Men and Women

ANDREA DEL SARTO

(CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER")1855But do not let us quarrel any more,No, my Lucrezia;40 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 handWhen next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly?Oh, I'll content him—but to-morrow. Love!I often am much wearier than you think,This evening more than usual, and it seemsAs if—forgive now—should you let me sitHere by the window with your hand in mineAnd look a half-hour forth on Fiesole,41Both of one mind, as married people use,Quietly, quietly the evening through,I might get up to-morrow to my workCheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this!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 serveFor 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,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 downTo yonder sober pleasant Fiesole.There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top;That length of convent-wall across the wayHolds 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 selfAnd 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;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 understandNor 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,What I see, what at bottom of my heartI 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,And fail in doing. I could count twenty suchOn twice your fingers, and not leave this town,Who strive—you don't know how the others striveTo paint a little thing like that you smearedCarelessly 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,Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to promptThis 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,Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blameOr their praise either. Somebody remarksMorello's42 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-grayPlacid, and perfect with my art: the worse!I know both what I want and what might gain,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 youthThe Urbinate43 who died five years ago.('Tis copied, George Vasari44 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;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—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 birdThe 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!45Rafael 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,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,46 that first time,And that long festal year at Fontainebleau!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 curlOver 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 soulsProfuse, 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 temptOut of the grange whose four walls make his world.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; sinceI 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 judgeBoth pictures in your presence; clearer growsMy better fortune, I resolve to think.For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,Said one day Agnolo,47 his very self,To Rafael's . . . I have known it all these years . . .(When the young man was flaming out his thoughtsUpon a palace-wall for Rome to see,Too lifted up in heart because of it)"Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrubGoes up and down our Florence, none cares how,Who, were he set to plan and executeAs 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?)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 nightI 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-owls48 speak the name we call them by.Come from the window, love—come in, at last,Inside the melancholy little houseWe built to be so gay with. God is just.King Francis may forgive me: oft at nightsWhen I look up from painting, eyes tired out,The walls become illumined, brick from brickDistinct, 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?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 heartAre left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth?I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sitThe gray remainder of the evening out,Idle, you call it, and muse perfectlyHow I could paint, were I but back in France,One picture, just one more—the Virgin's face,Not yours this time! I want you at my sideTo 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 twoIf he demurs; the whole should prove enoughTo pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside,What's better and what's all I care about,Get you the thirteen scudi49 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 trueI 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.Well, had I riches of my own? you seeHow 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 timeAnd not been paid profusely. Some good sonPaint 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—Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,50Meted on each side by the angel's reed,For Leonard,51 Rafael, Agnolo and meTo cover—the three first without a wife,While I have mine! So—still they overcomeBecause 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."

THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH

ROME, 15-1845Vanity,52 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 lieIn 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 foughtWith tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:—Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner SouthHe graced his carrion with. God curse the same!Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thenceOne sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side,53And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,And up into the aery dome where liveThe angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk;And I shall fill my slab of basalt54 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 ripeAs fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.—Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,55Put 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 digThe 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,And corded up in a tight olive-frail,56Some lump, ah God, of ,57Big 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 Frascati58 villa with its bath,So, let the blue lump poise between my knees,Like God the Father's globe59 on both his handsYe worship in the Jesu Church so gay,For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!Swift as a weaver's shuttle60 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-black61 I meant! How elseShall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchanceSome tripod,62 thyrsus, with a vase or so,The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,Saint Praxed in a glory, and one PanReady to twitch the Nymph's last garment off,And Moses with the tables . . . but I knowYe mark me not! What do they whisper thee,Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hopeTo revel down my villas while I gaspBricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine63Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!Nay, boys, ye love me—all of jasper,64 then!'T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve.My bath must needs be left behind, alas!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 prayHorses 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's65 every word,No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line—Tully, my masters? Ulpian66 serves his need!And then how I shall lie through centuries,And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,And see God made and eaten all day long,And feel the steady candle-flame, and tasteGood 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, dropInto great laps and folds of sculptor's-work:And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughtsGrow, 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, ELUCESCEBAT67 quoth our friend?No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the PopeMy villas!68 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 vaseWith grapes, and add a vizor69 and a Term,And to the tripod ye would tie a lynxThat in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,To comfort me on my entablatureWhereon I am to lie till I must ask"Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there!For ye have stabbed me with ingratitudeTo death—ye wish it—God, ye wish it! Stone—Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweatAs 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—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 , 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.

BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY

1855No 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 masterpieceLike this of brother Pugin's,70 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 churchCost 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 peepsOver the glasses' edge when dinner's done,And body gets its sop and holds its noiseAnd leaves soul free a little. Now's the time: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(, worldly circumstance)Quite to its value—very much indeed:—Are up to the protesting eyes of youIn pride at being seated here for once—You'll turn it to such capital account!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,71All 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 seenSomething of mine he relished, some review: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!",72 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 lifeIs 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'Orsay73—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 worthNever 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 reachedMy 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,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 PopeAt 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 lessI boast of my ideal realizedIs nothing in the balance when opposedTo 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 lifeProvided it could be—but, finding firstWhat may be, then find how to make it fairUp to our means: a very different thing!No abstract intellectual plan of lifeQuite 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 worldEach 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 listOf 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 typeThey get up well at Leipsic, fill the next:Go on! slabbed marble, what a bath it makes!And Parma's pride,74 the Jerome, let us add!'T were pleasant could Correggio's fleeting glowHang full in face of one where'er one roams,Since he more than the others brings with himItaly'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—You see him screw his face up; what's his cryEre 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 overhaulsYour Jerome, piano, bath, you come on boardBare—why, you cut a figure at the firstWhile sympathetic landsmen see you off;Not afterward, when long ere half seas over,You peep up from your utterly naked boardsInto 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!"And meantime you bring nothing: never mind—You've proved your artist-nature: what you don'tYou 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,(Not statedly, that is, and fixedlyAnd absolutely and exclusively)In any revelation called divine.No dogmas nail your faith; and what remainsBut 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.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 lieI could not, cannot solve, nor ever shall,So give up hope accordingly to solve—(To you, and over the wine). Our dogmas thenWith both of us, though in unlike degree,Missing full credence—overboard with them!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 fixedTo-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'sThe gain? how can we guard our unbelief,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—75And that's enough for fifty hopes and fearsAs 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.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 hitSome sense, in which it might be, after all.Why not, "The Way, the Truth, the Life?"—That wayOver the mountain, which who stands uponIs apt to doubt if it be meant for a road;While, if he views it from the waste itself,Up goes the line there, plain from base to brow,Not vague, mistakable! what's a break or twoSeen from the unbroken desert either side?And then (to bring in fresh philosophy)What if the breaks themselves should prove at lastThe most consummate of contrivancesTo 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 unbeliefIs a life of doubt diversified by faith,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 faithAnd 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 unbeliefLeft to a man's choice—we'll proceed a step,Returning to our image, which I like.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 findOne and but one choice suitable to all;The choice, that you unluckily prefer,Turning things topsy-turvy—they or itGoing to the ground. Belief or unbeliefBears upon life, determines its whole course,Begins at its beginning. See the worldSuch 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 fruitIn power, peace, pleasantness and length of days.I find that positive belief does thisFor me, and unbelief, no whit of this.—For you, it does, however?—that, we'll try!'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 peremptorilyBelieve!"—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 handAll day, I build, scheme, study, and make friends;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,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 youBed-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,If once we choose belief, on all accountsWe 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 pointsWhereon 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 muchFor riches, honor, pleasure, work, repose,Since various theories of life and life'sSuccess are extant which might easilyComport with either estimate of these;And whoso chooses wealth or poverty,Labor or quiet, is not judged a foolBecause his fellow would choose otherwise;We let him choose upon his own accountSo long as he's consistent with his choice.But certain points, left wholly to himself,When once a man has arbitrated on,We say he must succeed there or go hang.Thus, he should wed the woman he loves mostOr 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 mistakeOn such a point, the man himself being judge:He cannot wed twice, nor twice lose his soul.Well now, there's one great form of Christian faithI happened to be born in—which to teachWas given me as I grew