University of Virginia Library

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XXIX. FIAT JUSTITIA.

CANTO THE FIRST.—THEORY.

1.

Simplicius was a man of good condition,
Whose naturally easy disposition
Found in his easy fortunes natural vent.
He, for that reason, was benevolent;
But tho' he sought to find Benevolence
Efficient sanction in the social sense
Of Justice, much his feelings were offended
By the unsocial, unjust, things that men did.

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For, in the world around him, everywhere
He saw but envy, arrogance, and care,
Malice, and fear, oppression, and mistrust,
Anarchic, anti-social, soul-depraving.

3.

Oft hath the love of justice caused confusion.
And much this thought disturb'd the good man's mind.
Until it brought him to the strange conclusion
That Nature in befitting form presents
To every man himself turn'd inside out;
So that we contemplate our own contents
In beast and bird. Now this belief, no doubt,
Was the blind offspring of imagination.
But, as for him, it help'd him to become

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Quite comfortable with the whole creation;
For, when he walk'd abroad, he felt at home.

4.

Thus, if in sight a shy deer chanced to flit
Down some dim glade, scarce seen ere gone again.
“'Tis it!” he murmur'd, “I remember it;
A timid thought, that long about my brain
I've noticed lurking. Pity, the world's pack
With boisterous bark, whene'er it steals in view,
Should scare such momentary beauty back;
So fair its flittings, and, alas, so few!”
Or he would muse, when, home at eve to stall,
He watch'd the slow kine wend their wonted way,
“Lo, life's tame habitudes! whose footsteps fall
Along the self-same pastures every day,
And, every night, by the same trodden traces
Of usage, back to the same commonplaces.
Dull plodders these! Their placid life goes pat
Only whilst round them, comfortably creast,
Clings Custom's garb, wherein they all grow fat.
Freedom is death to each domestic beast.
The wolf and fox are better off in that.
They for themselves know how to shift at least.
Adventurous liberty is theirs. That's much.
For, tho' they use it but to rob and kill,
The world would languish wanting some such touch
Of vagabond and savage instinct. Still
The wild beast passion for adventure wild

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We all have in us, hide it how we will.
And when I see a white dove, plump and mild,
I understand the vulture. Nature mocks
Man's passions with pathetic paradox;
Sweet simple Innocence can never quite
Our torpid sympathies from slumber stir,
Nor hold our interest in her at the height,
Till things are going not quite well with her.”

5.

From these examples, which are not capricious,
Of how his witless fancy wander'd on,
Sagacious readers may perceive Simplicius
Was, certes, somewhat of a simpleton.
Tho' not, for that, worse off than his judicious
And candid friends who labour'd to disclose
The fallacies he cherish'd unsuspicious;
And lost their labour, as you may suppose.
For aye, the poorer that he is, the more
A man fights hard to keep, in purse or pate,
Prolong'd possession of his little store.
Whereon the world remarks, in tones irate,
(As tho' itself were perfect on the score
Of yielding to beliefs that will not mate
With those which it was wont to hold before)
“Stupidity is always obstinate!”
But surely they, whose stock of wits is small,
Do well to grasp it with resolved rigidity;
For, if a man be stupid, no endeavour

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Upon your part to break down the stolidity
His instinct builds about him like a wall
Can, even if successful, make him clever;
And, if you take from him his own stupidity,
You leave him nothing of his own at all.

6.

This man had much that, without contradiction,
He call'd his own: and, notably his plan
For making justice upon earth no fiction.
“For wherefore with his fellow-men is man,”
Simplicius ask'd, “accustom'd to resort?
'Tis for their qualities, we must surmise.
I mean, their good ones: since where these fall short
Man shuns his fellows. But all men comprise
Within them qualities that ill comport
One with the other, and in turn each tries
To spoil the rest. The beasts have naught to do
But to embody each some part of man;
Which, for that reason, in each beast we view
More pleasurably perfect than it can
By any possibility be found
In man himself; whose qualities, ill-pack't,
Jumble each other in their narrow bound,
And muddle his humanity in fact.
For instance. I've a mineral collection
Of costly crystals, perfect in all parts;
And, in it, specimens, that fill one section,
Of felspar, and of mica, and of quartz.

