EPILOGUE

"No, boy, we must not"—so beganMy Uncle (he's with God long since),A-petting me, the good old man!"We must not"—and he seemed to wince,And lost that laugh whereto had grownHis chuckle at my piece of news,How cleverly I aimed my stone—"I fear we must not pelt the Jews!"When I was young indeed,—ah, faithWas young and strong in Florence too!We Christians never dreamed of scatheBecause we cursed or kicked the crew.But now—well, well! The olive-cropsWeighed double then, and Arno's pranksWould always spare religious shopsWhenever he o'erflowed his banks!"I 'll tell you"—and his eye regainedIts twinkle—"tell you something choiceSomething may help you keep unstainedYour honest zeal to stop the voiceOf unbelief with stone-throw—spiteOf laws, which modern fools enact,That we must suffer Jews in sightGo wholly unmolested! Fact!"There was, then, in my youth, and yetIs, by our San Frediano, justBelow the Blessed Olivet,A wayside ground wherein they thrustTheir dead,—these Jews,—the more our shame!Except that, so they will but die,Christians perchance incur no blameIn giving hogs a hoist to sty."There, anyhow, Jews stow awayTheir dead; and—such their insolence—Slink at odd times to sing and prayAs Christians do—all make-pretence!—Which wickedness they perpetrateBecause they think no Christians see.They reckoned here, at any rate,Without their host: ha, ha! he, he!"For, what should join their plot of groundBut a good Farmer's Christian field?The Jews had hedged their corner roundWith bramble-bush to keep concealedTheir doings: for the public roadRan betwixt this their ground and thatThe Farmer's, where he ploughed and sowed,Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat."So, properly to guard his storeAnd gall the unbelievers too,He builds a shrine and, what is more,Procures a painter whom I knew,One Buti (he 's with God), to paintA holy picture there—no lessThan Virgin Mary free from taintBorne to the sky by angels: yes!"Which shrine he fixed,—who says him nay?—A-facing with its picture-sideNot, as you 'd think, the public way,But just where sought these hounds to hideTheir carrion from that very truthOf Mary's triumph: not a houndCould act his mummeries uncouthBut Mary shamed the pack all round!"Now, if it was amusing, judge!—To see the company arrive,Each Jew intent to end his trudgeAnd take his pleasure (though alive)With all his Jewish kith and kinBelow ground, have his venom out,Sharpen his wits for next day's sin,Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt!"Whereas, each phiz upturned beholdsMary, I warrant, soaring brave!And in a trice, beneath the foldsOf filthy garb which gowns each knave,Down drops it—there to hide grimace,Contortion of the mouth and noseAt finding Mary in the placeThey 'd keep for Pilate, I suppose!"At last, they will not brook—not they!—Longer such outrage on their tribe:So, in some hole and corner, layTheir heads together—how to bribeThe meritorious Farmer's selfTo straight undo his work, restoreTheir chance to meet and muse on pelf—Pretending sorrow, as before!"Forthwith, a posse, if you please,Of Rabbi This and Rabbi ThatAlmost go down upon their kneesTo get him lay the picture flat.The spokesman, eighty years of age,Gray as a badger, with a goat'sNot only beard but bleat, 'gins wageWar with our Mary. Thus he dotes:—"'Friends, grant a grace! How Hebrews toilThrough life in Florence—why relateTo those who lay the burden, spoilOur paths of peace? We bear our fate.But when with life the long toil ends,Why must you—the expression cravesPardon, but truth compels me, friends!—Why must you plague us in our graves?"'Thoughtlessly plague, I would believe!For how can you—the lords of easeBy nurture, birthright—e'en conceiveOur luxury to lie with treesAnd turf,—the cricket and the birdLeft for our last companionship:No harsh deed, no unkindly word,No frowning brow nor scornful lip!"'Death's luxury, we now rehearseWhile, living, through your streets we fareAnd take your hatred: nothing worseHave we, once dead and safe, to bear!So we refresh our souls, fulfilOur works, our daily tasks; and thusGather you grain—earth's harvest—stillThe wheat for you, the straw for us."'What flouting in a face, what harm,In just a lady borne from bierBy boys' heads, wings for leg and arm?'You question. Friends, the harm is here—That just when our last sigh is heaved,And we would fain thank God and youFor labor done and peace achieved,Back comes the Past in full review!"'At sight of just that simple flag,Starts the foe-feeling serpent-likeFrom slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag—Though fangless—forth what needs must strikeWhen stricken sore, though stroke be vainAgainst the mailed oppressor! GivePlay to our fancy that we gainLife's rights when once we cease to live!"'Thus much to courtesy, to kind,To conscience! Now to Florence folk!There 's core beneath this apple-rind,Beneath this white-of-egg there 's yolk!Beneath this prayer to courtesy,Kind, conscience—there 's a sum to pouch!How many ducats down will buyOur shame's removal, sirs? Avouch!"'Removal, not destruction, sirs!Just turn your picture! Let it frontThe public path! Or memory errs,Or that same public path is wontTo witness many a chance befallOf lust, theft, bloodshed—sins enough,Wherein our Hebrew part is small.Convert yourselves!'—he cut up rough."Look you, how soon a service paidReligion yields the servant fruit!A prompt reply our Farmer madeSo following: 'Sirs, to grant your suitInvolves much danger! How? TransposeOur Lady? Stop the chastisement,All for your good, herself bestows?What wonder if I grudge consent?"'—Yet grant it: since, what cash I takeIs so much saved from wicked use.We know you! And, for Mary's sake,A hundred ducats shall induceConcession to your prayer. One daySuffices: Master Buti's brushTurns Mary round the other way,And deluges your side with slush."'Down with the ducats therefore!' Dump,Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece,Hard gold. Then out of door they stump,These dogs, each brisk as with new leaseOf life, I warrant,—glad he 'll dieHenceforward just as he may choose,Be buried and in clover lie!Well said Esaias—'stiff-necked Jews!'"Off posts without a minute's lossOur Farmer, once the cash in poke,And summons Buti—ere its glossHave time to fade from off the joke—To chop and change his work, undoThe done side, make the side, now blank,Recipient of our Lady—who,Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank!"Now, boy, you 're hardly to instructIn technicalities of Art!My nephew's childhood sure has suckedAlong with mother's-milk some partOf painter's-practice—learned, at least,How expeditiously is pliedA work in fresco—never ceasedWhen once begun—a day, each side."So, Buti—(he 's with God)—begins:First covers up the shrine all roundWith hoarding; then, as like as twins,Paints, t' other side the burial-ground,New Mary, every point the same;Next, sluices over, as agreed,The old; and last—but, spoil the gameBy telling you? Not I, indeed!"Well, ere the week was half at end,Out came the object of this zeal,This fine alacrity to spendHard money for mere dead men's weal!How think you? That old spokesman JewWas High Priest, and he had a wifeAs old, and she was dying too,And wished to end in peace her life!"And he must humor dying whims,And soothe her with the idle hopeThey 'd say their prayers and sing their hymnsAs if her husband were the Pope!And she did die—believing just—This privilege was purchased! DeadIn comfort through her foolish trust!'Stiff-necked ones,' well Esaias said!"So, Sabbath morning, out of gateAnd on to way, what sees our archGood Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight—The corpse—on shoulder, and so, march!'Now for it, Buti!' In the nickOf time 't is pully-hauly, henceWith hoarding! O'er the wayside quickThere 's Mary plain in evidence!"And here 's the convoy halting: right!Oh, they are bent on howling psalmsAnd growling prayers, when opposite!And yet they glance, for all their qualms,Approve that promptitude of his,The Farmer's—duly at his postTo take due thanks from every phiz,Sour smirk—nay, surly smile almost!"Then earthward drops each brow again;The solemn task 's resumed; they reachTheir holy field—the unholy train:Enter its precinct, all and each,Wrapt somehow in their godless rites;Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo,They lift their faces! What delightsThe mourners as they turn to go?"Ha, ha! he, he! On just the sideThey drew their purse-strings to make quitOf Mary,—Christ the CrucifiedFronted them now—these biters bit!Never was such a hiss and snort,Such screwing nose and shooting lip!Their purchase—honey in report—Proved gall and verjuice at first sip!"Out they break, on they bustle, where,A-top of wall, the Farmer waitsWith Buti: never fun so rare!The Farmer has the best: he ratesThe rascal, as the old High PriestTakes on himself to sermonize—Nay, sneer, 'We Jews supposed, at least,Theft was a crime in Christian eyes!'"'Theft?' cries the Farmer. 'Eat your words!Show me what constitutes a breachOf faith in aught was said or heard!I promised you in plainest speechI 'd take the thing you count disgraceAnd put it here—and here 't is put!Did you suppose I 'd leave the placeBlank therefore, just your rage to glut?"'I guess you dared not stipulateFor such a damned impertinence!So, quick, my graybeard, out of gateAnd in at Ghetto! Haste you hence!As long as I have house and land,To spite you irreligious chaps,Here shall the Crucifixion stand—Unless you down with cash, perhaps!'"So snickered he and Buti both.The Jews said nothing, interchangedA glance or two, renewed their oathTo keep ears stopped and hearts estrangedFrom grace, for all our Church can do;Then off they scuttle: sullen jogHomewards, against our Church to brewFresh mischief in their synagogue."But next day—see what happened, boy!See why I bid you have a careHow you pelt Jews! The knaves employSuch methods of revenge, forbearNo outrage on our faith, when freeTo wreak their malice! Here they tookSo base a method—plague o' meIf I record it in my Book!"For, next day, while the Farmer satLaughing with Buti, in his shop,At their successful joke,—rat-tat,—Door opens, and they 're like to dropDown to the floor as in there stalksA six-feet-high herculean-builtYoung he-Jew with a beard that balksDescription. 'Help ere blood be spilt!'—"Screamed Buti: for he recognizedWhom but the son, no less no more,Of that High Priest his work surprisedSo pleasantly the day before!Son of the mother, then, whereofThe bier he lent a shoulder to,And made the moans about, dared scoffAt sober Christian grief—the Jew!"'Sirs, I salute you! Never rise!No apprehension!' (Buti, whiteAnd trembling like a tub of size,Had tried to smuggle out of sightThe picture's self—the thing in oils,You know, from which a fresco 's dashedWhich courage speeds while caution spoils)'Stay and be praised, sir, unabashed!"'Praised,—ay, and paid too: for I comeTo buy that very work of yours.My poor abode, which boasts—well, someFew specimens of Art, secures,Haply, a masterpiece indeedIf I should find my humble meansSuffice the outlay. So, proceed!Propose—ere prudence intervenes!'"On Buti, cowering like a child,These words descended from aloft,In tone so ominously mild,With smile terrifically softTo that degree—could Buti dare(Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice?He asked, thus taken unaware,No more than just the proper price!"'Done!' cries the monster. 'I disburseForthwith your moderate demand.Count on my custom—if no worseYour future work be, understand,Than this I carry off! No aid!My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews:The burden 's easy, and we 're made,Easy or hard, to bear—we Jews!'"Crossing himself at such escape,Buti by turns the money eyesAnd, timidly, the stalwart shapeNow moving doorwards; but, more wise,The Farmer—who, though dumb, this whileHad watched advantage—straight conceivedA reason for that tone and smileSo mild and soft! The Jew—believed!"Mary in triumph borne to deckA Hebrew household! Pictured whereNo one was used to bend the neckIn praise or bow the knee in prayer!Borne to that domicile by whom?The son of the High Priest! Through what?An insult done his mother's tomb!Saul changed to Paul—the case came pat!"'Stay, dog-Jew ... gentle sir, that is!Resolve me! Can it be, she crowned,—Mary, by miracle,—oh bliss!—My present to your burial-ground?Certain, a ray of light has burstYour vale of darkness! Had you else,Only for Mary's sake, unpursedSo much hard money? Tell—oh, tell's!'"Round—like a serpent that we tookFor worm and trod on—turns his bulkAbout the Jew. First dreadful lookSends Buti in a trice to skulkOut of sight somewhere, safe—alack!But our good Farmer faith made bold:And firm (with Florence at his back)He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled—"'Ay, sir, a miracle was worked,By quite another power, I trow.Than ever yet in canvas lurked,Or you would scarcely face me now!A certain impulse did suggestA certain grasp with this right-hand,Which probably had put to restOur quarrel,—thus your throat once spanned!"'But I remembered me, subduedThat impulse, and you face me still!And soon a philosophic moodSucceeding (hear it, if you will!)Has altogether changed my viewsConcerning Art. Blind prejudice!Well may you Christians tax us JewsWith scrupulosity too nice!"'For, don't I see,—let 's issue join!—Whenever I 'm allowed pollute(I—and my little bag of coin)Some Christian palace of repute,—Don't I see stuck up everywhereAbundant proof that cultured tasteHas Beauty for its only care,And upon Truth no thought to waste?"''Jew, since it must be, take in pledgeOf payment'—so a CardinalHas sighed to me as if a wedgeEntered his heart—'this best of allMy treasures!'Leda, GanymedeOr Antiope: swan, eagle, ape,(Or what 's the beast of what 's the breed,)And Jupiter in every shape!"'Whereat if I presume to ask'But, Eminence, though Titian's whiskOf brush have well performed its task,How comes it these false godships friskIn presence of—what yonder framePretends to image? Surely, oddIt seems, you let confront The NameEach beast the heathen called his god!'"'Benignant smiles me pity straightThe Cardinal.' 'Tis Truth, we prize!Art 's the sole question in debate!These subjects are so many lies.We treat them with a proper scornWhen we turn lies—called gods forsooth—To lies' fit use, now Christ is born.Drawing and coloring are Truth."''Think you I honor lies so muchAs scruple to parade the charmsOf Leda—Titian, every touch—Because the thing within her armsMeans Jupiter who had the praiseAnd prayer of a benighted world?He would have mine too, if, in daysOf light, I kept the canvas furled!'"'So ending, with some easy gibe.What power has logic! I, at once,Acknowledged error in our tribeSo squeamish that, when friends ensconceA pretty picture in its nicheTo do us honor, deck our graves,We fret and fume and have an itchTo strangle folk—ungrateful knaves!"'No, sir! Be sure that—what 's its style,Your picture?—shall possess ungrudgedA place among my rank and fileOf Ledas and what not—be judgedJust as a picture! and (becauseI fear me much I scarce have boughtA Titian) Master Buti's flawsFound there, will have the laugh flaws ought!'"So, with a scowl, it darkens door—This bulk—no longer! Buti makesPrompt glad re-entry; there 's a scoreOf oaths, as the good Farmer wakesFrom what must needs have been a trance,Or he had struck (he swears) to groundThe bold bad mouth that dared advanceSuch doctrine the reverse of sound!"Was magic here? Most like! For, since,Somehow our city's faith grows stillMore and more lukewarm, and our PrinceOr loses heart or wants the willTo check increase of cold. 'T is 'LiveAnd let live! Languidly repressThe Dissident! In short,—contriveChristians must bear with Jews: no less!'"The end seems, any IsraeliteWants any picture,—pishes, poohs,Purchases, hangs it full in sightIn any chamber he may choose!In Christ's crown, one more thorn we rue!In Mary's bosom, one more sword!No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew!O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord?"

