WITH FRANCIS FURINI

IAh, George Bubb Dodington Lord Melcombe,—no,Yours was the wrong way!—always understand,Supposing that permissibly you plannedHow statesmanship—your trade—in outward showMight figure as inspired by simple zealFor serving country, king and commonweal,(Though service tire to death the body, teaseThe soul from out an o'ertasked patriot-drudge)And yet should prove zeal's outward show agreesIn all respects—right reason being judge—With inward care that, while the statesman spendsBody and soul thus freely for the sakeOf public good, his private welfare takeNo harm by such devotedness. IntendsScripture aught else—let captious folk inquire—Which teaches "Laborers deserve their hire,And who neglects his household bears the bellAway of sinning from an infidel"?Wiselier would fools that carp bestow a thoughtHow birds build nests; at outside, roughly wrought,Twig knots with twig, loam plasters up each chink,Leaving the inmate rudely lodged—you think?Peep but inside! That specious rude-and-roughCovers a domicile where downy fluffEmbeds the ease-deserving architect,Who toiled and moiled not merely to effect'Twixt sprig and spray a stop-gap in the teethOf wind and weather, guard what swung beneathFrom upset only, but contrived himselfA snug interior, warm and soft and sleek.Of what material? Oh, for that, you seekHow nature prompts each volatile! Thus—pelfSmoothens the human mudlark's lodging, powerDemands some hardier wrappage to embraceRobuster heart-beats: rock, not tree nor tower,Contents the building eagle: rook shoves closeTo brother rook on branch, while crow moroseApart keeps balance perched on topmost bough.No sort of bird but suits his taste somehow:Nay, Darwin tells of such as love the bower—His bower-birds opportunely yield us yetThe lacking instance when at loss to getA feathered parallel to what we findThe secret motor of some mighty mindThat worked such wonders—all for vanity!Worked them to haply figure in the eyeOf intimates as first of—doers' kind?Actors', that work in earnest sportively,Paid by a sourish smile. How says the Sage?Birds born to strut prepare a platform-stageWith sparkling stones and speckled shells, all sortsOf slimy rubbish, odds and ends and orts,Whereon to pose and posture and engageThe priceless female simper.III have goneThus into detail, George Bubb Dodington,Lest, when I take you presently to taskFor the wrong way of working, you should ask"What fool conjectures that profession meansPerformance? that who goes behind the scenesFinds,—acting over,—still the soot-stuff screensOthello's visage, still the self-same cloak'sBugle-bright-blackness half reveals half chokesHamlet's emotion, as ten minutes since?"No, each resumes his garb, stands—Moor or prince—Decently draped: just so with statesmanship!All outside show, in short, is sham—why wince?Concede me—while our parley lasts! You tripAfterwards—lay but this to heart! (there lurksSomewhere in all of us a lump which irksSomewhat the spriteliest-scheming brain that 's bentOn brave adventure, would but heart consent!)—Here trip you, that—your aim allowed as right—Your means thereto were wrong. Come, we, this night,Profess one purpose, hold one principle,Are at odds only as to—not the willBut way of winning solace for ourselves—No matter if the ore for which zeal delvesBe gold or coprolite, while zeal's pretenceIs—we do good to men at—whose expenseBut ours? who tire the body, tease the soul,Simply that, running, we may reach fame's goalAnd wreathe at last our brows with bay—the State'sDisinterested slaves, nay—please the Fates—Saviors and nothing less: such lot has been!Statesmanship triumphs pedestalled, serene,—O happy consummation!—brought aboutBy managing with skill the rabble-routFor which we labor (never mind the name—People or populace, for praise or blame)Making them understand—their heaven, their hell,Their every hope and fear is ours as well.Man's cause—what other can we have at heart?Whence follows that the necessary partHigh o'er Man's head we play,—and freelier breatheJust that the multitude which gasps beneathMay reach the level where unstifled standOurselves at vantage to put forth a hand,Assist the prostrate public. 'T is by rightMerely of such pretence, we reach the heightWhere storms abound, to brave—nay, court their stress,Though all too well aware—of pomp the less,Of peace the more! But who are we, to spurnFor peace' sake, duty's pointing? Up, then—earnAlbeit no prize we may but martyrdom!Now, such fit height to launch salvation from,How get and gain? Since help must needs be cravedBy would-be saviours of the else-unsaved,How coax them to co-operate, lend a lift,Kneel down and let us mount?IIIYou say, "Make shiftBy sham—the harsh word: preach and teach, persuadeSomehow the Public—not despising aidOf salutary artifice—we seekSolely their good: our strength would raise the weak,Our cultivated knowledge supplementTheir rudeness, rawness: why to us were lentAbility except to come in use?Who loves his kind must by all means induceThat kind to let his love play freely, pressIn Man's behalf to full performance!"IVYes—Yes, George, we know!—whereat they hear, believe,And bend the knee, and on the neck receiveWho fawned and cringed to purpose? Not so, George!Try simple falsehood on shrewd folk who forgeLies of superior fashion day by dayAnd hour by hour? With craftsmen versed as theyWhat chance of competition when the toolsOnly a novice wields? Are knaves such fools?Disinterested patriots, spare your tongueThe tones thrice-silvery, cheek save smiles it flungPearl-like profuse to swine—a herd, whereofNo unit needs be taught, his neighbor's troughScarce holds for who but grunts and whines the husksDue to a wrinkled snout that shows sharp tusks.No animal—much less our lordly Man—Obeys its like: with strength all rule began,The stoutest awes the pasture. Soon succeedsDiscrimination,—nicer power Man needsTo rule him than is bred of bone and thew:Intelligence must move strength's self. This tooLasts but its time: the multitude at lengthLooks inside for intelligence and strengthAnd finds them here and there to pick and choose:"All at your service, mine, see!" Ay, but who 'sMy George, at this late day, to make his boast"In strength, intelligence, I rule the roast,Beat, all and some, the ungraced who crowd your ranks?""Oh, but I love, would lead you, gain your thanksBy unexampled yearning for Man's sake—Passion that solely waits your help to takeEffect in action!" George, which one of usBut holds with his own heart communion thus:"I am, if not of men the first and best,Still—to receive enjoyment—properest:Which since by force I cannot, nor by witMost likely—craft must serve in place of it.Flatter, cajole! If so I bring withinMy net the gains which wit and force should win,What hinders?" 'T is a trick we know of old:Try, George, some other of tricks manifold!The multitude means mass and mixture—right!Are mixtures simple, pray, or composite?Dive into Man, your medley: see the waste!Sloth-stifled genius, energy disgracedBy ignorance, high aims with sorry skill,Will without means and means in want of will—Sure we might fish, from out the mothers' sonsThat welter thus, a dozen Dodingtons!Why call up Dodington, and none beside,To take his seat upon our backs and rideAs statesman conquering and to conquer? Well,The last expedient, which must needs excelThose old ones—this it is,—at any rateTo-day's conception thus I formulate:As simple force has been replaced, just soMust simple wit be: men have got to knowSuch wit as what you boast is nowise heldThe wonder once it was, but, paralleledToo plentifully, counts not,—puts to shameModest possessors like yourself who claim,By virtue of it merely, power and place—Which means the sweets of office. Since our raceTeems with the like of you, some special gift,Your very own, must coax our hands to lift,And backs to bear you: is it just and rightTo privilege your nature?V"State things quiteOther than so"—make answer! "I pretendNo such community with men. PerpendMy key to domination! Who would useMan for his pleasure needs must introduceThe element that awes Man. Once for all,His nature owns a SupernaturalIn fact as well as phrase—which found must he—Where, in this doubting age? Old mysteryHas served its turn—seen through and sent adriftTo nothingness: new wizard-craft makes shiftNowadays shorn of help by robe and book,—Otherwise, elsewhere, for success must lookThan chalked-ring, incantation-gibberish.Somebody comes to conjure: that 's he? Pish!He 's like the roomful of rapt gazers,—there 'sNo sort of difference in the garb he wearsFrom ordinary dressing,—gesture, speech,Deportment, just like those of all and eachThat eye their master of the minute. Stay!What of the something—call it how you may—Uncanny in the—quack? That 's easy said!Notice how the Professor turns no headAnd yet takes cognizance of who accepts,Denies, is puzzled as to the adept'sSupremacy, yields up or lies in waitTo trap the trickster! Doubtless, out of dateAre dealings with the devil: yet, the stirOf mouth, its smile half smug half sinister,Mock-modest boldness masked in diffidence,—What if the man have—who knows how or whence?—Confederate potency unguessed by us—Prove no such cheat as he pretends?"VIAy, thusHad but my George played statesmanship's new cardThat carries all! "Since we"—avers the Bard—"All of us have one human heart"—as goodAs say—by all of us is understoodRight and wrong, true and false—in rough, at least,We own a common conscience. God, man, beast—How should we qualify the statesman-shapeI fancy standing with our world agape?Disguise, flee, fight against with tooth and nailThe outrageous designation! "Quack" men quailBefore? You see, a little year agoThey heard him thunder at the thing which, lo,To-day he vaunts for unscathed, while what erstHeaven-high he lauded, lies hell-low, accursed!And yet where 's change? Who, awe-struck, cares to pointCritical finger at a dubious jointIn armor, trueæs triplex, breast and backBinding about, defiant of attack,An imperturbability that 's—well,Or innocence or impudence—how tellOne from the other? Could ourselves broach lies,Yet brave mankind with those unaltered eyes,Those lips that keep the quietude of truth?Dare we attempt the like? What quick uncouthDisturbance of thy smug economy,O coward visage! Straight would all descryBack on the man's brow the boy's blush once more!No: he goes deeper—could our sense explore—Finds conscience beneath conscience such as ours.Genius is not so rare,—prodigious powers—Well, others boast such,—but a power like thisMendacious intrepidity—quid vis?Besides, imposture plays another game,Admits of no diversion from its aimOf captivating hearts, sets zeal aflareIn every shape at every turn,—nowhereAllows subsidence into ash. By stressOf what does guile succeed but earnestness,Earnest word, look and gesture? Touched with aughtBut earnestness, the levity were fraughtWith ruin to guile's film-work. Grave is guile;Here no act wants its qualifying smile,Its covert pleasantry to neutralizeThe outward ardor. Can our chief despiseEven while most he seems to adulate?As who should say "What though it be my fateTo deal with fools? Among the crowd must lurkSome few with faculty to judge my workSpite of its way which suits, they understand,The crass majority:—the Sacred Band,No duping them forsooth!" So tells a touchOf subintelligential nod and wink—Turning foes friends. Coarse flattery moves the gorge:Mine were the mode to awe the many, George!They guess you half despise them while most bentOn demonstrating that your sole intentStrives for their service. Sneer at them? Yourself'T is you disparage,—tricksy as an elf,Scorning what most you strain to bring to pass,Laughingly careless,—triply cased in brass,—While pushing strenuous to the end in view.What follows? Why, you formulate withinThe vulgar headpiece this conception: "WinA master-mind to serve us needs we must,One who, from motives we but take on trust,Acts strangelier—haply wiselier than we knowStronglier, for certain. Did he say 'I throwAside my good for yours, in all I doCare nothing for myself and all for you'—We should both understand and disbelieve:Said he, 'Your good I laugh at in my sleeve,My own it is I solely labor at,Pretending yours the while'—that, even that,We, understanding well, give credence to,And so will none of it. But here 't is throughOur recognition of his service, wageWell earned by work, he mounts to such a stageAbove competitors as all save BubbWould agonize to keep. Yet—here 's the rub—So slightly does he hold by our esteemWhich solely fixed him fast there, that we seemMocked every minute to our face, by gibeAnd jest—scorn insuppressive: what ascribeThe rashness to? Our pay and praise to boot—Do these avail him to tread under footSomething inside us all and each, that standsSomehow instead of somewhat which commands'Lie not'? Folk fear to jeopardize their soul,Stumble at times, walk straight upon the whole,—That 's nature's simple instinct: what may beThe portent here, the influence such as weAre strangers to?"—VIIExact the thing I callMan's despot, just the SupernaturalWhich, George, was wholly out of—far beyondYour theory and practice. You had connedBut to reject the precept "To succeedIn gratifying selfishness and greed,Asseverate such qualities existNowise within yourself! then make acquistBy all means, with no sort of fear!" Alack,That well-worn lie is obsolete! Fall backOn still a working pretext—"Hearth and Home,The Altar, love of England, hate of Rome"—That 's serviceable lying—that perchanceHad screened you decently: but 'ware advanceBy one step more in perspicacityOf these our dupes! At length they get to seeAs through the earlier, this the latter plea—And find the greed and selfishness at source!Ventum est ad triarios:last resourceShould be to what but—exquisite disguiseDisguise-abjuring, truth that looks like lies,Frankness so sure to meet with unbelief?Say—you hold in contempt—not them in chief—But first and foremost your own self! No useIn men but to make sport for you, induceThe puppets now to dance, now stand stock-still,Now knock their heads together, at your willFor will's sake only—while each plays his partSubmissive: why? through terror at the heart:"Can it be—this bold man, whose hand we sawOpenly pull the wires, obeys some lawQuite above Man's—nay, God's?" On face fall they.This was the secret missed, again I say,Out of your power to grasp conception of,Much less employ to purpose. Hence the scoffThat greets your very name: folk see but oneFool more, as well as knave, in Dodington.