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This granite block (the bench whereon I sit)
Hath, as by close inspection I divine,
The self-same minerals mixt up in it.
But what a difference between these and mine!
The sparkling columns of my quartz o'erthrown,
And pounded into powder! every bit
Of my poor felspar, featureless! each crown
Of my fine mica's fairy foliation
Crumpled into amalgamated grit!
The whole—a dull disturb'd crystallisation,
Where nothing is as it would fain have been!
So man. Not so the simpler beasts, I ween.
What's Charm? The bird. And what is Grace! The cat.
What is Fidelity? The dog. I know
(And I confess that I am grieved thereat)
These creatures eat each other. But even so
Conflicting virtues live in man; no less
Discordantly than cat and dog together;
Striving each other's merits to suppress.
Grace, if she catch it, leaves not Charm a feather,
Whilst she herself, unless she can contrive
To scratch his eyes out, by Fidelity
Is maul'd to death, or merely left alive
A wreck of bones. Can Prejudice say why?”

7.

For all these reasons, since Simplicius thought
The best companions that a man can have
Are innocence and charm together brought,

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Fidelity, and grace, and humour grave,
A bird, and cat, and dog, and bear, he bought:
But kept them each apart, exclaiming—“Fiat
Justitia, vivat mundus,—beast and man, too!”
The special qualities he set so high at
The culminating point of each pro tanto,
As well as some defects he wink'd his eye at,
Are faithfully set forth in our next Canto.

CANTO THE SECOND.—PRACTICE.

2.

Here be it said that to his first essay
Simplicius, though no doubt a doctrinaire,

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Applied his doctrine in a general way,
And prudently decided to forbear
From pushing to extremes its leading principle.
For, since reformers fail when they attempt
At making Justice all at once invincible,
He from her jurisdiction left exempt
(As minor matters which he took no heed of)
The grubs, and eggs, and worms, his bird had need of.
The grateful Bird lived, happier day by day,
A life harmonious with its lot quotidian;
And, if 'twas still an elegy, his lay
Had notes, at least, more joyous than Ovidian.

3.

As for the fluffy, puffy, plump white Cat,
If she were not completely comfortable,
There surely never was a diplomat
Half such a humbug, half so slyly able
To simulate the feelings he should feel,
And those he feels, and should not, to conceal.
The chief part of her life-long holiday
(As tho' it were her only care on earth
To keep her soft self warm) a clump she lay
Of cream-white languid limbs beside the hearth;
Or rubb'd her lithe back in a flattering bow
Against the legs of her good lord and master,
Smoothing those spotless flakes of furry snow
In which, for whiteness, not Mont Blanc surpass'd her;

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Or, in the firelight's fluctuating glow,
Curl'd on his lap and safe from all disaster,
She purr'd as tho' she to herself, half-sleeping,
Were telling o'er her dreams in drowsy tone;
Or else, about the chairs and tables leaping,
(A frolic phantom scarcely seen ere gone)
She whisk'd, and frisk'd, and flitted here and there,
Fitful as fancy, and as childhood fair.

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5.

If pure gold, oozed from out the Age of Gold,
Could, in a living form, have glow'd on earth,
None better fitted to present, and hold
Unsullied, its primæval perfect worth
Could earth have found it, than our Nero's own;
Nor more in colour kindred to the hue
Whereby that noble metal may be known.
For tawny-colour'd was our Nero too,
As gold is: short-hair'd, all a yellow brown;
Save for a single streak of glossy black
That, with straightforward purpose, went right down
The whole length of his honourable back,
And his most eloquently honest tail;
Which wagg'd warm welcome to the world all round.
Black, too, and bright as brightly burnisht mail,
The single star that his fair forehead crown'd,
And black his muzzle was: the unshell'd snail
No blacker shines, whose damp and jetty sheen
Jewels the fresh stalks of the rain-drench'd fennel.
When Nero, his stoop'd head flat-based between
Firm-planted forepaws, peeping from his kennel,
Lay stretch'd sedate in soothing noontide sleep;
Whilst loyal vigilance unlull'd and keen
(No sound escaping its quick silent comment)
Still linger'd in the watchful tremulous wink
Of drowsy lids that twitch'd at every moment,
And duty sat in serious wrinkles deep
Across his brow's sagacious breadth,—I think

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That had some Attic sculptor seen that sight,
Grasping his chisel with an eager hand,
He would have cried, in satisfied delight,
“Behold the perfect sculpturesque expression
Of Property!” And, forced to understand
The imprudence of his wonted prepossession
Against the law of Moses and the land,
A thief, perchance, some honest awe might feel,
And pass on murmuring “Thou shalt not steal!”

