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diff --git a/17393-h/17393-h.htm b/17393-h/17393-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..641ee0d --- /dev/null +++ b/17393-h/17393-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5272 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <title> + Men and Women, by Robert Browning + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 20%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Men and Women, by Robert Browning + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +Title: Men and Women + +Author: Robert Browning + +Release Date: December 26, 2005 [eBook #17393] +Last Updated: February 15, 2019 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN AND WOMEN*** + + +Etext produced by Dick Adicks + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Introduction and Notes: Charlotte Porter and Helen A. Clarke, from the +edition of Browning's poems published by Thomas Y. Crowell and +Company, New York, in 1898. + + +Editing conventions: The digraphs have been silently rendered as +"ae" or "oe." + +[u`] indicates u-grave, [a`] a-grave, [e`] e-grave, and [a^] +a-circumflex. Similarly, u-umlaut is rendered as "ue." + +Stanza and section numbers have been moved to the left margin, and +periods that follow them have been removed. + +Periods have been omitted after Roman numerals in the titles of +popes and nobles. + +In keeping with contemporary practice, commas have been deleted when +they precede dashes and spaces deleted in such contractions as +"there's" where the printed text has "there 's." + +In references to Bible verses, Roman numerals have been changed to +Arabic numerals (e. g., "John iii.16" is changed to "John 3:16"). + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + MEN AND WOMEN + </h1> + <h2> + By Robert Browning + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> "TRANSCENDENTALISM: A POEM IN TWELVE BOOKS" </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ARTEMIS PROLOGIZES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> AN EPISTLE CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL + EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> JOHANNES AGRICOLA IN MEDITATION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> PICTOR IGNOTUS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> FRA LIPPO LIPPI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> ANDREA DEL SARTO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S + CHURCH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> CLEON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> ONE WORD MORE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + Thirteen years after the publication, in 1855, of the Poems, in two + volumes, entitled "Men and Women," Browning reviewed his work and made an + interesting reclassification of it. He separated the simpler pieces of a + lyric or epic cast—such rhymed presentations of an emotional moment, + for example, as "Mesmerism" and "A Woman's Last Word," or the picturesque + rhymed verse telling a story of an experience, such as "Childe Roland" and + "The Statue and the Bust"—from their more complex companions, which + were almost altogether in blank verse, and, in general, markedly + personified a typical man in his environment, a Cleon or Fra Lippo, a + Rudel or a Blougram. These boldly sculptured figures he set apart from the + others as the fit components of the more closely related group which ever + since has constituted the division now known as "Men and Women." + </p> + <p> + Possibly the poet took some pleasure in thus bringing to confusion those + critics who, beginning first to take any notice of his work after the + issue of these volumes of 1855, discovered therein poems they praised + chiefly by means of contrasting them with foregoing work they found + unnoticeable and later work they declared inscrutable. Their bland + discrimination, at any rate, in favor of "Men and Women" became henceforth + inapplicable, since the poet not only cast out from the division they + elected to honor the little lyrical pieces that caught their eye, but also + brought to the front, from his earlier neglected work of the same kind as + the monologues retained, his Johannes Agricola of 1836, Pictor Ignotus of + 1845, and Rudel of 1842. Later criticism, moreover, that even yet assumes + to ring the old changes of discrimination against everything but "Men and + Women," is made not merely inapplicable by this re-arrangement, but + uninformed, a meaningless echo of a borrowed opinion which has had the + very ground from under it shifted. + </p> + <p> + The self-criticism of which this re-arrangement gives a hint is more + valuable. + </p> + <p> + All the shorter poems accumulated up to this period, various as they are + in theme and metrical form, are uniform in the fashioning of their contour + and color. As soon as this underlying uniformity of make is recognized it + may be seen to be the coloring and relief belonging to any sort of poetic + material, whether ordinarily accounted dramatic material or not, which is + imaginatively externalized and made concrete. This peculiarity of make + Browning early acknowledged in his estimate of his shorter poems as + characteristic of his touch, when he called his lyrics and romances + dramatic. He became consciously sensitive later to slight variations + effected by his manipulation in shape and shade which it yet takes a + little thought to discern, even after his own redivision of his work has + given the clew to his self-judgments. + </p> + <p> + Not only events, deeds, and characters—the usual subject-matter + moulded and irradiated by dramatic power—but thoughts, impressions, + experiences, impulses, no matter how spiritualized or complex or mobile, + are transfused with the enlivening light of his creative energy in his + shorter poems. Perhaps the very path struck out through them by the poet + in his re-division may be traced between the leaves silently closing + together again behind him if it be noticed that among these poems there + are some with footholds firmly rooted in the earth and others whose proper + realm is air. These have wings for alighting, for flitting thither and + hither, or for pursuing some sudden rapt whirl of flight in Heaven's face + at fancy's bidding. They are certainly not less original than those other + solider, earth-fast poems, but they are less unique. Being motived in + transient fancy, they are more akin to poems by other hands, and could be + classed more readily with them by any observer, despite all differences, + as little poetic romances or as a species of lyric. + </p> + <p> + They were probably first found praiseworthy, not only because they were + simpler, but because, being more like work already understood and + approved, adventurous criticism was needed to taste their quality. The + other longer poems in blank verse, graver and more dignified, yet even + more vivid, and far more life-encompassing, which bore the rounded impress + of the living human being, instead of the shadowy motion of the lively + human fancy—these are the birth of a process of imaginative brooding + upon the development of man by means of individuality throughout the slow, + unceasing flow of human history. Browning evidently grew aware that + whatever these poems of personality might prove to be worth to the world, + these were the ones deserving of a place apart, under the early title of + "Men and Women," which he thought especially suited to the more roundly + modelled and distinctively colored exemplars of his peculiar faculty. + </p> + <p> + In his next following collection, under the similar descriptive title of + "Dramatis Personae," he added to this class of work, shaping in the mould + of blank verse mainly used for "Men and Women" his personifications of the + Medium Mr. Sludge, the embryo theologian Caliban, the ripened mystical + saint of "A Death in the Desert"; while Abt Vogler, the creative musician, + Rabbi ben Ezra, the intuitional philosopher, and the chastened adept in + loving, James Lee's wife, although held within the embrace of their + maker's dramatic conception of them, as persons of his stage, were made to + pour out their speech in rhyme as Johannes Agricola in the earlier volume + uttered his creed and Rudel his love-message, as if the heat of their + emotion-moved personality required such an outlet. Some such general + notion as this of the scope of this volume, and of the design of the poet + in the construction, classification, and orderly arrangement of so much of + his briefer work as is here contained seems to be borne out upon a closer + examination. On the threshold of this new poetic world of personality + stands the Poet of the poem significantly called "Transcendentalism," who + is speaking to another poet about the too easily obvious, metaphor-bare + philosophy of his opus in twelve books. That the admonishing poet is + stationed there at the very door-sill of the Gallery of Men and Women is + surely not accidental, even if Browning's habit of plotting his groups of + poems symmetrically by opening with a prologue-poem sounding the right + key, and rounding the theme with an epilogue, did not tend to prove it + intentional. It is an open secret that the last poem in "Men and Women," + for instance, is an epilogue of autobiographical interest, gathering up + the foregoing strains of his lyre, for a few last chords, in so intimate a + way that the actual fall of the fingers may be felt, the pausing smile + seen, as the performer turns towards the one who inspired "One Word More." + The appropriateness of "Transcendentalism" as a prologue need be no more + of a secret than that of "One Word More" as an epilogue, although it is + left to betray itself. Other poets writing on the poet, Emerson for + example, and Tennyson, place the outright plain name of their thought at + the head of their verses, without any attempt to make their titles dress + their parts and keep as thoroughly true to their roles as the poems + themselves. But a complete impersonation of his thought in name and style + as well as matter is characteristic of Browning, and his personified poets + playing their parts together in "Transcendentalism" combine to exhibit a + little masque exemplifying their writer's view of the Poet as veritably as + if he had named it specifically "The Poet." One poet shows the other, and + brings him visibly forward; but even in such a morsel of dramatic + workmanship as this, fifty-one lines all told, there is the complexity and + involution of life itself, and, as ever in Browning's monologues, over the + shoulder of the poet more obviously portrayed peers as livingly the face + of the poet portraying him. And this one—the admonishing poet—is + set there with his "sudden rose," as if to indicate with that symbol of + poetic magic what kind of spell was sought to be exercised by their maker + to conjure up in his house of song the figures that people its niches. + Could a poem be imagined more cunningly devised to reveal a typical poetic + personality, and a typical theory of poetic method, through its way of + revealing another? What poet could have composed it but one who himself + employed the dramatic method of causing the abstract to be realizable + through the concrete image of it, instead of the contrary mode of seeking + to divest the objective of its concrete form in order to lay bare its + abstract essence? This opposite theory of the poetic function is precisely + the Boehme mode, against which the veiled dramatic poet, who is speaking + in favor of the Halberstadtian magic, admonishes his brother, while he + himself in practical substantiation of his theory of poetics brings bodily + in sight the boy-face above the winged harp, vivified and beautiful + himself, although his poem is but a shapeless mist. + </p> + <p> + Not directly, then, but indirectly, as the dramatic poet ever reveals + himself, does the sophisticated face of the subtle poet of "Men and Women" + appear as the source of power behind both of the poets of this poem, + prepossessing the reader of the verity and beauty of the theory of poetic + art therein exemplified. Such an interpretation of "Transcendentalism," + and such a conception of it as a key to the art of the volume it opens, + chimes in harmoniously with the note sounded in the next following poem, + "How it Strikes a Contemporary." Here again a typical poet is personified, + not, however, by means of his own poetic way of seeing, but of the prosaic + way in which he is seen by a contemporary, the whole, of course, being + poetically seen and presented by the over-poet. Browning himself, and in + such a manifold way that the reader is enabled to conceive as vividly of + the talker and his mental atmosphere and social background—the + people and habitudes of the good old town of Valladolid—as of the + betalked-of Corregidor himself; while by the totality of these concrete + images an impression is conveyed of the dramatic mode of poetic expression + which is far more convincing than any explicit theoretic statement of it + could be, because so humanly animated. + </p> + <p> + "Artemis Prologizes" seems to have been selected to close this little + opening sequence of poems on the poet, because that fragment of a larger + projected work could find place here almost as if it were a poet's + exercise in blank verse. Its smooth and spacious rhythm, flawless and + serene as the distant Greek myth of the hero and the goddess it + celebrates, is in striking contrast with the rougher, but brighter and + more humanly colloquial blank verse of "Bishop Blougram's Apology," for + example, or the stiff carefulness of the "Epistle" of Karshish. It might + alone suffice, by comparison with the metrical craftsmanship of the other + poems of "Men and Women," to assure the observant reader that never was a + good workman more baselessly accused of metrical carelessness than the + poet who designedly varies his complicated verse-effects to suit every + inner impulse belonging to his dramatic subject. A golden finish being in + place in this statuesque, "Hyperion"-like monologue of Artemis, behold + here it is, and none the less perfect because not merely the outcome of + the desire to produce a polished piece of poetic mechanism. + </p> + <p> + Browning, perhaps, linked his next poem, "The Strange Medical Experience + of Karshish, the Arab Physician," with the calm prologizing of the + Hellenic goddess, by association of the "wise pharmacies" of AEsculapius, + with the inquisitive sagacity of Karshish, "the not-incurious in God's + handiwork." By this ordering of the poems, the reader may now enjoy, at + any rate, the contrasts between three historic phases of wisdom in bodily + ills: the phase presented in the dependence of the old Greek healer upon + simple physical effects, soothing "with lavers the torn brow," and laying + "the stripes and jagged ends of flesh even once more"; and the phases + typified, on the one side, by the ingenious Arab, sire of the modern + scientist, whose patient correlation of facts and studious, sceptical + scrutiny of cause and effect are caught in the bud in the diagnosis + transmitted by Karshish to Abib, and, on the other side, by the Nazarene + physician, whose inspired secret of summoning out of the believing soul of + man the power to control his body—so baffled and fascinated + Karshish, drawing his attention in Lazarus to just that connection of the + known physical with the unknown psychical nature which is still mystically + alluring the curiosity of investigators. + </p> + <p> + From the childlike, over-idealizing mood of Lazarus toward the God who had + succored him, inducing in him so fatalistic an indifference to human + concerns, there is but a step to the rapture of absolute theology + expressed in the person of Johannes Agricola. Such poems as these put + before the cool gaze of the present century the very men of the elder day + of religion. Their robes shine with an unearthly light, and their + abstracted eyes are hypnotized by the effulgence of their own haloes. Yet + the poet never fails to insinuate some naive foible in their + personification, a numbness of the heart or an archaism of soul, which + reveals the possessed one as but a human brother, after all, shaped by his + environment, and embodying the spirit of an historic epoch out of which + the current of modern life is still streaming. + </p> + <p> + The group of art poems which follows similarly presents a dramatic + synthesis of the art of the Renaissance as represented by three types of + painters. The religious devotion of the monastic painter, whose ecstatic + spirit breathes in "Pictor Ignotus," probably gives this poem its place + adjoining Agricola and Lazarus. His artist's hankering to create that + beauty to bless the world with which his soul refrains from grossly + satisfying, unites the poem with the two following ones. In the first of + these the realistic artist, Fra Lippo, is graphically pictured personally + ushering in the high noon of the Italian efflorescence. In the second, the + gray of that day of art is silvering the self-painted portrait of the + prematurely frigid and facile formalist, Andrea del Sarto. In "Pictor + Ignotus" not only the personality of the often unknown and unnamed + painting-brother of the monasteries is made clear, but also the nature of + his beautiful cold art and the enslavement of both art and personality to + ecclesiastical beliefs and ideals. In "Fra Lippo Lippi" not alone the + figure of the frolicsome monk appears caught in his pleasure-loving + escapade, amid that picturesque knot of alert-witted Florentine guards, + ready to appreciate all the good points in his story of his life and the + protection the arms of the Church and the favor of the Medici have + afforded his genius, but, furthermore, is illustrated the irresistible + tendency of the art-impulse to expand beyond the bounds set for it either + by laws of Church or art itself, and to find beauty wheresoever in life it + chooses to turn the light of its gaze. So, also, in "Andrea del Sarto," + the easy cleverness of the unaspiring craftsman is not embodied apart from + the abject relationship which made his very soul a bond-slave to the gross + mandates of "the Cousin's whistle." Yet in all three poems the biographic + and historic conditions contributing toward the individualizing of each + artist are so unobtrusively epitomized and vitally blended, that, while + scarcely any item of specific study of the art and artists of the + Renaissance would be out of place in illustrating the essential truth of + the portraiture and assisting in the better appreciation of the poem, + there is no detail of the workmanship which does not fall into the + background as a mere accessory to the dominant figure through whose + relationship to his art his station in the past is made clear. + </p> + <p> + This sort of dramatic synthesis of a salient, historical epoch is again + strikingly disclosed in the following poem of the Renaissance period, "The + Bishop Orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church." In this, again, the + art-connoisseurship of the prelacy, so important an element in the Italian + movement towards art-expression, is revealed to the life in the + beauty-loving personality of the dying bishop. And by means, also, of his + social ties with his nephews, called closer than they wish about him now; + with her whom "men would have to be their mother once"; with old Gandolf, + whom he fancies leering at him from his onion-stone tomb; and with all + those strong desires of the time for the delight of being envied, for + marble baths and horses and brown Greek manuscripts and mistresses, the + seeds of human decay planted in the plot of Time, known as the Central + Renaissance, by the same lingering fleshliness and self-destroying + self-indulgence as was at home in pagan days, are livingly exposed to the + historic sense. + </p> + <p> + Is the modern prelate portrayed in "Bishop Blougram's Apology," with all + his bland subtlety, complex culture, and ripened perceptions, distant as + the nineteenth century from the sixteenth, very different at bottom from + his Renaissance brother, in respect to his native hankering for the + pleasure of estimation above his fellows? Gigadibs is his Gandolf, whom he + would craftily overtop. He is the one raised for the time above the + commonalty by his criticism of the bishop, to whom the prelate would fain + show how little he was to be despised, how far more honored and powerful + he was among men. As for Gigadibs, it is to be noticed that Browning + quietly makes him do more than leer enviously at his complacent competitor + from a tomb-top. The "sudden healthy vehemence" that struck him and made + him start to test his first plough in a new world, and read his last + chapter of St. John to better purpose than towards self-glorification + beyond his fellows, is a parable of the more profitable life to be found + in following the famous injunction of that chapter in John's Gospel, "Feed + my sheep!" than in causing those sheep to motion one, as the bishop would + have his obsequious wethers of the flock motion him, to the choice places + of the sward. + </p> + <p> + So, as vivid a picture of the materialism and monopolizing of the present + century sowing seeds of decay and self-destruction in the movement of this + age toward love of the truth, of the beauty of genuineness in character + and earnestness in aim, is portrayed through the realistic personality of + the great modern bishop, in his easy-smiling after-dinner talk with + Gigadibs, the literary man, as is presented of the Central Renaissance + period in the companion picture of the Bishop of Saint Praxed's. + </p> + <p> + In Cleon, the man of composite art and culture, the last ripe fruitage of + Greek development, is personified and brought into contact, at the moment + of the dawn of Christianity in Europe, with the ardent impulse the + Christian ideal of spiritual life supplied to human civilization. How + close the wise and broad Greek culture came to being all-sufficing, + capable of effecting almost enough of impetus for the aspiring progress of + the world, and yet how much it lacked a warmer element essential to be + engrafted upon its lofty beauty, the reader, upon whose imaginative vision + the personality of Cleon rises, can scarcely help but feel. + </p> + <p> + The aesthetic and religious or philosophical interests vitally conceived + and blended, which link together so many of the main poems of "Men and + Women," close with "Cleon." Rudel, the troubadour, presenting, in the + self-abandonment of his offering of love to the Lady of Tripoli, an + impersonation of the chivalric love characteristic of the Provencal life + of the twelfth century, intervenes, appropriately, last of all, between + the preceding poems and the epilogue, which devotes heart and brain of the + poet himself, with the creatures of his hand, to his "Moon of Poets." + </p> + <p> + As these poetic creations now stand, they all seem, upon examination, to + incarnate the full-bodied life of distinctive types of men, centred amid + their relations with other men within a specific social environment, and + fulfilling the possibilities for such unique, dramatic syntheses as were + revealed but partially or in embryo here and there among the other shorter + poems of this period of the poet's growth. + </p> + <p> + In one important particular the re-arrangement of the "Men and Women" + group of poems made its title inappropriate. The graceful presence and + love-lit eyes of the many women of the shorter love-poems were withdrawn, + and Artemis, Andrea del Sarto's wife, the Prior's niece—"Saint Lucy, + I would say," as Fra Lippo explains—and, perhaps, the inspirer of + Rudel's chivalry, too, the shadowy yet learned and queenly Lady of + Tripoli, alone were left to represent the "women" of the title. As for + minor inexactitudes, what does it matter that the advantage gained by + nicely selecting the poems properly belonging together, both in conception + and artistic modelling, was won at the cost of making the reference + inaccurate, in the opening lines of "One Word More," to "my fifty men and + women, naming me the fifty poems finished"?—Or that the mention of + Roland in line 138 is no longer in place with Karshish, Cleon, Lippo, and + Andrea, now that the fantastic story of Childe Roland's desperate loyalty + is given closer companionship among the varied experiences narrated in the + "Dramatic Romances"? While as for the mention of the Norbert of "In a + Balcony"—which was originally included as but one item along with + the other contents of "Men and Women"—that miniature drama, although + it stands by itself now, is still near enough at hand in the revised order + to account for the allusion. These are all trifles—mere sins against + literal accuracy. But the discrepancy in the title occasioned by the + absence of women is of more importance. It is of especial interest, in + calling attention to the fact that the creator of Pompilia, Balaustion, + and the heroine of the "Inn Album"—all central figures, whence + radiate the life and spiritual energy of the work they ennoble—had, + at this period, created no typical figures of women in any degree + corresponding to those of his men. + </p> + <p> + CHARLOTTE PORTER <br /> HELEN A. CLARKE + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + "TRANSCENDENTALISM: A POEM IN TWELVE BOOKS" + </h2> + <h3> + 1855 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Stop playing, poet! May a brother speak? + 'Tis you speak, that's your error. Song's our art: + Whereas you please to speak these naked thoughts + Instead of draping them in sights and sounds. + —True thoughts, good thoughts, thoughts fit to treasure up! + But why such long prolusion and display, + Such turning and adjustment of the harp, + And taking it upon your breast, at length, + Only to speak dry words across its strings? + Stark-naked thought is in request enough: 10 + Speak prose and hollo it till Europe hears! + The six-foot Swiss tube, braced about with bark, + Which helps the hunter's voice from Alp to Alp— + Exchange our harp for that—who hinders you? + + But here's your fault; grown men want thought, you think; + Thought's what they mean by verse, and seek in verse. + Boys seek for images and melody, + Men must have reason—so, you aim at men. + + Quite otherwise! Objects throng our youth,'tis true; + We see and hear and do not wonder much: 20 + If you could tell us what they mean, indeed! + As German Boehme never cared for plants + Until it happed, a-walking in the fields, + He noticed all at once that plants could speak, + Nay, turned with loosened tongue to talk with him. + That day the daisy had an eye indeed— + Colloquized with the cowslip on such themes! + We find them extant yet in Jacob's prose. + But by the time youth slips a stage or two + While reading prose in that tough book he wrote 30 + (Collating and emendating the same + And settling on the sense most to our mind) + We shut the clasps and find life's summer past. + Then, who helps more, pray, to repair our loss— + Another Boehme with a tougher book + And subtler meanings of what roses say— + Or some stout Mage like him of Halberstadt, + John, who made things Boehme wrote thoughts about? + He with a "look you!" vents a brace of rhymes, + And in there breaks the sudden rose herself, 40 + Over us, under, round us every side, + Nay, in and out the tables and the chairs + And musty volumes, Boehme's book and all— + Buries us with a glory, young once more, + Pouring heaven into this shut house of life. + + So come, the harp back to your heart again! + You are a poem, though your poem's naught. + The best of all you showed before, believe, + Was your own boy-face o'er the finer chords + Bent, following the cherub at the top 50 + That points to God with his paired half-moon wings. