Then she: "Yes, politics has history, And therefore has a being,--has, in truth, Just such a being as I grant to art-- A being of opinions. Every state Has origin and ends of government Peculiarly its own, and so, from these, Constructs its theory of politics, And holds this theory against the world; And holds it well. There is no fixedness Or form of politics for all mankind; And there is none of art. Each artist-soul Is its own law; and he who dares to bring From work of other man, to lay on yours, His square and compass--thus declaring him The pattern man--and tells, by him, you lack Just so much here, or wander so much there, Thereby confesses just how much he lacks Of wisdom and plain sense. For every man Has special gift of power and end of life. No man is great who lives by other law Than that which wrapped his genius at his birth. The Lind is great because she is the Lind, And not the Malibran. Recorded art Is yours to study--e'en to imitate, In education--imitate or shun, As the case warrants; but it has destroyed, Or toned to commonplace, more gifts of God Than it has ever fanned to life or fed. Who never walks save where he sees men's tracks Makes no discoveries. Show me the man Who, leaving God and nature and himself, Sits at the feet of masters, stuffs his brain With maxims, notions, usages and rules, And yields his fancy up to leading-strings, And I shall see a man who never did A deed worth doing. So, in the name of art-- Nay, in the name of God--do no such thing As smutch your knees by bowing at a shrine, Whose doubtful deity, in midst of dust, Sits in the cast-off robes of devotees, And lives on broken victuals!" "Drive, my dear! Drive on, and over me! You're on the old High-stepping horse to-night; so give him rein, For exercise is good," I said, in mirth. "You sit your courser finely. I confess I'm very proud of you, and too much pleased With your accomplishments to check your speed. Drive on, my love! drive on!"