"No, boy, we must not"—so began

My Uncle (he's with God long since),

A-petting me, the good old man!

"We must not"—and he seemed to wince,

And lost that laugh whereto had grown

His chuckle at my piece of news,

How cleverly I aimed my stone—

"I fear we must not pelt the Jews!

"When I was young indeed,—ah, faithWas young and strong in Florence too!We Christians never dreamed of scatheBecause we cursed or kicked the crew.But now—well, well! The olive-cropsWeighed double then, and Arno's pranksWould always spare religious shopsWhenever he o'erflowed his banks!

"When I was young indeed,—ah, faith

Was young and strong in Florence too!

We Christians never dreamed of scathe

Because we cursed or kicked the crew.

But now—well, well! The olive-crops

Weighed double then, and Arno's pranks

Would always spare religious shops

Whenever he o'erflowed his banks!

"I 'll tell you"—and his eye regainedIts twinkle—"tell you something choiceSomething may help you keep unstainedYour honest zeal to stop the voiceOf unbelief with stone-throw—spiteOf laws, which modern fools enact,That we must suffer Jews in sightGo wholly unmolested! Fact!

"I 'll tell you"—and his eye regained

Its twinkle—"tell you something choice

Something may help you keep unstained

Your honest zeal to stop the voice

Of unbelief with stone-throw—spite

Of laws, which modern fools enact,

That we must suffer Jews in sight

Go wholly unmolested! Fact!

"There was, then, in my youth, and yetIs, by our San Frediano, justBelow the Blessed Olivet,A wayside ground wherein they thrustTheir dead,—these Jews,—the more our shame!Except that, so they will but die,Christians perchance incur no blameIn giving hogs a hoist to sty.

"There was, then, in my youth, and yet

Is, by our San Frediano, just

Below the Blessed Olivet,

A wayside ground wherein they thrust

Their dead,—these Jews,—the more our shame!

Except that, so they will but die,

Christians perchance incur no blame

In giving hogs a hoist to sty.

"There, anyhow, Jews stow awayTheir dead; and—such their insolence—Slink at odd times to sing and prayAs Christians do—all make-pretence!—Which wickedness they perpetrateBecause they think no Christians see.They reckoned here, at any rate,Without their host: ha, ha! he, he!

"There, anyhow, Jews stow away

Their dead; and—such their insolence—

Slink at odd times to sing and pray

As Christians do—all make-pretence!—

Which wickedness they perpetrate

Because they think no Christians see.

They reckoned here, at any rate,

Without their host: ha, ha! he, he!

"For, what should join their plot of groundBut a good Farmer's Christian field?The Jews had hedged their corner roundWith bramble-bush to keep concealedTheir doings: for the public roadRan betwixt this their ground and thatThe Farmer's, where he ploughed and sowed,Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat.

"For, what should join their plot of ground

But a good Farmer's Christian field?

The Jews had hedged their corner round

With bramble-bush to keep concealed

Their doings: for the public road

Ran betwixt this their ground and that

The Farmer's, where he ploughed and sowed,

Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat.

"So, properly to guard his storeAnd gall the unbelievers too,He builds a shrine and, what is more,Procures a painter whom I knew,One Buti (he 's with God), to paintA holy picture there—no lessThan Virgin Mary free from taintBorne to the sky by angels: yes!

"So, properly to guard his store

And gall the unbelievers too,

He builds a shrine and, what is more,

Procures a painter whom I knew,

One Buti (he 's with God), to paint

A holy picture there—no less

Than Virgin Mary free from taint

Borne to the sky by angels: yes!

"Which shrine he fixed,—who says him nay?—A-facing with its picture-sideNot, as you 'd think, the public way,But just where sought these hounds to hideTheir carrion from that very truthOf Mary's triumph: not a houndCould act his mummeries uncouthBut Mary shamed the pack all round!

"Which shrine he fixed,—who says him nay?—

A-facing with its picture-side

Not, as you 'd think, the public way,

But just where sought these hounds to hide

Their carrion from that very truth

Of Mary's triumph: not a hound

Could act his mummeries uncouth

But Mary shamed the pack all round!

