Part 2 / Act 5 — THE RING AND THE BOOK (continued 6)

Had I God's leave, how I would alter things! If I might read instead of print my speech,— Ay, and enliven speech with many a flower Refuses obstinate to blow in print, As wildings planted in a prim parterre,— This scurvy room were turned an immense hall; Opposite, fifty judges in a row; This side and that of me, for audience—Rome: And, where yon window is, the Pope should hide— Watch, curtained, but peep visibly enough. A buzz of expectation! Through the crowd, Jingling his chain and stumping with his staff, Up comes an usher, louts him low, "The Court Requires the allocution of the Fisc!" I rise, I bend, I look about me, pause O'er the hushed multitude: I count—One, two— Have ye seen, Judges, have ye, lights of law,— When it may hap some painter, much in vogue Throughout our city nutritive of arts, Ye summon to a task shall test his worth, To manufacture, as he knows and can, A work may decorate a palace-wall, Affords my lords their Holy Family,— Hath it escaped the acumen of the Court How such a painter sets himself to paint? Suppose that Joseph, Mary and her Babe A-journeying to Egypt, prove the piece: Why, first he sedulously practiseth, This painter,—girding loin and lighting lamp,— On what may nourish eye, make facile hand; Getteth him studies (styled by draughtsmen so) From some assistant corpse of Jew or Turk Or, haply, Molinist, he cuts and carves,— This Luca or this Carlo or the like. To him the bones their inmost secret yield, Each notch and nodule signify their use: On him the muscles turn, in triple tier, And pleasantly entreat the entrusted man "Familiarize thee with our play that lifts Thus, and thus lowers again, leg, arm and foot!" —Ensuring due correctness in the nude. Which done, is all done? Not a whit, ye know! He,—to art's surface rising from her depth,— If some flax-polled soft-bearded sire be found, May simulate a Joseph, (happy chance!)— Limneth exact each wrinkle of the brow, Loseth no involution, cheek or chap, Till lo, in black and white, the senior lives! Is it a young and comely peasant-nurse That poseth? (be the phrase accorded me!) Each feminine delight of florid lip, Eyes brimming o'er and brow bowed down with love, Marmoreal neck and bosom uberous,— Glad on the paper in a trice they go To help his notion of the Mother-maid: Methinks I see it, chalk a little stumped! Yea and her babe—that flexure of soft limbs, That budding face imbued with dewy sleep, Contribute each an excellence to Christ. Nay, since he humbly lent companionship, Even the poor ass, unpanniered and elate Stands, perks an ear up, he a model too; While clouted shoon, staff, scrip and water-gourd,— Aught may betoken travel, heat and haste,— No jot nor tittle of these but in its turn Ministers to perfection of the piece: Till now, such piece before him, part by part,— Such prelude ended,—pause our painter may, Submit his fifty studies one by one, And in some sort boast "I have served my lords." But what? And hath he painted once this while? Or when ye cry, "Produce the thing required, Show us our picture shall rejoice its niche, Thy Journey through the Desert done in oils!"— What, doth he fall to shuffling 'mid his sheets, Fumbling for first this, then the other fact Consigned to paper,—"studies," bear the term!— And stretch a canvas, mix a pot of paste, And fasten here a head and there a tail, (The ass hath one, my Judges!) so dove-tail Or, rather, ass-tail in, piece sorrily out— By bits of reproduction of the life— The picture, the expected Family? I trow not! do I miss with my conceit The mark, my lords?—not so my lords were served! Rather your artist turns abrupt from these, And preferably buries him and broods (Quite away from aught vulgar and extern) On the inner spectrum, filtered through the eye, His brain-deposit, bred of many a drop, E pluribus unum: and the wiser he! For in that brain,—their fancy sees at work, Could my lords peep indulged,—results alone, Not processes which nourish such results, Would they discover and appreciate,—life Fed by digestion, not raw food itself, No gobbets but smooth comfortable chyme Secreted from each snapped-up crudity,— Less distinct, part by part, but in the whole Truer to the subject,—the main central truth And soul o' the picture, would my Judges spy,— Not those mere fragmentary studied facts Which answer to the outward frame and flesh— Not this nose, not that eyebrow, the other fact Of man's staff, woman's stole or infant's clout, But lo, a spirit-birth conceived of flesh, Truth rare and real, not transcripts, fact and false. The studies—for his pupils and himself! The picture be for our eximious Rome And—who knows?—satisfy its Governor, Whose new wing to the villa he hath bought (God give him joy of it) by Capena, soon ('T is bruited) shall be glowing with the brush Of who hath long surpassed the Florentine, The Urbinate and ... what if I dared add, Even his master, yea the Cortonese,— I mean the accomplished Ciro Ferri, Sirs! (—Did not he die? I 'll see before I print.) End we exordium, Phœbus plucks my ear! Thus then, just so and no whit otherwise, Have I,—engaged as I were Ciro's self, To paint a parallel, a Family, The patriarch Pietro with his wise old wife To boot (as if one introduced Saint Anne By bold conjecture to complete the group) And juvenile Pompilia with her babe, Who, seeking safety in the wilderness, Were all surprised by Herod, while outstretched In sleep beneath a palm-tree by a spring, And killed—the very circumstance I paint, Moving the pity and terror of my lords— Exactly so have I, a month at least, Your Fiscal, made me cognizant of facts, Searched out, pried into, pressed the meaning forth Of every piece of evidence in point, How bloody Herod slew these innocents,— Until the glad result is gained, the group Demonstrably presented in detail, Their slumber and his onslaught,—like as life. Yea, and, availing me of help allowed By law, discreet provision lest my lords Be too much troubled by effrontery,— The rack, law plies suspected crime withal— (Law that hath listened while the lyrist sang "Lene tormentum ingenio admoves," Gently thou joggest by a twinge the wit, "Plerumque duro," else were slow to blab!) Through this concession my full cup runs o'er: The guilty owns his guilt without reserve. Therefore by part and part I clutch my case Which, in entirety now,—momentous task— My lords demand, so render them I must, Since, one poor pleading more and I have done. But shall I ply my papers, play my proofs, Parade my studies, fifty in a row, As though the Court were yet in pupilage, Claimed not the artist's ultimate appeal? Much rather let me soar the height prescribed And, bowing low, proffer my picture's self! No more of proof, disproof,—such virtue was, Such vice was never in Pompilia, now! (Far better say "Behold Pompilia!"—for I leave the family as unmanageable, And stick to just one portrait, but life-size.) Hath calumny imputed to the fair A blemish, mole on cheek or wart on chin, Much more, blind hidden horrors best unnamed? Shall I descend to prove you, point by point, Never was knock-knee known nor splay-foot found In Phryne? (I must let the portrait go, Content me with the model, I believe)— —I prove this? An indignant sweep of hand, Dash at and doing away with drapery, And,—use your eyes, Athenians, smooth she smiles! Or,—since my client can no longer smile, And more appropriate instances abound,— What is this Tale of Tarquin, how the slave Was caught by him, preferred to Collatine? Thou, even from thy corpse-clothes virginal, Look'st the lie dead, Lucretia! Thus at least I, by the guidance of antiquity, (Our one infallible guide,) now operate, Sure that the innocence thus shown is safe; Sure, too, that, while I plead, the echoes cry (Lend my weak voice thy trump, sonorous Fame!) "Monstrosity the Phrynean shape shall mar, Lucretia's soul comport with Tarquin's lie, When thistles grow on vines or thorns yield figs, Or oblique sentence leave this judgment-seat!" A great theme: may my strength be adequate! For—paint Pompilia, dares my feebleness? How did I unaware engage so much —Find myself undertaking to produce A faultless nature in a flawless form? What 's here? Oh, turn aside nor dare the blaze Of such a crown, such constellation, say, As jewels here thy front, Humanity! First, infancy, pellucid as a pearl; Then, childhood—stone which, dewdrop at the first, (An old conjecture) sucks, by dint of gaze, Blue from the sky and turns to sapphire so: Yet both these gems eclipsed by, last and best, Womanliness and wifehood opaline, Its milk-white pallor,—chastity,—suffused With here and there a tint and hint of flame,— Desire,—the lapidary loves to find. Such jewels bind conspicuously thy brow, Pompilia, infant, child, maid, woman, wife— Crown the ideal in our earth at last! What should a faculty like mine do here? Close eyes, or else, the rashlier hurry hand! Which is to say,—lose no time but begin! Sermocinando ne declamem, Sirs, Ultra clepsydram, as our preachers smile, Lest I exceed my hour-glass. Whereupon, As Flaccus prompts, I dare the epic plunge— Begin at once with marriage, up till when Little or nothing would arrest your love, In the easeful life o' the lady; lamb and lamb, How do they differ? Know one, you know all Manners of maidenhood: mere maiden she. And since all lambs are like in more than fleece, Prepare to find that, lamb-like, she too frisks— O' the weaker sex, my lords, the weaker sex! To whom, the Teian teaches us, for gift, Not strength,—man's dower,—but beauty, nature gave, "Beauty in lieu of spears, in lieu of shields!" And what is beauty's sure concomitant, Nay, intimate essential character, But melting wiles, deliciousest deceits, The whole redoubted armory of love? Therefore of vernal pranks, dishevellings O' the hair of youth that dances April in, And easily-imagined Hebe-slips O'er sward which May makes over-smooth for foot— These shall we pry into?—or wiselier wink, Though numerous and dear they may have been? For lo, advancing Hymen and his pomp! Discedunt nunc amores, loves, farewell! Maneat amor, let love, the sole, remain! Farewell to dewiness and prime of life! Remains the rough determined day: dance done, To work, with plough and harrow! What comes next? 'T is Guido henceforth guides Pompilia's step, Cries, "No more friskings o'er the foodful glebe, Else, 'ware the whip!" Accordingly,—first crack O' the thong,—we hear that his young wife was barred, Cohibita fuit, from the old free life, Vitam liberiorem ducere. Demur we? Nowise: heifer brave the hind? We seek not there should lapse the natural law, The proper piety to lord and king And husband: let the heifer bear the yoke! Only, I crave he cast not patience off, This hind; for deem you she endures the whip, Nor winces at the goad, nay, restive, kicks? What if the adversary's charge be just, And all untowardly she pursue her way With groan and grunt, though hind strike ne'er so hard? If petulant remonstrance made appeal, Unseasonable, o'erprotracted,—if Importunate challenge taxed the public ear When silence more decorously had served For protestation,—if Pompilian plaint Wrought but to aggravate Guidonion ire,— Why, such mishaps, ungainly though they be, Ever companion change, are incident To altered modes and novelty of life: The philosophic mind expects no less, Smilingly knows and names the crisis, sits Waiting till old things go and new arrive. Therefore, I hold a husband but inept Who turns impatient at such transit-time, As if this running from the rod would last! Since, even while I speak, the end is reached: Success awaits the soon-disheartened man. The parents turn their backs and leave the house, The wife may wail but none shall intervene: He hath attained his object, groom and bride Partake the nuptial bower no soul can see, Old things are passed and all again is new, Over and gone the obstacles to peace, Novorum—tenderly the Mantuan turns The expression, some such purpose in his eye— Nascitur ordo! Every storm is laid, And forth from plain each pleasant herb may peep, Each bloom of wifehood in abeyance late: (Confer a passage in the Canticles.) But what if, as 't is wont with plant and wife, Flowers—after a suppression to good end, Still, when they do spring forth—sprout here, spread there, Anywhere likelier than beneath the foot O' the lawful good-man gardener of the ground? He dug and dibbled, sowed and watered,—still 'T is a chance wayfarer shall pluck the increase. Just so, respecting persons not too much, The lady, foes allege, put forth each charm And proper floweret of feminity To whosoever had a nose to smell Or breast to deck: what if the charge be true? The fault were graver had she looked with choice, Fastidiously appointed who should grasp, Who, in the whole town, go without the prize! To nobody she destined donative, But, first come was first served, the accuser saith. Put case her sort of ... in this kind ... escapes Were many and oft and indiscriminate— Impute ye as the action were prepense, The gift particular, arguing malice so? Which butterfly of the wide air shall brag "I was preferred to Guido"—when 't is clear The cup, he quaffs at, lay with olent breast Open to gnat, midge, bee and moth as well? One chalice entertained the company; And if its peevish lord object the more, Mistake, misname such bounty in a wife, Haste we to advertise him—charm of cheek, Lustre of eye, allowance of the lip, All womanly components in a spouse, These are no household-bread each stranger's bite Leaves by so much diminished for the mouth O' the master of the house at supper-time: But rather like a lump of spice they lie, Morsel of myrrh, which scents the neighborhood Yet greets its lord no lighter by a grain. Nay, even so, he shall be satisfied! Concede we there was reason in his wrong, Grant we his grievance and content the man! For lo, Pompilia, she submits herself; Ere three revolving years have crowned their course, Off and away she puts this same reproach Of lavish bounty, inconsiderate gift O' the sweets of wifehood stored to other ends: No longer shall he blame "She none excludes," But substitute "She laudably sees all, Searches the best out and selects the same." For who is here, long sought and latest found, Waiting his turn unmoved amid the whirl, "Constans in levitate,"—Ha, my lords? Calm in his levity,—indulge the quip!— Since 't is a levite bears the bell away, Parades him henceforth as Pompilia's choice, 'T is no ignoble object, husband! Doubt'st? When here comes tripping Flaccus with his phrase, "Trust me, no miscreant singled from the mob, Crede non illum tibi de scelesta Plebe delectum," but a man of mark, A priest, dost hear? Why then, submit thyself! Priest, ay, and very phœnix of such fowl, Well-born, of culture, young and vigorous, Comely too, since precise the precept points— On the selected levite be there found Nor mole nor scar nor blemish, lest the mind Come all uncandid through the thwarting flesh! Was not the son of Jesse ruddy, sleek, Pleasant to look on, pleasant every way? Since well he smote the harp and sweetly sang, And danced till Abigail came out to see, And seeing smiled and smiling ministered The raisin-cluster and the cake of figs, With ready meal refreshed the gifted youth, Till Nabal, who was absent shearing sheep, Felt heart sink, took to bed (discreetly done— They might have been beforehand with him else) And died—would Guido have behaved as well? But ah, the faith of early days is gone, Heu prisca fides! Nothing died in him Save courtesy, good sense and proper trust, Which, when they ebb from souls they should o'erflow, Discover stub, weed, sludge and ugliness. (The Pope, we know, is Neapolitan And relishes a sea-side simile.) Deserted by each charitable wave, Guido, left high and dry, shows jealous now! Jealous avouched, paraded: tax the fool With any peccadillo, he responds, "Truly I beat my wife through jealousy, Imprisoned her and punished otherwise, Being jealous: now would threaten, sword in hand, Now manage to mix poison in her sight, And so forth: jealously I dealt, in fine." Concede thus much, and what remains to prove? Have I to teach my masters what effect Hath jealousy, and how, befooling men, It makes false true, abuses eye and ear, Turns mere mist adamantine, loads with sound Silence, and into void and vacancy Crowds a whole phalanx of conspiring foes? Therefore who owns "I watched with jealousy My wife," adds "for no reason in the world!" What need that, thus proved madman, he remark "The thing I thought a serpent proved an eel"?— Perchance the right Comacchian, six foot length, And not an inch too long for that rare pie (Master Arcangeli has heard of such) Whose succulence makes fasting bearable; Meant to regale some moody splenetic Who, pleasing to mistake the donor's gift, Spying I know not what Lernæan snake I' the luscious Lenten creature, stamps forsooth The dainty in the dust. Enough! Prepare, Such lunes announced, for downright lunacy! Insanit homo, threat succeeds to threat, And blow redoubles blow,—his wife, the block. But, if a block, shall not she jar the hand That buffets her? The injurious idle stone Rebounds and hits the head of him who flung. Causeless rage breeds, i' the wife now, rageful cause, Tyranny wakes rebellion from its sleep. Rebellion, say I?—rather, self-defence, Laudable wish to live and see good days, Pricks our Pompilia now to fly the fool By any means, at any price,—nay, more, Nay, most of all, i' the very interest O' the fool that, baffled of his blind desire At any price, were truliest victor so. Shall he effect his crime and lose his soul? No, dictates duty to a loving wife! Far better that the unconsummate blow, Adroitly balked by her, should back again, Correctively admonish his own pate! Crime then,—the Court is with me?