up, on all hands,As best and readiest means of living by;The same on examination being provedThe most pronounced moreover, fixed, preciseAnd absolute form of faith in the whole world—Accordingly, most potent of all formsFor working on the world. Observe, my friend!Such as you know me, I am free to say,In these hard latter days which hamper one,Myself—by no immoderate exerciseOf intellect and learning, but the tactTo 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,76Exalt me o'er my fellows in the worldAnd 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 exactA comfortable care in many ways.There's power in me and will to dominateWhich 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 graceAs though I would not, could I help it, takeAn uniform I wear though over-rich—Something imposed on me, no choice of mine;No fancy-dress worn for pure fancy's sakeAnd despicable therefore! now folk kneelAnd 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,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 successThough 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;The tailless man exceeds me: but being tailedI'll lash out lion fashion, and leave apesTo 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 doomedTo a viler berth still, to the steerage-hole,The sheep-pen or the pig-stye, I should striveTo make what use of each were possible;And as this cabin gets upholstery,That hutch should rustle with sufficient straw.But, friend, I don't acknowledge quite so fastI fail of all your manhood's lofty tastesEnumerated so complacently,On the mere ground that you forsooth can findIn this particular life I choose to leadNo fit provision for them. Can you not?Say you, my fault is I address myselfTo grosser estimators than should judge?And that's no way of holding up the soul,Which, nobler, needs men's praise perhaps, yet knowsOne 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 senseEye me and know me, whether I believeIn the last winking Virgin, as I vow,And am a fool, or disbelieve in herAnd am a knave—approve in neither case,Withhold their voices though I look their way: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 outbangHis orchestra of salt-box, tongs and bones,He looks through all the roaring and the wreathsWhere sits Rossini patient in his stall.Nay, friend, I meet you with an answer here—That even your prime men who appraise their kindAre men still, catch a wheel within a wheel,See more in a truth than the truth's simple self,Confuse themselves. You see lads walk the streetSixty 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, demirepThat loves and saves her soul in new French books—We watch while these in equilibrium keepThe giddy line midway: one step aside,They're classed and done with. I, then, keep the lineBefore your sages—just the men to shrinkFrom the gross weights, coarse scales and labels broadYou offer their refinement. Fool or knave?Why needs a bishop be a fool or knaveWhen there's a thousand diamond weights between?So, I enlist them. Your picked twelve, you'll find,Profess themselves indignant, scandalizedAt thus being held unable to explainHow a superior man who disbelievesMay not believe as well: that's Schelling's77 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 agoThey'd say, "What's strange? Blougram of course believes;"And, seventy years since, "disbelieves of course."But now, "He may believe; and yet, and yetHow can he?" All eyes turn with interest.Whereas, step off the line on either side—You, for example, clever to a fault,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 backBrave 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!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 elementOf unbelief (we can't believe, you know—We're still at that admission, recollect!)Where do you find—apart from, towering o'erThe secondary temporary aimsWhich satisfy the gross taste you despise—Where do you find his star?—his crazy trustGod knows through what or in what? it's aliveAnd shines and leads him, and that's all we want.Have we aught in our sober night shall pointSuch ends as his were, and direct the meansOf working out our purpose straight as his,Nor bring a moment's trouble on successWith 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 dareWith comfort to yourself blow millions up?We neither of us see it! we do seeThe blown-up millions—spatter of their brainsAnd writhing of their bowels and so forth,In that bewildering entanglementOf horrible eventualitiesPast 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;The whole to end that dismallest of endsBy an Austrian marriage,78 cant to us the Church,And resurrection of the old regime?Would I, who hope to live a dozen years,Fight Austerlitz79 for reasons such and such?No: for, concede me but the merest chanceDoubt may be wrong—there's judgment, life to comeWith just that chance, I dare not. Doubt proves right?This present life is all?—you offer meIts dozen noisy years, without a chanceThat 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 writeHamlet, Othello—make the world our own,Without a risk to run of either sort?I can't!—to put the strongest reason first."