But there 's another parry for the thrust."Confession," cry folks—"a confession, think!Confession of the moribund is true!"Which of them, my wise friends? This public one,Or the private other we shall never know?The private may contain—your casuists teach—The acknowledgment of, and the penitence for,That other public one, so people say.However it be,—we trench on delicate ground,Her Eminence is peeping o'er the cards,—Can one find nothing in behalf of thisCatastrophe? Deaf folks accuse the dumb!You criticise the drunken reel, fool's-speech,Maniacal gesture of the man,—we grant!But who poured poison in his cup, we ask?Recall the list of his excessive wrongs,First cheated in his wife, robbed by her kin,Rendered anon the laughing-stock o' the worldBy the story, true or false, of his wife's birth,—The last seal publicly apposed to shameBy the open flight of wife and priest,—why, Sirs,Step out of Rome a furlong, would you knowWhat anotherguess tribunal than ours here,Mere worldly Court without the help of grace,Thinks of just that one incident o' the flight?Guido preferred the same complaint beforeThe court at Arezzo, bar of the Granduke,—In virtue of it being TuscanyWhere the offence had rise and flight began,—Selfsame complaint he made in the sequel hereWhere the offence grew to the full, the flightEnded: offence and flight, one fact judged twiceBy two distinct tribunals,—what result?There was a sentence passed at the same timeBy Arezzo and confirmed by the Granduke,Which nothing balks of swift and sure effectBut absence of the guilty, (flight to RomeFrees them from Tuscan jurisdiction now)—Condemns the wife to the opprobrious doomOf all whom law just lets escape from death.The Stinche, House of Punishment, for life,—That's what the wife deserves in Tuscany:Here, she deserves—remitting with a smileTo her father's house, main object of the flight!The thief presented with the thing he steals!At this discrepancy of judgments—mad,The man took on himself the office, judged;And the only argument against the useO' the law he thus took into his own handsIs ... what, I ask you?—that, revenging wrong,He did not revenge sooner, kill at firstWhom he killed last! That is the final charge.Sooner? What's soon or late i' the case?—ask we.A wound i' the flesh no doubt wants prompt redress;It smarts a little to-day, well in a week,Forgotten in a month; or never, or now, revenge!But a wound to the soul? That rankles worse and worse.Shall I comfort you, explaining—"Not this onceBut now it may be some five hundred timesI called you ruffian, pandar, liar and rogue:The injury must be less by lapse of time?"The wrong is a wrong, one and immortal too,And that you bore it those five hundred times,Let it rankle unrevenged five hundred years,Is just five hundred wrongs the more and worse!Men, plagued this fashion, get to explode this way,If left no other."But we left this manMany another way, and there's his fault,"'T is answered—"He himself preferred our armO' the law to fight his battle with. No doubtWe did not open him an armoryTo pick and choose from, use, and then reject.He tries one weapon and fails,—he tries the nextAnd next: he flourishes wit and common sense,They fail him,—he plies logic doughtily,It fails him too,—thereon, discovers lastHe has been blind to the combustibles—That all the while he is aglow with ire,Boiling with irrepressible rage, and soMay try explosives and discard cold steel,—So hires assassins, plots, plans, executes!Is this the honest self-forgetting rageWe are called to pardon? Does the furious bullPick out four help-mates from the grazing herdAnd journey with them over hill and daleTill he find his enemy?"What rejoinder? saveThat friends accept our bull-similitude.Bull-like,—the indiscriminate slaughter, rudeAnd reckless aggravation of revenge,Were all i' the way o' the brute who never onceCeases, amid all provocation more,To bear in mind the first tormentor, firstGiver o' the wound that goaded him to fight:And, though a dozen follow and reinforceThe aggressor, wound in front and wound in flank,Continues undisturbedly pursuit,And only after prostrating his prizeTurns on the pettier, makes a general prey.So Guido rushed against Violante, firstAuthor of all his wrongs,fons et origoMalorum—drops first, deluge since,—which done,He finished with the rest. Do you blame a bull?In truth you look as puzzled as ere I preached!How is that? There are difficulties perhapsOn any supposition, and either side.Each party wants too much, claims sympathyFor its object of compassion, more than just.Cry the wife's friends, "Oh, the enormous crimeCaused by no provocation in the world!""Was not the wife a little weak?"