Canto 16 ("There's politesse! we're left behind…)

"There's politesse! we're left behind. And yet I like this Prince of Pith; Too pithy almost. Where'll ye find

Nobleman to keep silence with Better than Lord Djalea.?—But you— It can not be this interview Has somehow—" "No," said Clarel; "no, And sighed; then, "How irreverent Was Belex in the wassail-flow: His Ramadan he links with Lent." "No marvel: what else to infer? Toll-taker at the Sepulcher. To me he gave his history late, The which I sought.—You've marked the state Of warders shawled, on old divan, Sword, pipe, and coffee-cup at knee, Cross-legg'd within that portal's span Which wins the Holy Tomb? Ay me, With what a bored dead apathy Faith's eager pilgrims they let in!" "Guard of the Urn has Belex been?" Said Clarel, starting; "why then,—yes—" He checked himself.— "Nay, but confess," Cried Rolfe; "I know the revery lurks: Frankly admit that for these Turks There's nothing that can so entice To disbelieve, nay, Atheize- Nothing so baneful unto them As shrined El Cods, Jerusalem. For look now how it operates: To Christ the Turk as much as Frank Concedes a supernatural rank; Our Holy Places too he mates All but with Mecca's own. But then If chance he mark the Cross profaned By violence of Christian men So called—his faith then needs be strained; The more, if he himself have done (Enforced thereto by harsh command) Irreverence unto Mary's Son." "How mean you?" and the speaker scanned. "Why not alone has Belex been An idling guard about The Tomb: Nay, but he knows another scene In fray beneath the self-same dome At festivals. What backs he's scored When on the day by Greeks adored, St. Basil's Easter, all the friars Schismatic, with the pilgrim tribes, Levantine, Russian, heave their tides Of uproar in among the shrines, Waiting the burst of fraudful fires From vent there in the Holy Tomb Which closeteth the mongers. Room! It jets! To quell the rush, the lines Of soldiers sway: crack falls the thong; And mid the press, some there, though strong, Are trampled, trodden, till they die. In transfer swift, igniting fly The magic flames, which, caught along By countless candles, multiply. Like seas phosphoric on calm nights, Blue shows the fane in fog of lights; But here 'tis hurricane and high: Zeal, furious zeal, and frenzying faith

And ecstasy of Atys' scath When up the Phrygian mount he rushed Bleeding, yet heeding not his shame, While round him frantic timbrels pushed In rites delirious to name. No: Dindymus' nor Brahma's crew Dream what these Christian fakirs do: Wrecked banners, crosses, ragged palms— Red wounds thro' vestments white ye view; And priests who shout ferocious psalms And hoarse hosannas to their king, Even Christ; and naught may work a lull, Nor timely truce of reason bring;

Not cutting lash, nor smiting sword, Nor yet—Oh! more than wonderful— The tomb, the pleading tomb where lay Our Lord." "But who ordains the imposture? speak." "The vivid, ever-inventive Greek." "The Greek? But that is hard to think. Seemly the port, gentle the cheer Of friars which lodge upon this brink Of Kedron, and do worship here With rites august, and keep the creed."— "Ah, rites august;—this ancient sect, Stately upholstered and bedecked, Is but a catafalque, concede Prolongs in sacerdotal way The Lower Empire's bastard sway; It does not grow, it does but bide An orthodoxy petrified. Or, if it grow, it grows but with Russia, and thence derives its pith. The Czar is its armed bishop. See, The Czar's purse, so it comes to me, Contributes to this convent's pride. But what's that twinkling through the gloom Far down? the lights in chantry? Yes! Whence came the flame that lit? Confess, E'en fromJerusalem—the Tomb, Last Easter. Horseman from the porch Hither each Easter spurs with torch To re-ignite the flames extinct Upon Good-Friday. Thus, you see, Contagious is this cheatery; Nay, that's unhandsome; guests we are; And hosts are sacred—house and all; And one may think, and scarcely mar The truth, that it may so befall That, as yon docile lamps receive The fraudful flame, yet honest burn, So, no collusive guile may cleave Unto these simple friars, who turn

And take whate'er the forms dispense, Nor question, Wherefore? ask not, Whence? "

Clarel, as if in search of aught To mitigate unwelcome thought, Appealed to turret, crag and star; But all was strange, withdrawn and far.

