Chapter 89

Ah, Nature—baffled she recurs, alas!Nature imperiously exacts her due,Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak:Pompilia needs must acquiesce and swoon,Give hopes alike and fears a breathing-while.The innocent sleep soundly: sound she sleeps,So let her slumber, then, unguarded saveBy her own chastity, a triple mail,And his good hand whose stalwart arms have borneThe sweet and senseless burden like a babeFrom coach to couch,—the serviceable strength!Nay, what and if he gazed rewardedlyOn the pale beauty prisoned in embrace,Stooped over, stole a balmy breath perhapsFor more assurance sleep was not decease—"Ut vidi," "how I saw!" succeeded by"Ut perii," "how I sudden lost my brains!"—What harm ensued to her unconscious quite?For, curiosity—how natural!Importunateness—what a privilegeIn the ardent sex! And why curb ardor here?How can the priest but pity whom he saved?And pity is so near to love, and loveSo neighborly to all unreasonableness!As to love's object, whether love were sageOr foolish, could Pompilia know or care,Being still sound asleep, as I premised?Thus the philosopher absorbed by thought,Even Archimedes, busy o'er a bookThe while besiegers sacked his Syracuse,Was ignorant of the imminence o' the pointO' the sword till it surprised him: let it stab,And never knew himself was dead at all.So sleep thou on, secure whate'er betide!For thou, too, hast thy problem hard to solve—How so much beauty is compatibleWith so much innocence!Fit place, methinks,While in this task she rosily is lost,To treat of and repel objection hereWhich,—frivolous, I grant,—my mind misgives,May somehow still have flitted, gadfly-like,And teased the Court at times—as if, all saidAnd done, there seemed, the Court might nearly say,In a certain acceptation, somewhat moreOf what may pass for insincerity,Falsehood, throughout the course Pompilia took,Than befits Christian. Pagans held, we know,Man always ought to aim at good and truth,Not always put one thing in the same words:Non idem semper dicere sed spectareDebemus.But the Pagan yoke was light;"Lie not at all," the exacter precept bids:Each least lie breaks the law,—is sin, we hold.I humble me, but venture to submit—What prevents sin, itself is sinless, sure:And sin, which hinders sin of deeper dye,Softens itself away by contrast so.Conceive me! Little sin, by none at all,Were properly condemned for great: but great,By greater, dwindles into small again.Now, what is greatest sin of womanhood?That which unwomans it, abolishesThe nature of the woman,—impudence.Who contradicts me here? Concede me, then,Whatever friendly fault may interposeTo save the sex from self-abolishmentIs three-parts on the way to virtue's rank!And, what is taxed here as duplicity,Feint, wile, and trick,—admitted for the nonce,—What worse do one and all than interpose,Hold, as it were, a deprecating hand,Statuesquely, in the Medicean mode,Before some shame which modesty would veil?Who blames the gesture prettily perverse?Thus,—lest ye miss a point illustrative,—Admit the husband's calumny—allowThat the wife, having penned the epistle fraughtWith horrors, charge on charge of crime she heapedO' the head of Pietro and Violante—(stillPresumed her parents)—having dispatched the sameTo their arch-enemy Paolo, through free choiceAnd no sort of compulsion in the world—Put case she next discards simplicityFor craft, denies the voluntary act,Declares herself a passive instrumentI' the husband's hands; that, duped by knavery,She traced the characters she could not write,And took on trust the unread sense which, read,And recognized were to be spurned at once:Allow this calumny, I reiterate!Who is so dull as wonder at the poseOf our Pompilia in the circumstance?Who sees not that the too-ingenuous soul,Repugnant even at a duty doneWhich brought beneath too scrutinizing glareThe misdemeanors,—buried in the dark,—Of the authors of her being, was believed,—Stung to the quick at her impulsive deed,And willing to repair what harm it worked,She—wise in this beyond what Nero proved,Who, when folk urged the candid juvenileTo sign the warrant, doom the guilty dead,"Would I had never learned to write!" quoth he!—Pompilia rose above the Roman, cried,"To read or write I never learned at all!"O splendidly mendacious!But time fleets:Let us not linger: hurry to the end,Since flight does end, and that disastrously.Beware ye blame desert for unsuccess,Disparage each expedient else to praise,Call failure folly! Man's best effort fails.After ten years' resistance Troy succumbed:Could valor save a town, Troy still had stood.Pompilia came off halting in no pointOf courage, conduct, her long journey through:But nature sank exhausted at the close,And, as I said, she swooned and slept all night.Morn breaks and brings the husband: we assistAt the spectacle. Discovery succeeds.Ha, how is this? What moonstruck rage is here?Though we confess to partial frailty now,To error in a woman and a wife,Is 't by the rough way she shall be reclaimed?Who bursts upon her chambered privacy?What crowd profanes the chastecubiculum?What outcries and lewd laughter, scurril gibeAnd ribald jest to scare the ministrantGood angels that commerce with souls in sleep?Why, had the worst crowned Guido to his wish,Confirmed his most irrational surmise,Yet there be bounds to man's emotion, checksTo an immoderate astonishment.'T is decent horror, regulated wrath,Befit our dispensation: have we backThe old Pagan license? Shall a Vulcan clapHis net o' the sudden and expose the pairTo the unquenchable universal mirth?A feat, antiquity saw scandal inSo clearly, that the nauseous tale thereof—Demodocus his nugatory song—Hath ever been concluded modern stuffImpossible to the mouth of the grave Muse,So, foisted into that Eighth OdysseyBy some impertinent pickthank. O thou fool,Count Guido Franceschini, what didst gainBy publishing thy secret to the world?Were all the precepts of the wise a waste—Bred in thee not one touch of reverence?Admit thy wife—admonish we the fool—Were falseness' self, why chronicle thy shame?Much rather should thy teeth bite out thy tongue,Dumb lip consort with desecrated brow,Silence become historiographer,And thou—thine own Cornelius Tacitus!But virtue, barred, still leaps the barrier, lords!—Still, moon-like, penetrates the encroaching mistAnd bursts, all broad and bare, on night, ye know!Surprised, then, in the garb of truth, perhaps,Pompilia, thus opposed, breaks obstacle,Springs to her feet, and stands Thalassian-pure,Confronts the foe,—nay, catches at his swordAnd tries to kill the intruder, he complains.Why, so she gave her lord his lesson back,Crowned him, this time, the virtuous woman's way,With an exact obedience; he brought sword,She drew the same, since swords are meant to draw.Tell not me 't is sharp play with tools on edge!It was the husband chose the weapon hereWhy did not he inaugurate the gameWith some gentility of apophthegmStill pregnant on the philosophic page,Some captivating cadence still a-lispO' the poet's lyre? Such spells subdue the surge,Make tame the tempest, much more mitigateThe passions of the mind, and probablyHad moved Pompilia to a smiling blush.No, he must needs prefer the argumentO' the blow: and she obeyed, in duty bound,Returned him buffet ratiocinative—Ay, in the reasoner's own interest,For wife must follow whither husband leads,Vindicate honor as himself prescribes,Save him the very way himself bids save!No question but who jumps into a quagShould stretch forth hand and pray us "Pull me outBy the hand!" such were the customary cry:But Guido pleased to bid "Leave hand alone!Join both feet, rather, jump upon my head:I extricate myself by the rebound!"And dutifully as enjoined she jumped—Drew his own sword and menaced his own life,Anything to content a wilful spouse.And so he was contented—one must doJustice to the expedient which succeeds,Strange as it seem: at flourish of the blade,The crowd drew back, stood breathless and abashed,Then murmured, "This should be no wanton wife,No conscience-stricken sinner, caught i' the act,And patiently awaiting our first stone:But a poor hard-pressed all-bewildered thing,Has rushed so far, misguidedly perhaps,Meaning no more harm than a frightened sheep.She sought for aid; and if she made mistakeI' the man could aid most, why—so mortals do:Even the blessed Magdalen mistookFar less forgivably: consult the place—Supposing him to be the gardener,'Sir,' said she, and so following." Why more words?Forthwith the wife is pronounced innocent:What would the husband more than gain his cause,And find that honor flash in the world's eye.His apprehension was lest soil had smirched?So, happily the adventure comes to closeWhereon my fat opponent grounds his chargePreposterous: at mid-day he groans "How dark!"Listen to me, thou Archangelic swine!Where is the ambiguity to blame,The flaw to find in our Pompilia? SafeShe stands, see! Does thy comment follow quick,"Safe, inasmuch as at the end proposed;But thither she picked way by devious path—Stands dirtied, no dubiety at all!I recognize success, yet, all the same,Importunately will suggestion prompt—Better Pompilia gained the right to boast,'No devious path, no doubtful patch was mine,I saved my head nor sacrificed my foot!'Why, being in a peril, show mistrustOf the angels set to guard the innocent?Why rather hold by obvious vulgar helpOf stratagem and subterfuge, excusedSomewhat, but still no less a foil, a fault,Since low with high, and good with bad is linked?Methinks I view some ancient bas-relief.There stands Hesione thrust out by Troy,Her father's hand has chained her to a crag,Her mother's from the virgin plucked the vest,At a safe distance both distressful watch,While near and nearer comes the snorting orc.I look that, white and perfect to the end,She wait till Jove dispatch some demigod;Not that,—impatient of celestial clubAlcmena's son should brandish at the beast,—She daub, disguise her dainty limbs with pitch,And so elude the purblind monster! Ay,The trick succeeds, but 't is an ugly trick,Where needs have been no trick!"My answer? Faugh!Nimis incongrue!Too absurdly put!Sententiam ego teneo contrariam,Trick, I maintain, had no alternative.The heavens were bound with brass,—Jove far at feast(No feast like that thou didst not ask me to,Arcangeli,—I heard of thy regale!)With the unblamed Æthiop,—Hercules spun woolI' the lap of Omphale, while Virtue shrieked—The brute came paddling all the faster. YouOf Troy, who stood at distance, where 's the aidYou offered in the extremity? Most and least,Gentle and simple, here the Governor,There the Archbishop, everywhere the friends,Shook heads and waited for a miracle,Or went their way, left Virtue to her fate.Just this one rough and ready man leapt forth!—Was found, sole anti-Fabius (dare I say)Who restored things, with no delay at all,Qui haud cunctando rem restituit!He,He only, Caponsacchi 'mid a crowd,Caught Virtue up, carried Pompilia offThrough gaping impotence of sympathyIn ranged Arezzo: what you take for pitchIs nothing worse, belike, than black and blue,Mere evanescent proof that hardy handsDid yeoman's service, cared not where the gripeWas more than duly energetic: bruised,She smarts a little, but her bones are savedA fracture, and her skin will soon show sleek.How it disgusts when weakness, false-refined,Censures the honest rude effective strength,—When sickly dreamers of the impossibleDecry plain sturdiness which does the featWith eyes wide open!Did occasion serve,I could illustrate, if my lords allow;Quid vetat, what forbids I aptly askWith Horace, that I give my anger vent,While I let breathe, no less, and recreate,The gravity of my Judges, by a tale?A case in point—what though an apologueGraced by tradition?—possibly a fact:Tradition must precede all scripture, wordsServe as our warrant ere our books can be:So, to tradition back we needs must goFor any fact's authority: and thisHath lived so far (like jewel hid in muck)On page of that old lying vanityCalled "Sepher Toldoth Yeschu:" God be praised,I read no Hebrew,—take the thing on trust:But I believe the writer meant no good(Blind as he was to truth in some respects)To our pestiferous and schismatic ... well,My lords' conjecture be the touchstone, showThe thing for what it is! The author lacksDiscretion, and his zeal exceeds: but zeal,—How rare in our degenerate day! Enough!Here is the story: fear not, I shall chopAnd change a little, else my Jew would pressAll too unmannerly before the Court.It happened once,—begins this foolish Jew,Pretending to write Christian history,—That three, held greatest, best and worst of men,Peter and John and Judas, spent a dayIn toil and travel through the country-sideOn some sufficient business—I suspect,Suppression of some Molinism i' the bud.Foot-sore and hungry, dropping with fatigue,They reached by nightfall a poor lonely grange,Hostel or inn: so, knocked and entered there."Your pleasure, great ones?"—"Shelter, rest and food!"For shelter, there was one bare room above;For rest therein, three beds of bundled straw:For food, one wretched starveling fowl, no more—Meat for one mouth, but mockery for three."You have my utmost." How should supper serve?Peter broke silence: "To the spit with fowl!And while 't is cooking, sleep!—since beds there be,And, so far, satisfaction of a want.Sleep we an hour, awake at supper-time,Then each of us narrate the dream he had,And he whose dream shall prove the happiest, pointThe clearliest out the dreamer as ordainedBeyond his fellows to receive the fowl,Him let our shares be cheerful tribute to,His the entire meal, may it do him good!"Who could dispute so plain a consequence?So said, so done: each hurried to his straw,Slept his hour's-sleep and dreamed his dream, and woke."I," commenced John, "dreamed that I gained the prizeWe all aspire to: the proud place was mine,Throughout the earth and to the end of timeI was the Loved Disciple: mine the meal!""But I," proceeded Peter, "dreamed, a wordGave me the headship of our company,Made me the Vicar and Vice-gerent, gaveThe keys of heaven and hell into my hand,And o'er the earth, dominion: mine the meal!""While I," submitted in soft under-toneThe Iscariot—sense of his unworthinessTurning each eye up to the inmost white—With long-drawn sigh, yet letting both lips smack,"I have had just the pitifullest dreamThat ever proved man meanest of his mates,And born foot-washer and foot-wiper, nayFoot-kisser to each comrade of you all!I dreamed I dreamed; and in that mimic dream(Impalpable to dream as dream to fact)Methought I meanly chose to sleep no winkBut wait until I heard my brethren snore;Then stole from couch, slipped noiseless o'er the planks,Slid downstairs, furtively approached the hearth,Found the fowl duly brown, both back and breast,Hissing in harmony with the cricket's chirp,Grilled to a point; said no grace, but fell to,Nor finished till the skeleton lay bare.In penitence for which ignoble dream,Lo, I renounce my portion cheerfully!Fie on the flesh—be mine the ethereal gust,And yours the sublunary sustenance!See that whate'er be left ye give the poor!"Down the two scuttled, one on other's heel,Stung by a fell surmise; and found, alack,A goodly savor, both the drumstick bones,And that which henceforth took the appropriate nameO' the Merry-thought, in memory of the factThat to keep wide awake is man's best dream.So,—as was said once of ThucydidesAnd his sole joke, "The lion, lo, hath laughed!"