No More Learning

Jesus, thou art all compassion,
Pure, unbounded love thou art:
Visit us with thy salvation;
Enter every trembling heart.
Breathe, o breathe thy loving Spirit
Into every troubled breast!
Let us all in thee inherit,
Let us find that second rest.
Take away our bent to sinning;
Alpha and Omega be:
End of faith, as its beginning,
Set our hearts at liberty.
Come, Almighty to deliver,
Let us all thy life receive;
Suddenly return, and never,
Never more thy temples leave.
Thee we would be always blessing,
Serve thee as thy hosts above,
Pray, and praise thee without ceasing,
Glory in thy perfect love.
Finish then thy new creation;
Pure and spotless let us be;
Let us see thy, great salvation,
Perfectly restored in thee:
Changed from glory into glory,
Till in heaven we take our place;
Till we cast our crowns before thee,
Lost in wonder, love, and praise.
XXVII-989


## p. 15810 (#142) ##########################################

15810
JOHN AND CHARLES WESLEY
ETERNAL BEAM OF LIGHT DIVINE
E
TERNAL Beam of Light divine,
Fountain of unexhausted love,
In whom the Father's glories shine,
Through earth beneath and heaven above;
Jesus, the weary wanderer's rest,
Give me thy easy yoke to bear;
With steadfast patience arm my breast,
With spotless love and lowly fear.
Thankful I take the cup from thee,
Prepared and mingled by thy skill;
Though bitter to the taste it be,
Powerful the wounded soul to heal.
Be thou, O Rock of Ages, nigh!
So shall each murmuring thought be gone,
And grief, and fear, and care shall fly,
As clouds before the midday sun.
(
(
Speak to my warring passions, Peace”;
Say to my trembling heart, “Be still ”;
Thy power my strength and fortress is,
For all things serve thy sovereign will.
O Death! where is thy sting? Where now
Thy boasted victory, O Grave ?
Who shall contend with God ? or who
Can hurt whom God delights to save ?
GENTLE JESUS, MEEK AND MILD
ENTLE Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child;
Pity my simplicity,
Suffer me to come to Thee.
G
Fain I would to thee be brought:
Dearest God, forbid it not;
Give me, dearest God, a place
In the kingdom of thy grace.
Put thy hands upon my head,
Let me in thine arms be stayed;


## p. 15811 (#143) ##########################################

JOHN AND CHARLES WESLEY
15811
Let me lean upon thy breast,-
Lull me, lull me, Lord, to rest.
Hold me fast in thy embrace,
Let me see thy smiling face.
Give me, Lord, thy blessing give;
Pray for me, and I shall live.
I shall live the simple life,
Free from sin's uneasy strife,
Sweetly ignorant of ill,
Innocent and happy still.
Oh that I may never know
What the wicked people do!
Sin is contrary to thee.
Sin is the forbidden tree.
Keep me from the great offense,
Guard my helpless innocence;
Hide me, from all evil hide,
Self, and stubbornness, and pride.
Lamb of God, I look to thee;
Thou shalt my example be:
Thou art gentle, meek, and mild,
Thou wast once a little child.
Fain I would be as thou art:
Give me thy obedient heart.
Thou art pitiful and kind:
Let me have thy loving mind.
Meek and lowly may I be:
Thou art all humility.
Let me to my betters bow:
Subject to thy parents thou.
Let me above all fulfill
God my heavenly Father's will;
Never his good Spirit grieve,
Only to his glory live.
Thou didst live to God alone,
Thou didst never seek thine own;
Thou thy self didst never please,
God was all thy happiness.


## p. 15812 (#144) ##########################################

15812
JOHN AND CHARLES WESLEY
Loving Jesu, gentle Lamb,
In Thy gracious hands I am.
Make me, Savior, what thou art,
Live thyself within my heart.
I shall then show forth thy praise,
Serve thee all my happy days:
Then the world shall always see
Christ, the holy Child, in me.
THOU VERY PRESENT AID
TH
HOU very present aid
In suffering and distress,
The soul which still on thee is stayed
Is kept in perfect peace.
The soul by faith reclined
On his Redeemer's breast
Midst raging storms exults to find
An everlasting rest.
Sorrow and fear are gone,
Whene'er thy face appears;
It stills the sighing orphan's moan,
And dries the widow's tears.
It hallows every cross;
It sweetly comforts me;
And makes me now forget my loss,
And lose myself in thee.
Peace to the troubled heart,
Health to the sin-sick mind,
The wounded spirit's Balm thou art,
The Healer of mankind.
In deep affliction blest,
With thee I mount above,
And sing, triumphantly distrest,
Thine all-sufficient love.
Jesus, to whom I fly,
Doth all my wishes fill;
In vain the creature-streams are dry:
I have the Fountain still.


