageUntil I met you, and you made me manSuch as the sort is and the fates allow.I do think, since we two kept company,I 've learnt to know a little—all through you!It 's nature if I like you. Taunt away!As if I need you teaching me my place—The snob I am, the Duke your brother is,When just the good you did was—teaching meMy own trade, how a snob and millionaireMay lead his life and let the Duke's alone,Clap wings, free jackdaw, on his steeple-perch,Burnish his black to gold in sun and air,Nor pick up stray plumes, strive to match in strutRegular peacocks who can't fly an inchOver the courtyard-paling. Head and heart(That 's album-style) are older than you know,For all your knowledge: boy, perhaps—ay, boyHad his adventure, just as he were man—His ball-experience in the shoulder-blade,His bit of life-long ache to recognize,Although he bears it cheerily about,Because you came and clapped him on the back,Advised him 'Walk and wear the aching off!'Why, I was minded to sit down for lifeJust in Dalmatia, build a seaside towerHigh on a rock, and so expend my daysPursuing chemistry or botanyOr, very like, astronomy becauseI noticed stars shone when I passed the place.Letting my cash accumulate the whileIn England—to lay out in lump at lastAs Ruskin should direct me! All or someOf which should I have done or tried to do,And preciously repented, one fine day,Had you discovered Timon, climbed his rockAnd scaled his tower, some ten years thence, suppose,And coaxed his story from him! Don't I seeThe pair conversing! It 's a novel writAlready, I 'll be bound,—our dialogue!'What?' cried the elder and yet youthful man—So did the eye flash 'neath the lordly front,And the imposing presence swell with scorn,As the haught high-bred bearing and disposeContrasted with his interlocutorThe flabby low-born who, of bulk before,Had steadily increased, one stone per week,Since his abstention from horse-exercise:—'What? you, as rich as Rothschild, left, you sayLondon the very year you came of age,Because your father manufactured goods—Commission-agent hight of Manchester—Partly, and partly through a baby caseOf disappointment I've pumped out at last—And here you spend life 's prime in gaining fleshAnd giving science one more asteroid?'Brief, my dear fellow, you instructed me,At Alfred's and not Istria! proved a snobMay turn a million to account althoughHis brother be no Duke, and see good daysWithout the girl he lost and some one gained.The end is, after one year's tutelage,Having, by your help, touched society,Polo, Tent-pegging, Hurlingham, the Rink—I leave all these delights, by your advice,And marry my young pretty cousin hereWhose place, whose oaks ancestral you behold.(Her father was in partnership with mine—Does not his purchase look a pedigree?)My million will be tails and tassels smartTo this plump-bodied kite, this house and landWhich, set a-soaring, pulls me, soft as sleep,Along life's pleasant meadow,—arm left freeTo lock a friend's in,—whose, but yours, old boy?Arm in arm glide we over rough and smooth,While hand, to pocket held, saves cash from cards.Now, if you don't esteem ten thousand pounds(—Which I shall probably discover snugHid somewhere in the column-corner cappedWith 'Credit,' based on 'Balance,'—which, I swear,By this time next month I shall quite forgetWhether I lost or won—ten thousand pounds,Which at this instant I would give ... let 's see,For Galopin—nay, for that GainsboroughSir Richard won't sell, and, if bought by me,Would get my glance and praise some twice a year,—)Well, if you don't esteem that price dirt-cheapFor teaching me Dalmatia was mistake—Why then, my last illusion-bubble breaks,My one discovered phœnix proves a goose,My cleverest of all companions—oh,Was worth nor ten pence nor ten thousand pounds!Come! Be yourself again! So endeth hereThe morning's lesson! Never while life lastsDo I touch card again. To breakfast now!To bed—I can't say, since you needs must startFor station early—oh, the down-train still,First plan and best plan—townward trip be hanged!You 're due at your big brother's—pay that debt,Then owe me not a farthing! Order eggs—And who knows but there 's trout obtainable?"

"I say now—is it right to so mistake

A fellow, force him in mere self-defence

To spout like MisterMild Acclivity

In album-language? You know well enough

Whether I like you—like's no album-word,

Anyhow: point me to one soul beside

In the wide world I care one straw about!

I first set eyes on you a year ago;

Since when you 've done me good—I 'll stick to it—

More than I got in the whole twenty-five

That make my life up, Oxford years and all—

Throw in the three I fooled away abroad,

Seeing myself and nobody more sage

Until I met you, and you made me man

Such as the sort is and the fates allow.