6.

Between Fidelity, and Charm, and Grace,
For Humour of a grave and thoughtful kind,
In ursine form, long while a vacant place
Simplicius kept before he chanced to find
Its fit incumbent. For the ursine race,
Whose sage demeanour and prodigious force
Might with the race of man have long competed
Had they but chosen to dispute man's course,
Have, far from man, to hermit haunts retreated,
And lone they dwell among the mountains lonely.
Man boasts, as tho' the trick must needs endear him
To all four-footed animals at least,
That he can go upon his hind paws only.
For this, and for his faculty to feast
Upon all kinds of food, the beasts revere him
As being the most universal beast.
But in these two respects the Bear comes near him;
Tho' differing in a third (and not, I fear

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To man's advantage) namely in good-nature.
O Timon! Timon! hadst thou been a bear,
Those maledictions, by a human creature
On human creatures hurl'd, not even despair
Would then have wrung from thy resentment. Guile,
Deceit, and treachery, and treason black
Bruin (for so was named in simple style
This shaggy much-tried sage) had known, alack,
In all their hateful human forms, long while
Ere from a filthy vagrant Bosniac
Simplicius bought him—unembitter'd yet,
And so good-natured that across his back
He let a pert and pranksome monkey get,
Pretend to ride him, and, impetuous, smack
A saucy whip. Himself a minuet
With sad and stately gesture sometimes deign'd
To dance to music rude of drum and fife,
Tho' oft the mirth of vulgar crowds profaned
This melancholy pastime of a life
Which had known better days. Alas poor Bruin!
A trustful nature and, for safe fruition,
A love, too fond—of honey—proved his ruin.
Rogues had imposed on his sweet disposition
And made him smart for it. But Fortune now
Seem'd on his fate to smile with fairer brow.
Simplicius built him in the castle court
A spacious mansion for his calm resort.
Rail'd parapets of stone did there environ
His sleeping chamber girt with grates of iron.
And, in the midst of this deep-sunk domain,

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A dead tree, planted by man's labour fast,
Served for his perch whene'er the sage was fain
(Like “Science in her speculative tower”)
A general glance around the world to cast,
With soul unbounded by his lonely bower.

7.

So in Simplicius' hospitable hall
Did Grace and Charm, its daily inmates, dwell.
And, round about those happy precincts, all
Went blithe and “merry as a marriage bell.”
The Bird “his native wood-notes warbled wild.”
The Cat, like some white curl'd-up humming shell,
Purr'd by the hearth contentment calm and mild.
The Dog bark'd welcome loud and wagg'd delight
To his approving master morn and night.
And he, the blissful owner of these joys,
When he, at any moment, felt inclined
To meditative moods, whose charm decoys
From shallower pleasures oft the pensive mind,
Would sit and muse above that bear-pit wide.
Whence many a mournful monitory growl
With solemn music stirr'd and edified
To heights sublime his contemplative soul.
Sullen it was, nay surly seem'd the sound.
But surly too, nor feebly feminine,
Is that majestic charm by fancy found
In Melancholy's deep and sullen eyne
What time she doth a manly sex assume.

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And that is why, when either love or wine
In manly bosoms breeds ungenial gloom,
Chilling with churlish scowl some revel garish,
We call such melancholy conduct—bearish.

CANTO THE THIRD.—EXPERIENCE.

2.

The business settled to his satisfaction
Which drew Simplicius from his own abode,
He, with a mind relieved from all distraction
And full of longings, on his homeward road

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One evening reach'd, when it was somewhat late,
The last post station. 'Twas a tiny town,
But few hours distant from his own estate.
But there, his horses having broken down,
For fresh relays he was constrain'd to wait.
Besides, a storm was coming on. So, there
Resolving prudently to pass the night,
He order'd rooms and supper at The Bear;
A little hostel cheerful, clean, and bright,
Whose landlord was postmaster of the village,
A farmer, too, with land in his own tillage.