—she must crush; How crush it? By all efficacious means; And these,—why, what in woman should they be? "With horns the bull, with teeth the lion fights; To woman," quoth the lyrist quoted late, "Nor teeth, nor horns, but beauty, Nature gave!" Pretty i' the Pagan! Who dares blame the use Of armory thus allowed for natural,— Exclaim against a seeming-dubious play O' the sole permitted weapon, spear and shield Alike, resorted to i' the circumstance By poor Pompilia? Grant she somewhat plied Arts that allure, the magic nod and wink, The witchery of gesture, spell of word, Whereby the likelier to enlist this friend, Yea stranger, as a champion on her side? Such man, being but mere man, ('t was all she knew,) Must be made sure by beauty's silken bond, The weakness that subdues the strong, and bows Wisdom alike and folly. Grant the tale O' the husband, which is false, were proved and true To the letter—or the letters, I should say, Abominations he professed to find And fix upon Pompilia and the priest,— Allow them hers—for though she could not write, In early days of Eve-like innocence That plucked no apple from the knowledge-tree, Yet, at the Serpent's word, Eve plucks and eats And knows—especially how to read and write: And so Pompilia,—as the move o' the maw, Quoth Persius, makes a parrot bid "Good day!" A crow salute the concave, and a pie Endeavor at proficiency in speech,— So she, through hunger after fellowship, May well have learned, though late, to play the scribe: As indeed, there 's one letter on the list Explicitly declares did happen here. "You thought my letters could be none of mine," She tells her parents—"mine, who wanted skill; But now I have the skill, and write, you see!" She needed write love-letters, so she learned, "Negatas artifex sequi voces"—though This letter nowise 'scapes the common lot, But lies i' the condemnation of the rest, Found by the husband's self who forged them all. Yet, for the sacredness of argument, For this once an exemption shall it plead— Anything, anything to let the wheels Of argument run glibly to their goal! Concede she wrote (which were preposterous) This and the other epistle,—what of it? Where does the figment touch her candid fame? Being in peril of her life—"my life, Not an hour's purchase," as the letter runs,— And having but one stay in this extreme, Out of the wide world but a single friend— What could she other than resort to him, And how with any hope resort but thus? Shall modesty dare bid a stranger brave Danger, disgrace, nay death in her behalf— Think to entice the sternness of the steel Yet spare love's loadstone moving manly mind? —Most of all, when such mind is hampered so By growth of circumstance athwart the life O' the natural man, that decency forbids He stoop and take the common privilege, Say frank "I love," as all the vulgar do. A man is wedded to philosophy, Married to statesmanship; a man is old; A man is fettered by the foolishness He took for wisdom and talked ten years since; A man is, like our friend the Canon here, A priest, and wicked if he break his vow: Shall he dare love, who may be Pope one day? Despite the coil of such encumbrance here, Suppose this man could love, unhappily, And would love, dared he only let love show! In case the woman of his love speaks first, From what embarrassment she sets him free! "'T is I who break reserve, begin appeal, Confess that, whether you love me or no, I love you!" What an ease to dignity, What help of pride from the hard high-backed chair Down to the carpet where the kittens bask, All under the pretence of gratitude! From all which, I deduce—the lady here Was bound to proffer nothing short of love To the priest whose service was to save her. What? Shall she propose him lucre, dust o' the mine, Rubbish o' the rock, some diamond, muckworms prize, Some pearl secreted by a sickly fish? Scarcely! She caters for a generous taste. 'T is love shall beckon, beauty bid to breast. Till all the Samson sink into the snare! Because, permit the end—permit therewith Means to the end! How say you, good my lords? I hope you heard my adversary ring The changes on this precept: now, let me Reverse the peal! Quia dato licito fine, Ad illum assequendum ordinata Non sunt damnanda media,—licit end Enough was found in mere escape from death, To legalize our means illicit else Of feigned love, false allurement, fancied fact. Thus Venus losing Cupid on a day, (See that Idyllium Moschi) seeking help, In the anxiety of motherhood, Allowably promised, "Who shall bring report Where he is wandered to, my wingèd babe, I give him for reward a nectared kiss; But who brings safely back the truant's self, His be a super-sweet makes kiss seem cold!" Are not these things writ for example-sake? To such permitted motive, then, refer All those professions, else were hard explain, Of hope, fear, jealousy, and the rest of love! He is Myrtillus, Amaryllis she, She burns, he freezes,—all a mere device To catch and keep the man, may save her life, Whom otherwise nor catches she nor keeps! Worst, once, turns best now: in all faith, she feigns: Feigning,—the liker innocence to guilt, The truer to the life in what she feigns! How if Ulysses,—when, for public good He sunk particular qualms and played the spy, Entered Troy's hostile gate in beggar's garb— How if he first had boggled at this clout, Grown dainty o'er that clack-dish? Grime is grace To whoso gropes amid the dung for gold. Hence, beyond promises, we praise each proof That promise was not simply made to break, Mere moonshine-structure meant to fade at dawn: We praise, as consequent and requisite, What, enemies allege, were more than words, Deeds—meetings at the window, twilight-trysts, Nocturnal entertainments in the dim Old labyrinthine palace; lies, we know— Inventions we, long since, turned inside out. Must such external semblance of intrigue Demonstrate that intrigue there lurks perdue? Does every hazel-sheath disclose a nut? He were a Molinist who dared maintain That midnight meetings in a screened alcove Must argue folly in a matron—since So would he bring a slur on Judith's self, Commended beyond women, that she lured The lustful to destruction through his lust. Pompilia took not Judith's liberty, No falchion find you in her hand to smite, No damsel to convey in dish the head Of Holofernes,—style the Canon so— Or is it the Count? If I entangle me With my similitudes,—if wax wings melt, And earthward down I drop, not mine the fault: Blame your beneficence, O Court, O sun, Whereof the beamy smile affects my flight! What matter, so Pompilia's fame revive I' the warmth that proves the bane of Icarus? Yea, we have shown it lawful, necessary Pompilia leave her husband, seek the house O' the parents: and because 'twixt home and home Lies a long road with many a danger rife, Lions by the way and serpents in the path, To rob and ravish,—much behooves she keep Each shadow of suspicion from fair fame, For her own sake much, but for his sake more, The ingrate husband's. Evidence shall be, Plain witness to the world how white she walks I' the mire she wanders through ere Rome she reach. And who so proper witness as a priest? Gainsay ye? Let me hear who dares gainsay! I hope we still can punish heretics! "Give me the man," I say with him of Gath, "That we may fight together!" None, I think: The priest is granted me. Then, if a priest, One juvenile and potent: else, mayhap, That dragon, our Saint George would slay, slays him. And should fair face accompany strong hand, The more complete equipment: nothing mars Work, else praiseworthy, like a bodily flaw I' the worker: as 't is said Saint Paul himself Deplored the check o' the puny presence, still Cheating his fulmination of its flash, Albeit the bolt therein went true to oak. Therefore the agent, as prescribed, she takes,— Both juvenile and potent, handsome too,— In all obedience: "good," you grant again. Do you? I would you were the husband, lords! How prompt and facile might departure be! How boldly would Pompilia and the priest March out of door, spread flag at beat of drum, But that inapprehensive Guido grants Neither premiss nor yet conclusion here, And, purblind, dreads a bear in every bush! For his own quietude and comfort, then, Means must be found for flight in masquerade At hour when all things sleep—"Save jealousy!" Right, Judges! Therefore shall the lady's wit Supply the boon thwart nature balks him of, And do him service with the potent drug (Helen's nepenthe, as my lords opine) Which respites blessedly each fretted nerve O' the much-enduring man: accordingly, There lies he, duly dosed and sound asleep, Relieved of woes or real or raved about. While soft she leaves his side, he shall not wake; Nor stop who steals away to join her friend, Nor do him mischief should he catch that friend Intent on more than friendly office,—nay, Nor get himself raw head and bones laid bare In payment of his apparition! Thus Would I defend the step,—were the thing true Which is a fable,—see my former speech,— That Guido slept (who never slept a wink) Through treachery, an opiate from his wife, Who not so much as knew what opiates mean. Now she may start: or hist,—a stoppage still! A journey is an enterprise of cost! As in campaigns, we fight but others pay, Suis expensis, nemo militat. 'T is Guido's self we guard from accident, Ensuring safety to Pompilia, versed Nowise in misadventures by the way, Hard riding and rough quarters, the rude fare, The unready host. What magic mitigates Each plague of travel to the unpractised wife? Money, sweet Sirs! And were the fiction fact She helped herself thereto with liberal hand From out her husband's store,—what fitter use Was ever husband's money destined to? With bag and baggage thus did Dido once Decamp,—for more authority, a queen! So is she fairly on her route at last, Prepared for either fortune: nay and if The priest, now all aglow with enterprise, Cool somewhat presently when fades the flush O' the first adventure, clouded o'er belike By doubts, misgivings how the day may die, Though born with such auroral brilliance,—if The brow seem over-pensive and the lip 'Gin lag and lose the prattle lightsome late,— Vanquished by tedium of a prolonged jaunt In a close carriage o'er a jolting road, With only one young female substitute For seventeen other Canons of ripe age Were wont to keep him company in church,— Shall not Pompilia haste to dissipate The silent cloud that, gathering, bodes her bale?— Prop the irresoluteness may portend Suspension of the project, cheek the flight, Bring ruin on them both? Use every means, Since means to the end are lawful! What i' the way Of wile should have allowance like a kiss Sagely and sisterly administered, Sororia saltem oscula? We find Such was the remedy her wit applied To each incipient scruple of the priest, If we believe,—as, while my wit is mine I cannot,—what the driver testifies, Borsi, called Venerino, the mere tool Of Guido and his friend the Governor,— Avowal I proved wrung from out the wretch. After long rotting in imprisonment, As price of liberty and favor: long They tempted, he at last succumbed, and lo Counted them out full tale each kiss and more, "The journey being one long embrace," quoth he. Still, though we should believe the driver's lie, Nor even admit as probable excuse, Right reading of the riddle,—as I urged In my first argument, with fruit perhaps— That what the owl-like eyes (at back of head!) O' the driver, drowsed by driving night and day, Supposed a vulgar interchange of lips, This was but innocent jog of head 'gainst head, Cheek meeting jowl as apple may touch pear From branch and branch contiguous in the wind, When Autumn blusters and the orchard-rocks:— That rapid run and the rough road were cause O' the casual ambiguity, no harm I' the world to eyes awake and penetrative:— Say,—not to grasp a truth I can release And safely fight without, yet conquer still,— Say, she kissed him, say, he kissed her again! Such osculation was a potent means, A very efficacious help, no doubt: Such with a third part of her nectar did Venus imbue: why should Pompilia fling The poet's declaration in his teeth?— Pause to employ what—since it had success, And kept the priest her servant to the end— We must presume of energy enough, No whit superfluous, so permissible? The goal is gained: day, night, and yet a day Have run their round: a long and devious road Is traversed,—many manners, various men Passed in review, what cities did they see, What hamlets mark, what profitable food For after-meditation cull and store! Till Rome, that Rome whereof—this voice Would it might make our Molinists observe, That she is built upon a rock nor shall Their powers prevail against her!—Rome, I say, Is all but reached; one stage more and they stop Saved: pluck up heart, ye pair, and forward, then! Ah, Nature—baffled she recurs, alas! Nature imperiously exacts her due, Spirit is willing but the flesh is weak: Pompilia needs must acquiesce and swoon, Give hopes alike and fears a breathing-while. The innocent sleep soundly: sound she sleeps, So let her slumber, then, unguarded save By her own chastity, a triple mail, And his good hand whose stalwart arms have borne The sweet and senseless burden like a babe From coach to couch,—the serviceable strength! Nay, what and if he gazed rewardedly On the pale beauty prisoned in embrace, Stooped over, stole a balmy breath perhaps For more assurance sleep was not decease— "Ut vidi," "how I saw!" succeeded by "Ut perii," "how I sudden lost my brains!" —What harm ensued to her unconscious quite? For, curiosity—how natural! Importunateness—what a privilege In the ardent sex! And why curb ardor here? How can the priest but pity whom he saved? And pity is so near to love, and love So neighborly to all unreasonableness! As to love's object, whether love were sage Or foolish, could Pompilia know or care, Being still sound asleep, as I premised? Thus the philosopher absorbed by thought, Even Archimedes, busy o'er a book The while besiegers sacked his Syracuse, Was ignorant of the imminence o' the point O' the sword till it surprised him: let it stab, And never knew himself was dead at all. So sleep thou on, secure whate'er betide! For thou, too, hast thy problem hard to solve— How so much beauty is compatible With so much innocence! Fit place, methinks, While in this task she rosily is lost, To treat of and repel objection here Which,—frivolous, I grant,—my mind misgives, May somehow still have flitted, gadfly-like, And teased the Court at times—as if, all said And done, there seemed, the Court might nearly say, In a certain acceptation, somewhat more Of what may pass for insincerity, Falsehood, throughout the course Pompilia took, Than befits Christian. Pagans held, we know, Man always ought to aim at good and truth, Not always put one thing in the same words: Non idem semper dicere sed spectare Debemus. But the Pagan yoke was light; "Lie not at all," the exacter precept bids: Each least lie breaks the law,—is sin, we hold. I humble me, but venture to submit— What prevents sin, itself is sinless, sure: And sin, which hinders sin of deeper dye, Softens itself away by contrast so. Conceive me! Little sin, by none at all, Were properly condemned for great: but great, By greater, dwindles into small again. Now, what is greatest sin of womanhood? That which unwomans it, abolishes The nature of the woman,—impudence. Who contradicts me here? Concede me, then, Whatever friendly fault may interpose To save the sex from self-abolishment Is three-parts on the way to virtue's rank! And, what is taxed here as duplicity, Feint, wile, and trick,—admitted for the nonce,— What worse do one and all than interpose, Hold, as it were, a deprecating hand, Statuesquely, in the Medicean mode, Before some shame which modesty would veil? Who blames the gesture prettily perverse? Thus,—lest ye miss a point illustrative,— Admit the husband's calumny—allow That the wife, having penned the epistle fraught With horrors, charge on charge of crime she heaped O' the head of Pietro and Violante—(still Presumed her parents)—having dispatched the same To their arch-enemy Paolo, through free choice And no sort of compulsion in the world— Put case she next discards simplicity For craft, denies the voluntary act, Declares herself a passive instrument I' the husband's hands; that, duped by knavery, She traced the characters she could not write, And took on trust the unread sense which, read, And recognized were to be spurned at once: Allow this calumny, I reiterate! Who is so dull as wonder at the pose Of our Pompilia in the circumstance? Who sees not that the too-ingenuous soul, Repugnant even at a duty done Which brought beneath too scrutinizing glare The misdemeanors,—buried in the dark,— Of the authors of her being, was believed,— Stung to the quick at her impulsive deed, And willing to repair what harm it worked, She—wise in this beyond what Nero proved, Who, when folk urged the candid juvenile To sign the warrant, doom the guilty dead, "Would I had never learned to write!" quoth he! —Pompilia rose above the Roman, cried, "To read or write I never learned at all!" O splendidly mendacious! But time fleets: Let us not linger: hurry to the end, Since flight does end, and that disastrously. Beware ye blame desert for unsuccess, Disparage each expedient else to praise, Call failure folly! Man's best effort fails. After ten years' resistance Troy succumbed: Could valor save a town, Troy still had stood. Pompilia came off halting in no point Of courage, conduct, her long journey through: But nature sank exhausted at the close, And, as I said, she swooned and slept all night. Morn breaks and brings the husband: we assist At the spectacle. Discovery succeeds. Ha, how is this? What moonstruck rage is here? Though we confess to partial frailty now, To error in a woman and a wife, Is 't by the rough way she shall be reclaimed? Who bursts upon her chambered privacy? What crowd profanes the chaste cubiculum? What outcries and lewd laughter, scurril gibe And ribald jest to scare the ministrant Good angels that commerce with souls in sleep? Why, had the worst crowned Guido to his wish, Confirmed his most irrational surmise, Yet there be bounds to man's emotion, checks To an immoderate astonishment. 'T is decent horror, regulated wrath, Befit our dispensation: have we back The old Pagan license? Shall a Vulcan clap His net o' the sudden and expose the pair To the unquenchable universal mirth? A feat, antiquity saw scandal in So clearly, that the nauseous tale thereof— Demodocus his nugatory song— Hath ever been concluded modern stuff Impossible to the mouth of the grave Muse, So, foisted into that Eighth Odyssey By some impertinent pickthank. O thou fool, Count Guido Franceschini, what didst gain By publishing thy secret to the world? Were all the precepts of the wise a waste— Bred in thee not one touch of reverence? Admit thy wife—admonish we the fool— Were falseness' self, why chronicle thy shame? Much rather should thy teeth bite out thy tongue, Dumb lip consort with desecrated brow, Silence become historiographer, And thou—thine own Cornelius Tacitus! But virtue, barred, still leaps the barrier, lords! —Still, moon-like, penetrates the encroaching mist And bursts, all broad and bare, on night, ye know! Surprised, then, in the garb of truth, perhaps, Pompilia, thus opposed, breaks obstacle, Springs to her feet, and stands Thalassian-pure, Confronts the foe,—nay, catches at his sword And tries to kill the intruder, he complains. Why, so she gave her lord his lesson back, Crowned him, this time, the virtuous woman's way, With an exact obedience; he brought sword, She drew the same, since swords are meant to draw. Tell not me 't is sharp play with tools on edge! It was the husband chose the weapon here Why did not he inaugurate the game With some gentility of apophthegm Still pregnant on the philosophic page, Some captivating cadence still a-lisp O' the poet's lyre? Such spells subdue the surge, Make tame the tempest, much more mitigate The passions of the mind, and probably Had moved Pompilia to a smiling blush. No, he must needs prefer the argument O' the blow: and she obeyed, in duty bound, Returned him buffet ratiocinative— Ay, in the reasoner's own interest, For wife must follow whither husband leads, Vindicate honor as himself prescribes, Save him the very way himself bids save! No question but who jumps into a quag Should stretch forth hand and pray us "Pull me out By the hand!" such were the customary cry: But Guido pleased to bid "Leave hand alone! Join both feet, rather, jump upon my head: I extricate myself by the rebound!" And dutifully as enjoined she jumped— Drew his own sword and menaced his own life, Anything to content a wilful spouse. And so he was contented—one must do Justice to the expedient which succeeds, Strange as it seem: at flourish of the blade, The crowd drew back, stood breathless and abashed, Then murmured, "This should be no wanton wife, No conscience-stricken sinner, caught i' the act, And patiently awaiting our first stone: But a poor hard-pressed all-bewildered thing, Has rushed so far, misguidedly perhaps, Meaning no more harm than a frightened sheep. She sought for aid; and if she made mistake I' the man could aid most, why—so mortals do: Even the blessed Magdalen mistook Far less forgivably: consult the place— Supposing him to be the gardener, 'Sir,' said she, and so following." Why more words? Forthwith