I do think, since we two kept company,

I 've learnt to know a little—all through you!

It 's nature if I like you. Taunt away!

As if I need you teaching me my place—

The snob I am, the Duke your brother is,

When just the good you did was—teaching me

My own trade, how a snob and millionaire

May lead his life and let the Duke's alone,

Clap wings, free jackdaw, on his steeple-perch,

Burnish his black to gold in sun and air,

Nor pick up stray plumes, strive to match in strut

Regular peacocks who can't fly an inch

Over the courtyard-paling. Head and heart

(That 's album-style) are older than you know,

For all your knowledge: boy, perhaps—ay, boy

Had his adventure, just as he were man—

His ball-experience in the shoulder-blade,

His bit of life-long ache to recognize,

Although he bears it cheerily about,

Because you came and clapped him on the back,

Advised him 'Walk and wear the aching off!'

Why, I was minded to sit down for life

Just in Dalmatia, build a seaside tower

High on a rock, and so expend my days

Pursuing chemistry or botany

Or, very like, astronomy because

I noticed stars shone when I passed the place.

Letting my cash accumulate the while

In England—to lay out in lump at last

As Ruskin should direct me! All or some

Of which should I have done or tried to do,

And preciously repented, one fine day,

Had you discovered Timon, climbed his rock

And scaled his tower, some ten years thence, suppose,

And coaxed his story from him! Don't I see

The pair conversing! It 's a novel writ

Already, I 'll be bound,—our dialogue!

'What?' cried the elder and yet youthful man—

So did the eye flash 'neath the lordly front,

And the imposing presence swell with scorn,

As the haught high-bred bearing and dispose

Contrasted with his interlocutor

The flabby low-born who, of bulk before,

Had steadily increased, one stone per week,

Since his abstention from horse-exercise:—

'What? you, as rich as Rothschild, left, you say

London the very year you came of age,

Because your father manufactured goods—

Commission-agent hight of Manchester—

Partly, and partly through a baby case

Of disappointment I've pumped out at last—

And here you spend life 's prime in gaining flesh

And giving science one more asteroid?'

Brief, my dear fellow, you instructed me,

At Alfred's and not Istria! proved a snob

May turn a million to account although

His brother be no Duke, and see good days

Without the girl he lost and some one gained.

The end is, after one year's tutelage,

Having, by your help, touched society,

Polo, Tent-pegging, Hurlingham, the Rink—

I leave all these delights, by your advice,

And marry my young pretty cousin here

Whose place, whose oaks ancestral you behold.

(Her father was in partnership with mine—

Does not his purchase look a pedigree?)

My million will be tails and tassels smart

To this plump-bodied kite, this house and land

Which, set a-soaring, pulls me, soft as sleep,

Along life's pleasant meadow,—arm left free

To lock a friend's in,—whose, but yours, old boy?

Arm in arm glide we over rough and smooth,

While hand, to pocket held, saves cash from cards.

Now, if you don't esteem ten thousand pounds

(—Which I shall probably discover snug

Hid somewhere in the column-corner capped

With 'Credit,' based on 'Balance,'—which, I swear,

By this time next month I shall quite forget

Whether I lost or won—ten thousand pounds,

Which at this instant I would give ... let 's see,

For Galopin—nay, for that Gainsborough

Sir Richard won't sell, and, if bought by me,

Would get my glance and praise some twice a year,—)

Well, if you don't esteem that price dirt-cheap

For teaching me Dalmatia was mistake—

Why then, my last illusion-bubble breaks,

My one discovered phœnix proves a goose,

My cleverest of all companions—oh,

Was worth nor ten pence nor ten thousand pounds!

Come! Be yourself again! So endeth here

The morning's lesson! Never while life lasts

Do I touch card again. To breakfast now!

To bed—I can't say, since you needs must start

For station early—oh, the down-train still,

First plan and best plan—townward trip be hanged!

You 're due at your big brother's—pay that debt,

Then owe me not a farthing! Order eggs—

And who knows but there 's trout obtainable?"

The fine man looks wellnigh malignant: then—

"Sir, please subdue your manner! Debts are debts:I pay mine—debts of this sort—certainly.What do I care how you regard your gains,Want them or want them not? The thingIwantIs—not to have a story circulateFrom club to club—how, bent on clearing out,Young So-and-so, young So-and-so cleaned me,Then set the empty kennel flush again,Ignored advantage and forgave his friend—For why? There was no wringing blood from stone!Oh, don't be savage! You would hold your tongue,Bite it in two, as man may; but those smallHours in the smoking-room, when instance aptRises to tongue's root, tingles on to tip,And the thinned company consists of sixCapital well-known fellows one may trust!Next week, it 's in the 'World.' No, thank you much.I owe ten thousand pounds: I 'll pay them!"