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5.

Near morn he dream'd a dream. He dream'd his Bear
Was turn'd into a Lady, tall and stately:

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And dream'd that he, himself, her fingers fair
With fervour kiss'd. Then, as she smiled sedately,
He sigh'd “Ah madam! if you could but tell
How charming, grill'd with Tartar sauce, it is,
Before the altar, with your heart as well,
You would on me bestow the hand I kiss!”
His sleep was broken by the Postboy's horn
Just as the fair dame of his dream replied
Blushing, and like a lady nobly born
Whose passion struggles with a modest pride,
“Ah Baron, libertines such flatterers are!
And trustful fools are we. Unhand me, pray!
There's nothing in the world that can compare
With dog, served up in honey, the new way.”

7.

He cross'd the court, surprised and somewhat sadden'd
That Nero, faithful guardian of his hall,

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With no gay bark his silent entry gladden'd.
Nor came the good dog to his master's call.
But more, anon, that master's heart was grieved
When, to him coming o'er the cloister'd flags,
His agèd Major Domo he perceived
With palsied head bound up in bloody rags.
And “Ah my lord,” the old man cried, “alas!
Alas, and woe the day!”—“Why, honest Andrew,
Why such affliction? What hath come to pass?”
Only a heavy sigh that agèd man drew.
“What mean those bloody bandages?”—“Dear master,”
The old man whimper'd with a whine of woe,
“My hair's clean gone in that accurst disaster,
And to my grave I in a wig must go.”

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9.

Andrew, the moment that his lord was gone,
Had yielded to a wish long while represt,
A wild emotion ever and anon
Haunting good servants—to disturb their rest,
And, more, their master's. For so fine a border
Between extremes is in this planet scurvy,
That when they want to set the house in order
Your servants always turn it topsy-turvy.
The house, in this case, was the bird's house merely;
But much the bird disliked that innovation.
And we ourselves, who have experienced yearly
The same conditions, and the same sensation,
Can understand the bird's bewilder'd rage.
Retreating restlessly, without success,
From one nook to another of his cage,
He tried to escape that demon, Cleanliness;
And at the last, his incommoded premises
Deserting altogether, forth he flew.
But that desertion the avenging Nemesis
Of violated custom did pursue.
Infatuating freedom more and more
Confused his soul, already in confusion;
And now against the ceiling, now the floor,
He flounced with flop, and flutter, and contusion;
Flew bounce against the cornice of the door,
Then, clamorous, at the casement's cold delusion
Which mock'd him (since for him they waved no more)

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With sight of waving woods in wild profusion.
At length he turn'd to books for consolation,
And o'er the bookcase perch'd in Gothic gloom.
Andrew, bewilder'd too, took that occasion
To hasten to the pantry for a broom.
But when, with this new engine of persuasion,
He to the chase return'd,—alas o'erpowering
(As well it might be) was his consternation
To find the Cat (more quick than he) devouring
The last few bloody feathers of the Bird.

10.

“Beast!” cried Simplicius, when the story came
To this sad point, and by resentment stirr'd
He rose in haste, “I'll bring her to the scratch!”
“Alas, my lord,” old Andrew cried with shame,
“That's what I tried. But cats are hard to catch.
I hurl'd my broomstick, like a javelin, at her:
She thro' the door, left open, darted: hard
Behind her, down the stairs with cry and clatter,
I after: and so out across the yard.
This Nero saw: and judged the Cat in fault.
Nor judged he wrong. The little murderess fled;
But Nero (honest dog) still barking ‘halt’
Fleet on her sly and felon footsteps sped.
Poor Puss! . . . He meant it for the best . . . and yet—
’Twixt dog and cat there's ancient feud ’tis said,
Like that between my lords of Capulet

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And Montague, of which in books I've read.
But I'll believe not that our Nero's breast
Lodged hate like theirs—or any hate at all.
Too good was he! He meant it for the best.
The Cat had sprung upon the Bear-pit's wall.
The Dog sprang after. With a gallant grip
He pinn'd her by the throat, and . . . squeak!”— “The brute!”
Simplicius cried, “but he shall feel my whip.
Go, fetch it!” Andrew, melancholy mute,
Turn'd, brush'd his hand across his eyes, and said
“Nero will never feel the whip again.”