the wife is pronounced innocent: What would the husband more than gain his cause, And find that honor flash in the world's eye. His apprehension was lest soil had smirched? So, happily the adventure comes to close Whereon my fat opponent grounds his charge Preposterous: at mid-day he groans "How dark!" Listen to me, thou Archangelic swine! Where is the ambiguity to blame, The flaw to find in our Pompilia? Safe She stands, see! Does thy comment follow quick, "Safe, inasmuch as at the end proposed; But thither she picked way by devious path— Stands dirtied, no dubiety at all! I recognize success, yet, all the same, Importunately will suggestion prompt— Better Pompilia gained the right to boast, 'No devious path, no doubtful patch was mine, I saved my head nor sacrificed my foot!' Why, being in a peril, show mistrust Of the angels set to guard the innocent? Why rather hold by obvious vulgar help Of stratagem and subterfuge, excused Somewhat, but still no less a foil, a fault, Since low with high, and good with bad is linked? Methinks I view some ancient bas-relief. There stands Hesione thrust out by Troy, Her father's hand has chained her to a crag, Her mother's from the virgin plucked the vest, At a safe distance both distressful watch, While near and nearer comes the snorting orc. I look that, white and perfect to the end, She wait till Jove dispatch some demigod; Not that,—impatient of celestial club Alcmena's son should brandish at the beast,— She daub, disguise her dainty limbs with pitch, And so elude the purblind monster! Ay, The trick succeeds, but 't is an ugly trick, Where needs have been no trick!" My answer? Faugh! Nimis incongrue! Too absurdly put! Sententiam ego teneo contrariam, Trick, I maintain, had no alternative. The heavens were bound with brass,—Jove far at feast (No feast like that thou didst not ask me to, Arcangeli,—I heard of thy regale!) With the unblamed Æthiop,—Hercules spun wool I' the lap of Omphale, while Virtue shrieked— The brute came paddling all the faster. You Of Troy, who stood at distance, where 's the aid You offered in the extremity? Most and least, Gentle and simple, here the Governor, There the Archbishop, everywhere the friends, Shook heads and waited for a miracle, Or went their way, left Virtue to her fate. Just this one rough and ready man leapt forth! —Was found, sole anti-Fabius (dare I say) Who restored things, with no delay at all, Qui haud cunctando rem restituit! He, He only, Caponsacchi 'mid a crowd, Caught Virtue up, carried Pompilia off Through gaping impotence of sympathy In ranged Arezzo: what you take for pitch Is nothing worse, belike, than black and blue, Mere evanescent proof that hardy hands Did yeoman's service, cared not where the gripe Was more than duly energetic: bruised, She smarts a little, but her bones are saved A fracture, and her skin will soon show sleek. How it disgusts when weakness, false-refined, Censures the honest rude effective strength,— When sickly dreamers of the impossible Decry plain sturdiness which does the feat With eyes wide open! Did occasion serve, I could illustrate, if my lords allow; Quid vetat, what forbids I aptly ask With Horace, that I give my anger vent, While I let breathe, no less, and recreate, The gravity of my Judges, by a tale? A case in point—what though an apologue Graced by tradition?—possibly a fact: Tradition must precede all scripture, words Serve as our warrant ere our books can be: So, to tradition back we needs must go For any fact's authority: and this Hath lived so far (like jewel hid in muck) On page of that old lying vanity Called "Sepher Toldoth Yeschu:" God be praised, I read no Hebrew,—take the thing on trust: But I believe the writer meant no good (Blind as he was to truth in some respects) To our pestiferous and schismatic ... well, My lords' conjecture be the touchstone, show The thing for what it is! The author lacks Discretion, and his zeal exceeds: but zeal,— How rare in our degenerate day! Enough! Here is the story: fear not, I shall chop And change a little, else my Jew would press All too unmannerly before the Court. It happened once,—begins this foolish Jew, Pretending to write Christian history,— That three, held greatest, best and worst of men, Peter and John and Judas, spent a day In toil and travel through the country-side On some sufficient business—I suspect, Suppression of some Molinism i' the bud. Foot-sore and hungry, dropping with fatigue, They reached by nightfall a poor lonely grange, Hostel or inn: so, knocked and entered there. "Your pleasure, great ones?"—"Shelter, rest and food!" For shelter, there was one bare room above; For rest therein, three beds of bundled straw: For food, one wretched starveling fowl, no more— Meat for one mouth, but mockery for three. "You have my utmost." How should supper serve? Peter broke silence: "To the spit with fowl! And while 't is cooking, sleep!—since beds there be, And, so far, satisfaction of a want. Sleep we an hour, awake at supper-time, Then each of us narrate the dream he had, And he whose dream shall prove the happiest, point The clearliest out the dreamer as ordained Beyond his fellows to receive the fowl, Him let our shares be cheerful tribute to, His the entire meal, may it do him good!" Who could dispute so plain a consequence? So said, so done: each hurried to his straw, Slept his hour's-sleep and dreamed his dream, and woke. "I," commenced John, "dreamed that I gained the prize We all aspire to: the proud place was mine, Throughout the earth and to the end of time I was the Loved Disciple: mine the meal!" "But I," proceeded Peter, "dreamed, a word Gave me the headship of our company, Made me the Vicar and Vice-gerent, gave The keys of heaven and hell into my hand, And o'er the earth, dominion: mine the meal!" "While I," submitted in soft under-tone The Iscariot—sense of his unworthiness Turning each eye up to the inmost white— With long-drawn sigh, yet letting both lips smack, "I have had just the pitifullest dream That ever proved man meanest of his mates, And born foot-washer and foot-wiper, nay Foot-kisser to each comrade of you all! I dreamed I dreamed; and in that mimic dream (Impalpable to dream as dream to fact) Methought I meanly chose to sleep no wink But wait until I heard my brethren snore; Then stole from couch, slipped noiseless o'er the planks, Slid downstairs, furtively approached the hearth, Found the fowl duly brown, both back and breast, Hissing in harmony with the cricket's chirp, Grilled to a point; said no grace, but fell to, Nor finished till the skeleton lay bare. In penitence for which ignoble dream, Lo, I renounce my portion cheerfully! Fie on the flesh—be mine the ethereal gust, And yours the sublunary sustenance! See that whate'er be left ye give the poor!" Down the two scuttled, one on other's heel, Stung by a fell surmise; and found, alack, A goodly savor, both the drumstick bones, And that which henceforth took the appropriate name O' the Merry-thought, in memory of the fact That to keep wide awake is man's best dream. So,—as was said once of Thucydides And his sole joke, "The lion, lo, hath laughed!"— Just so, the Governor and all that 's great I' the city never meant that Innocence Should quite starve while Authority sat at meat; They meant to fling a bone at banquet's end: Wished well to our Pompilia—in their dreams, Nor bore the secular sword in vain—asleep. Just so the Archbishop and all good like him Went to bed meaning to pour oil and wine I' the wounds of her, next day,—but long ere day, They had burned the one and drunk the other, while Just so, again, contrariwise, the priest Sustained poor Nature in extremity By stuffing barley-bread into her mouth, Saving Pompilia (grant the parallel) By the plain homely and straightforward way Taught him by common sense. Let others shriek "Oh what refined expedients did we dream Proved us the only fit to help the fair!" He cried, "A carriage waits, jump in with me!" And now, this application pardoned, lords,— This recreative pause and breathing-while,— Back to beseemingness and gravity! For Law steps in: Guido appeals to Law, Demands she arbitrate,—does well for once. O Law, of thee how neatly was it said By that old Sophocles, thou hast thy seat I' the very breast of Jove, no meanlier throned! Here is a piece of work now, hitherto Begun and carried on, concluded near, Without an eye-glance cast thy sceptre's way; And, lo, the stumbling and discomfiture! Well may you call them "lawless" means, men take To extricate themselves through mother-wit When tangled haply in the toils of life! Guido would try conclusions with his foe, Whoe'er the foe was and whate'er the offence; He would recover certain dowry-dues: Instead of asking Law to lend a hand, What pother of sword drawn and pistol cocked, What peddling with forged letters and paid spies, Politic circumvention!—all to end As it began—by loss of the fool's head, First in a figure, presently in a fact. It is a lesson to mankind at large. How other were the end, would men be sage And bear confidingly each quarrel straight, O Law, to thy recipient mother-knees! How would the children light come and prompt go, This, with a red-cheeked apple for reward, The other, peradventure red-cheeked too I' the rear, by taste of birch for punishment. No foolish brawling murder any more! Peace for the household, practice for the Fisc, And plenty for the exchequer of my lords! Too much to hope, in this world: in the next, Who knows? Since, why should sit the Twelve enthroned To judge the tribes, unless the tribes be judged? And 't is impossible but offences come: So, all 's one lawsuit, all one long leet-day! Forgive me this digression—that I stand Entranced awhile at Law's first beam, outbreak O' the business, when the Count's good angel bade "Put up thy sword, born enemy to the ear, And let Law listen to thy difference!" And Law does listen and compose the strife, Settle the suit, how wisely and how well! On our Pompilia, faultless to a fault, Law bends a brow maternally severe, Implies the worth of perfect chastity, By fancying the flaw she cannot find. Superfluous sifting snow, nor helps nor harms: 'T is safe to censure levity in youth, Tax womanhood with indiscretion, sure! Since toys, permissible to-day, become Follies to-morrow: prattle shocks in church: And that curt skirt which lets a maiden skip, The matron changes for a trailing robe. Mothers may aim a blow with half-shut eyes Nodding above their spindles by the fire, And chance to hit some hidden fault, else safe. Just so, Law hazarded a punishment— If applicable to the circumstance, Why, well! if not so apposite, well too. "Quit the gay range o' the world," I hear her cry, "Enter, in lieu, the penitential pound: Exchange the gauds of pomp for ashes, dust! Leave each mollitious haunt of luxury! The golden-garnished silken-couched alcove, The many-columned terrace that so tempts Feminine soul put foot forth, extend ear To fluttering joy of lover's serenade,— Leave these for cellular seclusion! mask And dance no more, but fast and pray! avaunt— Be burned, thy wicked townsman's sonnet-book! Welcome, mild hymnal by ... some better scribe! For the warm arms were wont enfold thy flesh, Let wire-shirt plough and whip-cord discipline!" If such an exhortation proved, perchance, Inapplicable, words bestowed in waste, What harm, since Law has store, can spend nor miss? And so, our paragon submits herself, Goes at command into the holy house, And, also at command, comes out again: For, could the effect of such obedience prove Too certain, too immediate? Being healed, Go blaze abroad the matter, blessed one! Art thou sound forthwith? Speedily vacate The step by pool-side, leave Bethesda free To patients plentifully posted round, Since the whole need not the physician! Brief, She may betake her to her parents' place. Welcome her, father, with wide arms once more; Motion her, mother, to thy breast again! For why? Since Law relinquishes the charge, Grants to your dwelling-place a prison's style. Rejoice you with Pompilia! golden days, Redeunt Saturnia regna. Six weeks slip, And she is domiciled in house and home As though she thence had never budged at all. And thither let the husband—joyous, ay, But contrite also—quick betake himself, Proud that his dove which lay among the pots Hath mued those dingy feathers,—moulted now, Shows silver bosom clothed with yellow gold! So shall he tempt her to the perch she fled, Bid to domestic bliss the truant back. But let him not delay! Time fleets how fast, And opportunity, the irrevocable, Once flown will flout him! Is the furrow traced? If field with corn ye fail preoccupy, Darnel for wheat and thistle-beards for grain, Infelix lolium, carduus horridus, Will grow apace in combination prompt, Defraud the husbandman of his desire. Already—hist—what murmurs 'monish now The laggard?—doubtful, nay, fantastic bruit Of such an apparition, such return Interdum, to anticipate the spouse, Of Caponsacchi's very self! 'T is said, When nights are lone and company is rare, His visitations brighten winter up. If so they did—which nowise I believe— (How can I?—proof abounding that the priest, Once fairly at his relegation-place, Never once left it), still, admit he stole A midnight march, would fain see friend again, Find matter for instruction in the past, Renew the old adventure in such chat As cheers a fireside! He was lonely too, He, too, must need his recreative hour. Shall it amaze the philosophic mind If he, long wont the empurpled cup to quaff, Have feminine society at will, Being debarred abruptly from all drink Save at the spring which Adam used for wine, Dreads harm to just the health he hoped to guard, And, trying abstinence, gains malady? Ask Tozzi, now physician to the Pope! "Little by little break"—(I hear he bids Master Arcangeli my antagonist, Who loves good cheer, and may indulge too much: So I explain the logic of the plea Wherewith he opened our proceedings late)— "Little by little break a habit, Don, Become necessity to feeble flesh!" And thus, nocturnal taste of intercourse (Which never happened,—but, suppose it did) May have been used to dishabituate By sip and sip this drainer to the dregs O' the draught of conversation,—heady stuff, Brewage which, broached, it took two days and nights To properly discuss i' the journey, Sirs! Such power has second-nature, men call use, That undelightful objects get to charm Instead of chafe: the daily colocynth Tickles the palate by repeated dose, Old sores scratch kindly, the ass makes a push Although the mill-yoke-wound be smarting yet, For mill-door bolted on a holiday: Nor must we marvel here if impulse urge To talk the old story over now and then, The hopes and fears, the stoppage and the haste,— Subjects of colloquy to surfeit once. "Here did you bid me twine a rosy wreath!" "And there you paid my lips a compliment!" "Here you admired the tower could be so tall!" "And there you likened that of Lebanon To the nose of the beloved!" Trifles! still, "Forsan et hæc olim,"—such trifles serve To make the minutes pass in winter-time. Husband, return then, I re-counsel thee! For, finally, of all glad circumstance Should make a prompt return imperative, What in the world awaits thee, dost suppose? O' the sudden, as good gifts are wont befall, What is the hap of our unconscious Count? That which lights bonfire and sets cask a-tilt, Dissolves the stubborn'st heart in jollity. O admirable, there is born a babe, A son, an heir, a Franceschini last And best o' the stock! Pompilia, thine the palm! Repaying incredulity with faith, Ungenerous thrift of each marital debt With bounty in profuse expenditure, Pompilia scorns to have the old year end Without a present shall ring in the new— Bestows on her too-parsimonious lord An infant for the apple of his eye, Core of his heart, and crown completing life, True summum bonum of the earthly lot! "We," saith ingeniously the sage, "are born Solely that others may be born of us." So, father, take thy child, for thine that child, Oh nothing doubt! In wedlock born, law holds Baseness impossible: since "filius est Quem nuptiæ demonstrant," twits the text Whoever dares to doubt. Yet doubt he dares! O faith, where art thou flown from out the world? Already on what an age of doubt we fall! Instead of each disputing for the prize, The babe is bandied here from that to this. Whose the babe? "Cujum pecus?" Guido's lamb? "An Melibæi?" Nay, but of the priest! "Non sed Ægonis!" Some one must be sire: And who shall say, in such a puzzling strait, If there were not vouchsafed some miracle To the wife who had been harassed and abused More than enough by Guido's family For non-production of the promised fruit Of marriage? What if Nature, I demand, Touched to the quick by taunts upon her sloth, Had roused herself, put forth recondite power, Bestowed this birth to vindicate her sway, Like the strange favor Maro memorized As granted Aristæus when his hive Lay empty of the swarm? not one more bee— Not one more babe to Franceschini's house! And lo, a new birth filled the air with joy, Sprung from the bowels of the generous steer, A novel son and heir rejoiced the Count! Spontaneous generation, need I prove Were facile feat to Nature at a pinch? Let whoso doubts, steep horsehair certain weeks, In water, there will be produced a snake; Spontaneous product of the horse, which horse Happens to be the representative— Now that I think on 't—of Arezzo's self, The very city our conception blessed: Is not a prancing horse the City-arms? What sane eye fails to see coincidence? Cur ego, boast thou, my Pompilia, then, Desperem fieri sine conjuge Mater—How well the Ovidian distich suits!— Et parere intacto dummodo Casta viro? such miracle was wrought! Note, further, as to mark the prodigy, The babe in question neither took the name Of Guido, from the sire presumptive, nor Giuseppe, from the sire potential, but Gaetano—last saint of our hierarchy, And newest namer for a thing so new! What other motive could have prompted choice? Therefore be peace again: exult, ye hills! Ye vales rejoicingly break forth in song! Incipe, parve puer, begin, small boy, Risu cognoscere patrem, with a laugh To recognize thy parent! Nor do thou Boggle, O parent, to return the grace! Nec anceps hære, pater, puero Cognoscendo—one may well eke out the prayer! In vain! The perverse Guido doubts his eyes, Distrusts assurance, lets the devil drive. Because his house is swept and garnished now, He, having summoned seven like himself, Must hurry thither, knock and enter in, And make the last worse than the first, indeed! Is he content? We are. No further blame O' the man and murder! They were stigmatized Befittingly: the Court heard long ago My mind o' the matter, which, outpouring full, Has long since swept like surge, i' the simile Of Homer, overborne both dyke and dam, And whelmed alike client and advocate: His fate is sealed, his life as good as gone, On him I am not tempted to waste word. Yet though my purpose holds,—which was and is And solely shall be to the very end, To draw the true effigies of a saint, Do justice to perfection in the sex,— Yet let not some gross pamperer of the flesh And niggard in the spirit's nourishment, Whose feeding hath obfuscated his wit Rather than law,—he never had, to lose— Let not such advocate object to me I leave my proper function of attack! "What 's this to Bacchus?"