"Now, if it was amusing, judge!—To see the company arrive,Each Jew intent to end his trudgeAnd take his pleasure (though alive)With all his Jewish kith and kinBelow ground, have his venom out,Sharpen his wits for next day's sin,Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt!

"Now, if it was amusing, judge!

—To see the company arrive,

Each Jew intent to end his trudge

And take his pleasure (though alive)

With all his Jewish kith and kin

Below ground, have his venom out,

Sharpen his wits for next day's sin,

Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt!

"Whereas, each phiz upturned beholdsMary, I warrant, soaring brave!And in a trice, beneath the foldsOf filthy garb which gowns each knave,Down drops it—there to hide grimace,Contortion of the mouth and noseAt finding Mary in the placeThey 'd keep for Pilate, I suppose!

"Whereas, each phiz upturned beholds

Mary, I warrant, soaring brave!

And in a trice, beneath the folds

Of filthy garb which gowns each knave,

Down drops it—there to hide grimace,

Contortion of the mouth and nose

At finding Mary in the place

They 'd keep for Pilate, I suppose!

"At last, they will not brook—not they!—Longer such outrage on their tribe:So, in some hole and corner, layTheir heads together—how to bribeThe meritorious Farmer's selfTo straight undo his work, restoreTheir chance to meet and muse on pelf—Pretending sorrow, as before!

"At last, they will not brook—not they!—

Longer such outrage on their tribe:

So, in some hole and corner, lay

Their heads together—how to bribe

The meritorious Farmer's self

To straight undo his work, restore

Their chance to meet and muse on pelf—

Pretending sorrow, as before!

"Forthwith, a posse, if you please,Of Rabbi This and Rabbi ThatAlmost go down upon their kneesTo get him lay the picture flat.The spokesman, eighty years of age,Gray as a badger, with a goat'sNot only beard but bleat, 'gins wageWar with our Mary. Thus he dotes:—

"Forthwith, a posse, if you please,

Of Rabbi This and Rabbi That

Almost go down upon their knees

To get him lay the picture flat.

The spokesman, eighty years of age,

Gray as a badger, with a goat's

Not only beard but bleat, 'gins wage

War with our Mary. Thus he dotes:—

"'Friends, grant a grace! How Hebrews toilThrough life in Florence—why relateTo those who lay the burden, spoilOur paths of peace? We bear our fate.But when with life the long toil ends,Why must you—the expression cravesPardon, but truth compels me, friends!—Why must you plague us in our graves?

"'Friends, grant a grace! How Hebrews toil

Through life in Florence—why relate

To those who lay the burden, spoil

Our paths of peace? We bear our fate.

But when with life the long toil ends,

Why must you—the expression craves

Pardon, but truth compels me, friends!—

Why must you plague us in our graves?

"'Thoughtlessly plague, I would believe!For how can you—the lords of easeBy nurture, birthright—e'en conceiveOur luxury to lie with treesAnd turf,—the cricket and the birdLeft for our last companionship:No harsh deed, no unkindly word,No frowning brow nor scornful lip!

"'Thoughtlessly plague, I would believe!

For how can you—the lords of ease

By nurture, birthright—e'en conceive

Our luxury to lie with trees

And turf,—the cricket and the bird

Left for our last companionship:

No harsh deed, no unkindly word,

No frowning brow nor scornful lip!

"'Death's luxury, we now rehearseWhile, living, through your streets we fareAnd take your hatred: nothing worseHave we, once dead and safe, to bear!So we refresh our souls, fulfilOur works, our daily tasks; and thusGather you grain—earth's harvest—stillThe wheat for you, the straw for us.

"'Death's luxury, we now rehearse

While, living, through your streets we fare

And take your hatred: nothing worse

Have we, once dead and safe, to bear!

So we refresh our souls, fulfil

Our works, our daily tasks; and thus

Gather you grain—earth's harvest—still

The wheat for you, the straw for us.

"'What flouting in a face, what harm,In just a lady borne from bierBy boys' heads, wings for leg and arm?'You question. Friends, the harm is here—That just when our last sigh is heaved,And we would fain thank God and youFor labor done and peace achieved,Back comes the Past in full review!

"'What flouting in a face, what harm,

In just a lady borne from bier

By boys' heads, wings for leg and arm?'

You question. Friends, the harm is here—

That just when our last sigh is heaved,

And we would fain thank God and you

For labor done and peace achieved,

Back comes the Past in full review!

"'At sight of just that simple flag,Starts the foe-feeling serpent-likeFrom slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag—Though fangless—forth what needs must strikeWhen stricken sore, though stroke be vainAgainst the mailed oppressor! GivePlay to our fancy that we gainLife's rights when once we cease to live!

"'At sight of just that simple flag,

Starts the foe-feeling serpent-like

From slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag—

Though fangless—forth what needs must strike

When stricken sore, though stroke be vain

Against the mailed oppressor! Give

Play to our fancy that we gain

Life's rights when once we cease to live!

"'Thus much to courtesy, to kind,To conscience! Now to Florence folk!There 's core beneath this apple-rind,Beneath this white-of-egg there 's yolk!Beneath this prayer to courtesy,Kind, conscience—there 's a sum to pouch!How many ducats down will buyOur shame's removal, sirs? Avouch!

"'Thus much to courtesy, to kind,

To conscience! Now to Florence folk!

There 's core beneath this apple-rind,

Beneath this white-of-egg there 's yolk!

Beneath this prayer to courtesy,

Kind, conscience—there 's a sum to pouch!

How many ducats down will buy

Our shame's removal, sirs? Avouch!

"'Removal, not destruction, sirs!Just turn your picture! Let it frontThe public path! Or memory errs,Or that same public path is wontTo witness many a chance befallOf lust, theft, bloodshed—sins enough,Wherein our Hebrew part is small.Convert yourselves!'—he cut up rough.

"'Removal, not destruction, sirs!

Just turn your picture! Let it front

The public path! Or memory errs,

Or that same public path is wont

To witness many a chance befall

Of lust, theft, bloodshed—sins enough,

Wherein our Hebrew part is small.

Convert yourselves!'—he cut up rough.

"Look you, how soon a service paidReligion yields the servant fruit!A prompt reply our Farmer madeSo following: 'Sirs, to grant your suitInvolves much danger! How? TransposeOur Lady? Stop the chastisement,All for your good, herself bestows?What wonder if I grudge consent?

"Look you, how soon a service paid

Religion yields the servant fruit!

A prompt reply our Farmer made

So following: 'Sirs, to grant your suit

Involves much danger! How? Transpose

Our Lady? Stop the chastisement,

All for your good, herself bestows?

What wonder if I grudge consent?

"'—Yet grant it: since, what cash I takeIs so much saved from wicked use.We know you! And, for Mary's sake,A hundred ducats shall induceConcession to your prayer. One daySuffices: Master Buti's brushTurns Mary round the other way,And deluges your side with slush.

"'—Yet grant it: since, what cash I take

Is so much saved from wicked use.

We know you! And, for Mary's sake,

A hundred ducats shall induce

Concession to your prayer. One day

Suffices: Master Buti's brush

Turns Mary round the other way,

And deluges your side with slush.

"'Down with the ducats therefore!' Dump,Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece,Hard gold. Then out of door they stump,These dogs, each brisk as with new leaseOf life, I warrant,—glad he 'll dieHenceforward just as he may choose,Be buried and in clover lie!Well said Esaias—'stiff-necked Jews!'

"'Down with the ducats therefore!' Dump,

Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece,

Hard gold. Then out of door they stump,

These dogs, each brisk as with new lease

Of life, I warrant,—glad he 'll die

Henceforward just as he may choose,

Be buried and in clover lie!

Well said Esaias—'stiff-necked Jews!'

"Off posts without a minute's lossOur Farmer, once the cash in poke,And summons Buti—ere its glossHave time to fade from off the joke—To chop and change his work, undoThe done side, make the side, now blank,Recipient of our Lady—who,Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank!

"Off posts without a minute's loss

Our Farmer, once the cash in poke,

And summons Buti—ere its gloss

Have time to fade from off the joke—

To chop and change his work, undo

The done side, make the side, now blank,

Recipient of our Lady—who,

Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank!

"Now, boy, you 're hardly to instructIn technicalities of Art!My nephew's childhood sure has suckedAlong with mother's-milk some partOf painter's-practice—learned, at least,How expeditiously is pliedA work in fresco—never ceasedWhen once begun—a day, each side.

"Now, boy, you 're hardly to instruct

In technicalities of Art!

My nephew's childhood sure has sucked

Along with mother's-milk some part

Of painter's-practice—learned, at least,

How expeditiously is plied

A work in fresco—never ceased

When once begun—a day, each side.

"So, Buti—(he 's with God)—begins:First covers up the shrine all roundWith hoarding; then, as like as twins,Paints, t' other side the burial-ground,New Mary, every point the same;Next, sluices over, as agreed,The old; and last—but, spoil the gameBy telling you? Not I, indeed!

"So, Buti—(he 's with God)—begins:

First covers up the shrine all round

With hoarding; then, as like as twins,

Paints, t' other side the burial-ground,

New Mary, every point the same;

Next, sluices over, as agreed,

The old; and last—but, spoil the game

By telling you? Not I, indeed!

"Well, ere the week was half at end,Out came the object of this zeal,This fine alacrity to spendHard money for mere dead men's weal!How think you? That old spokesman JewWas High Priest, and he had a wifeAs old, and she was dying too,And wished to end in peace her life!

"Well, ere the week was half at end,

Out came the object of this zeal,

This fine alacrity to spend

Hard money for mere dead men's weal!