—inquire—"Punished extravagantly, if you please,But meriting a little punishment?One treated inconsiderately, say,Rather than one deserving not at allTreatment and discipline o' the harsher sort?"No, they must have her purity itself,Quite angel,—and her parents angels tooOf an aged sort, immaculate, word and deed:At all events, so seeming, till the fiend,Even Guido, by his folly, forced from themThe untoward avowal of the trick o' the birth,Which otherwise were safe and secret now.Why, here you have the awfullest of crimesFor nothing! Hell broke loose on a butterfly!A dragon born of rose-dew and the moon!Yet here is the monster! Why he's a mere man—Born, bred and brought up in the usual way,His mother loves him, still his brothers stickTo the good fellow of the boyish games;The Governor of his town knows and approves,The Archbishop of the place knows and assists:Here he has Cardinal This to vouch for the past,Cardinal That to trust for the future,—matchAnd marriage were a Cardinal's making,—in short,What if a tragedy be acted hereImpossible for malice to improve,And innocent Guido with his innocent fourBe added, all five, to the guilty three,That we of these last days be edifiedWith one full taste o' the justice of the world?The long and the short is, truth seems what I show:—Undoubtedly no pains ought to be sparedTo give the mob an inkling of our lights.It seems unduly harsh to put the manTo the torture, as I hear the court intends,Though readiest way of twisting out the truth;He is noble, and he may be innocent.On the other hand, if they exempt the man(As it is also said they hesitateOn the fair ground, presumptive guilt is weakI' the case of nobility and privilege),—What crime that ever was, ever will be,Deserves the torture? Then abolish it!You see the reductionad absurdum, Sirs?Her Excellency must pronounce, in fine!What, she prefers going and joining play?Her Highness finds it late, intends retire?I am of their mind: only, all this talk talked,'T was not for nothing that we talked, I hope?Both know as much about it, now, at least,As all Rome: no particular thanks, I beg!(You'll see, I have not so advanced myself,After my teaching the two idiots here!)
But there 's another parry for the thrust."Confession," cry folks—"a confession, think!Confession of the moribund is true!"Which of them, my wise friends? This public one,Or the private other we shall never know?The private may contain—your casuists teach—The acknowledgment of, and the penitence for,That other public one, so people say.However it be,—we trench on delicate ground,Her Eminence is peeping o'er the cards,—Can one find nothing in behalf of thisCatastrophe? Deaf folks accuse the dumb!You criticise the drunken reel, fool's-speech,Maniacal gesture of the man,—we grant!But who poured poison in his cup, we ask?Recall the list of his excessive wrongs,First cheated in his wife, robbed by her kin,Rendered anon the laughing-stock o' the worldBy the story, true or false, of his wife's birth,—The last seal publicly apposed to shameBy the open flight of wife and priest,—why, Sirs,Step out of Rome a furlong, would you knowWhat anotherguess tribunal than ours here,Mere worldly Court without the help of grace,Thinks of just that one incident o' the flight?Guido preferred the same complaint beforeThe court at Arezzo, bar of the Granduke,—In virtue of it being TuscanyWhere the offence had rise and flight began,—Selfsame complaint he made in the sequel hereWhere the offence grew to the full, the flightEnded: offence and flight, one fact judged twiceBy two distinct tribunals,—what result?There was a sentence passed at the same timeBy Arezzo and confirmed by the Granduke,Which nothing balks of swift and sure effectBut absence of the guilty, (flight to RomeFrees them from Tuscan jurisdiction now)—Condemns the wife to the opprobrious doomOf all whom law just lets escape from death.The Stinche, House of Punishment, for life,—That's what the wife deserves in Tuscany:Here, she deserves—remitting with a smileTo her father's house, main object of the flight!The thief presented with the thing he steals!At this discrepancy of judgments—mad,The man took on himself the office, judged;And the only argument against the useO' the law he thus took into his own handsIs ... what, I ask you?—that, revenging wrong,He did not revenge sooner, kill at firstWhom he killed last! That is the final charge.Sooner? What's soon or late i' the case?