Ah, George Bubb Dodington Lord Melcombe,—no,Yours was the wrong way!—always understand,Supposing that permissibly you plannedHow statesmanship—your trade—in outward showMight figure as inspired by simple zealFor serving country, king and commonweal,(Though service tire to death the body, teaseThe soul from out an o'ertasked patriot-drudge)And yet should prove zeal's outward show agreesIn all respects—right reason being judge—With inward care that, while the statesman spendsBody and soul thus freely for the sakeOf public good, his private welfare takeNo harm by such devotedness. IntendsScripture aught else—let captious folk inquire—Which teaches "Laborers deserve their hire,And who neglects his household bears the bellAway of sinning from an infidel"?Wiselier would fools that carp bestow a thoughtHow birds build nests; at outside, roughly wrought,Twig knots with twig, loam plasters up each chink,Leaving the inmate rudely lodged—you think?Peep but inside! That specious rude-and-roughCovers a domicile where downy fluffEmbeds the ease-deserving architect,Who toiled and moiled not merely to effect'Twixt sprig and spray a stop-gap in the teethOf wind and weather, guard what swung beneathFrom upset only, but contrived himselfA snug interior, warm and soft and sleek.Of what material? Oh, for that, you seekHow nature prompts each volatile! Thus—pelfSmoothens the human mudlark's lodging, powerDemands some hardier wrappage to embraceRobuster heart-beats: rock, not tree nor tower,Contents the building eagle: rook shoves closeTo brother rook on branch, while crow moroseApart keeps balance perched on topmost bough.No sort of bird but suits his taste somehow:Nay, Darwin tells of such as love the bower—His bower-birds opportunely yield us yetThe lacking instance when at loss to getA feathered parallel to what we findThe secret motor of some mighty mindThat worked such wonders—all for vanity!Worked them to haply figure in the eyeOf intimates as first of—doers' kind?Actors', that work in earnest sportively,Paid by a sourish smile. How says the Sage?Birds born to strut prepare a platform-stageWith sparkling stones and speckled shells, all sortsOf slimy rubbish, odds and ends and orts,Whereon to pose and posture and engageThe priceless female simper.

Ah, George Bubb Dodington Lord Melcombe,—no,

Yours was the wrong way!—always understand,

Supposing that permissibly you planned

How statesmanship—your trade—in outward show

Might figure as inspired by simple zeal

For serving country, king and commonweal,

(Though service tire to death the body, tease

The soul from out an o'ertasked patriot-drudge)

And yet should prove zeal's outward show agrees

In all respects—right reason being judge—

With inward care that, while the statesman spends

Body and soul thus freely for the sake

Of public good, his private welfare take

No harm by such devotedness. Intends

Scripture aught else—let captious folk inquire—

Which teaches "Laborers deserve their hire,

And who neglects his household bears the bell

Away of sinning from an infidel"?

Wiselier would fools that carp bestow a thought

How birds build nests; at outside, roughly wrought,

Twig knots with twig, loam plasters up each chink,

Leaving the inmate rudely lodged—you think?

Peep but inside! That specious rude-and-rough

Covers a domicile where downy fluff

Embeds the ease-deserving architect,

Who toiled and moiled not merely to effect

'Twixt sprig and spray a stop-gap in the teeth

Of wind and weather, guard what swung beneath

From upset only, but contrived himself

A snug interior, warm and soft and sleek.

Of what material? Oh, for that, you seek

How nature prompts each volatile! Thus—pelf

Smoothens the human mudlark's lodging, power

Demands some hardier wrappage to embrace

Robuster heart-beats: rock, not tree nor tower,

Contents the building eagle: rook shoves close

To brother rook on branch, while crow morose

Apart keeps balance perched on topmost bough.

No sort of bird but suits his taste somehow:

Nay, Darwin tells of such as love the bower—

His bower-birds opportunely yield us yet

The lacking instance when at loss to get

A feathered parallel to what we find

The secret motor of some mighty mind

That worked such wonders—all for vanity!

Worked them to haply figure in the eye

Of intimates as first of—doers' kind?

Actors', that work in earnest sportively,

Paid by a sourish smile. How says the Sage?

Birds born to strut prepare a platform-stage

With sparkling stones and speckled shells, all sorts

Of slimy rubbish, odds and ends and orts,

Whereon to pose and posture and engage

The priceless female simper.

I have goneThus into detail, George Bubb Dodington,Lest, when I take you presently to taskFor the wrong way of working, you should ask"What fool conjectures that profession meansPerformance? that who goes behind the scenesFinds,—acting over,—still the soot-stuff screensOthello's visage, still the self-same cloak'sBugle-bright-blackness half reveals half chokesHamlet's emotion, as ten minutes since?"No, each resumes his garb, stands—Moor or prince—Decently draped: just so with statesmanship!All outside show, in short, is sham—why wince?Concede me—while our parley lasts! You tripAfterwards—lay but this to heart! (there lurksSomewhere in all of us a lump which irksSomewhat the spriteliest-scheming brain that 's bentOn brave adventure, would but heart consent!)—Here trip you, that—your aim allowed as right—Your means thereto were wrong. Come, we, this night,Profess one purpose, hold one principle,Are at odds only as to—not the willBut way of winning solace for ourselves—No matter if the ore for which zeal delvesBe gold or coprolite, while zeal's pretenceIs—we do good to men at—whose expenseBut ours? who tire the body, tease the soul,Simply that, running, we may reach fame's goalAnd wreathe at last our brows with bay—the State'sDisinterested slaves, nay—please the Fates—Saviors and nothing less: such lot has been!Statesmanship triumphs pedestalled, serene,—O happy consummation!—brought aboutBy managing with skill the rabble-routFor which we labor (never mind the name—People or populace, for praise or blame)Making them understand—their heaven, their hell,Their every hope and fear is ours as well.Man's cause—what other can we have at heart?Whence follows that the necessary partHigh o'er Man's head we play,—and freelier breatheJust that the multitude which gasps beneathMay reach the level where unstifled standOurselves at vantage to put forth a hand,Assist the prostrate public. 'T is by rightMerely of such pretence, we reach the heightWhere storms abound, to brave—nay, court their stress,Though all too well aware—of pomp the less,Of peace the more! But who are we, to spurnFor peace' sake, duty's pointing? Up, then—earnAlbeit no prize we may but martyrdom!Now, such fit height to launch salvation from,How get and gain? Since help must needs be cravedBy would-be saviours of the else-unsaved,How coax them to co-operate, lend a lift,Kneel down and let us mount?

I have gone

Thus into detail, George Bubb Dodington,

Lest, when I take you presently to task

For the wrong way of working, you should ask

"What fool conjectures that profession means

Performance? that who goes behind the scenes

Finds,—acting over,—still the soot-stuff screens

Othello's visage, still the self-same cloak's

Bugle-bright-blackness half reveals half chokes

Hamlet's emotion, as ten minutes since?"

No, each resumes his garb, stands—Moor or prince—

Decently draped: just so with statesmanship!

All outside show, in short, is sham—why wince?

Concede me—while our parley lasts! You trip

Afterwards—lay but this to heart! (there lurks

Somewhere in all of us a lump which irks

Somewhat the spriteliest-scheming brain that 's bent

On brave adventure, would but heart consent!)

—Here trip you, that—your aim allowed as right—

Your means thereto were wrong. Come, we, this night,

Profess one purpose, hold one principle,

Are at odds only as to—not the will

But way of winning solace for ourselves

—No matter if the ore for which zeal delves

Be gold or coprolite, while zeal's pretence

Is—we do good to men at—whose expense

But ours? who tire the body, tease the soul,

Simply that, running, we may reach fame's goal

And wreathe at last our brows with bay—the State's

Disinterested slaves, nay—please the Fates—

Saviors and nothing less: such lot has been!

Statesmanship triumphs pedestalled, serene,—

O happy consummation!—brought about

By managing with skill the rabble-rout

For which we labor (never mind the name—

People or populace, for praise or blame)

Making them understand—their heaven, their hell,

Their every hope and fear is ours as well.

Man's cause—what other can we have at heart?

Whence follows that the necessary part

High o'er Man's head we play,—and freelier breathe

Just that the multitude which gasps beneath

May reach the level where unstifled stand

Ourselves at vantage to put forth a hand,

Assist the prostrate public. 'T is by right

Merely of such pretence, we reach the height

Where storms abound, to brave—nay, court their stress,

Though all too well aware—of pomp the less,

Of peace the more! But who are we, to spurn

For peace' sake, duty's pointing? Up, then—earn

Albeit no prize we may but martyrdom!

Now, such fit height to launch salvation from,

How get and gain? Since help must needs be craved

By would-be saviours of the else-unsaved,

How coax them to co-operate, lend a lift,

Kneel down and let us mount?

III

You say, "Make shiftBy sham—the harsh word: preach and teach, persuadeSomehow the Public—not despising aidOf salutary artifice—we seekSolely their good: our strength would raise the weak,Our cultivated knowledge supplementTheir rudeness, rawness: why to us were lentAbility except to come in use?Who loves his kind must by all means induceThat kind to let his love play freely, pressIn Man's behalf to full performance!"

You say, "Make shift

By sham—the harsh word: preach and teach, persuade

Somehow the Public—not despising aid

Of salutary artifice—we seek

Solely their good: our strength would raise the weak,

Our cultivated knowledge supplement

Their rudeness, rawness: why to us were lent

Ability except to come in use?

Who loves his kind must by all means induce

That kind to let his love play freely, press

In Man's behalf to full performance!"

Yes—Yes, George, we know!—whereat they hear, believe,And bend the knee, and on the neck receiveWho fawned and cringed to purpose? Not so, George!Try simple falsehood on shrewd folk who forgeLies of superior fashion day by dayAnd hour by hour? With craftsmen versed as theyWhat chance of competition when the toolsOnly a novice wields? Are knaves such fools?Disinterested patriots, spare your tongueThe tones thrice-silvery, cheek save smiles it flungPearl-like profuse to swine—a herd, whereofNo unit needs be taught, his neighbor's troughScarce holds for who but grunts and whines the husksDue to a wrinkled snout that shows sharp tusks.No animal—much less our lordly Man—Obeys its like: with strength all rule began,The stoutest awes the pasture. Soon succeedsDiscrimination,—nicer power Man needsTo rule him than is bred of bone and thew:Intelligence must move strength's self. This tooLasts but its time: the multitude at lengthLooks inside for intelligence and strengthAnd finds them here and there to pick and choose:"All at your service, mine, see!" Ay, but who 'sMy George, at this late day, to make his boast"In strength, intelligence, I rule the roast,Beat, all and some, the ungraced who crowd your ranks?""Oh, but I love, would lead you, gain your thanksBy unexampled yearning for Man's sake—Passion that solely waits your help to takeEffect in action!" George, which one of usBut holds with his own heart communion thus:"I am, if not of men the first and best,Still—to receive enjoyment—properest:Which since by force I cannot, nor by witMost likely—craft must serve in place of it.Flatter, cajole! If so I bring withinMy net the gains which wit and force should win,What hinders?" 'T is a trick we know of old:Try, George, some other of tricks manifold!The multitude means mass and mixture—right!Are mixtures simple, pray, or composite?Dive into Man, your medley: see the waste!Sloth-stifled genius, energy disgracedBy ignorance, high aims with sorry skill,Will without means and means in want of will—Sure we might fish, from out the mothers' sonsThat welter thus, a dozen Dodingtons!Why call up Dodington, and none beside,To take his seat upon our backs and rideAs statesman conquering and to conquer? Well,The last expedient, which must needs excelThose old ones—this it is,—at any rateTo-day's conception thus I formulate:As simple force has been replaced, just soMust simple wit be: men have got to knowSuch wit as what you boast is nowise heldThe wonder once it was, but, paralleledToo plentifully, counts not,—puts to shameModest possessors like yourself who claim,By virtue of it merely, power and place—Which means the sweets of office. Since our raceTeems with the like of you, some special gift,Your very own, must coax our hands to lift,And backs to bear you: is it just and rightTo privilege your nature?

Yes—

Yes, George, we know!—whereat they hear, believe,

And bend the knee, and on the neck receive

Who fawned and cringed to purpose? Not so, George!

Try simple falsehood on shrewd folk who forge

Lies of superior fashion day by day

And hour by hour? With craftsmen versed as they

What chance of competition when the tools

Only a novice wields? Are knaves such fools?

Disinterested patriots, spare your tongue

The tones thrice-silvery, cheek save smiles it flung

Pearl-like profuse to swine—a herd, whereof

No unit needs be taught, his neighbor's trough

Scarce holds for who but grunts and whines the husks

Due to a wrinkled snout that shows sharp tusks.

No animal—much less our lordly Man—

Obeys its like: with strength all rule began,

The stoutest awes the pasture. Soon succeeds

Discrimination,—nicer power Man needs

To rule him than is bred of bone and thew:

Intelligence must move strength's self. This too

Lasts but its time: the multitude at length

Looks inside for intelligence and strength

And finds them here and there to pick and choose:

"All at your service, mine, see!" Ay, but who 's

My George, at this late day, to make his boast

"In strength, intelligence, I rule the roast,

Beat, all and some, the ungraced who crowd your ranks?"

"Oh, but I love, would lead you, gain your thanks

By unexampled yearning for Man's sake—

Passion that solely waits your help to take

Effect in action!" George, which one of us

But holds with his own heart communion thus:

"I am, if not of men the first and best,

Still—to receive enjoyment—properest:

Which since by force I cannot, nor by wit

Most likely—craft must serve in place of it.

Flatter, cajole! If so I bring within

My net the gains which wit and force should win,

What hinders?" 'T is a trick we know of old:

Try, George, some other of tricks manifold!

The multitude means mass and mixture—right!

Are mixtures simple, pray, or composite?

Dive into Man, your medley: see the waste!

Sloth-stifled genius, energy disgraced

By ignorance, high aims with sorry skill,

Will without means and means in want of will

—Sure we might fish, from out the mothers' sons

That welter thus, a dozen Dodingtons!

Why call up Dodington, and none beside,

To take his seat upon our backs and ride

As statesman conquering and to conquer? Well,

The last expedient, which must needs excel

Those old ones—this it is,—at any rate

To-day's conception thus I formulate:

As simple force has been replaced, just so

Must simple wit be: men have got to know

Such wit as what you boast is nowise held

The wonder once it was, but, paralleled

Too plentifully, counts not,—puts to shame

Modest possessors like yourself who claim,

By virtue of it merely, power and place

—Which means the sweets of office. Since our race

Teems with the like of you, some special gift,

Your very own, must coax our hands to lift,

And backs to bear you: is it just and right

To privilege your nature?