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NOTES + + "Transcendentalism" is a criticism, placed in the mouth of a poet, + of another poet, whose manner of singing is prosaic, because it + seeks to transcend (or penetrate beyond) phenomena, by divesting + poetic expression of those concrete embodiments which enable it to + appeal to the senses and imagination. Instead of bare abstractions + being suited to the developed mind, it is the primitive mind, which, + like Boehme's, has the merely metaphysical turn, and expects to + discover the unincarnate absolute essence of things. The maturer + mind craves the vitalizing method of the artist who, like the + magician of Halberstadt, recreates things bodily in all their + beautiful vivid wholeness. Yet the poet who sincerely holds so + fragmentary a conception of art is himself a poem to the poet who + holds the larger view. His boy-face singing to God above his + ineffective harp-strings is a concrete image of this sort of poetic + transcendentalism. + + [It is obvious that Browning uses the Halberstadt and not the Boehme + method in presenting this embodiment of his subject. The + supposition of certain commentators that Browning is here picturing + his own artistic method as transcendental is a misconception of his + characteristic theory of poetic art, as shown here and elsewhere.] + + 22. Boehme: Jacob, an "inspired" German shoemaker (1575-1624), who + wrote "Aurora," "The Three Principles," etc., mystical commentaries + on Biblical events. When twenty-five years old, says Hotham in + "Mysterium Magnum," 1653, "he was surrounded by a divine Light and + replenished with heavenly Knowledge . . . going abroad into the + Fieldes to a Greene before Neys-Gate at Gorlitz and viewing the + Herbes and Grass of the Fielde, in his inward light he saw into + their Essences . . . and from that Fountain of Revelation wrote [De + Signatura Rerum]," on the signatures of things, the "tough book" to + which Browning refers. + + 37. Halberstadt: Johann Semeca, called Teutonicus, a canon of + Halberstadt in Germany, who was interested in the unchurchly study + of mediaeval science and reputed to be a magician, possessing the + vegetable stone supposed to make plants grow at will, having the + same power over organic life that the philosopher's stone of the + alchemists had over minerals, so that, like Albertus Magnus, another + such mage of the Middle Ages, he could cause flowers to spring up in + the midst of winter. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1855 + + I only knew one poet in my life: + And this, or something like it, was his way. + + You saw go up and down Valladolid, + A man of mark, to know next time you saw. + His very serviceable suit of black + Was courtly once and conscientious still, + And many might have worn it, though none did: + The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads, + Had purpose, and the ruff, significance. + He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane, 10 + Scenting the + world, looking it full in face, + An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels. + They turned up, now, the alley by the church, + That leads nowhither; now, they breathed themselves + On the main promenade just at the wrong time: + You'd come upon his scrutinizing hat + Making a peaked shade blacker than itself + Against the single window spared some house + Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work— + Or else surprise the ferret of his stick 20 + Trying the + mortar's temper 'tween the chinks + Of some new shop a-building, French and fine. + He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade, + The man who slices lemons into drink, + The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys + That volunteer to help him turn its winch. + He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye, + And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string, + And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall. + He took such cognizance of men and things, 30 + If any beat a horse, you felt he saw; + If any cursed a woman, he took note; + Yet stared at nobody—you stared at him, + And found, less to your pleasure than surprise, + He seemed to know you and expect as much. + So, next time that a neighbor's tongue was loosed, + It marked the shameful and notorious fact, + We had among us, not so much a spy, + As a recording chief-inquisitor, + The town's true master if the town but knew 40 + We merely kept a governor for form, + While this man walked about and took account + Of all thought, said and acted, then went home, + And wrote it fully to our Lord the King + Who has an itch to know things, he knows why, + And reads them in his bedroom of a night. + Oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch, + A tang of . . . well, it was not wholly ease + As back into your mind the man's look came. + Stricken in years a little—such a brow 50 + His eyes had to live under!—clear as flint + On either side the formidable nose + Curved, cut and colored like an eagle's claw, + Had he to do with A.'s surprising fate? + When altogether old B. disappeared + And young C. got his mistress, was't our friend, + His letter to the King, that did it all? + What paid the Woodless man for so much pains? + Our Lord the King has favorites manifold, + And shifts his ministry some once a month; 60 + Our city gets new governors at whiles— + But never word or sign, that I could hear, + Notified to this man about the streets + The King's approval of those letters conned + The last thing duly at the dead of night. + Did the man love his office? Frowned our Lord, + Exhorting when none heard—"Beseech me not! + Too far above my people—beneath me! + I set the watch—how should the people know? + Forget them, keep me all the more in mind!" 70 + Was some such understanding 'twixt the two? + + I found no truth in one report at least— + That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes + Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace, + You found he ate his supper in a room + Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall, + And twenty naked girls to change his plate! + Poor man, he lived another kind of life + In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge, + Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise! 80 + The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat, + Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back, + Playing a decent cribbage with his maid + (Jacynth, you're sure her name was) o'er the cheese + And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears, + Or treat of radishes in April. Nine, + Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he. + + My father, like the man of sense he was, + Would point him out to me a dozen times; + "'St—'St," he'd whisper, "the Corregidor!" 90 + I had been used to think that personage + Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt, + And feathers like a forest in his hat, + Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news, + Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn, + And memorized the miracle in vogue! + He had a great observance from us boys; + We were in error; that was not the man. + + I'd like now, yet had happy been afraid, + To have just looked, when this man came to die, 100 + And seen who lined the clean gay garret-sides + And stood about the neat low truckle-bed, + With the heavenly manner of relieving guard. + Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, + Thro' a whole campaign of the world's life and death, + Doing the King's work all the dim day long, + In his old coat and up to knees in mud, + Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust, + And, now the day was won, relieved at once! + No further show or need for that old coat, 110 + You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while + How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I! + A second, and the angels alter that. + Well, I could never write a verse—could you? + Let's to the Prado and make the most of time. + + NOTES + + "How it Strikes a Contemporary" is a portrait of the Poet as the + unpoetic gossiping public of his day sees him. It is humorously + colored by the alien point of view of the speaker, who suspects + without understanding either the greatness of the poet's spiritual + personality and mission, or the nature of his life, which is + withdrawn from that of the commonalty, yet spent in clear-sighted + universal sympathies and kindly mediation between Humanity and its + God. + + 3. Valladolid: the royal city of the kings of Castile, before Philip + II moved the Court to Madrid, where Cervantes, Calderon, and Las + Casas lived and Columbus died. + + 76. Titian: pictures by the Venetian, Tiziano Vecellio (1477-1576), + glowing in color, presumably of large golden-haired women like his + famous Venus. + + 90. Corregidor: the Spanish title for a magistrate, literally, a + corrector, from corregir, to correct. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ARTEMIS PROLOGIZES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1842 + + I am a goddess of the ambrosia courts, + And save by Here, Queen of Pride, surpassed + By none whose temples whiten this the world. + Through heaven I roll my lucid moon along; + I shed in hell o'er my pale people peace; + On earth I, caring for the creatures, guard + Each pregnant yellow wolf and fox-bitch sleek, + And every feathered mother's callow brood, + And all that love green haunts and loneliness. + Of men, the chaste adore me, hanging crowns 10 + Of poppies red to blackness, bell and stem, + Upon my image at Athenai here; + And this dead Youth, Asclepios bends above, + Was dearest to me. He, my buskined step + To follow through the wild-wood leafy ways, + And chase the panting stag, or swift with darts + Stop the swift ounce, or lay the leopard low, + Neglected homage to another god: + Whence Aphrodite, by no midnight smoke + Of tapers lulled, in jealousy despatched 20 + A noisome lust that, as the gad bee stings, + Possessed his stepdame Phaidra for himself + The son of Theseus her great absent spouse. + Hippolutos exclaiming in his rage + Against the fury of the Queen, she judged + Life insupportable; and, pricked at heart + An Amazonian stranger's race should dare + To scorn her, perished by the murderous cord: + Yet, ere she perished, blasted in a scroll + The fame of him her swerving made not swerve. 30 + And Theseus, read, returning, and believed, + And exiled, in the blindness of his wrath, + The man without a crime who, last as first, + Loyal, divulged not to his sire the truth, + Now Theseus from Poseidon had obtained + That of his wishes should be granted three, + And one he imprecated straight—"Alive + May ne'er Hippolutos reach other lands!" + Poseidon heard, ai ai! And scarce the prince + Had stepped into the fixed boots of the car 40 + That give the feet a stay against the strength + Of the Henetian horses, and around + His body flung the rein, and urged their speed + Along the rocks and shingles at the shore, + When from the gaping wave a monster flung + His obscene body in the coursers' path. + These, mad with terror, as the sea-bull sprawled + Wallowing about their feet, lost care of him + That reared them; and the master-chariot-pole + Snapping beneath their plunges like a reed, 50 + Hippolutos, whose feet were trammelled fast, + Was yet dragged forward by the circling rein + Which either hand directed; nor they quenched + The frenzy of their flight before each trace, + Wheel-spoke and splinter of the woful car, + Each boulder-stone, sharp stub and spiny shell, + Huge fish-bone wrecked and wreathed amid the sands + On that detested beach, was bright with blood + And morsels of his flesh; then fell the steeds + Head foremost, crashing in their mooned fronts, 60 + Shivering with sweat, each white eye horror-fixed. + His people, who had witnessed all afar, + Bore back the ruins of Hippolutos. + But when his sire, too swoln with pride, rejoiced + (Indomitable as a man foredoomed) + That vast Poseidon had fulfilled his prayer, + I, in a flood of glory visible, + Stood o'er my dying votary and, deed + By deed, revealed, as all took place, the truth. + Then Theseus lay the wofullest of men, 70 + And worthily; but ere the death-veils hid + His face, the murdered prince full pardon breathed + To his rash sire. Whereat Athenai wails. + + So I, who ne'er forsake my votaries, + Lest in the cross-way none the honey-cake + Should tender, nor pour out the dog's hot life; + Lest at my fane the priests disconsolate + Should dress my image with some faded poor + Few crowns, made favors of, nor dare object + Such slackness to my worshippers who turn 80 + Elsewhere the trusting heart and loaded hand, + As they had climbed Olumpos to report + Of Artemis and nowhere found her throne— + I interposed: and, this eventful night + (While round the funeral pyre the populace + Stood with fierce light on their black robes which bound + Each sobbing head, while yet their hair they clipped + O'er the dead body of their withered prince, + And, in his palace, Theseus prostrated + On the cold hearth, his brow cold as the slab 90 + 'T was bruised on, groaned away the heavy grief— + As the pyre fell, and down the cross logs crashed + Sending a crowd of sparkles through the night, + And the gay fire, elate with mastery, + Towered like a serpent o'er the clotted jars + Of wine, dissolving oils and frankincense, + And splendid gums like gold) my potency + Conveyed the perished man to my retreat + In the thrice-venerable forest here. + And this white-bearded sage who squeezes now 100 + The berried plant, is Phoibos' son of fame, + Asclepios, whom my radiant brother taught + The doctrine of each herb and flower and root, + To know their secret'st virtue and express + The saving soul of all: who so has soothed + With layers the torn brow and murdered cheeks, + Composed the hair and brought its gloss again, + And called the red bloom to the pale skin back, + And laid the strips and lagged ends of flesh + Even once more, and slacked the sinew's knot 110 + Of every tortured limb—that now he lies + As if mere sleep possessed him underneath + These interwoven oaks and pines. Oh cheer, + Divine presenter of the healing rod, + Thy snake, with ardent throat and lulling eye, + Twines his lithe spires around! I say, much cheer! + Proceed thou with thy wisest pharmacies! + And ye, white crowd of woodland sister-nymphs, + Ply, as the sage directs, these buds and leaves + That strew the turf around the twain! While I 120 + Await, in fitting silence, the event. + + NOTES + + "Artemis Prologizes" represents the goddess Artemis awaiting the + revival of the youth Hippolytus, whom she has carried to her woods + and given to Asclepios to heal. It is a fragment meant to introduce + an unwritten work and carry on the story related by Euripides in + "Hippolytus," which see. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPISTLE CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH, THE ARAB + PHYSICIAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1855 + + Karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs, + The not-incurious in God's handiwork + (This man's-flesh he hath admirably made, + Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste, + To coop up and keep down on earth a space + That puff of vapor from his mouth, man's soul) + —To Abib, all-sagacious in our art, + Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast, + Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks + Befall the flesh through too much stress and strain, 10 + Whereby the wily vapor fain would slip + Back and rejoin its source before the term— + And aptest in contrivance (under God) + To baffle it by deftly stopping such— + The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at home + Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame with peace) + Three samples of true snakestone—rarer still, + One of the other sort, the melon-shaped, + (But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs) + And writeth now the twenty-second time. 20 + + My journeyings were brought to Jericho: + Thus I resume. Who studious in our art + Shall count a little labor un-repaid? + I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone + On many a flinty furlong of this land. + Also, the country-side is all on fire + With rumors of a marching hitherward: + Some say Vespasian comes, some, his son. + A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear; + Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls: 30 + I cried and threw my staff and he was gone. + Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me, + And once a town declared me for a spy; + But at the end, I reach Jerusalem, + Since this poor covert where I pass the night, + This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence + A man with plague-sores at the third degree + Runs till he drops down dead. Thou laughest here! + 'Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe, + To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip 40 + And share with thee whatever Jewry yields. + A viscid choler is observable + In tertians, I was nearly bold to say; + And falling-sickness hath a happier cure + Than our school wots of: there's a spider here + Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs, + Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back; + Take five and drop them . . . but who knows his mind, + The Syrian runagate I trust this to? + His service payeth me a sublimate 50 + Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye. + Best wait: I reach Jerusalem at morn, + There set in order my experiences, + Gather what most deserves, and give thee all— + Or I might add, Judaea's gum-tragacanth + Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained, + Cracks 'twixt the pestle and the porphyry, + In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp-disease + Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy— + Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar— 60 + But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end. + + Yet stay: my Syrian blinketh gratefully, + Protesteth his devotion is my price— + Suppose I write what harms not, though he steal? + I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blush, + What set me off a-writing first of all, + An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang! + For, be it this town's barrenness—or else + The Man had something in the look of him— + His case has struck me far more than 'tis worth. 70 + So, pardon if—(lest presently I lose + In the great press of novelty at hand + The care and pains this somehow stole from me) + I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind, + Almost in sight—for, wilt thou have the truth? + The very man is gone from me but now, + Whose ailment is the subject of discourse. + Thus then, and let thy better wit help all! + + 'Tis but a case of mania—subinduced + By epilepsy, at the turning-point 80 + Of trance prolonged unduly some three days: + When, by the exhibition of some drug + Or spell, exorcisation, stroke of art + Unknown to me and which 't were well to know, + The evil thing out-breaking all at once + Left the man whole and sound of body indeed, + But, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too wide, + Making a clear house of it too suddenly, + The first conceit that entered might inscribe + Whatever it was minded on the wall 90 + So plainly at that vantage, as it were, + (First come, first served) that nothing subsequent + Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls + The just-returned and new-established soul + Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart + That henceforth she will read or these or none. + And first—the man's own firm conviction rests + That he was dead (in fact they buried him) + —That he was dead and then restored to life + By a Nazarene physician of his tribe: 100 + —'Sayeth, the same bade "Rise," and he did rise. + "Such cases are diurnal," thou wilt cry. + Not so this figment!—not, that such a fume, + Instead of giving way to time and health, + Should eat itself into the life of life, + As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones and all! + For see, how he takes up the after-life. + The man—it is one Lazarus a Jew, + Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age, + The body's habit wholly laudable, 110 + As much, indeed, beyond the common health + As he were made and put aside to show. + Think, could we penetrate by any drug + And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh, + And bring it clear and fair, by three days' sleep! + Whence has the man the balm that brightens all? + This grown man eyes the world now like a child. + Some elders of his tribe, I should premise, + Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep, + To bear my inquisition. While they spoke, 120 + Now sharply, now with sorrow, told the case, + He listened not except I spoke to him, + But folded his two hands and let them talk, + Watching the flies that buzzed: and yet no fool. + And that's a sample how his years must go. + Look, if a beggar, in fixed middle-life, + Should find a treasure, can he use the same + With straitened habits and with tastes starved small, + And take at once to his impoverished brain + The sudden element that changes things, 130 + That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand + And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? + Is he not such an one as moves to mirth— + Warily parsimonious, when no need, + Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? + All prudent counsel as to what befits + The golden mean, is lost on such an one: + The man's fantastic will is the man's law. + So here—we call the treasure knowledge, say, + Increased beyond the fleshly faculty— 140 + Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth, + Earth forced on a soul's use while seeing heaven: + The man is witless of the size, the sum, + The value in proportion of all things, + Or whether it be little or be much. + Discourse to him of prodigious armaments + Assembled to besiege his city now, + And of the passing of a mule with gourds— + 'T is one! Then take it on the other side, + Speak of some trifling fact, he will gaze rapt 150 + With stupor at its very littleness, + (Far as I see) as if in that indeed + He caught prodigious import, whole results; + And so will turn to us the bystanders + In ever the same stupor (note this point) + That we too see not with his opened eyes. + Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play, + Preposterously, at cross purposes. + Should his child sicken unto death, why, look + For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, 160 + Or pretermission of the daily craft! + While a word, gesture, glance from that same child + At play or in the school or laid asleep, + Will startle him to an agony of fear, + Exasperation, just as like. Demand + The reason why—"'t is but a word," object— + "A gesture"—he regards thee as our lord + Who lived there in the pyramid alone, + Looked at us (dost thou mind?) when, being young, + We both would unadvisedly recite 170 + Some charm's beginning, from that book of his, + Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst + All into stars, as suns grown old are wont. + Thou and the child have each a veil alike + Thrown o'er your heads, from under which ye both + Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match + Over a mine of Greek fire, did ye know! + He holds on firmly to some thread of life— + (It is the life to lead perforcedly) + Which runs across some vast distracting orb 180 + Of glory on either side that meagre thread, + Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet— + The spiritual life around the earthly life: + The law of that is known to him as this, + His heart and brain move there, his feet stay here. + So is the man perplext with impulses + Sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on, + Proclaiming what is right and wrong across, + And not along, this black thread through the blaze— + "It should be" balked by "here it cannot be." 190 + And oft the man's soul springs into his face + As if he saw again and heard again + His sage that bade him "Rise" and he did rise. + Something, a word, a tick o' the blood within + Admonishes: then back he sinks at once + To ashes, who was very fire before, + In sedulous recurrence to his trade + Whereby he earneth him the daily bread; + And studiously the humbler for that pride, + Professedly the faultier that he knows 200 + God's secret, while he holds the thread of life. + Indeed the especial marking of the man + Is prone submission to the heavenly will— + Seeing it, what it is, and why it is. + 'Sayeth, he will wait patient to the last + For that same death which must restore his being + To equilibrium, body loosening soul + Divorced even now by premature full growth: + He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live + So long as God please, and just how God please. 