How think you? That old spokesman Jew

Was High Priest, and he had a wife

As old, and she was dying too,

And wished to end in peace her life!

"And he must humor dying whims,And soothe her with the idle hopeThey 'd say their prayers and sing their hymnsAs if her husband were the Pope!And she did die—believing just—This privilege was purchased! DeadIn comfort through her foolish trust!'Stiff-necked ones,' well Esaias said!

"And he must humor dying whims,

And soothe her with the idle hope

They 'd say their prayers and sing their hymns

As if her husband were the Pope!

And she did die—believing just

—This privilege was purchased! Dead

In comfort through her foolish trust!

'Stiff-necked ones,' well Esaias said!

"So, Sabbath morning, out of gateAnd on to way, what sees our archGood Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight—The corpse—on shoulder, and so, march!'Now for it, Buti!' In the nickOf time 't is pully-hauly, henceWith hoarding! O'er the wayside quickThere 's Mary plain in evidence!

"So, Sabbath morning, out of gate

And on to way, what sees our arch

Good Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight—

The corpse—on shoulder, and so, march!

'Now for it, Buti!' In the nick

Of time 't is pully-hauly, hence

With hoarding! O'er the wayside quick

There 's Mary plain in evidence!

"And here 's the convoy halting: right!Oh, they are bent on howling psalmsAnd growling prayers, when opposite!And yet they glance, for all their qualms,Approve that promptitude of his,The Farmer's—duly at his postTo take due thanks from every phiz,Sour smirk—nay, surly smile almost!

"And here 's the convoy halting: right!

Oh, they are bent on howling psalms

And growling prayers, when opposite!

And yet they glance, for all their qualms,

Approve that promptitude of his,

The Farmer's—duly at his post

To take due thanks from every phiz,

Sour smirk—nay, surly smile almost!

"Then earthward drops each brow again;The solemn task 's resumed; they reachTheir holy field—the unholy train:Enter its precinct, all and each,Wrapt somehow in their godless rites;Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo,They lift their faces! What delightsThe mourners as they turn to go?

"Then earthward drops each brow again;

The solemn task 's resumed; they reach

Their holy field—the unholy train:

Enter its precinct, all and each,

Wrapt somehow in their godless rites;

Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo,

They lift their faces! What delights

The mourners as they turn to go?

"Ha, ha! he, he! On just the sideThey drew their purse-strings to make quitOf Mary,—Christ the CrucifiedFronted them now—these biters bit!Never was such a hiss and snort,Such screwing nose and shooting lip!Their purchase—honey in report—Proved gall and verjuice at first sip!

"Ha, ha! he, he! On just the side

They drew their purse-strings to make quit

Of Mary,—Christ the Crucified

Fronted them now—these biters bit!

Never was such a hiss and snort,

Such screwing nose and shooting lip!

Their purchase—honey in report—

Proved gall and verjuice at first sip!

"Out they break, on they bustle, where,A-top of wall, the Farmer waitsWith Buti: never fun so rare!The Farmer has the best: he ratesThe rascal, as the old High PriestTakes on himself to sermonize—Nay, sneer, 'We Jews supposed, at least,Theft was a crime in Christian eyes!'

"Out they break, on they bustle, where,

A-top of wall, the Farmer waits

With Buti: never fun so rare!

The Farmer has the best: he rates

The rascal, as the old High Priest

Takes on himself to sermonize—

Nay, sneer, 'We Jews supposed, at least,

Theft was a crime in Christian eyes!'

"'Theft?' cries the Farmer. 'Eat your words!Show me what constitutes a breachOf faith in aught was said or heard!I promised you in plainest speechI 'd take the thing you count disgraceAnd put it here—and here 't is put!Did you suppose I 'd leave the placeBlank therefore, just your rage to glut?

"'Theft?' cries the Farmer. 'Eat your words!

Show me what constitutes a breach

Of faith in aught was said or heard!

I promised you in plainest speech

I 'd take the thing you count disgrace

And put it here—and here 't is put!

Did you suppose I 'd leave the place

Blank therefore, just your rage to glut?

"'I guess you dared not stipulateFor such a damned impertinence!So, quick, my graybeard, out of gateAnd in at Ghetto! Haste you hence!As long as I have house and land,To spite you irreligious chaps,Here shall the Crucifixion stand—Unless you down with cash, perhaps!'

"'I guess you dared not stipulate

For such a damned impertinence!

So, quick, my graybeard, out of gate

And in at Ghetto! Haste you hence!

As long as I have house and land,

To spite you irreligious chaps,

Here shall the Crucifixion stand—

Unless you down with cash, perhaps!'

"So snickered he and Buti both.The Jews said nothing, interchangedA glance or two, renewed their oathTo keep ears stopped and hearts estrangedFrom grace, for all our Church can do;Then off they scuttle: sullen jogHomewards, against our Church to brewFresh mischief in their synagogue.

"So snickered he and Buti both.

The Jews said nothing, interchanged

A glance or two, renewed their oath

To keep ears stopped and hearts estranged

From grace, for all our Church can do;

Then off they scuttle: sullen jog

Homewards, against our Church to brew

Fresh mischief in their synagogue.

"But next day—see what happened, boy!See why I bid you have a careHow you pelt Jews! The knaves employSuch methods of revenge, forbearNo outrage on our faith, when freeTo wreak their malice! Here they tookSo base a method—plague o' meIf I record it in my Book!

"But next day—see what happened, boy!

See why I bid you have a care

How you pelt Jews! The knaves employ

Such methods of revenge, forbear

No outrage on our faith, when free

To wreak their malice! Here they took

So base a method—plague o' me

If I record it in my Book!

"For, next day, while the Farmer satLaughing with Buti, in his shop,At their successful joke,—rat-tat,—Door opens, and they 're like to dropDown to the floor as in there stalksA six-feet-high herculean-builtYoung he-Jew with a beard that balksDescription. 'Help ere blood be spilt!'

"For, next day, while the Farmer sat

Laughing with Buti, in his shop,

At their successful joke,—rat-tat,—

Door opens, and they 're like to drop

Down to the floor as in there stalks

A six-feet-high herculean-built

Young he-Jew with a beard that balks

Description. 'Help ere blood be spilt!'

—"Screamed Buti: for he recognizedWhom but the son, no less no more,Of that High Priest his work surprisedSo pleasantly the day before!Son of the mother, then, whereofThe bier he lent a shoulder to,And made the moans about, dared scoffAt sober Christian grief—the Jew!

—"Screamed Buti: for he recognized

Whom but the son, no less no more,

Of that High Priest his work surprised

So pleasantly the day before!

Son of the mother, then, whereof

The bier he lent a shoulder to,

And made the moans about, dared scoff

At sober Christian grief—the Jew!

"'Sirs, I salute you! Never rise!No apprehension!' (Buti, whiteAnd trembling like a tub of size,Had tried to smuggle out of sightThe picture's self—the thing in oils,You know, from which a fresco 's dashedWhich courage speeds while caution spoils)'Stay and be praised, sir, unabashed!

"'Sirs, I salute you! Never rise!

No apprehension!' (Buti, white

And trembling like a tub of size,

Had tried to smuggle out of sight

The picture's self—the thing in oils,

You know, from which a fresco 's dashed

Which courage speeds while caution spoils)

'Stay and be praised, sir, unabashed!

"'Praised,—ay, and paid too: for I comeTo buy that very work of yours.My poor abode, which boasts—well, someFew specimens of Art, secures,Haply, a masterpiece indeedIf I should find my humble meansSuffice the outlay. So, proceed!Propose—ere prudence intervenes!'

"'Praised,—ay, and paid too: for I come

To buy that very work of yours.

My poor abode, which boasts—well, some

Few specimens of Art, secures,

Haply, a masterpiece indeed

If I should find my humble means

Suffice the outlay. So, proceed!

Propose—ere prudence intervenes!'

"On Buti, cowering like a child,These words descended from aloft,In tone so ominously mild,With smile terrifically softTo that degree—could Buti dare(Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice?He asked, thus taken unaware,No more than just the proper price!

"On Buti, cowering like a child,

These words descended from aloft,

In tone so ominously mild,

With smile terrifically soft

To that degree—could Buti dare

(Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice?

He asked, thus taken unaware,

No more than just the proper price!

"'Done!' cries the monster. 'I disburseForthwith your moderate demand.Count on my custom—if no worseYour future work be, understand,Than this I carry off! No aid!My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews:The burden 's easy, and we 're made,Easy or hard, to bear—we Jews!'

"'Done!' cries the monster. 'I disburse

Forthwith your moderate demand.

Count on my custom—if no worse

Your future work be, understand,

Than this I carry off! No aid!

My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews:

The burden 's easy, and we 're made,

Easy or hard, to bear—we Jews!'

"Crossing himself at such escape,Buti by turns the money eyesAnd, timidly, the stalwart shapeNow moving doorwards; but, more wise,The Farmer—who, though dumb, this whileHad watched advantage—straight conceivedA reason for that tone and smileSo mild and soft! The Jew—believed!

"Crossing himself at such escape,

Buti by turns the money eyes

And, timidly, the stalwart shape

Now moving doorwards; but, more wise,

The Farmer—who, though dumb, this while

Had watched advantage—straight conceived

A reason for that tone and smile

So mild and soft! The Jew—believed!

"Mary in triumph borne to deckA Hebrew household! Pictured whereNo one was used to bend the neckIn praise or bow the knee in prayer!Borne to that domicile by whom?The son of the High Priest! Through what?An insult done his mother's tomb!Saul changed to Paul—the case came pat!

"Mary in triumph borne to deck

A Hebrew household! Pictured where

No one was used to bend the neck

In praise or bow the knee in prayer!