—Just so, the Governor and all that 's greatI' the city never meant that InnocenceShould quite starve while Authority sat at meat;They meant to fling a bone at banquet's end:Wished well to our Pompilia—in their dreams,Nor bore the secular sword in vain—asleep.Just so the Archbishop and all good like himWent to bed meaning to pour oil and wineI' the wounds of her, next day,—but long ere day,They had burned the one and drunk the other, whileJust so, again, contrariwise, the priestSustained poor Nature in extremityBy stuffing barley-bread into her mouth,Saving Pompilia (grant the parallel)By the plain homely and straightforward wayTaught him by common sense. Let others shriek"Oh what refined expedients did we dreamProved us the only fit to help the fair!"He cried, "A carriage waits, jump in with me!"And now, this application pardoned, lords,—This recreative pause and breathing-while,—Back to beseemingness and gravity!For Law steps in: Guido appeals to Law,Demands she arbitrate,—does well for once.O Law, of thee how neatly was it saidBy that old Sophocles, thou hast thy seatI' the very breast of Jove, no meanlier throned!Here is a piece of work now, hithertoBegun and carried on, concluded near,Without an eye-glance cast thy sceptre's way;And, lo, the stumbling and discomfiture!Well may you call them "lawless" means, men takeTo extricate themselves through mother-witWhen tangled haply in the toils of life!Guido would try conclusions with his foe,Whoe'er the foe was and whate'er the offence;He would recover certain dowry-dues:Instead of asking Law to lend a hand,What pother of sword drawn and pistol cocked,What peddling with forged letters and paid spies,Politic circumvention!—all to endAs it began—by loss of the fool's head,First in a figure, presently in a fact.It is a lesson to mankind at large.How other were the end, would men be sageAnd bear confidingly each quarrel straight,O Law, to thy recipient mother-knees!How would the children light come and prompt go,This, with a red-cheeked apple for reward,The other, peradventure red-cheeked tooI' the rear, by taste of birch for punishment.No foolish brawling murder any more!Peace for the household, practice for the Fisc,And plenty for the exchequer of my lords!Too much to hope, in this world: in the next,Who knows? Since, why should sit the Twelve enthronedTo judge the tribes, unless the tribes be judged?And 't is impossible but offences come:So, all 's one lawsuit, all one long leet-day!Forgive me this digression—that I standEntranced awhile at Law's first beam, outbreakO' the business, when the Count's good angel bade"Put up thy sword, born enemy to the ear,And let Law listen to thy difference!"And Law does listen and compose the strife,Settle the suit, how wisely and how well!On our Pompilia, faultless to a fault,Law bends a brow maternally severe,Implies the worth of perfect chastity,By fancying the flaw she cannot find.Superfluous sifting snow, nor helps nor harms:'T is safe to censure levity in youth,Tax womanhood with indiscretion, sure!Since toys, permissible to-day, becomeFollies to-morrow: prattle shocks in church:And that curt skirt which lets a maiden skip,The matron changes for a trailing robe.Mothers may aim a blow with half-shut eyesNodding above their spindles by the fire,And chance to hit some hidden fault, else safe.Just so, Law hazarded a punishment—If applicable to the circumstance,Why, well! if not so apposite, well too."Quit the gay range o' the world," I hear her cry,"Enter, in lieu, the penitential pound:Exchange the gauds of pomp for ashes, dust!Leave each mollitious haunt of luxury!The golden-garnished silken-couched alcove,The many-columned terrace that so temptsFeminine soul put foot forth, extend earTo fluttering joy of lover's serenade,—Leave these for cellular seclusion! maskAnd dance no more, but fast and pray! avaunt—Be burned, thy wicked townsman's sonnet-book!Welcome, mild hymnal by ... some better scribe!For the warm arms were wont enfold thy flesh,Let wire-shirt plough and whip-cord discipline!"If such an exhortation proved, perchance,Inapplicable, words bestowed in waste,What harm, since Law has store, can spend nor miss?And so, our paragon submits herself,Goes at command into the holy house,And, also at command, comes out again:For, could the effect of such obedience proveToo certain, too immediate? Being healed,Go blaze abroad the matter, blessed one!Art thou sound forthwith? Speedily vacateThe step by pool-side, leave Bethesda freeTo patients plentifully posted round,Since the whole need not the physician! Brief,She may betake her to her parents' place.Welcome her, father, with wide arms once more;Motion her, mother, to thy breast again!For why? Since Law relinquishes the charge,Grants to your dwelling-place a prison's style.Rejoice you with Pompilia! golden days,Redeunt Saturnia regna. Six weeks slip,And she is domiciled in house and homeAs though she thence had never budged at all.And thither let the husband—joyous, ay,But contrite also—quick betake himself,Proud that his dove which lay among the potsHath mued those dingy feathers,—moulted now,Shows silver bosom clothed with yellow gold!So shall he tempt her to the perch she fled,Bid to domestic bliss the truant back.But let him not delay! Time fleets how fast,And opportunity, the irrevocable,Once flown will flout him! Is the furrow traced?If field with corn ye fail preoccupy,Darnel for wheat and thistle-beards for grain,Infelix lolium, carduus horridus,Will grow apace in combination prompt,Defraud the husbandman of his desire.Already—hist—what murmurs 'monish nowThe laggard?—doubtful, nay, fantastic bruitOf such an apparition, such returnInterdum, to anticipate the spouse,Of Caponsacchi's very self! 'T is said,When nights are lone and company is rare,His visitations brighten winter up.If so they did—which nowise I believe—(How can I?—proof abounding that the priest,Once fairly at his relegation-place,Never once left it), still, admit he stoleA midnight march, would fain see friend again,Find matter for instruction in the past,Renew the old adventure in such chatAs cheers a fireside! He was lonely too,He, too, must need his recreative hour.Shall it amaze the philosophic mindIf he, long wont the empurpled cup to quaff,Have feminine society at will,Being debarred abruptly from all drinkSave at the spring which Adam used for wine,Dreads harm to just the health he hoped to guard,And, trying abstinence, gains malady?Ask Tozzi, now physician to the Pope!"Little by little break"—(I hear he bidsMaster Arcangeli my antagonist,Who loves good cheer, and may indulge too much:So I explain the logic of the pleaWherewith he opened our proceedings late)—"Little by little break a habit, Don,Become necessity to feeble flesh!"And thus, nocturnal taste of intercourse(Which never happened,—but, suppose it did)May have been used to dishabituateBy sip and sip this drainer to the dregsO' the draught of conversation,—heady stuff,Brewage which, broached, it took two days and nightsTo properly discuss i' the journey, Sirs!Such power has second-nature, men call use,That undelightful objects get to charmInstead of chafe: the daily colocynthTickles the palate by repeated dose,Old sores scratch kindly, the ass makes a pushAlthough the mill-yoke-wound be smarting yet,For mill-door bolted on a holiday:Nor must we marvel here if impulse urgeTo talk the old story over now and then,The hopes and fears, the stoppage and the haste,—Subjects of colloquy to surfeit once."Here did you bid me twine a rosy wreath!""And there you paid my lips a compliment!""Here you admired the tower could be so tall!""And there you likened that of LebanonTo the nose of the beloved!" Trifles! still,"Forsan et hæc olim,"—such trifles serveTo make the minutes pass in winter-time.Husband, return then, I re-counsel thee!For, finally, of all glad circumstanceShould make a prompt return imperative,What in the world awaits thee, dost suppose?O' the sudden, as good gifts are wont befall,What is the hap of our unconscious Count?That which lights bonfire and sets cask a-tilt,Dissolves the stubborn'st heart in jollity.O admirable, there is born a babe,A son, an heir, a Franceschini lastAnd best o' the stock! Pompilia, thine the palm!Repaying incredulity with faith,Ungenerous thrift of each marital debtWith bounty in profuse expenditure,Pompilia scorns to have the old year endWithout a present shall ring in the new—Bestows on her too-parsimonious lordAn infant for the apple of his eye,Core of his heart, and crown completing life,Truesummum bonumof the earthly lot!"We," saith ingeniously the sage, "are bornSolely that others may be born of us."So, father, take thy child, for thine that child,Oh nothing doubt! In wedlock born, law holdsBaseness impossible: since "filius estQuem nuptiæ demonstrant," twits the textWhoever dares to doubt.Yet doubt he dares!O faith, where art thou flown from out the world?Already on what an age of doubt we fall!Instead of each disputing for the prize,The babe is bandied here from that to this.Whose the babe? "Cujum pecus?" Guido's lamb?"An Melibæi?" Nay, but of the priest!"Non sed Ægonis!" Some one must be sire:And who shall say, in such a puzzling strait,If there were not vouchsafed some miracleTo the wife who had been harassed and abusedMore than enough by Guido's familyFor non-production of the promised fruitOf marriage? What if Nature, I demand,Touched to the quick by taunts upon her sloth,Had roused herself, put forth recondite power,Bestowed this birth to vindicate her sway,Like the strange favor Maro memorizedAs granted Aristæus when his hiveLay empty of the swarm? not one more bee—Not one more babe to Franceschini's house!And lo, a new birth filled the air with joy,Sprung from the bowels of the generous steer,A novel son and heir rejoiced the Count!Spontaneous generation, need I proveWere facile feat to Nature at a pinch?Let whoso doubts, steep horsehair certain weeks,In water, there will be produced a snake;Spontaneous product of the horse, which horseHappens to be the representative—Now that I think on 't—of Arezzo's self,The very city our conception blessed:Is not a prancing horse the City-arms?What sane eye fails to see coincidence?Cur ego, boast thou, my Pompilia, then,Desperem fieri sine conjugeMater—How well the Ovidian distich suits!—Et parere intacto dummodoCasta viro?such miracle was wrought!Note, further, as to mark the prodigy,The babe in question neither took the nameOf Guido, from the sire presumptive, norGiuseppe, from the sire potential, butGaetano—last saint of our hierarchy,And newest namer for a thing so new!What other motive could have prompted choice?Therefore be peace again: exult, ye hills!Ye vales rejoicingly break forth in song!Incipe, parve puer, begin, small boy,Risu cognoscere patrem, with a laughTo recognize thy parent! Nor do thouBoggle, O parent, to return the grace!Nec anceps hære, pater, pueroCognoscendo—one may well eke out the prayer!In vain! The perverse Guido doubts his eyes,Distrusts assurance, lets the devil drive.Because his house is swept and garnished now,He, having summoned seven like himself,Must hurry thither, knock and enter in,And make the last worse than the first, indeed!Is he content? We are. No further blameO' the man and murder! They were stigmatizedBefittingly: the Court heard long agoMy mind o' the matter, which, outpouring full,Has long since swept like surge, i' the simileOf Homer, overborne both dyke and dam,And whelmed alike client and advocate:His fate is sealed, his life as good as gone,On him I am not tempted to waste word.Yet though my purpose holds,—which was and isAnd solely shall be to the very end,To draw the trueeffigiesof a saint,Do justice to perfection in the sex,—Yet let not some gross pamperer of the fleshAnd niggard in the spirit's nourishment,Whose feeding hath obfuscated his witRather than law,—he never had, to lose—Let not such advocate object to meI leave my proper function of attack!"What 's this to Bacchus?"—(in the classic phrase,Well used, for once) he hiccups probably.O Advocate o' the Poor, thou born to makeTheir blessing void—beati pauperes!By painting saintship I depicture sin:Beside my pearl, I prove how black thy jet,And, through Pompilia's virtue, Guido's crime.Back to her, then,—with but one beauty more,End we our argument,—one crowning gracePre-eminent 'mid agony and death.For to the last Pompilia played her part,Used the right means to the permissible end,And, wily as an eel that stirs the mudThick overhead, so baffling spearman's thrust,She, while he stabbed her, simulated death,Delayed, for his sake, the catastrophe,Obtained herself a respite, four days' grace,Whereby she told her story to the world,Enabled me to make the present speech,And, by a full confession, saved her soul.Yet hold, even here would malice leer its last,Gurgle its choked remonstrance: snake, hiss free!Oh, that 's the objection? And to whom?—not herBut me, forsooth—as, in the very actOf both confession and (what followed close)Subsequent talk, chatter and gossipry,Babble to sympathizing he and sheWhoever chose besiege her dying-bed,—As this were found at variance with my tale,Falsified all I have adduced for truth,Admitted not one peccadillo here,Pretended to perfection, first and last,O' the whole procedure—perfect in the end,Perfect i' the means, perfect in everything,Leaving a lawyer nothing to excuse,Reason away and show his skill about!—A flight, impossible to Adamic flesh,Just to be fancied, scarcely to be wished,And, anyhow, unpleadable in court!"How reconcile," gasps Malice, "that with this?"Your "this," friend, is extraneous to the law,Comes of men's outside meddling, the unskilledInterposition of such fools as pressOut of their province. Must I speak my mind?Far better had Pompilia died o' the spotThan found a tongue to wag and shame the law,Shame most of all herself,—could friendship fail,And advocacy lie less on the alert:But no, they shall protect her to the end!Do I credit the alleged narration? No!Lied our Pompilia then, to laud herself?Still, no! Clear up what seems discrepancy?The means abound: art 's long, though time is short;So, keeping me in compass, all I urgeIs—since, confession at the point of death,Nam in articulo mortis, with the ChurchPasses for statement honest and sincere,Nemo presumitur reus esse,—then,If sure that all affirmed would be believed,'T was charity, in her so circumstanced,To spend the last breath in one effort moreFor universal good of friend and foe:And,—by pretending utter innocence,Nay, freedom from each foible we forgive,—Re-integrate—not solely her own fame,But do the like kind office for the priestWhom telling the crude truth about might vex,Haply expose to peril, abbreviateIndeed the long career of usefulnessPresumably before him: while her lord,Whose fleeting life is forfeit to the law,—What mercy to the culprit if, by justThe gift of such a full certificateOf his immitigable guiltiness,She stifled in him the absurd conceitOf murder as it were a mere revenge—Stopped confirmation of that jealousyWhich, did she but acknowledge the first flaw,The faintest foible, had emboldened himTo battle with the charge, balk penitence,Bar preparation for impending fate!Whereas, persuade him that he slew a saintWho sinned not even where she may have sinned,You urge him all the brisklier to repentOf most and least and aught and everything!Still, if this view of mine content you not,Lords, nor excuse the genial falsehood here,We come to ourTriarii, last resource:We fall back on the inexpugnable,Submitting,—she confessed before she talked!The sacrament obliterates the sin:What is not,—was not, therefore, in a sense.Let Molinists distinguish, "Souls washed whiteBut red once, still show pinkish to the eye!"We say, abolishment is nothingness,And nothingness has neither head nor tail,End nor beginning! Better estimateExorbitantly, than disparage aughtOf the efficacity of the act, I hope!