"Sir, please subdue your manner! Debts are debts:

I pay mine—debts of this sort—certainly.

What do I care how you regard your gains,

Want them or want them not? The thingIwant

Is—not to have a story circulate

From club to club—how, bent on clearing out,

Young So-and-so, young So-and-so cleaned me,

Then set the empty kennel flush again,

Ignored advantage and forgave his friend—

For why? There was no wringing blood from stone!

Oh, don't be savage! You would hold your tongue,

Bite it in two, as man may; but those small

Hours in the smoking-room, when instance apt

Rises to tongue's root, tingles on to tip,

And the thinned company consists of six

Capital well-known fellows one may trust!

Next week, it 's in the 'World.' No, thank you much.

I owe ten thousand pounds: I 'll pay them!"

"Now,—This becomes funny. You 've made friends with me:I can't help knowing of the ways and means!Or stay! they say your brother closets upCorreggio's long lost Leda: if he meansTo give you that, and if you give it me" ...

"Now,—

This becomes funny. You 've made friends with me:

I can't help knowing of the ways and means!

Or stay! they say your brother closets up

Correggio's long lost Leda: if he means

To give you that, and if you give it me" ...

"Ipolished snob off to aristocrat?You compliment me! father's apron stillSticks out from son's court-vesture; still silk purseRoughs finger with some bristle sow-ear-born!Well, neither I nor you mean harm at heart!I owe you and shall pay you: which premised,Why should what follows sound like flattery?The fact is—you do compliment too muchYour humble master, as I own I am;You owe me no such thanks as you protest.The polisher needs precious stone no lessThan precious stone needs polisher: believeI struck no tint from out you but I foundSnug lying first 'neath surface hairbreadth-deep!Beside, I liked the exercise: with skillGoes love to show skill for skill's sake. You see,I 'm old and understand things: too absurdIt were you pitched and tossed away your life,As diamond were Scotch-pebble! all the more,That I myself misused a stone of price.Born and bred clever—people used to sayClever as most men, if not something more—Yet here I stand a failure, cut awryOr left opaque,—no brilliant named and known.Whate'er my inner stuff, my outside 's blank;I 'm nobody—or rather, look that same—I 'm—who I am—and know it; but I holdWhatin my hand out for the world to see?What ministry, what mission, or what book—I 'll say, book even? Not a sign of these!I began—laughing—'All these when I like!'I end with—well, you 've hit it!—'This boy's checkFor just as many thousands as he he 'll spare!'The first—I could, and would not; your spare cashI would, and could not: have no scruple, pray,But, as I hoped to pocket yours, pouch mine—When you are able!"

"Ipolished snob off to aristocrat?

You compliment me! father's apron still

Sticks out from son's court-vesture; still silk purse

Roughs finger with some bristle sow-ear-born!

Well, neither I nor you mean harm at heart!

I owe you and shall pay you: which premised,

Why should what follows sound like flattery?

The fact is—you do compliment too much

Your humble master, as I own I am;

You owe me no such thanks as you protest.

The polisher needs precious stone no less

Than precious stone needs polisher: believe

I struck no tint from out you but I found

Snug lying first 'neath surface hairbreadth-deep!

Beside, I liked the exercise: with skill

Goes love to show skill for skill's sake. You see,

I 'm old and understand things: too absurd

It were you pitched and tossed away your life,

As diamond were Scotch-pebble! all the more,

That I myself misused a stone of price.

Born and bred clever—people used to say

Clever as most men, if not something more—

Yet here I stand a failure, cut awry

Or left opaque,—no brilliant named and known.

Whate'er my inner stuff, my outside 's blank;

I 'm nobody—or rather, look that same—

I 'm—who I am—and know it; but I hold

Whatin my hand out for the world to see?

What ministry, what mission, or what book

—I 'll say, book even? Not a sign of these!

I began—laughing—'All these when I like!'

I end with—well, you 've hit it!—'This boy's check

For just as many thousands as he he 'll spare!'

The first—I could, and would not; your spare cash

I would, and could not: have no scruple, pray,

But, as I hoped to pocket yours, pouch mine

—When you are able!"