210 + He even seeketh not to please God more + (Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God please. + Hence, I perceive not he affects to preach + The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be, + Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do: + How can he give his neighbor the real ground, + His own conviction? Ardent as he is— + Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old + "Be it as God please" reassureth him. + I probed the sore as thy disciple should: 220 + "How, beast," said I, "this stolid carelessness + Sufficeth thee, when Rome is on her march + To stamp out like a little spark thy town, + Thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once?" + He merely looked with his large eyes on me. + The man is apathetic, you deduce? + Contrariwise, he loves both old and young, + Able and weak, affects the very brutes + And birds—how say I? flowers of the field— + As a wise workman recognizes tools 230 + In a master's workshop, loving what they make. + Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb: + Only impatient, let him do his best, + At ignorance and carelessness and sin— + An indignation which is promptly curbed: + As when in certain travel I have feigned + To be an ignoramus in our art + According to some preconceived design, + And happed to hear the land's practitioners + Steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance, 240 + Prattle fantastically on disease, + Its cause and cure—and I must hold my peace! + + Thou wilt object—Why have I not ere this + Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene + Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source, + Conferring with the frankness that befits? + Alas! it grieveth me, the learned leech + Perished in a tumult many years ago, + Accused—our learning's fate—of wizardry, + Rebellion, to the setting up a rule 250 + And creed prodigious as described to me. + His death, which happened when the earthquake fell + (Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss + To occult learning in our lord the sage + Who lived there in the pyramid alone) + Was wrought by the mad people—that's their wont! + On vain recourse, as I conjecture it, + To his tried virtue, for miraculous help— + How could he stop the earthquake? That's their way! + The other imputations must be lies; 260 + But take one, though I loathe to give it thee, + In mere respect for any good man's fame. + (And after all, our patient Lazarus + Is stark mad; should we count on what he says? + Perhaps not: though in writing to a leech + 'Tis well to keep back nothing of a case.) + This man so cured regards the curer, then, + As—God forgive me! who but God himself, + Creator and sustainer of the world, + That came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile! 270 + —'Sayeth that such an one was born and lived, + Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house; + Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know, + And yet was . . . what I said nor choose repeat, + And must have so avouched himself, in fact, + In hearing of this very Lazarus + Who saith—but why all this of what he saith? + Why write of trivial matters, things of price + Calling at every moment for remark? + I noticed on the margin of a pool 280 + Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort, + Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange! + + Thy pardon for this long and tedious case, + Which, now that I review it, needs must seem + Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth! + Nor I myself discern in what is writ + Good cause for the peculiar interest + And awe indeed this man has touched me with. + Perhaps the journey's end, the weariness + Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus: 290 + I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills + Like an old lion's cheek teeth. Out there came + A moon made like a face with certain spots + Multiform, manifold and menacing: + Then a wind rose behind me. So we met + In this old sleepy town at unaware, + The man and I. I send thee what is writ. + Regard it as a chance, a matter risked + To this ambiguous Syrian—he may lose, + Or steal, or give it thee with equal good. 300 + Jerusalem's repose shall make amends + For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine; + Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell! + + The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think? + So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too— + So, through the thunder comes a human voice + Saying, "0 heart I made, a heart beats here! + Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! + Thou hast no power nor mayst conceive of mine, + But love I gave thee, with myself to love, 310 + And thou must love me who have died for thee!" + The madman saith He said so: it is strange. + + NOTES + + "An Epistle" gives the observations and opinions of Karshish, the + Arab physician, writing to Abib, his master, upon meeting with + Lazarus after he has been raised from the dead. Well versed in + Eastern medical lore, he tries to explain the extraordinary + phenomenon according to his knowledge. He attributes Lazarus' + version of the miracle to mania induced by trance, and the means + used by the Nazarene physician to awaken him, and strengthens his + view by describing the strange state of mind in which he finds + Lazarus—like a child with no appreciation of the relative values of + things. Through his renewal of life he had caught a glimpse of it + from the infinite point of view, and lives now only with the desire + to please God. His sole active quality is a great love for all + humanity, his impatience manifests itself only at sin and ignorance, + and is quickly curbed. Karshish, not able to realize this new plane + of vision in which had been revealed to Lazarus the equal worth of + all things in the divine plan, is incapable of understanding + Lazarus; but in spite of his attempt to make light of the case, he + is deeply impressed by the character of Lazarus, and has besides a + hardly acknowledged desire to believe in this revelation, told of by + Lazarus, of God as Love. Professor Corson says of this poem: "It + may be said to polarize the idea, so often presented in Browning's + poetry, that doubt is a condition of the vitality of faith." + + 17. Snakestone: a name given to any substance used as a remedy for + snake-bites; for example, some are of chalk, some of animal + charcoal, and some of vegetable substances. + + 28. Vespasian: Nero's general who marched against Palestine in 66, + and was succeeded in the command, when he was proclaimed Emperor + (70-79), by his son, Titus. + + 29. Black lynx: the Syrian lynx is distinguished by black ears. + + 43. Tertians: fevers, recurring every third day; hence the name. + + 44. Falling-sickness: epilepsy. Caesar's disease ("Julius Caesar," + I. 2, 258). + + 45. There's a spider here: "The habits of the aranead here + described point very clearly to some one of the Wandering group, + which stalk their prey in the open field or in divers + lurking-places, and are distinguished by this habit from the other + great group, known as the Sedentary spiders, because they sit or + hang upon their webs and capture their prey by means of silken + snares. The next line is not determinative of the species, for + there is a great number of spiders any one of which might be + described as 'Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back.' We have + a little Saltigrade or Jumping spider, known as the Zebra spider + (Epiblemum scenicum), which is found in Europe, and I believe also + in Syria. One often sees this species and its congeners upon the + ledges of rocks, the edges of tombstones, the walls of buildings, + and like situations, hunting their prey, which they secure by + jumping upon it. So common is the Zebra spider, that I might think + that Browning referred to it, if I were not in doubt whether he + would express the stripes of white upon its ash-gray abdomen by the + word 'mottles.' However, there arc other spiders belonging to the + same tribe (Saltigrades) that really are mottled. There are also + spiders known as the Lycosids or Wolf spiders or Ground spiders, + which are often of an ash-gray color, and marked with little whitish + spots after the manner of Browning's Syrian species. Perhaps the + poet had one of these in mind, at least he accurately describes + their manner of seeking prey. The next line is an interrupted one, + 'Take five and drop them. . . .' Take five what? Five of these + ash-gray mottled spiders? Certainly. But what can be meant by the + expression 'drop them'? This opens up to us a strange chapter in + human superstition. It was long a prevalent idea that the spider in + various forms possessed some occult power of healing, and men + administered it internally or applied it externally as a cure for + many diseases. Pliny gives a number of such remedies. A certain + spider applied in a piece of cloth, or another one ('a white spider + with very elongated thin legs'), beaten up in oil is said by this + ancient writer upon Natural History to form an ointment for the + eyes. Similarly, 'the thick pulp of a spider's body, mixed with the + oil of roses, is used for the ears.' Sir Matthew Lister, who was + indeed the father of English araneology, is quoted in Dr. James's + Medical Dictionary as using the distilled water of boiled black + spiders as an excellent cure for wounds." (Dr. H. C. McCook in + Poet-lore, Nov., 1889.) + + 53. Gum-tragacanth: yielded by the leguminous shrub, Astragalus + tragacantha. + + 60. Zoar: the only one that was spared of the five cities of the + plain (Genesis 14. 2). + + 108. Lazarus . . . fifty years of age: in The Academy, Sept. 16, + 1896, Dr. Richard Garnett says: "Browning commits an oversight, it + seems to me, in making Lazarus fifty years of age at the eve of the + siege of Jerusalem, circa 68 A. D." The miracle is supposed to have + been wrought about 33 A. D., and Lazarus would then have been only + fifteen, although according to tradition he was thirty when he was + raised from the dead, and lived only thirty years after. Upon this + Prof. Charles B. Wright comments in Poet-lore, April, 1897: "I + incline to think that the oversight is not Browning's. Let us stand + by the tradition and the resulting age of sixty-five. . . . Karshish + is simply stating his professional judgment. Lazarus is given an + age suited to his appearance—he seems a man of fifty. The years + have touched him lightly since 'heaven opened to his soul.' + . . . And that marvellous physical freshness deceives the very leech + himself." + + 177. Greek fire: used by the Byzantine Greeks in warfare, first + against the Saracens at the siege of Constantinople in 673 A. D. + Therefore an anachronism in this poem. Liquid fire was, however, + known to the ancients, as Assyrian bas-reliefs testify. Greek fire + was made possibly of naphtha, saltpetre, and sulphur, and was thrown + upon the enemy from copper tubes; or pledgets of tow were dipped in + it and attached to arrows. + + 281. Blue-flowering borage: (Borago officianalis). The ancients + deemed this plant one of the four "cordial flowers," for cheering + the spirits, the others being the rose, violet, and alkanet. Pliny + says it produces very exhilarating effects. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JOHANNES AGRICOLA IN MEDITATION + </h2> + <h3> + 1842 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's heaven above, and night by night + I look right through its gorgeous roof; + No suns and moons though e'er so bright + Avail to stop me; splendor-proof + I keep the broods of stars aloof: + For I intend to get to God, + For 't is to God I speed so fast, + For in God's breast, my own abode, + Those shoals of dazzling glory, passed, + I lay my spirit down at last. 10 + I lie where I have always lain, + God smiles as he has always smiled; + Ere suns and moons could wax and wane, + Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled + The heavens, God thought on me his child; + Ordained a life for me, arrayed + Its circumstances every one + To the minutest; ay, God said + This head this hand should rest upon + Thus, ere he fashioned star or sun. 20 + And having thus created me, + Thus rooted me, he bade me grow, + Guiltless forever, like a tree + That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know + The law by which it prospers so: + But sure that thought and word and deed + All go to swell his love for me, + Me, made because that love had need + Of something irreversibly + Pledged solely its content to be. 30 + Yes, yes, a tree which must ascend, + No poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop! + I have God's warrant, could I blend + All hideous sins, as in a cup, + To drink the mingled venoms up; + Secure my nature will convert + The draught to blossoming gladness fast: + While sweet dews turn to the gourd's hurt, + And bloat, and while they bloat it, blast, + As from the first its lot was cast. 40 + For as I lie, smiled on, full-fed + By unexhausted power to bless, + I gaze below on hell's fierce bed, + And those its waves of flame oppress, + Swarming in ghastly wretchedness; + Whose life on earth aspired to be + One altar-smoke, so pure!—to win + If not love like God's love for me, + At least to keep his anger in; + And all their striving turned to sin. 50 + Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white + With prayer, the broken-hearted nun, + The martyr, the wan acolyte, + The incense-swinging child—undone + Before God fashioned star or sun! + God, whom I praise; how could I praise, + If such as I might understand, + Make out and reckon on his ways, + And bargain for his love, and stand, + Paying a price, at his right hand? 60 + + NOTES + + "Johannes Agricola in Meditation" presents the doctrine of + predestination as it appears to a devout and poetic soul whose + conviction of the truth of such a doctrine has the strength of a + divine revelation. Those elected for God's love can do nothing to + weaken it, those not elected can do nothing to gain it, but it is + not his to reason why; indeed, he could not praise a god whose ways + he could understand or for whose love he had to bargain. + + Johannes Agricola: (1492-1566), Luther's secretary, 1519, afterward + in conflict with him, and author of the doctrine called by Luther + antinomian, because it rejected the Law of the Old Testament as of + no use under the Gospel dispensation. In a note accompanying the + first publication of this poem, Browning quotes from "The Dictionary + of All Religions" (1704): "They say that good works do not further, + nor evil works hinder salvation; that the child of God cannot sin, + that God never chastiseth him, that murder, drunkenness, etc., are + sins in the wicked but not in him, that the child of grace being + once assured of salvation, afterwards never doubteth . . . that God + doth not love any man for his holiness, that sanctification is no + evidence of justification." Though many antinomians taught thus, + says George Willis Cooke in his "Browning Guide Book," it does not + correctly represent the position of Agricola, who in reality held + moral obligations to be incumbent upon the Christian, but for + guidance in these he found in the New Testament all the principles + and motives necessary. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PICTOR IGNOTUS + </h2> + <h3> + FLORENCE, 15-1845 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I could have painted pictures like that youth's + Ye praise so. How my soul springs up! No bar + Stayed me—ah, thought which saddens while it soothes! + —Never did fate forbid me, star by star, + To outburst on your night with all my gift + Of fires from God: nor would my flesh have shrunk + From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift + And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk + To the centre, of an instant; or around + Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan 10 + The license and the limit, space and bound, + Allowed to truth made visible in man. + And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw, + Over the canvas could my hand have flung, + Each face obedient to its passion's law, + Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue; + Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood, + A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace, + Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood + Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place; 20 + Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, + And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved— + 0 human faces, hath it spilt, my cup? + What did ye give me that I have not saved? + Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!) + Of going—I, in each new picture—forth, + As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell, + To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North, + Bound for the calmly-satisfied great State, + Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, 30 + Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, + Through old streets named afresh from the event, + Till it reached home, where learned age should greet + My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct + Above his hair, lie learning at my feet!— + Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked + With love about, and praise, till life should end, + And then not go to heaven, but linger here, + Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend— + The thought grew frightful, 't was so wildly dear! 40 + But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights + Have scared me, like the revels through a door + Of some strange house of idols at its rites! + This world seemed not the world it was before: + Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped + . . . Who summoned those cold faces that begun + To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped + Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, + They drew me forth, and spite of me . . . enough! + These buy and sell our pictures, take and give, 50 + Count them for garniture and household-stuff, + And where they live needs must our pictures live + And see their faces, listen to their prate, + Partakers of their daily pettiness, + Discussed of—"This I love, or this I hate, + This likes me more, and this affects me less!" + Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles + My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint + These endless cloisters and eternal aisles + With the same series. Virgin, Babe and Saint, 60 + With the same cold calm beautiful regard— + At least no merchant traffics in my heart; + The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward + Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart; + Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine + While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke, + They moulder on the damp wall's travertine, + 'Mid echoes the light footstep never woke. + So, die my pictures! surely, gently die! + O youth, men praise so—holds their praise its worth? 70 + Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? + Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth? + + NOTES + + "Pictor Ignotus" is a reverie characteristic of a monastic painter + of the Renaissance who recognizes, in the genius of a youth whose + pictures are praised, a gift akin to his own, but which he has never + so exercised, spite of the joy such free human expression and + recognition of his power would have given him, because he could not + bear to submit his art to worldly contact. So he has chosen to sink + his name in unknown service to the Church, and to devote his fancy + to pure and beautiful but cold and monotonous repetitions of sacred + themes. His gentle regret that his own pictures will moulder + unvisited is half wonderment that the youth can endure the sullying + of his work by secular fame. + + 67. Travertine: a white limestone, the name being a corruption of + [Tiburtinus], from [Tibur] , now Tivoli, near Rome, whence this + stone comes. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRA LIPPO LIPPI + </h2> + <h3> + 1855 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! + You need not clap your torches to my face. + Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk! + What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, + And here you catch me at an alley's end + Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? + The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up, + Do—harry out, if you must show your zeal, + Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, + And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, 10 + [Weke], [weke], that's crept to keep him company! + Aha, you know your betters! Then, you'll take + Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat, + And please to know me likewise. Who am I? + Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend + Three streets off—he's a certain . . . how d'ye call? + Master—a . . . Cosimo of the Medici, + I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best! + Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged, + How you affected such a gullet's-gripe! 20 + But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves + Pick up a manner nor discredit you: + Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets + And count fair prize what comes into their net? + He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! + Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. + Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hangdogs go + Drink out this quarter-florin to the health + Of the munificent House that harbors me + (And many more beside, lads! more beside!) 30 + And all's come square again. I'd like his face— + His, elbowing on his comrade in the door + With the pike and lantern—for the slave that holds + John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair + With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say) + And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! + It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, + A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! + Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so. + What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, 40 + You know them and they take you? like enough! + I saw the proper twinkle in your eye— + 'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. + Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. + Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands + To roam the town and sing out carnival, + And I've been three weeks shut within my mew, + A-painting for the great man, saints and saints + And saints again. I could not paint all night— + Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air. 50 + There came a hurry of feet and little feet, + A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song— + [Flower o' the broom, + Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! + Flower o' the quince, + I let Lisa go, and what good is life since? + Flower o' the thyme]—and so on. Round they went. + Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter + Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight—three slim shapes, + And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood, + That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went, 61 + Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, + All the bed-furniture—a dozen knots, + There was a ladder! Down I let myself, + Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, + And after them. I came up with the fun + Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met— + [Flower o' the rose, + If I've been merry, what matter who knows?] + And so as I was stealing back again 70 + To get to bed and have a bit of sleep + Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work + On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast + With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, + You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see! + Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head— + Mine's shaved—a monk, you say—the sting's in that! + If Master Cosimo announced himself, + Mum's the word naturally; but a monk! + Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! 80 + I was a baby when my mother died + And father died and left me in the street. + I starved there. God knows how, a year or two + On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, + Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, + My stomach being empty as your hat, + The wind doubled me up and down I went. + Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand, + (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) + And so along the wall, over the bridge, 90 + By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there, + While I stood munching my first bread that month: + "So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father + Wiping his own mouth, 't was refection-time— + "To quit this very miserable world? + Will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of bread?" thought I; + By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me; + 1 did renounce the world, its pride and greed, + Palace, farm, villa, shop and banking-house, + Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici 100 + Have given their hearts to—all at eight years old. + Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, + 'T was not for nothing—the good bellyful, + The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, + And day-long blessed idleness beside! + "Let's see what the urchin's fit for"—that came next, + Not overmuch their way, I must confess. + Such a to-do! They tried me with their books: + Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste! + [Flower o' the clove, 110 + All the Latin I construe is, "amo" I love!] + But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets + Eight years together, as my fortune was, + Watching folk's faces to know who will fling + The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, + And who will curse or kick him for his pains, + Which gentleman processional and fine, + Holding a candle to the Sacrament, + Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch + The droppings of the wax to sell again, 120 + Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped, + How say I?—nay, which dog bites?, which lets drop + His bone from the heap of offal in the street— + Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, + He learns the look of things, and none the less + For admonition from the hunger-pinch. + I had a store of such remarks, be sure, + Which, after I found leisure, turned to use. + I drew men's faces on my copy-books, + Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, 130 + Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, + Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's, + And made a string of pictures of the world + Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, + On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black. + "Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d' ye say? + In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. + What if at last we get our man of parts, + We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese + And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine 140 + And put the front on it that ought to be!" + And hereupon he bade me daub away. + Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, + Never was such prompt disemburdening. + First, every sort of monk, the black and white, + I drew them, fat and lean : then, folk at church, + From good old gossips waiting to confess + Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends— + To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, + Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there 150 + With the little children round him in a row + Of admiration, half for his beard and half + For that white anger of his victim's son + Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, + Signing himself with the other because of Christ + (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this + After the passion of a thousand years) + Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head, + (Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve + On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, 160 + Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers + (The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone, + I painted all, then cried "'T is ask and have; + Choose, for more's ready!"