Ah, Nature—baffled she recurs, alas!

Nature imperiously exacts her due,

Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak:

Pompilia needs must acquiesce and swoon,

Give hopes alike and fears a breathing-while.

The innocent sleep soundly: sound she sleeps,

So let her slumber, then, unguarded save

By her own chastity, a triple mail,

And his good hand whose stalwart arms have borne

The sweet and senseless burden like a babe

From coach to couch,—the serviceable strength!

Nay, what and if he gazed rewardedly

On the pale beauty prisoned in embrace,

Stooped over, stole a balmy breath perhaps

For more assurance sleep was not decease—

"Ut vidi," "how I saw!" succeeded by

"Ut perii," "how I sudden lost my brains!"

—What harm ensued to her unconscious quite?

For, curiosity—how natural!

Importunateness—what a privilege

In the ardent sex! And why curb ardor here?

How can the priest but pity whom he saved?

And pity is so near to love, and love

So neighborly to all unreasonableness!

As to love's object, whether love were sage

Or foolish, could Pompilia know or care,

Being still sound asleep, as I premised?

Thus the philosopher absorbed by thought,

Even Archimedes, busy o'er a book

The while besiegers sacked his Syracuse,

Was ignorant of the imminence o' the point

O' the sword till it surprised him: let it stab,

And never knew himself was dead at all.

So sleep thou on, secure whate'er betide!

For thou, too, hast thy problem hard to solve—

How so much beauty is compatible

With so much innocence!

Fit place, methinks,While in this task she rosily is lost,To treat of and repel objection hereWhich,—frivolous, I grant,—my mind misgives,May somehow still have flitted, gadfly-like,And teased the Court at times—as if, all saidAnd done, there seemed, the Court might nearly say,In a certain acceptation, somewhat moreOf what may pass for insincerity,Falsehood, throughout the course Pompilia took,Than befits Christian. Pagans held, we know,Man always ought to aim at good and truth,Not always put one thing in the same words:Non idem semper dicere sed spectareDebemus.But the Pagan yoke was light;"Lie not at all," the exacter precept bids:Each least lie breaks the law,—is sin, we hold.I humble me, but venture to submit—What prevents sin, itself is sinless, sure:And sin, which hinders sin of deeper dye,Softens itself away by contrast so.Conceive me! Little sin, by none at all,Were properly condemned for great: but great,By greater, dwindles into small again.Now, what is greatest sin of womanhood?That which unwomans it, abolishesThe nature of the woman,—impudence.Who contradicts me here? Concede me, then,Whatever friendly fault may interposeTo save the sex from self-abolishmentIs three-parts on the way to virtue's rank!And, what is taxed here as duplicity,Feint, wile, and trick,—admitted for the nonce,—What worse do one and all than interpose,Hold, as it were, a deprecating hand,Statuesquely, in the Medicean mode,Before some shame which modesty would veil?Who blames the gesture prettily perverse?Thus,—lest ye miss a point illustrative,—Admit the husband's calumny—allowThat the wife, having penned the epistle fraughtWith horrors, charge on charge of crime she heapedO' the head of Pietro and Violante—(stillPresumed her parents)—having dispatched the sameTo their arch-enemy Paolo, through free choiceAnd no sort of compulsion in the world—Put case she next discards simplicityFor craft, denies the voluntary act,Declares herself a passive instrumentI' the husband's hands; that, duped by knavery,She traced the characters she could not write,And took on trust the unread sense which, read,And recognized were to be spurned at once:Allow this calumny, I reiterate!Who is so dull as wonder at the poseOf our Pompilia in the circumstance?Who sees not that the too-ingenuous soul,Repugnant even at a duty doneWhich brought beneath too scrutinizing glareThe misdemeanors,—buried in the dark,—Of the authors of her being, was believed,—Stung to the quick at her impulsive deed,And willing to repair what harm it worked,She—wise in this beyond what Nero proved,Who, when folk urged the candid juvenileTo sign the warrant, doom the guilty dead,"Would I had never learned to write!" quoth he!—Pompilia rose above the Roman, cried,"To read or write I never learned at all!"O splendidly mendacious!