"Which is—when to be?I 've heard, great characters require a fallOf fortune to show greatness by uprise:They touch the ground to jollily rebound,Add to the Album! Let a fellow shareYour secret of superiority!I know, my banker makes the money breedMoney; I eat and sleep, he simply takesThe dividends and cuts the coupons off,Sells out, buys in, keeps doubling, tripling cash,While I do nothing but receive and spend.But you, spontaneous generator, hatchA wind-egg; cluck, and forth struts CapitalAs Interest to me from egg of gold.I am grown curious: pay me by all means!How will you make the money?"

"Which is—when to be?

I 've heard, great characters require a fall

Of fortune to show greatness by uprise:

They touch the ground to jollily rebound,

Add to the Album! Let a fellow share

Your secret of superiority!

I know, my banker makes the money breed

Money; I eat and sleep, he simply takes

The dividends and cuts the coupons off,

Sells out, buys in, keeps doubling, tripling cash,

While I do nothing but receive and spend.

But you, spontaneous generator, hatch

A wind-egg; cluck, and forth struts Capital

As Interest to me from egg of gold.

I am grown curious: pay me by all means!

How will you make the money?"

"Mind your own—Not my affair. Enough: or money, orMoney's worth, as the case may be, expectEre month's end,—keep but patient for a month!Who 's for a stroll to station? Ten 's the time;Your man, with my things, follow in the trap;At stoppage of the down-train, play the arrivedOn platform, and you 'll show the due fatigueOf the night-journey,—not much sleep,—perhaps,Your thoughts were on before you—yes, indeed,You join them, being happily awakeWith thought's sole object as she smiling sitsAt breakfast-table. I shall dodge meantimeIn and out station-precinct, wile awayThe hour till up my engine pants and smokes.No doubt, she goes to fetch you. Never fear!She gets no glance at me, who shame such saints!"

"Mind your own—

Not my affair. Enough: or money, or

Money's worth, as the case may be, expect

Ere month's end,—keep but patient for a month!

Who 's for a stroll to station? Ten 's the time;

Your man, with my things, follow in the trap;

At stoppage of the down-train, play the arrived

On platform, and you 'll show the due fatigue

Of the night-journey,—not much sleep,—perhaps,

Your thoughts were on before you—yes, indeed,

You join them, being happily awake

With thought's sole object as she smiling sits

At breakfast-table. I shall dodge meantime

In and out station-precinct, wile away

The hour till up my engine pants and smokes.

No doubt, she goes to fetch you. Never fear!

She gets no glance at me, who shame such saints!"

So, they ring bell, give orders, pay, departAmid profuse acknowledgment from hostWho well knows what may bring the younger back.They light cigar, descend in twenty stepsThe "calm acclivity," inhale—beyondTobacco's balm—the better smoke of turfAnd wood fire,—cottages at cookeryI' the morning,—reach the main road straightening on'Twixt wood and wood, two black walls full of nightSlow to disperse, though mists thin fast beforeThe advancing foot, and leave the flint-dust fineEach speck with its fire-sparkle. PresentlyThe road's end with the sky's beginning mixIn one magnificence of glare, due East,So high the sun rides,—May 's the merry month.

So, they ring bell, give orders, pay, depart

Amid profuse acknowledgment from host

Who well knows what may bring the younger back.

They light cigar, descend in twenty steps

The "calm acclivity," inhale—beyond

Tobacco's balm—the better smoke of turf

And wood fire,—cottages at cookery

I' the morning,—reach the main road straightening on

'Twixt wood and wood, two black walls full of night

Slow to disperse, though mists thin fast before

The advancing foot, and leave the flint-dust fine

Each speck with its fire-sparkle. Presently

The road's end with the sky's beginning mix

In one magnificence of glare, due East,

So high the sun rides,—May 's the merry month.

They slacken pace: the younger stops abrupt,Discards cigar, looks his friend full in face.

They slacken pace: the younger stops abrupt,

Discards cigar, looks his friend full in face.

