In that dim and distant Æon
Known as Ante-MycenÆan,
When the proud Pelasgian still
Bounded on his native hill,
And the shy Iberian dwelt
Undisturbed by conquering Celt,
Ere from out their Aryan home
Came the Lords of Greece and Rome,
Somewhere in those ancient spots
Lived a man who painted Pots—
Painted with an art defective,
Quite devoid of all perspective,
Very crude, and causing doubt
When you tried to make them out,
Men (at least they looked like that),
Beasts that might be dog or cat,
Pictures blue and pictures red,
All that came into his head:
Not that any tale he meant
On the Pots to represent:
Simply ’twas to make them smart,
Simply Decorative Art.
So the seasons onward hied,
And the Painter-person died—
But the Pot whereon he drew
Still survived as good as new:
Painters come and painters go,
Art remains in statu quo.

When a thousand years (perhaps)
Had proceeded to elapse,
Out of Time’s primeval mist
Came an Ætiologist;
He by shrewd and subtle guess
Wrote Descriptive Letterpress,
Setting forth the various causes
For the drawings on the vases,
All the motives, all the plots
Of the painter of the pots,
Entertained the nations with
Fable, Saga, Solar Myth,
Based upon ingenious shots
At the Purpose of the Pots,
Showing ages subsequent
What the painter really meant
(Which, of course, the painter hadn’t;
He’d have been extremely saddened
Had he seen his meanings missed
By the Ætiologist).

Next arrives the Prone to Err
Very ancient Chronicler,
All that mythologic lore
Swallowing whole and wanting more,
Crediting what wholly lacked
All similitude of Fact,
Building on this wondrous basis
All we know of early races;
So the Past as seen by him
Furnished from its chambers dim
Hypothetical foundations
Whence succeeding generations
Built, as on a basis sure,
Branches three of Literature,
Social Systems four (or five),
Two Religions Primitive;
So that one may truly say
(Speaking in a general way)
All the facts and all the knowledge
Taught in School and taught in College,
All the books the printer prints—
Everything that’s happened since—
Feels the influence of what
Once was drawn upon that Pot,
Plus the curious mental twist
Of that Ætiologist!

But the Pot that caused the trouble
Lay entombed in earth and rubble,
Left about in various places,
In the way that early races—
Hittites, Greeks, or Hottentots—
Used to leave important Pots;
Till at length, to close the list,
Came an ArchÆologist,
Came and dug with care and pain,
Came and found the Pot again:
Dug and delved with spade and shovel,
Made a version wholly novel
Of the Potman’s old design
(Others none were genuine).
Pots were in a special sense
Echt-Historisch Documents:
All who Error hope to stem
Must begin by studying them;
So the Public (which, he said,
Had been grievously misled)
Must in all things freshly start
From his views of Ancient Art.
All (the learned man proceeded)
Otherwise who thought than he did,
Showed a stupid, base, untrue,
Obscurantist point of view;
Men like these (the sage would say)
Should be wholly swept away;
They, and eke the faults prodigious
Which beset their creeds religious,
Render totally impure
All their so-called Literature,
Lastly, sap to its foundation
All their boasted education,—
Just because they’ve quite forgot
What was meant, and what was not,
By the Painter of the Pot!

* * * * *

Pots are long and life is fleeting;
Artists, when their subjects treating,
Should be very, very far
Carefuller than now they are.