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-delightAnd all we want in common, shall I find—Trying forever? while on points of tasteWherewith, to speak it humbly, he and IAre 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 worksYour world is worthless and I touch it notLest I should wrong them"—I'll withdraw my plea.But does he say so? look upon his life!Himself, who only can, gives judgment there.He leaves his towers and gorgeous palacesTo build the trimmest house in Stratford80 town;Saves money, spends it, owns the worth of things,Giulio Romano's81 pictures, Dowland's lute;Enjoys a show, respects the puppets, too,And none more, had he seen its entry once,Than "Pandulph,82 of fair Milan cardinal."Why then should I who play that personage,The very Pandulph Shakespeare's fancy made,Be told that had the poet chanced to startFrom where I stand now (some degree like mineBeing 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 homeAnd get himself in dreams the Vatican,Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls,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 JulyWith ten mules to the carriage and a bedSlung 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,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 aloftNo less adroitly that of fifty strokesScarce five go o'er the wall so wide and highWhich 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,Successful dealings in his grain and wool—While I receive heaven's incense in my noseAnd 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 lifeAre 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,Makes of all else mere stuff to show itself;We penetrate our life with such a glowAs fire lends wood and iron—this turns steel,That burns to ash—all's one, fire proves its powerFor 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 Luther83—that's a life to lead,Incomparably better than my own.He comes, reclaims God's earth for God, he says,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 Strauss84 should beI might be also. But to what result?He looks upon no future: Luther did.What can I gain on the denying side?Ice makes no conflagration. State the facts,Read the text right, emancipate the world—The emancipated world enjoys itselfWith scarce a thank-you: Blougram told it firstIt could not owe a farthing—not to himMore than Saint Paul! 't would press its pay, you think?Then add there's still that plaguy hundredth chanceStrauss may be wrong. And so a risk is run—For what gain? not for Luther's, who securedA real heaven in his heart throughout his life,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 workThan 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.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,Head-doubts, heart-doubts, doubts at my fingers' ends,Doubts in the trivial work of every day,Doubts at the very bases of my soulIn the grand moments when she probes herself—If finally I have a life to show,The thing I did, brought out in evidenceAgainst the thing done to me undergroundBy 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?It is the idea, the feeling and the love,God means mankind should strive for and show forthWhatever be the process to that end—And not historic knowledge, logic sound,And metaphysical acumen, sure!"What think ye85 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 agoThat will break silence and enjoin you loveWhat 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,This Blougram; yet throughout the tales of himI 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,Omniscient, Omnipresent, sears too muchThe sense of conscious creatures to be borne.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 enoughAgainst that sight till we can bear its stress.Under a vertical sun, the exposed brainAnd lidless eye and disemprisoned heartLess certainly would wither up at onceThan mind, confronted with the truth of him.But time and earth case-harden us to live;The feeblest sense is trusted most; the childFeels God a moment, ichors86 o'er the place,Plays on and grows to be a man like us.With me, faith means perpetual unbeliefKept quiet like the snake 'neath87 Michael's footWho stands calm just because he feels it writhe.Or, if that's too ambitious—here's my box—I need the excitation of a pinchThreatening the torpor of the inside-noseNigh 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 backSix hundred years, blot out cosmogony,Geology, ethnology, what not,(Greek endings, each the little passing-bellThat 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 AraratBut did not climb there since 'twas getting duskAnd 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,Believe—and yet lie, kill, rob, fornicateFull 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 wakesAnd grows. Prolong that battle through his life!Never leave growing till the life to come!Here, we've got callous to the Virgin's winksThat used to puzzle people wholesomely:Men have outgrown the shame of being fools.What are the laws of nature, not to bendIf the Church bid them?—brother Newman88 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 graceAs 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 obsoleteBut men believe still: ay, but who and where?King Bomba's89 lazzaroni foster yetThe sacred flame, so Antonelli90 writes;But even of these, what ragamuffin-saintBelieves God watches him continually,As he believes in fire that it will burn,Or rain that it will drench him? Break fire's law,Sin against rain, although the penaltyBe 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 fearThe Naples' liquefaction91 may be false,When set to happen by the palace-clockAccording to the clouds or dinner-time.I hear you recommend, I might at leastEliminate, decrassify92 my faithSince I adopt it; keeping what I mustAnd 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 holdAbout 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,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 lastBut Fichte's93 clever cut at God himself?Experimentalize on sacred things!I trust nor hand nor eye nor heart nor brainTo stop betimes: they all get drunk alike.The first step, I am master not to take.You'd find the cutting-process to your tasteAs much as leaving growths of lies unpruned,Nor see more danger in it—you retort.Your taste's worth mine; but my taste proves more wiseWhen we consider that the steadfast holdOn the extreme end of the chain of faithGives all the advantage, makes the differenceWith 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 revertTo the first problem—which, if solved my wayAnd 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 timeHow narrowly and grossly I view life,Respect the creature-comforts, care to ruleThe 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:No prejudice to what next world may prove,Whose new laws and requirements, my best pledgeTo 