The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 06, April, 1858. Various

        Why doesn't Mr. Claude come with us? you ask.—We don't know.

        You should know better than we. He talked of the Vatican marbles;

        But I can't wholly believe that this was the actual reason,—

        He was so ready before, when we asked him to come and escort us.

        Certainly he is odd, my dear Miss Roper. To change so

        Suddenly, just for a whim, was not quite fair to the party,—

        Not quite right. I declare, I really am almost offended:

        I, his great friend, as you say, have doubtless a title to be so.

        Not that I greatly regret it, for dear Georgina distinctly

        Wishes for nothing so much as to show her adroitness. But, oh, my

        Pen will not write any more;—let us say nothing further about it.

        Yes, my dear Miss Roper, I certainly called him repulsive;

        So I think him, but cannot be sure I have used the expression

        Quite as your pupil should; yet he does most truly repel me.

        Was it to you I made use of the word? or who was it told you?

        Yes, repulsive; observe, it is but when he talks of ideas,

        That he is quite unaffected, and free, and expansive, and easy;

        I could pronounce him simply a cold intellectual being.—

        When does he make advances?—He thinks that women should woo him;

        Yet, if a girl should do so, would be but alarmed and disgusted.

        She that should love him must look for small love in return,—like

             the ivy

        On the stone wall, must expect but rigid and niggard support, and

        Even to get that must go searching all round with her humble embraces.

        Tell me, my friend, do you think that the grain would sprout in the

             furrow,

        Did it not truly accept as its summum et ultimum bonum

        That mere common and may-be indifferent soil it is set in?

        Would it have force to develope and open its young cotyledons,

        Could it compare, and reflect, and examine one thing with another?

        Would it endure to accomplish the round of its natural functions,

        Were it endowed with a sense of the general scheme of existence?

          While from Marseilles in the steamer we voyaged to Civita Vecchia,

        Vexed in the squally seas as we lay by Capraja and Elba,

        Standing, uplifted, alone on the heaving poop of the vessel,

        Looking around on the waste of the rushing incurious billows,

        "This is Nature," I said: "we are born as it were from her waters,

        Over her billows that buffet and beat us, her offspring uncared-for,

        Casting one single regard of a painful victorious knowledge,

        Into her billows that buffet and beat us we sink and are swallowed."

        This was the sense in my soul, as I swayed with the poop of the

             steamer;

        And as unthinking I sat in the ball of the famed Ariadne,

        Lo, it looked at me there from the face of a Triton in marble.

        It is the simpler thought, and I can believe it the truer.

        Let us not talk of growth; we are still in our Aqueous Ages.

        Farewell, Politics, utterly! What can I do? I cannot

        Fight, you know; and to talk I am wholly ashamed. And although I

        Gnash my teeth when I look in your French or your English papers,

        What is the good of that? Will swearing, I wonder, mend matters?

        Cursing and scolding repel the assailants? No, it is idle;

        No, whatever befalls, I will hide, will ignore or forget it.

        Let the tail shift for itself; I will bury my head. And what's the

        Roman Republic to me, or I to the Roman Republic?

          Why not fight?—In the first place, I haven't so much as a musket.

        In the next, if I had, I shouldn't know how I should use it.

        In the third, just at present I'm studying ancient marbles.

        In the fourth, I consider I owe my life to my country.

        In the fifth,—I forget; but four good reasons are ample.

        Meantime, pray, let 'em fight, and be killed. I delight in devotion.

        So that I 'list not, hurrah for the glorious army of martyrs!

        Sanguis martyrum semen Ecclesiae; though it would seem this

        Church is indeed of the purely Invisible, Kingdom-Come kind:

        Militant here on earth! Triumphant, of course, then, elsewhere!

        Ah, good Heaven, but I would I were out far away from the pother!

        Not, as we read in the words of the olden-time inspiration,

        Are there two several trees in the place we are set to abide in;

        But on the apex most high of the Tree of Life in the Garden,

        Budding, unfolding, and falling, decaying and flowering ever,

        Flowering is set and decaying the transient blossom of Knowledge,—

        Flowering alone, and decaying, the needless, unfruitful blossom.

        Or as the cypress-spires by the fair-flowing stream Hellespontine,

        Which from the mythical tomb of the godlike Protesilaus

        Rose, sympathetic in grief, to his lovelorn Laodamia,

        Evermore growing, and, when in their growth to the prospect attaining,

        Over the low sea-banks, of the fatal Ilian city,

        Withering still at the sight which still they upgrew to encounter.

          Ah, but ye that extrude from the ocean your helpless faces,

        Ye over stormy seas