—laid the ladder flat, + And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. + The monks closed in a circle and praised loud + Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, + Being simple bodies—"That's the very man! + Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! + That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes 170 + To care about his asthma: it's the life!" + But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked; + Their betters took their turn to see and say: + The Prior and the learned pulled a face + And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here? + Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! + Faces, arms, legs and bodies like the true + As much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game! + Your business is not to catch men with show, + With homage to the perishable clay, 180 + But lift them over it, ignore it all, + Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. + Your business is to paint the souls of men— + Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . no, it's not . . . + It's vapor done up like a new-born babe— + (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) + It's . . . well, what matters talking, it's the soul! + Give us no more of body than shows soul! + Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God, + That sets us praising—why not stop with him? 190 + Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head + With wonder at lines, colors, and what not? + Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! + Rub all out, try at it a second time. + Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, + She's just my niece . . . Herodias, I would say— + Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off! + Have it all out! "Now, is this sense, I ask? + A fine way to paint soul, by painting body + So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further 200 + And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white + When what you put for yellow's simply black, + And any sort of meaning looks intense + When all beside itself means and looks naught. + Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, + Left foot and right foot, go a double step, + Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, + Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, + The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint—is it so pretty + You can't discover if it means hope, fear, 210 + Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these? + Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue, + Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash, + And then add soul and heighten them three-fold? + Or say there's beauty with no soul at all— + (I never saw it—put the case the same—) + If you get simple beauty and naught else, + You get about the best thing God invents: + That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed, + Within yourself, when you return him thanks. 220 + "Rub all out! "Well, well, there's my life, in short, + And so the thing has gone on ever since. + I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds: + You should not take a fellow eight years old + And make him swear to never kiss the girls. + I'm my own master, paint now as I please— + Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house! + Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front— + Those great rings serve more purposes than just + To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! 230 + And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes + Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work, + The heads shake still—"It's art's decline, my son! + You're not of the true painters, great and old; + Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find; + Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer: + Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!" + [Flower o' the pine, + You keep your mistr . . . manners, and I'll stick to mine!] + I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know! 240 + Don't you think they're the likeliest to know, + They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage, + Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint + To please them—sometimes do and sometimes don't; + For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come + A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints— + A laugh, a cry, the business of the world— + [(Flower o' the peach, + Death for us all, and his own life for each!)] + And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, 250 + The world and life's too big to pass for a dream, + And I do these wild things in sheer despite, + And play the fooleries you catch me at, + In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass + After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, + Although the miller does not preach to him + The only good of grass is to make chaff. + What would men have? Do they like grass or no— + May they or may n't they? all I want's the thing + Settled forever one way. As it is, 260 + You tell too many lies and hurt yourself: + You don't like what you only like too much, + You do like what, if given you at your word, + You find abundantly detestable. + For me, I think I speak as I was taught; + I always see the garden and God there + A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned, + The value and significance of flesh, + I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards, + + You understand me: I'm a beast, I know. 270 + But see, now—why, I see as certainly + As that the morning-star's about to shine, + What will hap some day. We've a youngster here + Comes to our convent, studies what I do, + Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: + His name is Guidi—he'll not mind the monks— + They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk— + He picks my practice up—he'll paint apace, + I hope so—though I never live so long, + I know what's sure to follow. You be judge! 280 + You speak no Latin more than I, belike; + However, you're my man, you've seen the world + —The beauty and the wonder and the power, + The shapes of things, their colors, lights and shades, + Changes, surprises,—and God made it all! + —For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, + For this fair town's face, yonder river's line, + The mountain round it and the sky above, + Much more the figures of man, woman, child, + These are the frame to? What's it all about? 290 + To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, + Wondered at? oh, this last of course!—you say. + But why not do as well as say—paint these + Just as they are, careless what comes of it? + God's works—paint any one, and count it crime + To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works + Are here already; nature is complete: + Suppose you reproduce her (which you can't) + There's no advantage! you must beat her, then." + For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love 300 + First when we see them painted, things we have passed + Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; + And so they are better, painted—better to us, + Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; + God uses us to help each other so, + Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now, + Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk, + And trust me but you should, though! How much more, + If I drew higher things with the same truth! + That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, 310 + Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh, + It makes me mad to see what men shall do + And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us, + Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: + To find its meaning is my meat and drink. + "Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!" + Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's plain + It does not say to folk—remember matins, + Or, mind you fast next Friday! "Why, for this + What need of art at all? A skull and bones, 320 + Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best, + A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. + I painted a Saint Laurence six months since + At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: + " How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?" + I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns— + "Already not one phiz of your three slaves + Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, + But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content, + The pious people have so eased their own 330 + With coming to say prayers there in a rage: + We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. + Expect another job this time next year, + For pity and religion grow i' the crowd— + Your painting serves its purpose! Hang the fools! + + —That is—you'll not mistake an idle word + Spoke in a huff by a poor monk. God wot, + Tasting the air this spicy night which turns + The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! + Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now! 340 + It's natural a poor monk out of bounds + Should have his apt word to excuse himself: + And hearken how I plot to make amends. + I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece + . . . There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see + Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns! + They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint + God in the midst. Madonna and her babe, + Ringed by a bowery flowery angel-brood, + Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet 350 + As puff on puff of grated orris-root + When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer. + And then i' the front, of course a saint or two— + Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, + Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white + The convent's friends and gives them a long day, + And Job, I must have him there past mistake, + The man of Uz (and Us without the z, + Painters who need his patience). Well, all these + Secured at their devotion, up shall come 360 + Out of a corner when you least expect, + As one by a dark stair into a great light, + Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!— + Mazed, motionless and moonstruck—I'm the man! + Back I shrink—what is this I see and hear? + I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake, + My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, + I, in this presence, this pure company! + Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape? + Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing 370 + Forward, puts out a soft palm—"Not so fast!" + —Addresses the celestial presence, "nay— + He made you and devised you, after all, + Though he's none of you! Could Saint John there draw— + His camel-hair make up a painting-brush? + We come to brother Lippo for all that, + [Iste perfecit opus.]" So, all smile— + I shuffle sideways with my blushing face + Under the cover of a hundred wings + Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay 380 + And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, + Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops + The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off + To some safe bench behind, not letting go + The palm of her, the little lily thing + That spoke the good word for me in the nick, + Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, I would say. + And so all's saved for me, and for the church + A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence! + Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! 390 + The street's hushed, and I know my own way back, + Don't fear me! There's the gray beginning. Zooks! + + NOTES + + "Fra Lippo Lippi" is a dramatic monologue which incidentally conveys + the whole story of the occurrence the poem starts from—the seizure + of Fra Lippo by the City Guards, past midnight, in an equivocal + neighborhood—and the lively talk that arose thereupon, outlines the + character and past life of the Florentine artist-monk (1412-1469) + and the subordinate personalities of the group of officers; and + makes all this contribute towards the presentation of Fra Lippo as a + type of the more realistic and secular artist of the Renaissance who + valued flesh, and protested against the ascetic spirit which strove + to isolate the soul. + + 7. The Carmine: monastery of the Del Carmine friars. + + 17. Cosimo: de' Medici (1389-1464), Florentine statesman and patron + of the arts. + + 23. Pilchards: a kind of fish. + + 53. Flower o' the broom: of the many varieties of folk-songs in + Italy that which furnished Browning with a model for Lippo's songs + is called a stornello. The name is variously derived. Some take it + as merely short for ritornillo; others derive it from a storno, to + sing against each other, because the peasants sing them at their + work, and as one ends a song, another caps it with a fresh one, and + so on. These stornelli consist of three lines. The first usually + contains the name of a flower which sets the rhyme, and is five + syllables long. Then the love theme is told in two lines of eleven + syllables each, agreeing by rhyme, assonance, or repetition with the + first. The first line may be looked upon as a burden set at the + beginning instead of, as is more familiar to us, at the end. There + are also stornelli formed of three lines of eleven syllables without + any burden. Browning has made Lippo's songs of only two lines, but + he has strictly followed the rule of making the first line, + containing the address to the flower, of five syllables. The + Tuscany versions of two of the songs used by Browning are as + follows: + + "Flower of the pine! Call me not ever happy heart again, But call + me heavy heart, 0 comrades mine." + + "Flower of the broom! Unwed thy mother keeps thee not to lose That + flower from the window of the room." + + 67. Saint Laurence: the church of San Lorenzo. + + 88. Aunt Lapaccia: by the death of Lippo's father, says Vasari, he + "was left a friendless orphan at the age of two . . . under the care + of Mona Lapaccia, his aunt, who brought him up with very great + difficulty till his eighth year, when, being no longer able to + support the burden, she placed him in the Convent of the + Carmelites." + + 121. The Eight: the magistrates of Florence. + + 130. Antiphonary: the Roman Service-Book, containing all that is + sung in the choir—the antiphones, responses, etc.; it was compiled + by Gregory the Great. + + 131. joined legs and arms to the long music-notes: the musical + notation of Lippo's day was entirely different from ours, the notes + being square and oblong and rather less suited for arms and legs + than the present rounded notes. + + 139. Camaldolese: monks of Camaldoli.—Preaching Friars: the + Dominicans. + + 189. Giotto: reviver of art in Italy, painter, sculptor, and + architect (1266-1337). + + 196. Herodias: Matthew xiv.6-11. + + 235. Brother Angelico: Fra Angelico, Giovanni da Fiesole + (1387-1455), flower of the monastic school of art, who was said to + paint on his knees. + + 236. Brother Lorenzo: Lorenzo Monaco, of the same school. + + 276. Guidi : Tommaso Guidi, or Masaccio, nicknamed "Hulking Tom" + (1401-1429). [Vasari makes him Lippo's predecessor. Browning + followed the best knowledge of his time in making him, instead, + Lippo's pupil. Vasari is now thought to be right.] + + 323. A Saint Laurence . . . at Prato: near Florence, where Lippi + painted many saints. [Vasari speaks of a Saint Stephen painted there + in the same realistic manner as Browning's Saint Laurence, whose + martyrdom of broiling to death on a gridiron affords Lippo's powers + a livelier effect.] The legend of this saint makes his fortitude + such that he bade his persecutors turn him over, as he was "done on + one side." + + 346. Something in Sant Ambrogio's: picture of the Virgin crowned + with angels and saints, painted for Saint Ambrose Church, now at the + Belle Arti in Florence. Vasari says by means of it he became known + to Cosimo. Browning, on the other hand, crowns his poem with + Lippo's description of this picture as an expiation for his pranks. + + 354. Saint John: the Baptist; see reference to camel-hair, line 375 + and Matthew iii. 4. + + 355. Saint Ambrose: (340-397), Archbishop of Milan. + + 358. Man of Uz : Job i. 1. + + 377. [Iste perfecit opus]: this one completed the work. + + 381. Hot cockles: an old-fashioned game. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANDREA DEL SARTO + </h2> + <h3> + (CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER") + </h3> + <h3> + 1855 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But do not let us quarrel any more, + No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: + Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. + You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? + I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, + Treat his own subject after his own way, + Fix his own time, accept too his own price, + And shut the money into this small hand + When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? + Oh, I'll content him—but to-morrow. Love! 10 + I often am much wearier than you think, + This evening more than usual, and it seems + As if—forgive now—should you let me sit + Here by the window with your hand in mine + And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, + Both of one mind, as married people use, + Quietly, quietly the evening through, + I might get up to-morrow to my work + Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. + To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this! 20 + Your soft hand is a woman of itself, + And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. + Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve + For each of the five pictures we require: + It saves a model. So! keep looking so— + My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! + —How could you ever prick those perfect ears, + Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet— + My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, + Which everybody looks on and calls his, 30 + And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, + While she looks—no one's: very dear, no less. + You smile? why, there's my picture ready made, + There's what we painters call our harmony! + A common grayness silvers everything— + All in a twilight, you and I alike + —You, at the point of your first pride in me + (That's gone you know)—but I, at every point; + My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down + To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 40 + There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; + That length of convent-wall across the way + Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; + The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, + And autumn grows, autumn in everything. + Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape— + As if I saw alike my work and self + And all that I was born to be and do, + A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. + How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead; 50 + So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! + I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! + This chamber for example—turn your head— + All that's behind us! You don't understand + Nor care to understand about my art, + But you can hear at least when people speak: + And that cartoon, the second from the door + —It is the thing. Love! so such things should be— + Behold Madonna!—I am bold to say. + I can do with my pencil what I know, 60 + What I see, what at bottom of my heart + I wish for, if I ever wish so deep— + Do easily, too—when I say, perfectly, + I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, + Who listened to the Legate's talk last week, + And just as much they used to say in France. + At any rate 'tis easy, all of it! + No sketches first, no studies, that's long past: + I do what many dream of, all their lives, + —Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, 70 + And fail in doing. I could count twenty such + On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, + Who strive—you don't know how the others strive + To paint a little thing like that you smeared + Carelessly passing with your robes afloat— + Yet do much less, so much less. Someone says, + (I know his name, no matter)—so much less! + Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. + There burns a truer light of God in them, + In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, 80 + Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt + This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. + Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, + Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, + Enter and take their place there sure enough, + Though they come back and cannot tell the world. + My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. + The sudden blood of these men! at a word— + Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. + I, painting from myself and to myself, 90 + Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame + Or their praise either. Somebody remarks + Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, + His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, + Sightly traced and well ordered; what of that? + Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? + Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, + Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-gray + Placid, and perfect with my art: the worse! + I know both what I want and what might gain, 100 + And yet how profitless to know, to sigh + "Had I been two, another and myself, + Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt. + Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth + The Urbinate who died five years ago. + ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) + Well, I can fancy how he did it all, + Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, + Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, + Above and through his art—for it gives way; 110 + That arm is wrongly put—and there again— + A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, + Its body, so to speak: its soul is right, + He means right—that, a child may understand. + Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: + But all the play, the insight and the stretch— + Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? + Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, + We might have risen to Rafael, I and you! + Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think— 120 + More than I merit, yes, by many times. + But had you—oh, with the same perfect brow, + And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, + And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird + The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare— + Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! + Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged + "God and the glory! never care for gain. + The present by the future, what is that? + Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! 130 + Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" + I might have done it for you. So it seems: + Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules. + Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; + The rest avail not. Why do I need you? + What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? + In this world, who can do a thing, will not; + And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: + Yet the will's somewhat—somewhat, too, the power— + And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, 140 + God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. + 'T is safer for me, if the award be strict, + That I am something underrated here, + Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. + I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, + For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. + The best is when they pass and look aside; + But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all. + Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time, + And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! 150 + I surely then could sometimes leave the ground, + Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, + In that humane great monarch's golden look— + One finger in his beard or twisted curl + Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, + One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, + The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, + I painting proudly with his breath on me, + All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, + Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls 160 + Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts— + And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, + This in the background, waiting on my work, + To crown the issue with a last reward! + A good time, was it not, my kingly days? + And had you not grown restless . . . but I know— + 'T is done and past; 't was right, my instinct said, + Too live the life grew, golden and not gray, + And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt + Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. 170 + How could it end in any other way? + You called me, and I came home to your heart. + The triumph was—to reach and stay there; since + I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? + Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, + You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! + "Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; + The Roman's is the better when you pray, + But still the other's Virgin was his wife—" + Men will excuse me, I am glad to judge 180 + Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows + My better fortune, I resolve to think. + For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, + Said one day Agnolo, his very self, + To Rafael's . . . I have known it all these years . . . + (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts + Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, + Too lifted up in heart because of it) + "Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub + Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, 190 + Who, were he set to plan and execute + As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, + Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" + To Rafael's!—And indeed the arm is wrong. + I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see, + Give the chalk here—quick, thus the line should go! + Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out! + Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, + (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? + Do you forget already words like those?) 200 + If really there was such a chance, so lost— + Is, whether you're—not grateful—but more pleased. + Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed! + This hour has been an hour! Another smile? + If you would sit thus by me every night + I should work better, do you comprehend? + I mean that I should earn more, give you more. + See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; + Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, + The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 210 + Come from the window, love—come in, at last, + Inside the melancholy little house + We built to be so gay with. God is just. + King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights + When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, + The walls become illumined, brick from brick + Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, + That gold of his I did cement them with! + Let us but love each other. Must you go? + That Cousin here again? he waits outside? 220 + Must see you—you, and not with me? Those loans? + More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? + Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? + While hand and eye and something of a heart + Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth? + I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit + The gray remainder of the evening out, + Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly + How I could paint, were I but back in France, + One picture, just one more—the Virgin's face, 230 + Not yours this time! I want you at my side + To hear them—that is, Michel Agnolo— + Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. + Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. + I take the subjects for his corridor, + Finish the portrait out of hand—there, there, + And throw him in another thing or two + If he demurs; the whole should prove enough + To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, + What's better and what's all I care about, 240 + Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! + Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he, + The Cousin! what does he to please you more? + + I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. + I regret little, I would change still less. + Since there my past life lies, why alter it? + The very wrong to Francis!