University of Virginia Library

Let us walk up this alley, in the shade
Of the green ilexes, whose boughs have made
An arching gallery of cool privacy.
The garden 's hot—the sun has got so high
It burns into our faces o'er the wall
Of our clipped hedges, and begins to fall
So fierce on the white pebbles of the walk,
Its glare is painful—We shall better talk
Beneath the ilexes,—where it is cool.

Well, as I said, Filippo, you must school
Your temper, must not speak so harsh and quick;
Men are not driven, ox-like, with a stick,
Nor goaded to compliance with our will;
They must be humoured, flattered—seeming still
To yield to them, with humble air admit
Their power of argument, their sense, their wit,—
But, if you might suggest, that so and so,
Perhaps, would make a difference, although
You would not place at all your casual thought
Against their better judgment ... Men are caught
By springes like to these—they can be tricked
Always, by some decoy,—to contradict
Is simply stupid—and the dogmatist
Makes one, half ready to agree, resist.

I cannot bear that sharp decisive way
With which you speak—you think so—but why say,
Though true, exactly what you think or feel;
Who plays his cards well, must and should conceal
His hand from his antagonist,—and all
Are our antagonists in life—A brawl
Is a fool's madness—but, no less a fool
Is he who knows not how his tongue to school,
So as to seem, at least, to give assent
Unto the wit, if not the argument.
Silence is golden—always seek to know
The other's thoughts and views before you show
Your own—you then have ground whereon to act,
Not blindly, but with wisdom's weapon, tact.
There is no use to lie—oh, that indeed,
In the long run is sure not to succeed;
Lying is gross—yet, I am bound to say,
That truth sometimes may lead us most astray;
When rightly used it is the best of charms,
When wrongly, the most dangerous of arms,—
Not for all time and place—for instance, you
Foil your own aims, sometimes, by being true
To your quick impulse;—where 's the use to speak
The truth, when speaking it will make you weak?
Wait for occasion—oft with a false key
We take the stronghold of the enemy,
Which, if we ventured rashly to attack,
With angry force would rise to beat us back;
Let your mind run before your tongue,—a man
Who has a tongue should also have a plan.

You are too honest, dear Filippo—trust
The world too freely; you are young, and must
Curb those warm impulses that from your heart
Start wild, and train them down by thought and art;
Must learn your daring spirit to repress;
Submit to rule and law, and question less.
You claim your single right of thought, deny
The Church its dogma and authority,
Cry, “Truth is living, absolutely needs
Freedom, and only petrifies in creeds;”—
But Truth is not a veering vane, that goes
A different way with every wind that blows,
A mere kaleidoscopic glass, that takes
New hues, new figures, with each hand that shakes.
No! but a fountain once to man unsealed,
Whose living waters God himself revealed
Unto the Church,—whose forms, like vases, give
But shape to the pure waters they receive.

You “think,”—well, would you with your single thought
Reverse what all the Fathers wise have taught,
After long centuries' thinking, and confront
Your eager judgment to the opposing brunt
Of their slow wisdom?—Dear Filippo, see
How we have thriven on our policy,
We work together, not for separate pelf,
As you would act, you only for yourself,
But to exalt the Church—the Church!—is not
That thought alone worth every other thought?
And you have talents that might raise you high,
Will raise you, if you will not so defy
Those wise injunctions we must all obey,
Hard though it seem at first to all. Pray, pray
For more humility. Some future day,
When from that brow its curls are worn away,
The scarlet cap its baldness shall conceal,
The triple crown, perhaps—nay! nay! you feel,
I know, at present, as all young men do
To whom the world and thought itself is new,
You would choose rather “Liberty and Truth,”
For so you name the Folly we call Youth,
Than wed obedience, crush that fierce will down,
And hold Rome's keys, and wear the triple crown.

Well, 't is a grand ambition—Liberty,
If it were possible—yet, trust to me,
It is not possible;—obedience—law—
Self-abnegation—these alone can draw
The whole world after them. Where all agree,
Work with one will, one hope, one energy,
Blindly obedient, nothing can resist; but what
Is Liberty but anarchy of thought,—
Each separate will of that great swarming mass
You call the people, struggling to surpass
All other wills, and in blind ignorance
Wanting—yet never knowing what it wants.
The beasts alone are free, in your grand sense;
But man's true freedom is obedience,
Where all wills bend unto a settled law,
A single purpose, and together draw
For some high object—Ah! your liberty,
Filippo dear, is but a troubled sea,
Vexed with wild currents, lashed by frequent gales,
Where the best ship must down with masts and sails,
Fling its rich cargo to the engulfing waves,
And creep at last to port, with what it saves.

Besides! what gain the nations that are free?
Rest, joy, content?—No, everywhere you see
The freest people the unhappiest;
Full of desires that goad them from their rest,
They crowd, and push, and fight, and end at last
In anarchy and luxury;—all the past
Tells the same story—all the future will—
Only the Church abides through good and ill.
Compare with this the peaceful, studious life,
Leading so softly, undisturbed by strife,
To power, for great, good ends, that here we find
In the still cloisters of the Church;—the mind
Here stores its thought, here trains its highest powers
To highest purposes;—these lives of ours
Fit us to move the world, and with the skill
Of subtle thought subdue unto our will
Its mighty strength. The world—the great brute world,
That bends against us its flat bull-front, curled
With strength, and bellows, and its great horns shakes,
Blind with the dust, deaf with the noise it makes,
Is game that we with easy skill control,
Sure of our power, and, as we will, cajole,
Shaking the scarlet that it hates, and thus
Letting it butt a rag instead of us,—
Always secure when we would end the play,
With our fine rapier point to find the way.
You have ambition,—have it then to rule
This world—to make the beast your game, your tool,
To ring his nose, and train him to your hand,—
For objects high, of course, we understand.

Love! 't is a child's disease, that passes soon,
Like mumps or measles—'t is a little tune
We play upon a pipe when we are young,—
A honey bee, by which we 're often stung
As soon as we have caught it,—nay, to speak
In serious phrase, Filippo, it were weak
To throw away a life's great hopes for love;
I know these hot desires will sometimes prove
Too strong for us—the Church takes note of that,
And covers with its veil of silence what
It knows weak man will have. It shuts its eyes
To human nature's frail necessities.
If it be done in seemly secrecy,
And without scandal, shall we peep to see
Our brother's weakness? Therefore, do not doubt,
If you be careful, you may still play out
The private rôle of love—for it were wise
That we should take man in his actual guise;
The self-same rule will not apply to men
As to pure angels without sin—what then?
The Church does all it can. These passions, too,
Are not without their use, if we subdue
Their exercise to proper ends,—and see,
They give us oftentimes a secret key
To help great projects on. So, as I said,
Love is not thoroughly prohibited,
Unless it lead to scandal. But, suppose
You will have marriage; then, indeed, you close
The Church's door, and for a whim, to last
A month or so, your future life you blast.
Take my advice,—drain nothing to its lees,
Only just tasted pleasures long can please;
What we desire is grateful while desired,
Possessed, 't is worthless—Ah! we soon grow tired,
With the continuous every-day of what
Once seemed so charming, when we had it not;
And wives, Filippo, wives are ...

Hark! 't is noon,
The clock struck then—Per Bacco, boy, how soon
This hour has passed—and I shall be too late
For the Marchesa—otherwise I'd wait—
She has some scheme I think of charity,
On which she wishes to consult with me.
Addio, then—and think on what I 've said,—
The heart must be submissive to the head.