—(in the classic phrase, Well used, for once) he hiccups probably. O Advocate o' the Poor, thou born to make Their blessing void—beati pauperes! By painting saintship I depicture sin: Beside my pearl, I prove how black thy jet, And, through Pompilia's virtue, Guido's crime. Back to her, then,—with but one beauty more, End we our argument,—one crowning grace Pre-eminent 'mid agony and death. For to the last Pompilia played her part, Used the right means to the permissible end, And, wily as an eel that stirs the mud Thick overhead, so baffling spearman's thrust, She, while he stabbed her, simulated death, Delayed, for his sake, the catastrophe, Obtained herself a respite, four days' grace, Whereby she told her story to the world, Enabled me to make the present speech, And, by a full confession, saved her soul. Yet hold, even here would malice leer its last, Gurgle its choked remonstrance: snake, hiss free! Oh, that 's the objection? And to whom?—not her But me, forsooth—as, in the very act Of both confession and (what followed close) Subsequent talk, chatter and gossipry, Babble to sympathizing he and she Whoever chose besiege her dying-bed,— As this were found at variance with my tale, Falsified all I have adduced for truth, Admitted not one peccadillo here, Pretended to perfection, first and last, O' the whole procedure—perfect in the end, Perfect i' the means, perfect in everything, Leaving a lawyer nothing to excuse, Reason away and show his skill about! —A flight, impossible to Adamic flesh, Just to be fancied, scarcely to be wished, And, anyhow, unpleadable in court! "How reconcile," gasps Malice, "that with this?" Your "this," friend, is extraneous to the law, Comes of men's outside meddling, the unskilled Interposition of such fools as press Out of their province. Must I speak my mind? Far better had Pompilia died o' the spot Than found a tongue to wag and shame the law, Shame most of all herself,—could friendship fail, And advocacy lie less on the alert: But no, they shall protect her to the end! Do I credit the alleged narration? No! Lied our Pompilia then, to laud herself? Still, no! Clear up what seems discrepancy? The means abound: art 's long, though time is short; So, keeping me in compass, all I urge Is—since, confession at the point of death, Nam in articulo mortis, with the Church Passes for statement honest and sincere, Nemo presumitur reus esse,—then, If sure that all affirmed would be believed, 'T was charity, in her so circumstanced, To spend the last breath in one effort more For universal good of friend and foe: And,—by pretending utter innocence, Nay, freedom from each foible we forgive,— Re-integrate—not solely her own fame, But do the like kind office for the priest Whom telling the crude truth about might vex, Haply expose to peril, abbreviate Indeed the long career of usefulness Presumably before him: while her lord, Whose fleeting life is forfeit to the law,— What mercy to the culprit if, by just The gift of such a full certificate Of his immitigable guiltiness, She stifled in him the absurd conceit Of murder as it were a mere revenge —Stopped confirmation of that jealousy Which, did she but acknowledge the first flaw, The faintest foible, had emboldened him To battle with the charge, balk penitence, Bar preparation for impending fate! Whereas, persuade him that he slew a saint Who sinned not even where she may have sinned, You urge him all the brisklier to repent Of most and least and aught and everything! Still, if this view of mine content you not, Lords, nor excuse the genial falsehood here, We come to our Triarii, last resource: We fall back on the inexpugnable, Submitting,—she confessed before she talked! The sacrament obliterates the sin: What is not,—was not, therefore, in a sense. Let Molinists distinguish, "Souls washed white But red once, still show pinkish to the eye!" We say, abolishment is nothingness, And nothingness has neither head nor tail, End nor beginning! Better estimate Exorbitantly, than disparage aught Of the efficacity of the act, I hope! Solvuntur tabulæ? May we laugh and go? Well,—not before (in filial gratitude To Law, who, mighty mother, waves adieu) We take on us to vindicate Law's self! For,—yea, Sirs,—curb the start, curtail the stare!— Remains that we apologize for haste I' the Law, our lady who here bristles up, "Blame my procedure? Could the Court mistake? (Which were indeed a misery to think); Did not my sentence in the former stage O' the business bear a title plain enough? Decretum"—I translate it word for word— "'Decreed: the priest, for his complicity I' the flight and deviation of the dame, As well as for unlawful intercourse, Is banished three years:' crime and penalty Declared alike. If he be taxed with guilt, How can you call Pompilia innocent? If both be innocent, have I been just?" Gently, O mother, judge men—whose mistake Is in the mere misapprehensiveness! The Titulus a-top of your decree Was but to ticket there the kind of charge You in good time would arbitrate upon. Title is one thing,—arbitration's self, Probatio, quite another possibly. Subsistit; there holds good the old response, Responsio tradita, we must not stick, Quod non sit attendendus Titulus, To the Title, sed Probatio, but the Proof, Resultans ex processu, the result O' the Trial, and the style of punishment, Et pœna per sententiam imposita. All is tentative, till the sentence come: An indication of what men expect, But nowise an assurance they shall find. Lords, what if we permissibly relax The tense bow, as the law-god Phœbus bids, Relieve our gravity at labor's close? I traverse Rome, feel thirsty, need a draught, Look for a wine-shop, find it by the bough Projecting as to say "Here wine is sold!" So much I know,—"sold:" but what sort of wine? Strong, weak, sweet, sour, home-made or foreign drink? That much must I discover by myself. "Wine is sold," quoth the bough, "but good or bad, Find, and inform us when you smack your lips!" Exactly so, Law hangs her title forth, To show she entertains you with such case About such crime. Come in! she pours, you quaff. You find the Priest good liquor in the main, But heady and provocative of brawls: Remand the residue to flask once more, Lay it low where it may deposit lees, I' the cellar: thence produce it presently, Three years the brighter and the better! Thus, Law's son, have I bestowed my filial help, And thus I end, tenax proposito; Point to point as I purposed have I drawn Pompilia, and implied as terribly Guido: so, gazing, let the world crown Law— Able once more, despite my impotence, And helped by the acumen of the Court, To eliminate, display, make triumph truth! What other prize than truth were worth the pains? There 's my oration—much exceeds in length That famed panegyric of Isocrates, They say it took him fifteen years to pen. But all those ancients could say anything! He put in just what rushed into his head: While I shall have to prune and pare and print. This comes of being born in modern times With priests for auditory. Still, it pays.

Like to Ahasuerus, that shrewd prince, I will begin,—as is, these seven years now, My daily wont,—and read a History (Written by one whose deft right hand was dust To the last digit, ages ere my birth) Of all my predecessors, Popes of Rome: For though mine ancient early dropped the pen, Yet others picked it up and wrote it dry, Since of the making books there is no end. And so I have the Papacy complete From Peter first to Alexander last; Can question each and take instruction so. Have I to dare!—I ask, how dared this Pope? To suffer? Such-an-one, how suffered he? Being about to judge, as now, I seek How judged once, well or ill, some other Pope; Study some signal judgment that subsists To blaze on, or else blot, the page which seals The sum up of what gain or loss to God Came of his one more Vicar in the world. So, do I find example, rule of life; So, square and set in order the next page, Shall be stretched smooth o'er my own funeral cyst. Eight hundred years exact before the year I was made Pope, men made Formosus Pope, Say Sigebert and other chroniclers. Ere I confirm or quash the Trial here Of Guido Franceschini and his friends, Read,—How there was a ghastly Trial once Of a dead man by a live man, and both, Popes: Thus—in the antique penman's very phrase. "Then Stephen, Pope and seventh of the name, Cried out, in synod as he sat in state, While choler quivered on his brow and beard, 'Come into court, Formosus, thou lost wretch, That claimedst to be late Pope as even I!' "And at the word, the great door of the church Flew wide, and in they brought Formosus' self, The body of him, dead, even as embalmed And buried duly in the Vatican Eight months before, exhumed thus for the nonce. They set it, that dead body of a Pope, Clothed in pontific vesture now again, Upright on Peter's chair as if alive. "And Stephen, springing up, cried furiously, 'Bishop of Porto, wherefore didst presume To leave that see and take this Roman see, Exchange the lesser for the greater see, —A thing against the canons of the Church?' "Then one—(a Deacon who, observing forms, Was placed by Stephen to repel the charge, Be advocate and mouthpiece of the corpse)— Spoke as he dared, set stammeringly forth With white lips and dry tongue,—as but a youth, For frightful was the corpse-face to behold,— How nowise lacked there precedent for this. "But when, for his last precedent of all, Emboldened by the Spirit, out he blurts, 'And, Holy Father, didst not thou thyself Vacate the lesser for the greater see, Half a year since change Arago for Rome?' '—Ye have the sin's defence now, synod mine!' Shrieks Stephen in a beastly froth of rage: 'Judge now betwixt him dead and me alive! Hath he intruded, or do I pretend? Judge, judge!'—breaks wavelike one whole foam of wrath. "Whereupon they, being friends and followers, Said, 'Ay, thou art Christ's Vicar, and not he! Away with what is frightful to behold! This act was uncanonic and a fault.' "Then, swallowed up in rage, Stephen exclaimed, 'So, guilty! So, remains I punish guilt! He is unpoped, and all he did I damn: The Bishop, that ordained him, I degrade: Depose to laics those he raised to priests: What they have wrought is mischief nor shall stand, It is confusion, let it vex no more! Since I revoke, annul and abrogate All his decrees in all kinds: they are void! In token whereof and warning to the world, Strip me yon miscreant of those robes usurped, And clothe him with vile serge befitting such! Then hale the carrion to the market-place; Let the town-hangman chop from his right hand Those same three fingers which he blessed withal; Next cut the head off, once was crowned forsooth: And last go fling them, fingers, head and trunk, To Tiber that my Christian fish may sup!' —Either because of ΙΧΘΥΣ which means Fish And very aptly symbolizes Christ, Or else because the Pope is Fisherman, And seals with Fisher's-signet. "Anyway, So said, so done: himself, to see it done, Followed the corpse they trailed from street to street Till into Tiber wave they threw the thing. The people, crowded on the banks to see, Were loud or mute, wept or laughed, cursed or jeered, According as the deed addressed their sense; A scandal verily: and out spake a Jew, 'Wot ye your Christ had vexed our Herod thus?' "Now when, Formosus being dead a year, His judge Pope Stephen tasted death in turn, Made captive by the mob and strangled straight, Romanus, his successor for a month, Did make protest Formosus was with God, Holy, just, true in thought and word and deed. Next Theodore, who reigned but twenty days, Therein convoked a synod, whose decree Did reinstate, repope the late unpoped, And do away with Stephen as accursed. So that when presently certain fisher-folk (As if the queasy river could not hold Its swallowed Jonas, but discharged the meal) Produced the timely product of their nets, The mutilated man, Formosus,—saved From putrefaction by the embalmer's spice, Or, as some said, by sanctity of flesh,— 'Why, lay the body again,' bade Theodore, 'Among his predecessors, in the church And burial-place of Peter!' which was done. 'And,' addeth Luitprand, 'many of repute, Pious and still alive, avouch to me That, as they bore the body up the aisle, The saints in imaged row bowed each his head For welcome to a brother-saint come back.' As for Romanus and this Theodore, These two Popes, through the brief reign granted each, Could but initiate what John came to close And give the final stamp to: he it was, Ninth of the name, (I follow the best guides) Who,—in full synod at Ravenna held With Bishops seventy-four, and present too Eude King of France with his Archbishopry,— Did condemn Stephen, anathematize The disinterment, and make all blots blank. 'For,' argueth here Auxilius in a place De Ordinationibus, 'precedents Had been, no lack, before Formosus long, Of Bishops so transferred from see to see,— Marinus, for example:' read the tract. "But, after John, came Sergius, reaffirmed The right of Stephen, cursed Formosus, nay Cast out, some say, his corpse a second time, And here,—because the matter went to ground, Fretted by new griefs, other cares of the age,— Here is the last pronouncing of the Church, Her sentence that subsists unto this day. Yet constantly opinion hath prevailed I' the Church, Formosus was a holy man." Which of the judgments was infallible? Which of my predecessors spoke for God? And what availed Formosus that this cursed, That blessed, and then this other cursed again? "Fear ye not those whose power can kill the body And not the soul," saith Christ, "but rather those Can cast both soul and body into hell!" John judged thus in Eight Hundred Ninety Eight, Exact eight hundred years ago to-day When, sitting in his stead, Vicegerent here, I must give judgment on my own behoof. So worked the predecessor: now, my turn! In God's name! Once more on this earth of God's, While twilight lasts and time wherein to work, I take his staff with my uncertain hand, And stay my six and fourscore years, my due Labor and sorrow, on his judgment-seat, And forthwith think, speak, act, in place of him— The Pope for Christ. Once more appeal is made From man's assize to mine: I sit and see Another poor weak trembling human wretch Pushed by his fellows, who pretend the right, Up to the gulf which, where I gaze, begins From this world to the next,—gives way and way, Just on the edge over the awful dark: With nothing to arrest him but my feet. He catches at me with convulsive face, Cries "Leave to live the natural minute more!" While hollowly the avengers echo "Leave? None! So has he exceeded man's due share In man's fit license, wrung by Adam's fall, To sin and yet not surely die,—that we, All of us sinful, all with need of grace, All chary of our life,—the minute more Or minute less of grace which saves a soul,— Bound to make common cause with who craves time, —We yet protest against the exorbitance Of sin in this one sinner, and demand That his poor sole remaining piece of time Be plucked from out his clutch: put him to death! Punish him now! As for the weal or woe Hereafter, God grant mercy! Man be just. Nor let the felon boast he went scot-free!" And I am bound, the solitary judge, To weigh the worth, decide upon the plea, And either hold a hand out, or withdraw A foot and let the wretch drift to the fall. Ay, and while thus I dally, dare perchance Put fancies for a comfort 'twixt this calm And yonder passion that I have to bear,— As if reprieve were possible for both Prisoner and Pope,—how easy were reprieve! A touch o' the hand-bell here, a hasty word To those who wait, and wonder they wait long, I' the passage there, and I should gain the life!— Yea, though I flatter me with fancy thus, I know it is but Nature's craven-trick. The case is over, judgment at an end, And all things done now and irrevocable: A mere dead man is Franceschini here, Even as Formosus centuries ago. I have worn through this sombre wintry day, With winter in my soul beyond the world's, Over these dismalest of documents Which drew night down on me ere eve befell,— Pleadings and counter-pleadings, figure of fact Beside fact's self, these summaries, to wit,— How certain three were slain by certain five: I read here why it was, and how it went, And how the chief o' the five preferred excuse, And how law rather chose defence should lie,— What argument he urged by wary word When free to play off wile, start subterfuge, And what the unguarded groan told, torture's feat When law grew brutal, outbroke, overbore And glutted hunger on the truth, at last,— No matter for the flesh and blood between. All 's a clear rede and no more riddle now. Truth, nowhere, lies yet everywhere in these— Not absolutely in a portion, yet Evolvable from the whole: evolved at last Painfully, held tenaciously by me. Therefore there is not any doubt to clear When I shall write the brief word presently And chink the hand-bell, which I pause to do. Irresolute? Not I, more than the mound With the pine-trees on it yonder! Some surmise, Perchance, that since man's wit is fallible, Mine may fail here? Suppose it so,—what then? Say,—Guido, I count guilty, there 's no babe So guiltless, for I misconceive the man! What 's in the chance should move me from my mind? If, as I walk in a rough country-side, Peasants of mine cry, "Thou art he can help, Lord of the land and counted wise to boot: Look at our brother, strangling in his foam, He fell so where we find him,—prove thy worth!" I may presume, pronounce, "A frenzy-fit, A falling-sickness or a fever-stroke! Breathe a vein, copiously let blood at once!" So perishes the patient, and anon I hear my peasants—"All was error, lore! Our story, thy prescription: for there crawled In due time from our hapless brother's breast The serpent which had stung him: bleeding slew Whom a prompt cordial had restored to health." What other should I say than "God so willed: Mankind is ignorant, a man am I: Call ignorance my sorrow, not my sin!" So and not otherwise, in after-time, If some acuter wit, fresh probing, sound This multifarious mass of words and deeds Deeper, and reach through guilt to innocence, I shall face Guido's ghost nor blench a jot. "God who set me to judge thee, meted out So much of judging faculty, no more: Ask him if I was slack in use thereof!" I hold a heavier fault imputable Inasmuch as I changed a chaplain once, For no cause,—no, if I must bare my heart,— Save that he snuffled somewhat saying mass. For I am 'ware it is the seed of act, God holds appraising in his hollow palm, Not act grown great thence on the world below, Leafage and branchage, vulgar eyes admire. Therefore I stand on my integrity, Nor fear at all: and if I hesitate, It is because I need to breathe awhile, Rest, as the human right allows, review Intent the little seeds of act, my tree,— The thought, which, clothed in deed, I give the world At chink of bell and push of arrased door. O pale departure, dim disgrace of day! Winter's in wane, his vengeful worst art thou, To dash the boldness of advancing March! Thy chill persistent rain has purged our streets Of gossipry; pert tongue and idle ear By this, consort 'neath archway, portico. But wheresoe'er Rome gathers in the gray, Two names now snap and flash from mouth to mouth— (Sparks, flint and steel strike)—Guido and the Pope. By this same hour to-morrow eve—aha, How do they call him?