—ask we.A wound i' the flesh no doubt wants prompt redress;It smarts a little to-day, well in a week,Forgotten in a month; or never, or now, revenge!But a wound to the soul? That rankles worse and worse.Shall I comfort you, explaining—"Not this onceBut now it may be some five hundred timesI called you ruffian, pandar, liar and rogue:The injury must be less by lapse of time?"The wrong is a wrong, one and immortal too,And that you bore it those five hundred times,Let it rankle unrevenged five hundred years,Is just five hundred wrongs the more and worse!Men, plagued this fashion, get to explode this way,If left no other."But we left this manMany another way, and there's his fault,"'T is answered—"He himself preferred our armO' the law to fight his battle with. No doubtWe did not open him an armoryTo pick and choose from, use, and then reject.He tries one weapon and fails,—he tries the nextAnd next: he flourishes wit and common sense,They fail him,—he plies logic doughtily,It fails him too,—thereon, discovers lastHe has been blind to the combustibles—That all the while he is aglow with ire,Boiling with irrepressible rage, and soMay try explosives and discard cold steel,—So hires assassins, plots, plans, executes!Is this the honest self-forgetting rageWe are called to pardon? Does the furious bullPick out four help-mates from the grazing herdAnd journey with them over hill and daleTill he find his enemy?"What rejoinder? saveThat friends accept our bull-similitude.Bull-like,—the indiscriminate slaughter, rudeAnd reckless aggravation of revenge,Were all i' the way o' the brute who never onceCeases, amid all provocation more,To bear in mind the first tormentor, firstGiver o' the wound that goaded him to fight:And, though a dozen follow and reinforceThe aggressor, wound in front and wound in flank,Continues undisturbedly pursuit,And only after prostrating his prizeTurns on the pettier, makes a general prey.So Guido rushed against Violante, firstAuthor of all his wrongs,fons et origoMalorum—drops first, deluge since,—which done,He finished with the rest. Do you blame a bull?In truth you look as puzzled as ere I preached!How is that? There are difficulties perhapsOn any supposition, and either side.Each party wants too much, claims sympathyFor its object of compassion, more than just.Cry the wife's friends, "Oh, the enormous crimeCaused by no provocation in the world!""Was not the wife a little weak?"—inquire—"Punished extravagantly, if you please,But meriting a little punishment?One treated inconsiderately, say,Rather than one deserving not at allTreatment and discipline o' the harsher sort?"No, they must have her purity itself,Quite angel,—and her parents angels tooOf an aged sort, immaculate, word and deed:At all events, so seeming, till the fiend,Even Guido, by his folly, forced from themThe untoward avowal of the trick o' the birth,Which otherwise were safe and secret now.Why, here you have the awfullest of crimesFor nothing! Hell broke loose on a butterfly!A dragon born of rose-dew and the moon!Yet here is the monster! Why he's a mere man—Born, bred and brought up in the usual way,His mother loves him, still his brothers stickTo the good fellow of the boyish games;The Governor of his town knows and approves,The Archbishop of the place knows and assists:Here he has Cardinal This to vouch for the past,Cardinal That to trust for the future,—matchAnd marriage were a Cardinal's making,—in short,What if a tragedy be acted hereImpossible for malice to improve,And innocent Guido with his innocent fourBe added, all five, to the guilty three,That we of these last days be edifiedWith one full taste o' the justice of the world?The long and the short is, truth seems what I show:—Undoubtedly no pains ought to be sparedTo give the mob an inkling of our lights.It seems unduly harsh to put the manTo the torture, as I hear the court intends,Though readiest way of twisting out the truth;He is noble, and he may be innocent.On the other hand, if they exempt the man(As it is also said they hesitateOn the fair ground, presumptive guilt is weakI' the case of nobility and privilege),—What crime that ever was, ever will be,Deserves the torture? Then abolish it!You see the reductionad absurdum, Sirs?Her Excellency must pronounce, in fine!What, she prefers going and joining play?Her Highness finds it late, intends retire?I am of their mind: only, all this talk talked,'T was not for nothing that we talked, I hope?Both know as much about it, now, at least,As all Rome: no particular thanks, I beg!(You'll see, I have not so advanced myself,After my teaching the two idiots here!)