## p. 15813 (#145) ##########################################

JOHN AND CHARLES WESLEY
15813
Stript of my earthly friends,
I find them all in One;
And peace, and joy that never ends,
And heaven, in Christ alone.
HAIL! HOLY, HOLY, HOLY LORD
HAL
All! holy, holy, holy Lord,
Whom One in Three we know;
By all thy heavenly host adored,
By all thy Church below!
One undivided Trinity
With triumph we proclaim:
The universe is full of thee,
And speaks thy glorious name.
Thee, holy Father we confess;
Thee, holy Son adore;
Thee, Spirit of true holiness
We worship evermore.
Thine incommunicable right,
Almighty God, receive,
Which angel-choirs and saints in light
And saints embodied give.
Three Persons equally divine
We magnify and love;
And both the choirs ere long shall join
To sing thy praise above.
Hail! holy, holy, holy Lord
(Our heavenly song shall be),
Supreme, essential One adored
In coeternal Three!
A CHARGE TO KEEP I HAVE
A
CHARGE to keep I have,
A God to glorify;
A never-dying soul to save,
And fit it for the sky;
To serve the present age,
My calling to fulfill:
Oh, may it all my powers engage
To do my Master's will!


## p. 15814 (#146) ##########################################

15814
JOHN AND CHARLES WESLEY
Arm me with jealous care,
As in thy sight to live;
And oh, thy servant, Lord, prepare
A strict account to give!
Help me to watch and pray,
And on thyself rely;
Assured, if I my trust betray,
I shall forever die.
AND HAVE I MEASURED HALF MY DAYS
A
ND have I measured half my days,
And half my journey run,
Nor tasted the Redeemer's grace,
Nor yet my work begun?
The morning of my life is past,
The noon is almost o'er;
The night of death approaches fast,
When I can work no more.
Oh, what a length of wretched years
Have I lived out in vain!
How fruitless all my toils and tears!
I am not born again.
Evil and sad my days have been,
And all a painful void,
For still I am not saved from sin,
For still I know not God.
Darkness he makes his secret place,
Thick clouds surround his throne;
Nor can I yet behold his face,
Or find the God unknown.
A God that hides himself he is,
Far off from mortal sight,
An inaccessible abyss
Of uncreated light.
Far off he is, yet always near;
He fills both earth and heaven;
But doth not to my soul appear
My soul from Eden driven.


## p. 15815 (#147) ##########################################

JOHN AND CHARLES WESLEY
15815
O'er earth a banished man I rove,
But cannot feel him nigh:
Where is the pardoning God of Love,
Who stooped for me to die?
I sought him in the secret cell,
With unavailing care:
Long did I in the desert dwell,
Nor could I find him there.
Still every means in vain I try;
I seek him far and near:
Where'er I come, constrained to cry,
“My Savior is not here. ”
God is in this, in every place;
Yet oh, how dark and void
To me! 'tis one great wilderness,
This earth without my God.
Empty of Him who all things fills,
Till he his light impart,
Till he his glorious Self reveals,
The veil is on my heart.
O thou who seest and know'st my grief,
Thyself unseen, unknown,
Pity my helpless unbelief,
And take away the stone!
Regard me with a gracious eye;
The long-sought blessing give;
And bid me, at the point to die,
Behold thy face and live.
A darker soul did never yet
Thy promised help implore:
Oh, that I now my Lord might meet,
And never lose him more!
Now, Jesus, now the Father's love
Shed in my heart abroad;
The middle wall of sin remove,
And let me in to God!


## p. 15816 (#148) ##########################################

15816
JOHN AND CHARLES WESLEY
JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL
Jes
ESUS, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is high.
Hide me, O my Savior, hide,
Till the storm of life is past;
Safe into the haven guide;
Oh receive my soul at last.
Other refuge have I none;
Hangs my helpless soul on thee.
Leave, ah, leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me.
All my trust on thee is stayed,
All my help from thee I bring;
Cover my defenseless head
With the shadow of thy wing.
Wilt thou not regard my call ?
Wilt thou not accept my prayer ?
Lo, I sink, I faint, I fall!
Lo, on thee I cast my care.
Reach me out thy gracious hand!
While I of thy strength receive:
Hoping against hope I stand;
Dying, and behold I live!
Thou, O Christ, art all I want;
More than all in thee I find:
Raise the fallen, cheer the faint,
Heal the sick, and lead the blind.
Just and holy is thy name;
I am all unrighteousness:
False and full of sin I am;
Thou art full of truth and grace.
Plenteous grace with thee is found,
Grace to cover all my sin;
Let the healing streams abound,
Make and keep me pure within.
Thou of life the fountain art:
Freely let me take of thee;
Spring thou up within my heart,
Rise to all eternity.