Fit place, methinks,

While in this task she rosily is lost,

To treat of and repel objection here

Which,—frivolous, I grant,—my mind misgives,

May somehow still have flitted, gadfly-like,

And teased the Court at times—as if, all said

And done, there seemed, the Court might nearly say,

In a certain acceptation, somewhat more

Of what may pass for insincerity,

Falsehood, throughout the course Pompilia took,

Than befits Christian. Pagans held, we know,

Man always ought to aim at good and truth,

Not always put one thing in the same words:

Non idem semper dicere sed spectare

Debemus.But the Pagan yoke was light;

"Lie not at all," the exacter precept bids:

Each least lie breaks the law,—is sin, we hold.

I humble me, but venture to submit—

What prevents sin, itself is sinless, sure:

And sin, which hinders sin of deeper dye,

Softens itself away by contrast so.

Conceive me! Little sin, by none at all,

Were properly condemned for great: but great,

By greater, dwindles into small again.

Now, what is greatest sin of womanhood?

That which unwomans it, abolishes

The nature of the woman,—impudence.

Who contradicts me here? Concede me, then,

Whatever friendly fault may interpose

To save the sex from self-abolishment

Is three-parts on the way to virtue's rank!

And, what is taxed here as duplicity,

Feint, wile, and trick,—admitted for the nonce,—

What worse do one and all than interpose,

Hold, as it were, a deprecating hand,

Statuesquely, in the Medicean mode,

Before some shame which modesty would veil?

Who blames the gesture prettily perverse?

Thus,—lest ye miss a point illustrative,—

Admit the husband's calumny—allow

That the wife, having penned the epistle fraught

With horrors, charge on charge of crime she heaped

O' the head of Pietro and Violante—(still

Presumed her parents)—having dispatched the same

To their arch-enemy Paolo, through free choice

And no sort of compulsion in the world—

Put case she next discards simplicity

For craft, denies the voluntary act,

Declares herself a passive instrument

I' the husband's hands; that, duped by knavery,

She traced the characters she could not write,

And took on trust the unread sense which, read,

And recognized were to be spurned at once:

Allow this calumny, I reiterate!

Who is so dull as wonder at the pose

Of our Pompilia in the circumstance?

Who sees not that the too-ingenuous soul,

Repugnant even at a duty done

Which brought beneath too scrutinizing glare

The misdemeanors,—buried in the dark,—

Of the authors of her being, was believed,—

Stung to the quick at her impulsive deed,

And willing to repair what harm it worked,

She—wise in this beyond what Nero proved,

Who, when folk urged the candid juvenile

To sign the warrant, doom the guilty dead,

"Would I had never learned to write!" quoth he!

—Pompilia rose above the Roman, cried,

"To read or write I never learned at all!"

O splendidly mendacious!

But time fleets:Let us not linger: hurry to the end,Since flight does end, and that disastrously.Beware ye blame desert for unsuccess,Disparage each expedient else to praise,Call failure folly! Man's best effort fails.After ten years' resistance Troy succumbed:Could valor save a town, Troy still had stood.Pompilia came off halting in no pointOf courage, conduct, her long journey through:But nature sank exhausted at the close,And, as I said, she swooned and slept all night.Morn breaks and brings the husband: we assistAt the spectacle. Discovery succeeds.Ha, how is this? What moonstruck rage is here?Though we confess to partial frailty now,To error in a woman and a wife,Is 't by the rough way she shall be reclaimed?Who bursts upon her chambered privacy?What crowd profanes the chastecubiculum?What outcries and lewd laughter, scurril gibeAnd ribald jest to scare the ministrantGood angels that commerce with souls in sleep?Why, had the worst crowned Guido to his wish,Confirmed his most irrational surmise,Yet there be bounds to man's emotion, checksTo an immoderate astonishment.'T is decent horror, regulated wrath,Befit our dispensation: have we backThe old Pagan license? Shall a Vulcan clapHis net o' the sudden and expose the pairTo the unquenchable universal mirth?A feat, antiquity saw scandal inSo clearly, that the nauseous tale thereof—Demodocus his nugatory song—Hath ever been concluded modern stuffImpossible to the mouth of the grave Muse,So, foisted into that Eighth OdysseyBy some impertinent pickthank. O thou fool,Count Guido Franceschini, what didst gainBy publishing thy secret to the world?Were all the precepts of the wise a waste—Bred in thee not one touch of reverence?Admit thy wife—admonish we the fool—Were falseness' self, why chronicle thy shame?Much rather should thy teeth bite out thy tongue,Dumb lip consort with desecrated brow,Silence become historiographer,And thou—thine own Cornelius Tacitus!But virtue, barred, still leaps the barrier, lords!—Still, moon-like, penetrates the encroaching mistAnd bursts, all broad and bare, on night, ye know!Surprised, then, in the garb of truth, perhaps,Pompilia, thus opposed, breaks obstacle,Springs to her feet, and stands Thalassian-pure,Confronts the foe,—nay, catches at his swordAnd tries to kill the intruder, he complains.Why, so she gave her lord his lesson back,Crowned him, this time, the virtuous woman's way,With an exact obedience; he brought sword,She drew the same, since swords are meant to draw.Tell not me 't is sharp play with tools on edge!It was the husband chose the weapon hereWhy did not he inaugurate the gameWith some gentility of apophthegmStill pregnant on the philosophic page,Some captivating cadence still a-lispO' the poet's lyre? Such spells subdue the surge,Make tame the tempest, much more mitigateThe passions of the mind, and probablyHad moved Pompilia to a smiling blush.No, he must needs prefer the argumentO' the blow: and she obeyed, in duty bound,Returned him buffet ratiocinative—Ay, in the reasoner's own interest,For wife must follow whither husband leads,Vindicate honor as himself prescribes,Save him the very way himself bids save!No question but who jumps into a quagShould stretch forth hand and pray us "Pull me outBy the hand!" such were the customary cry:But Guido pleased to bid "Leave hand alone!Join both feet, rather, jump upon my head:I extricate myself by the rebound!"And dutifully as enjoined she jumped—Drew his own sword and menaced his own life,Anything to content a wilful spouse.

But time fleets:

Let us not linger: hurry to the end,

Since flight does end, and that disastrously.

Beware ye blame desert for unsuccess,

Disparage each expedient else to praise,

Call failure folly! Man's best effort fails.

After ten years' resistance Troy succumbed:

Could valor save a town, Troy still had stood.

Pompilia came off halting in no point

Of courage, conduct, her long journey through:

But nature sank exhausted at the close,

And, as I said, she swooned and slept all night.

Morn breaks and brings the husband: we assist

At the spectacle. Discovery succeeds.

Ha, how is this? What moonstruck rage is here?

Though we confess to partial frailty now,

To error in a woman and a wife,

Is 't by the rough way she shall be reclaimed?

Who bursts upon her chambered privacy?

What crowd profanes the chastecubiculum?

What outcries and lewd laughter, scurril gibe

And ribald jest to scare the ministrant

Good angels that commerce with souls in sleep?

Why, had the worst crowned Guido to his wish,

Confirmed his most irrational surmise,

Yet there be bounds to man's emotion, checks

To an immoderate astonishment.

'T is decent horror, regulated wrath,

Befit our dispensation: have we back

The old Pagan license? Shall a Vulcan clap

His net o' the sudden and expose the pair

To the unquenchable universal mirth?

A feat, antiquity saw scandal in

So clearly, that the nauseous tale thereof—

Demodocus his nugatory song—

Hath ever been concluded modern stuff

Impossible to the mouth of the grave Muse,

So, foisted into that Eighth Odyssey

By some impertinent pickthank. O thou fool,

Count Guido Franceschini, what didst gain

By publishing thy secret to the world?

Were all the precepts of the wise a waste—

Bred in thee not one touch of reverence?

Admit thy wife—admonish we the fool—

Were falseness' self, why chronicle thy shame?

Much rather should thy teeth bite out thy tongue,

Dumb lip consort with desecrated brow,

Silence become historiographer,

And thou—thine own Cornelius Tacitus!

But virtue, barred, still leaps the barrier, lords!

—Still, moon-like, penetrates the encroaching mist

And bursts, all broad and bare, on night, ye know!

Surprised, then, in the garb of truth, perhaps,

Pompilia, thus opposed, breaks obstacle,

Springs to her feet, and stands Thalassian-pure,

Confronts the foe,—nay, catches at his sword

And tries to kill the intruder, he complains.

Why, so she gave her lord his lesson back,

Crowned him, this time, the virtuous woman's way,

With an exact obedience; he brought sword,

She drew the same, since swords are meant to draw.

Tell not me 't is sharp play with tools on edge!

It was the husband chose the weapon here

Why did not he inaugurate the game

With some gentility of apophthegm

Still pregnant on the philosophic page,

Some captivating cadence still a-lisp

O' the poet's lyre? Such spells subdue the surge,

Make tame the tempest, much more mitigate

The passions of the mind, and probably

Had moved Pompilia to a smiling blush.

No, he must needs prefer the argument

O' the blow: and she obeyed, in duty bound,

Returned him buffet ratiocinative—

Ay, in the reasoner's own interest,

For wife must follow whither husband leads,

Vindicate honor as himself prescribes,

Save him the very way himself bids save!

No question but who jumps into a quag

Should stretch forth hand and pray us "Pull me out

By the hand!" such were the customary cry:

But Guido pleased to bid "Leave hand alone!

Join both feet, rather, jump upon my head:

I extricate myself by the rebound!"

And dutifully as enjoined she jumped—

Drew his own sword and menaced his own life,

Anything to content a wilful spouse.

And so he was contented—one must doJustice to the expedient which succeeds,Strange as it seem: at flourish of the blade,The crowd drew back, stood breathless and abashed,Then murmured, "This should be no wanton wife,No conscience-stricken sinner, caught i' the act,And patiently awaiting our first stone:But a poor hard-pressed all-bewildered thing,Has rushed so far, misguidedly perhaps,Meaning no more harm than a frightened sheep.She sought for aid; and if she made mistakeI' the man could aid most, why—so mortals do:Even the blessed Magdalen mistookFar less forgivably: consult the place—Supposing him to be the gardener,'Sir,' said she, and so following." Why more words?Forthwith the wife is pronounced innocent:What would the husband more than gain his cause,And find that honor flash in the world's eye.His apprehension was lest soil had smirched?

And so he was contented—one must do

Justice to the expedient which succeeds,

Strange as it seem: at flourish of the blade,

The crowd drew back, stood breathless and abashed,

Then murmured, "This should be no wanton wife,

No conscience-stricken sinner, caught i' the act,

And patiently awaiting our first stone:

But a poor hard-pressed all-bewildered thing,

Has rushed so far, misguidedly perhaps,

Meaning no more harm than a frightened sheep.