"State things quiteOther than so"—make answer! "I pretendNo such community with men. PerpendMy key to domination! Who would useMan for his pleasure needs must introduceThe element that awes Man. Once for all,His nature owns a SupernaturalIn fact as well as phrase—which found must he—Where, in this doubting age? Old mysteryHas served its turn—seen through and sent adriftTo nothingness: new wizard-craft makes shiftNowadays shorn of help by robe and book,—Otherwise, elsewhere, for success must lookThan chalked-ring, incantation-gibberish.Somebody comes to conjure: that 's he? Pish!He 's like the roomful of rapt gazers,—there 'sNo sort of difference in the garb he wearsFrom ordinary dressing,—gesture, speech,Deportment, just like those of all and eachThat eye their master of the minute. Stay!What of the something—call it how you may—Uncanny in the—quack? That 's easy said!Notice how the Professor turns no headAnd yet takes cognizance of who accepts,Denies, is puzzled as to the adept'sSupremacy, yields up or lies in waitTo trap the trickster! Doubtless, out of dateAre dealings with the devil: yet, the stirOf mouth, its smile half smug half sinister,Mock-modest boldness masked in diffidence,—What if the man have—who knows how or whence?—Confederate potency unguessed by us—Prove no such cheat as he pretends?"

"State things quite

Other than so"—make answer! "I pretend

No such community with men. Perpend

My key to domination! Who would use

Man for his pleasure needs must introduce

The element that awes Man. Once for all,

His nature owns a Supernatural

In fact as well as phrase—which found must he

—Where, in this doubting age? Old mystery

Has served its turn—seen through and sent adrift

To nothingness: new wizard-craft makes shift

Nowadays shorn of help by robe and book,—

Otherwise, elsewhere, for success must look

Than chalked-ring, incantation-gibberish.

Somebody comes to conjure: that 's he? Pish!

He 's like the roomful of rapt gazers,—there 's

No sort of difference in the garb he wears

From ordinary dressing,—gesture, speech,

Deportment, just like those of all and each

That eye their master of the minute. Stay!

What of the something—call it how you may—

Uncanny in the—quack? That 's easy said!

Notice how the Professor turns no head

And yet takes cognizance of who accepts,

Denies, is puzzled as to the adept's

Supremacy, yields up or lies in wait

To trap the trickster! Doubtless, out of date

Are dealings with the devil: yet, the stir

Of mouth, its smile half smug half sinister,

Mock-modest boldness masked in diffidence,—

What if the man have—who knows how or whence?—

Confederate potency unguessed by us—

Prove no such cheat as he pretends?"

Ay, thusHad but my George played statesmanship's new cardThat carries all! "Since we"—avers the Bard—"All of us have one human heart"—as goodAs say—by all of us is understoodRight and wrong, true and false—in rough, at least,We own a common conscience. God, man, beast—How should we qualify the statesman-shapeI fancy standing with our world agape?Disguise, flee, fight against with tooth and nailThe outrageous designation! "Quack" men quailBefore? You see, a little year agoThey heard him thunder at the thing which, lo,To-day he vaunts for unscathed, while what erstHeaven-high he lauded, lies hell-low, accursed!And yet where 's change? Who, awe-struck, cares to pointCritical finger at a dubious jointIn armor, trueæs triplex, breast and backBinding about, defiant of attack,An imperturbability that 's—well,Or innocence or impudence—how tellOne from the other? Could ourselves broach lies,Yet brave mankind with those unaltered eyes,Those lips that keep the quietude of truth?Dare we attempt the like? What quick uncouthDisturbance of thy smug economy,O coward visage! Straight would all descryBack on the man's brow the boy's blush once more!No: he goes deeper—could our sense explore—Finds conscience beneath conscience such as ours.Genius is not so rare,—prodigious powers—Well, others boast such,—but a power like thisMendacious intrepidity—quid vis?Besides, imposture plays another game,Admits of no diversion from its aimOf captivating hearts, sets zeal aflareIn every shape at every turn,—nowhereAllows subsidence into ash. By stressOf what does guile succeed but earnestness,Earnest word, look and gesture? Touched with aughtBut earnestness, the levity were fraughtWith ruin to guile's film-work. Grave is guile;Here no act wants its qualifying smile,Its covert pleasantry to neutralizeThe outward ardor. Can our chief despiseEven while most he seems to adulate?As who should say "What though it be my fateTo deal with fools? Among the crowd must lurkSome few with faculty to judge my workSpite of its way which suits, they understand,The crass majority:—the Sacred Band,No duping them forsooth!" So tells a touchOf subintelligential nod and wink—Turning foes friends. Coarse flattery moves the gorge:Mine were the mode to awe the many, George!They guess you half despise them while most bentOn demonstrating that your sole intentStrives for their service. Sneer at them? Yourself'T is you disparage,—tricksy as an elf,Scorning what most you strain to bring to pass,Laughingly careless,—triply cased in brass,—While pushing strenuous to the end in view.What follows? Why, you formulate withinThe vulgar headpiece this conception: "WinA master-mind to serve us needs we must,One who, from motives we but take on trust,Acts strangelier—haply wiselier than we knowStronglier, for certain. Did he say 'I throwAside my good for yours, in all I doCare nothing for myself and all for you'—We should both understand and disbelieve:Said he, 'Your good I laugh at in my sleeve,My own it is I solely labor at,Pretending yours the while'—that, even that,We, understanding well, give credence to,And so will none of it. But here 't is throughOur recognition of his service, wageWell earned by work, he mounts to such a stageAbove competitors as all save BubbWould agonize to keep. Yet—here 's the rub—So slightly does he hold by our esteemWhich solely fixed him fast there, that we seemMocked every minute to our face, by gibeAnd jest—scorn insuppressive: what ascribeThe rashness to? Our pay and praise to boot—Do these avail him to tread under footSomething inside us all and each, that standsSomehow instead of somewhat which commands'Lie not'? Folk fear to jeopardize their soul,Stumble at times, walk straight upon the whole,—That 's nature's simple instinct: what may beThe portent here, the influence such as weAre strangers to?"—

Ay, thus

Had but my George played statesmanship's new card

That carries all! "Since we"—avers the Bard—

"All of us have one human heart"—as good

As say—by all of us is understood

Right and wrong, true and false—in rough, at least,

We own a common conscience. God, man, beast—

How should we qualify the statesman-shape

I fancy standing with our world agape?

Disguise, flee, fight against with tooth and nail

The outrageous designation! "Quack" men quail

Before? You see, a little year ago

They heard him thunder at the thing which, lo,

To-day he vaunts for unscathed, while what erst

Heaven-high he lauded, lies hell-low, accursed!

And yet where 's change? Who, awe-struck, cares to point

Critical finger at a dubious joint

In armor, trueæs triplex, breast and back

Binding about, defiant of attack,

An imperturbability that 's—well,

Or innocence or impudence—how tell

One from the other? Could ourselves broach lies,

Yet brave mankind with those unaltered eyes,

Those lips that keep the quietude of truth?

Dare we attempt the like? What quick uncouth

Disturbance of thy smug economy,

O coward visage! Straight would all descry

Back on the man's brow the boy's blush once more!

No: he goes deeper—could our sense explore—

Finds conscience beneath conscience such as ours.

Genius is not so rare,—prodigious powers—

Well, others boast such,—but a power like this

Mendacious intrepidity—quid vis?

Besides, imposture plays another game,

Admits of no diversion from its aim

Of captivating hearts, sets zeal aflare

In every shape at every turn,—nowhere

Allows subsidence into ash. By stress

Of what does guile succeed but earnestness,

Earnest word, look and gesture? Touched with aught

But earnestness, the levity were fraught

With ruin to guile's film-work. Grave is guile;

Here no act wants its qualifying smile,

Its covert pleasantry to neutralize

The outward ardor. Can our chief despise

Even while most he seems to adulate?

As who should say "What though it be my fate

To deal with fools? Among the crowd must lurk

Some few with faculty to judge my work

Spite of its way which suits, they understand,

The crass majority:—the Sacred Band,

No duping them forsooth!" So tells a touch

Of subintelligential nod and wink—

Turning foes friends. Coarse flattery moves the gorge:

Mine were the mode to awe the many, George!

They guess you half despise them while most bent

On demonstrating that your sole intent

Strives for their service. Sneer at them? Yourself

'T is you disparage,—tricksy as an elf,

Scorning what most you strain to bring to pass,

Laughingly careless,—triply cased in brass,—

While pushing strenuous to the end in view.

What follows? Why, you formulate within

The vulgar headpiece this conception: "Win

A master-mind to serve us needs we must,

One who, from motives we but take on trust,

Acts strangelier—haply wiselier than we know

Stronglier, for certain. Did he say 'I throw

Aside my good for yours, in all I do

Care nothing for myself and all for you'—

We should both understand and disbelieve:

Said he, 'Your good I laugh at in my sleeve,

My own it is I solely labor at,

Pretending yours the while'—that, even that,

We, understanding well, give credence to,

And so will none of it. But here 't is through

Our recognition of his service, wage

Well earned by work, he mounts to such a stage

Above competitors as all save Bubb

Would agonize to keep. Yet—here 's the rub—

So slightly does he hold by our esteem

Which solely fixed him fast there, that we seem

Mocked every minute to our face, by gibe

And jest—scorn insuppressive: what ascribe

The rashness to? Our pay and praise to boot—

Do these avail him to tread under foot

Something inside us all and each, that stands

Somehow instead of somewhat which commands

'Lie not'? Folk fear to jeopardize their soul,

Stumble at times, walk straight upon the whole,—

That 's nature's simple instinct: what may be

The portent here, the influence such as we

Are strangers to?"—

VII

Exact the thing I callMan's despot, just the SupernaturalWhich, George, was wholly out of—far beyondYour theory and practice. You had connedBut to reject the precept "To succeedIn gratifying selfishness and greed,Asseverate such qualities existNowise within yourself! then make acquistBy all means, with no sort of fear!" Alack,That well-worn lie is obsolete! Fall backOn still a working pretext—"Hearth and Home,The Altar, love of England, hate of Rome"—That 's serviceable lying—that perchanceHad screened you decently: but 'ware advanceBy one step more in perspicacityOf these our dupes! At length they get to seeAs through the earlier, this the latter plea—And find the greed and selfishness at source!Ventum est ad triarios:last resourceShould be to what but—exquisite disguiseDisguise-abjuring, truth that looks like lies,Frankness so sure to meet with unbelief?Say—you hold in contempt—not them in chief—But first and foremost your own self! No useIn men but to make sport for you, induceThe puppets now to dance, now stand stock-still,Now knock their heads together, at your willFor will's sake only—while each plays his partSubmissive: why? through terror at the heart:"Can it be—this bold man, whose hand we sawOpenly pull the wires, obeys some lawQuite above Man's—nay, God's?" On face fall they.This was the secret missed, again I say,Out of your power to grasp conception of,Much less employ to purpose. Hence the scoffThat greets your very name: folk see but oneFool more, as well as knave, in Dodington.

Exact the thing I call

Man's despot, just the Supernatural

Which, George, was wholly out of—far beyond

Your theory and practice. You had conned

But to reject the precept "To succeed

In gratifying selfishness and greed,

Asseverate such qualities exist

Nowise within yourself! then make acquist

By all means, with no sort of fear!" Alack,

That well-worn lie is obsolete! Fall back

On still a working pretext—"Hearth and Home,

The Altar, love of England, hate of Rome"—

That 's serviceable lying—that perchance

Had screened you decently: but 'ware advance

By one step more in perspicacity

Of these our dupes! At length they get to see

As through the earlier, this the latter plea—

And find the greed and selfishness at source!

Ventum est ad triarios:last resource

Should be to what but—exquisite disguise

Disguise-abjuring, truth that looks like lies,

Frankness so sure to meet with unbelief?

Say—you hold in contempt—not them in chief—

But first and foremost your own self! No use

In men but to make sport for you, induce

The puppets now to dance, now stand stock-still,

Now knock their heads together, at your will

For will's sake only—while each plays his part

Submissive: why? through terror at the heart:

"Can it be—this bold man, whose hand we saw

Openly pull the wires, obeys some law

Quite above Man's—nay, God's?" On face fall they.

This was the secret missed, again I say,

Out of your power to grasp conception of,

Much less employ to purpose. Hence the scoff

That greets your very name: folk see but one

Fool more, as well as knave, in Dodington.