"All right; the station comes in view at end;Five minutes from the beech-clump, there you are!I say: let 's halt, let 's borrow yonder gateOf its two magpies, sit and have a talk!Do let a fellow speak a moment! MoreI think about and less I like the thing—No, you must let me! Now, be good for once!Ten thousand pounds be done for, dead and damned!We played for love, not hate: yes, hate! I hateThinking you beg or borrow or reduceTo strychnine some poor devil of a lordLicked at Unlimited Loo. I had the cashTo lose—you knew that!—lose and none the lessWhistle to-morrow: it 's not every chapAffords to take his punishment so well!Now, don't be angry with a friend whose faultIs that he thinks—upon my soul, I do—Your head the best head going. Oh, one seesNames in the newspaper—great This, great That,Gladstone, Carlyle, the Laureate:—much I care!Others have their opinion, I keep mine:Which means—by right you ought to have the thingsI want a head for. Here 's a pretty place,My cousin's place, and presently my place,Not yours! I 'll tell you how it strikes a man.My cousin 's fond of music and of coursePlays the piano (it won't be for long!)A brand-new bore she calls a 'semi-grand'Rosewood and pearl, that blocks the drawing-room,And cost no end of money. Twice a weekDown comes Herr Somebody and seats himself,Sets to work teaching—with his teeth on edge—I 've watched the rascal. 'Does he play first-rate?'I ask: 'I rather think so,' answers she—'He's What's-his-Name!'—'Why give you lessons then?'—'I pay three guineas and the train beside.'—'This instrument, has he one such at home?'—'He? Has to practise on a table-top,When he can't hire the proper thing.'—'I see!You 've the piano, he the skill, and GodThe distribution of such gifts.' So here:After your teaching, I shall sit and strumPolkas on this piano of a PlaceYou 'd make resound with 'Rule Britannia'!"

"All right; the station comes in view at end;

Five minutes from the beech-clump, there you are!

I say: let 's halt, let 's borrow yonder gate

Of its two magpies, sit and have a talk!

Do let a fellow speak a moment! More

I think about and less I like the thing—

No, you must let me! Now, be good for once!

Ten thousand pounds be done for, dead and damned!

We played for love, not hate: yes, hate! I hate

Thinking you beg or borrow or reduce

To strychnine some poor devil of a lord

Licked at Unlimited Loo. I had the cash

To lose—you knew that!—lose and none the less

Whistle to-morrow: it 's not every chap

Affords to take his punishment so well!

Now, don't be angry with a friend whose fault

Is that he thinks—upon my soul, I do—

Your head the best head going. Oh, one sees

Names in the newspaper—great This, great That,

Gladstone, Carlyle, the Laureate:—much I care!

Others have their opinion, I keep mine:

Which means—by right you ought to have the things

I want a head for. Here 's a pretty place,

My cousin's place, and presently my place,

Not yours! I 'll tell you how it strikes a man.

My cousin 's fond of music and of course

Plays the piano (it won't be for long!)

A brand-new bore she calls a 'semi-grand'

Rosewood and pearl, that blocks the drawing-room,

And cost no end of money. Twice a week

Down comes Herr Somebody and seats himself,

Sets to work teaching—with his teeth on edge—

I 've watched the rascal. 'Does he play first-rate?'

I ask: 'I rather think so,' answers she—

'He's What's-his-Name!'—'Why give you lessons then?'—

'I pay three guineas and the train beside.'—

'This instrument, has he one such at home?'—

'He? Has to practise on a table-top,

When he can't hire the proper thing.'—'I see!

You 've the piano, he the skill, and God

The distribution of such gifts.' So here:

After your teaching, I shall sit and strum

Polkas on this piano of a Place

You 'd make resound with 'Rule Britannia'!"

"Thanks!I don't say but this pretty cousin's place,Appendaged with your million, tempts my handAs key-board I might touch with some effect."

"Thanks!

I don't say but this pretty cousin's place,

Appendaged with your million, tempts my hand

As key-board I might touch with some effect."

"Then, why not have obtained the like? House, land,Money, are things obtainable, you see,By clever head-work: ask my father else!You, who teach me, why not have learned, yourself?Played like Herr Somebody with power to thumpAnd flourish and the rest, not bend demurePointing out blunders—'Sharp, not natural!Permit me—on the black key use the thumb!'There 's some fatality, I 'm sure! You say'Marry the cousin, that's your proper move!'And I do use the thumb and hit the sharp:You should have listened to your own head's hint,As I to you! The puzzle 's past my power,How you have managed—with such stuff, such means—Not to be rich nor great nor happy man:Of which three good things where 's a sign at all?Just look at Dizzy! Come,—what tripped your heels?Instruct a goose that boasts wings and can't fly!I wager I have guessed it!—never foundThe old solution of the riddle fail!'Who was the woman?' I don't ask, but—'WhereI' the path of life stood she who tripped you?'"

"Then, why not have obtained the like? House, land,

Money, are things obtainable, you see,

By clever head-work: ask my father else!