—the sagacious Swede Who finds by figures how the chances prove, Why one comes rather than another thing, As, say, such dots turn up by throw of dice, Or, if we dip in Virgil here and there And prick for such a verse, when such shall point. Take this Swede, tell him, hiding name and rank, Two men are in our city this dull eve; One doomed to death,—but hundreds in such plight Slip aside, clean escape by leave of law Which leans to mercy in this latter time; Moreover in the plenitude of life Is he, with strength of limb and brain adroit, Presumably of service here: beside, The man is noble, backed by nobler friends: Nay, they so wish him well, the city's self Makes common cause with who—house-magistrate, Patron of hearth and home, domestic lord— But ruled his own, let aliens cavil. Die? He 'll bribe a jailer or break prison first! Nay, a sedition may be helpful, give Hint to the mob to batter wall, burn gate, And bid the favorite malefactor march. Calculate now these chances of escape! "It is not probable, but well may be." Again, there is another man, weighed now By twice eight years beyond the seven-times-ten, Appointed overweight to break our branch. And this man's loaded branch lifts, more than snow, All the world's cark and care, though a bird's nest Were a superfluous burden: notably Hath he been pressed, as if his age were youth, From to-day's dawn till now that day departs, Trying one question with true sweat of soul, "Shall the said doomed man fitlier die or live?" When a straw swallowed in his posset, stool Stumbled on where his path lies, any puff That 's incident to such a smoking flax, Hurries the natural end and quenches him! Now calculate, thou sage, the chances here, Say, which shall die the sooner, this or that? "That, possibly, this in all likelihood." I thought so: yet thou tripp'st, my foreign friend! No, it will be quite otherwise,—to-day Is Guido's last: my term is yet to run. But say the Swede were right, and I forthwith Acknowledge a prompt summons and lie dead: Why, then I stand already in God's face And hear, "Since by its fruit a tree is judged, Show me thy fruit, the latest act of thine! For in the last is summed the first and all,— What thy life last put heart and soul into, There shall I taste thy product." I must plead This condemnation of a man to-day. Not so! Expect nor question nor reply At what we figure as God's judgment-bar! None of this vile way by the barren words Which, more than any deed, characterize Man as made subject to a curse: no speech— That still bursts o'er some lie which lurks inside, As the split skin across the coppery snake, And most denotes man! since, in all beside, In hate or lust or guile or unbelief, Out of some core of truth the excrescence comes, And, in the last resort, the man may urge "So was I made, a weak thing that gave way To truth, to impulse only strong since true, And hated, lusted, used guile, forwent faith." But when man walks the garden of this world For his own solace, and, unchecked by law, Speaks or keeps silence as himself sees fit, Without the least incumbency to lie, —Why, can he tell you what a rose is like, Or how the birds fly, and not slip to false Though truth serve better? Man must tell his mate Of you, me and himself, knowing he lies, Knowing his fellow knows the same,—will think "He lies, it is the method of a man!" And yet will speak for answer "It is truth" To him who shall rejoin "Again a lie!" Therefore these filthy rags of speech, this coil Of statement, comment, query and response, Tatters all too contaminate for use, Have no renewing: He the Truth is, too, The Word. We men, in our degree, may know There, simply, instantaneously, as here After long time and amid many lies, Whatever we dare think we know indeed —That I am I, as He is He,—what else? But be man's method for man's life at least! Wherefore, Antonio Pignatelli, thou My ancient self, who wast no Pope so long But studiedst God and man, the many years I' the school, i' the cloister, in the diocese Domestic, legate-rule in foreign lands,— Thou other force in those old busy days Than this gray ultimate decrepitude,— Yet sensible of fires that more and more Visit a soul, in passage to the sky, Left nakeder than when flesh-robe was new— Thou, not Pope but the mere old man o' the world, Supposed inquisitive and dispassionate, Wilt thou, the one whose speech I somewhat trust, Question the after-me, this self now Pope, Hear his procedure, criticise his work? Wise in its generation is the world. This is why Guido is found reprobate. I see him furnished forth for his career, On starting for the life-chance in our world, With nearly all we count sufficient help: Body and mind in balance, a sound frame, A solid intellect: the wit to seek, Wisdom to choose, and courage wherewithal To deal in whatsoever circumstance Should minister to man, make life succeed. Oh, and much drawback! what were earth without? Is this our ultimate stage, or starting-place To try man's foot, if it will creep or climb, 'Mid obstacles in seeming, points that prove Advantage for who vaults from low to high And makes the stumbling-block a stepping-stone? So, Guido, born with appetite, lacks food: Is poor, who yet could deftly play-off wealth: Straitened, whose limbs are restless till at large. He, as he eyes each outlet of the cirque And narrow penfold for probation, pines After the good things just outside its grate, With less monition, fainter conscience-twitch, Rarer instinctive qualm at the first feel Of greed unseemly, prompting grasp undue, Than nature furnishes her main mankind,— Making it harder to do wrong than right The first time, careful lest the common ear Break measure, miss the outstep of life's march. Wherein I see a trial fair and fit For one else too unfairly fenced about, Set above sin, beyond his fellows here: Guarded from the arch-tempter all must fight, By a great birth, traditionary name, Diligent culture, choice companionship, Above all, conversancy with the faith Which puts forth for its base of doctrine just, "Man is born nowise to content himself, But please God." He accepted such a rule, Recognized man's obedience; and the Church, Which simply is such rule's embodiment, He clave to, he held on by,—nay, indeed, Near pushed inside of, deep as layman durst, Professed so much of priesthood as might sue For priest's-exemption where the layman sinned,— Go this arm frocked which, bare, the law would bruise, Hence, at this moment, what's his last resource, His extreme stay and utmost stretch of hope But that,—convicted of such crime as law Wipes not away save with a worldling's blood,— Guido, the three-parts consecrate, may 'scape? Nay, the portentous brothers of the man Are veritably priests, protected each May do his murder in the Church's pale, Abate Paul, Canon Girolamo! This is the man proves irreligiousest Of all mankind, religion's parasite! This may forsooth plead dinned ear, jaded sense, The vice o' the watcher who bides near the bell, Sleeps sound because the clock is vigilant, And cares not whether it be shade or shine, Doling out day and night to all men else! Why was the choice o' the man to niche himself Perversely 'neath the tower where Time's own tongue Thus undertakes to sermonize the world? Why, but because the solemn is safe too, The belfry proves a fortress of a sort, Has other uses than to teach the hour: Turns sunscreen, paravent and ombrifuge To whoso seeks a shelter in its pale, —Ay, and attractive to unwary folk Who gaze at storied portal, statued spire, And go home with full head but empty purse. Nor dare suspect the sacristan the thief! Shall Judas—hard upon the donor's heel, To filch the fragments of the basket—plead He was too near the preacher's mouth, nor sat Attent with fifties in a company? No,—closer to promulgated decree, Clearer the censure of default. Proceed! I find him bound, then, to begin life well; Fortified by propitious circumstance, Great birth, good breeding, with the Church for guide, How lives he? Cased thus in a coat of proof, Mailed like a man-at-arms, though all the while A puny starveling,—does the breast pant big, The limb swell to the limit, emptiness Strive to become solidity indeed? Bather, he shrinks up like the ambiguous fish, Detaches flesh from shell and outside show, And steals by moonlight (I have seen the thing) In and out, now to prey and now to skulk. Armor he boasts when a wave breaks on beach, Or bird stoops for the prize: with peril nigh,— The man of rank, the much-befriended man, The man almost affiliate to the Church, Such is to deal with, let the world beware! Does the world recognize, pass prudently? Do tides abate and sea-fowl hunt i' the deep? Already is the slug from out its mew, Ignobly faring with all loose and free, Sand-fly and slush-worm at their garbage-feast, A naked blotch no better than they all: Guido has dropped nobility, slipped the Church, Plays trickster if not cut-purse, body and soul Prostrate among the filthy feeders—faugh! And when Law takes him by surprise at last, Catches the foul thing on its carrion-prey, Behold, he points to shell left high and dry, Pleads "But the case out yonder is myself!" Nay, it is thou, Law prongs amid thy peers, Congenial vermin; that was none of thee, Thine outside,—give it to the soldier-crab! For I find this black mark impinge the man, That he believes in just the vile of life. Low instinct, base pretension, are these truth? Then, that aforesaid armor, probity, He figures in, is falsehood scale on scale; Honor and faith,—a lie and a disguise, Probably for all livers in this world, Certainly for himself! All say good words To who will hear, all do thereby bad deeds To who must undergo; so thrive mankind! See this habitual creed exemplified Most in the last deliberate act; as last, So, very sum and substance of the soul Of him that planned and leaves one perfect piece, The sin brought under jurisdiction now, Even the marriage of the man: this act I sever from his life as sample, show For Guido's self, intend to test him by, As, from a cup filled fairly at the fount, By the components we decide enough Or to let flow as late, or stanch the source. He purposes this marriage, I remark, On no one motive that should prompt thereto— Farthest, by consequence, from ends alleged Appropriate to the action; so they were: The best, he knew and feigned, the worst he took. Not one permissible impulse moves the man, From the mere liking of the eye and ear, To the true longing of the heart that loves, No trace of these: but all to instigate, Is what sinks man past level of the brute, Whose appetite if brutish is a truth. All is the lust for money: to get gold,— Why, lie, rob, if it must be, murder! Make Body and soul wring gold out, lured within The clutch of hate by love, the trap's pretence! What good else get from bodies and from souls? This got, there were some life to lead thereby, —What, where or how, appreciate those who tell How the toad lives: it lives,—enough for me! To get this good—but with a groan or so, Then, silence of the victims—were the feat. He foresaw, made a picture in his mind,— Of father and mother stunned and echoless To the blow, as they lie staring at fate's jaws Their folly danced into, till the woe fell; Edged in a month by strenuous cruelty From even the poor nook whence they watched the wolf Feast on their heart, the lamb-like child his prey; Plundered to the last remnant of their wealth, (What daily pittance pleased the plunderer dole,) Hunted forth to go hide head, starve and die, And leave the pale awe-stricken wife, past hope Of help i' the world now, mute and motionless, His slave, his chattel, to first use, then destroy. All this, he bent mind, how to bring about, Put plain in act and life, as painted plain, So have success, reach crown of earthly good, In this particular enterprise of man, By marriage—undertaken in God's face With all these lies so opposite God's truth, For end so other than man's end. Thus schemes Guido, and thus would carry out his scheme: But when an obstacle first blocks the path, When he finds none may boast monopoly Of lies and trick i' the tricking lying world,— That sorry timid natures, even this sort O' the Comparini, want nor trick nor lie Proper to the kind,—that as the gor-crow treats The bramble-finch so treats the finch the moth, And the great Guido is minutely matched By this same couple,—whether true or false The revelation of Pompilia's birth, Which in a moment brings his scheme to naught,— Then, he is piqued, advances yet a stage, Leaves the low region to the finch and fly, Soars to the zenith whence the fiercer fowl May dare the inimitable swoop. I see. He draws now on the curious crime, the fine Felicity and flower of wickedness; Determines, by the utmost exercise Of violence, made safe and sure by craft. To satiate malice, pluck one last arch-pang From the parents, else would triumph out of reach, By punishing their child, within reach yet, Who, by thought, word or deed, could nowise wrong I' the matter that now moves him. So plans he, Always subordinating (note the point!) Revenge, the manlier sin, to interest The meaner,—would pluck pang forth, but unclench No gripe in the act, let fall no money-piece. Hence a plan for so plaguing, body and soul, His wife, so putting, day by day, hour by hour, The untried torture to the untouched place, As must precipitate an end foreseen, Goad her into some plain revolt, most like Plunge upon patent suicidal shame, Death to herself, damnation by rebound To those whose hearts he, holding hers, holds still: Such plan as, in its bad completeness, shall Ruin the three together and alike, Yet leave himself in luck and liberty, No claim renounced, no right a forfeiture, His person unendangered, his good fame Without a flaw, his pristine worth intact,— While they, with all their claims and rights that cling, Shall forthwith crumble off him every side, Scorched into dust, a plaything for the winds. As when, in our Campagna, there is fired The nest-like work that overruns a hut; And, as the thatch burns here, there, everywhere, Even to the ivy and wild vine, that bound And blessed the home where men were happy once, There rises gradual, black amid the blaze, Some grim and unscathed nucleus of the nest,— Some old malicious tower, some obscene tomb They thought a temple in their ignorance, And clung about and thought to lean upon— There laughs it o'er their ravage,—where are they? So did his cruelty burn life about, And lay the ruin bare in dreadfulness, Try the persistency of torment so Upon the wife, that, at extremity, Some crisis brought about by fire and flame, The patient frenzy-stung must needs break loose, Fly anyhow, find refuge anywhere, Even in the arms of who should front her first, No monster but a man—while nature shrieked "Or thus escape, or die!" The spasm arrived, Not the escape by way of sin,—O God, Who shall pluck sheep thou holdest, from thy hand? Therefore she lay resigned to die,—so far The simple cruelty was foiled. Why then, Craft to the rescue, let craft supplement Cruelty and show hell a masterpiece! Hence this consummate lie, this love-intrigue, Unmanly simulation of a sin, With place and time and circumstance to suit— These letters false beyond all forgery— Not just handwriting and mere authorship, But false to body and soul they figure forth— As though the man had cut out shape and shape From fancies of that other Aretine, To paste below—incorporate the filth With cherub faces on a missal-page! Whereby the man so far attains his end That strange temptation is permitted,—see! Pompilia, wife, and Caponsacchi, priest, Are brought together as nor priest nor wife Should stand, and there is passion in the place, Power in the air for evil as for good, Promptings from heaven and hell, as if the stars Fought in their courses for a fate to be. Thus stand the wife and priest, a spectacle, I doubt not, to unseen assemblage there. No lamp will mark that window for a shrine, No tablet signalize the terrace, teach New generations which succeed the old, The pavement of the street is holy ground: No bard describe in verse how Christ prevailed And Satan fell like lightning! Why repine? What does the world, told truth, but lie the more? A second time the plot is foiled; nor, now, By corresponding sin for countercheck, No wile and trick that baffle trick and wile,— The play o' the parents! Here the blot is blanched By God's gift of a purity of soul That will not take pollution, ermine-like Armed from dishonor by its own soft snow. Such was this gift of God who showed for once How he would have the world go white: it seems As a new attribute were born of each Champion of truth, the priest and wife I praise,— As a new safeguard sprang up in defence Of their new noble nature: so a thorn Comes to the aid of and completes the rose— Courage to wit, no woman's gift nor priest's, I' the crisis; might leaps vindicating right. See how the strong aggressor, bad and bold, With every vantage, preconcerts surprise, Leaps of a sudden at his victim's throat In a byway,—how fares he when face to face With Caponsacchi? Who fights, who fears now? There quails Count Guido, armed to the chattering teeth, Cowers at the steadfast eye and quiet word O' the Canon of the Pieve! There skulks crime Behind law called in to back cowardice! While out of the poor trampled worm the wife, Springs up a serpent! But anon of these! Him I judge now,—of him proceed to note, Failing the first, a second chance befriends Guido, gives pause ere punishment arrive. The law he called, comes, hears, adjudicates, Nor does amiss i' the main,—secludes the wife From the husband, respites the oppressed one, grants Probation to the oppressor, could he know The mercy of a minute's fiery purge! The furnace-coals alike of public scorn, Private remorse, heaped glowing on his head, What if—the force and guile, the ore's alloy, Eliminate, his baser soul refined— The lost be saved even yet, so as by fire? Let him, rebuked, go softly all his days And, when no graver musings claim their due, Meditate on a man's immense mistake Who, fashioned to use feet and walk, deigns crawl— Takes the unmanly means—ay, though to ends Man scarce should make for, would but reach through wrong,— May sin, but nowise needs shame manhood so: Since fowlers hawk, shoot, nay and snare the game, And yet eschew vile practice, nor find sport In torch-light treachery or the luring owl. But how hunts Guido? Why, the fraudful trap— Late spurned to ruin by the indignant feet Of fellows in the chase who loved fair play— Here he picks up its fragments to the least, Lades him and hies to the old lurking-place Where haply he may patch again, refit The mischief, file its blunted teeth anew, Make sure, next time, first snap shall break the bone. Craft, greed and violence complot revenge: Craft, for its quota, schemes to bring about And seize occasion and be safe withal: Greed craves its act may work both far and near, Crush the tree, branch and trunk and root beside, Whichever twig or leaf arrests a streak Of possible sunshine else would coin itself, And drop down one more gold piece in the path: Violence stipulates, "Advantage proved, And safety sure, be pain the overplus! Murder with jagged knife! Cut but tear too! Foiled oft, starved long, glut malice for amends!" And what, craft's scheme? scheme sorrowful and strange As though the elements, whom mercy cheeked, Had mustered hate for one eruption more, One final deluge to surprise the Ark Cradled and sleeping on its mountain-top: Their outbreak-signal—what but the dove's coo, Back with the olive in her bill for news Sorrow was over? 'T is an infant's birth, Guido's first-born, his son and heir, that gives The occasion: other men cut free their souls From care in such a case, fly up in thanks To God, reach, recognize his love for once: Guido cries, "Soul, at last the mire is thine! Lie there in likeness of a money-bag, My babe's birth so pins down past moving now, That I dare cut adrift the lives I late Scrupled to touch lest thou escape with them! These parents and their child my wife,—touch one, Lose all! Their rights determined on a head I could but hate, not harm, since from each hair Dangled a hope for me: now—chance and change! No right was in their child but passes plain To that child's child and through such child to me. I am a father now,—come what come will, I represent my child; he comes between— Cuts sudden off the sunshine of this life From those three: why, the gold is in his curls! Not with old Pietro's, Violante's head, Not his gray horror, her more hideous black— Go these, devoted to the knife!" 