—it is true + I took his coin, was tempted and complied, + And built this house and sinned, and all is said. + My father and my mother died of want. 250 + Well, had I riches of my own? you see + How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. + They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: + And I have labored somewhat in my time + And not been paid profusely. Some good son + Paint my two hundred pictures—let him try! + No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, + You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. + This must suffice me here. What would one have? + In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance— 260 + Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, + Meted on each side by the angel's reed, + For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me + To cover—the three first without a wife, + While I have mine! So—still they overcome + Because there's still Lucrezia—as I choose. + + Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love. + + NOTES + + "Andrea del Sarto." This monologue reveals, beside the personalities + of both Andrea and Lucretia and the main incidents of their lives, + the relations existing between Andrea's character, his choice of a + wife, and the peculiar quality of his art; the whole serving, also, + to illustrate the picture on which the poem is based. The gray tone + that silvers the picture pervades the poem with an air of helpless, + resigned melancholy, and sets forth the fatal quality of facile + craftsmanship joined with a flaccid spirit. —Mr. John Kenyon, + Mrs. Browning's cousin, asked Browning to get him a copy of the + picture of Andrea and his wife in the Pitti Palace. Browning, being + unable to find one, wrote this poem describing it, instead. Andrea + (1486-1531), because his father was a tailor, was called del Sarto, + also, il pittore senza errori, "the faultless painter." + + 2. Lucrezia: di Baccio del Fede, a cap-maker's widow, says Vasari, + who ensnared Andrea "before her husband's death, and who delighted + in trapping the hearts of men." + + 15. Fiesole: a hillside city on the Arno, three miles west of + Florence. + + 93. Morello: the highest of the Apennine mountains north of + Florence. + + 105. The Urbinate: Raphael Santi (1483-1520), so called because born + at Urbino. + + 106. Vasari: painter and writer of the "Lives of the Most Excellent + Italian Painters," which supplied Browning with material for this + poem and for "Fra Lippo." + + 130. Agnolo: Michel Agnolo Buonarotti, painter, sculptor, and + 1architect (1475-564). + + 149. Francis: Francis I of France (1494-1547), who invited Andrea to + his Court at Fontainebleau, where he was loaded with gifts and + honors, until, says Vasari, "came to him certain letters from + Florence written to him by his wife . . . with bitter complaints," + when, taking "the money which the king confided to him for the + purchase of pictures and statues, . . . he set off . . . having + sworn on the Gospels to return in a few months. Arrived in + Florence, he lived joyously with his wife for some time, making + presents to her father and sisters, but doing nothing for his own + parents, who died in poverty and misery. When the period specified + by the king had come . . . he found himself at the end not only of + his own money but . . . of that of the king." + + 184. Agnolo . . . to Rafael: Angelo's remark is given thus by + Bocchi, "Bellezze di Firenze"; "There is a bit of a manikin in + Florence who, if he chanced to be employed in great undertakings as + you have happened to be, would compel you to look well about you." + + 210. Cue-owls: the owl's cry gives it its common name in various + languages and countries; the peculiarity of its cry as to the + predominant sound of oo or ow naming the species. This Italian + [a`]ulo] is probably the [Bubo], of the same family as our cat-owl. + Buffon gives its note, [he-hoo], [boo-hoo]; hence the Latin name, + [Bubo]. + + 241. Scudi: Italian coins. + + 261. The New Jerusalem: Revelation 21.15-17. + + 263. Leonard: Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), painter, sculptor, + architect, and engineer, who, together with Rafael and Agnolo, + incarnates the genius of the Renaissance. He visited the same Court + to which Andrea was invited, and was said to have died in the arms + of Francis I. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH + </h2> + <h3> + ROME, 15— + </h3> + <h3> + 1845 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! + Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? + Nephews—sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well— + She, men would have to be your mother once, + Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! + What's done is done, and she is dead beside, + Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, + And as she died so must we die ourselves, + And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. + Life, how and what is it? As here I lie 10 + In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, + Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask + "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. + Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; + And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought + With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: + —Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; + Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South + He graced his carrion with. God curse the same! + Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence 20 + One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, + And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, + And up into the aery dome where live + The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk; + And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, + And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, + With those nine columns round me, two and two, + The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: + Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe + As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. 30 + —Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, + Put me where I may look at him! True peach, + Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! + Draw close: that conflagration of my church + —What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! + My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig + The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, + Drop water gently till the surface sink, + And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I! . . . + Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, 40 + And corded up in a tight olive-frail, + Some lump, ah God, of [lapis lazuli], + Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, + Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast . . . + Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, + That brave Frascati villa with its bath, + So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, + Like God the Father's globe on both his hands + Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, + For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! 50 + Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: + Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? + Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black— + 'T was ever antique-black I meant! How else + Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? + The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, + Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance + Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, + The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, + Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 60 + Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, + And Moses with the tables . . . but I know + Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, + Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope + To revel down my villas while I gasp + Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine + Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! + Nay, boys, ye love me—all of jasper, then! + 'T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve. + My bath must needs be left behind, alas! 70 + One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, + There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world— + And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray + Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, + And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? + —That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, + Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, + No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line— + Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! + And then how I shall lie through centuries, 80 + And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, + And see God made and eaten all day long, + And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste + Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! + For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, + Dying in state and by such slow degrees, + I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, + And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, + And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop + Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: 90 + And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts + Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, + About the life before I lived this life, + And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests, + Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, + Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, + And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, + And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, + —Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend? + No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! 100 + Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. + All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope + My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? + Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, + They glitter like your mother's for my soul, + Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, + Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase + With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term, + And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx + That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, 110 + To comfort me on my entablature + Whereon I am to lie till I must ask + "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! + For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude + To death—ye wish it—God, ye wish it! Stone— + Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat + As if the corpse they keep were oozing through— + And no more lapis to delight the world! + Well go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, + But in a row: and, going, turn your backs 120 + —Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, + And leave me in my church, the church for peace, + That I may watch at leisure if he leers— + Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone, + As still he envied me, so fair she was! + + NOTES + + "The Bishop orders his Tomb" This half-delirious pleading of the + dying prelate for a tomb which shall gratify his luxurious artistic + tastes and personal rivalries, presents dramatically not merely the + special scene of the worldly old bishop's petulant struggle against + his failing power, and his collapse, finally, beneath the will of + his so-called nephews, it also illustrates a characteristic gross + form of the Renaissance spirit encumbered with Pagan survivals, + fleshly appetites, and selfish monopolizings which hampered its + development.— "It is nearly all that I said of the Central + Renaissance—its worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, + ignorance of itself, love of art, of luxury, and of good Latin—in + thirty pages of the 'Stones of Venice,' put into as many lines, + Browning's being also the antecedent work" (Ruskin). The Church of + St.Praxed is notable for the beauty of its stone-work and mosaics, + one of its chapels being so extraordinarily rich that it was called + [Orto del Paradiso], or the Garden of Paradise; and so, although the + bishop and his tomb there are imaginary, it supplies an appropriate + setting for the poetic scene. + + 1. Vanity, saith the preacher: Ecclesiastes 1.2. + + 21. Epistle-side: the right-hand side facing the altar, where the + epistle is read by the priest acting as celebrant, the gospel being + read from the other side by the priest acting as assistant. + + 25. Basalt: trap-rock, leaden or black in color. + + 31. Onion stone: for the Italian [cipollino], a kind of + greenish-white marble splitting into coats like an onion, [cipolla]; + hence so called. + + 41. Olive-frail: a basket made of rushes, used for packing olives. + + 42. Lapis lazuli: a bright blue stone. + + 46. Frascati: near Rome, on the Alban hills. + + 48. God the Father's globe: in the group of the Trinity adorning the + altar of Saint Ignatius at the church of Il Gesu in Rome. + + 51. Weaver's shuttle: Job 7.6. + + 54. Antique-black: Nero antico. Browning gives the English + equivalent for the name of this stone. + + 58. Tripod: the seat with three feet on which the priestess of + Apollo sat to prophesy, an emblem of the Delphic oracle. + + Thyrsus: the ivy-coiled staffer spear stuck in a pine-cone, symbol + of Bacchic orgy. These, with the other Pagan tokens and pictures, + mingle oddly but significantly with the references to the Saviour, + Saint Praxed, and Moses. See also line 92, where Saint Praxed is + confused with the Saviour, in the mind of the dying priest. Saint + Praxed, the virgin daughter of a Roman Senator and friend of Saint + Paul, in whose honor the Bishop's Church is named, is again brought + forward in lines 73-75 in a queer capacity which pointedly + illustrates the speaker and his time. + + 66. Travertine: see note "Pictor Ignotus," 67. + + 68. jasper: a dark green stone with blood-red spots, susceptible of + high polish. + + 77. Tully's: Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-46 B. C.). + + 79. Ulpian: a Roman jurist (170-228 A. D.), belonging to the + degenerate age of Roman literature. + + 99. [Elucescebat]: he was illustrious; formed from [elucesco], an + inceptive verb from [eluceo]: in post classic Latin. + + 102. Else I give the Pope my villas: perhaps a threat founded on the + custom of Julius II and other popes, according to Burckhardt, of + enlarging their power "by making themselves heirs of the cardinals + and clergy . . . Hence the splendor of tile tombs of the prelates + . . . a part of the plunder being in this way saved from the hands + of the Pope." + + 108. A vizor and a Term: a mask, and a bust springing from a square + pillar, representing the Roman god Terminus, who presided over + boundaries. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY + </h2> + <h3> + 1855 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk. + A final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith! + We ought to have our Abbey back, you see. + It's different, preaching in basilicas, + And doing duty in some masterpiece + Like this of brother Pugin's, bless his heart! + I doubt if they're half baked, those chalk rosettes, + Ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere; + It's just like breathing in a lime-kiln: eh? + These hot long ceremonies of our church 10 + Cost us a little—oh, they pay the price, + You take me—amply pay it! Now, we'll talk. + + So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs. + No deprecation—nay, I beg you, sir! + Beside 't is our engagement: don't you know, + I promised, if you'd watch a dinner out, + We'd see truth dawn together?—truth that peeps + Over the glasses' edge when dinner's done, + And body gets its sop and holds its noise + And leaves soul free a little. Now's the time: 20 + Truth's break of day! You do despise me then. + And if I say, "despise me"—never fear! + 1 know you do not in a certain sense— + Not in my arm-chair, for example: here, + I well imagine you respect my place + ([Status, entourage], worldly circumstance) + Quite to its value—very much indeed: + —Are up to the protesting eyes of you + In pride at being seated here for once— + You'll turn it to such capital account! 30 + When somebody, through years and years to come, + Hints of the bishop—names me—that's enough: + "Blougram? I knew him"—(into it you slide) + "Dined with him once, a Corpus Christi Day, + All alone, we two; he's a clever man: + And after dinner—why, the wine you know— + Oh, there was wine, and good!—what with the wine . . . + 'Faith, we began upon all sorts of talk! + He's no bad fellow, Blougram; he had seen + Something of mine he relished, some review: 40 + He's quite above their humbug in his heart, + Half-said as much, indeed—the thing's his trade. + I warrant, Blougram 's sceptical at times: + How otherwise? I liked him, I confess!" + [Che che], my dear sir, as we say at Rome, + Don't you protest now! It's fair give and take; + You have had your turn and spoken your home-truths: + The hand's mine now, and here you follow suit. + + Thus much conceded, still the first fact stays— + You do despise me; your ideal of life 50 + Is not the bishop's: you would not be I. + You would like better to be Goethe, now, + Or Buonaparte, or, bless me, lower still, + Count D'Orsay—so you did what you preferred, + Spoke as you thought, and, as you cannot help, + Believed or disbelieved, no matter what, + So long as on that point, whate'er it was, + You loosed your mind, were whole and sole yourself. + —That, my ideal never can include, + Upon that element of truth and worth 60 + Never be based! for say they make me Pope— + (They can't—suppose it for our argument!) + Why, there I'm at my tether's end, I've reached + My height, and not a height which pleases you: + An unbelieving Pope won't do, you say. + It's like those eerie stories nurses tell, + Of how some actor on a stage played Death, + With pasteboard crown, sham orb and tinselled dart, + And called himself the monarch of the world; + Then, going in the tire-room afterward, 70 + Because the play was done, to shift himself, + Got touched upon the sleeve familiarly, + The moment he had shut the closet door, + By Death himself. Thus God might touch a Pope + At unawares, ask what his baubles mean, + And whose part he presumed to play just now. + Best be yourself, imperial, plain and true! + + So, drawing comfortable breath again, + You weigh and find, whatever more or less + I boast of my ideal realized 80 + Is nothing in the balance when opposed + To your ideal, your grand simple life, + Of which you will not realize one jot. + I am much, you are nothing; you would be all, + I would be merely much: you beat me there. + + No, friend, you do not beat me: hearken why! + The common problem, yours, mine, every one's, + Is—not to fancy what were fair in life + Provided it could be—but, finding first + What may be, then find how to make it fair 90 + Up to our means: a very different thing! + No abstract intellectual plan of life + Quite irrespective of life's plainest laws, + But one, a man, who is man and nothing more, + May lead within a world which (by your leave) + Is Rome or London, not Fool's-paradise. + Embellish Rome, idealize away, + Make paradise of London if you can, + You're welcome, nay, you're wise. + + A simile! + We mortals cross the ocean of this world 100 + Each in his average cabin of a life; + The best's not big, the worst yields elbow-room. + Now for our six months' voyage—how prepare? + You come on shipboard with a landsman's list + Of things he calls convenient: so they are! + An India screen is pretty furniture, + A piano-forte is a fine resource, + All Balzac's novels occupy one shelf, + The new edition fifty volumes long; + And little Greek books, with the funny type 110 + They get up well at Leipsic, fill the next: + Go on! slabbed marble, what a bath it makes! + And Parma's pride, the Jerome, let us add! + 'T were pleasant could Correggio's fleeting glow + Hang full in face of one where'er one roams, + Since he more than the others brings with him + Italy's self—the marvellous Modenese!— + Yet was not on your list before, perhaps. + —Alas, friend, here's the agent . . . is 't the name? + The captain, or whoever's master here— 120 + You see him screw his face up; what's his cry + Ere you set foot on shipboard? "Six feet square!" + If you won't understand what six feet mean, + Compute and purchase stores accordingly— + And if, in pique because he overhauls + Your Jerome, piano, bath, you come on board + Bare—why, you cut a figure at the first + While sympathetic landsmen see you off; + Not afterward, when long ere half seas over, + You peep up from your utterly naked boards 130 + Into some snug and well-appointed berth, + Like mine for instance (try the cooler jug— + Put back the other, but don't jog the ice!) + And mortified you mutter "Well and good; + He sits enjoying his sea-furniture; + 'Tis stout and proper, and there's store of it; + Though I've the better notion, all agree, + Of fitting rooms up. Hang the carpenter, + Neat ship-shape fixings and contrivances— + I would have brought my Jerome, frame and all!" 140 + And meantime you bring nothing: never mind— + You've proved your artist-nature: what you don't + You might bring, so despise me, as I say. + + Now come, let's backward to the starting-place. + See my way: we're two college friends, suppose. + Prepare together for our voyage, then; + Each note and check the other in his work— + Here's mine, a bishop's outfit; criticise! + What's wrong? why won't you be a bishop too? + + Why first, you don't believe, you don't and can't, 150 + (Not statedly, that is, and fixedly + And absolutely and exclusively) + In any revelation called divine. + No dogmas nail your faith; and what remains + But say so, like the honest man you are? + First, therefore, overhaul theology! + Nay, I too, not a fool, you please to think, + Must find believing every whit as hard: + And if I do not frankly say as much, + The ugly consequence is clear enough. 160 + + Now wait, my friend: well, I do not believe— + If you'll accept no faith that is not fixed, + Absolute and exclusive, as you say. + You're wrong—I mean to prove it in due time. + Meanwhile, I know where difficulties lie + I could not, cannot solve, nor ever shall, + So give up hope accordingly to solve— + (To you, and over the wine). Our dogmas then + With both of us, though in unlike degree, + Missing full credence—overboard with them! 170 + I mean to meet you on your own premise: + Good, there go mine in company with yours! + + And now what are we? unbelievers both, + Calm and complete, determinately fixed + To-day, to-morrow and forever, pray? + You'll guarantee me that? Not so, I think! + In no wise! all we've gained is, that belief, + As unbelief before, shakes us by fits, + Confounds us like its predecessor. Where's + The gain? how can we guard our unbelief, 180 + Make it bear fruit to us?—the problem here. + Just when we are safest, there's a sunset-touch, + A fancy from a flower-bell, some one's death, + A chorus-ending from Euripides— + And that's enough for fifty hopes and fears + As old and new at once as nature's self, + To rap and knock and enter in our soul, + Take hands and dance there, a fantastic ring, + Round the ancient idol, on his base again— + The grand Perhaps! We look on helplessly. 190 + There the old misgivings, crooked questions are— + This good God—what he could do, if he would, + Would, if he could—then must have done long since: + If so, when, where and how? some way must be— + Once feel about, and soon or late you hit + Some sense, in which it might be, after all. + Why not, "The Way, the Truth, the Life?" + + —That way + Over the mountain, which who stands upon + Is apt to doubt if it be meant for a road; + While, if he views it from the waste itself, 200 + Up goes the line there, plain from base to brow, + Not vague, mistakable! what's a break or two + Seen from the unbroken desert either side? + And then (to bring in fresh philosophy) + What if the breaks themselves should prove at last + The most consummate of contrivances + To train a man's eye, teach him what is faith? + And so we stumble at truth's very test! + All we have gained then by our unbelief + Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, 210 + For one of faith diversified by doubt: + We called the chess-board white—we call it black. + + "Well," you rejoin, "the end's no worse, at least; + We've reason for both colors on the board: + Why not confess then, where I drop the faith + And you the doubt, that I'm as right as you?" + + Because, friend, in the next place, this being so, + And both things even—faith and unbelief + Left to a man's choice—we'll proceed a step, + Returning to our image, which I like. 220 + + A man's choice, yes—but a cabin-passenger's— + The man made for the special life o' the world— + Do you forget him? I remember though! + Consult our ship's conditions and you find + One and but one choice suitable to all; + The choice, that you unluckily prefer, + Turning things topsy-turvy—they or it + Going to the ground. Belief or unbelief + Bears upon life, determines its whole course, + Begins at its beginning. See the world 230 + Such as it is—you made it not, nor I; + I mean to take it as it is—and you, + Not so you'll take it—though you get naught else. + I know the special kind of life I like, + What suits the most my idiosyncrasy, + Brings out the best of me and bears me fruit + In power, peace, pleasantness and length of days. + I find that positive belief does this + For me, and unbelief, no whit of this. + —For you, it does, however?—that, we'll try! 240 + 'T is clear, I cannot lead my life, at least, + Induce the world to let me peaceably, + Without declaring at the outset, "Friends, + I absolutely and peremptorily + Believe!"