Borne to that domicile by whom?

The son of the High Priest! Through what?

An insult done his mother's tomb!

Saul changed to Paul—the case came pat!

"'Stay, dog-Jew ... gentle sir, that is!Resolve me! Can it be, she crowned,—Mary, by miracle,—oh bliss!—My present to your burial-ground?Certain, a ray of light has burstYour vale of darkness! Had you else,Only for Mary's sake, unpursedSo much hard money? Tell—oh, tell's!'

"'Stay, dog-Jew ... gentle sir, that is!

Resolve me! Can it be, she crowned,—

Mary, by miracle,—oh bliss!—

My present to your burial-ground?

Certain, a ray of light has burst

Your vale of darkness! Had you else,

Only for Mary's sake, unpursed

So much hard money? Tell—oh, tell's!'

"Round—like a serpent that we tookFor worm and trod on—turns his bulkAbout the Jew. First dreadful lookSends Buti in a trice to skulkOut of sight somewhere, safe—alack!But our good Farmer faith made bold:And firm (with Florence at his back)He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled—

"Round—like a serpent that we took

For worm and trod on—turns his bulk

About the Jew. First dreadful look

Sends Buti in a trice to skulk

Out of sight somewhere, safe—alack!

But our good Farmer faith made bold:

And firm (with Florence at his back)

He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled—

"'Ay, sir, a miracle was worked,By quite another power, I trow.Than ever yet in canvas lurked,Or you would scarcely face me now!A certain impulse did suggestA certain grasp with this right-hand,Which probably had put to restOur quarrel,—thus your throat once spanned!

"'Ay, sir, a miracle was worked,

By quite another power, I trow.

Than ever yet in canvas lurked,

Or you would scarcely face me now!

A certain impulse did suggest

A certain grasp with this right-hand,

Which probably had put to rest

Our quarrel,—thus your throat once spanned!

"'But I remembered me, subduedThat impulse, and you face me still!And soon a philosophic moodSucceeding (hear it, if you will!)Has altogether changed my viewsConcerning Art. Blind prejudice!Well may you Christians tax us JewsWith scrupulosity too nice!

"'But I remembered me, subdued

That impulse, and you face me still!

And soon a philosophic mood

Succeeding (hear it, if you will!)

Has altogether changed my views

Concerning Art. Blind prejudice!

Well may you Christians tax us Jews

With scrupulosity too nice!

"'For, don't I see,—let 's issue join!—Whenever I 'm allowed pollute(I—and my little bag of coin)Some Christian palace of repute,—Don't I see stuck up everywhereAbundant proof that cultured tasteHas Beauty for its only care,And upon Truth no thought to waste?

"'For, don't I see,—let 's issue join!—

Whenever I 'm allowed pollute

(I—and my little bag of coin)

Some Christian palace of repute,—

Don't I see stuck up everywhere

Abundant proof that cultured taste

Has Beauty for its only care,

And upon Truth no thought to waste?

"''Jew, since it must be, take in pledgeOf payment'—so a CardinalHas sighed to me as if a wedgeEntered his heart—'this best of allMy treasures!'Leda, GanymedeOr Antiope: swan, eagle, ape,(Or what 's the beast of what 's the breed,)And Jupiter in every shape!

"''Jew, since it must be, take in pledge

Of payment'—so a Cardinal

Has sighed to me as if a wedge

Entered his heart—'this best of all

My treasures!'Leda, Ganymede

Or Antiope: swan, eagle, ape,

(Or what 's the beast of what 's the breed,)

And Jupiter in every shape!

"'Whereat if I presume to ask'But, Eminence, though Titian's whiskOf brush have well performed its task,How comes it these false godships friskIn presence of—what yonder framePretends to image? Surely, oddIt seems, you let confront The NameEach beast the heathen called his god!'

"'Whereat if I presume to ask

'But, Eminence, though Titian's whisk

Of brush have well performed its task,

How comes it these false godships frisk

In presence of—what yonder frame

Pretends to image? Surely, odd

It seems, you let confront The Name

Each beast the heathen called his god!'

"'Benignant smiles me pity straightThe Cardinal.' 'Tis Truth, we prize!Art 's the sole question in debate!These subjects are so many lies.We treat them with a proper scornWhen we turn lies—called gods forsooth—To lies' fit use, now Christ is born.Drawing and coloring are Truth.

"'Benignant smiles me pity straight

The Cardinal.' 'Tis Truth, we prize!

Art 's the sole question in debate!

These subjects are so many lies.

We treat them with a proper scorn

When we turn lies—called gods forsooth—

To lies' fit use, now Christ is born.

Drawing and coloring are Truth.

"''Think you I honor lies so muchAs scruple to parade the charmsOf Leda—Titian, every touch—Because the thing within her armsMeans Jupiter who had the praiseAnd prayer of a benighted world?He would have mine too, if, in daysOf light, I kept the canvas furled!'

"''Think you I honor lies so much

As scruple to parade the charms

Of Leda—Titian, every touch—

Because the thing within her arms

Means Jupiter who had the praise

And prayer of a benighted world?

He would have mine too, if, in days

Of light, I kept the canvas furled!'

"'So ending, with some easy gibe.What power has logic! I, at once,Acknowledged error in our tribeSo squeamish that, when friends ensconceA pretty picture in its nicheTo do us honor, deck our graves,We fret and fume and have an itchTo strangle folk—ungrateful knaves!

"'So ending, with some easy gibe.

What power has logic! I, at once,

Acknowledged error in our tribe

So squeamish that, when friends ensconce

A pretty picture in its niche

To do us honor, deck our graves,

We fret and fume and have an itch

To strangle folk—ungrateful knaves!

"'No, sir! Be sure that—what 's its style,Your picture?—shall possess ungrudgedA place among my rank and fileOf Ledas and what not—be judgedJust as a picture! and (becauseI fear me much I scarce have boughtA Titian) Master Buti's flawsFound there, will have the laugh flaws ought!'

"'No, sir! Be sure that—what 's its style,

Your picture?—shall possess ungrudged

A place among my rank and file

Of Ledas and what not—be judged

Just as a picture! and (because

I fear me much I scarce have bought

A Titian) Master Buti's flaws

Found there, will have the laugh flaws ought!'

"So, with a scowl, it darkens door—This bulk—no longer! Buti makesPrompt glad re-entry; there 's a scoreOf oaths, as the good Farmer wakesFrom what must needs have been a trance,Or he had struck (he swears) to groundThe bold bad mouth that dared advanceSuch doctrine the reverse of sound!

"So, with a scowl, it darkens door—

This bulk—no longer! Buti makes

Prompt glad re-entry; there 's a score

Of oaths, as the good Farmer wakes

From what must needs have been a trance,

Or he had struck (he swears) to ground

The bold bad mouth that dared advance

Such doctrine the reverse of sound!

"Was magic here? Most like! For, since,Somehow our city's faith grows stillMore and more lukewarm, and our PrinceOr loses heart or wants the willTo check increase of cold. 'T is 'LiveAnd let live! Languidly repressThe Dissident! In short,—contriveChristians must bear with Jews: no less!'

"Was magic here? Most like! For, since,

Somehow our city's faith grows still

More and more lukewarm, and our Prince

Or loses heart or wants the will

To check increase of cold. 'T is 'Live

And let live! Languidly repress

The Dissident! In short,—contrive

Christians must bear with Jews: no less!'

"The end seems, any IsraeliteWants any picture,—pishes, poohs,Purchases, hangs it full in sightIn any chamber he may choose!In Christ's crown, one more thorn we rue!In Mary's bosom, one more sword!No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew!O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord?"

"The end seems, any Israelite

Wants any picture,—pishes, poohs,

Purchases, hangs it full in sight

In any chamber he may choose!

In Christ's crown, one more thorn we rue!

In Mary's bosom, one more sword!

No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew!

O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord?"

μεστοι . . .οἱ δ' ἀμφορῆς οἴνου μέλανος ἀνθοσμίου

μεστοι . . .