She sought for aid; and if she made mistake

I' the man could aid most, why—so mortals do:

Even the blessed Magdalen mistook

Far less forgivably: consult the place—

Supposing him to be the gardener,

'Sir,' said she, and so following." Why more words?

Forthwith the wife is pronounced innocent:

What would the husband more than gain his cause,

And find that honor flash in the world's eye.

His apprehension was lest soil had smirched?

So, happily the adventure comes to closeWhereon my fat opponent grounds his chargePreposterous: at mid-day he groans "How dark!"Listen to me, thou Archangelic swine!Where is the ambiguity to blame,The flaw to find in our Pompilia? SafeShe stands, see! Does thy comment follow quick,"Safe, inasmuch as at the end proposed;But thither she picked way by devious path—Stands dirtied, no dubiety at all!I recognize success, yet, all the same,Importunately will suggestion prompt—Better Pompilia gained the right to boast,'No devious path, no doubtful patch was mine,I saved my head nor sacrificed my foot!'Why, being in a peril, show mistrustOf the angels set to guard the innocent?Why rather hold by obvious vulgar helpOf stratagem and subterfuge, excusedSomewhat, but still no less a foil, a fault,Since low with high, and good with bad is linked?Methinks I view some ancient bas-relief.There stands Hesione thrust out by Troy,Her father's hand has chained her to a crag,Her mother's from the virgin plucked the vest,At a safe distance both distressful watch,While near and nearer comes the snorting orc.I look that, white and perfect to the end,She wait till Jove dispatch some demigod;Not that,—impatient of celestial clubAlcmena's son should brandish at the beast,—She daub, disguise her dainty limbs with pitch,And so elude the purblind monster! Ay,The trick succeeds, but 't is an ugly trick,Where needs have been no trick!"

So, happily the adventure comes to close

Whereon my fat opponent grounds his charge

Preposterous: at mid-day he groans "How dark!"

Listen to me, thou Archangelic swine!

Where is the ambiguity to blame,

The flaw to find in our Pompilia? Safe

She stands, see! Does thy comment follow quick,

"Safe, inasmuch as at the end proposed;

But thither she picked way by devious path—

Stands dirtied, no dubiety at all!

I recognize success, yet, all the same,

Importunately will suggestion prompt—

Better Pompilia gained the right to boast,

'No devious path, no doubtful patch was mine,

I saved my head nor sacrificed my foot!'

Why, being in a peril, show mistrust

Of the angels set to guard the innocent?

Why rather hold by obvious vulgar help

Of stratagem and subterfuge, excused

Somewhat, but still no less a foil, a fault,

Since low with high, and good with bad is linked?

Methinks I view some ancient bas-relief.

There stands Hesione thrust out by Troy,

Her father's hand has chained her to a crag,

Her mother's from the virgin plucked the vest,

At a safe distance both distressful watch,

While near and nearer comes the snorting orc.

I look that, white and perfect to the end,

She wait till Jove dispatch some demigod;

Not that,—impatient of celestial club

Alcmena's son should brandish at the beast,—

She daub, disguise her dainty limbs with pitch,

And so elude the purblind monster! Ay,

The trick succeeds, but 't is an ugly trick,

Where needs have been no trick!"

My answer? Faugh!Nimis incongrue!Too absurdly put!Sententiam ego teneo contrariam,Trick, I maintain, had no alternative.The heavens were bound with brass,—Jove far at feast(No feast like that thou didst not ask me to,Arcangeli,—I heard of thy regale!)With the unblamed Æthiop,—Hercules spun woolI' the lap of Omphale, while Virtue shrieked—The brute came paddling all the faster. YouOf Troy, who stood at distance, where 's the aidYou offered in the extremity? Most and least,Gentle and simple, here the Governor,There the Archbishop, everywhere the friends,Shook heads and waited for a miracle,Or went their way, left Virtue to her fate.Just this one rough and ready man leapt forth!—Was found, sole anti-Fabius (dare I say)Who restored things, with no delay at all,Qui haud cunctando rem restituit!He,He only, Caponsacchi 'mid a crowd,Caught Virtue up, carried Pompilia offThrough gaping impotence of sympathyIn ranged Arezzo: what you take for pitchIs nothing worse, belike, than black and blue,Mere evanescent proof that hardy handsDid yeoman's service, cared not where the gripeWas more than duly energetic: bruised,She smarts a little, but her bones are savedA fracture, and her skin will soon show sleek.How it disgusts when weakness, false-refined,Censures the honest rude effective strength,—When sickly dreamers of the impossibleDecry plain sturdiness which does the featWith eyes wide open!

My answer? Faugh!

Nimis incongrue!Too absurdly put!

Sententiam ego teneo contrariam,

Trick, I maintain, had no alternative.

The heavens were bound with brass,—Jove far at feast

(No feast like that thou didst not ask me to,

Arcangeli,—I heard of thy regale!)

With the unblamed Æthiop,—Hercules spun wool

I' the lap of Omphale, while Virtue shrieked—

The brute came paddling all the faster. You

Of Troy, who stood at distance, where 's the aid

You offered in the extremity? Most and least,

Gentle and simple, here the Governor,

There the Archbishop, everywhere the friends,

Shook heads and waited for a miracle,

Or went their way, left Virtue to her fate.

Just this one rough and ready man leapt forth!

—Was found, sole anti-Fabius (dare I say)

Who restored things, with no delay at all,

Qui haud cunctando rem restituit!He,

He only, Caponsacchi 'mid a crowd,

Caught Virtue up, carried Pompilia off

Through gaping impotence of sympathy

In ranged Arezzo: what you take for pitch

Is nothing worse, belike, than black and blue,

Mere evanescent proof that hardy hands

Did yeoman's service, cared not where the gripe

Was more than duly energetic: bruised,

She smarts a little, but her bones are saved

A fracture, and her skin will soon show sleek.

How it disgusts when weakness, false-refined,

Censures the honest rude effective strength,—

When sickly dreamers of the impossible

Decry plain sturdiness which does the feat

With eyes wide open!

Did occasion serve,I could illustrate, if my lords allow;Quid vetat, what forbids I aptly askWith Horace, that I give my anger vent,While I let breathe, no less, and recreate,The gravity of my Judges, by a tale?A case in point—what though an apologueGraced by tradition?—possibly a fact:Tradition must precede all scripture, wordsServe as our warrant ere our books can be:So, to tradition back we needs must goFor any fact's authority: and thisHath lived so far (like jewel hid in muck)On page of that old lying vanityCalled "Sepher Toldoth Yeschu:" God be praised,I read no Hebrew,—take the thing on trust:But I believe the writer meant no good(Blind as he was to truth in some respects)To our pestiferous and schismatic ... well,My lords' conjecture be the touchstone, showThe thing for what it is! The author lacksDiscretion, and his zeal exceeds: but zeal,—How rare in our degenerate day! Enough!Here is the story: fear not, I shall chopAnd change a little, else my Jew would pressAll too unmannerly before the Court.

Did occasion serve,

I could illustrate, if my lords allow;

Quid vetat, what forbids I aptly ask

With Horace, that I give my anger vent,

While I let breathe, no less, and recreate,

The gravity of my Judges, by a tale?

A case in point—what though an apologue

Graced by tradition?—possibly a fact:

Tradition must precede all scripture, words

Serve as our warrant ere our books can be:

So, to tradition back we needs must go

For any fact's authority: and this

Hath lived so far (like jewel hid in muck)

On page of that old lying vanity

Called "Sepher Toldoth Yeschu:" God be praised,

I read no Hebrew,—take the thing on trust:

But I believe the writer meant no good

(Blind as he was to truth in some respects)

To our pestiferous and schismatic ... well,

My lords' conjecture be the touchstone, show

The thing for what it is! The author lacks

Discretion, and his zeal exceeds: but zeal,—

How rare in our degenerate day! Enough!

Here is the story: fear not, I shall chop

And change a little, else my Jew would press

All too unmannerly before the Court.

It happened once,—begins this foolish Jew,Pretending to write Christian history,—That three, held greatest, best and worst of men,Peter and John and Judas, spent a dayIn toil and travel through the country-sideOn some sufficient business—I suspect,Suppression of some Molinism i' the bud.Foot-sore and hungry, dropping with fatigue,They reached by nightfall a poor lonely grange,Hostel or inn: so, knocked and entered there."Your pleasure, great ones?"—"Shelter, rest and food!"For shelter, there was one bare room above;For rest therein, three beds of bundled straw:For food, one wretched starveling fowl, no more—Meat for one mouth, but mockery for three."You have my utmost." How should supper serve?Peter broke silence: "To the spit with fowl!And while 't is cooking, sleep!—since beds there be,And, so far, satisfaction of a want.Sleep we an hour, awake at supper-time,Then each of us narrate the dream he had,And he whose dream shall prove the happiest, pointThe clearliest out the dreamer as ordainedBeyond his fellows to receive the fowl,Him let our shares be cheerful tribute to,His the entire meal, may it do him good!"Who could dispute so plain a consequence?So said, so done: each hurried to his straw,Slept his hour's-sleep and dreamed his dream, and woke."I," commenced John, "dreamed that I gained the prizeWe all aspire to: the proud place was mine,Throughout the earth and to the end of timeI was the Loved Disciple: mine the meal!""But I," proceeded Peter, "dreamed, a wordGave me the headship of our company,Made me the Vicar and Vice-gerent, gaveThe keys of heaven and hell into my hand,And o'er the earth, dominion: mine the meal!""While I," submitted in soft under-toneThe Iscariot—sense of his unworthinessTurning each eye up to the inmost white—With long-drawn sigh, yet letting both lips smack,"I have had just the pitifullest dreamThat ever proved man meanest of his mates,And born foot-washer and foot-wiper, nayFoot-kisser to each comrade of you all!I dreamed I dreamed; and in that mimic dream(Impalpable to dream as dream to fact)Methought I meanly chose to sleep no winkBut wait until I heard my brethren snore;Then stole from couch, slipped noiseless o'er the planks,Slid downstairs, furtively approached the hearth,Found the fowl duly brown, both back and breast,Hissing in harmony with the cricket's chirp,Grilled to a point; said no grace, but fell to,Nor finished till the skeleton lay bare.In penitence for which ignoble dream,Lo, I renounce my portion cheerfully!Fie on the flesh—be mine the ethereal gust,And yours the sublunary sustenance!See that whate'er be left ye give the poor!"Down the two scuttled, one on other's heel,Stung by a fell surmise; and found, alack,A goodly savor, both the drumstick bones,And that which henceforth took the appropriate nameO' the Merry-thought, in memory of the factThat to keep wide awake is man's best dream.

It happened once,—begins this foolish Jew,

Pretending to write Christian history,—

That three, held greatest, best and worst of men,

Peter and John and Judas, spent a day

In toil and travel through the country-side

On some sufficient business—I suspect,

Suppression of some Molinism i' the bud.

Foot-sore and hungry, dropping with fatigue,

They reached by nightfall a poor lonely grange,

Hostel or inn: so, knocked and entered there.