You, who teach me, why not have learned, yourself?

Played like Herr Somebody with power to thump

And flourish and the rest, not bend demure

Pointing out blunders—'Sharp, not natural!

Permit me—on the black key use the thumb!'

There 's some fatality, I 'm sure! You say

'Marry the cousin, that's your proper move!'

And I do use the thumb and hit the sharp:

You should have listened to your own head's hint,

As I to you! The puzzle 's past my power,

How you have managed—with such stuff, such means—

Not to be rich nor great nor happy man:

Of which three good things where 's a sign at all?

Just look at Dizzy! Come,—what tripped your heels?

Instruct a goose that boasts wings and can't fly!

I wager I have guessed it!—never found

The old solution of the riddle fail!

'Who was the woman?' I don't ask, but—'Where

I' the path of life stood she who tripped you?'"

"GooseYou truly are! I own to fifty years.Why don't I interpose and cut out—you?Compete with five-and-twenty? Age, my boy!"

"Goose

You truly are! I own to fifty years.

Why don't I interpose and cut out—you?

Compete with five-and-twenty? Age, my boy!"

"Old man, no nonsense!—even to a boyThat 's ripe at least for rationalityRapped into him, as maybe mine was, once!I 've had my small adventure lesson meOver the knuckles!—likely, I forgetThe sort of figure youth cuts now and then,Competing with old shoulders but young headDespite the fifty grizzling years!"

"Old man, no nonsense!—even to a boy

That 's ripe at least for rationality

Rapped into him, as maybe mine was, once!

I 've had my small adventure lesson me

Over the knuckles!—likely, I forget

The sort of figure youth cuts now and then,

Competing with old shoulders but young head

Despite the fifty grizzling years!"

"Aha?Then that means—just the bullet in the bladeWhich brought Dalmatia on the brain,—that, too,Came of a fatal creature? Can't pretendNow for the first time to surmise as much!Make a clean breast! Recount! a secret 's safe'Twixt you, me, and the gate-post!"

"Aha?

Then that means—just the bullet in the blade

Which brought Dalmatia on the brain,—that, too,

Came of a fatal creature? Can't pretend

Now for the first time to surmise as much!

Make a clean breast! Recount! a secret 's safe

'Twixt you, me, and the gate-post!"

"—Can't pretend,Neither, to never have surmised your wish!It 's no use,—case of unextracted ball—Winces at finger-touching. Let things be!"

"—Can't pretend,

Neither, to never have surmised your wish!

It 's no use,—case of unextracted ball—

Winces at finger-touching. Let things be!"

"Ah, if you love your love still! I hate mine."

"I can't hate."

"I won't teach you; and won't tellYou, therefore, what you please to ask of me:As if I, also, may not have my ache!"

"I won't teach you; and won't tell

You, therefore, what you please to ask of me:

As if I, also, may not have my ache!"

"My sort of ache? No, no! and yet—perhaps!All comes of thinking you superior still.But live and learn! I say! Time 's up! Good jump!You old, indeed! I fancy there 's a cutAcross the wood, a grass-path: shall we try?It 's venturesome, however!"

"My sort of ache? No, no! and yet—perhaps!

All comes of thinking you superior still.

But live and learn! I say! Time 's up! Good jump!

You old, indeed! I fancy there 's a cut

Across the wood, a grass-path: shall we try?

It 's venturesome, however!"

"Stop, my boy!Don't think I 'm stingy of experience! Life—It 's like this wood we leave. Should you and IGo wandering about there, though the gapsWe went in and came out by were opposedAs the two poles still, somehow, all the sameBy nightfall we should probably have chancedOn much the same main points of interest—Both of us measured girth, of mossy trunk,Stript ivy from its strangled prey, clapped handsAt squirrel, sent a fir-cone after crow,And so forth,—never mind what time betwixt.So in our lives; allow I entered mineAnother way than you: 't is possibleI ended just by knocking head againstThat plaguy low-hung branch yourself beganBy getting bump from; as at last you tooMay stumble o'er that stump which first of allBade me walk circumspectly. Head and feetAre vulnerable both, and I, foot-sure,Forgot that ducking down saves brow from bruise.I, early old, played young man four years sinceAnd failed confoundedly: so, hate alikeFailure and who caused failure,—curse her cant!"

"Stop, my boy!