INay,that, Furini, never I at leastMean to believe! What man you were I know,While you walked Tuscan earth, a painter-priest,Something about two hundred years ago.Priest—you did duty punctual as the sunThat rose and set above Saint Sano's church,Blessing Mugello: of your flock not oneBut showed a whiter fleece because of smirch,Your kind hands wiped it clear from: were they poor?Bounty broke bread apace,—did marriage lagFor just the want of moneys that ensureFit hearth-and-home provision?—straight your bagUnplumped itself,—reached hearts by way of palmsGoodwill's shake had but tickled. All aboutMugello valley, felt some parish qualmsAt worship offered in bare walls withoutThe comfort of a picture?—prompt such needOur painter would supply, and throngs to seeWitnessed that goodness—no unholy greedOf gain—had coaxed from Don Furini—heWhom princes might in vain implore to toilFor worldly profit—such a masterpiece.Brief—priest, you poured profuse God's wine and oilPraiseworthily, I know: shall praising ceaseWhen, priestly vesture put aside, mere man,You stand for judgment? Rather—what acclaim—"Good son, good brother, friend in whom we scanNo fault nor flaw"—salutes Furini's name,The loving as the liberal! Enough:Only to ope a lily, though for sakeOf setting free its scent, disturbs the roughLoose gold about its anther. I shall takeNo blame in one more blazon, last of all—Good painter were you: if in very deedI styled you great—what modern art dares callMy word in question? Let who will take heedOf what he seeks and misses in your brainTo balance that precision of the brushYour hand could ply so deftly: all in vainStrives poet's power for outlet when the pushIs lost upon a barred and bolted gateOf painter's impotency. Agnolo—Thine were alike the head and hand, by fateDoubly endowed! Who boasts head only—woeTo hand's presumption should brush emulateFancy's free passage by the pen, and showThought wrecked and ruined where the inexpertFoolhardy fingers half grasped, half let goFilm-wings the poet's pen arrests unhurt!No—painter such as that miraculousMichael, who deems you? But the ample giftOf gracing walls else blank of this our houseOf life with imagery, one bright driftPoured forth by pencil,—man and woman mere,Glorified till half owned for gods,—the dearFleshly perfection of the human shape,—This was apportioned you whereby to praiseHeaven and bless earth. Who clumsily essays,By slighting painter's craft, to prove the apeOf poet's pen-creation, just betraysTwofold ineptitude.IIBy such sure waysDo I return, Furini, to my firstAnd central confidence—that he I provedGood priest, good man, good painter, and rehearsedPraise upon praise to show—not simply lovedFor virtue, but for wisdom honored tooNeeds must Furini be,—it follows—whoShall undertake to breed in me beliefThat, on his death-bed, weakness played the thiefWith wisdom, folly ousted reason quite?List to the chronicler! With main and might—So fame runs—did the poor soul beg his friendsTo buy and burn his hand-work, make amendsFor having reproduced therein—(Ah me!Sighs fame—that's friend Filippo)—nudity!Yes, I assure you; he would paint—not menMerely—a pardonable fault—but whenHe had to deal with—oh, not mother EveAlone, permissibly in ParadiseNaked and unashamed,—but dared achieveDreadful distinction, at soul-safety's price,By also painting women—(why the need?)Just as God made them: there, you have the truth!Yes, rosed from top to toe in flush of youth,One foot upon the moss-fringe, would some NymphTry, with its venturous fellow, if the lymphWere chillier than the slab-stepped fountain-edge;The while a-heap her garments on its ledgeOf boulder lay within hand's easy reach,—No one least kid-skin cast around her! SpeechShrinks from enumerating case and caseOf—were it but Diana at the chase,With tunic tucked discreetly hunting-high!No, some Queen Venus set our necks awry,Turned faces from the painter's all-too-frankTriumph of flesh! For—whom had he to thank—This self-appointed nature-student? WhencePicked he up practice? By what evidenceDid he unhandsomely become adeptIn simulating bodies? How exceptBy actual sight of such? Himself confessedThe enormity: quoth Philip, "When I pressedThe painter to acknowledge his abuseOf artistry else potent—what excuseMade the infatuated man? I giveHis very words: 'Did you but know, as I,—O scruple-splitting sickly-sensitiveMild-moral-monger, what the agonyOf Art is ere Art satisfy herselfIn imitating Nature—(Man, poor elf,Striving to match the finger-mark of HimThe immeasurably matchless)—gay or grim,Pray, would your smile be? Leave mere fools to taxArt's high-strung brain's intentness as so laxThat, in its mid-throe, idle fancy seesThe moment for admittance!' Pleadings these—Specious, I grant." So adds, and seems to winceSomewhat, our censor—but shall truth convinceBlockheads like Baldinucci?IIII resumeMy incredulity: your other kindOf soul, Furini, never was so blind,Even through death-mist, as to grope in gloomFor cheer beside a bonfire piled to turnAshes and dust all that your noble lifeDid homage to life's Lord by,—bid them burn—These Baldinucci blockheads—pictures rifeWith record, in each rendered loveliness,That one appreciative creature's debtOf thanks to the Creator, more or less,Was paid according as heart's-will had metHand's-power in Art's endeavor to expressHeaven's most consummate of achievements, blessEarth by a semblance of the seal God setOn woman his supremest work. I trustRather, Furini, dying breath had ventIn some fine fervor of thanksgiving justFor this—that soul and body's power you spent—Agonized to adumbrate, trace in dustThat marvel which we dream the firmamentCopies in star-device when fancies strayOutlining, orb by orb, Andromeda—God's best of beauteous and magnificentRevealed to earth—the naked female form.Nay, I mistake not: wrath that's but lukewarmWould boil indeed were such a critic styledHimself an artist: artist! Ossa piledTopping Olympus—the absurd which crownsThe extravagant—whereat one laughs, not frowns.Paints he? One bids the poor pretender takeHis sorry self, a trouble and disgrace,From out the sacred presence, void the placeArtists claim only. What—not merely wakeOur pity that suppressed concupiscence—A satyr masked as matron—makes pretenceTo the coarse blue-fly's instinct—can perceiveNo better reason why she should exist——God's lily-limbed and blushrose-bosomed Eve—Than as a hot-bed for the sensualistTo fly-blow with his fancies, make pure stuffBreed him back filth—this were not crime enough?But further—fly to style itself—nay, more—To steal among the sacred ones, crouch downThough but to where their garments sweep the floor——Still catching some faint sparkle from the crownCrowning transcendent Michael, Leonard,Rafael,—to sit beside the feet of such,Unspurned because unnoticed, then rewardTheir toleration—mercy overmuch—By stealing from the throne-step to the foolsCurious outside the gateway, all-agapeTo learn by what procedure, in the schoolsOf Art, a merest man in outward shapeMay learn to be Correggio! Old and young,These learners got their lesson: Art was justA safety-screen—(Art, which Correggio's tongueCalls "Virtue")—for a skulking vice: mere lustInspired the artist when his Night and MornSlept and awoke in marble on that edgeOf heaven above our awe-struck earth: lust-bornHis Eve low bending took the privilegeOf life from what our eyes saw—God's own palmThat put the flame forth—to the love and thanksOf all creation save this recreant!IVCalmOur phrase, Furini! Not the artist-ranksClaim riddance of an interloper: no—This Baldinucci did but grunt and sniffOutside Art's pale—ay, grubbed, where pine-trees grow,For pignuts only.VYou the Sacred! IfIndeed on you has been bestowed the dowerOf Art in fulness, graced with head and hand,Head—to lookup not downwards, hand—of powerTo make head's gain the portion of a worldWhere else the uninstructed ones too sureWould take all outside beauty—film that's furledAbout a star—for the star's self, endureNo guidance to the central glory,—nay,(Sadder) might apprehend the film was fog,Or (worst) wish all but vapor well away,And sky's pure product thickened from earth's bog—Since so, nor seldom, have your worthiest failedTo trust their own soul's insight—why? exceptFor warning that the head of the adeptMay too much prize the hand, work unassailedBy scruple of the better sense that findsAn orb within each halo, bids gross fleshFree the fine spirit-pattern, nor enmeshMore than is meet a marvel, custom blindsOnly the vulgar eye to. Now, less fearThat you, the foremost of Art's fellowship,Will oft—will ever so offend! But—hipAnd thigh—smite the Philistine!You—slunk here—Connived at, by too easy tolerance,Not to scrape palette simply or squeeze brush,But dub your very self an Artist? Tush—You, of the daubings, is it, dare advanceThis doctrine that the Artist-mind must needsOwn to affinity with yours—confessProvocative acquaintance, more or less,With each impurely-peevish worm that breedsInside your brain's receptacle?VIEnough.Who owns "I dare not look on diademsWithout an itch to pick out, purloin gemsOthers contentedly leave sparkling"—gruffAnswers the guard of the regalia: "Why—Consciously kleptomaniac—thrust yourselfWhere your illicit craving after pelfIs tempted most—in the King's treasury?Go elsewhere! Sort with thieves, if thus you feel—When folk clean-handed simply recognizeTreasure whereof the mere sight satisfies—But straight your fingers are on itch to steal!Hence with you!"Pray, Furini!VII"Bounteous God,Deviser and dispenser of all giftsTo soul through sense,—in Art the soul upliftsMan's best of thanks! What but thy measuring-rodMeted forth heaven and earth? more intimate,Thy very hands were busied with the taskOf making, in this human shape, a mask—A match for that divine. Shall love abateMan's wonder? Nowise! True—true—all too true—No gift but, in the very plenitudeOf its perfection, goes maimed, misconstruedBy wickedness or weakness: still, some fewHave grace to see thy purpose, strength to marThy work by no admixture of their own,—Limn truth not falsehood, bid us love aloneThe type untampered with, the naked star!"VIIIAnd, prayer done, painter—what if you should preach?Not as of old when playing pulpiteerTo simple-witted country folk, but hereIn actual London try your powers of speechOn us the cultured, therefore skeptical—What would you? For, suppose he has his wordIn faith's behalf, no matter how absurd,This painter-theologian? One and allWe lend an ear—nay, Science takes thereto—Encourages the meanest who has rackedNature until he gains from her some fact,To state what truth is from his point of view,Mere pin-point though it be: since many suchConduce to make a whole, she bids our friendCome forward unabashed and haply lendHis little life-experience to our muchOf modern knowledge. Since she so insists,Up stands Furini.IX"Evolutionists!At truth I glimpse from depths, you glance from heights,Our stations for discovery opposites,—How should ensue agreement? I explain:'T is the tip-top of things to which you strainYour vision, until atoms, protoplasm,And what and whence and how may be the spasmWhich sets all going, stop you: down perforceNeeds must your observation take its course,Since there 's no moving upwards: link by linkYou drop to where the atoms somehow think.Feel, know themselves to be: the world 's begun,Such as we recognize it. Have you doneDescending? Here's ourself,—Man, known to-day,Duly evolved at last,—so far, you say,The sum and seal of being's progress. Good!Thus much at least is clearly understood—Of power does Man possess no particle:Of knowledge—just so much as shows that stillIt ends in ignorance on every side:But righteousness—ah, Man is deifiedThereby, for compensation! Make surveyOf Man's surroundings, try creation—nay,Try emulation of the minimizedMinuteness fancy may conceive! SurprisedReason becomes by two defeats for one—Not only power at each phenomenonBaffled, but knowledge also in default—Asking whatisminuteness—yonder vaultSpeckled with suns, or this the millionth—thing,How shall I call?—that on some insect's wingHelps to make out in dyes the mimic star?Weak, ignorant, accordingly we are:What then? The worse for Nature! Where beganRighteousness, moral sense except in Man?True, he makes nothing, understands no whit:Had the initiator-spasm seen fitThus doubly to endow him, none the worseAnd much the better were the universe.What does Man see or feel or apprehendHere, there, and everywhere, but faults to mend,Omissions to supply,—one wide diseaseOf things that are, which Man at once would easeHad will but power and knowledge? failing both—Things must take will for deed—Man, nowise loth,Accepts pre-eminency: mere blind force—Mere knowledge undirected in its courseBy any care for what is made or marredIn either's operation—theseawardThe crown to? Rather let it deck thy brows,Man, whom alone a righteousness endowsWould cure the wide world's ailing! Who disputesThy claim thereto? Had Spasm more attributesThan power and knowledge in its gift, beforeMan came to pass? The higher that we soar,The less of moral sense like Man's we find:No sign of such before,—what comes behind,Who guesses! But until there crown our sightThe quite new—not the old mere infiniteOf changings,—some fresh kind of sun and moon,—Then, not before, shall I expect a boonOf intuition just as strange, which turnsEvil to good, and wrong to right, unlearnsAll Man's experience learned since Man was he.Accept in Man, advanced to this degree,The Prime Mind, therefore! neither wise nor strong—Whose fault? but were he both, then right, not wrongAs now, throughout the world were paramountAccording to his will,—which I accountThe qualifying faculty. He standsConfessed supreme—the monarch whose commandsCould he enforce, how bettered were the world!He's at the height this moment—to be hurledNext moment to the bottom by reboundOf his own peal of laughter. All aroundIgnorance wraps him,—whence and how and whyThings are,—yet cloud breaks and lets blink the skyJust overhead, not elsewhere! What assuresHis optics that the very blue which luresComes not of black outside it, doubly dense?Ignorance overwraps his moral sense,Winds him about, relaxing, as it wraps,So much and no more than lets through perhapsThe murmured knowledge—'Ignorance exists.'X"I at the bottom, Evolutionists,Advise beginning, rather. I professTo know just one fact—my self-consciousness,—'Twixt ignorance and ignorance enisled,—Knowledge: before me was my Cause—that 's styledGod: after, in due course succeeds the rest,—All that my knowledge comprehends—at best—At worst, conceives about in mild despair.Light needs must touch on either darkness: where?Knowledge so far impinges on the CauseBefore me, that I know—by certain lawsWholly unknown, whate'er I apprehendWithin, without me, had its rise: thus blendI, and all things perceived, in one Effect.How far can knowledge any ray projectOn what comes after me—the universe?Well, my attempt to make the cloud disperseBegins—not from above but underneath:I climb, you soar,—who soars soon loses breathAnd sinks, who climbs keeps one foot firm on factEre hazarding the next step: soul's first act(Call consciousness the soul—some name we need)Getting itself aware, through stuff decreedThereto (so call the body)—who has steptSo far, there let him stand, become adeptIn body ere he shift his station thenceOne single hair's breadth. Do I make pretenceTo teach, myself unskilled in learning? Lo,My life's work! Let my pictures prove I knowSomewhat of what this fleshly frame of oursOr is or should be, how the soul empowersThe body to reveal its every moodOf love and hate, pour forth its plenitudeOf passion. If my hand attained to giveThus permanence to truth else fugitive,Did not I also fix each fleeting graceOf form and feature—save the beauteous face—Arrest decay in transitory mightOf bone and muscle—cause the world to blessForever each transcendent nakednessOf man and woman? Were such feats achievedBy sloth, or strenuous labor unrelieved,—Yet lavished vainly? Ask that underground(So may I speak) of all on surface foundOf flesh-perfection! Depths on depths to probeOf all-inventive artifice, disrobeMarvel at hiding under marvel, pluckVeil after veil from Nature—were the luckOurs to surprise the secret men so name,That still eludes the searcher—all the same,Repays his search with still fresh proof—'Externe,Not inmost, is the Cause, fool! Look and learn!'Thus teach my hundred pictures: firm and fastThere did I plant my first foot. And the next?Nowhere! 'T was put forth and withdrawn, perplexedAt touch of what seemed stable and proved stuffSuch as the colored clouds are: plain enoughThere lay the outside universe: try Man—My most immediate! and the dip beganFrom safe and solid into that profoundOf ignorance I tell you surges roundMy rock-spit of self-knowledge. Well and ill,Evil and good irreconcilableAbove, beneath, about my every side,—How did this wild confusion far and wideTally with my experience when my stamp—So far from stirring—struck out, each a lamp,Spark after spark of truth from where I stood—Pedestalled triumph? Evil there was good,Want was the promise of supply, defectEnsured completion,—where and when and how?Leave that to the First Cause! Enough that now,Here where I stand, this moment's me and mine,Shows me what is, permits me to divineWhat shall be. Wherefore? Nay, how otherwise?Look at my pictures! What so glorifiesThe body that the permeating soulFinds there no particle elude controlDirect, or fail of duty,—most obscureWhen most subservient? Did that Cause ensureThe soul such raptures as its fancy stingsBody to furnish when, uplift by wingsOf passion, here and now, it leaves the earth,Loses itself above, where bliss has birth—(Heaven, be the phrase)—did that same Cause contriveSuch solace for the body, soul must diveAt drop of fancy's pinion, condescendTo bury both alike on earth, our friendAnd fellow, where minutely exquisiteLow lie the pleasures, now and here—no herbBut hides its marvel, peace no doubts perturbIn each small mystery of insect life——Shall the soul's Cause thus gift the soul, yet strifeContinue still of fears with hopes,—for why?What if the Cause, whereof we now descrySo far the wonder-working, lack at lastWill, power, benevolence—a protoplast,No consummator, sealing up the sumOf all things,—past and present and to come—Perfection? No, I have no doubt at all!There's my amount of knowledge—great or small,Sufficient for my needs: for see! advanceIts light now on that depth of ignoranceI shrank before from—yonder where the worldLies wreck-strewn,—evil towering, prone good—hurledFrom pride of place, on every side. For me(Patience, beseech you!) knowledge can but beOf good by knowledge of good's opposite—Evil,—since, to distinguish wrong from right,Both must be known in each extreme, beside—(Or what means knowledge—to aspire or bideContent with half-attaining? Hardly so!)Made to know on, know ever, I must knowAll to be known at any halting-stageOf my soul's progress, such as earth, where wageWar, just for soul's instruction, pain with joy,Folly with wisdom, all that works annoyWith all that quiets and contents,—in brief,Good strives with evil."Now then for relief,Friends, of your patience kindly curbed so long.'What?' snarl you, 'is the fool's conceit thus strong—Must the whole outside world in soul and senseSuffer, that he grow sage at its expense?'By no means! 'T is by merest touch of toeI try—not trench on—ignorance, just know—And so keep steady footing: how you fare,Caught in the whirlpool—that 's the Cause's care,Strong, wise, good,—this I know at any rateIn my own self,—but how may operateWith you—strength, wisdom, goodness—no least blinkOf knowledge breaks the darkness round me. Think!Could I see plain, be somehow certifiedAll was illusion,—evil far and wideWas good disguised,—why, out with one huge wipeGoes knowledge from me. Type needs antitype:As night needs day, as shine needs shade, so goodNeeds evil: how were pity understoodUnless by pain? Make evident that painPermissibly masks pleasure—you abstainFrom outstretch of the finger-tip that savesA drowning fly. Who proffers help of handTo weak Andromeda exposed on strandAt mercy of the monster? Were all true,Help were not wanting: 'But 't is false,' cry you,'Mere fancy-work of paint and brush!' No less,Were mine the skill, the magic, to impressBeholders with a confidence they sawLife,—veritable flesh and blood in aweOf just as true a sea-beast,—would they stareSimply as now, or cry out, curse and swear,Or call the gods to help, or catch up stickAnd stone, according as their hearts were quickOr sluggish? Well, some old artificerCould do as much,—at least, so books aver,—Able to make believe, while I, poor wight,Make fancy, nothing more. Though wrong were right,Could we but know—still wrong must needs seem wrongTo do right's service, prove men weak or strong,Choosers of evil or of good. 'No suchIllusion possible!' Ah, friends, you touchJust here my solid standing-place amidThe wash and welter, whence all doubts are bidBack to the ledge they break against in foam,Futility: my soul, and my soul's homeThis body,—how each operates on each,And how things outside, fact or feigning, teachWhat good is and what evil,—just the same,Be feigning or be fact the teacher,—blameDiffidence nowise if, from this I judgeMy point of vantage, not an inch I budge.All—for myself—seems ordered wise and wellInside it,—what reigns outside, who can tell?Contrariwise, who needs be told 'The spaceWhich yields thee knowledge,—do its bounds embraceWell-willing and wise-working, each at height?Enongh: beyond thee lies the infinite—Back to thy circumscription!'"Back indeed!Ending where I began—thus: retrocede,Who will,—what comes first, take first, I advise!Acquaint you with the body ere your eyesLook upward: this Andromeda of mine—Gaze on the beauty, Art hangs out for signThere 's finer entertainment underneath.Learn how they ministrate to life and death—Those incommensurably marvellousContrivances which furnish forth the houseWhere soul has sway! Though Master keep aloof,Signs of his presence multiply from roofTo basement of the building. Look around,Learn thoroughly,—no fear that you confoundMaster with messuage! He 's away, no doubt,But what if, all at once, you come uponA startling proof—not that the Master goneWas present lately—but that something—whenceLight comes—has pushed him into residence?Was such the symbol's meaning,—old, uncouth—That circle of the serpent, tail in mouth?Only by looking low, ere looking high,Comes penetration of the mystery."XIThanks! After sermonizing, psalmody!Now praise with pencil, Painter! Fools attaintYour fame, forsooth, because its power inclinesTo livelier colors, more attractive linesThan suit some orthodox sad sickly saint—Gray male emaciation, haply streakedCarmine by scourgings—or they want, far worse—Some self-scathed woman, framed to bless not curseNature that loved the form whereon hate wreakedThe wrongs you see. No, rather paint some fullBenignancy, the first and foremost boonOf youth, health, strength,—show beauty's May, ere JuneUndo the bud's blush, leave a rose to cull—No poppy, neither! yet less perfect-pure,Divinely-precious with life's dew besprent.Show saintliness that's simply innocentOf guessing sinnership exists to cureAll in good time! In time let age advanceAnd teach that knowledge helps—not ignorance—The healing of the nations. Let my sparkQuicken your tinder! Burn with—Joan of Arc!Not at the end, nor midway when there grewThe brave delusions, when rare fancies flewBefore the eyes, and in the ears of herStrange voices woke imperiously astir:No,—paint the peasant girl all peasant-like,Spirit and flesh—the hour about to strikeWhen this should be transfigured, that inflamed,By heart's admonishing "Thy country shamed,Thy king shut out of all his realm exceptOne sorry corner!" and to life forth leaptThe indubitable lightning "Can there beCountry and king's salvation—all through me?"Memorize that burst's moment, Francis! Tush—None of the nonsense-writing! Fitlier brushShall clear off fancy's film-work and let showNot what the foolish feign but the wise know—Ask Sainte-Beuve else!—or better, Quicherat,The downright-digger into truth that's—Bah,Bettered by fiction? Well, of fact thus muchConcerns you, that "of prudishness no touchFrom first to last defaced the maid; anon,Camp-use compelling"—what says D'AlençonHer fast friend?—"though I saw while she undressedHow fair she was—especially her breast—Never had I a wild thought!"—as indeedI nowise doubt. Much less would she take heed—When eve came, and the lake, the hills aroundWere all one solitude and silence,—foundBarriered impenetrably safe about,—Take heed of interloping eyes shut out,But quietly permit the air imbibeHer naked beauty till ... but hear the scribe!Now as she fain would bathe, one even-tide,God's maid, this Joan, from the pool's edge she spiedThe fair blue bird clowns call the Fisher-king:And "'Las, sighed she, my Liege is such a thingAs thou, lord but of one poor lonely placeOut of his whole wide France: were mine the graceTo set my Dauphin free as thou, blue bird!"Properly Martin-fisher—that's the word,Not yours nor mine: folk said the rustic oathIn common use with her was—"By my troth"?No,—"By my Martin"! Paint this! Only, turnHer face away—that face about to burnInto an angel's when the time is ripe!That task's beyond you. Finished, Francis? WipePencil, scrape palette, and retire content!"Omnia non omnibus"—no harm is meant!