But there 's another parry for the thrust."Confession," cry folks—"a confession, think!Confession of the moribund is true!"Which of them, my wise friends? This public one,Or the private other we shall never know?The private may contain—your casuists teach—The acknowledgment of, and the penitence for,That other public one, so people say.However it be,—we trench on delicate ground,Her Eminence is peeping o'er the cards,—Can one find nothing in behalf of thisCatastrophe? Deaf folks accuse the dumb!You criticise the drunken reel, fool's-speech,Maniacal gesture of the man,—we grant!But who poured poison in his cup, we ask?Recall the list of his excessive wrongs,First cheated in his wife, robbed by her kin,Rendered anon the laughing-stock o' the worldBy the story, true or false, of his wife's birth,—The last seal publicly apposed to shameBy the open flight of wife and priest,—why, Sirs,Step out of Rome a furlong, would you knowWhat anotherguess tribunal than ours here,Mere worldly Court without the help of grace,Thinks of just that one incident o' the flight?Guido preferred the same complaint beforeThe court at Arezzo, bar of the Granduke,—In virtue of it being TuscanyWhere the offence had rise and flight began,—Selfsame complaint he made in the sequel hereWhere the offence grew to the full, the flightEnded: offence and flight, one fact judged twiceBy two distinct tribunals,—what result?There was a sentence passed at the same timeBy Arezzo and confirmed by the Granduke,Which nothing balks of swift and sure effectBut absence of the guilty, (flight to RomeFrees them from Tuscan jurisdiction now)—Condemns the wife to the opprobrious doomOf all whom law just lets escape from death.The Stinche, House of Punishment, for life,—That's what the wife deserves in Tuscany:Here, she deserves—remitting with a smileTo her father's house, main object of the flight!The thief presented with the thing he steals!
But there 's another parry for the thrust.
"Confession," cry folks—"a confession, think!
Confession of the moribund is true!"
Which of them, my wise friends? This public one,
Or the private other we shall never know?
The private may contain—your casuists teach—
The acknowledgment of, and the penitence for,
That other public one, so people say.
However it be,—we trench on delicate ground,
Her Eminence is peeping o'er the cards,—
Can one find nothing in behalf of this
Catastrophe? Deaf folks accuse the dumb!
You criticise the drunken reel, fool's-speech,
Maniacal gesture of the man,—we grant!
But who poured poison in his cup, we ask?
Recall the list of his excessive wrongs,
First cheated in his wife, robbed by her kin,
Rendered anon the laughing-stock o' the world
By the story, true or false, of his wife's birth,—
The last seal publicly apposed to shame
By the open flight of wife and priest,—why, Sirs,
Step out of Rome a furlong, would you know
What anotherguess tribunal than ours here,
Mere worldly Court without the help of grace,
Thinks of just that one incident o' the flight?
Guido preferred the same complaint before
The court at Arezzo, bar of the Granduke,—
In virtue of it being Tuscany
Where the offence had rise and flight began,—
Selfsame complaint he made in the sequel here
Where the offence grew to the full, the flight
Ended: offence and flight, one fact judged twice
By two distinct tribunals,—what result?
There was a sentence passed at the same time
By Arezzo and confirmed by the Granduke,
Which nothing balks of swift and sure effect
But absence of the guilty, (flight to Rome
Frees them from Tuscan jurisdiction now)
—Condemns the wife to the opprobrious doom
Of all whom law just lets escape from death.
The Stinche, House of Punishment, for life,—
That's what the wife deserves in Tuscany:
Here, she deserves—remitting with a smile
To her father's house, main object of the flight!
The thief presented with the thing he steals!
At this discrepancy of judgments—mad,The man took on himself the office, judged;And the only argument against the useO' the law he thus took into his own handsIs ... what, I ask you?—that, revenging wrong,He did not revenge sooner, kill at firstWhom he killed last! That is the final charge.Sooner? What's soon or late i' the case?—ask we.A wound i' the flesh no doubt wants prompt redress;It smarts a little to-day, well in a week,Forgotten in a month; or never, or now, revenge!But a wound to the soul? That rankles worse and worse.Shall I comfort you, explaining—"Not this onceBut now it may be some five hundred timesI called you ruffian, pandar, liar and rogue:The injury must be less by lapse of time?"The wrong is a wrong, one and immortal too,And that you bore it those five hundred times,Let it rankle unrevenged five hundred years,Is just five hundred wrongs the more and worse!Men, plagued this fashion, get to explode this way,If left no other.