"Your pleasure, great ones?"—"Shelter, rest and food!"

For shelter, there was one bare room above;

For rest therein, three beds of bundled straw:

For food, one wretched starveling fowl, no more—

Meat for one mouth, but mockery for three.

"You have my utmost." How should supper serve?

Peter broke silence: "To the spit with fowl!

And while 't is cooking, sleep!—since beds there be,

And, so far, satisfaction of a want.

Sleep we an hour, awake at supper-time,

Then each of us narrate the dream he had,

And he whose dream shall prove the happiest, point

The clearliest out the dreamer as ordained

Beyond his fellows to receive the fowl,

Him let our shares be cheerful tribute to,

His the entire meal, may it do him good!"

Who could dispute so plain a consequence?

So said, so done: each hurried to his straw,

Slept his hour's-sleep and dreamed his dream, and woke.

"I," commenced John, "dreamed that I gained the prize

We all aspire to: the proud place was mine,

Throughout the earth and to the end of time

I was the Loved Disciple: mine the meal!"

"But I," proceeded Peter, "dreamed, a word

Gave me the headship of our company,

Made me the Vicar and Vice-gerent, gave

The keys of heaven and hell into my hand,

And o'er the earth, dominion: mine the meal!"

"While I," submitted in soft under-tone

The Iscariot—sense of his unworthiness

Turning each eye up to the inmost white—

With long-drawn sigh, yet letting both lips smack,

"I have had just the pitifullest dream

That ever proved man meanest of his mates,

And born foot-washer and foot-wiper, nay

Foot-kisser to each comrade of you all!

I dreamed I dreamed; and in that mimic dream

(Impalpable to dream as dream to fact)

Methought I meanly chose to sleep no wink

But wait until I heard my brethren snore;

Then stole from couch, slipped noiseless o'er the planks,

Slid downstairs, furtively approached the hearth,

Found the fowl duly brown, both back and breast,

Hissing in harmony with the cricket's chirp,

Grilled to a point; said no grace, but fell to,

Nor finished till the skeleton lay bare.

In penitence for which ignoble dream,

Lo, I renounce my portion cheerfully!

Fie on the flesh—be mine the ethereal gust,

And yours the sublunary sustenance!

See that whate'er be left ye give the poor!"

Down the two scuttled, one on other's heel,

Stung by a fell surmise; and found, alack,

A goodly savor, both the drumstick bones,

And that which henceforth took the appropriate name

O' the Merry-thought, in memory of the fact

That to keep wide awake is man's best dream.

So,—as was said once of ThucydidesAnd his sole joke, "The lion, lo, hath laughed!"—Just so, the Governor and all that 's greatI' the city never meant that InnocenceShould quite starve while Authority sat at meat;They meant to fling a bone at banquet's end:Wished well to our Pompilia—in their dreams,Nor bore the secular sword in vain—asleep.Just so the Archbishop and all good like himWent to bed meaning to pour oil and wineI' the wounds of her, next day,—but long ere day,They had burned the one and drunk the other, whileJust so, again, contrariwise, the priestSustained poor Nature in extremityBy stuffing barley-bread into her mouth,Saving Pompilia (grant the parallel)By the plain homely and straightforward wayTaught him by common sense. Let others shriek"Oh what refined expedients did we dreamProved us the only fit to help the fair!"He cried, "A carriage waits, jump in with me!"

So,—as was said once of Thucydides

And his sole joke, "The lion, lo, hath laughed!"—

Just so, the Governor and all that 's great

I' the city never meant that Innocence

Should quite starve while Authority sat at meat;

They meant to fling a bone at banquet's end:

Wished well to our Pompilia—in their dreams,

Nor bore the secular sword in vain—asleep.

Just so the Archbishop and all good like him

Went to bed meaning to pour oil and wine

I' the wounds of her, next day,—but long ere day,

They had burned the one and drunk the other, while

Just so, again, contrariwise, the priest

Sustained poor Nature in extremity

By stuffing barley-bread into her mouth,

Saving Pompilia (grant the parallel)

By the plain homely and straightforward way

Taught him by common sense. Let others shriek

"Oh what refined expedients did we dream

Proved us the only fit to help the fair!"

He cried, "A carriage waits, jump in with me!"

And now, this application pardoned, lords,—This recreative pause and breathing-while,—Back to beseemingness and gravity!For Law steps in: Guido appeals to Law,Demands she arbitrate,—does well for once.O Law, of thee how neatly was it saidBy that old Sophocles, thou hast thy seatI' the very breast of Jove, no meanlier throned!Here is a piece of work now, hithertoBegun and carried on, concluded near,Without an eye-glance cast thy sceptre's way;And, lo, the stumbling and discomfiture!Well may you call them "lawless" means, men takeTo extricate themselves through mother-witWhen tangled haply in the toils of life!Guido would try conclusions with his foe,Whoe'er the foe was and whate'er the offence;He would recover certain dowry-dues:Instead of asking Law to lend a hand,What pother of sword drawn and pistol cocked,What peddling with forged letters and paid spies,Politic circumvention!—all to endAs it began—by loss of the fool's head,First in a figure, presently in a fact.It is a lesson to mankind at large.How other were the end, would men be sageAnd bear confidingly each quarrel straight,O Law, to thy recipient mother-knees!How would the children light come and prompt go,This, with a red-cheeked apple for reward,The other, peradventure red-cheeked tooI' the rear, by taste of birch for punishment.No foolish brawling murder any more!Peace for the household, practice for the Fisc,And plenty for the exchequer of my lords!Too much to hope, in this world: in the next,Who knows? Since, why should sit the Twelve enthronedTo judge the tribes, unless the tribes be judged?And 't is impossible but offences come:So, all 's one lawsuit, all one long leet-day!

And now, this application pardoned, lords,—

This recreative pause and breathing-while,—

Back to beseemingness and gravity!

For Law steps in: Guido appeals to Law,

Demands she arbitrate,—does well for once.

O Law, of thee how neatly was it said

By that old Sophocles, thou hast thy seat

I' the very breast of Jove, no meanlier throned!

Here is a piece of work now, hitherto

Begun and carried on, concluded near,

Without an eye-glance cast thy sceptre's way;

And, lo, the stumbling and discomfiture!

Well may you call them "lawless" means, men take

To extricate themselves through mother-wit

When tangled haply in the toils of life!

Guido would try conclusions with his foe,

Whoe'er the foe was and whate'er the offence;

He would recover certain dowry-dues:

Instead of asking Law to lend a hand,

What pother of sword drawn and pistol cocked,

What peddling with forged letters and paid spies,

Politic circumvention!—all to end

As it began—by loss of the fool's head,

First in a figure, presently in a fact.

It is a lesson to mankind at large.

How other were the end, would men be sage

And bear confidingly each quarrel straight,

O Law, to thy recipient mother-knees!

How would the children light come and prompt go,

This, with a red-cheeked apple for reward,

The other, peradventure red-cheeked too

I' the rear, by taste of birch for punishment.

No foolish brawling murder any more!

Peace for the household, practice for the Fisc,

And plenty for the exchequer of my lords!

Too much to hope, in this world: in the next,

Who knows? Since, why should sit the Twelve enthroned

To judge the tribes, unless the tribes be judged?

And 't is impossible but offences come:

So, all 's one lawsuit, all one long leet-day!

Forgive me this digression—that I standEntranced awhile at Law's first beam, outbreakO' the business, when the Count's good angel bade"Put up thy sword, born enemy to the ear,And let Law listen to thy difference!"And Law does listen and compose the strife,Settle the suit, how wisely and how well!On our Pompilia, faultless to a fault,Law bends a brow maternally severe,Implies the worth of perfect chastity,By fancying the flaw she cannot find.Superfluous sifting snow, nor helps nor harms:'T is safe to censure levity in youth,Tax womanhood with indiscretion, sure!Since toys, permissible to-day, becomeFollies to-morrow: prattle shocks in church:And that curt skirt which lets a maiden skip,The matron changes for a trailing robe.Mothers may aim a blow with half-shut eyesNodding above their spindles by the fire,And chance to hit some hidden fault, else safe.Just so, Law hazarded a punishment—If applicable to the circumstance,Why, well! if not so apposite, well too."Quit the gay range o' the world," I hear her cry,"Enter, in lieu, the penitential pound:Exchange the gauds of pomp for ashes, dust!Leave each mollitious haunt of luxury!The golden-garnished silken-couched alcove,The many-columned terrace that so temptsFeminine soul put foot forth, extend earTo fluttering joy of lover's serenade,—Leave these for cellular seclusion! maskAnd dance no more, but fast and pray! avaunt—Be burned, thy wicked townsman's sonnet-book!Welcome, mild hymnal by ... some better scribe!For the warm arms were wont enfold thy flesh,Let wire-shirt plough and whip-cord discipline!"If such an exhortation proved, perchance,Inapplicable, words bestowed in waste,What harm, since Law has store, can spend nor miss?

Forgive me this digression—that I stand

Entranced awhile at Law's first beam, outbreak

O' the business, when the Count's good angel bade

"Put up thy sword, born enemy to the ear,

And let Law listen to thy difference!"

And Law does listen and compose the strife,

Settle the suit, how wisely and how well!

On our Pompilia, faultless to a fault,

Law bends a brow maternally severe,

Implies the worth of perfect chastity,

By fancying the flaw she cannot find.

Superfluous sifting snow, nor helps nor harms:

'T is safe to censure levity in youth,

Tax womanhood with indiscretion, sure!

Since toys, permissible to-day, become

Follies to-morrow: prattle shocks in church:

And that curt skirt which lets a maiden skip,

The matron changes for a trailing robe.

Mothers may aim a blow with half-shut eyes

Nodding above their spindles by the fire,

And chance to hit some hidden fault, else safe.

Just so, Law hazarded a punishment—

If applicable to the circumstance,

Why, well! if not so apposite, well too.

"Quit the gay range o' the world," I hear her cry,

"Enter, in lieu, the penitential pound:

Exchange the gauds of pomp for ashes, dust!

Leave each mollitious haunt of luxury!

The golden-garnished silken-couched alcove,

The many-columned terrace that so tempts

Feminine soul put foot forth, extend ear

To fluttering joy of lover's serenade,—

Leave these for cellular seclusion! mask

And dance no more, but fast and pray! avaunt—

Be burned, thy wicked townsman's sonnet-book!

Welcome, mild hymnal by ... some better scribe!

For the warm arms were wont enfold thy flesh,

Let wire-shirt plough and whip-cord discipline!"

If such an exhortation proved, perchance,

Inapplicable, words bestowed in waste,

What harm, since Law has store, can spend nor miss?