Nay,that, Furini, never I at leastMean to believe! What man you were I know,While you walked Tuscan earth, a painter-priest,Something about two hundred years ago.Priest—you did duty punctual as the sunThat rose and set above Saint Sano's church,Blessing Mugello: of your flock not oneBut showed a whiter fleece because of smirch,Your kind hands wiped it clear from: were they poor?Bounty broke bread apace,—did marriage lagFor just the want of moneys that ensureFit hearth-and-home provision?—straight your bagUnplumped itself,—reached hearts by way of palmsGoodwill's shake had but tickled. All aboutMugello valley, felt some parish qualmsAt worship offered in bare walls withoutThe comfort of a picture?—prompt such needOur painter would supply, and throngs to seeWitnessed that goodness—no unholy greedOf gain—had coaxed from Don Furini—heWhom princes might in vain implore to toilFor worldly profit—such a masterpiece.Brief—priest, you poured profuse God's wine and oilPraiseworthily, I know: shall praising ceaseWhen, priestly vesture put aside, mere man,You stand for judgment? Rather—what acclaim—"Good son, good brother, friend in whom we scanNo fault nor flaw"—salutes Furini's name,The loving as the liberal! Enough:Only to ope a lily, though for sakeOf setting free its scent, disturbs the roughLoose gold about its anther. I shall takeNo blame in one more blazon, last of all—Good painter were you: if in very deedI styled you great—what modern art dares callMy word in question? Let who will take heedOf what he seeks and misses in your brainTo balance that precision of the brushYour hand could ply so deftly: all in vainStrives poet's power for outlet when the pushIs lost upon a barred and bolted gateOf painter's impotency. Agnolo—Thine were alike the head and hand, by fateDoubly endowed! Who boasts head only—woeTo hand's presumption should brush emulateFancy's free passage by the pen, and showThought wrecked and ruined where the inexpertFoolhardy fingers half grasped, half let goFilm-wings the poet's pen arrests unhurt!No—painter such as that miraculousMichael, who deems you? But the ample giftOf gracing walls else blank of this our houseOf life with imagery, one bright driftPoured forth by pencil,—man and woman mere,Glorified till half owned for gods,—the dearFleshly perfection of the human shape,—This was apportioned you whereby to praiseHeaven and bless earth. Who clumsily essays,By slighting painter's craft, to prove the apeOf poet's pen-creation, just betraysTwofold ineptitude.

Nay,that, Furini, never I at least

Mean to believe! What man you were I know,

While you walked Tuscan earth, a painter-priest,

Something about two hundred years ago.

Priest—you did duty punctual as the sun

That rose and set above Saint Sano's church,

Blessing Mugello: of your flock not one

But showed a whiter fleece because of smirch,

Your kind hands wiped it clear from: were they poor?

Bounty broke bread apace,—did marriage lag

For just the want of moneys that ensure

Fit hearth-and-home provision?—straight your bag

Unplumped itself,—reached hearts by way of palms

Goodwill's shake had but tickled. All about

Mugello valley, felt some parish qualms

At worship offered in bare walls without

The comfort of a picture?—prompt such need

Our painter would supply, and throngs to see

Witnessed that goodness—no unholy greed

Of gain—had coaxed from Don Furini—he

Whom princes might in vain implore to toil

For worldly profit—such a masterpiece.

Brief—priest, you poured profuse God's wine and oil

Praiseworthily, I know: shall praising cease

When, priestly vesture put aside, mere man,

You stand for judgment? Rather—what acclaim

—"Good son, good brother, friend in whom we scan

No fault nor flaw"—salutes Furini's name,

The loving as the liberal! Enough:

Only to ope a lily, though for sake

Of setting free its scent, disturbs the rough

Loose gold about its anther. I shall take

No blame in one more blazon, last of all—

Good painter were you: if in very deed

I styled you great—what modern art dares call

My word in question? Let who will take heed

Of what he seeks and misses in your brain

To balance that precision of the brush

Your hand could ply so deftly: all in vain

Strives poet's power for outlet when the push

Is lost upon a barred and bolted gate

Of painter's impotency. Agnolo—

Thine were alike the head and hand, by fate

Doubly endowed! Who boasts head only—woe

To hand's presumption should brush emulate

Fancy's free passage by the pen, and show

Thought wrecked and ruined where the inexpert

Foolhardy fingers half grasped, half let go

Film-wings the poet's pen arrests unhurt!

No—painter such as that miraculous

Michael, who deems you? But the ample gift

Of gracing walls else blank of this our house

Of life with imagery, one bright drift

Poured forth by pencil,—man and woman mere,

Glorified till half owned for gods,—the dear

Fleshly perfection of the human shape,—

This was apportioned you whereby to praise

Heaven and bless earth. Who clumsily essays,

By slighting painter's craft, to prove the ape

Of poet's pen-creation, just betrays

Twofold ineptitude.

By such sure waysDo I return, Furini, to my firstAnd central confidence—that he I provedGood priest, good man, good painter, and rehearsedPraise upon praise to show—not simply lovedFor virtue, but for wisdom honored tooNeeds must Furini be,—it follows—whoShall undertake to breed in me beliefThat, on his death-bed, weakness played the thiefWith wisdom, folly ousted reason quite?List to the chronicler! With main and might—So fame runs—did the poor soul beg his friendsTo buy and burn his hand-work, make amendsFor having reproduced therein—(Ah me!Sighs fame—that's friend Filippo)—nudity!Yes, I assure you; he would paint—not menMerely—a pardonable fault—but whenHe had to deal with—oh, not mother EveAlone, permissibly in ParadiseNaked and unashamed,—but dared achieveDreadful distinction, at soul-safety's price,By also painting women—(why the need?)Just as God made them: there, you have the truth!Yes, rosed from top to toe in flush of youth,One foot upon the moss-fringe, would some NymphTry, with its venturous fellow, if the lymphWere chillier than the slab-stepped fountain-edge;The while a-heap her garments on its ledgeOf boulder lay within hand's easy reach,—No one least kid-skin cast around her! SpeechShrinks from enumerating case and caseOf—were it but Diana at the chase,With tunic tucked discreetly hunting-high!No, some Queen Venus set our necks awry,Turned faces from the painter's all-too-frankTriumph of flesh! For—whom had he to thank—This self-appointed nature-student? WhencePicked he up practice? By what evidenceDid he unhandsomely become adeptIn simulating bodies? How exceptBy actual sight of such? Himself confessedThe enormity: quoth Philip, "When I pressedThe painter to acknowledge his abuseOf artistry else potent—what excuseMade the infatuated man? I giveHis very words: 'Did you but know, as I,—O scruple-splitting sickly-sensitiveMild-moral-monger, what the agonyOf Art is ere Art satisfy herselfIn imitating Nature—(Man, poor elf,Striving to match the finger-mark of HimThe immeasurably matchless)—gay or grim,Pray, would your smile be? Leave mere fools to taxArt's high-strung brain's intentness as so laxThat, in its mid-throe, idle fancy seesThe moment for admittance!' Pleadings these—Specious, I grant." So adds, and seems to winceSomewhat, our censor—but shall truth convinceBlockheads like Baldinucci?