At this discrepancy of judgments—mad,
The man took on himself the office, judged;
And the only argument against the use
O' the law he thus took into his own hands
Is ... what, I ask you?—that, revenging wrong,
He did not revenge sooner, kill at first
Whom he killed last! That is the final charge.
Sooner? What's soon or late i' the case?—ask we.
A wound i' the flesh no doubt wants prompt redress;
It smarts a little to-day, well in a week,
Forgotten in a month; or never, or now, revenge!
But a wound to the soul? That rankles worse and worse.
Shall I comfort you, explaining—"Not this once
But now it may be some five hundred times
I called you ruffian, pandar, liar and rogue:
The injury must be less by lapse of time?"
The wrong is a wrong, one and immortal too,
And that you bore it those five hundred times,
Let it rankle unrevenged five hundred years,
Is just five hundred wrongs the more and worse!
Men, plagued this fashion, get to explode this way,
If left no other.
"But we left this manMany another way, and there's his fault,"'T is answered—"He himself preferred our armO' the law to fight his battle with. No doubtWe did not open him an armoryTo pick and choose from, use, and then reject.He tries one weapon and fails,—he tries the nextAnd next: he flourishes wit and common sense,They fail him,—he plies logic doughtily,It fails him too,—thereon, discovers lastHe has been blind to the combustibles—That all the while he is aglow with ire,Boiling with irrepressible rage, and soMay try explosives and discard cold steel,—So hires assassins, plots, plans, executes!Is this the honest self-forgetting rageWe are called to pardon? Does the furious bullPick out four help-mates from the grazing herdAnd journey with them over hill and daleTill he find his enemy?"
"But we left this man
Many another way, and there's his fault,"
'T is answered—"He himself preferred our arm
O' the law to fight his battle with. No doubt
We did not open him an armory
To pick and choose from, use, and then reject.
He tries one weapon and fails,—he tries the next
And next: he flourishes wit and common sense,
They fail him,—he plies logic doughtily,
It fails him too,—thereon, discovers last
He has been blind to the combustibles—
That all the while he is aglow with ire,
Boiling with irrepressible rage, and so
May try explosives and discard cold steel,—
So hires assassins, plots, plans, executes!
Is this the honest self-forgetting rage
We are called to pardon? Does the furious bull
Pick out four help-mates from the grazing herd
And journey with them over hill and dale
Till he find his enemy?"
What rejoinder? saveThat friends accept our bull-similitude.Bull-like,—the indiscriminate slaughter, rudeAnd reckless aggravation of revenge,Were all i' the way o' the brute who never onceCeases, amid all provocation more,To bear in mind the first tormentor, firstGiver o' the wound that goaded him to fight:And, though a dozen follow and reinforceThe aggressor, wound in front and wound in flank,Continues undisturbedly pursuit,And only after prostrating his prizeTurns on the pettier, makes a general prey.So Guido rushed against Violante, firstAuthor of all his wrongs,fons et origoMalorum—drops first, deluge since,—which done,He finished with the rest. Do you blame a bull?
What rejoinder? save
That friends accept our bull-similitude.
Bull-like,—the indiscriminate slaughter, rude
And reckless aggravation of revenge,
Were all i' the way o' the brute who never once
Ceases, amid all provocation more,
To bear in mind the first tormentor, first
Giver o' the wound that goaded him to fight:
And, though a dozen follow and reinforce
The aggressor, wound in front and wound in flank,
Continues undisturbedly pursuit,
And only after prostrating his prize
Turns on the pettier, makes a general prey.
So Guido rushed against Violante, first
Author of all his wrongs,fons et origo
Malorum—drops first, deluge since,—which done,
He finished with the rest. Do you blame a bull?