Don't think I 'm stingy of experience! Life

—It 's like this wood we leave. Should you and I

Go wandering about there, though the gaps

We went in and came out by were opposed

As the two poles still, somehow, all the same

By nightfall we should probably have chanced

On much the same main points of interest—

Both of us measured girth, of mossy trunk,

Stript ivy from its strangled prey, clapped hands

At squirrel, sent a fir-cone after crow,

And so forth,—never mind what time betwixt.

So in our lives; allow I entered mine

Another way than you: 't is possible

I ended just by knocking head against

That plaguy low-hung branch yourself began

By getting bump from; as at last you too

May stumble o'er that stump which first of all

Bade me walk circumspectly. Head and feet

Are vulnerable both, and I, foot-sure,

Forgot that ducking down saves brow from bruise.

I, early old, played young man four years since

And failed confoundedly: so, hate alike

Failure and who caused failure,—curse her cant!"

"Oh, I see! You, though somewhat past the prime,Were taken with a rosebud beauty! Ah—But how should chits distinguish? She admiredYour marvel of a mind, I 'll undertake!But as to body ... nay, I mean ... that is,When years have told on face and figure" ...

"Oh, I see! You, though somewhat past the prime,

Were taken with a rosebud beauty! Ah—

But how should chits distinguish? She admired

Your marvel of a mind, I 'll undertake!

But as to body ... nay, I mean ... that is,

When years have told on face and figure" ...

"Thanks,MisterSufficiently-Instructed!SuchNo doubt was bound to be the consequenceTo suit your self-complacency: she likedMy head enough, but loved some heart beneathSome head with plenty of brown hair a-topAfter my young friend's fashion! What becomesOf that fine speech you made a minute sinceAbout the man of middle age you foundA formidable peer at twenty-one?So much for your mock-modesty! and yetI back your first against this second sproutOf observation, insight, what you please.My middle age, Sir, had too much success!It 's odd: my case occurred four years ago—I finished just while you commenced that turnI' the wood of life that takes us to the wealthOf honeysuckle, heaped for who can reach.Now, I don't boast: it 's bad style, and beside,The feat proves easier than it looks: I pluckedFull many a flower unnamed in that bouquet(Mostly of peonies and poppies, though!)Good-nature sticks into my buttonhole.Therefore it was with nose in want of snuffRather than Ess or Psidium, that I chancedOn what—so far from 'rosebud beauty' ... Well—She 's dead: at least you never heard her name;She was no courtly creature, had nor birthNor breeding—mere fine-lady-breeding; butOh, such a wonder of a woman! GrandAs a Greek statue! Stick fine clothes on that,Style that a Duchess or a Queen,—you know,Artists would make an outcry: all the more,That she had just a statue's sleepy graceWhich broods o'er its own beauty. Nay, her fault(Don't laugh!) was just perfection: for supposeOnly the little flaw, and I had peepedInside it, learned what soul inside was like.At Rome some tourist raised the grit beneathA Venus' forehead with his whittling-knife—I wish—now—I had played that brute, brought bloodTo surface from the depths I fancied chalk!As it was, her mere face surprised so muchThat I stopped short there, struck on heap, as staresThe cockney stranger at a certain bustWith drooped eyes,—she 's the thing I have in mind,—Down at my Brother's. All sufficient prize—Such outside! Now,—confound me for a prig!—Who cares? I 'll make a clean breast once for all!Beside, you 've heard the gossip. My life longI 've been a woman-liker,—liking meansLoving and so on. There 's a lengthy listBy this time I shall have to answer for—So say the good folk: and they don't guess half—For the worst is, let once collecting-itchPossess you, and, with perspicacity,Keeps growing such a greediness that theftFollows at no long distance,—there 's the fact!I knew that on my Leporello-listMight figure this, that, and the other nameOf feminine desirability,But if I happened to desire inscribe,Along with these, the only Beautiful—Here was the unique specimen to snatchOr now or never. 'Beautiful' I said—'Beautiful' say in cold blood,—boiling thenTo tune of 'Haste, secure whatever the costThis rarity, die in the act, be damned,So you complete collection, crown your list!'It seemed as though the whole world, once arousedBy the first notice of such wonder's birth,Would break bounds to contest my prize with meThe first discoverer, should she but emergeFrom that safe den of darkness where she dozedTill I stole in, that country-parsonageWhere, country-parson's daughter, motherless,Brotherless, sisterless, for eighteen yearsShe had been vegetating lily-like.Her father was my brother's tutor, gotThe living that way: him I chanced to see—Her I saw—her the world would grow one eyeTo see, I felt no sort of doubt at all!'Secure her!' cried the devil: 'afterwardArrange for the disposal of the prize!'The devil's doing! yet I seem to think—Now, when all 's done,—think with 'a head reposed'In French phrase—hope I think I meant to doAll requisite for such a rarityWhen I should be at leisure, have due timeTo learn requirement. But in evil day—Bless me, at week's end, long as any year,The father must begin, 'Young Somebody,Much recommended—for I break a rule—Comes here to read, next Long Vacation.'—'Young!'That did it. Had the epithet been 'rich,''Noble,' 'a genius,' even 'handsome,'—but—'Young'!"