By such sure ways

Do I return, Furini, to my first

And central confidence—that he I proved

Good priest, good man, good painter, and rehearsed

Praise upon praise to show—not simply loved

For virtue, but for wisdom honored too

Needs must Furini be,—it follows—who

Shall undertake to breed in me belief

That, on his death-bed, weakness played the thief

With wisdom, folly ousted reason quite?

List to the chronicler! With main and might—

So fame runs—did the poor soul beg his friends

To buy and burn his hand-work, make amends

For having reproduced therein—(Ah me!

Sighs fame—that's friend Filippo)—nudity!

Yes, I assure you; he would paint—not men

Merely—a pardonable fault—but when

He had to deal with—oh, not mother Eve

Alone, permissibly in Paradise

Naked and unashamed,—but dared achieve

Dreadful distinction, at soul-safety's price,

By also painting women—(why the need?)

Just as God made them: there, you have the truth!

Yes, rosed from top to toe in flush of youth,

One foot upon the moss-fringe, would some Nymph

Try, with its venturous fellow, if the lymph

Were chillier than the slab-stepped fountain-edge;

The while a-heap her garments on its ledge

Of boulder lay within hand's easy reach,

—No one least kid-skin cast around her! Speech

Shrinks from enumerating case and case

Of—were it but Diana at the chase,

With tunic tucked discreetly hunting-high!

No, some Queen Venus set our necks awry,

Turned faces from the painter's all-too-frank

Triumph of flesh! For—whom had he to thank

—This self-appointed nature-student? Whence

Picked he up practice? By what evidence

Did he unhandsomely become adept

In simulating bodies? How except

By actual sight of such? Himself confessed

The enormity: quoth Philip, "When I pressed

The painter to acknowledge his abuse

Of artistry else potent—what excuse

Made the infatuated man? I give

His very words: 'Did you but know, as I,

—O scruple-splitting sickly-sensitive

Mild-moral-monger, what the agony

Of Art is ere Art satisfy herself

In imitating Nature—(Man, poor elf,

Striving to match the finger-mark of Him

The immeasurably matchless)—gay or grim,

Pray, would your smile be? Leave mere fools to tax

Art's high-strung brain's intentness as so lax

That, in its mid-throe, idle fancy sees

The moment for admittance!' Pleadings these—

Specious, I grant." So adds, and seems to wince

Somewhat, our censor—but shall truth convince

Blockheads like Baldinucci?

III

I resumeMy incredulity: your other kindOf soul, Furini, never was so blind,Even through death-mist, as to grope in gloomFor cheer beside a bonfire piled to turnAshes and dust all that your noble lifeDid homage to life's Lord by,—bid them burn—These Baldinucci blockheads—pictures rifeWith record, in each rendered loveliness,That one appreciative creature's debtOf thanks to the Creator, more or less,Was paid according as heart's-will had metHand's-power in Art's endeavor to expressHeaven's most consummate of achievements, blessEarth by a semblance of the seal God setOn woman his supremest work. I trustRather, Furini, dying breath had ventIn some fine fervor of thanksgiving justFor this—that soul and body's power you spent—Agonized to adumbrate, trace in dustThat marvel which we dream the firmamentCopies in star-device when fancies strayOutlining, orb by orb, Andromeda—God's best of beauteous and magnificentRevealed to earth—the naked female form.Nay, I mistake not: wrath that's but lukewarmWould boil indeed were such a critic styledHimself an artist: artist! Ossa piledTopping Olympus—the absurd which crownsThe extravagant—whereat one laughs, not frowns.Paints he? One bids the poor pretender takeHis sorry self, a trouble and disgrace,From out the sacred presence, void the placeArtists claim only. What—not merely wakeOur pity that suppressed concupiscence—A satyr masked as matron—makes pretenceTo the coarse blue-fly's instinct—can perceiveNo better reason why she should exist——God's lily-limbed and blushrose-bosomed Eve—Than as a hot-bed for the sensualistTo fly-blow with his fancies, make pure stuffBreed him back filth—this were not crime enough?But further—fly to style itself—nay, more—To steal among the sacred ones, crouch downThough but to where their garments sweep the floor——Still catching some faint sparkle from the crownCrowning transcendent Michael, Leonard,Rafael,—to sit beside the feet of such,Unspurned because unnoticed, then rewardTheir toleration—mercy overmuch—By stealing from the throne-step to the foolsCurious outside the gateway, all-agapeTo learn by what procedure, in the schoolsOf Art, a merest man in outward shapeMay learn to be Correggio! Old and young,These learners got their lesson: Art was justA safety-screen—(Art, which Correggio's tongueCalls "Virtue")—for a skulking vice: mere lustInspired the artist when his Night and MornSlept and awoke in marble on that edgeOf heaven above our awe-struck earth: lust-bornHis Eve low bending took the privilegeOf life from what our eyes saw—God's own palmThat put the flame forth—to the love and thanksOf all creation save this recreant!

I resume

My incredulity: your other kind

Of soul, Furini, never was so blind,

Even through death-mist, as to grope in gloom

For cheer beside a bonfire piled to turn

Ashes and dust all that your noble life

Did homage to life's Lord by,—bid them burn

—These Baldinucci blockheads—pictures rife

With record, in each rendered loveliness,

That one appreciative creature's debt

Of thanks to the Creator, more or less,

Was paid according as heart's-will had met

Hand's-power in Art's endeavor to express

Heaven's most consummate of achievements, bless

Earth by a semblance of the seal God set

On woman his supremest work. I trust

Rather, Furini, dying breath had vent

In some fine fervor of thanksgiving just

For this—that soul and body's power you spent—

Agonized to adumbrate, trace in dust

That marvel which we dream the firmament

Copies in star-device when fancies stray

Outlining, orb by orb, Andromeda—

God's best of beauteous and magnificent

Revealed to earth—the naked female form.

Nay, I mistake not: wrath that's but lukewarm

Would boil indeed were such a critic styled

Himself an artist: artist! Ossa piled

Topping Olympus—the absurd which crowns

The extravagant—whereat one laughs, not frowns.

Paints he? One bids the poor pretender take

His sorry self, a trouble and disgrace,

From out the sacred presence, void the place

Artists claim only. What—not merely wake

Our pity that suppressed concupiscence—

A satyr masked as matron—makes pretence

To the coarse blue-fly's instinct—can perceive

No better reason why she should exist—

—God's lily-limbed and blushrose-bosomed Eve—

Than as a hot-bed for the sensualist

To fly-blow with his fancies, make pure stuff

Breed him back filth—this were not crime enough?

But further—fly to style itself—nay, more—

To steal among the sacred ones, crouch down

Though but to where their garments sweep the floor—

—Still catching some faint sparkle from the crown

Crowning transcendent Michael, Leonard,

Rafael,—to sit beside the feet of such,

Unspurned because unnoticed, then reward

Their toleration—mercy overmuch—

By stealing from the throne-step to the fools

Curious outside the gateway, all-agape

To learn by what procedure, in the schools

Of Art, a merest man in outward shape

May learn to be Correggio! Old and young,

These learners got their lesson: Art was just

A safety-screen—(Art, which Correggio's tongue

Calls "Virtue")—for a skulking vice: mere lust

Inspired the artist when his Night and Morn

Slept and awoke in marble on that edge

Of heaven above our awe-struck earth: lust-born

His Eve low bending took the privilege

Of life from what our eyes saw—God's own palm

That put the flame forth—to the love and thanks

Of all creation save this recreant!

CalmOur phrase, Furini! Not the artist-ranksClaim riddance of an interloper: no—This Baldinucci did but grunt and sniffOutside Art's pale—ay, grubbed, where pine-trees grow,For pignuts only.

Calm

Our phrase, Furini! Not the artist-ranks

Claim riddance of an interloper: no—

This Baldinucci did but grunt and sniff

Outside Art's pale—ay, grubbed, where pine-trees grow,

For pignuts only.

You the Sacred! IfIndeed on you has been bestowed the dowerOf Art in fulness, graced with head and hand,Head—to lookup not downwards, hand—of powerTo make head's gain the portion of a worldWhere else the uninstructed ones too sureWould take all outside beauty—film that's furledAbout a star—for the star's self, endureNo guidance to the central glory,—nay,(Sadder) might apprehend the film was fog,Or (worst) wish all but vapor well away,And sky's pure product thickened from earth's bog—Since so, nor seldom, have your worthiest failedTo trust their own soul's insight—why? exceptFor warning that the head of the adeptMay too much prize the hand, work unassailedBy scruple of the better sense that findsAn orb within each halo, bids gross fleshFree the fine spirit-pattern, nor enmeshMore than is meet a marvel, custom blindsOnly the vulgar eye to. Now, less fearThat you, the foremost of Art's fellowship,Will oft—will ever so offend! But—hipAnd thigh—smite the Philistine!You—slunk here—Connived at, by too easy tolerance,Not to scrape palette simply or squeeze brush,But dub your very self an Artist? Tush—You, of the daubings, is it, dare advanceThis doctrine that the Artist-mind must needsOwn to affinity with yours—confessProvocative acquaintance, more or less,With each impurely-peevish worm that breedsInside your brain's receptacle?

You the Sacred! If

Indeed on you has been bestowed the dower

Of Art in fulness, graced with head and hand,

Head—to lookup not downwards, hand—of power

To make head's gain the portion of a world

Where else the uninstructed ones too sure

Would take all outside beauty—film that's furled

About a star—for the star's self, endure

No guidance to the central glory,—nay,

(Sadder) might apprehend the film was fog,

Or (worst) wish all but vapor well away,

And sky's pure product thickened from earth's bog—

Since so, nor seldom, have your worthiest failed

To trust their own soul's insight—why? except

For warning that the head of the adept

May too much prize the hand, work unassailed

By scruple of the better sense that finds

An orb within each halo, bids gross flesh

Free the fine spirit-pattern, nor enmesh

More than is meet a marvel, custom blinds

Only the vulgar eye to. Now, less fear

That you, the foremost of Art's fellowship,

Will oft—will ever so offend! But—hip

And thigh—smite the Philistine!You—slunk here—

Connived at, by too easy tolerance,

Not to scrape palette simply or squeeze brush,

But dub your very self an Artist? Tush—

You, of the daubings, is it, dare advance

This doctrine that the Artist-mind must needs

Own to affinity with yours—confess

Provocative acquaintance, more or less,

With each impurely-peevish worm that breeds

Inside your brain's receptacle?

Enough.Who owns "I dare not look on diademsWithout an itch to pick out, purloin gemsOthers contentedly leave sparkling"—gruffAnswers the guard of the regalia: "Why—Consciously kleptomaniac—thrust yourselfWhere your illicit craving after pelfIs tempted most—in the King's treasury?Go elsewhere! Sort with thieves, if thus you feel—When folk clean-handed simply recognizeTreasure whereof the mere sight satisfies—But straight your fingers are on itch to steal!Hence with you!"Pray, Furini!

Enough.

Who owns "I dare not look on diadems

Without an itch to pick out, purloin gems

Others contentedly leave sparkling"—gruff

Answers the guard of the regalia: "Why—

Consciously kleptomaniac—thrust yourself

Where your illicit craving after pelf

Is tempted most—in the King's treasury?

Go elsewhere! Sort with thieves, if thus you feel—

When folk clean-handed simply recognize

Treasure whereof the mere sight satisfies—

But straight your fingers are on itch to steal!

Hence with you!"

Pray, Furini!

VII

"Bounteous God,Deviser and dispenser of all giftsTo soul through sense,—in Art the soul upliftsMan's best of thanks! What but thy measuring-rodMeted forth heaven and earth? more intimate,Thy very hands were busied with the taskOf making, in this human shape, a mask—A match for that divine. Shall love abateMan's wonder? Nowise! True—true—all too true—No gift but, in the very plenitudeOf its perfection, goes maimed, misconstruedBy wickedness or weakness: still, some fewHave grace to see thy purpose, strength to marThy work by no admixture of their own,—Limn truth not falsehood, bid us love aloneThe type untampered with, the naked star!"

"Bounteous God,

Deviser and dispenser of all gifts

To soul through sense,—in Art the soul uplifts

Man's best of thanks! What but thy measuring-rod

Meted forth heaven and earth? more intimate,

Thy very hands were busied with the task

Of making, in this human shape, a mask—

A match for that divine. Shall love abate

Man's wonder? Nowise! True—true—all too true—

No gift but, in the very plenitude

Of its perfection, goes maimed, misconstrued

By wickedness or weakness: still, some few

Have grace to see thy purpose, strength to mar

Thy work by no admixture of their own,

—Limn truth not falsehood, bid us love alone

The type untampered with, the naked star!"

VIII

And, prayer done, painter—what if you should preach?Not as of old when playing pulpiteerTo simple-witted country folk, but hereIn actual London try your powers of speechOn us the cultured, therefore skeptical—What would you? For, suppose he has his wordIn faith's behalf, no matter how absurd,This painter-theologian? One and allWe lend an ear—nay, Science takes thereto—Encourages the meanest who has rackedNature until he gains from her some fact,To state what truth is from his point of view,Mere pin-point though it be: since many suchConduce to make a whole, she bids our friendCome forward unabashed and haply lendHis little life-experience to our muchOf modern knowledge. Since she so insists,Up stands Furini.

And, prayer done, painter—what if you should preach?

Not as of old when playing pulpiteer

To simple-witted country folk, but here

In actual London try your powers of speech

On us the cultured, therefore skeptical—

What would you? For, suppose he has his word

In faith's behalf, no matter how absurd,

This painter-theologian? One and all

We lend an ear—nay, Science takes thereto—

Encourages the meanest who has racked

Nature until he gains from her some fact,

To state what truth is from his point of view,

Mere pin-point though it be: since many such

Conduce to make a whole, she bids our friend

Come forward unabashed and haply lend

His little life-experience to our much

Of modern knowledge. Since she so insists,

Up stands Furini.