And so, our paragon submits herself,Goes at command into the holy house,And, also at command, comes out again:For, could the effect of such obedience proveToo certain, too immediate? Being healed,Go blaze abroad the matter, blessed one!Art thou sound forthwith? Speedily vacateThe step by pool-side, leave Bethesda freeTo patients plentifully posted round,Since the whole need not the physician! Brief,She may betake her to her parents' place.Welcome her, father, with wide arms once more;Motion her, mother, to thy breast again!For why? Since Law relinquishes the charge,Grants to your dwelling-place a prison's style.Rejoice you with Pompilia! golden days,Redeunt Saturnia regna. Six weeks slip,And she is domiciled in house and homeAs though she thence had never budged at all.And thither let the husband—joyous, ay,But contrite also—quick betake himself,Proud that his dove which lay among the potsHath mued those dingy feathers,—moulted now,Shows silver bosom clothed with yellow gold!So shall he tempt her to the perch she fled,Bid to domestic bliss the truant back.

And so, our paragon submits herself,

Goes at command into the holy house,

And, also at command, comes out again:

For, could the effect of such obedience prove

Too certain, too immediate? Being healed,

Go blaze abroad the matter, blessed one!

Art thou sound forthwith? Speedily vacate

The step by pool-side, leave Bethesda free

To patients plentifully posted round,

Since the whole need not the physician! Brief,

She may betake her to her parents' place.

Welcome her, father, with wide arms once more;

Motion her, mother, to thy breast again!

For why? Since Law relinquishes the charge,

Grants to your dwelling-place a prison's style.

Rejoice you with Pompilia! golden days,

Redeunt Saturnia regna. Six weeks slip,

And she is domiciled in house and home

As though she thence had never budged at all.

And thither let the husband—joyous, ay,

But contrite also—quick betake himself,

Proud that his dove which lay among the pots

Hath mued those dingy feathers,—moulted now,

Shows silver bosom clothed with yellow gold!

So shall he tempt her to the perch she fled,

Bid to domestic bliss the truant back.

But let him not delay! Time fleets how fast,And opportunity, the irrevocable,Once flown will flout him! Is the furrow traced?If field with corn ye fail preoccupy,Darnel for wheat and thistle-beards for grain,Infelix lolium, carduus horridus,Will grow apace in combination prompt,Defraud the husbandman of his desire.Already—hist—what murmurs 'monish nowThe laggard?—doubtful, nay, fantastic bruitOf such an apparition, such returnInterdum, to anticipate the spouse,Of Caponsacchi's very self! 'T is said,When nights are lone and company is rare,His visitations brighten winter up.If so they did—which nowise I believe—(How can I?—proof abounding that the priest,Once fairly at his relegation-place,Never once left it), still, admit he stoleA midnight march, would fain see friend again,Find matter for instruction in the past,Renew the old adventure in such chatAs cheers a fireside! He was lonely too,He, too, must need his recreative hour.Shall it amaze the philosophic mindIf he, long wont the empurpled cup to quaff,Have feminine society at will,Being debarred abruptly from all drinkSave at the spring which Adam used for wine,Dreads harm to just the health he hoped to guard,And, trying abstinence, gains malady?Ask Tozzi, now physician to the Pope!"Little by little break"—(I hear he bidsMaster Arcangeli my antagonist,Who loves good cheer, and may indulge too much:So I explain the logic of the pleaWherewith he opened our proceedings late)—"Little by little break a habit, Don,Become necessity to feeble flesh!"And thus, nocturnal taste of intercourse(Which never happened,—but, suppose it did)May have been used to dishabituateBy sip and sip this drainer to the dregsO' the draught of conversation,—heady stuff,Brewage which, broached, it took two days and nightsTo properly discuss i' the journey, Sirs!Such power has second-nature, men call use,That undelightful objects get to charmInstead of chafe: the daily colocynthTickles the palate by repeated dose,Old sores scratch kindly, the ass makes a pushAlthough the mill-yoke-wound be smarting yet,For mill-door bolted on a holiday:Nor must we marvel here if impulse urgeTo talk the old story over now and then,The hopes and fears, the stoppage and the haste,—Subjects of colloquy to surfeit once."Here did you bid me twine a rosy wreath!""And there you paid my lips a compliment!""Here you admired the tower could be so tall!""And there you likened that of LebanonTo the nose of the beloved!" Trifles! still,"Forsan et hæc olim,"—such trifles serveTo make the minutes pass in winter-time.

But let him not delay! Time fleets how fast,

And opportunity, the irrevocable,

Once flown will flout him! Is the furrow traced?

If field with corn ye fail preoccupy,

Darnel for wheat and thistle-beards for grain,

Infelix lolium, carduus horridus,

Will grow apace in combination prompt,

Defraud the husbandman of his desire.

Already—hist—what murmurs 'monish now

The laggard?—doubtful, nay, fantastic bruit

Of such an apparition, such return

Interdum, to anticipate the spouse,

Of Caponsacchi's very self! 'T is said,

When nights are lone and company is rare,

His visitations brighten winter up.

If so they did—which nowise I believe—

(How can I?—proof abounding that the priest,

Once fairly at his relegation-place,

Never once left it), still, admit he stole

A midnight march, would fain see friend again,

Find matter for instruction in the past,

Renew the old adventure in such chat

As cheers a fireside! He was lonely too,

He, too, must need his recreative hour.

Shall it amaze the philosophic mind

If he, long wont the empurpled cup to quaff,

Have feminine society at will,

Being debarred abruptly from all drink

Save at the spring which Adam used for wine,

Dreads harm to just the health he hoped to guard,

And, trying abstinence, gains malady?

Ask Tozzi, now physician to the Pope!

"Little by little break"—(I hear he bids

Master Arcangeli my antagonist,

Who loves good cheer, and may indulge too much:

So I explain the logic of the plea

Wherewith he opened our proceedings late)—

"Little by little break a habit, Don,

Become necessity to feeble flesh!"

And thus, nocturnal taste of intercourse

(Which never happened,—but, suppose it did)

May have been used to dishabituate

By sip and sip this drainer to the dregs

O' the draught of conversation,—heady stuff,

Brewage which, broached, it took two days and nights

To properly discuss i' the journey, Sirs!

Such power has second-nature, men call use,

That undelightful objects get to charm

Instead of chafe: the daily colocynth

Tickles the palate by repeated dose,

Old sores scratch kindly, the ass makes a push

Although the mill-yoke-wound be smarting yet,

For mill-door bolted on a holiday:

Nor must we marvel here if impulse urge

To talk the old story over now and then,

The hopes and fears, the stoppage and the haste,—

Subjects of colloquy to surfeit once.

"Here did you bid me twine a rosy wreath!"

"And there you paid my lips a compliment!"

"Here you admired the tower could be so tall!"

"And there you likened that of Lebanon

To the nose of the beloved!" Trifles! still,

"Forsan et hæc olim,"—such trifles serve

To make the minutes pass in winter-time.

Husband, return then, I re-counsel thee!For, finally, of all glad circumstanceShould make a prompt return imperative,What in the world awaits thee, dost suppose?O' the sudden, as good gifts are wont befall,What is the hap of our unconscious Count?That which lights bonfire and sets cask a-tilt,Dissolves the stubborn'st heart in jollity.O admirable, there is born a babe,A son, an heir, a Franceschini lastAnd best o' the stock! Pompilia, thine the palm!Repaying incredulity with faith,Ungenerous thrift of each marital debtWith bounty in profuse expenditure,Pompilia scorns to have the old year endWithout a present shall ring in the new—Bestows on her too-parsimonious lordAn infant for the apple of his eye,Core of his heart, and crown completing life,Truesummum bonumof the earthly lot!"We," saith ingeniously the sage, "are bornSolely that others may be born of us."So, father, take thy child, for thine that child,Oh nothing doubt! In wedlock born, law holdsBaseness impossible: since "filius estQuem nuptiæ demonstrant," twits the textWhoever dares to doubt.

Husband, return then, I re-counsel thee!

For, finally, of all glad circumstance

Should make a prompt return imperative,

What in the world awaits thee, dost suppose?

O' the sudden, as good gifts are wont befall,

What is the hap of our unconscious Count?

That which lights bonfire and sets cask a-tilt,

Dissolves the stubborn'st heart in jollity.

O admirable, there is born a babe,

A son, an heir, a Franceschini last

And best o' the stock! Pompilia, thine the palm!

Repaying incredulity with faith,

Ungenerous thrift of each marital debt

With bounty in profuse expenditure,

Pompilia scorns to have the old year end

Without a present shall ring in the new—

Bestows on her too-parsimonious lord

An infant for the apple of his eye,

Core of his heart, and crown completing life,

Truesummum bonumof the earthly lot!

"We," saith ingeniously the sage, "are born

Solely that others may be born of us."

So, father, take thy child, for thine that child,

Oh nothing doubt! In wedlock born, law holds

Baseness impossible: since "filius est

Quem nuptiæ demonstrant," twits the text

Whoever dares to doubt.

Yet doubt he dares!O faith, where art thou flown from out the world?Already on what an age of doubt we fall!Instead of each disputing for the prize,The babe is bandied here from that to this.Whose the babe? "Cujum pecus?" Guido's lamb?"An Melibæi?" Nay, but of the priest!"Non sed Ægonis!" Some one must be sire:And who shall say, in such a puzzling strait,If there were not vouchsafed some miracleTo the wife who had been harassed and abusedMore than enough by Guido's familyFor non-production of the promised fruitOf marriage? What if Nature, I demand,Touched to the quick by taunts upon her sloth,Had roused herself, put forth recondite power,Bestowed this birth to vindicate her sway,Like the strange favor Maro memorizedAs granted Aristæus when his hiveLay empty of the swarm? not one more bee—Not one more babe to Franceschini's house!And lo, a new birth filled the air with joy,Sprung from the bowels of the generous steer,A novel son and heir rejoiced the Count!Spontaneous generation, need I proveWere facile feat to Nature at a pinch?Let whoso doubts, steep horsehair certain weeks,In water, there will be produced a snake;Spontaneous product of the horse, which horseHappens to be the representative—Now that I think on 't—of Arezzo's self,The very city our conception blessed:Is not a prancing horse the City-arms?What sane eye fails to see coincidence?Cur ego, boast thou, my Pompilia, then,Desperem fieri sine conjugeMater—How well the Ovidian distich suits!—Et parere intacto dummodoCasta viro?such miracle was wrought!Note, further, as to mark the prodigy,The babe in question neither took the nameOf Guido, from the sire presumptive, norGiuseppe, from the sire potential, butGaetano—last saint of our hierarchy,And newest namer for a thing so new!What other motive could have prompted choice?

Yet doubt he dares!

O faith, where art thou flown from out the world?

Already on what an age of doubt we fall!

Instead of each disputing for the prize,

The babe is bandied here from that to this.

Whose the babe? "Cujum pecus?" Guido's lamb?

"An Melibæi?" Nay, but of the priest!

"Non sed Ægonis!" Some one must be sire:

And who shall say, in such a puzzling strait,

If there were not vouchsafed some miracle

To the wife who had been harassed and abused

More than enough by Guido's family

For non-production of the promised fruit

Of marriage? What if Nature, I demand,

Touched to the quick by taunts upon her sloth,

Had roused herself, put forth recondite power,

Bestowed this birth to vindicate her sway,

Like the strange favor Maro memorized

As granted Aristæus when his hive

Lay empty of the swarm? not one more bee—

Not one more babe to Franceschini's house!