οἱ δ' ἀμφορῆς οἴνου μέλανος ἀνθοσμίου

"The poets pour us wine—"Said the dearest poet I ever knew,Dearest and greatest and best to me.You clamor athirst for poetry—We pour. "But when shall a vintage be"—You cry—"strong grape, squeezed gold from screw.Yet sweet juice, flavored flowery-fine?That were indeed the wine!"One pours your cup—stark strength,Meat for a man; and you eye the pulpStrained, turbid still, from the viscous bloodOf the snaky bough: and you grumble "Good!For it swells resolve, breeds hardihood;Dispatch it, then, in a single gulp!"So, down, with a wry face, goes at lengthThe liquor: stuff for strength.One pours your cup—sheer sweet,The fragrant fumes of a year condensed:Suspicion of all that 's ripe or rathe,From the bud on branch to the grass in swathe."We suck mere milk of the seasons," saithA curl of each nostril—"dew, dispensedNowise for nerving man to feat:Boys sip such honeyed sweet!"And thus who wants wine strong,Waves each sweet smell of the year away;Who likes to swoon as the sweets suffuseHis train with a mixture of beams and dewsTurned syrupy drink—rough strength eschews:"What though in our veins your wine-stock stay?The lack of the bloom does our palate wrong.Give us wine sweet, not strong!"Yet wine is—some affirm—Prime wine is found in the world somewhere,Of portable strength with sweet to match.You double your heart its dose, yet catch—As the draught descends—a violet-smatch,Softness—however it came there,Through drops expressed by the fire and worm:Strong sweet wine—some affirm.Body and bouquet both?'T is easy to ticket a bottle so;But what was the case in the cask, my friends?Cask? Nay, the vat—where the maker mendsHis strong with his sweet (you suppose) and blendsHis rough with his smooth, till none can knowHow it comes you may tipple, nothing loth,Body and bouquet both."You" being just—the world.No poets—who turn, themselves, the winchOf the press; no critics—I 'll even say,(Being flustered and easy of faith, to-day,)Who for love of the work have learned the wayTill themselves produce home-made, at a pinch:No! You are the world, and wine ne'er purledExcept to please the world!"For, oh the common heart!And, ah the irremissible sinOf poets who please themselves, not us!Strong wine yet sweet wine pouring thus,How please still—Pindar and Æschylus!—Drink—dipt into by the bearded chinAlike and the bloomy lip—no partDenied the common heart!"And might we get such grace,And did you moderns but stock our vaultWith the true half-brandy half-attar-gul,How would seniors indulge at a hearty pullWhile juniors tossed off their thimbleful!Our Shakespeare and Milton escaped your fault,So, they reign supreme o'er the weaker raceThat wants the ancient grace!"If I paid myself with words(As the French say well) I were dupe indeed!I were found in belief that you quaffed and bowsedAt your Shakespeare the whole day long, carousedIn your Milton pottle-deep nor drowsedA moment of night—toped on, took heedOf nothing like modern cream-and-curds.Pay me with deeds, not words!For—see your cellarage!There are forty barrels with Shakespeare's brand.Some five or six are abroach: the restStand spigoted, fauceted. Try and testWhat yourselves call best of the very best!How comes it that still untouched they stand?Why don't you try tap, advance a stageWith the rest in cellerage?For—see your cellarage!There are four big butts of Milton's brew.How comes it you make old drips and dropsDo duty, and there devotion stops?Leave such an abyss of malt and hopsEmbellied in butts which bungs still glue?You hate your bard! A fig for your rage!Free him from cellarage!'T is said I brew stiff drink,But the deuce a flavor of grape is there.Hardly a May-go-down, 't is justA sort of a gruff Go-down-it-must—No Merry-go-down, no gracious gustCommingles the racy with Springtide's rare!"What wonder," say you, "that we cough, and blinkAt Autumn's heady drink?"Is it a fancy, friends?Mighty and mellow are never mixed,Though mighty and mellow be born at once.Sweet for the future,—strong for the nonce!Stuff you should stow away, ensconceIn the deep and dark, to be found fast-fixedAt the century's close: such time strength spendsA-sweetening for my friends!And then—why, what you quaffWith a smack of lip and a cluck of tongue,Is leakage and leavings—just what hapsFrom the tun some learned taster tapsWith a promise "Prepare your watery chaps!Here 's properest wine for old and young!Dispute its perfection—you make us laugh!Have faith, give thanks, but—quaff!"Leakage, I say, or—worse—Leavings suffice pot-valiant souls.Somebody, brimful, long ago,Frothed flagon he drained to the dregs; and, lo,Down whisker and beard what an overflow!Lick spilth that has trickled from classic jowls,Sup the single scene, sip the only verse—Old wine, not new and worse!I grant you: worse by much!Renounce that new where you never gainedOne glow at heart, one gleam at head,And stick to the warrant of age instead!No dwarfs-lap! Fatten, by giants fed!Youfatten, with oceans of drink undrained?Youfeed—who would choke did a cobweb smutchThe Age you love so much?A mine's beneath a moor:Acres of moor roof fathoms of mineWhich diamonds dot where you please to dig;Yet who plies spade for the bright and big?Your product is—truffles, you hunt with a pig!Since bright-and-big, when a man would dine,Suits badly: and therefore the Koh-i-noorMay sleep in mine 'neath moor!Wine, pulse in might from me!It may never emerge in must from vat,Never fill cask nor furnish can,Never end sweet, which strong began—God's gift to gladden the heart of man;But spirit 's at proof, I promise that!No sparing of juice spoils what should beFit brewage—mine for me.Man's thoughts and loves and hates!Earth is my vineyard, these grew there:From grape of the ground, I made or marredMy vintage; easy the task or hard,Who set it—his praise be my reward!Earth's yield! Who yearn for the Dark Blue Sea's,Let them "lay, pray, bray"—the addle-pates!Mine be Man's thoughts, loves, hates!But some one says, "Good Sir!"('T is a worthy versed in what concernsThe making such labor turn out well,)"You don't suppose that the nosegay-smellNeeds always come from the grape? Each bellAt your foot, each bud that your culture spurns,The very cowslip would act like myrrhOn the stiffest brew—good Sir!"Cowslips, abundant birthO'er meadow and hillside, vineyard too,—Like a schoolboy's scrawlings in and outDistasteful lesson-book—all aboutGreece and Rome, victory and rout—Love-verses instead of such vain ado!So, fancies frolic it o'er the earthWhere thoughts have rightlier birth."Nay, thoughtlings they themselves:Loves, hates—in little and less and least!Thoughts? 'What is a man beside a mount!'Loves? 'Absent—poor lovers the minutes count!'Hates? 'Fie—Pope's letters to Martha Blount!'These furnish a wine for a children's-feast:Insipid to man, they suit the elvesLike thoughts, loves, hates themselves."And, friends, beyond disputeI too have the cowslips dewy and dear.Punctual as Springtide forth peep they:I leave them to make my meadow gay.But I ought to pluck and impound them, eh?Not let them alone, but deftly shearAnd shred and reduce to—what may suitChildren, beyond dispute?And, here 's May-month, all bloom,All bounty: what if I sacrifice?If I out with shears and shear, nor stopShearing till prostrate, lo, the crop?And will you prefer it to ginger-popWhen I 've made you wine of the memoriesWhich leave as bare as a churchyard tombMy meadow, late all bloom?Nay, what ingratitudeShould I hesitate to amuse the witsThat have pulled so long at my flask, nor grudgedThe headache that paid their pains, nor budgedFrom bunghole before they sighed and judged"Too rough for our taste, to-day, befitsThe racy and right when the years conclude!"Out on ingratitude!Grateful or ingrate—none,No cowslip of all my fairy crewShall help to concoct what makes you wink,And goes to your head till you think you think!I like them alive: the printer's inkWould sensibly tell on the perfume too.I may use up my nettles, ere I 've done;But of cowslips—friends get none!Don't nettles make a brothWholesome for blood grown lazy and thick?Maws out of sorts make mouths out of taste.My Thirty-four Port—no need to wasteOn a tongue that 's fur and a palate—paste!A magnum for friends who are sound! the sick—I 'll posset and cosset them, nothing loth,Henceforward with nettle-broth!

"The poets pour us wine—"

Said the dearest poet I ever knew,

Dearest and greatest and best to me.

You clamor athirst for poetry—

We pour. "But when shall a vintage be"—

You cry—"strong grape, squeezed gold from screw.

Yet sweet juice, flavored flowery-fine?

That were indeed the wine!"

One pours your cup—stark strength,Meat for a man; and you eye the pulpStrained, turbid still, from the viscous bloodOf the snaky bough: and you grumble "Good!For it swells resolve, breeds hardihood;Dispatch it, then, in a single gulp!"So, down, with a wry face, goes at lengthThe liquor: stuff for strength.

One pours your cup—stark strength,

Meat for a man; and you eye the pulp

Strained, turbid still, from the viscous blood

Of the snaky bough: and you grumble "Good!

For it swells resolve, breeds hardihood;

Dispatch it, then, in a single gulp!"

So, down, with a wry face, goes at length

The liquor: stuff for strength.

One pours your cup—sheer sweet,The fragrant fumes of a year condensed:Suspicion of all that 's ripe or rathe,From the bud on branch to the grass in swathe."We suck mere milk of the seasons," saithA curl of each nostril—"dew, dispensedNowise for nerving man to feat:Boys sip such honeyed sweet!"

One pours your cup—sheer sweet,

The fragrant fumes of a year condensed:

Suspicion of all that 's ripe or rathe,

From the bud on branch to the grass in swathe.

"We suck mere milk of the seasons," saith

A curl of each nostril—"dew, dispensed

Nowise for nerving man to feat:

Boys sip such honeyed sweet!"

And thus who wants wine strong,Waves each sweet smell of the year away;Who likes to swoon as the sweets suffuseHis train with a mixture of beams and dewsTurned syrupy drink—rough strength eschews:"What though in our veins your wine-stock stay?The lack of the bloom does our palate wrong.Give us wine sweet, not strong!"

And thus who wants wine strong,

Waves each sweet smell of the year away;

Who likes to swoon as the sweets suffuse

His train with a mixture of beams and dews

Turned syrupy drink—rough strength eschews:

"What though in our veins your wine-stock stay?

The lack of the bloom does our palate wrong.

Give us wine sweet, not strong!"

Yet wine is—some affirm—Prime wine is found in the world somewhere,Of portable strength with sweet to match.You double your heart its dose, yet catch—As the draught descends—a violet-smatch,Softness—however it came there,Through drops expressed by the fire and worm:Strong sweet wine—some affirm.

Yet wine is—some affirm—

Prime wine is found in the world somewhere,

Of portable strength with sweet to match.

You double your heart its dose, yet catch—

As the draught descends—a violet-smatch,

Softness—however it came there,

Through drops expressed by the fire and worm:

Strong sweet wine—some affirm.

Body and bouquet both?'T is easy to ticket a bottle so;But what was the case in the cask, my friends?Cask? Nay, the vat—where the maker mendsHis strong with his sweet (you suppose) and blendsHis rough with his smooth, till none can knowHow it comes you may tipple, nothing loth,Body and bouquet both.

Body and bouquet both?

'T is easy to ticket a bottle so;

But what was the case in the cask, my friends?