"Evolutionists!At truth I glimpse from depths, you glance from heights,Our stations for discovery opposites,—How should ensue agreement? I explain:'T is the tip-top of things to which you strainYour vision, until atoms, protoplasm,And what and whence and how may be the spasmWhich sets all going, stop you: down perforceNeeds must your observation take its course,Since there 's no moving upwards: link by linkYou drop to where the atoms somehow think.Feel, know themselves to be: the world 's begun,Such as we recognize it. Have you doneDescending? Here's ourself,—Man, known to-day,Duly evolved at last,—so far, you say,The sum and seal of being's progress. Good!Thus much at least is clearly understood—Of power does Man possess no particle:Of knowledge—just so much as shows that stillIt ends in ignorance on every side:But righteousness—ah, Man is deifiedThereby, for compensation! Make surveyOf Man's surroundings, try creation—nay,Try emulation of the minimizedMinuteness fancy may conceive! SurprisedReason becomes by two defeats for one—Not only power at each phenomenonBaffled, but knowledge also in default—Asking whatisminuteness—yonder vaultSpeckled with suns, or this the millionth—thing,How shall I call?—that on some insect's wingHelps to make out in dyes the mimic star?Weak, ignorant, accordingly we are:What then? The worse for Nature! Where beganRighteousness, moral sense except in Man?True, he makes nothing, understands no whit:Had the initiator-spasm seen fitThus doubly to endow him, none the worseAnd much the better were the universe.What does Man see or feel or apprehendHere, there, and everywhere, but faults to mend,Omissions to supply,—one wide diseaseOf things that are, which Man at once would easeHad will but power and knowledge? failing both—Things must take will for deed—Man, nowise loth,Accepts pre-eminency: mere blind force—Mere knowledge undirected in its courseBy any care for what is made or marredIn either's operation—theseawardThe crown to? Rather let it deck thy brows,Man, whom alone a righteousness endowsWould cure the wide world's ailing! Who disputesThy claim thereto? Had Spasm more attributesThan power and knowledge in its gift, beforeMan came to pass? The higher that we soar,The less of moral sense like Man's we find:No sign of such before,—what comes behind,Who guesses! But until there crown our sightThe quite new—not the old mere infiniteOf changings,—some fresh kind of sun and moon,—Then, not before, shall I expect a boonOf intuition just as strange, which turnsEvil to good, and wrong to right, unlearnsAll Man's experience learned since Man was he.Accept in Man, advanced to this degree,The Prime Mind, therefore! neither wise nor strong—Whose fault? but were he both, then right, not wrongAs now, throughout the world were paramountAccording to his will,—which I accountThe qualifying faculty. He standsConfessed supreme—the monarch whose commandsCould he enforce, how bettered were the world!He's at the height this moment—to be hurledNext moment to the bottom by reboundOf his own peal of laughter. All aroundIgnorance wraps him,—whence and how and whyThings are,—yet cloud breaks and lets blink the skyJust overhead, not elsewhere! What assuresHis optics that the very blue which luresComes not of black outside it, doubly dense?Ignorance overwraps his moral sense,Winds him about, relaxing, as it wraps,So much and no more than lets through perhapsThe murmured knowledge—'Ignorance exists.'

"Evolutionists!

At truth I glimpse from depths, you glance from heights,

Our stations for discovery opposites,—

How should ensue agreement? I explain:

'T is the tip-top of things to which you strain

Your vision, until atoms, protoplasm,

And what and whence and how may be the spasm

Which sets all going, stop you: down perforce

Needs must your observation take its course,

Since there 's no moving upwards: link by link

You drop to where the atoms somehow think.

Feel, know themselves to be: the world 's begun,

Such as we recognize it. Have you done

Descending? Here's ourself,—Man, known to-day,

Duly evolved at last,—so far, you say,

The sum and seal of being's progress. Good!

Thus much at least is clearly understood—

Of power does Man possess no particle:

Of knowledge—just so much as shows that still

It ends in ignorance on every side:

But righteousness—ah, Man is deified

Thereby, for compensation! Make survey

Of Man's surroundings, try creation—nay,

Try emulation of the minimized

Minuteness fancy may conceive! Surprised

Reason becomes by two defeats for one—

Not only power at each phenomenon

Baffled, but knowledge also in default—

Asking whatisminuteness—yonder vault

Speckled with suns, or this the millionth—thing,

How shall I call?—that on some insect's wing

Helps to make out in dyes the mimic star?

Weak, ignorant, accordingly we are:

What then? The worse for Nature! Where began

Righteousness, moral sense except in Man?

True, he makes nothing, understands no whit:

Had the initiator-spasm seen fit

Thus doubly to endow him, none the worse

And much the better were the universe.

What does Man see or feel or apprehend

Here, there, and everywhere, but faults to mend,

Omissions to supply,—one wide disease

Of things that are, which Man at once would ease

Had will but power and knowledge? failing both—

Things must take will for deed—Man, nowise loth,

Accepts pre-eminency: mere blind force—

Mere knowledge undirected in its course

By any care for what is made or marred

In either's operation—theseaward

The crown to? Rather let it deck thy brows,

Man, whom alone a righteousness endows

Would cure the wide world's ailing! Who disputes

Thy claim thereto? Had Spasm more attributes

Than power and knowledge in its gift, before

Man came to pass? The higher that we soar,

The less of moral sense like Man's we find:

No sign of such before,—what comes behind,

Who guesses! But until there crown our sight

The quite new—not the old mere infinite

Of changings,—some fresh kind of sun and moon,—

Then, not before, shall I expect a boon

Of intuition just as strange, which turns

Evil to good, and wrong to right, unlearns

All Man's experience learned since Man was he.

Accept in Man, advanced to this degree,

The Prime Mind, therefore! neither wise nor strong—

Whose fault? but were he both, then right, not wrong

As now, throughout the world were paramount

According to his will,—which I account

The qualifying faculty. He stands

Confessed supreme—the monarch whose commands

Could he enforce, how bettered were the world!

He's at the height this moment—to be hurled

Next moment to the bottom by rebound

Of his own peal of laughter. All around

Ignorance wraps him,—whence and how and why

Things are,—yet cloud breaks and lets blink the sky

Just overhead, not elsewhere! What assures

His optics that the very blue which lures

Comes not of black outside it, doubly dense?

Ignorance overwraps his moral sense,

Winds him about, relaxing, as it wraps,

So much and no more than lets through perhaps

The murmured knowledge—'Ignorance exists.'

"I at the bottom, Evolutionists,Advise beginning, rather. I professTo know just one fact—my self-consciousness,—'Twixt ignorance and ignorance enisled,—Knowledge: before me was my Cause—that 's styledGod: after, in due course succeeds the rest,—All that my knowledge comprehends—at best—At worst, conceives about in mild despair.Light needs must touch on either darkness: where?Knowledge so far impinges on the CauseBefore me, that I know—by certain lawsWholly unknown, whate'er I apprehendWithin, without me, had its rise: thus blendI, and all things perceived, in one Effect.How far can knowledge any ray projectOn what comes after me—the universe?Well, my attempt to make the cloud disperseBegins—not from above but underneath:I climb, you soar,—who soars soon loses breathAnd sinks, who climbs keeps one foot firm on factEre hazarding the next step: soul's first act(Call consciousness the soul—some name we need)Getting itself aware, through stuff decreedThereto (so call the body)—who has steptSo far, there let him stand, become adeptIn body ere he shift his station thenceOne single hair's breadth. Do I make pretenceTo teach, myself unskilled in learning? Lo,My life's work! Let my pictures prove I knowSomewhat of what this fleshly frame of oursOr is or should be, how the soul empowersThe body to reveal its every moodOf love and hate, pour forth its plenitudeOf passion. If my hand attained to giveThus permanence to truth else fugitive,Did not I also fix each fleeting graceOf form and feature—save the beauteous face—Arrest decay in transitory mightOf bone and muscle—cause the world to blessForever each transcendent nakednessOf man and woman? Were such feats achievedBy sloth, or strenuous labor unrelieved,—Yet lavished vainly? Ask that underground(So may I speak) of all on surface foundOf flesh-perfection! Depths on depths to probeOf all-inventive artifice, disrobeMarvel at hiding under marvel, pluckVeil after veil from Nature—were the luckOurs to surprise the secret men so name,That still eludes the searcher—all the same,Repays his search with still fresh proof—'Externe,Not inmost, is the Cause, fool! Look and learn!'Thus teach my hundred pictures: firm and fastThere did I plant my first foot. And the next?Nowhere! 'T was put forth and withdrawn, perplexedAt touch of what seemed stable and proved stuffSuch as the colored clouds are: plain enoughThere lay the outside universe: try Man—My most immediate! and the dip beganFrom safe and solid into that profoundOf ignorance I tell you surges roundMy rock-spit of self-knowledge. Well and ill,Evil and good irreconcilableAbove, beneath, about my every side,—How did this wild confusion far and wideTally with my experience when my stamp—So far from stirring—struck out, each a lamp,Spark after spark of truth from where I stood—Pedestalled triumph? Evil there was good,Want was the promise of supply, defectEnsured completion,—where and when and how?Leave that to the First Cause! Enough that now,Here where I stand, this moment's me and mine,Shows me what is, permits me to divineWhat shall be. Wherefore? Nay, how otherwise?Look at my pictures! What so glorifiesThe body that the permeating soulFinds there no particle elude controlDirect, or fail of duty,—most obscureWhen most subservient? Did that Cause ensureThe soul such raptures as its fancy stingsBody to furnish when, uplift by wingsOf passion, here and now, it leaves the earth,Loses itself above, where bliss has birth—(Heaven, be the phrase)—did that same Cause contriveSuch solace for the body, soul must diveAt drop of fancy's pinion, condescendTo bury both alike on earth, our friendAnd fellow, where minutely exquisiteLow lie the pleasures, now and here—no herbBut hides its marvel, peace no doubts perturbIn each small mystery of insect life——Shall the soul's Cause thus gift the soul, yet strifeContinue still of fears with hopes,—for why?What if the Cause, whereof we now descrySo far the wonder-working, lack at lastWill, power, benevolence—a protoplast,No consummator, sealing up the sumOf all things,—past and present and to come—Perfection? No, I have no doubt at all!There's my amount of knowledge—great or small,Sufficient for my needs: for see! advanceIts light now on that depth of ignoranceI shrank before from—yonder where the worldLies wreck-strewn,—evil towering, prone good—hurledFrom pride of place, on every side. For me(Patience, beseech you!) knowledge can but beOf good by knowledge of good's opposite—Evil,—since, to distinguish wrong from right,Both must be known in each extreme, beside—(Or what means knowledge—to aspire or bideContent with half-attaining? Hardly so!)Made to know on, know ever, I must knowAll to be known at any halting-stageOf my soul's progress, such as earth, where wageWar, just for soul's instruction, pain with joy,Folly with wisdom, all that works annoyWith all that quiets and contents,—in brief,Good strives with evil.

"I at the bottom, Evolutionists,

Advise beginning, rather. I profess

To know just one fact—my self-consciousness,—

'Twixt ignorance and ignorance enisled,—

Knowledge: before me was my Cause—that 's styled

God: after, in due course succeeds the rest,—

All that my knowledge comprehends—at best—

At worst, conceives about in mild despair.

Light needs must touch on either darkness: where?

Knowledge so far impinges on the Cause

Before me, that I know—by certain laws

Wholly unknown, whate'er I apprehend

Within, without me, had its rise: thus blend

I, and all things perceived, in one Effect.

How far can knowledge any ray project

On what comes after me—the universe?

Well, my attempt to make the cloud disperse

Begins—not from above but underneath:

I climb, you soar,—who soars soon loses breath

And sinks, who climbs keeps one foot firm on fact

Ere hazarding the next step: soul's first act

(Call consciousness the soul—some name we need)

Getting itself aware, through stuff decreed

Thereto (so call the body)—who has stept

So far, there let him stand, become adept

In body ere he shift his station thence

One single hair's breadth. Do I make pretence

To teach, myself unskilled in learning? Lo,

My life's work! Let my pictures prove I know

Somewhat of what this fleshly frame of ours

Or is or should be, how the soul empowers

The body to reveal its every mood

Of love and hate, pour forth its plenitude

Of passion. If my hand attained to give

Thus permanence to truth else fugitive,

Did not I also fix each fleeting grace

Of form and feature—save the beauteous face—

Arrest decay in transitory might

Of bone and muscle—cause the world to bless

Forever each transcendent nakedness

Of man and woman? Were such feats achieved

By sloth, or strenuous labor unrelieved,

—Yet lavished vainly? Ask that underground

(So may I speak) of all on surface found

Of flesh-perfection! Depths on depths to probe

Of all-inventive artifice, disrobe

Marvel at hiding under marvel, pluck

Veil after veil from Nature—were the luck

Ours to surprise the secret men so name,

That still eludes the searcher—all the same,

Repays his search with still fresh proof—'Externe,

Not inmost, is the Cause, fool! Look and learn!'

Thus teach my hundred pictures: firm and fast

There did I plant my first foot. And the next?

Nowhere! 'T was put forth and withdrawn, perplexed

At touch of what seemed stable and proved stuff

Such as the colored clouds are: plain enough

There lay the outside universe: try Man—

My most immediate! and the dip began

From safe and solid into that profound

Of ignorance I tell you surges round

My rock-spit of self-knowledge. Well and ill,

Evil and good irreconcilable

Above, beneath, about my every side,—

How did this wild confusion far and wide

Tally with my experience when my stamp—

So far from stirring—struck out, each a lamp,

Spark after spark of truth from where I stood—

Pedestalled triumph? Evil there was good,

Want was the promise of supply, defect

Ensured completion,—where and when and how?

Leave that to the First Cause! Enough that now,

Here where I stand, this moment's me and mine,

Shows me what is, permits me to divine

What shall be. Wherefore? Nay, how otherwise?

