Five Critcisms
I.
(_On
many
recent
novels
by
the
conventional
unconventionalists_.)
Old
Pantaloon,
lean-witted,
dour
and
rich,
After
grim
years
of
soul-destroying
greed,
Weds
Columbine,
that
April-blooded
witch
"Too
young"
to
know
that
gold
was
not
her
need.
Then
enters
Pierrot,
young,
rebellious,
warm,
With
well-lined
purse,
to
teach
the
fine-souled
wife
That
the
old
fool's
gold
should
aid
a
world-reform
(Confused
with
sex).
This
wrecks
the
old
fool's
life.
O,
there's
no
doubt
that
Pierrot
was
clever,
Quick
to
break
hearts
and
quench
the
dying
flame;
But
why,
for
his
own
pride,
does
Pierrot
never
Choose
his
own
mate,
work
for
his
own
high
aim,
Stand
on
his
feet,
and
pay
for
his
own
tune?
Why
scold,
cheat,
rob
and
kill
poor
Pantaloon?
II.
(_On
a
certain
goddess,
acclaimed
as
"new"
but
known
in
Babylon._)
I
saw
the
assembled
artists
of
our
day
Waiting
for
light,
for
music
and
for
song.
A
woman
stood
before
them,
fresh
as
May
And
beautiful;
but,
in
that
modish
throng,
None
heeded
her.
They
said,
"In
our
first
youth
Surely,
long
since,
your
hair
was
touched
with
grey."
"I
do
not
change,"
she
answered.
"I
am
Truth."
"Old
and
banal,"
they
sneered,
and
turned
away.
Then
came
a
formless
thing,
with
breasts
dyed
scarlet.
The
roses
in
her
hair
were
green
and
blue.
"I
am
new,"
she
said.
"I
change,
and
Death
knows
why."
Then
with
the
eyes
and
gesture
of
a
harlot
She
led
them
all
forth,
whinneying,
"New,
how
new!
Tell
us
your
name!"
She
answered,
"The
New
Lie."
III.
(_On
Certain
of
the
Bolsheviki
"Idealists."_)
With
half
the
force
and
thought
you
waste
in
rage
Over
your
neighbor's
house,
or
heart
of
stone,
You
might
have
built
your
own
new
heritage,
O
fools,
have
you
no
hands,
then,
of
your
own?
Where
is
your
pride?
Is
this
your
answer
still,
This
the
red
flag
that
burns
above
our
strife,
This
the
new
cry
that
rings
from
Pisgah
hill,
"_Our
neighbor's
money,
or
our
neighbor's
life_"?
Be
prouder.
Let
us
build
that
nobler
state
With
our
own
hands,
with
our
own
muscle
and
brain!
Your
very
victories
die
in
hymns
of
hate;
And
your
own
envies
are
your
heaviest
chain.
Is
there
no
rebel
proud
enough
to
say
"We'll
stand
on
our
own
feet,
and
win
the
day"?
IV.
(_On
Certain
Realists._)
You
with
the
quick
sardonic
eye
For
all
the
mockeries
of
life,
Beware,
in
this
dark
masque
of
things
that
seem,
Lest
even
that
tragic
irony,
Which
you
discern
in
this
our
mortal
strife,
Trick
you
and
trap
you,
also,
with
a
dream.
Last
night
I
saw
a
dead
man
borne
along
The
city
streets,
passing
a
boisterous
throng
That
never
ceased
to
laugh
and
shout
and
dance:
And
yet,
and
yet,
For
all
the
poison
bitter
minds
might
brew
From
themes
like
this,
I
knew
That
the
stern
Truth
would
not
permit
her
glance
Thus
to
be
foiled
by
flying
straws
of
chance,
For
her
keen
eyes
on
deeper
skies
are
set,
And
laws
that
tragic
ironists
forget.
She
saw
the
dead
man's
life,
from
birth
to
death,--
All
that
he
knew
of
love
and
sin
and
pain,
Success
and
failure
(not
as
this
world
sees),
His
doubts,
his
passions,
inner
loss
and
gain,
And
borne
on
darker
tides
of
constant
law
Beyond
the
margin
of
this
life
she
saw
All
that
had
left
his
body
with
the
breath.
These
things,
to
her,
were
still
realities.
If
any
mourned
for
him
unseen,
She
saw
them,
too.
If
none,
she'd
not
pretend
His
clay
were
colder,
or
his
God
less
true,
Or
that
his
grave,
at
length,
would
be
less
green.
She'd
not
deny
The
boundless
depths
of
her
eternal
sky
Brooding
above
a
boundless
universe,
Because
he
seemed
to
man's
unseeing
eye
Going
a
little
further
to
fare
worse;
Nor
would
she
assume
he
lacked
that
unseen
friend
Whom
even
the
tragic
ironists
declare
Were
better
than
the
seen,
in
his
last
end.