"Yet need we grant," Rolfe here resumed, "This trick its source had in a dream Artless, which few will disesteem— That angels verily illumed Those lamps at Easter, long ago; Though now indeed all come from prayer (As Greeks believc at least avow) Of bishops in the Sepulcher. Be rumor just, which small birds sing, Greek churchmen would let drop this thing Of fraud, e'en let it cease. But no: 'Tis ancient, 'tis entangled so With vital things of needful sway, Scarce dare they deviate that way. The Latin in this spurious rite Joined with the Greek: but long ago, Long years since, he abjured it quite. Still, few Rome's pilgrims here, and they

Less credulous than Greeks to-day. Now worldlings in their worldliness Enjoin upon us, Never retract: With ignorant folk, think you, no less Of policy priesteraft may exact? But Luther's clergy: though their deeds Take not imposture, yet 'tis seen That, in some matters more abstract, These, too, may be impeached herein. While, as each plain observer heeds, Some doctrines fall away from creeds, And therewith, hopes, which scarce again, In those same forms, shall solace men—

Perchance, suspended and inert May hang, with few to controvert, For ages; does the Lutheran, To such disciples as may sit Receptive of his sanctioned wit, In candor own the dubious weather And lengthen out the cable's tether?— You catch my drift?" "I do. But, nay, Some ease the cable." "Derwent, pray? Ah, he—he is a generous wight, And lets it slip, yes, run out quite. Whether now in his priestly state He seek indeed to mediate 'Tween faith and science (which still slight Each truce deceptive) or discreet Would kindly cover faith's retreat, Alike he labors vainly. Nay, And, since I think it, why not say— Things all diverse he would unite: His idol's an hermaphrodite." The student shrank. Again he knew Return for Rolfe of quick distaste; But mastered it; for still the hue Rolfe kept of candor undefaced, Quoting pure nature at his need, As 'twere the Venerable Bede: An Adam in his natural ways. But scrupulous lest any phrase Through inference might seem unjust Unto the friend they here discussed Rolfe supplements: "Derwent but errs— No, buoyantly but overstates In much his genial heart avers: I cannot dream he simulates. For pulpiteers which make their mart— Who, in the Truth not for a day, Debarred from growth as from decay,

Truth one forever, Scriptures say, Do yet the fine progressive part So jauntily maintain; these find (For sciolists abound) a kind And favoring audience. But none Exceed in flushed repute the one Who bold can harmonize for all Moses and Comte, Renan and Paul: 'Tis the robustious circus-man: With legs astride the dappled span Elate he drives white, black, before: The small apprentices adore. Astute ones be though, staid and grave Who in the wars of Faith and Science Remind one of old tactics brave Imposing front of false defiance: The King a corpse in armor led On a live horse.—You turn your head: You hardly like that. Woe is me: What would you have? For one to hold That he must still trim down, and cold Dissemble this were coxcombry! Indulgence should with frankness mate: Fraternal be: Ah, tolerate!" The modulated voice here won Ingress where scarce the plea alone

Had entrance gained. But—to forget Allusions which no welcome met In him who heard—Rolfe thus went on: "Never I've seen it; but they claim That the Greek prelate's artifice Comes as a tragic after-piece To farce, or rather prank and game; Racers and tumblers round the Tomb: Sports such as might the mound confront, The funeral mound, by Hellespont, Of slain Patroclus. Linger still Such games beneath some groves of bloom In mid Pacific, where life's thrill

Is primal—Pagan; and fauns deck Green theatres for that tattooed Greek The Polynesian.—Who will say These Syrians are more wise than they, Or more humane? not those, believe, Who may the narrative receive Of Ibrahim the conqueror, borne Dead-faint, by soldiers red with gore Over slippery corses heaped forlorn Out from splashed Calvary through the door Into heaven's light. Urged to ordain That nevermore the frenzying ray Should issue—'That would but sustain The cry of persecution; nay, Let Allah, if he will, remand These sects to reason. Let it stand.'— Cynical Moslem! but didst err, Arch-Captain of the Sepulcher?"—

He stayed: and Clarel knew decline Of all his spirits, as may one Who hears some story of his line Which shows him half his house undone. Revulsion came: with lifted brows He gazed on Rolfe: Is this the man Whom Jordan heard in part espouse The appeal of that Dominican And Rome? and here, all sects, behold All creeds involving in one fold Of doubt? Better a partisan! Earnest he seems: can union be 'Twixt earnestness and levity? Or need at last in Rolfe confess Thy hollow, Manysidedness!

But, timely, here diversion fell. Dawn broke; and from each cliff-hung cell 'Twas hailed with hymns—confusion sweet As of some aviary's seat:

iommemorative matin din: 'Tis Saba's festival they usher in.