from George
Eliot's poem "Stradivarius", the gist of which is that God
himself might conceivably make better fiddles than Stradivari's,
but by no means certainly; since, as a fact, God orders his best
fiddles of Stradivari. Says the great workman,

'God be praised,
Antonio Stradivari has an eye
That winces at false work and loves the true,
With hand and arm that play upon the tool
As willingly as any singing bird
Sets him to sing his morning roundelay,
Because he likes to sing and likes the song.'
Then Naldo: ''Tis a pretty kind of fame
At best, that comes of making violins;
And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go
To purgatory none the less.'
But he:
''Twere purgatory here to make them ill;
And for my fame--when any master holds
'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine,
He will be glad that Stradivari lived,
Made violins, and made them of the best.
The masters only know whose work is good:
They will choose mine, and while God gives them skill
I give them instruments to play upon,
God choosing me to help Him.'
'What! Were God
At fault for violins, thou absent?'
'Yes;
He were at fault for Stradivari's work.'
'Why, many hold Giuseppe's
violins As good as thine.'
'May be: they are different.
His quality declines: he spoils his hand
With over-drinking. But were his the best,
He could not work for two. My work is mine,
And heresy or not, if my hand slacked
I should rob God--since He is fullest good--
Leaving a blank instead of violins.
I say, not God Himself can make man's best
Without best men to help him....
'Tis God gives skill,
But not without men's hands: He could not make
Antonio Stradivari's violins
Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel.'

So much then for _What Does_: I do not depreciate it.

X

Neither do I depreciate--in Cambridge, save the mark!--_What
Knows._ All knowledge is venerable; and I suppose you will find
the last vindication of the scholar's life at its baldest in
Browning's "A Grammarian's Funeral":

Others mistrust and say, 'But time escapes:
Live now or never!'
He said, 'What's time? Leave Now for dog and apes!
Man has Forever.'
Back to his book then; deeper drooped his head:
Calculus racked him:
Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead:
Tussis attacked him....
So, with the throttling hands of death at strife,
Ground he at grammar;
Still,