At the Hostelry, Part 4

'Twas Hals began. He to Vandyck,
In whose well-polished gentle mien
The practiced courtier of Kings was seen:
" Van, how, pray, do these revels strike?
Once you'd have me to England — there
Riches to get at St.. James's. Nay —
Patronage! 'Gainst that flattering snare,
The more of it lure from hearth away,
Old friends — old vintages carry the day! "
Whereto Vandyck, in silken dress
Not smoother than his courteousness
Smiled back, " Well, Franz, go then thy ways;
Thy pencil anywhere earns thee praise,
If not heapt gold. — But hark the chat! "
" 'Tis gay, " said Hals, not deaf to that,
" And witty should be. O the cup,
Wit rises in exhalation up! "
And sympathetic viewed the scene.
Then, turning, with yet livelier mien,
" More candid than kings, less coy than the Graces,
The pleasantness, Van, of these festival faces! —
But what's the theme? "
" The theme was bent —
Be sure, in no dry argument —
On the Picturesque, what 'tis, — its essence,
Fibre and root, bud, efflorescence,
Congenial soil, and where at best;
Till, drawing attention from the rest,
Some syllables dropt from Tintoretto,
Negligent dropt; with limp lax air
One long arm lolling over chair,
Nor less evincing latent nerve
Potential lazing in reserve.
For strong he was — the dyer's son,
A leonine strength, no strained falsetto —
The Little Tinto , Tintoretto,
Yes, Titan work by him was done.
And now as one in Art's degree
Superior to his topic — he:
" This Picturesque is scarce my care.
But note it now in Nature's work —
A thatched hut settling, rotting trees
Mossed over. Some decay must lurk:
In florid things but small its share.
You'll find it in Rome's squalid Ghetto,
In Algiers at the lazaretto,
In many a grimy slimy lair. "

" Well put! " cried Brouwer with ruddled face,
His wine-stained vesture, — hardly new, —
Buttoned with silver florins true;
" Grime mark and slime! — Squirm not, Sweet Charles . "
Slyly, in tone mellifluous
Addressing Carlo Dolce thus,
Fidgety in shy fellowship,
Fastidious even to finger-tip,
And dainty prim; " In Art the stye
Is quite inodorous. Here am I:
I don't paint smells , no no, no no,
No more than Huysum here, whose touch
In pinks and tulips takes us so;
But haunts that reek may harbor much;
Hey, Teniers? Give us boors at inns,
Mud floor — dark settles — jugs — old bins,
Under rafters foul with fume that blinks
From logs too soggy much to blaze
Which yet diffuse an umberish haze
That beautifies the grime, methinks. "
To Rembrandt then: " Your sooty stroke!
'Tis you, old sweep, believe in smoke. "
But he, reserved in self-control,
Jostled by that convivial droll,
Seemed not to hear, nor silence broke.