And lo, a new birth filled the air with joy,

Sprung from the bowels of the generous steer,

A novel son and heir rejoiced the Count!

Spontaneous generation, need I prove

Were facile feat to Nature at a pinch?

Let whoso doubts, steep horsehair certain weeks,

In water, there will be produced a snake;

Spontaneous product of the horse, which horse

Happens to be the representative—

Now that I think on 't—of Arezzo's self,

The very city our conception blessed:

Is not a prancing horse the City-arms?

What sane eye fails to see coincidence?

Cur ego, boast thou, my Pompilia, then,

Desperem fieri sine conjuge

Mater—How well the Ovidian distich suits!—

Et parere intacto dummodo

Casta viro?such miracle was wrought!

Note, further, as to mark the prodigy,

The babe in question neither took the name

Of Guido, from the sire presumptive, nor

Giuseppe, from the sire potential, but

Gaetano—last saint of our hierarchy,

And newest namer for a thing so new!

What other motive could have prompted choice?

Therefore be peace again: exult, ye hills!Ye vales rejoicingly break forth in song!Incipe, parve puer, begin, small boy,Risu cognoscere patrem, with a laughTo recognize thy parent! Nor do thouBoggle, O parent, to return the grace!Nec anceps hære, pater, pueroCognoscendo—one may well eke out the prayer!In vain! The perverse Guido doubts his eyes,Distrusts assurance, lets the devil drive.Because his house is swept and garnished now,He, having summoned seven like himself,Must hurry thither, knock and enter in,And make the last worse than the first, indeed!Is he content? We are. No further blameO' the man and murder! They were stigmatizedBefittingly: the Court heard long agoMy mind o' the matter, which, outpouring full,Has long since swept like surge, i' the simileOf Homer, overborne both dyke and dam,And whelmed alike client and advocate:His fate is sealed, his life as good as gone,On him I am not tempted to waste word.Yet though my purpose holds,—which was and isAnd solely shall be to the very end,To draw the trueeffigiesof a saint,Do justice to perfection in the sex,—Yet let not some gross pamperer of the fleshAnd niggard in the spirit's nourishment,Whose feeding hath obfuscated his witRather than law,—he never had, to lose—Let not such advocate object to meI leave my proper function of attack!"What 's this to Bacchus?"—(in the classic phrase,Well used, for once) he hiccups probably.O Advocate o' the Poor, thou born to makeTheir blessing void—beati pauperes!By painting saintship I depicture sin:Beside my pearl, I prove how black thy jet,And, through Pompilia's virtue, Guido's crime.

Therefore be peace again: exult, ye hills!

Ye vales rejoicingly break forth in song!

Incipe, parve puer, begin, small boy,

Risu cognoscere patrem, with a laugh

To recognize thy parent! Nor do thou

Boggle, O parent, to return the grace!

Nec anceps hære, pater, puero

Cognoscendo—one may well eke out the prayer!

In vain! The perverse Guido doubts his eyes,

Distrusts assurance, lets the devil drive.

Because his house is swept and garnished now,

He, having summoned seven like himself,

Must hurry thither, knock and enter in,

And make the last worse than the first, indeed!

Is he content? We are. No further blame

O' the man and murder! They were stigmatized

Befittingly: the Court heard long ago

My mind o' the matter, which, outpouring full,

Has long since swept like surge, i' the simile

Of Homer, overborne both dyke and dam,

And whelmed alike client and advocate:

His fate is sealed, his life as good as gone,

On him I am not tempted to waste word.

Yet though my purpose holds,—which was and is

And solely shall be to the very end,

To draw the trueeffigiesof a saint,

Do justice to perfection in the sex,—

Yet let not some gross pamperer of the flesh

And niggard in the spirit's nourishment,

Whose feeding hath obfuscated his wit

Rather than law,—he never had, to lose—

Let not such advocate object to me

I leave my proper function of attack!

"What 's this to Bacchus?"—(in the classic phrase,

Well used, for once) he hiccups probably.

O Advocate o' the Poor, thou born to make

Their blessing void—beati pauperes!

By painting saintship I depicture sin:

Beside my pearl, I prove how black thy jet,

And, through Pompilia's virtue, Guido's crime.

Back to her, then,—with but one beauty more,End we our argument,—one crowning gracePre-eminent 'mid agony and death.For to the last Pompilia played her part,Used the right means to the permissible end,And, wily as an eel that stirs the mudThick overhead, so baffling spearman's thrust,She, while he stabbed her, simulated death,Delayed, for his sake, the catastrophe,Obtained herself a respite, four days' grace,Whereby she told her story to the world,Enabled me to make the present speech,And, by a full confession, saved her soul.

Back to her, then,—with but one beauty more,

End we our argument,—one crowning grace

Pre-eminent 'mid agony and death.

For to the last Pompilia played her part,

Used the right means to the permissible end,

And, wily as an eel that stirs the mud

Thick overhead, so baffling spearman's thrust,

She, while he stabbed her, simulated death,

Delayed, for his sake, the catastrophe,

Obtained herself a respite, four days' grace,

Whereby she told her story to the world,

Enabled me to make the present speech,

And, by a full confession, saved her soul.

Yet hold, even here would malice leer its last,Gurgle its choked remonstrance: snake, hiss free!Oh, that 's the objection? And to whom?—not herBut me, forsooth—as, in the very actOf both confession and (what followed close)Subsequent talk, chatter and gossipry,Babble to sympathizing he and sheWhoever chose besiege her dying-bed,—As this were found at variance with my tale,Falsified all I have adduced for truth,Admitted not one peccadillo here,Pretended to perfection, first and last,O' the whole procedure—perfect in the end,Perfect i' the means, perfect in everything,Leaving a lawyer nothing to excuse,Reason away and show his skill about!—A flight, impossible to Adamic flesh,Just to be fancied, scarcely to be wished,And, anyhow, unpleadable in court!"How reconcile," gasps Malice, "that with this?"

Yet hold, even here would malice leer its last,

Gurgle its choked remonstrance: snake, hiss free!

Oh, that 's the objection? And to whom?—not her

But me, forsooth—as, in the very act

Of both confession and (what followed close)

Subsequent talk, chatter and gossipry,

Babble to sympathizing he and she

Whoever chose besiege her dying-bed,—

As this were found at variance with my tale,

Falsified all I have adduced for truth,

Admitted not one peccadillo here,

Pretended to perfection, first and last,

O' the whole procedure—perfect in the end,

Perfect i' the means, perfect in everything,

Leaving a lawyer nothing to excuse,

Reason away and show his skill about!

—A flight, impossible to Adamic flesh,

Just to be fancied, scarcely to be wished,

And, anyhow, unpleadable in court!

"How reconcile," gasps Malice, "that with this?"

Your "this," friend, is extraneous to the law,Comes of men's outside meddling, the unskilledInterposition of such fools as pressOut of their province. Must I speak my mind?Far better had Pompilia died o' the spotThan found a tongue to wag and shame the law,Shame most of all herself,—could friendship fail,And advocacy lie less on the alert:But no, they shall protect her to the end!Do I credit the alleged narration? No!Lied our Pompilia then, to laud herself?Still, no! Clear up what seems discrepancy?The means abound: art 's long, though time is short;So, keeping me in compass, all I urgeIs—since, confession at the point of death,Nam in articulo mortis, with the ChurchPasses for statement honest and sincere,Nemo presumitur reus esse,—then,If sure that all affirmed would be believed,'T was charity, in her so circumstanced,To spend the last breath in one effort moreFor universal good of friend and foe:And,—by pretending utter innocence,Nay, freedom from each foible we forgive,—Re-integrate—not solely her own fame,But do the like kind office for the priestWhom telling the crude truth about might vex,Haply expose to peril, abbreviateIndeed the long career of usefulnessPresumably before him: while her lord,Whose fleeting life is forfeit to the law,—What mercy to the culprit if, by justThe gift of such a full certificateOf his immitigable guiltiness,She stifled in him the absurd conceitOf murder as it were a mere revenge—Stopped confirmation of that jealousyWhich, did she but acknowledge the first flaw,The faintest foible, had emboldened himTo battle with the charge, balk penitence,Bar preparation for impending fate!Whereas, persuade him that he slew a saintWho sinned not even where she may have sinned,You urge him all the brisklier to repentOf most and least and aught and everything!Still, if this view of mine content you not,Lords, nor excuse the genial falsehood here,We come to ourTriarii, last resource:We fall back on the inexpugnable,Submitting,—she confessed before she talked!The sacrament obliterates the sin:What is not,—was not, therefore, in a sense.Let Molinists distinguish, "Souls washed whiteBut red once, still show pinkish to the eye!"We say, abolishment is nothingness,And nothingness has neither head nor tail,End nor beginning! Better estimateExorbitantly, than disparage aughtOf the efficacity of the act, I hope!

Your "this," friend, is extraneous to the law,

Comes of men's outside meddling, the unskilled

Interposition of such fools as press

Out of their province. Must I speak my mind?

Far better had Pompilia died o' the spot

Than found a tongue to wag and shame the law,

Shame most of all herself,—could friendship fail,

And advocacy lie less on the alert:

But no, they shall protect her to the end!

Do I credit the alleged narration? No!

Lied our Pompilia then, to laud herself?

Still, no! Clear up what seems discrepancy?

The means abound: art 's long, though time is short;

So, keeping me in compass, all I urge

Is—since, confession at the point of death,

Nam in articulo mortis, with the Church

Passes for statement honest and sincere,

Nemo presumitur reus esse,—then,

If sure that all affirmed would be believed,

'T was charity, in her so circumstanced,

To spend the last breath in one effort more

For universal good of friend and foe:

And,—by pretending utter innocence,

Nay, freedom from each foible we forgive,—

Re-integrate—not solely her own fame,

But do the like kind office for the priest

Whom telling the crude truth about might vex,

Haply expose to peril, abbreviate

Indeed the long career of usefulness

Presumably before him: while her lord,

Whose fleeting life is forfeit to the law,—

What mercy to the culprit if, by just

The gift of such a full certificate

Of his immitigable guiltiness,

She stifled in him the absurd conceit

Of murder as it were a mere revenge

—Stopped confirmation of that jealousy

Which, did she but acknowledge the first flaw,

The faintest foible, had emboldened him

To battle with the charge, balk penitence,

Bar preparation for impending fate!

Whereas, persuade him that he slew a saint

Who sinned not even where she may have sinned,

You urge him all the brisklier to repent

Of most and least and aught and everything!

Still, if this view of mine content you not,

Lords, nor excuse the genial falsehood here,

We come to ourTriarii, last resource:

We fall back on the inexpugnable,

Submitting,—she confessed before she talked!

The sacrament obliterates the sin:

What is not,—was not, therefore, in a sense.

Let Molinists distinguish, "Souls washed white

But red once, still show pinkish to the eye!"

We say, abolishment is nothingness,

And nothingness has neither head nor tail,

End nor beginning! Better estimate

Exorbitantly, than disparage aught

Of the efficacity of the act, I hope!

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