Cask? Nay, the vat—where the maker mends

His strong with his sweet (you suppose) and blends

His rough with his smooth, till none can know

How it comes you may tipple, nothing loth,

Body and bouquet both.

"You" being just—the world.No poets—who turn, themselves, the winchOf the press; no critics—I 'll even say,(Being flustered and easy of faith, to-day,)Who for love of the work have learned the wayTill themselves produce home-made, at a pinch:No! You are the world, and wine ne'er purledExcept to please the world!

"You" being just—the world.

No poets—who turn, themselves, the winch

Of the press; no critics—I 'll even say,

(Being flustered and easy of faith, to-day,)

Who for love of the work have learned the way

Till themselves produce home-made, at a pinch:

No! You are the world, and wine ne'er purled

Except to please the world!

"For, oh the common heart!And, ah the irremissible sinOf poets who please themselves, not us!Strong wine yet sweet wine pouring thus,How please still—Pindar and Æschylus!—Drink—dipt into by the bearded chinAlike and the bloomy lip—no partDenied the common heart!

"For, oh the common heart!

And, ah the irremissible sin

Of poets who please themselves, not us!

Strong wine yet sweet wine pouring thus,

How please still—Pindar and Æschylus!—

Drink—dipt into by the bearded chin

Alike and the bloomy lip—no part

Denied the common heart!

"And might we get such grace,And did you moderns but stock our vaultWith the true half-brandy half-attar-gul,How would seniors indulge at a hearty pullWhile juniors tossed off their thimbleful!Our Shakespeare and Milton escaped your fault,So, they reign supreme o'er the weaker raceThat wants the ancient grace!"

"And might we get such grace,

And did you moderns but stock our vault

With the true half-brandy half-attar-gul,

How would seniors indulge at a hearty pull

While juniors tossed off their thimbleful!

Our Shakespeare and Milton escaped your fault,

So, they reign supreme o'er the weaker race

That wants the ancient grace!"

If I paid myself with words(As the French say well) I were dupe indeed!I were found in belief that you quaffed and bowsedAt your Shakespeare the whole day long, carousedIn your Milton pottle-deep nor drowsedA moment of night—toped on, took heedOf nothing like modern cream-and-curds.Pay me with deeds, not words!

If I paid myself with words

(As the French say well) I were dupe indeed!

I were found in belief that you quaffed and bowsed

At your Shakespeare the whole day long, caroused

In your Milton pottle-deep nor drowsed

A moment of night—toped on, took heed

Of nothing like modern cream-and-curds.

Pay me with deeds, not words!

For—see your cellarage!There are forty barrels with Shakespeare's brand.Some five or six are abroach: the restStand spigoted, fauceted. Try and testWhat yourselves call best of the very best!How comes it that still untouched they stand?Why don't you try tap, advance a stageWith the rest in cellerage?

For—see your cellarage!

There are forty barrels with Shakespeare's brand.

Some five or six are abroach: the rest

Stand spigoted, fauceted. Try and test

What yourselves call best of the very best!

How comes it that still untouched they stand?

Why don't you try tap, advance a stage

With the rest in cellerage?

For—see your cellarage!There are four big butts of Milton's brew.How comes it you make old drips and dropsDo duty, and there devotion stops?Leave such an abyss of malt and hopsEmbellied in butts which bungs still glue?You hate your bard! A fig for your rage!Free him from cellarage!

For—see your cellarage!

There are four big butts of Milton's brew.

How comes it you make old drips and drops

Do duty, and there devotion stops?

Leave such an abyss of malt and hops

Embellied in butts which bungs still glue?

You hate your bard! A fig for your rage!

Free him from cellarage!

'T is said I brew stiff drink,But the deuce a flavor of grape is there.Hardly a May-go-down, 't is justA sort of a gruff Go-down-it-must—No Merry-go-down, no gracious gustCommingles the racy with Springtide's rare!"What wonder," say you, "that we cough, and blinkAt Autumn's heady drink?"

'T is said I brew stiff drink,

But the deuce a flavor of grape is there.

Hardly a May-go-down, 't is just

A sort of a gruff Go-down-it-must—

No Merry-go-down, no gracious gust

Commingles the racy with Springtide's rare!

"What wonder," say you, "that we cough, and blink

At Autumn's heady drink?"

Is it a fancy, friends?Mighty and mellow are never mixed,Though mighty and mellow be born at once.Sweet for the future,—strong for the nonce!Stuff you should stow away, ensconceIn the deep and dark, to be found fast-fixedAt the century's close: such time strength spendsA-sweetening for my friends!

Is it a fancy, friends?

Mighty and mellow are never mixed,

Though mighty and mellow be born at once.

Sweet for the future,—strong for the nonce!

Stuff you should stow away, ensconce

In the deep and dark, to be found fast-fixed

At the century's close: such time strength spends

A-sweetening for my friends!

And then—why, what you quaffWith a smack of lip and a cluck of tongue,Is leakage and leavings—just what hapsFrom the tun some learned taster tapsWith a promise "Prepare your watery chaps!Here 's properest wine for old and young!Dispute its perfection—you make us laugh!Have faith, give thanks, but—quaff!"

And then—why, what you quaff

With a smack of lip and a cluck of tongue,

Is leakage and leavings—just what haps

From the tun some learned taster taps

With a promise "Prepare your watery chaps!

Here 's properest wine for old and young!

Dispute its perfection—you make us laugh!

Have faith, give thanks, but—quaff!"

Leakage, I say, or—worse—Leavings suffice pot-valiant souls.Somebody, brimful, long ago,Frothed flagon he drained to the dregs; and, lo,Down whisker and beard what an overflow!Lick spilth that has trickled from classic jowls,Sup the single scene, sip the only verse—Old wine, not new and worse!

Leakage, I say, or—worse—

Leavings suffice pot-valiant souls.

Somebody, brimful, long ago,

Frothed flagon he drained to the dregs; and, lo,

Down whisker and beard what an overflow!

Lick spilth that has trickled from classic jowls,

Sup the single scene, sip the only verse—

Old wine, not new and worse!

I grant you: worse by much!Renounce that new where you never gainedOne glow at heart, one gleam at head,And stick to the warrant of age instead!No dwarfs-lap! Fatten, by giants fed!Youfatten, with oceans of drink undrained?Youfeed—who would choke did a cobweb smutchThe Age you love so much?

I grant you: worse by much!

Renounce that new where you never gained

One glow at heart, one gleam at head,

And stick to the warrant of age instead!

No dwarfs-lap! Fatten, by giants fed!

Youfatten, with oceans of drink undrained?

Youfeed—who would choke did a cobweb smutch

The Age you love so much?

A mine's beneath a moor:Acres of moor roof fathoms of mineWhich diamonds dot where you please to dig;Yet who plies spade for the bright and big?Your product is—truffles, you hunt with a pig!Since bright-and-big, when a man would dine,Suits badly: and therefore the Koh-i-noorMay sleep in mine 'neath moor!

A mine's beneath a moor:

Acres of moor roof fathoms of mine

Which diamonds dot where you please to dig;

Yet who plies spade for the bright and big?

Your product is—truffles, you hunt with a pig!

Since bright-and-big, when a man would dine,

Suits badly: and therefore the Koh-i-noor

May sleep in mine 'neath moor!

Wine, pulse in might from me!It may never emerge in must from vat,Never fill cask nor furnish can,Never end sweet, which strong began—God's gift to gladden the heart of man;But spirit 's at proof, I promise that!No sparing of juice spoils what should beFit brewage—mine for me.

Wine, pulse in might from me!

It may never emerge in must from vat,

Never fill cask nor furnish can,

Never end sweet, which strong began—

God's gift to gladden the heart of man;

But spirit 's at proof, I promise that!

No sparing of juice spoils what should be

Fit brewage—mine for me.

Man's thoughts and loves and hates!Earth is my vineyard, these grew there:From grape of the ground, I made or marredMy vintage; easy the task or hard,Who set it—his praise be my reward!Earth's yield! Who yearn for the Dark Blue Sea's,Let them "lay, pray, bray"—the addle-pates!Mine be Man's thoughts, loves, hates!

Man's thoughts and loves and hates!

Earth is my vineyard, these grew there:

From grape of the ground, I made or marred

My vintage; easy the task or hard,

Who set it—his praise be my reward!

Earth's yield! Who yearn for the Dark Blue Sea's,

Let them "lay, pray, bray"—the addle-pates!

Mine be Man's thoughts, loves, hates!

But some one says, "Good Sir!"('T is a worthy versed in what concernsThe making such labor turn out well,)"You don't suppose that the nosegay-smellNeeds always come from the grape? Each bellAt your foot, each bud that your culture spurns,The very cowslip would act like myrrhOn the stiffest brew—good Sir!

But some one says, "Good Sir!"

('T is a worthy versed in what concerns

The making such labor turn out well,)

"You don't suppose that the nosegay-smell

Needs always come from the grape? Each bell

At your foot, each bud that your culture spurns,

The very cowslip would act like myrrh

On the stiffest brew—good Sir!

"Cowslips, abundant birthO'er meadow and hillside, vineyard too,—Like a schoolboy's scrawlings in and outDistasteful lesson-book—all aboutGreece and Rome, victory and rout—Love-verses instead of such vain ado!So, fancies frolic it o'er the earthWhere thoughts have rightlier birth.

"Cowslips, abundant birth

O'er meadow and hillside, vineyard too,

—Like a schoolboy's scrawlings in and out

Distasteful lesson-book—all about

Greece and Rome, victory and rout—

Love-verses instead of such vain ado!

So, fancies frolic it o'er the earth

Where thoughts have rightlier birth.