—I say, faith is my waking life: + One sleeps, indeed, and dreams at intervals, + We know, but waking's the main point with us, + And my provision's for life's waking part. + Accordingly, I use heart, head and hand + All day, I build, scheme, study, and make friends; 250 + And when night overtakes me, down I lie, + Sleep, dream a little, and get done with it, + The sooner the better, to begin afresh. + What's midnight's doubt before the dayspring's faith? + You, the philosopher, that disbelieve, + That recognize the night, give dreams their weight— + To be consistent you should keep your bed, + Abstain from healthy acts that prove you man, + For fear you drowse perhaps at unawares! + And certainly at night you'll sleep and dream, 260 + Live through the day and bustle as you please. + And so you live to sleep as I to wake, + To unbelieve as I to still believe? + Well, and the common sense o' the world calls you + Bed-ridden—and its good things come to me. + Its estimation, which is half the fight, + That's the first-cabin comfort I secure: + The next . . . but you perceive with half an eye! + Come, come, it's best believing, if we may; + You can't but own that! + Next, concede again, 270 + If once we choose belief, on all accounts + We can't be too decisive in our faith, + Conclusive and exclusive in its terms, + To suit the world which gives us the good things. + In every man's career are certain points + Whereon he dares not be indifferent; + The world detects him clearly, if he dare, + As baffled at the game, and losing life. + He may care little or he may care much + For riches, honor, pleasure, work, repose, 280 + Since various theories of life and life's + Success are extant which might easily + Comport with either estimate of these; + And whoso chooses wealth or poverty, + Labor or quiet, is not judged a fool + Because his fellow would choose otherwise; + We let him choose upon his own account + So long as he's consistent with his choice. + But certain points, left wholly to himself, + When once a man has arbitrated on, 290 + We say he must succeed there or go hang. + Thus, he should wed the woman he loves most + Or needs most, whatsoe'er the love or need— + For he can't wed twice. Then, he must avouch, + Or follow, at the least, sufficiently, + The form of faith his conscience holds the best, + Whate'er the process of conviction was: + For nothing can compensate his mistake + On such a point, the man himself being judge: + He cannot wed twice, nor twice lose his soul. 300 + + Well now, there's one great form of Christian faith + I happened to be born in—which to teach + Was given me as I grew up, on all hands, + As best and readiest means of living by; + The same on examination being proved + The most pronounced moreover, fixed, precise + And absolute form of faith in the whole world— + Accordingly, most potent of all forms + For working on the world. Observe, my friend! + Such as you know me, I am free to say, 310 + In these hard latter days which hamper one, + Myself—by no immoderate exercise + Of intellect and learning, but the tact + To let external forces work for me, + —Bid the street's stones be bread and they are bread; + Bid Peter's creed, or rather, Hildebrand's, + Exalt me o'er my fellows in the world + And make my life an ease and joy and pride; + It does so—which for me 's a great point gained, + Who have a soul and body that exact 320 + A comfortable care in many ways. + There's power in me and will to dominate + Which I must exercise, they hurt me else: + In many ways I need mankind's respect, + Obedience, and the love that's born of fear: + While at the same time, there's a taste I have, + A toy of soul, a titillating thing, + Refuses to digest these dainties crude. + The naked life is gross till clothed upon: + I must take what men offer, with a grace 330 + As though I would not, could I help it, take + An uniform I wear though over-rich— + Something imposed on me, no choice of mine; + No fancy-dress worn for pure fancy's sake + And despicable therefore! now folk kneel + And kiss my hand—of course the Church's hand. + Thus I am made, thus life is best for me, + And thus that it should be I have procured; + And thus it could not be another way, + I venture to imagine. + + You'll reply, 340 + So far my choice, no doubt, is a success; + But were I made of better elements, + With nobler instincts, purer tastes, like you, + I hardly would account the thing success + Though it did all for me I say. + + But, friend, + We speak of what is; not of what might be, + And how 'twere better if 'twere otherwise. + I am the man you see here plain enough: + Grant I'm a beast, why, beasts must lead beasts' lives! + Suppose I own at once to tail and claws; 350 + The tailless man exceeds me: but being tailed + I'll lash out lion fashion, and leave apes + To dock their stump and dress their haunches up. + My business is not to remake myself, + But make the absolute best of what God made. + Or—our first simile—though you prove me doomed + To a viler berth still, to the steerage-hole, + The sheep-pen or the pig-stye, I should strive + To make what use of each were possible; + And as this cabin gets upholstery, 360 + That hutch should rustle with sufficient straw. + + But, friend, I don't acknowledge quite so fast + I fail of all your manhood's lofty tastes + Enumerated so complacently, + On the mere ground that you forsooth can find + In this particular life I choose to lead + No fit provision for them. Can you not? + Say you, my fault is I address myself + To grosser estimators than should judge? + And that's no way of holding up the soul, 370 + Which, nobler, needs men's praise perhaps, yet knows + One wise man's verdict outweighs all the fools'— + Would like the two, but, forced to choose, takes that. + I pine among my million imbeciles + (You think) aware some dozen men of sense + Eye me and know me, whether I believe + In the last winking Virgin, as I vow, + And am a fool, or disbelieve in her + And am a knave—approve in neither case, + Withhold their voices though I look their way: 380 + Like Verdi when, at his worst opera's end + (The thing they gave at Florence—what's its name?) + While the mad houseful's plaudits near outbang + His orchestra of salt-box, tongs and bones, + He looks through all the roaring and the wreaths + Where sits Rossini patient in his stall. + + Nay, friend, I meet you with an answer here— + That even your prime men who appraise their kind + Are men still, catch a wheel within a wheel, + See more in a truth than the truth's simple self, 390 + Confuse themselves. You see lads walk the street + Sixty the minute; what's to note in that? + You see one lad o'erstride a chimney-stack; + Him you must watch—he's sure to fall, yet stands! + Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. + The honest thief, the tender murderer, + The superstitious atheist, demirep + That loves and saves her soul in new French books— + We watch while these in equilibrium keep + The giddy line midway: one step aside, 400 + They're classed and done with. I, then, keep the line + Before your sages—just the men to shrink + From the gross weights, coarse scales and labels broad + You offer their refinement. Fool or knave? + Why needs a bishop be a fool or knave + When there's a thousand diamond weights between? + So, I enlist them. Your picked twelve, you'll find, + Profess themselves indignant, scandalized + At thus being held unable to explain + How a superior man who disbelieves 410 + May not believe as well: that's Schelling's way! + It's through my coming in the tail of time, + Nicking the minute with a happy tact. + Had I been born three hundred years ago + They'd say, "What's strange? Blougram of course believes;" + And, seventy years since, "disbelieves of course." + But now, "He may believe; and yet, and yet + How can he?" All eyes turn with interest. + Whereas, step off the line on either side— + You, for example, clever to a fault, 420 + The rough and ready man who write apace, + Read somewhat seldomer, think perhaps even less— + You disbelieve! Who wonders and who cares? + Lord So-and-so—his coat bedropped with wax, + All Peter's chains about his waist, his back + Brave with the needlework of Noodledom— + Believes! Again, who wonders and who cares? + But I, the man of sense and learning too, + The able to think yet act, the this, the that, + I, to believe at this late time of day! 430 + Enough; you see, I need not fear contempt. + + —Except it's yours! Admire me as these may, + You don't. But whom at least do you admire? + Present your own perfection, your ideal, + Your pattern man for a minute—oh, make haste, + Is it Napoleon you would have us grow? + Concede the means; allow his head and hand, + (A large concession, clever as you are) + Good! In our common primal element + Of unbelief (we can't believe, you know— 440 + We're still at that admission, recollect!) + Where do you find—apart from, towering o'er + The secondary temporary aims + Which satisfy the gross taste you despise— + Where do you find his star?—his crazy trust + God knows through what or in what? it's alive + And shines and leads him, and that's all we want. + Have we aught in our sober night shall point + Such ends as his were, and direct the means + Of working out our purpose straight as his, 450 + Nor bring a moment's trouble on success + With after-care to justify the same? + —Be a Napoleon, and yet disbelieve— + Why, the man's mad, friend, take his light away! + What's the vague good o' the world, for which you dare + With comfort to yourself blow millions up? + We neither of us see it! we do see + The blown-up millions—spatter of their brains + And writhing of their bowels and so forth, + In that bewildering entanglement 460 + Of horrible eventualities + Past calculation to the end of time! + Can I mistake for some clear word of God + (Which were my ample warrant for it all) + His puff of hazy instinct, idle talk, + "The State, that's I," quack-nonsense about crowns, + And (when one beats the man to his last hold) + A vague idea of setting things to rights, + Policing people efficaciously, + More to their profit, most of all to his own; 470 + The whole to end that dismallest of ends + By an Austrian marriage, cant to us the Church, + And resurrection of the old regime? + Would I, who hope to live a dozen years, + Fight Austerlitz for reasons such and such? + No: for, concede me but the merest chance + Doubt may be wrong—there's judgment, life to come + With just that chance, I dare not. Doubt proves right? + This present life is all?—you offer me + Its dozen noisy years, without a chance 480 + That wedding an archduchess, wearing lace, + And getting called by divers new-coined names, + Will drive off ugly thoughts and let me dine, + Sleep, read and chat in quiet as I like! + Therefore I will not. + + Take another case; + Fit up the cabin yet another way. + What say you to the poets? shall we write + Hamlet, Othello—make the world our own, + Without a risk to run of either sort? + I can't!—to put the strongest reason first. 490 + "But try," you urge, "the trying shall suffice; + The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: + Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!" + Spare my self-knowledge—there's no fooling me! + If I prefer remaining my poor self, + I say so not in self-dispraise but praise. + If I'm a Shakespeare, let the well alone; + Why should I try to be what now I am? + If I'm no Shakespeare, as too probable— + His power and consciousness and self-delight 500 + And all we want in common, shall I find— + Trying forever? while on points of taste + Wherewith, to speak it humbly, he and I + Are dowered alike—I'll ask you, I or he, + Which in our two lives realizes most? + Much, he imagined—somewhat, I possess. + He had the imagination; stick to that! + Let him say, "In the face of my soul's works + Your world is worthless and I touch it not + Lest I should wrong them"—I'll withdraw my plea. 510 + But does he say so? look upon his life! + Himself, who only can, gives judgment there. + He leaves his towers and gorgeous palaces + To build the trimmest house in Stratford town; + Saves money, spends it, owns the worth of things, + Giulio Romano's pictures, Dowland's lute; + Enjoys a show, respects the puppets, too, + And none more, had he seen its entry once, + Than "Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal." + Why then should I who play that personage, 520 + The very Pandulph Shakespeare's fancy made, + Be told that had the poet chanced to start + From where I stand now (some degree like mine + Being just the goal he ran his race to reach) + He would have run the whole race back, forsooth, + And left being Pandulph, to begin write plays? + Ah, the earth's best can be but the earth's best! + Did Shakespeare live, he could but sit at home + And get himself in dreams the Vatican, + Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls, 530 + And English books, none equal to his own, + Which I read, bound in gold (he never did). + —Terni's fall, Naples' bay and Gothard's top— + Eh, friend? I could not fancy one of these; + But, as I pour this claret, there they are: + I've gained them—crossed St. Gothard last July + With ten mules to the carriage and a bed + Slung inside; is my hap the worse for that? + We want the same things, Shakespeare and myself, + And what I want, I have: he, gifted more, 540 + Could fancy he too had them when he liked, + But not so thoroughly that, if fate allowed, + He would not have them ...also in my sense. + We play one game; I send the ball aloft + No less adroitly that of fifty strokes + Scarce five go o'er the wall so wide and high + Which sends them back to me: I wish and get. + He struck balls higher and with better skill, + But at a poor fence level with his head, + And hit—his Stratford house, a coat of arms, 550 + Successful dealings in his grain and wool— + While I receive heaven's incense in my nose + And style myself the cousin of Queen Bess. + Ask him, if this life's all, who wins the game? + + Believe—and our whole argument breaks up. + Enthusiasm's the best thing, I repeat; + Only, we can't command it; fire and life + Are all, dead matter's nothing, we agree: + And be it a mad dream or God's very breath, + The fact's the same—belief's fire, once in us, 560 + Makes of all else mere stuff to show itself; + We penetrate our life with such a glow + As fire lends wood and iron—this turns steel, + That burns to ash—all's one, fire proves its power + For good or ill, since men call flare success. + But paint a fire, it will not therefore burn. + Light one in me, I'll find it food enough! + Why, to be Luther—that's a life to lead, + Incomparably better than my own. + He comes, reclaims God's earth for God, he says, 570 + Sets up God's rule again by simple means, + Re-opens a shut book, and all is done. + He flared out in the flaring of mankind; + Such Luther's luck was: how shall such be mine? + If he succeeded, nothing's left to do: + And if he did not altogether—well, + Strauss is the next advance. All Strauss should be + I might be also. But to what result? + He looks upon no future: Luther did. + What can I gain on the denying side? 580 + Ice makes no conflagration. State the facts, + Read the text right, emancipate the world— + The emancipated world enjoys itself + With scarce a thank-you: Blougram told it first + It could not owe a farthing—not to him + More than Saint Paul! 't would press its pay, you think? + Then add there's still that plaguy hundredth chance + Strauss may be wrong. And so a risk is run— + For what gain? not for Luther's, who secured + A real heaven in his heart throughout his life, 590 + Supposing death a little altered things. + + "Ay, but since really you lack faith," you cry, + "You run the same risk really on all sides, + In cool indifference as bold unbelief. + As well be Strauss as swing 'twixt Paul and him. + It's not worth having, such imperfect faith, + No more available to do faith's work + Than unbelief like mine. Whole faith, or none!" + + Softly, my friend! I must dispute that point. + Once own the use of faith, I'll find you faith. 600 + We're back on Christian ground. You call for faith; + I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. + The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, + If faith o'ercomes doubt. How I know it does? + By life and man's free will. God gave for that! + To mould life as we choose it, shows our choice: + That's our one act, the previous work's his own. + You criticise the soul? it reared this tree— + This broad life and whatever fruit it bears! + What matter though I doubt at every pore, 610 + Head-doubts, heart-doubts, doubts at my fingers' ends, + Doubts in the trivial work of every day, + Doubts at the very bases of my soul + In the grand moments when she probes herself— + If finally I have a life to show, + The thing I did, brought out in evidence + Against the thing done to me underground + By hell and all its brood, for aught I know? + I say, whence sprang this? shows it faith or doubt? + All's doubt in me; where's break of faith in this? 620 + It is the idea, the feeling and the love, + God means mankind should strive for and show forth + Whatever be the process to that end— + And not historic knowledge, logic sound, + And metaphysical acumen, sure! + "What think ye of Christ," friend? when all's done and said, + Like you this Christianity or not? + It may be false, but will you wish it true? + Has it your vote to be so if it can? + Trust you an instinct silenced long ago 630 + That will break silence and enjoin you love + What mortified philosophy is hoarse, + And all in vain, with bidding you despise? + If you desire faith—then you've faith enough: + What else seeks God—nay, what else seek ourselves? + You form a notion of me, we'll suppose, + On hearsay; it's a favorable one: + "But still" (you add) "there was no such good man, + Because of contradiction in the facts. + One proves, for instance, he was born in Rome, 640 + This Blougram; yet throughout the tales of him + I see he figures as an Englishman." + Well, the two things are reconcilable. + But would I rather you discovered that, + Subjoining—"Still, what matter though they be? + Blougram concerns me naught, born here or there." + + Pure faith indeed—you know not what you ask! + Naked belief in God the Omnipotent, + 0mniscient, Omnipresent, sears too much + The sense of conscious creatures to be borne. 650 + It were the seeing him, no flesh shall dare. + Some think, Creation's meant to show him forth: + I say it's meant to hide him all it can, + And that's what all the blessed evil's for. + Its use in Time is to environ us, + Our breath, our drop of dew, with shield enough + Against that sight till we can bear its stress. + Under a vertical sun, the exposed brain + And lidless eye and disemprisoned heart + Less certainly would wither up at once 660 + Than mind, confronted with the truth of him. + But time and earth case-harden us to live; + The feeblest sense is trusted most; the child + Feels God a moment, ichors o'er the place, + Plays on and grows to be a man like us. + With me, faith means perpetual unbelief + Kept quiet like the snake 'neath Michael's foot + Who stands calm just because he feels it writhe. + Or, if that's too ambitious—here's my box— + I need the excitation of a pinch 670 + Threatening the torpor of the inside-nose + Nigh on the imminent sneeze that never comes. + "Leave it in peace" advise the simple folk: + Make it aware of peace by itching-fits, + Say I—let doubt occasion still more faith! + + You 'll say, once all believed, man, woman, child, + In that dear middle-age these noodles praise. + How you'd exult if I could put you back + Six hundred years, blot out cosmogony, + Geology, ethnology, what not, 680 + (Greek endings, each the little passing-bell + That signifies some faith's about to die) + And set you square with Genesis again— + When such a traveller told you his last news, + He saw the ark a-top of Ararat + But did not climb there since 'twas getting dusk + And robber-bands infest the mountain's foot! + How should you feel, I ask, in such an age, + How act? As other people felt and did; + With soul more blank than this decanter's knob, 690 + Believe—and yet lie, kill, rob, fornicate + Full in belief's face, like the beast you'd be! + + No, when the fight begins within himself, + A man's worth something. God stoops o'er his head, + Satan looks up between his feet—both tug— + He's left, himself, i' the middle: the soul wakes + And grows. Prolong that battle through his life! + Never leave growing till the life to come! + Here, we've got callous to the Virgin's winks + That used to puzzle people wholesomely: 700 + Men have outgrown the shame of being fools. + What are the laws of nature, not to bend + If the Church bid them?—brother Newman asks. + Up with the Immaculate Conception, then— + On to the rack with faith!—is my advice. + Will not that hurry us upon our knees, + Knocking our breasts, "It can't be—yet it shall! + Who am I, the worm, to argue with my Pope? + Low things confound the high things!" and so forth. + That's better than acquitting God with grace 710 + As some folk do. He's tried—no case is proved, + Philosophy is lenient—he may go! + + You'll say, the old system's not so obsolete + But men believe still: ay, but who and where? + King Bomba's lazzaroni foster yet + The sacred flame, so Antonelli writes; + But even of these, what ragamuffin-saint + Believes God watches him continually, + As he believes in fire that it will burn, + Or rain that it will drench him? Break fire's law, 720 + Sin against rain, although the penalty + Be just a singe or soaking? "No," he smiles; + "Those laws are laws that can enforce themselves." + + The sum of all is—yes, my doubt is great, + My faith's still greater, then my faith's enough. + I have read much, thought much, experienced much, + Yet would die rather than avow my fear + The Naples' liquefaction may be false, + When set to happen by the palace-clock + According to the clouds or dinner-time. 730 + I hear you recommend, I might at least + Eliminate, decrassify my faith + Since I adopt it; keeping what I must + And leaving what I can—such points as this. + I won't—that is, I can't throw one away. + Supposing there's no truth in what I hold + About the need of trial to man's faith, + Still, when you bid me purify the same, + To such a process I discern no end. + Clearing off one excrescence to see two, 740 + There's ever a next in size, now grown as big, + That meets the knife: I cut and cut again! + First cut the Liquefaction, what comes last + But Fichte's clever cut at God himself? + Experimentalize on sacred things! + I trust nor hand nor eye nor heart nor brain + To stop betimes: they all get drunk alike. + The first step, I am master not to take. + + You'd find the cutting-process to your taste + As much as leaving growths of lies unpruned, 750 + Nor see more danger in it—you retort. + Your taste's worth mine; but my taste proves more wise + When we consider that the steadfast hold + On the extreme end of the chain of faith + Gives all the advantage, makes the difference + With the rough purblind mass we seek to rule: + We are their lords, or they are free of us, + Justas we tighten or relax our hold. + So, other matters equal, we'll revert + To the first problem—which, if solved my way 760 + And thrown into the balance, turns the scale— + How we may lead a comfortable life, + How suit our luggage to the cabin's size. + + Of course you are remarking all this time + How narrowly and grossly I view life, + Respect the creature-comforts, care to rule + The masses, and regard complacently + "The cabin," in our old phrase. Well, I do. + I act for, talk for, live for this world now, + As this world prizes action, life and talk: 770 + No prejudice to what next world may prove, + Whose new laws and requirements, my best pledge + To observe then, is that I observe these now, + Shall do hereafter what I do meanwhile. + Let us concede (gratuitously though) + Next life relieves the soul of body, yields + Pure spiritual enjoyment: well, my friend, + Why lose this life i' the meantime, since its use + May be to make the next life more intense? + + Do you know, I have often had a dream 780 + (Work it up in your next month's article) + Of man's poor spirit in its progress, still + Losing true life forever and a day + Through ever trying to be and ever being— + In the evolution of successive spheres— + Before its actual sphere and place of life, + Halfway into the next, which having reached, + It shoots with corresponding foolery + Halfway into the next still, on and off! + As when a traveller, bound from North to South, 790 + Scouts far in Russia: what's its use in France? + In France spurns flannel: where's its need in Spain? + In Spain drops cloth, too cumbrous for Algiers! + Linen goes next, and last the skin itself, + A superfluity at Timbuctoo. + When, through his journey, was the fool at ease? + I'm at ease now, friend; worldly in this world, + I take and like its way of life; I think + My brothers, who administer the means, + Live better for my comfort—that's good too; 800 + And God, if he pronounce upon such life, + Approves my service, which is better still. + If he keep silence—why, for you or me + Or that brute beast pulled-up in to-day's "Times," + What odds is 't, save to ourselves, what life we lead? + + You meet me at this issue: you declare— + All special-pleading done with—truth is truth, + And justifies itself by undreamed ways. + You don't fear but it's better, if we doubt, + To say so, act up to our truth perceived 810 + However feebly. Do then—act away! + 'T is there I'm on the watch for you. How one acts + Is, both of us agree, our chief concern: + And how you 'll act is what I fain would see + If, like the candid person you appear, + You dare to make the most of your life's scheme + As I of mine, live up to its full law + Since there's no higher law that counterchecks. + Put natural religion to the test + You've just demolished the revealed with—quick, 820 + Down to the root of all that checks your will, + All prohibition to lie, kill and thieve, + Or even to be an atheistic priest! + Suppose a pricking to incontinence— + Philosophers deduce you chastity + Or shame, from just the fact that at the first + Whoso embraced a woman in the field, + Threw club down and forewent his brains beside, + So, stood a ready victim in the reach + Of any brother savage, club in hand; 830 + Hence saw the use of going out of sight + In wood or cave to prosecute his loves: + I read this in a French book t' other day. + Does law so analyzed coerce you much? + Oh, men spin clouds of fuzz where matters end, + But you who reach where the first thread begins, + You'll soon cut that!—which means you can, but won't, + Through certain instincts, blind, unreasoned-out, + You dare not set aside, you can't tell why, + But there they are, and so you let them rule. 840 + Then, friend, you seem as much a slave as I, + A liar, conscious coward and hypocrite, + Without the good the slave expects to get, + In case he has a master after all! + You own your instincts? why, what else do I, + Who want, am made for, and must have a God + Ere I can be aught, do aught?