'T is done: Wherefore should mind misgive, heart hesitate? He calls to counsel, fashions certain four Colorless natures counted clean till now, —Rustic simplicity, uncorrupted youth, Ignorant virtue! Here 's the gold o' the prime When Saturn ruled, shall shock our leaden day— The clown abash the courtier! Mark it, bards! The courtier tries his hand on clownship here, Speaks a word, names a crime, appoints a price,— Just breathes on what, suffused with all himself, Is red-hot henceforth past distinction now I' the common glow of hell. And thus they break And blaze on us at Rome, Christ's birthnight-eve! Oh angels that sang erst "On the earth, peace! To man, good will!"—such peace finds earth to-day! After the seventeen hundred years, so man Wills good to man, so Guido makes complete His murder! what is it I said?—cuts loose Three lives that hitherto he suffered cling, Simply because each served to nail secure, By a corner of the money-bag, his soul,— Therefore, lives sacred till the babe's first breath O'erweights them in the balance,—off they fly! So is the murder managed, sin conceived To the full: and why not crowned with triumph too? Why must the sin, conceived thus, bring forth death? I note how, within hair's-breadth of escape, Impunity and the thing supposed success, Guido is found when the check comes, the change, The monitory touch o' the tether—felt By few, not marked by many, named by none At the moment, only recognized aright I' the fulness of the days, for God's, lest sin Exceed the service, leap the line: such check— A secret which this life finds hard to keep, And, often guessed, is never quite revealed— Needs must trip Guido on a stumbling-block Too vulgar, too absurdly plain i' the path! Study this single oversight of care, This hebetude that marred sagacity, Forgetfulness of all the man best knew,— How any stranger having need to fly, Needs but to ask and have the means of flight. Why, the first urchin tells you, to leave Rome, Get horses, you must show the warrant, just The banal scrap, clerk's scribble, a fair word buys, Or foul one, if a ducat sweeten word,— And straight authority will back demand, Give you the pick o' the post-house!—how should he, Then, resident at Rome for thirty years, Guido, instruct a stranger! And himself Forgets just this poor paper scrap, wherewith Armed, every door he knocks at opens wide To save him: horsed and manned, with such advance O' the hunt behind, why, 't were the easy task Of hours told on the fingers of one hand, To reach the Tuscan frontier, laugh at home, Light-hearted with his fellows of the place,— Prepared by that strange shameful judgment, that Satire upon a sentence just pronounced By the Rota and confirmed by the Granduke,— Ready in a circle to receive their peer, Appreciate his good story how, when Rome, The Pope-King and the populace of priests Made common cause with their confederate The other priestling who seduced his wife, He, all unaided, wiped out the affront With decent bloodshed and could face his friends, Frolic it in the world's eye. Ay, such tale Missed such applause, and by such oversight! So, tired and footsore, those blood-flustered five Went reeling on the road through dark and cold, The few permissible miles, to sink at length, Wallow and sleep in the first wayside straw, As the other herd quenched, i' the wash o' the wave, —Each swine, the devil inside him: so slept they, And so were caught and caged—all through one trip. One touch of fool in Guido the astute! He curses the omission, I surmise, More than the murder. Why, thou fool and blind, It is the mercy-stroke that stops thy fate, Hamstrings and holds thee to thy hurt,—but how? On the edge o' the precipice! One minute more, Thou hadst gone farther and fared worse, my son, Fathoms down on the flint and fire beneath! Thy comrades each and all were of one mind, Thy murder done, to straightway murder thee In turn, because of promised pay withheld. So, to the last, greed found itself at odds With craft in thee, and, proving conqueror, Had sent thee, the same night that crowned thy hope, Thither where, this same day, I see thee not, Nor, through God's mercy, need, to-morrow, see. Such I find Guido, midmost blotch of black Discernible in this group of clustered crimes Huddling together in the cave they call Their palace, outraged day thus penetrates. Around him ranged, now close and now remote, Prominent or obscure to meet the needs O' the mage and master, I detect each shape Subsidiary i' the scene nor loathed the less, All alike colored, all descried akin By one and the same pitchy furnace stirred At the centre: see, they lick the master's hand,— This fox-faced horrible priest, this brother-brute The Abate,—why, mere wolfishness looks well, Guido stands honest in the red o' the flame, Beside this yellow that would pass for white, Twice Guido, all craft but no violence, This copier of the mien and gait and garb Of Peter and Paul, that he may go disguised, Rob halt and lame, sick folk i' the temple-porch! Armed with religion, fortified by law, A man of peace, who trims the midnight lamp And turns the classic page—and all for craft, All to work harm with, yet incur no scratch! While Guido brings the struggle to a close, Paul steps back the due distance, clear o' the trap He builds and baits. Guido I catch and judge; Paul is past reach in this world and my time: That is a case reserved. Pass to the next, The boy of the brood, the young Girolamo, Priest, Canon, and what more? nor wolf nor fox. But hybrid, neither craft nor violence Wholly, part violence part craft: such cross Tempts speculation—will both blend one day, And prove hell's better product? Or subside And let the simple quality emerge, Go on with Satan's service the old way? Meanwhile, what promise,—what performance too! For there 's a new distinctive touch, I see, Lust—lacking in the two—hell's own blue tint That gives a character and marks the man More than a match for yellow and red. Once more, A case reserved: why should I doubt? Then comes The gaunt gray nightmare in the furthest smoke, The hag that gave these three abortions birth, Unmotherly mother and unwomanly Woman, that near turns motherhood to shame, Womanliness to loathing: no one word, No gesture to curb cruelty a whit More than the she-pard thwarts her playsome whelps Trying their milk-teeth on the soft o' the throat O' the first fawn, flung, with those beseeching eyes, Flat in the covert! How should she but couch, Lick the dry lips, unsheathe the blunted claw, Catch 'twixt her placid eyewinks at what chance Old bloody half-forgotten dream may flit, Born when herself was novice to the taste, The while she lets youth take its pleasure. Last, These God-abandoned wretched lumps of life, These four companions,—country-folk this time, Not tainted by the unwholesome civic breath, Much less the curse o' the court! Mere striplings too, Fit to do human nature justice still! Surely when impudence in Guido's shape Shall propose crime and proffer money's-worth To these stout tall rough bright-eyed black-haired boys, The blood shall bound in answer to each cheek Before the indignant outcry break from lip! Are these i' the mood to murder, hardly loosed From healthy autumn-finish of ploughed glebe, Grapes in the barrel, work at happy end, And winter near with rest and Christmas play? How greet they Guido with his final task— (As if he but proposed "One vineyard more To dig, ere frost come, then relax indeed!") "Anywhere, anyhow and anywhy, Murder me some three people, old and young, Ye never heard the names of,—and be paid So much!" And the whole four accede at once. Demur? Do cattle bidden march or halt? Is it some lingering habit, old fond faith I' the lord o' the land, instructs them,—birthright badge Of feudal tenure claims its slaves again? Not so at all, thou noble human heart! All is done purely for the pay,—which, earned, And not forthcoming at the instant, makes Religion heresy, and the lord o' the land Fit subject for a murder in his turn. The patron with cut throat and rifled purse, Deposited i' the roadside-ditch, his due, Naught hinders each good fellow trudging home, The heavier by a piece or two in poke, And so with new zest to the common life, Mattock and spade, plough-tail and wagon-shaft, Till some such other piece of luck betide, Who knows? Since this is a mere start in life, And none of them exceeds the twentieth year. Nay, more i' the background yet? Unnoticed forms Claim to be classed, subordinately vile? Complacent lookers-on that laugh,—perchance Shake head as their friend's horse-play grows too rough With the mere child he manages amiss— But would not interfere and make bad worse For twice the fractious tears and prayers: thou know'st Civility better, Marzi-Medici, Governor for thy kinsman the Granduke! Fit representative of law, man's lamp I' the magistrate's grasp full-flare, no rushlight-end Sputtering 'twixt thumb and finger of the priest! Whose answer to the couple's cry for help Is a threat,—whose remedy of Pompilia's wrong, A shrug o' the shoulder, and facetious word Or wink, traditional with Tuscan wits, To Guido in the doorway. Laud to law! The wife is pushed back to the husband, he Who knows how these home-squabblings persecute People who have the public good to mind, And work best with a silence in the court! Ah, but I save my word at least for thee, Archbishop, who art under, i' the Church, As I am under God,—thou, chosen by both To do the shepherd's office, feed the sheep— How of this lamb that panted at thy foot While the wolf pressed on her within crook's reach? Wast thou the hireling that did turn and flee? With thee at least anon the little word! Such denizens o' the cave now cluster round And heat the furnace sevenfold: time indeed A bolt from heaven should cleave roof and clear place, Transfix and show the world, suspiring flame, The main offender, scar and brand the rest Hurrying, each miscreant to his hole: then flood And purify the scene with outside day— Which yet, in the absolutest drench of dark, Ne'er wants a witness, some stray beauty-beam To the despair of hell. First of the first, Such I pronounce Pompilia, then as now Perfect in whiteness: stoop thou down, my child, Give one good moment to the poor old Pope Heart-sick at having all his world to blame— Let me look at thee in the flesh as erst, Let me enjoy the old clean linen garb, Not the new splendid vesture! Armed and crowned, Would Michael, yonder, be, nor crowned nor armed, The less pre-eminent angel? Everywhere I see in the world the intellect of man, That sword, the energy his subtle spear, The knowledge which defends him like a shield— Everywhere; but they make not up, I think, The marvel of a soul like thine, earth's flower She holds up to the softened gaze of God! It was not given Pompilia to know much, Speak much, to write a book, to move mankind, Be memorized by who records my time. Yet if in purity and patience, if In faith held fast despite the plucking fiend, Safe like the signet stone with the new name That saints are known by,—if in right returned For wrong, most pardon for worst injury, If there be any virtue, any praise,— Then will this woman-child have proved—who knows?— Just the one prize vouchsafed unworthy me, Seven years a gardener of the untoward ground I till,—this earth, my sweat and blood manure All the long day that barrenly grows dusk: At least one blossom makes me proud at eve Born 'mid the briers of my enclosure! Still (Oh, here as elsewhere, nothingness of man!) Those be the plants, imbedded yonder South To mellow in the morning, those made fat By the master's eye, that yield such timid leaf, Uncertain bud, as product of his pains! While—see how this mere chance-sown, cleft-nursed seed, That sprang up by the wayside 'neath the foot Of the enemy, this breaks all into blaze, Spreads itself, one wide glory of desire To incorporate the whole great sun it loves From the inch-height whence it looks and longs! My flower, My rose, I gather for the breast of God, This I praise most in thee, where all I praise, That having been obedient to the end According to the light allotted, law Prescribed thy life, still tried, still standing test,— Dutiful to the foolish parents first, Submissive next to the bad husband,—nay, Tolerant of those meaner miserable That did his hests, eked out the dole of pain,— Thou, patient thus, couldst rise from law to law, The old to the new, promoted at one cry O' the trump of God to the new service, not To longer bear, but henceforth fight, be found Sublime in new impatience with the foe! Endure man and obey God: plant firm foot On neck of man, tread man into the hell Meet for him, and obey God all the more! Oh child that didst despise thy life so much When it seemed only thine to keep or lose, How the fine ear felt fall the first low word "Value life, and preserve life for My sake!" Thou didst ... how shall I say?... receive so long The standing ordinance of God on earth, What wonder if the novel claim had clashed With old requirement, seemed to supersede Too much the customary law? But, brave, Thou at first prompting of what I call God, And fools call Nature, didst hear, comprehend, Accept the obligation laid on thee, Mother elect, to save the unborn child, As brute and bird do, reptile and the fly, Ay and, I nothing doubt, even tree, shrub, plant And flower o' the field, all in a common pact To worthily defend the trust of trusts, Life from the Ever Living:—didst resist— Anticipate the office that is mine— And with his own sword stay the upraised arm, The endeavor of the wicked, and defend Him who—again in my default—was there For visible providence: one less true than thou To touch, i' the past, less practised in the right, Approved less far in all docility To all instruction,—how had such an one Made scruple "Is this motion a decree?" It was authentic to the experienced ear O' the good and faithful servant. Go past me And get thy praise,—and be not far to seek Presently when I follow if I may! And surely not so very much apart Need I place thee, my warrior-priest,—in whom What if I gain the other rose, the gold, We grave to imitate God's miracle, Greet monarchs with, good rose in its degree? Irregular noble scapegrace—son the same! Faulty—and peradventure ours the fault Who still misteach, mislead, throw hook and line, Thinking to land leviathan forsooth, Tame the scaled neck, play with him as a bird, And bind him for our maidens! Better bear The King of Pride go wantoning awhile, Unplagued by cord in nose and thorn in jaw, Through deep to deep, followed by all that shine, Churning the blackness hoary: He who made The comely terror, He shall make the sword To match that piece of netherstone his heart, Ay, nor miss praise thereby; who else shut fire I' the stone, to leap from mouth at sword's first stroke, In lamps of love and faith, the chivalry That dares the right and disregards alike The yea and nay o' the world? Self-sacrifice,— What if an idol took it? Ask the Church Why she was wont to turn each Venus here,— Poor Rome perversely lingered round, despite Instruction, for the sake of purblind love,— Into Madonna's shape, and waste no whit Of aught so rare on earth as gratitude! All this sweet savor was not ours but thine, Nard of the rock, a natural wealth we name Incense, and treasure up as food for saints, When flung to us—whose function was to give Not find the costly perfume. Do I smile? Nay, Caponsacchi, much I find amiss, Blameworthy, punishable in this freak Of thine, this youth prolonged, though age was ripe, This masquerade in sober day, with change Of motley too,—now hypocrite's disguise, Now fool's-costume: which lie was least like truth, Which the ungainlier, more discordant garb, With that symmetric soul inside my son, The churchman's or the worldling's,—let him judge, Our adversary who enjoys the task! I rather chronicle the healthy rage,— When the first moan broke from the martyr-maid At that uncaging of the beasts,—made bare My athlete on the instant, gave such good Great undisguised leap over post and pale Right into the mid-cirque, free fighting-place. There may have been rash stripping—every rag Went to the winds,—infringement manifold Of laws prescribed pudicity, I fear, In this impulsive and prompt self-display! Ever such tax comes of the foolish youth; Men mulct the wiser manhood, and suspect No veritable star swims out of cloud. Bear thou such imputation, undergo The penalty I nowise dare relax,— Conventional chastisement and rebuke. But for the outcome, the brave starry birth Conciliating earth with all that cloud, Thank heaven as I do! Ay, such championship Of God at first blush, such prompt cheery thud Of glove on ground that answers ringingly The challenge of the false knight,—watch we long, And wait we vainly for its gallant like From those appointed to the service, sworn His body-guard with pay and privilege— White-cinct, because in white walks sanctity, Red-socked, how else proclaim fine scorn of flesh, Unchariness of blood when blood faith begs! Where are the men-at-arms with cross on coat? Aloof, bewraying their attire: whilst thou In mask and motley, pledged to dance not fight, Sprang'st forth the hero! In thought, word and deed, How throughout all thy warfare thou wast pure, I find it easy to believe: and if At any fateful moment of the strange Adventure, the strong passion of that strait, Fear and surprise, may have revealed too much,— As when a thundrous midnight, with black air That burns, raindrops that blister, breaks a spell, Draws out the excessive virtue of some sheathed Shut unsuspected flower that hoards and hides Immensity of sweetness,—so, perchance, Might the surprise and fear release too much The perfect beauty of the body and soul Thou sayedst in thy passion for God's sake, He who is Pity. Was the trial sore? Temptation sharp? Thank God a second time! Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestalled in triumph? Pray "Lead us into no such temptations, Lord!" Yea, but, O Thou whose servants are the bold, Lead such temptations by the head and hair, Reluctant dragons, up to who dares fight, That so he may do battle and have praise! Do I not see the praise?