11.

The old man sigh'd profoundly, shook his head,
And then resumed. “Regrets and threats are vain.
O what a sight! methinks I see it yet.
The Cat was down. The Dog above her stood.
But both were struggling on the parapet.
The Cat's white coat was red with clots of blood,
With blood the Dog's black muzzle. And meanwhile,
Perch'd on his pole, the Bear this conflict eyed;
Smiling, as well as such a brute can smile,
And wagg'd his hideous head from side to side.
His paws, with an atrocious affectation,
Cross'd loose and languid o'er his bulky breast,
His small eyes, all unwonted animation,
Glowing expectant with a greedy zest.
And all this time the monster humm'd with pleasure,

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And all this time the moment's helpless dread
Crippled me like a paralytic seizure.
The Cat, at last, lay still. I deem'd her dead.
Is there a second Cat-world, as I'm fain
To hope, where cats redeem'd, without relapse,
By birds untempted, and by dogs unslain,
Live and do better? Pardon'd there, perhaps,
Each sinful puss may yet to peace attain.
Else why earth's torturing trials, dogs, guns, traps?
Whilst thus I mused, up sprang the Cat again,
And dealt the Dog a buffet in the chaps.
That was her dying effort. In surprise
The Dog set up a howl—recoil'd—slipp'd—fell
Into the pit—I turn'd away mine eyes,
And what I could not see I cannot tell.
It overcomes me. Never to that wall
My looks are turn'd without a pang of pain.
He was a dog who, take him all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again.”

12.

And, since the old man's utterance fail'd him, here
Stepp'd, cap in hand, the Keeper from the clan
Of listening servants who had gather'd near,
And “Save your lordship's presence,” he began,
“'Tis too much for the old one. Let him be.
More bravely then, my lord, himself he bore.
Three skips into the house to find the key,
And down the stairs again in three skips more.

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Next moment in old Bruin's den was he.
Ay, without fear! without his hat, too. Well,
Meanwhile there rested nothing but a ruin
Of broken bones to mark where Nero fell,
And these the Bear was mumbling. ‘Bruin! Bruin!
Bruin, you brute!’ cried Andrew. Bruin stopp'd
Mouthing the mangled morsels of poor Nero
Which leisurely with surly calm he dropp'd,
And Lord! my heart sank in me down to zero
When I beheld him on his hind legs stalking
(As proud as any Christian, please your lordship)
And, with a growl of beastly rage, half walking
Half reeling, as we landsmen do aboard ship,
Up to the old one.”—“Shoot him!” groan'd Simplicius.
The Keeper nodded, “That's already done.
For I was there. I knew the brute was vicious,
And with me, by good luck, I had my gun.
'Twas plaguy hard to aim, tho', 'twixt the pair o' them,
Bruin's black waistcoat, Master Andrew's blue one—
Hard to see which the man, and which the bear, o' them—
Half hid by both, one small white spot—the true one—
No bigger than a button. Well, I cover—
Fire—and three fall—Andrew, the Bear, and I.
Ay, ay! 'twas not my gun that kick'd me over.
My heart went thump, and that I'll not deny.
When I came round, my wife says, like a dumb thing
I stared about, and whiter than a cheese.
Good reason, too! I knew I had kill'd something,
The Bear or Andrew—one, or both of these.

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'Twas Andrew luckily—I mean, 'twas he
My shot had saved. The Bear was dead as mutton.
My ball was in him just where it should be,
In that white spot no bigger than a button.

14.

The Keeper answer'd “With my lord's permission,
‘A badger's half a sort of bear,’ said I.
The badger is the Keeper's perquisite,
And, deeming thus the Bear mine own, for why?
I shot him, nor could bear be better hit,
I skinn'd the beast. His grease I melted down.
The barbers bought it. For next winter's cold

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His fur I kept. And in the market town
His venison to a poulterer I sold.”
“Heavens!” groan'd Simplicius, and against his brow
He struck his fist. For now the truth flash'd clear,
And he remorsefully remember'd how
He had eaten his own bear's paws at The Bear.