—no mere name + Want, but the true thing with what proves its truth, + To wit, a relation from that thing to me, + Touching from head to foot—which touch I feel, 850 + And with it take the rest, this life of ours! + I live my life here; yours you dare not live, + + —Not as I state it, who (you please subjoin) + Disfigure such a life and call it names. + While, to your mind, remains another way + For simple men: knowledge and power have rights, + But ignorance and weakness have rights too. + There needs no crucial effort to find truth + If here or there or anywhere about: + We ought to turn each side, try hard and see, 860 + And if we can't, be glad we've earned at least + The right, by one laborious proof the more, + To graze in peace earth's pleasant pasturage. + Men are not angels, neither are they brutes: + Something we may see, all we cannot see. + What need of lying? I say, I see all, + And swear to each detail the most minute + In what I think a Pan's face—you, mere cloud: + I swear I hear him speak and see him wink, + For fear, if once I drop the emphasis, 870 + Mankind may doubt there's any cloud at all. + You take the simple life—ready to see, + Willing to see (for no cloud 's worth a face)— + And leaving quiet what no strength can move, + And which, who bids you move? who has the right? + I bid you; but you are God's sheep, not mine; + ["Pastor est tui Dominus."] You find + In this the pleasant pasture of our life + Much you may eat without the least offence, + Much you don't eat because your maw objects, 880 + Much you would eat but that your fellow-flock + Open great eyes at you and even butt, + And thereupon you like your mates so well + You cannot please yourself, offending them; + Though when they seem exorbitantly sheep, + You weigh your pleasure with their butts and bleats + And strike the balance. Sometimes certain fears + Restrain you, real checks since you find them so; + Sometimes you please yourself and nothing checks: + And thus you graze through life with not one lie, 890 + And like it best. + + But do you, in truth's name? + If so, you beat—which means you are not I— + Who needs must make earth mine and feed my fill + Not simply unbutted at, unbickered with, + But motioned to the velvet of the sward + By those obsequious wethers' very selves. + Look at me. sir; my age is double yours: + At yours, I knew beforehand, so enjoyed, + What now I should be—as, permit the word, + I pretty well imagine your whole range 900 + And stretch of tether twenty years to come. + We both have minds and bodies much alike: + In truth's name, don't you want my bishopric, + My daily bread, my influence and my state? + You're young. I'm old; you must be old one day; + Will you find then, as I do hour by hour, + Women their lovers kneel to, who cut curls + From your fat lap-dog's ear to grace a brooch— + Dukes, who petition just to kiss your ring— + With much beside you know or may conceive? 910 + Suppose we die to-night: well, here am I, + Such were my gains, life bore this fruit to me, + While writing all the same my articles + On music, poetry, the fictile vase + Found at Albano, chess, Anacreon's Greek. + But you—the highest honor in your life, + The thing you'll crown yourself with, all your days, + Is—dining here and drinking this last glass + I pour you out in sign of amity + Before we part forever. Of your power 920 + And social influence, worldly worth in short, + Judge what's my estimation by the fact, + I do not condescend to enjoin, beseech, + Hint secrecy on one of all these words! + You're shrewd and know that should you publish one + The world would brand the lie—my enemies first, + Who'd sneer—"the bishop's an arch-hypocrite + And knave perhaps, but not so frank a fool." + Whereas I should not dare for both my ears + Breathe one such syllable, smile one such smile, 930 + Before the chaplain who reflects myself— + My shade's so much more potent than your flesh. + What's your reward, self-abnegating friend? + Stood you confessed of those exceptional + And privileged great natures that dwarf mine— + A zealot with a mad ideal in reach, + A poet just about to print his ode, + A statesman with a scheme to stop this war, + An artist whose religion is his art— + I should have nothing to object: such men 940 + Carry the fire, all things grow warm to them, + Their drugget's worth my purple, they beat me. + But you—you 're just as little those as I— + You, Gigadibs, who, thirty years of age, + Write statedly for Blackwood's Magazine, + Believe you see two points in Hamlet's soul + Unseized by the Germans yet—which view you'll print— + Meantime the best you have to show being still + That lively lightsome article we took + Almost for the true Dickens—what's its name? 950 + "The Slum and Cellar, or Whitechapel life + Limned after dark!" it made me laugh, I know, + And pleased a month, and brought you in ten pounds. + —Success I recognize and compliment, + And therefore give you, if you choose, three words + (The card and pencil-scratch is quite enough) + Which whether here, in Dublin or New York, + Will get you, prompt as at my eyebrow's wink, + Such terms as never you aspired to get + In all our own reviews and some not ours. 960 + Go write your lively sketches! be the first + "Blougram, or The Eccentric Confidence"— + Or better simply say, "The Outward-bound." + Why, men as soon would throw it in my teeth + As copy and quote the infamy chalked broad + About me on the church-door opposite. + You will not wait for that experience though, + I fancy, howsoever you decide, + To discontinue—not detesting, not + Defaming, but at least—despising me! 970 + __________________________________________ + + Over his wine so smiled and talked his hour + Sylvester Blougram, styled [in partibus + Episcopus, nec non]—(the deuce knows what + It's changed to by our novel hierarchy) + With Gigadibs the literary man, + Who played with spoons, explored his plate's design, + And ranged the olive-stones about its edge, + While the great bishop rolled him out a mind + Long crumpled, till creased consciousness lay smooth. + + For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke. 980 + The other portion, as he shaped it thus + For argumentatory purposes, + He felt his foe was foolish to dispute. + Some arbitrary accidental thoughts + That crossed his mind, amusing because new, + He chose to represent as fixtures there, + Invariable convictions (such they seemed + Beside his interlocutor's loose cards + Flung daily down, and not the same way twice) + While certain hell-deep instincts, man's weak tongue 990 + Is never bold to utter in their truth + Because styled hell-deep ('t is an old mistake + To place hell at the bottom of the earth) + He ignored these—not having in readiness + Their nomenclature and philosophy: + He said true things, but called them by wrong names. + "On the whole," he thought, "I justify myself + On every point where cavillers like this + Oppugn my life: he tries one kind of fence, + I close, he's worsted, that's enough for him. 1000 + He's on the ground: if ground should break away + I take my stand on, there's a firmer yet + Beneath it, both of us may sink and reach. + His ground was over mine and broke the first: + So, let him sit with me this many a year!" + + He did not sit five minutes. Just a week + Sufficed his sudden healthy vehemence. + Something had struck him in the "Outward-bound" + Another way than Blougram's purpose was: + And having bought, not cabin-furniture 1010 + But settler's-implements (enough for three) + And started for Australia—there, I hope, + By this time he has tested his first plough, + And studied his last chapter of St. John. + + NOTES + + "Bishop Blougram's Apology" is made over the wine after dinner to + defend himself from the criticisms of a doubting young literary man, + who despises him because he considers that he cannot be true to his + convictions in conforming to the doctrines of the Catholic Church. + He builds up his defence from the proposition that the problem of + life is not to conceive ideals which cannot be realized, but to find + what is and make it as fair as possible. The bishop admits his + unbelief, but being free to choose either belief or unbelief, since + neither can be proved wholly true, chooses belief as his guiding + principle, because he finds it the best for making his own life and + that of others happy and comfortable in this world. Once having + chosen faith on this ground, the more absolute the form of faith, + the more potent the results; besides, the bishop has that desire of + domination in his nature, which the authorization of the Church + makes safer for him. To Gigadibs' objection that were his nature + nobler, he would not count this success, he replies he is as God + made him, and can but make the best of himself as he is. To the + objection that he addresses himself to grosser estimators than he + ought, he replies that all the world is interested in the fact that + a man of his sense and learning, too, still believes at this late + hour. He points out the impossibility of his following an ideal + like Napoleon's, for, conceding the merest chance that doubt may be + wrong, and judgment to follow this life, he would not dare to + slaughter men as Napoleon had for such slight ends. As for + Shakespeare's ideal, he can't write plays like his if he wanted to, + but he has realized things in his life which Shakespeare only + imagined, and which he presumes Shakespeare would not have scorned + to have realized in his life, judging from his fulfilled ambition to + be a gentleman of property at Stratford. He admits, however, that + enthusiasm in belief, such as Luther's, would be far preferable to + his own way of living, and after this, enthusiasm in unbelief, which + he might have if it were not for that plaguy chance that doubt may + be wrong. Gigadibs interposes that the risk is as great for cool + indifference as for bold doubt. Blougram disputes that point by + declaring that doubts prove faith, and that man's free will + preferring to have faith true to having doubt true tips the balance + in favor of faith, and shows that man's instinct or aspiration is + toward belief; that unquestioning belief, such as that of the Past, + has no moral effect on man, but faith which knows itself through + doubt is a moral spur. Thus the arguments from expediency, + instinct, and consciousness, all bear on the side of faith, and + convince the bishop that it is safer to keep his faith intact from + his doubts. He then proves that Gigadibs, with all his assumption + of superiority in his frankness of unbelief, is in about the same + position as himself, since the moral law which he follows has no + surer foundation than the religious law the bishop follows, both + founded upon instinct. The bishop closes as he began, with the + consciousness that rewards for his way of living are of a + substantial nature, while Gigadibs has nothing to show for his + frankness, and does not hesitate to say that Gigadibs will consider + his conversation with the bishop the greatest honor ever conferred + upon him. The poet adds some lines, somewhat apologetic for the + bishop, intimating that his arguments were suited to the calibre of + his critic, and that with a profounder critic he would have made a + more serious defence. Speaking of a review of this poem by Cardinal + Wiseman (1801-1865), Browning says in a letter to a friend, printed + in [Poet-lore], May, 1896: "The most curious notice I ever had was + from Cardinal Wiseman on [Blougram]—[i.e.], himself. It was in the + [Rambler], a Catholic journal of those days, and certified to be his + by Father Prout, who said nobody else would have dared put it in." + This review praises the poem for its "fertility of illustration and + felicity of argument," and says that "though utterly mistaken in the + very groundwork of religion, though starting from the most unworthy + notions of the work of a Catholic bishop, and defending a + self-indulgence every honest man must feel to be disgraceful, [it] + is yet in its way triumphant." + + 6. Brother Pugin: (1810-1852), an eminent English architect, who, + becoming a Roman Catholic, designed many structures for that Church. + + 34. Corpus Christi Day: Thursday after Trinity Sunday, when the + Feast of the Sacrament of the Altar is celebrated. + + 45. Che: what. + + 54. Count D' Orsay: (1798-1852), a clever Frenchman, distinguished + as a man of fashion, and for his drawings of horses. + + 113. Parma's pride, the 'Jerome . . . Correggio . . . the Modenese: + the picture of Saint Jerome in the Ducal Academy at Parma, by + Correggio, who was born in the territory of Modena, Italy. + + 184. A chorus-ending from Euripides: the Greek dramatist, Euripides + (480 B. C.- 406 B. C.), frequently ended his choruses with this + thought—sometimes with slight variations in expression: "The Gods + perform many things contrary to our expectations, and those things + which we looked for are not accomplished; but God hath brought to + pass things unthought of." + + 316. Peter's . . . or rather, Hildebrand's: the claim of Hildebrand, + Pope Gregory VII (1073-1085) for temporal power and authority + exceeding Saint Peter's, the founder of the Roman Church. + + 411. Schelling: the German philosopher (1775-1854). + + 472. Austrian marriage: the marriage of Marie Louise, daughter of + the Emperor of Austria, to Napoleon I. + + 475. Austerlitz: fought with success by Napoleon, in 1805, against + the coalition of Austria, Russia, and England, and resulting in the + alliance mentioned with Austria and fresh overtures to the Papal + power and the old French nobility. + + 514. Trimmest house in Stratford: New Place, a mansion in the heart + of the town, built for Sir Hugh Clopton, and known for two centuries + as his "great house," bought with nearly an acre of ground by + Shakespeare, in 1597. + + 516. Giulio Romano: Italian painter (1492-1546), referred to in + "Winter's Tale," v. ii. 105. —Dowland: English musician, praised + for his lute-playing in a sonnet in "The Passionate Pilgrim," + attributed to Shakespeare. + + 519. "Pandulph," etc.: quotation from "King John," iii. i. 138. + + 568. Luther: Martin (1483-1546), whose enthusiasm reformed the + Church. + + 577. Strauss: (1808-1874), one of the Tuebingen philosophers, author + of a Rationalistic "Life of Jesus." + + 626. "What think ye," etc.: Matthew 22.42. + + 664. Ichors o'er the place: ichor=serum, which exudes where the skin + is broken, coats the hurt, and facilitates its healing. + + 667. Snake 'neath Michael's foot: Rafael's picture in the Louvre of + Saint Michael slaying the dragon. + + 703. Brother Newman: John Henry (1801-1890), leader of the + Tractarian movement at Oxford, which approached the doctrines of the + Roman Church. The last (90th) tract was entirely written by him. + The Bishop of Oxford was called upon to stop the series, and in 1845 + Dr. Newman entered the Romish Church. + + 715. King Bomba: means King Puffcheek, King Liar, a sobriquet given + to Ferdinand II, late king of the Two Sicilies. —Lazzaroni: Naples + beggars, so called from the Lazarus of the Parable, Luke 16.20. + + 716. Antonelli: Cardinal, secretary of Pope Pius IX. + + 728. Naples' liquefaction: the supposed miracle of the liquefaction + of the blood of Saint Januarius the Martyr. A small quantity of it + is preserved in a crystal reliquary in the great church at Naples, + and when brought into the presence of the head of the saint, it + melts. + + 732. Decrassify: make less crass or gross. + + 744. Fichte: (1761-1814), celebrated German metaphysician, who + defined God as the "moral order of the universe." + + 877. "[Pastor est tui Dominus]": the Lord is your shepherd. + + 915. Anacreon: Greek lyric poet of the sixth century B. C. + + 972. [In partibus Episcopus], etc.: "In countries where the Roman + Catholic faith is not regularly established, as it was not in + England before the time of Cardinal Wiseman, there were no bishops + of sees in the kingdom itself, but they took their titles from + heathen lands." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CLEON + </h2> + <h3> + "As certain also of your own poets have said"— + </h3> + <h3> + 1855 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles, + Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea, + And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece")— + To Protus in his Tyranny: much health! + + They give thy letter to me, even now: + I read and seem as if I heard thee speak. + The master of thy galley still unlades + Gift after gift; they block my court at last + And pile themselves along its portico + Royal with sunset, like a thought of thee: 10 + And one white she-slave from the group dispersed + Of black and white slaves (like the chequer-work + Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift, + Now covered with this settle-down of doves), + One lyric woman, in her crocus vest + Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands + Commends to me the strainer and the cup + Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine. + + Well-counselled, king, in thy munificence! + For so shall men remark, in such an act 20 + Of love for him whose song gives life its joy, + Thy recognition of the use of life; + Nor call thy spirit barely adequate + To help on life in straight ways, broad enough + For vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest. + Thou, in the daily building of thy tower— + Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil, + Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth, + Or when the general work 'mid good acclaim + Climbed with the eye to cheer the architect— 30 + Didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake— + Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope + Of some eventual rest a-top of it, + Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed, + Thou first of men mightst look out to the East: + The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun. + For this, I promise on thy festival + To pour libation, looking o'er the sea, + Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak + Thy great words, and describe thy royal face— 40 + Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most, + Within the eventual element of calm. + + Thy letter's first requirement meets me here. + It is as thou hast heard: in one short life + I, Cleon, have effected all those things + Thou wonderingly dost enumerate. + That epos on thy hundred plates of gold + Is mine—and also mine the little chant, + So sure to rise from every fishing-bark + When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net. 50 + The image of the sun-god on the phare, + Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine; + The Poecile, o'er-storied its whole length, + As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too. + I know the true proportions of a man + And woman also, not observed before; + And I have written three books on the soul, + Proving absurd all written hitherto, + And putting us to ignorance again. + For music—why, I have combined the moods, 60 + Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine; + Thus much the people know and recognize, + Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not. + We of these latter days, with greater mind + Than our forerunners, since more composite, + Look not so great, beside their simple way, + To a judge who only sees one way at once, + One mind-point and no other at a time— + Compares the small part of a man of us + With some whole man of the heroic age, 70 + Great in his way—not ours, nor meant for ours. + And ours is greater, had we skill to know: + For, what we call this life of men on earth, + This sequence of the soul's achievements here + Being, as I find much reason to conceive, + Intended to be viewed eventually. + As a great whole, not analyzed to parts, + But each part having reference to all— + How shall a certain part, pronounced complete, + Endure effacement by another part? 80 + Was the thing done?—then, what's to do again? + See, in the chequered pavement opposite, + Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb, + And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid— + He did not overlay them, superimpose + The new upon the old and blot it out, + But laid them on a level in his work, + Making at last a picture; there it lies. + So, first the perfect separate forms were made, + The portions of mankind; and after, so, 90 + Occurred the combination of the same. + For where had been a progress, otherwise? + Mankind, made up of all the single men— + In such a synthesis the labor ends. + Now mark me! those divine men of old time + Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point + The outside verge that rounds our faculty; + And where they reached, who can do more than reach? + It takes but little water just to touch + At some one point the inside of a sphere, 100 + And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest + In due succession: but the finer air + Which not so palpably nor obviously, + Though no less universally, can touch + The whole circumference of that emptied sphere, + Fills it more fully than the water did; + Holds thrice the weight of water in itself + Resolved into a subtler element. + And yet the vulgar call the sphere first full + Up to the visible height—and after, void; 110 + Not knowing air's more hidden properties. + And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus + To vindicate his purpose in our life: + Why stay we on the earth unless to grow? + Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out, + That he or other god descended here + And, once for all, showed simultaneously + What, in its nature, never can be shown, + Piecemeal or in succession;—showed, I say, + The worth both absolute and relative 120 + Of all his children from the birth of time, + His instruments for all appointed work. + I now go on to image—might we hear + The judgment which should give the due to each, + Show where the labor lay and where the ease, + And prove Zeus' self, the latent everywhere! + This is a dream;—but no dream, let us hope, + That years and days, the summers and the springs, + Follow each other with unwaning powers. + The grapes which dye thy wine are richer far, 130 + Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock; + The wave plum than the savage-tasted drupe; + The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet; + The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers; + That young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave, + Sleeping above her robe as buoyed by clouds, + Refines upon the women of my youth. + What, and the soul alone deteriorates? + I have not chanted verse like Homer, no— + Nor swept string like Terpander, no—nor carved 140 + And painted men like Phidias and his friend; + I am not great as they are, point by point. + But I have entered into sympathy + With these four, running these into one soul, + Who, separate, ignored each other's art. + Say, is it nothing that I know them all? + The wild flower was the larger; I have dashed + Rose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup's + Honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit, + And show a better flower if not so large: 150 + I stand myself. Refer this to the gods + Whose gift alone it is! which, shall I dare + (All pride apart) upon the absurd pretext + That such a gift by chance lay in my hand, + Discourse of lightly or depreciate? + It might have fallen to another's hand: what then? + I pass too surely: let at least truth stay! + + And next, of what thou followest on to ask. + This being with me as I declare, 0 king, + My works, in all these varicolored kinds, 160 + So done by me, accepted so by men— + Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts) + I must not be accounted to attain + The very crown and proper end of life? + Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up, + I face death with success in my right hand: + Whether I fear death less than dost thyself + The fortunate of men? "For" (writest thou) + "Thou leavest much behind, while I leave naught. + Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing, 170 + The pictures men shall study; while my life, + Complete and whole now in its power and joy, + Dies altogether with my brain and arm, + Is lost indeed; since, what survives myself? + The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave, + See on the promontory which I named. + And that—some supple courtier of my heir + Shall use its robed and sceptred arm, perhaps, + To fix the rope to, which best drags it down. + I go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!" 180 + + Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind. + Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse + Upon the scheme of earth and man in chief, + That admiration grows as knowledge grows? + That imperfection means perfection hid, + Reserved in part, to grace the after-time? + If, in the morning of philosophy, + Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived, + Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have looked + On all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird, 190 + Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage— + Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced + The perfectness of others yet unseen. + Conceding which—had Zeus then questioned thee + "Shall I go on a step, improve on this, + Do more for visible creatures than is done?" + Thou wouldst have answered, "Ay, by making each + Grow conscious in himself—by that alone. + All's perfect else: the shell sucks fast the rock, + The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims 200 + And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight, + Till life's mechanics can no further go— + And all this joy in natural life is put + Like fire from off thy finger into each, + So exquisitely perfect is the same. + But 't is pure fire, and they mere matter are; + It has them, not they it: and so I choose + For man, thy last premeditated work + (If I might add a glory to the scheme) + That a third thing should stand apart from both, 210 + A quality arise within his soul, + Which, intro-active, made to supervise + And feel the force it has, may view itself, + And so be happy." Man might live at first + The animal life: but is there nothing more? + In due time, let him critically learn + How he lives; and, the more he gets to know + Of his own life's adaptabilities, + The more joy-giving will his life become. + Thus man, who hath this quality, is best. 220 + + But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said: + "Let progress end at once—man make no step + Beyond the natural man, the better beast, + Using his senses, not the sense of sense." + In man there's failure, only since he left + The lower and inconscious forms of life. + We called it an advance, the rendering plain + Man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life, + And, by new lore so added to the old, + Take each step higher over the brute's head. 230 + This grew the only life, the pleasure-house, + Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul, + Which whole surrounding flats of natural life + Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to; + A tower that crowns a country. But alas, + The soul now climbs it just to perish there! + For thence we have discovered ('t is no dream— + We know this, which we had not else perceived) + That there's a world of capability + For joy, spread round about us, meant for us, 240 + Inviting us; and still the soul craves all, + And still the flesh replies, "Take no jot more + Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad! + Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought + Deduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge + Our bounded physical recipiency, + Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life, + Repair the waste of age and sickness: no, + It skills not! life's inadequate to joy, + As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take. 250 + They praise a fountain in my garden here + Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow + Thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise. + What if I told her, it is just a thread + From that great river which the hills shut up, + And mock her with my leave to take the same? + The artificer has given her one small tube + Past power to widen or exchange—what boots + To know she might spout oceans if she could? + She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread; 260 + And so a man can use but a man's joy + While he sees God's. Is it for Zeus to boast, + "See, man, how happy I live, and despair— + That I may be still happier—for thy use!" + If this were so, we could not thank our Lord, + As hearts beat on to doing; 'tis not so— + Malice it is not. Is it carelessness? + Still, no. If care—where is the sign? I ask, + And get no answer, and agree in sum, + 0 king, with thy profound discouragement, 270 + Who seest the wider but to sigh the more. + Most progress is most failure: thou sayest well. + + The last point now:—thou dost except a case— + Holding joy not impossible to one + With artist-gifts—to such a man as I + Who leave behind me living works indeed; + For, such a poem, such a painting lives. + What? dost thou verily trip upon a word, + Confound the accurate view of what joy is + (Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) 280 + With feeling joy? confound the knowing how + And showing how to live (my faculty) + With actually living?