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, yieldsPure spiritual enjoyment: well, my friend,Why lose this life i' the meantime, since its useMay be to make the next life more intense?Do you know, I have often had a dream(Work it up in your next month's article)Of man's poor spirit in its progress, stillLosing true life forever and a dayThrough 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 fooleryHalfway into the next still, on and off!As when a traveller, bound from North to South,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 thinkMy brothers, who administer the means,Live better for my comfort—that's good too;And God, if he pronounce upon such life,Approves my service, which is better still.If he keep silence—why, for you or meOr 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 perceivedHowever feebly. Do then—act away!'T is there I'm on the watch for you. How one actsIs, both of us agree, our chief concern:And how you 'll act is what I fain would seeIf, like the candid person you appear,You dare to make the most of your life's schemeAs I of mine, live up to its full lawSince there's no higher law that counterchecks.Put natural religion to the testYou've just demolished the revealed with—quick,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 chastityOr shame, from just the fact that at the firstWhoso embraced a woman in the field,Threw club down and forewent his brains beside,So, stood a ready victim in the reachOf any brother savage, club in hand;Hence saw the use of going out of sightIn 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.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 GodEre I can be aught, do aught?—no mere nameWant, 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,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 wayFor simple men: knowledge and power have rights,But ignorance and weakness have rights too.There needs no crucial effort to find truthIf here or there or anywhere about:We ought to turn each side, try hard and see,And if we can't, be glad we've earned at leastThe 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 minuteIn 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,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.">94 You findIn this the pleasant pasture of our lifeMuch you may eat without the least offence,Much you don't eat because your maw objects,Much you would eat but that your fellow-flockOpen great eyes at you and even butt,And thereupon you like your mates so wellYou cannot please yourself, offending them;Though when they seem exorbitantly sheep,You weigh your pleasure with their butts and bleatsAnd strike the balance. Sometimes certain fearsRestrain 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,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 fillNot simply unbutted at, unbickered with,But motioned to the velvet of the swardBy 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 rangeAnd 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 curlsFrom 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?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 articlesOn music, poetry, the fictile vaseFound at Albano, chess, Anacreon's95 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 glassI pour you out in sign of amityBefore we part forever. Of your powerAnd 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 oneThe world would brand the lie—my enemies first,Who'd sneer—"the bishop's an arch-hypocriteAnd knave perhaps, but not so frank a fool."Whereas I should not dare for both my earsBreathe one such syllable, smile one such smile,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 exceptionalAnd 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 menCarry 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 soulUnseized by the Germans yet—which view you'll print—Meantime the best you have to show being stillThat lively lightsome article we tookAlmost for the true Dickens—what's its name?"The Slum and Cellar, or Whitechapel lifeLimned 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 getIn all our own reviews and some not ours.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 teethAs copy and quote the infamy chalked broadAbout me on the church-door opposite.You will not wait for that experience though,I fancy, howsoever you decide,To discontinue—not detesting, notDefaming, but at least—despising me!__________________________________________Over his wine so smiled and talked his hourSylvester Blougram, styled 96—(the deuce knows whatIt'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 mindLong crumpled, till creased consciousness lay smooth.For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke.The other portion, as he shaped it thusFor argumentatory purposes,He felt his foe was foolish to dispute.Some arbitrary accidental thoughtsThat crossed his mind, amusing because new,He chose to represent as fixtures there,Invariable convictions (such they seemedBeside his interlocutor's loose cardsFlung daily down, and not the same way twice)While certain hell-deep instincts, man's weak tongueIs never bold to utter in their truthBecause styled hell-deep ('t is an old mistakeTo place hell at the bottom of the earth)He ignored these—not having in readinessTheir nomenclature and philosophy:He said true things, but called them by wrong names."On the whole," he thought, "I justify myselfOn every point where cavillers like thisOppugn my life: he tries one kind of fence,I close, he's worsted, that's enough for him.He's on the ground: if ground should break awayI take my stand on, there's a firmer yetBeneath 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 weekSufficed his sudden healthy vehemence.Something had struck him in the "Outward-bound"Another way than Blougram's purpose was:And having bought, not cabin-furnitureBut 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 , May, 1896: "The most curious notice I ever had was from Cardinal Wiseman on —, himself. It was in the , 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."