—that while thy mates Bound to deserve i' the matter, prove at need Unprofitable through the very pains We gave to train them well and start them fair,— Are found too stiff, with standing ranked and ranged, For onset in good earnest, too obtuse Of ear, through iteration of command, For catching quick the sense of the real cry,— Thou, whose sword-hand was used to strike the lute, Whose sentry-station graced some wanton's gate, Thou didst push forward and show mettle, shame The laggards, and retrieve the day. Well done! Be glad thou hast let light into the world, Through that irregular breach o' the boundary,—see The same upon thy path and march assured, Learning anew the use of soldiership, Self-abnegation, freedom from all fear, Loyalty to the life's end! Ruminate, Deserve the initiatory spasm,—once more Work, be unhappy but bear life, my son! And troop you, somewhere 'twixt the best and worst, Where crowd the indifferent product, all too poor Makeshift, starved samples of humanity! Father and mother, huddle there and hide! A gracious eye may find you! Foul and fair, Sadly mixed natures: self-indulgent,—yet Self-sacrificing too: how the love soars, How the craft, avarice, vanity and spite Sink again! So they keep the middle course, Slide into silly crime at unaware, Slip back upon the stupid virtue, stay Nowhere enough for being classed, I hope And fear. Accept the swift and rueful death, Taught, somewhat sternlier than is wont, what waits The ambiguous creature,—how the one black tuft Steadies the aim of the arrow just as well As the wide faultless white on the bird's breast! Nay, you were punished in the very part That looked most pure of speck, 't was honest love Betrayed you,—did love seem most worthy pains, Challenge such purging, since ordained survive When all the rest of you was done with? Go! Never again elude the choice of tints! White shall not neutralize the black, nor good Compensate bad in man, absolve him so: Life's business being just the terrible choice. So do I see, pronounce on all and some Grouped for my judgment now,—profess no doubt While I pronounce: dark, difficult enough The human sphere, yet eyes grow sharp by use, I find the truth, dispart the shine from shade, As a mere man may, with no special touch O' the lynx-gift in each ordinary orb: Nay, if the popular notion class me right, One of wellnigh decayed intelligence,— What of that? Through hard labor and good will, And habitude that gives a blind man sight At the practised finger-ends of him, I do Discern, and dare decree in consequence, Whatever prove the peril of mistake. Whence, then, this quite new quick cold thrill,—cloud-like, This keen dread creeping from a quarter scarce Suspected in the skies I nightly scan? What slacks the tense nerve, saps the wound-up spring Of the act that should and shall be, sends the mount And mass o' the whole man's-strength,—conglobed so late— Shudderingly into dust, a moment's work? While I stand firm, go fearless, in this world, For this life recognize and arbitrate, Touch and let stay, or else remove a thing, Judge "This is right, this object out of place," Candle in hand that helps me and to spare,— What if a voice deride me, "Perk and pry! Brighten each nook with thine intelligence! Play the good householder, ply man and maid With tasks prolonged into the midnight, test Their work and nowise stint of the due wage Each worthy worker: but with gyves and whip Pay thou misprision of a single point Plain to thy happy self who lift'st the light, Lament'st the darkling,—bold to all beneath! What if thyself adventure, now the place Is purged so well? Leave pavement and mount roof, Look round thee for the light of the upper sky, The fire which lit thy fire which finds default In Guido Franceschini to his cost! What if, above in the domain of light, Thou miss the accustomed signs, remark eclipse? Shalt thou still gaze on ground nor lift a lid,— Steady in thy superb prerogative, Thy inch of inkling,—nor once face the doubt I' the sphere above thee, darkness to be felt?" Yet my poor spark had for its source, the sun; Thither I sent the great looks which compel Light from its fount: all that I do and am Comes from the truth, or seen or else surmised, Remembered or divined, as mere man may: I know just so, nor otherwise. As I know, I speak,—what should I know, then, and how speak Were there a wild mistake of eye or brain As to recorded governance above? If my own breath, only, blew coal alight I styled celestial and the morning-star? I, who in this world act resolvedly, Dispose of men, their bodies and their souls, As they acknowledge or gainsay the light I show them,—shall I too lack courage?—leave I, too, the post of me, like those I blame? Refuse, with kindred inconsistency, To grapple danger whereby souls grow strong? I am near the end; but still not at the end; All to the very end is trial in life: At this stage is the trial of my soul Danger to face, or danger to refuse? Shall I dare try the doubt now, or not dare? O Thou,—as represented here to me In such conception as my soul allows,— Under Thy measureless, my atom width!— Man's mind, what is it but a convex glass Wherein are gathered all the scattered points Picked out of the immensity of sky, To reunite there, be our heaven for earth, Our known unknown, our God revealed to man? Existent somewhere, somehow, as a whole; Here, as a whole proportioned to our sense,— There, (which is nowhere, speech must babble thus!) In the absolute immensity, the whole Appreciable solely by Thyself,— Here, by the little mind of man, reduced To littleness that suits his faculty, In the degree appreciable too; Between Thee and ourselves—nay even, again, Below us, to the extreme of the minute, Appreciable by how many and what diverse Modes of the life Thou madest be! (why live Except for love,—how love unless they know?) Each of them, only filling to the edge, Insect or angel, his just length and breadth, Due facet of reflection,—full, no less, Angel or insect, as Thou framedst things. I it is who have been appointed here To represent Thee, in my turn, on earth, Just as, if new philosophy know aught, This one earth, out of all the multitude Of peopled worlds, as stars are now supposed,— Was chosen, and no sun-star of the swarm, For stage and scene of Thy transcendent act Beside which even the creation fades Into a puny exercise of power. Choice of the world, choice of the thing I am, Both emanate alike from Thy dread play Of operation outside this our sphere Where things are classed and counted small or great,— Incomprehensibly the choice is Thine! I therefore bow my head and take Thy place. There is, beside the works, a tale of Thee In the world's mouth, which I find credible: I love it with my heart: unsatisfied, I try it with my reason, nor discept From any point I probe and pronounce sound. Mind is not matter nor from matter, but Above,—leave matter then, proceed with mind! Man's be the mind recognized at the height,— Leave the inferior minds and look at man! Is he the strong, intelligent and good Up to his own conceivable height? Nowise. Enough o' the low,—soar the conceivable height, Find cause to match the effect in evidence, The work i' the world, not man's but God's; leave man! Conjecture of the worker by the work: Is there strength there?—enough: intelligence? Ample: but goodness in a like degree? Not to the human eye in the present state, An isoscele deficient in the base. What lacks, then, of perfection fit for God But just the instance which this tale supplies Of love without a limit? So is strength, So is intelligence; let love be so, Unlimited in its self-sacrifice, Then is the tale true and God shows complete. Beyond the tale, I reach into the dark, Feel what I cannot see, and still faith stands: I can believe this dread machinery Of sin and sorrow, would confound me else, Devised—all pain, at most expenditure Of pain by Who devised pain—to evolve, By new machinery in counterpart, The moral qualities of man—how else?— To make him love in turn and be beloved, Creative and self-sacrificing too, And thus eventually God-like, (ay, "I have said ye are Gods,"—shall it be said for naught?) Enable man to wring, from out all pain, All pleasure for a common heritage To all eternity: this may be surmised, The other is revealed,—whether a fact, Absolute, abstract, independent truth, Historic, not reduced to suit man's mind,— Or only truth reverberate, changed, made pass A spectrum into mind, the narrow eye,— The same and not the same, else unconceived— Though quite conceivable to the next grade Above it in intelligence,—as truth Easy to man were blindness to the beast By parity of procedure,—the same truth In a new form, but changed in either case: What matter so intelligence be filled? To a child, the sea is angry, for it roars: Frost bites, else why the tooth-like fret on face? Man makes acoustics deal with the sea's wrath, Explains the choppy cheek by chymic law,— To man and child remains the same effect On drum of ear and root of nose, change cause Never so thoroughly: so my heart be struck, What care I,—by God's gloved hand or the bare? Nor do I much perplex me with aught hard, Dubious in the transmitting of the tale,— No, nor with certain riddles set to solve. This life is training and a passage; pass,— Still, we march over some flat obstacle We made give way before us; solid truth In front of it, what motion for the world? The moral sense grows but by exercise. 'T is even as man grew probatively Initiated in Godship, set to make A fairer moral world than this he finds, Guess now what shall be known hereafter. Deal Thus with the present problem: as we see, A faultless creature is destroyed, and sin Has had its way i' the world where God should rule. Ay, but for this irrelevant circumstance Of inquisition after blood, we see Pompilia lost and Guido saved: how long? For his whole life: how much is that whole life? We are not babes, but know the minute's worth, And feel that life is large and the world small, So, wait till life have passed from out the world. Neither does this astonish at the end, That whereas I can so receive and trust, Other men, made with hearts and souls the same, Reject and disbelieve,—subordinate The future to the present,—sin, nor fear. This I refer still to the foremost fact, Life is probation and the earth no goal But starting-point of man: compel him strive, Which means, in man, as good as reach the goal,— Why institute that race, his life, at all? But this does overwhelm me with surprise, Touch me to terror,—not that faith, the pearl, Should be let lie by fishers wanting food,— Nor, seen and handled by a certain few Critical and contemptuous, straight consigned To shore and shingle for the pebble it proves,— But that, when haply found and known and named By the residue made rich forevermore, These,—that these favored ones, should in a trice Turn, and with double zest go dredge for whelks, Mud-worms that make the savory soup! Enough O' the disbelievers, see the faithful few! How do the Christians here deport them, keep Their robes of white unspotted by the world? What is this Aretine Archbishop, this Man under me as I am under God, This champion of the faith, I armed and decked, Pushed forward, put upon a pinnacle, To show the enemy his victor,—see! What 's the best fighting when the couple close? Pompilia cries, "Protect me from the wolf!" He—"No, thy Guido is rough, heady, strong, Dangerous to disquiet: let him bide! He needs some bone to mumble, help amuse The darkness of his den with: so, the fawn Which limps up bleeding to my foot and lies, —Come to me, daughter!—thus I throw him back!" Have we misjudged here, over-armed our knight, Given gold and silk where plain hard steel serves best, Enfeebled whom we sought to fortify, Made an archbishop and undone a saint? Well, then, descend these heights, this pride of life, Sit in the ashes with a barefoot monk Who long ago stamped out the worldly sparks, By fasting, watching, stone cell and wire scourge, —No such indulgence as unknits the strength— These breed the tight nerve and tough cuticle, And the world's praise or blame runs rillet-wise Off the broad back and brawny breast, we know! He meets the first cold sprinkle of the world, And shudders to the marrow. "Save this child? Oh, my superiors, oh, the Archbishop's self! Who was it dared lay hand upon the ark His betters saw fall nor put finger forth? Great ones could help yet help not: why should small? I break my promise: let her break her heart!" These are the Christians not the worldlings, not The sceptics, who thus battle for the faith! If foolish virgins disobey and sleep, What wonder? But, this time, the wise that watch, Sell lamps and buy lutes, exchange oil for wine, The mystic Spouse betrays the Bridegroom here, To our last resource, then! Since all flesh is weak, Bind weaknesses together, we get strength: The individual weighed, found wanting, try Some institution, honest artifice Whereby the units grow compact and firm! Each props the other, and so stand is made By our embodied cowards that grow brave. The Monastery called of Convertites, Meant to help women because these helped Christ,— A thing existent only while it acts, Does as designed, else a nonentity,— For what is an idea unrealized?— Pompilia is consigned to these for help. They do help: they are prompt to testify To her pure life and saintly dying days. She dies, and lo, who seemed so poor, proves rich! What does the body that lives through helpfulness To women for Christ's sake? The kiss turns bite, The dove's note changes to the crow's cry: judge! "Seeing that this our Convent claims of right What goods belong to those we succor, be The same proved women of dishonest life,— And seeing that this Trial made appear Pompilia was in such predicament,— The Convent hereupon pretends to said Succession of Pompilia, issues writ, And takes possession by the Fisc's advice." Such is their attestation to the cause Of Christ, who had one saint at least, they hoped: But, is a title-deed to filch, a corpse To slander, and an infant-heir to cheat? Christ must give up his gains then! They unsay All the fine speeches,—who was saint is whore. Why, scripture yields no parallel for this! The soldiers only threw dice for Christ's coat; We want another legend of the Twelve Disputing if it was Christ's coat at all, Claiming as prize the woof of price—for why? The Master was a thief, purloined the same, Or paid for it out of the common bag! Can it be this is end and outcome, all I take with me to show as stewardship's fruit, The best yield of the latest time, this year The seventeen-hundredth since God died for man? Is such, effect proportionate to cause? And still the terror keeps on the increase When I perceive ... how can I blink the fact? That the fault, the obduracy to good, Lies not with the impracticable stuff Whence man is made, his very nature's fault, As if it were of ice the moon may gild Not melt, or stone 't was meant the sun should warm Not make bear flowers,—nor ice nor stone to blame: But it can melt, that ice, can bloom, that stone, Impassible to rule of day and night! This terrifies me, thus compelled perceive, Whatever love and faith we looked should spring At advent of the authoritative star, Which yet lie sluggish, curdled at the source,— These have leapt forth profusely in old time, These still respond with promptitude to-day, At challenge of—what unacknowledged powers O' the air, what uncommissioned meteors, warmth By law, and light by rule should supersede? For see this priest, this Caponsacchi, stung At the first summons,—"Help for honor's sake, Play the man, pity the oppressed!"—no pause, How does he lay about him in the midst, Strike any foe, right wrong at any risk, All blindness, bravery and obedience!—blind? Ay, as a man would be inside the sun, Delirious with the plenitude of light Should interfuse him to the finger-ends— Let him rush straight, and how shall he go wrong? Where are the Christians in their panoply? The loins we girt about with truth, the breasts Righteousness plated round, the shield of faith, The helmet of salvation, and that sword O' the Spirit, even the word of God,—where these? Slunk into corners! Oh, I hear at once Hubbub of protestation! "What, we monks, We friars, of such an order, such a rule, Have not we fought, bled, left our martyr-mark At every point along the boundary-line 'Twixt true and false, religion and the world, Where this or the other dogma of our Church Called for defence?" And I, despite myself, How can I but speak loud what truth speaks low, "Or better than the best, or nothing serves! What boots deed, I can cap and cover straight With such another doughtiness to match, Done at an instinct of the natural man?" Immolate body, sacrifice soul too,— Do not these publicans the same? Outstrip! Or else stop race you boast runs neck and neck, You with the wings, they with the feet,—for shame! Oh, I remark your diligence and zeal! Five years long, now, rounds faith into my ears, "Help thou, or Christendom is done to death!" Five years since, in the Province of To-kien, Which is in China as some people know, Maigrot, my Vicar Apostolic there, Having a great qualm, issues a decree. Alack, the converts use as God's name, not Tien-chu but plain Tien or else mere Shang-ti, As Jesuits please to fancy politic, While, say Dominicans, it calls down fire,— For Tien means heaven, and Shang-ti, supreme prince, While Tien-chu means the lord of heaven: all cry, "There is no business urgent for dispatch As that thou send a legate, specially Cardinal Tournon, straight to Pekin, there To settle and compose the difference!" So have I seen a potentate all fume For some infringement of his realm's just right. Some menace to a mud-built straw-thatched farm O' the frontier; while inside the mainland lie, Quite undisputed-for in solitude, Whole cities plague may waste or famine sap: What if the sun crumble, the sands encroach, While he looks on sublimely at his ease? How does their ruin touch the empire's bound? And is this little all that was to be? Where is the gloriously-decisive change, Metamorphosis the immeasurable Of human clay to divine gold, we looked Should, in some poor sort, justify its price? Had an adept of the mere Rosy Cross Spent his life to consummate the Great Work, Would not we start to see the stuff it touched Yield not a grain more than the vulgar got By the old smelting-process years ago? If this were sad to see in just the sage Who should profess so much, perform no more, What is it when suspected in that Power Who undertook to make and made the world, Devised and did effect man, body and soul, Ordained salvation for them both, and yet ... Well, is the thing we see, salvation? I Put no such dreadful question to myself, Within whose circle of experience burns The central truth, Power, Wisdom, Goodness,—God: I must outlive a thing ere know it dead: When I outlive the faith there is a sun, When I lie, ashes to the very soul,— Some one, not I, must wail above the heap, "He died in dark whence never morn arose." While I see day succeed the deepest night— How can I speak but as I know?—my speech Must be, throughout the darkness, "It will end: The light that did burn, will burn!" Clouds obscure— But for which obscuration all were bright? Too hastily concluded! Sun-suffused, A cloud may soothe the eye made blind by blaze,— Better the very clarity of heaven: The soft streaks are the beautiful and dear. What but the weakness in a faith supplies The incentive to humanity, no strength Absolute, irresistible, comports? How can man love but what he yearns to help? And that which men think weakness within strength, But angels know for strength and stronger yet— What were it else but the first things made new, But repetition of the miracle, The divine instance of self-sacrifice That never ends and aye begins for man? So, never I miss footing in the maze, No,—I have light nor fear the dark at all. But are mankind not real, who pace outside My petty circle, world that 's measured me? And when they stumble even as I stand, Have I a right to stop ear when they cry, As they were phantoms who took clouds for crags, Tripped and fell, where man's march might safely move? Beside, the cry is other than a ghost's, When out of the old time there pleads some bard, Philosopher, or both, and—whispers not. But words it boldly. "The inward work and worth Of any mind, what other mind may judge Save God who only knows the thing he made, The veritable service he exacts? It is the outward product men appraise. Behold, an engine hoists a tower aloft: 'I looked that it should move the mountain too!' Or else 'Had just a turret toppled down, Success enough!'