Part 27 (1/2)

That Gryllus's benighted spirit May wake to your transcendent merit, And, with profoundest admiration thrilled, He may with willing mind a.s.sume his place In your steam-nursed, steam-borne, steam-killed, And gas-enlightened race.

CIRCE Speak, Gryllus, what you see,

I see the ocean, And o'er its face s.h.i.+ps pa.s.sing wide and far; Some with expanded sails before the breeze, And some with neither sails nor oars, impelled By some invisible power against the wind, Scattering the spray before them, But of many One is on fire, and one has struck on rocks And melted in the waves like fallen snow.

Two crash together in the middle sea, And go to pieces on the instant, leaving No soul to tell the tale, and one is hurled In fragments to the sky, strewing the deep With death and wreck. I had rather live with Circe Even as I was, than flit about the world In those enchanted s.h.i.+ps which some Alastor Must have devised as traps for mortal ruin.

Look yet again.

Now the whole scene is changed.

I see long chains of strange machines on wheels, With one in front of each, purring white smoke From a black hollow column. Fast and far They speed, like yellow leaves before the gale, When autumn winds are strongest. Through their windows I judge them thronged with people; but distinctly Their speed forbids my seeing.

SPIRIT-RAPPER This is one Of the great glories of our modern time, * Men are become as birds,' and skim like swallows The surface of the world.

GRYLLUS For what good end?

SPIRIT-RAPPER The end is in itself--the end of skimming The surface of the world.

GRYLLUS If that be all, I had rather sit in peace in my old home: But while I look, two of them meet and clash, And pile their way with ruin. One is rolled Down a steep bank; one through a broken bridge Is dashed into a flood. Dead, dying, wounded, Are there as in a battle-field. Are these Your modern triumphs? Jove preserve me from them.

SPIRIT-RAPPER These ills are rare. Millions are borne in safety Where ore incurs mischance. Look yet again.

GRYLLUS I see a ma.s.s of light brighter than that Which burned in Circe's palace, and beneath it A motley crew, dancing to joyous music.

But from that light explosion comes, and flame; And forth the dancers rush in haste and fear From their wide-blazing hall.

SPIRIT-RAPPER Oh, Circe! Circe!

Thou show'st him all the evil of our arts In more than just proportion to the good.

Good without evil is not given to man.

Jove, from his urns dispensing good and ill, Gives all unmixed to some, and good and ill Mingled to many--good unmixed to none.{1} Our arts are good. The inevitable ill That mixes with them, as with all things human, Is as a drop of water in a goblet Full of old wine.

1 This is the true sense of the Homeric pa.s.sage:--

(Greek pa.s.sage) Homer: ii. xxiv.

There are only two distributions: good and ill mixed, and unmixed ill. None, as Heyne has observed, receive unmixed good. Ex dolio bonorum....

GRYLLUS More than one drop, I fear, And those of bitter water.

CIRCE There is yet An ample field of scientific triumph: What shall we show him next?

SFIRIT-RAPPER Pause we awhile, He is not in the mood to feel conviction Of our superior greatness. He is all For rural comfort and domestic ease, But our impulsive days are all for moving: Sometimes with some ulterior end, but still For moving, moving, always. There is nothing Common between us in our points of judgment.

He takes his stand upon tranquillity, We ours upon excitement. There we place The being, end, and aim of mortal life, The many are with us: some few, perhaps, With him. We put the question to the vote By universal suffrage. Aid us, Circe I On taj.i.s.manic wings youi spells can waft The question and reply* Are we not wiser, Happier, and better, than the men of old, Of Homer's days, of Athens, and of Rome?

VOICES WITHOUT Ay. No. Ay, ay. No. Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, We are the wisest race the earth has known, The most advanced in all the arts of life, In science and in morals.

...nemo meracius accipit: hoc memorare omisit. This sense is implied, not expressed. Pope missed it in his otherwise beautiful translation.

Two urns by Jove's high throne have ever stood, The source of evil one, and one of good; From thence the cup of mortal man he fills, Blessings to these, to those distributes ills, To most he mingles both: the wretch decreed To taste the bad, unmixed, is curst indeed; Pursued by wrongs, by meagre famine driven, He wanders, outcast both of earth and heaven.