—Otherwise + Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king? + Because in my great epos I display + How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act— + Is this as though I acted? if I paint, + Carve the young Phoebus, am I therefore young? + Methinks I'm older that I bowed myself + The many years of pain that taught me art! 290 + Indeed, to know is something, and to prove + How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more; + But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something too. + Yon rower, with the moulded muscles there, + Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I. + I can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode. + I get to sing of love, when grown too gray + For being beloved: she turns to that young man, + The muscles all a-ripple on his back. + I know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king! 300 + + "But," sayest thou—(and I marvel, I repeat, + To find thee trip on such a mere word) "what + Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die: + Sappho survives, because we sing her songs, + And AEschylus, because we read his plays!" + Why, if they live still, let them come and take + Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup, + Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive? + Say rather that my fate is deadlier still, + In this, that every day my sense of joy 310 + Grows more acute, my soul (intensified + By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen; + While every day my hairs fall more and more, + My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase— + The horror quickening still from year to year, + The consummation coming past escape + When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy— + When all my works wherein I prove my worth, + Being present still to mock me in men's mouths, + Alive still, in the praise of such as thou, 320 + I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man, + The man who loved his life so over-much, + Sleep in my urn. It is so horrible, + I dare at times imagine to my need + Some future state revealed to us by Zeus, + Unlimited in capability + For joy, as this is in desire for joy, + —To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us: + That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait + On purpose to make prized the life at large— 330 + Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death, + We burst there as the worm into the fly, + Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no! + Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas, + He must have done so, were it possible! + + Live long and happy, and in that thought die; + Glad for what was! Farewell. And for the rest, + I cannot tell thy messenger aright + Where to deliver what he bears of thine + To one called Paulus; we have heard his fame 340 + Indeed, if Christus be not one with him— + I know not, nor am troubled much to know. + Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew, + As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised, + Hath access to a secret shut from us? + Thou wrongest our philosophy, 0 king, + In stooping to inquire of such an one, + As if his answer could impose at all! + He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write. + Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves 350 + Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ; + And (as I gathered from a bystander) + Their doctrine could be held by no sane man. + + NOTES + + "Cleon" expresses the approach of Greek thought at the time of + Christ towards the idea of immortality as made known by Cleon, a + Greek poet writing in reply to a Greek patron whose princely gifts + and letter asking comment on the philosophical significance of death + have just reached him. The important conclusions reached by Cleon + in his answer are that the composite mind is greater than the minds + of the past, because it is capable of accomplishing much in many + lines of activity, and of sympathizing with each of those simple + great minds that had reached the highest possible perfection "at one + point." It is, indeed, the necessary next step in development, + though all classes of mind fit into the perfected mosaic of life, no + one achievement blotting out any other. This soul and mind + development he deduces from the physical development he sees about + him. But since with the growth of human consciousness and the + increase of knowledge comes greater capability to the soul for joy + while the failure of physical powers shuts off the possibility of + realizing joy, it would have been better had man been left with + nothing higher than mere sense like the brutes. Dismissing the idea + of immortality through one's works as unsatisfactory to the + individual, he finally concludes that a long and happy life is all + there is to be hoped for, since, had the future life which he has + sometimes dared to hope for been possible, Zeus would long before + have revealed it. He dismisses the preaching of one Paulus as + untenable. + + "As certain also of your own poets have said": this motto hints that + Paul's speech at Athens (Acts 17.22-28) suggests and justifies + Browning's conception of such Greek poets as Cleon seeking "the + Lord, if haply they might feel after him." Paul's quotation, "For + we are also his offspring," is from the "Phoenomena" by Aratus, a + Greek poet of his own town of Tarsus. + + 1. Sprinkled isles: probably the Sporades, so named because they + were scattered, and in opposition to the Cyclades, which formed a + circle around Delos. + + 51. Phare: light-house. The French authority, Allard, says that + though there is no mention in classical writings of any light-house + in Greece proper, it is probable that there was one at the port of + Athens as well as at other points in Greece. There were certainly + several along both shores of the Hellespont, besides the famous + father of all light-houses, on the island of Pharos, near + Alexandria. Hence the French name for light-house, phare. + + 53. Poecile: the portico at Athens painted with battle pictures by + Polygnotus the Thasian. + + 60. Combined the moods: in Greek music the scales were called moods + or modes, and were subject to great variation in the arrangement of + tones and semitones. + + 83. Rhomb . . . lozenge . . . trapezoid: all four-sided forms, but + differing as to the parallel arrangement of their sides and the + obliquity of their angles. + + 140. Terpander: musician of Lesbos (about 650 B. C.), who added + three strings to the four-stringed Greek lyre. + + 141. Phidias: the Athenian sculptor (about 430 B. C.) —and his + friend: Pericles, ruler of Athens (444-429 B.C.). Plutarch speaks + of their friendship in his Life of Pericles. + + 304. Sappho: poet of Lesbos, supreme among lyricists (about 600 + B. C.). Only fragments of her verse remain. + + 305. AEschylus: oldest of the three great Athenian dramatists + (525-472 B. C.). + + 340. Paulus; we have have heard his fame: Paul's mission to the + Gentiles carried him to many of the islands in the AEgean Sea as + well as to Athens and Corinth (Acts 13-21). +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI + </h2> + <h3> + 1842 + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + I know a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives + First, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves + The world; and, vainly favored, it repays + The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze + By no change of its large calm front of snow. + And underneath the Mount, a Flower I know, + He cannot have perceived, that changes ever + At his approach; and, in the lost endeavor + To live his life, has parted, one by one, + With all a flower's true graces, for the grace 10 + Of being but a foolish mimic sun, + With ray-like florets round a disk-like face. + Men nobly call by many a name the Mount + As over many a land of theirs its large + Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe + Is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie, + Each to its proper praise and own account: + Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively. + + II + Oh, Angel of the East, one, one gold look + Across the waters to this twilight nook, 20 + —The far sad waters. Angel, to this nook! + + III + Dear Pilgrim, art thou for the East indeed? + Go!—saying ever as thou dost proceed, + That I, French Rudel, choose for my device + A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice + Before its idol. See! These inexpert + And hurried fingers could not fail to hurt + The woven picture; 't is a woman's skill + Indeed; but nothing baffled me, so, ill + Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed 30 + On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees + On my flower's breast as on a platform broad: + But, as the flower's concern is not for these + But solely for the sun, so men applaud + In vain this Rudel, he not looking here + But to the East—the East! Go, say this, Pilgrim dear! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NOTES + + "Rudel to the Lady of Tripoli": Rudel symbolizes his love as the + aspiration of the sunflower that longs only to become like the sun, + so losing a flower's true grace, while the sun does not even + perceive the flower. He imagines himself as a pilgrim revealing to + the Lady of Tripoli by means of this symbol the entire sinking of + self in his love for her. Even men's praise of his songs is no more + to him than the bees which bask on a sunflower are to it. + + Rudel was a Provencal troubadour, and lived in the twelfth century. + The Crusaders, returning from the East, spread abroad wonderful + reports of the beauty, learning, and wit of the Countess of Tripoli, + a small duchy on the Mediterranean, north of Palestine. Rudel, + although never having seen her, fell in love with her and composed + songs in honor of her beauty, and finally set out to the East in + pilgrim's garb. On his way he was taken ill, but lived to reach the + port of Tripoli. The countess, being told of his arrival, went on + board the vessel. When Rudel heard she was coming, he revived, said + she had restored him to life by her coming, and that he was willing + to die, having seen her. He died in her arms; she gave him a rich + and honorable burial in a sepulchre of porphyry on which were + engraved verses in Arabic. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONE WORD MORE + </h2> + <h3> + TO E. B. B. + </h3> + <h3> + 1855 + </h3> + <p> + [Originally appended to the collection of Poems called "Men and Women," + the greater portion of which has now been, more correctly, distributed + under the other titles of this edition.-R. B.] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + There they are, my fifty men and women + Naming me the fifty poems finished! + Take them, Love, the book and me together: + Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. + + II + Rafael made a century of sonnets, + Made and wrote them in a certain volume + Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil + Else he only used to draw Madonnas: + These, the world might view—but one, the volume. + Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you. 10 + Did she live and love it all her life-time? + Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, + Die, and let it drop beside her pillow + Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, + Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving— + Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, + Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's? + You and I would rather read that volume, + (Taken to his beating bosom by it) + Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael, 20 + Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas— + Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, + Her, that visits Florence in a vision, + Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre— + Seen by us and all the world in circle. + + IV + You and I will never read that volume. + Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple + Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. + Guido Reni dying, all Bologna + Cried, and the world cried too, "Ours, the treasure!" 30 + Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. + + V + Dante once prepared to paint an angel: + Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice." + While he mused and traced it and retraced it, + (Peradventure with a pen corroded + Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, + When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked, + Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, + Bit into the live man's flesh, for parchment, + Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, 40 + Let the wretch go festering through Florence)— + Dante, who loved well because he hated, + Hated wickedness that hinders loving, + Dante standing, studying his angel— + In there broke the folk of his Inferno. + Says he—"Certain people of importance" + Such he gave his daily dreadful line to) + "Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet." + Says the poet—"Then I stopped my painting." + You and I would rather see that angel, 50 + Painted by the tenderness of Dante, + Would we not?—than read a fresh Inferno. + + VII + You and I will never see that picture. + While he mused on love and Beatrice, + While he softened o'er his outlined angel, + In they broke, those "people of importance;" + We and Bice bear the loss forever. + + VIII + What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture? + This: no artist lives and loves, that longs not + Once, and only once, and for one only, 60 + (Ah, the prize !) to find his love a language + Fit and fair and simple and sufficient— + Using nature that's an art to others, + Not, this one time, art that's turned his nature. + Ay, of all the artists living, loving, + None but would forego his proper dowry— + Does he paint? he fain would write a poem— + Does he write? he fain would paint a picture, + Put to proof art alien to the artist's, + Once, and only once, and for one only, 70 + So to be the man and leave the artist, + Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. + + IX + Wherefore? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement! + He who smites the rock and spreads the water, + Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, + Even he, the minute makes immortal, + Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute, + Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. + While he smites, how can he but remember, + So he smote before, in such a peril, 80 + When they stood and mocked—"Shall smiting help us?" + When they drank and sneered—"A stroke is easy!" + When they wiped their mouths and went their journey, + Throwing him for thanks—"But drought was pleasant." + Thus old memories mar the actual triumph; + Thus the doing savors of disrelish; + Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; + O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, + Carelessness or consciousness—the gesture. + For he bears an ancient wrong about him, 90 + Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, + Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude— + "How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?" + Guesses what is like to prove the sequel— + "Egypt's flesh-pots-nay, the drought was better." + + X + Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant! + Theirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven brilliance, + Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat. + Never dares the man put off the prophet. + + XI + Did he love one face from out the thousands, 100 + (Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely, + Were she but the Ethiopian bondslave), + He would envy yon dumb patient camel, + Keeping a reserve of scanty water + Meant to save his own life in the desert; + Ready in the desert to deliver + (Kneeling down to let his breast be opened) + Hoard and life together for his mistress. + + XII + I shall never, in the years remaining, + Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues, 110 + Make you music that should all-express me; + So it seems: I stand on my attainment. + This of verse alone, one life allows me; + Verse and nothing else have I to give you. + Other heights in other lives, God willing; + All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Love! + + XIII + Yet a semblance of resource avails us— + Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. + Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly, + Lines I write the first time and the last time. 120 + He who works in fresco, steals a hair brush, + Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, + Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, + Makes a strange art of an art familiar, + Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. + He who blows thro' bronze, may breathe thro' silver, + Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. + He who writes, may write for once as I do. + + XIV + Love, you saw me gather men and women, + Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, 130 + Enter each and all, and use their service, + Speak from every mouth—the speech, a poem. + Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows, + Hopes and tears, belief and disbelieving: + I am mine and yours—the rest be all men's, + Karshish, Cleon, Norbert and the fifty. + Let me speak this once in my true person, + Not as Lippo, Roland or Andrea, + Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence; + Pray you, look on these my men and women, 140 + Take and keep my fifty poems finished; + Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also! + Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things. + Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon's self! + Here in London, yonder late in Florence, + Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. + Curving on a sky imbrued with color, + Drifted over Fiesole by twilight, + Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. + Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, 150 + Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, + Perfect till the nightingales applauded. + Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished, + Hard to greet, she traverses the houseroofs, + Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, + Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. + + XVI + What, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy? + Nay: for if that moon could love a mortal, + Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy), + All her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos), 160 + She would turn a new side to her mortal, + Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman— + Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace, + Blind to Galileo on his turret, + Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats—him, even! + Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal— + When she turns round, comes again in heaven, + Opens out anew for worse or better! + Proves she like some portent of an iceberg + Swimming full upon the ship it founders, 170 + Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals? + Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire + Seen by Moses when he climbed the mountain? + Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu + Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, + Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. + Like the bodied heaven in his clearness + Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work, + When they ate and drank and saw God also! + + XVII + What were seen? None knows, none ever shall know. 180 + Only this is sure—the sight were other, + Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence, + Dying now impoverished here in London. + God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures + Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, + One to show a woman when he loves her! + + XVIII + This I say of me, but think of you, Love! + This to you—yourself my moon of poets! + Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, + Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you! 190 + There, in turn I stand with them and praise you— + Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. + But the best is when I glide from out them, + Cross a step or two of dubious twilight, + Come out on the other side, the novel + Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, + Where I hush and bless myself with silence. + + XIX + Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, + Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, + Wrote one song—and in my brain I sing it, 200 + Drew one angel—borne, see, on my bosom! + R. B. + + NOTES + + "One Word More" is the dedication to Elizabeth Barrett Browning + which was appended to "Men and Women" as first published when it + contained fifty poems since distributed under other titles. + + The poet, recalling how Rafael when he would all-express his love, + wrote sonnets to the loved one, and how Dante prepared to paint an + angel for Beatrice, draws the conclusion that there is no artist but + longs to give expression to his supreme love in some other art than + his own which would be the medium of a spontaneous, natural outburst + of feeling in a way impossible in the familiar forms of his own art. + Thus he would gain a man's joy and miss the artist's sorrow, for, + like the miracles of Moses, the work of the artist is subject to the + cold criticism of the world, which expects him nevertheless always + to be the artist, and has no sympathy for him as a man. Since there + is no other art but poetry in which it is possible for Browning to + express himself, he will at least drop his accustomed dramatic form + and speak in his own person; though it be poor, let it stand as a + symbol for all-expression. Yet does she not know him, for he has + shown her his soul-side as one might imagine the moon showing + another side to a mortal lover, which would remain forever as much a + mystery to the outside world as the vision seen by Moses, etc. + Similarly, he has admired the side his moon of poets has shown the + whole world in her poetry, but he blesses himself with the thought + of the other side which he alone has seen. + + 5. Century of sonnets: Rafael is known to have written four love + sonnets on the back of sketches for his wall painting, the + "Disputa," which are still preserved in collections, one of them in + the British Museum. The Italian text of these sonnets with English + translations are given in Wolzogen's Life of him translated by + F. E. Bunn[e`]tt. Did he ever write a hundred? It is supposed that + the lost book once owned by Guido Reni, apparently the one referred + to in stanza iv, was a book of drawings. Perhaps these also bore + sonnets on their backs, or Browning guessed they did. + + 10. Who that one: Margarita, a girl Rafael met and loved in Rome, + two portraits of whom exist—one in the Barberini Palace, Rome, the + other in the Pitti, in Florence. They resemble the Sistine and + other Madonnas by Rafael. + + 21. Madonnas, etc.: "San Sisto," now in Dresden; "Foligno," in the + Vatican, Rome; the one in Florence is called "del Granduca," and + represents her appearing in a vision; the one in the Louvre, called + "La Belle Jardini[e`]re," is seated in a garden among lilies. + + 32. Dante once, etc.: "On that day," writes Dante, "Vita Nuova," + xxxv, "which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made of the + citizens of eternal life, remembering of her as I sat alone, I + betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain + tablets." That this lady was Beatrice Portinari, as Browning + supposes, Dante's devotion to her, in both "The New Life" and "The + Divine Comedy," should leave no doubt. Yet the literalness of + Mr. W. M. Rossetti makes him obtuse here, as he and other + commentators seem to be in their understanding of Browning + throughout this stanza. Browning evidently contrasts Dante's + tenderness here towards Beatrice with the remorselessness of his pen + in the "Inferno" (see Cantos 32 and 33), where he stigmatized his + enemies as if using their very flesh for his parchment, so that ever + after in the eyes of all Florence they seemed to bear the marks of + the poet's hate of their wickedness. It was people of this sort, + grandees of the town, Browning fancies, who again "hinder loving," + breaking in upon the poet and seizing him unawares forsooth at this + intimate moment of loving artistry. "Chancing to turn my head," + Dante continues, "I perceived that some were standing beside me to + whom I should have given courteous greeting, and that they were + observing what I did: also I learned afterwards that they had been + there a while before I perceived them." The tender moment was over. + He stopped the painting, simply saying, "Another was with me." + + 74. He who smites the rock: Moses, whose experience in smiting the + rock for water (Exodus 17.1-7; Numbers 20.1-11) is likened to the + sorrow of the artist, serving a reckless world. + + 97. Sinai-forehead's . . . brilliance: Exodus 19.9, 16; 34.30. + + 101. Jethro's daughter: Moses' wife, Zipporah (Exodus 2.16, 21). + + 102. AEthiopian bondslave: Numbers 12.1. + + 122. Liberal hand: the free hand of the fresco-painter cramped to do + the exquisite little designs fit for the missal marge = margin of a + Prayer-book. + + 150. Samminiato: San Miniato, a church in Florence. + + 161. Turn a new side, etc.: the side turned away from the earth + which our world never sees. + + 163. Zoroaster: (589-513 B. C.), founder of the Persian religion, + and worshipper of light, whose habit it was to observe the heavens + from his terrace, + + 164. Galileo: (1564-1642), constructor of the first telescope, + leading him to discover that the Milky Way was an assemblage of + starry worlds, and the earth a planet revolving on its axis and + about an orbit, for which opinion he was tried and condemned. When + forced to retire from his professorship at Padua, he continued his + observations from his own house in Florence. + + 164. Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats: Homer celebrates the moon in the + "Hymn to Diana" (see Shelley's translation), and makes Artemis + upbraid her brother Phoebus when he claims that it is not meet for + gods to concern themselves with mortals (Iliad, xxi. 470). Keats, + in "Endymion," sings of her love for a mortal. + + 174. Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, etc.: Exodus 24.1, 10. +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre> + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN AND WOMEN*** + + +******* This file should be named 17393.txt or 17393.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/3/9/17393 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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