—may say the Machinist Who knows what less or more result might be: But we, who see that done we cannot do, 'A feat beyond man's force,' we men must say. Regard me and that shake I gave the world! I was born, not so long before Christ's birth As Christ's birth haply did precede thy day,— But many a watch before the star of dawn: Therefore I lived,—it is thy creed affirms, Pope Innocent, who art to answer me!— Under conditions, nowise to escape, Whereby salvation was impossible. Each impulse to achieve the good and fair, Each aspiration to the pure and true, Being without a warrant or an aim, Was just as sterile a felicity As if the insect, born to spend his life Soaring his circles, stopped them to describe (Painfully motionless in the mid-air) Some word of weighty counsel for man's sake, Some 'Know thyself' or 'Take the golden mean!' —Forwent his happy dance and the glad ray, Died half an hour the sooner and was dust. I, born to perish like the brutes, or worse, Why not live brutishly, obey brutes' law? But I, of body as of soul complete, A gymnast at the games, philosopher I' the schools, who painted, and made music,—all Glories that met upon the tragic stage When the Third Poet's tread surprised the Two,— Whose lot fell in a land where life was great And sense went free and beauty lay profuse, I, untouched by one adverse circumstance, Adopted virtue as my rule of life, Waived all reward, loved but for loving's sake, And, what my heart taught me, I taught the world, And have been teaching now two thousand years. Witness my work,—plays that should please, forsooth! 'They might please, they may displease, they shall teach, For truth's sake,' so I said, and did, and do. Five hundred years ere Paul spoke, Felix heard,— How much of temperance and righteousness, Judgment to come, did I find reason for, Corroborate with my strong style that spared No sin, nor swerved the more from branding brow Because the sinner was called Zeus and God? How nearly did I guess at that Paul knew? How closely come, in what I represent As duty, to his doctrine yet a blank? And as that limner not untruly limns Who draws an object round or square, which square Or round seems to the unassisted eye, Though Galileo's tube display the same Oval or oblong,—so, who controverts I rendered rightly what proves wrongly wrought Beside Paul's picture? Mine was true for me. I saw that there are, first and above all, The hidden forces, blind necessities, Named Nature, but the thing's self unconceived: Then follow—how dependent upon these, We know not, how imposed above ourselves, We well know—what I name the gods, a power Various or one: for great and strong and good Is there, and little, weak and bad there too, Wisdom and folly: say, these make no God,— What is it else that rules outside man's self? A fact then,—always, to the naked eye,— And so, the one revealment possible Of what were unimagined else by man. Therefore, what gods do, man may criticise, Applaud, condemn,—how should he fear the truth?— But likewise have in awe because of power, Venerate for the main munificence, And give the doubtful deed its due excuse From the acknowledged creature of a day To the Eternal and Divine. Thus, bold Yet self-mistrusting, should man bear himself, Most assured on what now concerns him most— The law of his own life, the path he prints,— Which law is virtue and not vice, I say,— And least inquisitive where search least skills, I' the nature we best give the clouds to keep. What could I paint beyond a scheme like this Out of the fragmentary truths where light Lay fitful in a tenebrific time? You have the sunrise now, joins truth to truth, Shoots life and substance into death and void; Themselves compose the whole we made before: The forces and necessity grow God,— The beings so contrarious that seemed gods, Prove just his operation manifold And multiform, translated, as must be, Into intelligible shape so far As suits our sense and sets us free to feel. What if I let a child think, childhood-long, That lightning, I would have him spare his eye, Is a real arrow shot at naked orb? The man knows more, but shuts his lids the same: Lightning's cause comprehends nor man nor child. Why then, my scheme, your better knowledge broke, Presently readjusts itself, the small Proportioned largelier, parts and whole named new: So much, no more two thousand years have done! Pope, dost thou dare pretend to punish me, For not descrying sunshine at midnight, Me who crept all-fours, found my way so far— While thou rewardest teachers of the truth, Who miss the plain way in the blaze of noon,— Though just a word from that strong style of mine, Grasped honestly in hand as guiding-staff, Had pricked them a sure path across the bog, That mire of cowardice and slush of lies Wherein I find them wallow in wide day!" How should I answer this Euripides? Paul—'t is a legend—answered Seneca, But that was in the day-spring; noon is now, We have got too familiar with the light. Shall I wish back once more that thrill of dawn? When the whole truth-touched man burned up, one fire? —Assured the trial, fiery, fierce, but fleet, Would, from his little heap of ashes, lend Wings to that conflagration of the world Which Christ awaits ere he makes all things new: So should the frail become the perfect, rapt From glory of pain to glory of joy; and so, Even in the end,—the act renouncing earth, Lands, houses, husbands, wives and children here,— Begin that other act which finds all, lost, Regained, in this time even, a hundredfold, And, in the next time, feels the finite love Blent and embalmed with the eternal life. So does the sun ghastlily seem to sink In those north parts, lean all but out of life, Desist a dread mere breathing-stop, then slow Re-assert day, begin the endless rise. Was this too easy for our after-stage? Was such a lighting-up of faith, in life, Only allowed initiate, set man's step In the true way by help of the great glow? A way wherein it is ordained he walk, Bearing to see the light from heaven still more And more encroached on by the light of earth, Tentatives earth puts forth to rival heaven, Earthly incitements that mankind serve God For man's sole sake, not God's and therefore man's. Till at last, who distinguishes the sun From a mere Druid fire on a far mount? More praise to him who with his subtle prism Shall decompose both beams and name the true. In such sense, who is last proves first indeed; For how could saints and martyrs fail see truth Streak the night's blackness? Who is faithful now, Who untwists heaven's white from the yellow flare O' the world's gross torch, without night's foil that helped Produce the Christian act so possible When in the way stood Nero's cross and stake— So hard now when the world smiles "Right and wise! Faith points the politic, the thrifty way. Will make who plods it in the end returns Beyond mere fool's-sport and improvidence. We fools dance through the cornfield of this life, Pluck ears to left and right and swallow raw, —Nay, tread, at pleasure, a sheaf underfoot, To get the better at some poppy-flower,— Well aware we shall have so much less wheat In the eventual harvest: you meantime Waste not a spike,—the richlier will you reap! What then? There will be always garnered meal Sufficient for our comfortable loaf, While you enjoy the undiminished sack!" Is it not this ignoble confidence, Cowardly hardihood, that dulls and damps, Makes the old heroism impossible? Unless ... what whispers me of times to come? What if it be the mission of that age My death will usher into life, to shake This torpor of assurance from our creed, Reintroduce the doubt discarded, bring That formidable danger back, we drove Long ago to the distance and the dark? No wild beast now prowls round the infant camp: We have built wall and sleep in city safe: But if some earthquake try the towers that laugh, To think they once saw lions rule outside, And man stand out again, pale, resolute, Prepared to die,—which means, alive at last? As we broke up that old faith of the world, Have we, next age, to break up this the new— Faith, in the thing, grown faith in the report— Whence need to bravely disbelieve report Through increased faith i' the thing reports belie? Must we deny,—do they, these Molinists, At peril of their body and their soul,— Recognized truths, obedient to some truth Unrecognized yet, but perceptible?— Correct the portrait by the living face, Man's God, by God's God in the mind of man? Then, for the few that rise to the new height, The many that must sink to the old depth, The multitude found fall away! A few, E'en ere new law speak clear, may keep the old, Preserve the Christian level, call good good And evil evil, (even though razed and blank The old titles,) helped by custom, habitude, And all else they mistake for finer sense O' the fact that reason warrants,—as before. They hope perhaps, fear not impossibly, At least some one Pompilia left the world Will say "I know the right place by foot's feel, I took it and tread firm there; wherefore change?" But what a multitude will surely fall Quite through the crumbling truth, late subjacent, Sink to the next discoverable base, Rest upon human nature, settle there On what is firm, the lust and pride of life! A mass of men, whose very souls even now Seem to need re-creating,—so they slink Worm-like into the mud, light now lays bare,— Whose future we dispose of with shut eyes And whisper—"They are grafted, barren twigs, Into the living stock of Christ: may bear One day, till when they lie death-like, not dead,"— Those who with all the aid of Christ succumb, How, without Christ, shall they, unaided, sink? Whither but to this gulf before my eyes? Do not we end, the century and I? The impatient antimasque treads close on kibe O' the very masque's self it will mock,—on me, Last lingering personage, the impatient mime Pushes already,—will I block the way? Will my slow trail of garments ne'er leave space For pantaloon, sock, plume and castanet? Here comes the first experimentalist In the new order of things,—he plays a priest; Does he take inspiration from the Church, Directly make her rule his law of life? Not he: his own mere impulse guides the man— Happily sometimes, since ourselves allow He has danced, in gayety of heart, i' the main The right step through the maze we bade him foot. But if his heart had prompted him break loose And mar the measure? Why, we must submit, And thank the chance that brought him safe so far. Will he repeat the prodigy? Perhaps. Can he teach others how to quit themselves, Show why this step was right while that were wrong? How should he? "Ask your hearts as I asked mine, And get discreetly through the morrice too; If your hearts misdirect you,—quit the stage, And make amends,—be there amends to make!" Such is, for the Augustin that was once, This Canon Caponsacchi we see now. "But my heart answers to another tune," Puts in the Abate, second in the suite; "I have my taste too, and tread no such step! You choose the glorious life, and may, for me! I like the lowest of life's appetites,— So you judge,—but the very truth of joy To my own apprehension which decides. Call me knave and you get yourself called fool! I live for greed, ambition, lust, revenge; Attain these ends by force, guile: hypocrite, To-day perchance to-morrow recognized The rational man, the type of common sense." There 's Loyola adapted to our time! Under such guidance Guido plays his part, He also influencing in the due turn These last clods where I track intelligence By any glimmer, these four at his beck Ready to murder any, and, at their own, As ready to murder him;—such make the world! And, first effect of the new cause of things, There they lie also duly,—the old pair Of the weak head and not so wicked heart, With the one Christian mother, wife and girl, —Which three gifts seem to make an angel up,— The world's first foot o' the dance is on their heads! Still, I stand here, not off the stage though close On the exit: and my last act, as my first, I owe the scene, and Him who armed me thus With Paul's sword as with Peter's key. I smite With my whole strength once more, ere end my part, Ending, so far as man may, this offence. And when I raise my arm, who plucks my sleeve? Who stops me in the righteous function,—foe Or friend? Oh, still as ever, friends are they Who, in the interest of outraged truth Deprecate such rough handling of a lie! The facts being proved and incontestable, What is the last word I must listen to? Perchance—"Spare yet a term this barren stock, We pray thee dig about and dung and dress Till he repent and bring forth fruit even yet!" Perchance—"So poor and swift a punishment Shall throw him out of life with all that sin: Let mercy rather pile up pain on pain Till the flesh expiate what the soul pays else!" Nowise! Remonstrants on each side commence Instructing, there 's a new tribunal now Higher than God's—the educated man's! Nice sense of honor in the human breast Supersedes here the old coarse oracle— Confirming none the less a point or so Wherein blind predecessors worked aright By rule of thumb: as when Christ said,—when, where? Enough, I find it pleaded in a place,— "All other wrongs done, patiently I take: But touch my honor and the case is changed! I feel the due resentment,—nemini Honorem trado is my quick retort." Right of Him, just as if pronounced to-day! Still, should the old authority be mute Or doubtful, or in speaking clash with new, The younger takes permission to decide. At last we have the instinct of the world Ruling its household without tutelage: And while the two laws, human and divine, Have busied finger with this tangled case, In pushes the brisk junior, cuts the knot, Pronounces for acquittal. How it trips Silverly o'er the tongue! "Remit the death! Forgive, ... well, in the old way, if thou please, Decency and the relies of routine Respected,—let the Count go free as air! Since he may plead a priest's immunity,— The minor orders help enough for that, With Farinacci's license,—who decides That the mere implication of such man, So privileged, in any cause, before Whatever Court except the Spiritual, Straight quashes law-procedure,—quash it, then! Remains a pretty loophole of escape Moreover, that, beside the patent fact O' the law's allowance, there 's involved the weal O' the Popedom: a son's privilege at stake, Thou wilt pretend the Church's interest, Ignore all finer reasons to forgive! But herein lies the crowning cogency— (Let thy friends teach thee while thou tellest beads) That in this case the spirit of culture speaks, Civilization is imperative. To her shall we remand all delicate points Henceforth, nor take irregular advice O' the sly, as heretofore: she used to hint Remonstrances, when law was out of sorts Because a saucy tongue was put to rest, An eye that roved was cured of arrogance: But why be forced to mumble under breath What soon shall be acknowledged as plain fact, Outspoken, say, in thy successor's time? Methinks we see the golden age return! Civilization and the Emperor Succeed to Christianity and Pope. One Emperor then, as one Pope now: meanwhile, Anticipate a little! We tell thee 'Take Guido's life, sapped society shall crash, Whereof the main prop was, is, and shall be —Supremacy of husband over wife!' Does the man rule i' the house, and may his mate Because of any plea dispute the same? Oh, pleas of all sorts shall abound, be sure, One but allowed validity,—for, harsh And savage, for, inept and silly-sooth, For, this and that, will the ingenious sex Demonstrate the best master e'er graced slave: And there 's but one short way to end the coil,— Acknowledge right and reason steadily I' the man and master: then the wife submits To plain truth broadly stated. Does the time Advise we shift—a pillar? nay, a stake Out of its place i' the social tenement? One touch may send a shudder through the heap And bring it toppling on our children's heads! Moreover, if ours breed a qualm in thee, Give thine own better feeling play for once! Thou, whose own life winks o'er the socket-edge, Wouldst thou it went out in such ugly snuff As dooming sons dead, e'en though justice prompt? Why, on a certain feast, Barabbas' self Was set free, not to cloud the general cheer: Neither shalt thou pollute thy Sabbath close! Mercy is safe and graceful. How one hears The howl begin, scarce the three little taps O' the silver mallet silent on thy brow,— 'His last act was to sacrifice a Count And thereby screen a scandal of the Church! Guido condemned, the Canon justified Of course,—delinquents of his cloth go free!' And so the Luthers chuckle, Calvins scowl, So thy hand helps Molinos to the chair Whence he may hold forth till doom's day on just These petit-maître priestlings,—in the choir, Sanctus et Benedictus, with a brush Of soft guitar-strings that obey the thumb, Touched by the bedside, for accompaniment! Does this give umbrage to a husband? Death To the fool, and to the priest impunity! But no impunity to any friend So simply over-loyal as these four Who made religion of their patron's cause, Believed in him and did his bidding straight, Asked not one question but laid down the lives This Pope took,—all four lives together make Just his own length of days,—so, dead they lie, As these were times when loyalty 's a drug, And zeal in a subordinate too cheap And common to be saved when we spend life! Come, 't is too much good breath we waste in words: The pardon, Holy Father! Spare grimace, Shrugs and reluctance! Are not we the world, Art not thou Priam? let soft culture plead Hecuba-like, 'non tali' (Virgil serves) 'Auxilio,' and the rest! Enough, it works! The Pope relaxes, and the Prince is loth, The father's bowels yearn, the man's will bends, Reply is apt. Our tears on tremble, hearts Big with a benediction, wait the word Shall circulate through the city in a trice, Set every window flaring, give each man O' the mob his torch to wave for gratitude. Pronounce then, for our breath and patience fail!" I will, Sirs: but a voice other than yours Quickens my spirit. "Quis pro Domino? Who is upon the Lord's side?" asked the Count. I, who write— "On receipt of this command, Acquaint Count Guido and his fellows four They die to-morrow: could it be to-night, The better, but the work to do, takes time. Set with all diligence a scaffold up, Not in the customary place, by Bridge Saint Angelo, where die the common sort; But since the man is noble, and his peers By predilection haunt the People's Square, There let him be beheaded in the midst, And his companions hanged on either side: So shall the quality see, fear, and learn. All which work takes time: till to-morrow, then, Let there be prayer incessant for the five!" For the main criminal I have no hope Except in such a suddenness of fate. I stood at Naples once, a night so dark I could have scarce conjectured there was earth Anywhere, sky or sea or world at all: But the night's black was burst through by a blaze— Thunder struck blow on blow, earth groaned and bore, Through her whole length of mountain visible: There lay the city thick and plain with spires, And, like a ghost disshrouded, white the sea. So may the truth be flashed out by one blow, And Guido see, one instant, and be saved. Else I avert my face, nor follow him Into that sad obscure sequestered state Where God unmakes but to remake the soul He else made first in vain; which must not be. Enough, for I may die this very night: And how should I dare die, this man let live? Carry this forthwith to the Governor!