In truth you look as puzzled as ere I preached!How is that? There are difficulties perhapsOn any supposition, and either side.Each party wants too much, claims sympathyFor its object of compassion, more than just.Cry the wife's friends, "Oh, the enormous crimeCaused by no provocation in the world!""Was not the wife a little weak?"—inquire—"Punished extravagantly, if you please,But meriting a little punishment?One treated inconsiderately, say,Rather than one deserving not at allTreatment and discipline o' the harsher sort?"No, they must have her purity itself,Quite angel,—and her parents angels tooOf an aged sort, immaculate, word and deed:At all events, so seeming, till the fiend,Even Guido, by his folly, forced from themThe untoward avowal of the trick o' the birth,Which otherwise were safe and secret now.Why, here you have the awfullest of crimesFor nothing! Hell broke loose on a butterfly!A dragon born of rose-dew and the moon!Yet here is the monster! Why he's a mere man—Born, bred and brought up in the usual way,His mother loves him, still his brothers stickTo the good fellow of the boyish games;The Governor of his town knows and approves,The Archbishop of the place knows and assists:Here he has Cardinal This to vouch for the past,Cardinal That to trust for the future,—matchAnd marriage were a Cardinal's making,—in short,What if a tragedy be acted hereImpossible for malice to improve,And innocent Guido with his innocent fourBe added, all five, to the guilty three,That we of these last days be edifiedWith one full taste o' the justice of the world?
In truth you look as puzzled as ere I preached!
How is that? There are difficulties perhaps
On any supposition, and either side.
Each party wants too much, claims sympathy
For its object of compassion, more than just.
Cry the wife's friends, "Oh, the enormous crime
Caused by no provocation in the world!"
"Was not the wife a little weak?"—inquire—
"Punished extravagantly, if you please,
But meriting a little punishment?
One treated inconsiderately, say,
Rather than one deserving not at all
Treatment and discipline o' the harsher sort?"
No, they must have her purity itself,
Quite angel,—and her parents angels too
Of an aged sort, immaculate, word and deed:
At all events, so seeming, till the fiend,
Even Guido, by his folly, forced from them
The untoward avowal of the trick o' the birth,
Which otherwise were safe and secret now.
Why, here you have the awfullest of crimes
For nothing! Hell broke loose on a butterfly!
A dragon born of rose-dew and the moon!
Yet here is the monster! Why he's a mere man—
Born, bred and brought up in the usual way,
His mother loves him, still his brothers stick
To the good fellow of the boyish games;
The Governor of his town knows and approves,
The Archbishop of the place knows and assists:
Here he has Cardinal This to vouch for the past,
Cardinal That to trust for the future,—match
And marriage were a Cardinal's making,—in short,
What if a tragedy be acted here
Impossible for malice to improve,
And innocent Guido with his innocent four
Be added, all five, to the guilty three,
That we of these last days be edified
With one full taste o' the justice of the world?
The long and the short is, truth seems what I show:—Undoubtedly no pains ought to be sparedTo give the mob an inkling of our lights.It seems unduly harsh to put the manTo the torture, as I hear the court intends,Though readiest way of twisting out the truth;He is noble, and he may be innocent.On the other hand, if they exempt the man(As it is also said they hesitateOn the fair ground, presumptive guilt is weakI' the case of nobility and privilege),—What crime that ever was, ever will be,Deserves the torture? Then abolish it!You see the reductionad absurdum, Sirs?
The long and the short is, truth seems what I show:—
Undoubtedly no pains ought to be spared
To give the mob an inkling of our lights.
It seems unduly harsh to put the man
To the torture, as I hear the court intends,
Though readiest way of twisting out the truth;
He is noble, and he may be innocent.
On the other hand, if they exempt the man
(As it is also said they hesitate
On the fair ground, presumptive guilt is weak
I' the case of nobility and privilege),—
What crime that ever was, ever will be,
Deserves the torture? Then abolish it!
You see the reductionad absurdum, Sirs?
Her Excellency must pronounce, in fine!What, she prefers going and joining play?Her Highness finds it late, intends retire?I am of their mind: only, all this talk talked,'T was not for nothing that we talked, I hope?Both know as much about it, now, at least,As all Rome: no particular thanks, I beg!(You'll see, I have not so advanced myself,After my teaching the two idiots here!)
Her Excellency must pronounce, in fine!
What, she prefers going and joining play?
Her Highness finds it late, intends retire?
I am of their mind: only, all this talk talked,
'T was not for nothing that we talked, I hope?
Both know as much about it, now, at least,
As all Rome: no particular thanks, I beg!
(You'll see, I have not so advanced myself,
After my teaching the two idiots here!)