As the black storm upon the mountain top Sets off the sunbeam in the valley, so That huge fermenting mass of human-kind
Serves as a solemn back-ground, or relief,
To single forms and objects, whence they draw, For feeling and contemplative regard,
More than inherent liveliness and power.
How oft, amid those overflowing streets,
Have I gone forward with the crowd, and said Unto myself, "The face of every one
That passes by me is a mystery!"
Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressed By thoughts of what and whither, when and how, Until the shapes before my eyes became A second-sight procession, such as glides Over still mountains, or appears in dreams; And once, far-travelled in such mood, beyond The reach of common indication, lost Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten Abruptly, with the view (a sight not rare) Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face, Stood, propped against a wall, upon his chest Wearing a written paper, to explain
His story, whence he came, and who he was. Caught by the spectacle my mind turned round
As with the might of waters; an apt type
This label seemed of the utmost we can know,
Both of ourselves and of the universe;
And, on the shape of that unmoving man, His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I gazed, As if admonished from another world.
Though reared upon the base of outward things, Structures like these the excited spirit mainly Builds for herself; scenes different there are, Full-formed, that take, with small internal help, Possession of the faculties,-the peace
That comes with night; the deep solemnity Of nature's intermediate hours of rest,
When the great tide of human life stands still; The business of the day to come, unborn,
Of that gone by, locked up, as in the grave; The blended calmness of the heavens and earth, Moonlight and stars, and empty streets, and sounds Unfrequent as in deserts; at late hours.
Of winter evenings, when unwholesome rains Are falling hard, with people yet astir, The feeble salutation from the voice Of some unhappy woman, now and then Heard as we pass, when no one looks about,
Nothing is listened to. But these, I fear,
Are falsely catalogued; things that are, are not, As the mind answers to them, or the heart
Is prompt, or slow, to feel. What say you, then, To times, when half the city shall break out Full of one passion, vengeance, rage, or fear? To executions, to a street on fire,
Mobs, riots, or rejoicings? From these sights Take one, that ancient festival, the Fair, Holden where martyrs suffered in past time, And named of St. Bartholomew; there, see A work completed to our hands, that lays, If any spectacle on earth can do, The whole creative powers of man asleep!— For once, the Muse's help will we implore, And she shall lodge us, wafted on her wings, Above the press and danger of the crowd, Upon some showman's platform. What a shock For eyes and ears! what anarchy and din, Barbarian and infernal,-a phantasma,
Monstrous in colour, motion, shape, sight, sound! Below, the open space, through every nook
Of the wide area, twinkles, is alive
With heads; the midway region, and above,
Is thronged with staring pictures and huge scrolls,
Dumb proclamations of the Prodigies;
With chattering monkeys dangling from their poles, And children whirling in their roundabouts ;
With those that stretch the neck and strain the eyes, And crack the voice in rivalship, the crowd Inviting; with buffoons against buffoons Grimacing, writhing, screaming,-him who grinds The hurdy-gurdy, at the fiddle weaves, Rattles the salt-box, thumps the kettle-drum, And him who at the trumpet puffs his cheeks, The silver-collared Negro with his timbrel, Equestrians, tumblers, women, girls, and boys, Blue-breeched, pink-vested, with high-towering plumes.— All moveables of wonder, from all parts,
Are here-Albinos, painted Indians, Dwarfs, The Horse of knowledge, and the learned Pig, The Stone-eater, the man that swallows fire, Giants, Ventriloquists, the Invisible Girl, The Bust that speaks and moves its goggling eyes, The Wax-work, Clock-work, all the marvellous craft Of modern Merlins, Wild Beasts, Puppet-shows, All out-o'-the-way, far-fetched, perverted things, All freaks of nature, all Promethean thoughts Of man, his dullness, madness, and their feats All jumbled up together, to compose
A Parliament of Monsters. Tents and Booths
Meanwhile, as if the whole were one vast mill,
Are vomiting, receiving on all sides,
Men, Women, three-years' Children, Babes in arms.
Oh, blank confusion! true epitome
Of what the mighty City is herself,
To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl
Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity, by differences
That have no law, no meaning, and no end- Oppression, under which even highest minds Must labour, whence the strongest are not free. But though the picture weary out the eye, By nature an unmanageable sight,
It is not wholly so to him who looks
In steadiness, who hath among least things An under-sense of greatest; sees the parts As parts, but with a feeling of the whole. This, of all acquisitions, first awaits
On sundry and most widely different modes
Of education, nor with least delight
On that through which I passed. Attention springs,
And comprehensiveness and memory flow,
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