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.
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