“What can you mean?” I ask’d. “I mean that priests Are not ordain’d for work in every sphere. A prince dispenses, does not mine, his gold. A priest administers the truth reveal’d; What power has he to delve divine designs, Or minister dictation, in the spheres Where God, to train our reason, leaves us free? Your priest who tampers with our home-life here,— What warrant holds he, human or divine? Whatever move him—if he serve your father, Or deem that gifts like those he fancies mine, May worthier prove, devoted to the Church, Is he in this our final arbiter?— Have I no judgment?—are not you of age? Pauline, but heed me; let no power, I beg, Succeed in sundering us. Heaven hears my words I fear some plot may crush, or make your soul (God save you if you yield) a mere bent truck To bear some weight of meanness on to ill.” “But I,” I said, “had ask’d the priest’s advice.” “He handled ill th’ occasion,” answer’d he. “I would not dare to mould another thus. Nay, though I knew that I could model thence The best-form’d manhood of my mind’s ideal. Who knows?—My own ideal, my wisest aim, May tempt myself, and others, too, astray. If I be made one soul to answer for, And make myself responsible for two, I may be doubly damn’d. How impious,— The will that thus would manage other wills; As though we men were puppets of a show, Not spirits, restless and irresolute, Poised on a point between the right and wrong From which a breath may launch for heaven or hell!— You dare submit to this impiety?” “But, Haydn,” said I, “you, too, heed advice.” “Advice?” he answer’d. “What?—is this the ground On which these base authority?—Nay, nay, Base where they may, their ground is wilfulness, Years back invested; not disrobed, because Old forms are reverenced.—Yes, but are they right? Think you God gives to strength of will the right To say what is right? And if not, what then? If one obey then, how can he be sure That he obeys not sin?” “They may have will,” I said, “but you forget; the priests are wise.” “About what life?” he cried. “In every path Experience is the warrant for advice. But life for them—what know they real of life?— Naught, naught; and if they give you their advice They give you naught, or else they give you whims;— A bachelor teaching dames about their babes! Or matrons how to guide their grown-up girls! Alas, their counsels ignorant, partial, false, Repel toward infidelity the wise; And half of those they hope will follow them Make hypocrites or hypochondriacs.” XXVII. What could I say? I rose to leave him then.