Look at my pictures! What so glorifies

The body that the permeating soul

Finds there no particle elude control

Direct, or fail of duty,—most obscure

When most subservient? Did that Cause ensure

The soul such raptures as its fancy stings

Body to furnish when, uplift by wings

Of passion, here and now, it leaves the earth,

Loses itself above, where bliss has birth—

(Heaven, be the phrase)—did that same Cause contrive

Such solace for the body, soul must dive

At drop of fancy's pinion, condescend

To bury both alike on earth, our friend

And fellow, where minutely exquisite

Low lie the pleasures, now and here—no herb

But hides its marvel, peace no doubts perturb

In each small mystery of insect life—

—Shall the soul's Cause thus gift the soul, yet strife

Continue still of fears with hopes,—for why?

What if the Cause, whereof we now descry

So far the wonder-working, lack at last

Will, power, benevolence—a protoplast,

No consummator, sealing up the sum

Of all things,—past and present and to come—

Perfection? No, I have no doubt at all!

There's my amount of knowledge—great or small,

Sufficient for my needs: for see! advance

Its light now on that depth of ignorance

I shrank before from—yonder where the world

Lies wreck-strewn,—evil towering, prone good—hurled

From pride of place, on every side. For me

(Patience, beseech you!) knowledge can but be

Of good by knowledge of good's opposite—

Evil,—since, to distinguish wrong from right,

Both must be known in each extreme, beside—

(Or what means knowledge—to aspire or bide

Content with half-attaining? Hardly so!)

Made to know on, know ever, I must know

All to be known at any halting-stage

Of my soul's progress, such as earth, where wage

War, just for soul's instruction, pain with joy,

Folly with wisdom, all that works annoy

With all that quiets and contents,—in brief,

Good strives with evil.

"Now then for relief,Friends, of your patience kindly curbed so long.'What?' snarl you, 'is the fool's conceit thus strong—Must the whole outside world in soul and senseSuffer, that he grow sage at its expense?'By no means! 'T is by merest touch of toeI try—not trench on—ignorance, just know—And so keep steady footing: how you fare,Caught in the whirlpool—that 's the Cause's care,Strong, wise, good,—this I know at any rateIn my own self,—but how may operateWith you—strength, wisdom, goodness—no least blinkOf knowledge breaks the darkness round me. Think!Could I see plain, be somehow certifiedAll was illusion,—evil far and wideWas good disguised,—why, out with one huge wipeGoes knowledge from me. Type needs antitype:As night needs day, as shine needs shade, so goodNeeds evil: how were pity understoodUnless by pain? Make evident that painPermissibly masks pleasure—you abstainFrom outstretch of the finger-tip that savesA drowning fly. Who proffers help of handTo weak Andromeda exposed on strandAt mercy of the monster? Were all true,Help were not wanting: 'But 't is false,' cry you,'Mere fancy-work of paint and brush!' No less,Were mine the skill, the magic, to impressBeholders with a confidence they sawLife,—veritable flesh and blood in aweOf just as true a sea-beast,—would they stareSimply as now, or cry out, curse and swear,Or call the gods to help, or catch up stickAnd stone, according as their hearts were quickOr sluggish? Well, some old artificerCould do as much,—at least, so books aver,—Able to make believe, while I, poor wight,Make fancy, nothing more. Though wrong were right,Could we but know—still wrong must needs seem wrongTo do right's service, prove men weak or strong,

"Now then for relief,

Friends, of your patience kindly curbed so long.

'What?' snarl you, 'is the fool's conceit thus strong—

Must the whole outside world in soul and sense

Suffer, that he grow sage at its expense?'

By no means! 'T is by merest touch of toe

I try—not trench on—ignorance, just know—

And so keep steady footing: how you fare,

Caught in the whirlpool—that 's the Cause's care,

Strong, wise, good,—this I know at any rate

In my own self,—but how may operate

With you—strength, wisdom, goodness—no least blink

Of knowledge breaks the darkness round me. Think!

Could I see plain, be somehow certified

All was illusion,—evil far and wide

Was good disguised,—why, out with one huge wipe

Goes knowledge from me. Type needs antitype:

As night needs day, as shine needs shade, so good

Needs evil: how were pity understood

Unless by pain? Make evident that pain

Permissibly masks pleasure—you abstain

From outstretch of the finger-tip that saves

A drowning fly. Who proffers help of hand

To weak Andromeda exposed on strand

At mercy of the monster? Were all true,

Help were not wanting: 'But 't is false,' cry you,

'Mere fancy-work of paint and brush!' No less,

Were mine the skill, the magic, to impress

Beholders with a confidence they saw

Life,—veritable flesh and blood in awe

Of just as true a sea-beast,—would they stare

Simply as now, or cry out, curse and swear,

Or call the gods to help, or catch up stick

And stone, according as their hearts were quick

Or sluggish? Well, some old artificer

Could do as much,—at least, so books aver,—

Able to make believe, while I, poor wight,

Make fancy, nothing more. Though wrong were right,

Could we but know—still wrong must needs seem wrong

To do right's service, prove men weak or strong,

Choosers of evil or of good. 'No suchIllusion possible!' Ah, friends, you touchJust here my solid standing-place amidThe wash and welter, whence all doubts are bidBack to the ledge they break against in foam,Futility: my soul, and my soul's homeThis body,—how each operates on each,And how things outside, fact or feigning, teachWhat good is and what evil,—just the same,Be feigning or be fact the teacher,—blameDiffidence nowise if, from this I judgeMy point of vantage, not an inch I budge.All—for myself—seems ordered wise and wellInside it,—what reigns outside, who can tell?Contrariwise, who needs be told 'The spaceWhich yields thee knowledge,—do its bounds embraceWell-willing and wise-working, each at height?Enongh: beyond thee lies the infinite—Back to thy circumscription!'

Choosers of evil or of good. 'No such

Illusion possible!' Ah, friends, you touch

Just here my solid standing-place amid

The wash and welter, whence all doubts are bid

Back to the ledge they break against in foam,

Futility: my soul, and my soul's home

This body,—how each operates on each,

And how things outside, fact or feigning, teach

What good is and what evil,—just the same,

Be feigning or be fact the teacher,—blame

Diffidence nowise if, from this I judge

My point of vantage, not an inch I budge.

All—for myself—seems ordered wise and well

Inside it,—what reigns outside, who can tell?

Contrariwise, who needs be told 'The space

Which yields thee knowledge,—do its bounds embrace

Well-willing and wise-working, each at height?

Enongh: beyond thee lies the infinite—

Back to thy circumscription!'

"Back indeed!Ending where I began—thus: retrocede,Who will,—what comes first, take first, I advise!Acquaint you with the body ere your eyesLook upward: this Andromeda of mine—Gaze on the beauty, Art hangs out for signThere 's finer entertainment underneath.Learn how they ministrate to life and death—Those incommensurably marvellousContrivances which furnish forth the houseWhere soul has sway! Though Master keep aloof,Signs of his presence multiply from roofTo basement of the building. Look around,Learn thoroughly,—no fear that you confoundMaster with messuage! He 's away, no doubt,But what if, all at once, you come uponA startling proof—not that the Master goneWas present lately—but that something—whenceLight comes—has pushed him into residence?Was such the symbol's meaning,—old, uncouth—That circle of the serpent, tail in mouth?Only by looking low, ere looking high,Comes penetration of the mystery."

"Back indeed!

Ending where I began—thus: retrocede,

Who will,—what comes first, take first, I advise!

Acquaint you with the body ere your eyes

Look upward: this Andromeda of mine—

Gaze on the beauty, Art hangs out for sign

There 's finer entertainment underneath.

Learn how they ministrate to life and death—

Those incommensurably marvellous

Contrivances which furnish forth the house

Where soul has sway! Though Master keep aloof,

Signs of his presence multiply from roof

To basement of the building. Look around,

Learn thoroughly,—no fear that you confound

Master with messuage! He 's away, no doubt,

But what if, all at once, you come upon

A startling proof—not that the Master gone

Was present lately—but that something—whence

Light comes—has pushed him into residence?

Was such the symbol's meaning,—old, uncouth—

That circle of the serpent, tail in mouth?

Only by looking low, ere looking high,

Comes penetration of the mystery."

Thanks! After sermonizing, psalmody!Now praise with pencil, Painter! Fools attaintYour fame, forsooth, because its power inclinesTo livelier colors, more attractive linesThan suit some orthodox sad sickly saint—Gray male emaciation, haply streakedCarmine by scourgings—or they want, far worse—Some self-scathed woman, framed to bless not curseNature that loved the form whereon hate wreakedThe wrongs you see. No, rather paint some fullBenignancy, the first and foremost boonOf youth, health, strength,—show beauty's May, ere JuneUndo the bud's blush, leave a rose to cull—No poppy, neither! yet less perfect-pure,Divinely-precious with life's dew besprent.Show saintliness that's simply innocentOf guessing sinnership exists to cureAll in good time! In time let age advanceAnd teach that knowledge helps—not ignorance—The healing of the nations. Let my sparkQuicken your tinder! Burn with—Joan of Arc!Not at the end, nor midway when there grewThe brave delusions, when rare fancies flewBefore the eyes, and in the ears of herStrange voices woke imperiously astir:No,—paint the peasant girl all peasant-like,Spirit and flesh—the hour about to strikeWhen this should be transfigured, that inflamed,By heart's admonishing "Thy country shamed,Thy king shut out of all his realm exceptOne sorry corner!" and to life forth leaptThe indubitable lightning "Can there beCountry and king's salvation—all through me?"Memorize that burst's moment, Francis! Tush—None of the nonsense-writing! Fitlier brushShall clear off fancy's film-work and let showNot what the foolish feign but the wise know—Ask Sainte-Beuve else!—or better, Quicherat,The downright-digger into truth that's—Bah,Bettered by fiction? Well, of fact thus muchConcerns you, that "of prudishness no touchFrom first to last defaced the maid; anon,Camp-use compelling"—what says D'AlençonHer fast friend?—"though I saw while she undressedHow fair she was—especially her breast—Never had I a wild thought!"—as indeedI nowise doubt. Much less would she take heed—When eve came, and the lake, the hills aroundWere all one solitude and silence,—foundBarriered impenetrably safe about,—Take heed of interloping eyes shut out,But quietly permit the air imbibeHer naked beauty till ... but hear the scribe!Now as she fain would bathe, one even-tide,God's maid, this Joan, from the pool's edge she spiedThe fair blue bird clowns call the Fisher-king:And "'Las, sighed she, my Liege is such a thingAs thou, lord but of one poor lonely placeOut of his whole wide France: were mine the graceTo set my Dauphin free as thou, blue bird!"Properly Martin-fisher—that's the word,Not yours nor mine: folk said the rustic oathIn common use with her was—"By my troth"?No,—"By my Martin"! Paint this! Only, turnHer face away—that face about to burnInto an angel's when the time is ripe!That task's beyond you. Finished, Francis? WipePencil, scrape palette, and retire content!"Omnia non omnibus"—no harm is meant!

Thanks! After sermonizing, psalmody!

Now praise with pencil, Painter! Fools attaint

Your fame, forsooth, because its power inclines

To livelier colors, more attractive lines

Than suit some orthodox sad sickly saint

—Gray male emaciation, haply streaked

Carmine by scourgings—or they want, far worse—

Some self-scathed woman, framed to bless not curse

Nature that loved the form whereon hate wreaked

The wrongs you see. No, rather paint some full

Benignancy, the first and foremost boon

Of youth, health, strength,—show beauty's May, ere June

Undo the bud's blush, leave a rose to cull

—No poppy, neither! yet less perfect-pure,

Divinely-precious with life's dew besprent.

Show saintliness that's simply innocent

Of guessing sinnership exists to cure

All in good time! In time let age advance

And teach that knowledge helps—not ignorance—

The healing of the nations. Let my spark

Quicken your tinder! Burn with—Joan of Arc!

Not at the end, nor midway when there grew

The brave delusions, when rare fancies flew

Before the eyes, and in the ears of her

Strange voices woke imperiously astir:

No,—paint the peasant girl all peasant-like,

Spirit and flesh—the hour about to strike

When this should be transfigured, that inflamed,

By heart's admonishing "Thy country shamed,

Thy king shut out of all his realm except

One sorry corner!" and to life forth leapt

The indubitable lightning "Can there be

Country and king's salvation—all through me?"

Memorize that burst's moment, Francis! Tush—

None of the nonsense-writing! Fitlier brush

Shall clear off fancy's film-work and let show

Not what the foolish feign but the wise know—

Ask Sainte-Beuve else!—or better, Quicherat,

The downright-digger into truth that's—Bah,

Bettered by fiction? Well, of fact thus much

Concerns you, that "of prudishness no touch

From first to last defaced the maid; anon,

Camp-use compelling"—what says D'Alençon

Her fast friend?—"though I saw while she undressed

How fair she was—especially her breast—

Never had I a wild thought!"—as indeed

I nowise doubt. Much less would she take heed—

When eve came, and the lake, the hills around

Were all one solitude and silence,—found

Barriered impenetrably safe about,—

Take heed of interloping eyes shut out,

But quietly permit the air imbibe

Her naked beauty till ... but hear the scribe!

Now as she fain would bathe, one even-tide,

God's maid, this Joan, from the pool's edge she spied

The fair blue bird clowns call the Fisher-king:

And "'Las, sighed she, my Liege is such a thing

As thou, lord but of one poor lonely place

Out of his whole wide France: were mine the grace

To set my Dauphin free as thou, blue bird!"

Properly Martin-fisher—that's the word,

Not yours nor mine: folk said the rustic oath

In common use with her was—"By my troth"?

No,—"By my Martin"! Paint this! Only, turn

Her face away—that face about to burn

Into an angel's when the time is ripe!

That task's beyond you. Finished, Francis? Wipe

Pencil, scrape palette, and retire content!

"Omnia non omnibus"—no harm is meant!

The Art of Paintingby Gerard le Lairesse, translated by J. F. Fritsch, was the "tome" to which Browning refers as having interested him when he was a boy and so given rise to this poem. The song at the end of the poem was first printed in a small volume calledThe New Amphion, published for the Edinburgh University Union Fancy Fair in 1886.

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