"Thanks,

MisterSufficiently-Instructed!Such

No doubt was bound to be the consequence

To suit your self-complacency: she liked

My head enough, but loved some heart beneath

Some head with plenty of brown hair a-top

After my young friend's fashion! What becomes

Of that fine speech you made a minute since

About the man of middle age you found

A formidable peer at twenty-one?

So much for your mock-modesty! and yet

I back your first against this second sprout

Of observation, insight, what you please.

My middle age, Sir, had too much success!

It 's odd: my case occurred four years ago—

I finished just while you commenced that turn

I' the wood of life that takes us to the wealth

Of honeysuckle, heaped for who can reach.

Now, I don't boast: it 's bad style, and beside,

The feat proves easier than it looks: I plucked

Full many a flower unnamed in that bouquet

(Mostly of peonies and poppies, though!)

Good-nature sticks into my buttonhole.

Therefore it was with nose in want of snuff

Rather than Ess or Psidium, that I chanced

On what—so far from 'rosebud beauty' ... Well—

She 's dead: at least you never heard her name;

She was no courtly creature, had nor birth

Nor breeding—mere fine-lady-breeding; but

Oh, such a wonder of a woman! Grand

As a Greek statue! Stick fine clothes on that,

Style that a Duchess or a Queen,—you know,

Artists would make an outcry: all the more,

That she had just a statue's sleepy grace

Which broods o'er its own beauty. Nay, her fault

(Don't laugh!) was just perfection: for suppose

Only the little flaw, and I had peeped

Inside it, learned what soul inside was like.

At Rome some tourist raised the grit beneath

A Venus' forehead with his whittling-knife—

I wish—now—I had played that brute, brought blood

To surface from the depths I fancied chalk!

As it was, her mere face surprised so much

That I stopped short there, struck on heap, as stares

The cockney stranger at a certain bust

With drooped eyes,—she 's the thing I have in mind,—

Down at my Brother's. All sufficient prize—

Such outside! Now,—confound me for a prig!—

Who cares? I 'll make a clean breast once for all!

Beside, you 've heard the gossip. My life long

I 've been a woman-liker,—liking means

Loving and so on. There 's a lengthy list

By this time I shall have to answer for—

So say the good folk: and they don't guess half—

For the worst is, let once collecting-itch

Possess you, and, with perspicacity,

Keeps growing such a greediness that theft

Follows at no long distance,—there 's the fact!

I knew that on my Leporello-list

Might figure this, that, and the other name

Of feminine desirability,

But if I happened to desire inscribe,

Along with these, the only Beautiful—

Here was the unique specimen to snatch

Or now or never. 'Beautiful' I said—

'Beautiful' say in cold blood,—boiling then

To tune of 'Haste, secure whatever the cost

This rarity, die in the act, be damned,

So you complete collection, crown your list!'

It seemed as though the whole world, once aroused

By the first notice of such wonder's birth,

Would break bounds to contest my prize with me

The first discoverer, should she but emerge

From that safe den of darkness where she dozed

Till I stole in, that country-parsonage

Where, country-parson's daughter, motherless,

Brotherless, sisterless, for eighteen years

She had been vegetating lily-like.

Her father was my brother's tutor, got

The living that way: him I chanced to see—

Her I saw—her the world would grow one eye

To see, I felt no sort of doubt at all!

'Secure her!' cried the devil: 'afterward

Arrange for the disposal of the prize!'

The devil's doing! yet I seem to think—

Now, when all 's done,—think with 'a head reposed'

In French phrase—hope I think I meant to do

All requisite for such a rarity

When I should be at leisure, have due time

To learn requirement. But in evil day—

Bless me, at week's end, long as any year,

The father must begin, 'Young Somebody,

Much recommended—for I break a rule—

Comes here to read, next Long Vacation.'—'Young!'

That did it. Had the epithet been 'rich,'

'Noble,' 'a genius,' even 'handsome,'—but

—'Young'!"

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