Oh,
then,
beware,
beware,
Lest
in
the
strong
name
of
"reality"
You
mock
yourselves
anew
with
shapes
of
air,
Lest
it
be
you,
agnostics,
who
re-write
The
fettering
creeds
of
night,
Affirm
you
know
your
own
Unknowable,
And
lock
the
wingéd
soul
in
a
new
hell;
Lest
it
be
you,
lip-worshippers
of
Truth,
Who
break
the
heart
of
youth;
Lest
it
be
you,
the
realists,
who
fight
With
shadows,
and
forget
your
own
pure
light;
Lest
it
be
you
who,
with
a
little
shroud
Snatched
from
the
sightless
faces
of
the
dead,
Hoodwink
the
world,
and
keep
the
mourner
bowed
In
dust,
real
dust,
with
stones,
real
stones,
for
bread;
Lest,
as
you
look
one
eighth
of
an
inch
beneath
The
yellow
skin
of
death,
You
dream
yourselves
discoverers
of
the
skull
That
old
_memento
mori_
of
our
faith;
Lest
it
be
you
who
hunt
a
flying
wraith
Through
this
dissolving
stuff
of
hill
and
cloud;
Lest
it
be
you,
who,
at
the
last,
annul
Your
covenant
with
your
kind;
Lest
it
be
you
who
darken
heart
and
mind,
Sell
the
strong
soul
in
bondage
to
a
dream,
And
fetter
us
once
more
to
things
that
seem.
V
(_An
Answer_)
[After
reading
an
article
in
a
leading
London
journal
by
an
"intellectual"
who
attacked
one
of
the
noblest
poets
and
greatest
artists
of
a
former
century
(or
any
century)
on
the
ground
that
his
high
ethical
standards
were
incompatible
with
the
new
lawlessness.
This
vicious
lawlessness
the
writer
described
definitely,
and
he
paid
his
tribute
to
dishonour
as
openly
and
brutally
as
any
of
the
Bolsheviki
could
have
done.
I
had
always
known
that
this
was
the
real
ground
of
the
latter-day
onslaught
on
some
of
the
noblest
literature
of
the
past;
but
I
had
never
seen
it
openly
confessed
before.
The
time
has
now
surely
come
when,
if
our
civilization
is
to
make
any
fight
at
all
against
the
new
"red
ruin
and
breaking
up
of
laws,"
we
must
cease
to
belaud
our
slack-minded,
latter-day
"literature
of
rebellion"
for
its
cleverness
in
making
scraps
of
paper
out
of
the
plain
laws
of
right
and
wrong.
It
has
been
doing
this
for
more
than
twenty-five
years,
and
the
same
has
become
fashionable
among
those
who
are
too
busy
to
read
carefully
or
understand
fully
what
pitfalls
are
being
prepared
for
their
own
feet
and
the
feet
of
their
children.]
I
If
this
were
true,
England
indeed
were
dead.
If
the
wild
fashion
of
that
poisonous
hour
Wherein
the
new
Salome,
clothed
with
power,
Wriggled
and
hissed,
with
hands
and
feet
so
red,
Should
even
now
demand
that
glorious
head,
Whose
every
word
was
like
an
English
flower,
Whose
every
song
an
English
April
shower,
Whose
every
thought
immortal
wine
and
bread;
If
this
were
true,
if
England
should
prefer
Darkness,
corruption,
and
the
adulterous
crew,
Shakespeare
and
Browning
would
cry
shame
on
her,
And
Milton
would
deny
the
land
he
knew;
And
those
who
died
in
Flanders
yesterday
Would
thank
their
God
they
sleep
in
cleaner
clay.
II
It
is
not
true.
Only
these
"rebel"
wings,
These
glittering
clouds
of
"intellectual"
flies
Out
of
the
stagnant
pools
of
midnight
rise
From
the
old
dead
creeds,
with
carrion-poisoned
stings
They
strike
at
noble
and
ignoble
things,
Immortal
Love
with
the
old
world's
out-worn
lies,
But
even
now,
a
wind
from
clearer
skies
Dissolves
in
smoke
their
coteries
and
wings.
See,
their
divorced
idealist
re-divorces
The
wife
he
stole
from
his
own
stealing
friend!
And
_these_
would
pluck
the
high
stars
from
their
courses,
And
mock
the
fools
that
praise
them,
till
the
end!
Well,
let
the
whole
world
praise
them.
Truth
can
wait
Till
our
new
England
shall
unlock
the
gate.
III
Yes.
Let
the
fools
go
paint
themselves
with
woad,
For
we've
a
jest
between
us,
Truth
and
I.
We
know
that
those
who
live
by
fashion
die
Also
by
fashion,
and
that
mode
kills
mode.
We
know
the
great
new
age
is
on
the
road,
And
death
is
at
the
heart
of
every
lie.
But
we've
a
jest
between
us,
Truth
and
I.
And
we
have
locked
the
doors
to
our
abode.
Yet
if
some
great
new
"rebel"
in
his
pride
Should
pass
that
way
and
hear
us
laughing
low
Like
lovers,
in
the
darkness,
side
by
side,
He
might
catch
this:--"The
dullards
do
not
know
That
names
are
names.
New
'rebel'
is
old
'thrall.'"
And
we're
the
lonely
dreamers
after
all.