"Nay, thoughtlings they themselves:Loves, hates—in little and less and least!Thoughts? 'What is a man beside a mount!'Loves? 'Absent—poor lovers the minutes count!'Hates? 'Fie—Pope's letters to Martha Blount!'These furnish a wine for a children's-feast:Insipid to man, they suit the elvesLike thoughts, loves, hates themselves."

"Nay, thoughtlings they themselves:

Loves, hates—in little and less and least!

Thoughts? 'What is a man beside a mount!'

Loves? 'Absent—poor lovers the minutes count!'

Hates? 'Fie—Pope's letters to Martha Blount!'

These furnish a wine for a children's-feast:

Insipid to man, they suit the elves

Like thoughts, loves, hates themselves."

And, friends, beyond disputeI too have the cowslips dewy and dear.Punctual as Springtide forth peep they:I leave them to make my meadow gay.But I ought to pluck and impound them, eh?Not let them alone, but deftly shearAnd shred and reduce to—what may suitChildren, beyond dispute?

And, friends, beyond dispute

I too have the cowslips dewy and dear.

Punctual as Springtide forth peep they:

I leave them to make my meadow gay.

But I ought to pluck and impound them, eh?

Not let them alone, but deftly shear

And shred and reduce to—what may suit

Children, beyond dispute?

And, here 's May-month, all bloom,All bounty: what if I sacrifice?If I out with shears and shear, nor stopShearing till prostrate, lo, the crop?And will you prefer it to ginger-popWhen I 've made you wine of the memoriesWhich leave as bare as a churchyard tombMy meadow, late all bloom?

And, here 's May-month, all bloom,

All bounty: what if I sacrifice?

If I out with shears and shear, nor stop

Shearing till prostrate, lo, the crop?

And will you prefer it to ginger-pop

When I 've made you wine of the memories

Which leave as bare as a churchyard tomb

My meadow, late all bloom?

Nay, what ingratitudeShould I hesitate to amuse the witsThat have pulled so long at my flask, nor grudgedThe headache that paid their pains, nor budgedFrom bunghole before they sighed and judged"Too rough for our taste, to-day, befitsThe racy and right when the years conclude!"Out on ingratitude!

Nay, what ingratitude

Should I hesitate to amuse the wits

That have pulled so long at my flask, nor grudged

The headache that paid their pains, nor budged

From bunghole before they sighed and judged

"Too rough for our taste, to-day, befits

The racy and right when the years conclude!"

Out on ingratitude!

Grateful or ingrate—none,No cowslip of all my fairy crewShall help to concoct what makes you wink,And goes to your head till you think you think!I like them alive: the printer's inkWould sensibly tell on the perfume too.I may use up my nettles, ere I 've done;But of cowslips—friends get none!

Grateful or ingrate—none,

No cowslip of all my fairy crew

Shall help to concoct what makes you wink,

And goes to your head till you think you think!

I like them alive: the printer's ink

Would sensibly tell on the perfume too.

I may use up my nettles, ere I 've done;

But of cowslips—friends get none!

Don't nettles make a brothWholesome for blood grown lazy and thick?Maws out of sorts make mouths out of taste.My Thirty-four Port—no need to wasteOn a tongue that 's fur and a palate—paste!A magnum for friends who are sound! the sick—I 'll posset and cosset them, nothing loth,Henceforward with nettle-broth!

Don't nettles make a broth

Wholesome for blood grown lazy and thick?

Maws out of sorts make mouths out of taste.

My Thirty-four Port—no need to waste

On a tongue that 's fur and a palate—paste!

A magnum for friends who are sound! the sick—

I 'll posset and cosset them, nothing loth,

Henceforward with nettle-broth!

May I be permitted to chat a little, by way of recreation, at the end of a somewhat toilsome and perhaps fruitless adventure?

If, because of the immense fame of the following Tragedy, I wished to acquaint myself with it, and could only do so by the help of a translator, I should require him to be literal at every cost save that of absolute violence to our language. The use of certain allowable constructions which, happening to be out of daily favor, are all the more appropriate to archaic workmanship, is no violence: but I would be tolerant for once—in the case of so immensely famous an original—of even a clumsy attempt to furnish me with the very turn of each phrase in as Greek a fashion as English will bear: while, with respect to amplifications and embellishments,—anything rather than, with the good farmer, experience that most signal of mortifications, "to gape for Æschylus and get Theognis." I should especially decline—what may appear to brighten up a passage—the employment of a new word for some old one,—πόνος, or μέγας, or τέλοσ, with its congeners, recurring four times in three lines: for though such substitution may be in itself perfectly justifiable, yet this exercise of ingenuity ought to be within the competence of the unaided English reader if he likes to show himself ingenious. Learning Greek teaches Greek, and nothing else: certainly not common sense, if that have failed to precede the teaching. Further,—if I obtained a mere strict bald version of thing by thing, or at least word pregnant with thing, I should hardly look for an impossible transmission of the reputed magniloquence and sonority of the Greek; and this with the less regret, inasmuch as there is abundant musicality elsewhere, but nowhere else than in his poem the ideas of the poet. And lastly, when presented with these ideas, I should expect the result to prove very hard reading indeed if it were meant to resemble Æschylus, ξυμβαλεῖν οὐ ῥᾴδιος, "not easy to understand," in the opinion of his stoutest advocate among the ancients; while, I suppose, even modern scholarship sympathizes with that early declaration of the redoubtable Salmasius, when, looking about for an example of the truly obscure for the benefit of those who found obscurity in the sacred books, he protested that this particular play leaves them all behind in this respect, with their "Hebraisms, Syriasms, Hellenisms, and the whole of such bag and baggage."[6]For, over and above the proposed ambiguity of the Chorus, the text is sadly corrupt, probably interpolated, and certainly mutilated; and no unlearned person enjoys the scholar's privilege of trying his fancy upon each obstacle whenever he comes to a stoppage, and effectually clearing the way by suppressing what seems to lie in it.

All I can say for the present performance is, that I have done as I would be done by, if need were. Should anybody, without need, honor my translation by a comparison with the original, I beg him to observe that, following no editor exclusively, I keep to the earlier readings so long as sense can be made out of them, but disregard, I hope, little of importance in recent criticism so far as I have fallen in with it. Fortunately, the poorest translation, provided only it be faithful,—though it reproduce all the artistic confusion of tenses, moods, and persons, with which the original teems,—will not only suffice to display what an eloquent friend maintains to be the all-in-all of poetry—"the action of the piece"—but may help to illustrate his assurance that "the Greeks are the highest models of expression, the unapproached masters of the grand style: their expression is so excellent because it is so admirably kept in its right degree of prominence, because it is so simple and so well subordinated, because it draws its force directly from the pregnancy of the matter which it conveys ... not a word wasted, not a sentiment capriciously thrown in, stroke on stroke"[7]So may all happen!

Just a word more on the subject of my spelling—in a transcript from the Greek and there exclusively—Greek names and places precisely as does the Greek author. I began this practice, with great innocency of intention, some six-and-thirty years ago. Leigh Hunt, I remember, was accustomed to speak of his gratitude, when ignorant of Greek, to those writers (like Goldsmith) who had obliged him by using English characters, so that he might relish, for instance, the smooth quality of sucha phrase as "hapalunetai galené;" he said also that Shelley was indignant at "Firenze" having displaced the Dantesque "Fiorenza," and would contemptuously English the intruder "Firence." I supposed I was doing a simple thing enough: but there has been till lately much astonishment atosandus,aiandoi, representing the same letters in Greek. Of a sudden, however, whether in translation or out of it, everybody seems committing the offence, although the adoption ofufor υ still presents such difficulty that it is a wonder how we have hitherto escaped "Eyripides." But there existed a sturdy Briton who, Ben Jonson informs us, wrote "The Life of the Emperor Anthony Pie"—whom we now acquiesce in as Antoninus Pius: for "with time and patience the mulberry leaf becomes satin." Yet there is on all sides much profession of respect for what Keats called "vowelled Greek"—"consonanted," one would expect; and, in a criticism upon a late admirable translation of something of my own, it was deplored that, in a certain verse corresponding in measure to the fourteenth of the sixth Pythian Ode, "neither Professor Jebb in his Greek, nor Mr. Browning in his English, could emulate that matchlessly musical γόνον ἰδὼν κάλλιστον ἀνδρῶν." Now, undoubtedly, "Seeing her son the fairest of men" has more sense than sound to boast of: but then, would not an Italian roll us out "Rimirando il figliuolo bellissimo degli uomini?" whereat Pindar, no less than Professor Jebb and Mr. Browning, τριακτῆρος οἴχεται τυχών.

It is recorded in the Annals of Art[8]that there was once upon a time, practising so far north as Stockholm, a painter and picture-cleaner—sire of a less unhappy son—Old Muytens: and the annalist, Baron de Tessé, has not concealed his profound dissatisfaction at Old Muytens' conceit "to have himself had something to do with the work of whatever master of eminence might pass through his hands." Whence it was—the Baron goes on to deplore—that much detriment was done to that excellent piece "The Recognition of Achilles," by Rubens, through the perversity of Old Muytens, "who must needs take on him to beautify every nymph of the twenty by the bestowment of a widened eye and an enlarged mouth." I, at least, have left eyes and mouths everywhere as I found them, and this conservatism is all that claims praise for—what is, after all ἀκέλευστος ἄμισθος ἀοιδά. No, neither "uncommanded" nor "unrewarded:" since it was commanded of me by my venerated friend Thomas Carlyle, and rewarded will it indeed become, if I am permitted to dignify it by the prefatory insertion of his dear and noble name.

R. B.

London,October 1, 1877.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA

Back to Index Next