## p. 15817 (#149) ##########################################

JOHN AND CHARLES WESLEY
15817
JESU, MY STRENGTH, MY HOPE
Jesu,
ESU, my strength, my hope,
On thee I cast my care,
With humble confidence look up,
And know thou hear'st my prayer.
Give me on thee to wait,
Till I can all things do;
On thee, almighty to create,
Almighty to renew.
I rest upon thy word:
The promise is for me;
My succor and salvation, Lord,
Shall surely come from thee.
But let me still abide,
Nor from my hope remove,
Till thou my patient spirit guide
Into thy perfect love.
I want a sober mind,
A self-renouncing will,
That tramples down and casts behind
The baits of pleasing ill;
A soul inured to pain,
To hardship, grief, and loss;
Bold to take up, firm to sustain
The consecrated Cross.
I want a godly fear,
A quick discerning eye,
That looks to thee when sin is near,
And sees the Tempter fly;
A spirit still prepared,
And armed with jealous care,
Forever standing on its guard
And watching unto prayer.
I want a heart to pray,
To pray and never cease;
Never to murmur at thy stay,
Or wish my sufferings less:
This blessing above all,
Always to pray, I want;
Out of the deep on thee to call,
And never, never faint.


## p. 15818 (#150) ##########################################

15818
JOHN AND CHARLES WESLEY
I want a true regard,
A single steady aim
(Unmoved by threatening or reward),
To thee and thy great name;
A jealous, just concern
For thine immortal praise;
A pure desire that all may learn
And glorify thy grace.
I want with all my heart
Thy pleasure to fulfill,
To know myself, and what thou art,
And what thy perfect will.
I want, I know not what;
I want my wants to see;
I want — alas, what want I not,
When thou art not in me!


## p. 15819 (#151) ##########################################

15819
THOMAS WHARTON
(1859-1896)
BY OWEN WISTER
A
s one looks back upon the life of Thomas Wharton, the good
name of those from whom he sprung, the distinction which
after many years of promise he had begun to win for him-
self, it grows clearer than ever that a talent of a rare kind, with
rare advantages of inheritance, is lost to American letters; a talent of
charm, of grace, of winning fancy, that in these literal, half-ugly days
can ill be spared. With many honorable generations in his blood,
Thomas Wharton came by right to pluck, subtlety, humor, and brill-
iant powers of acquisition. Among Philadelphia lawyers, the names
of both his father and grandfather remain traditional for scholarship.
One other birthright — namely, length of days— might have been his;
and persuaded that it was to be, he labored steadily, cheerfully, and
in no haste; believing that success would come to him all the more
ripe and sure for his patience. But even middle age was denied him.
Born August ist, 1859, he died April 6th, 1896, full of plans and work,
letters from theatre managers and composers in his desk, books and
plays in his mind beyond what was signed for by actual contract at
the moment; a man of thirty-seven but at heart forever a boy, with
his eyes beholding the first visions of worldly reward.
Three periods he knew: a beginning full of hope, a middle full of
struggle undaunted and courageous disappointment, and a brief end
when the rays of true recognition began to shine upon him.
Before he was fifteen, he brought home from his first year at
Hellmuth College, near London, Ont. , five prizes; and to crown these,
the medal given that year by the Governor-General for the highest
average marks.
In those days he also scribbled copiously, verse and
prose, but verse the more; and his art with words was already light
and happy far beyond the common. He first appeared in print then,
with an ode of Horace put into English verse; and at twenty-one he
was in the Atlantic Monthly with more verses, entitled Archæology. '
By inheritance a scholar, but himself robust in fibre, fond of swim-
ming, and of cricket, and of life, he did not sustain his prize-winning
eminence at the University of Pennsylvania. There he was graduated
in 1879; with no array of honors, but like his father, knowing and


## p. 15820 (#152) ##########################################

15820
THOMAS WHARTON
loving well the things that he knew. From all the shelves Attic,
Augustan, Romance, Renaissance, through Shakespeare, Molière, and
Heine, to Mark Twain - he pulled the books down and rejoiced in
them. His knowledge of what man has written mellowed his judg-
ment, seasoned his imagination, and preserved him from those errors
of taste and theory that waylay so many genuine but half-educated
talents in our country.
The law was Thomas Wharton's hereditary, logical, but inappro-
priate choice of career. After a few years his talent revolted, the
inevitable crushed the conventional, and he became out-and-out
writer. In 1888 he went upon the editorial staff of the Philadelphia
Times, and was Sunday editor when he died. Dangerous for the
clever ignorant, it was beneficent for him, this swift journalism, -
compelling the scholar to be himself, to take up his scholarship and
walk. Until now, neither his matter nor his manner had been quite
his own. To look at his articles and stories in Lippincott's Magazine
and in Puck, and especially his clever novels, A Latter-Day Saint'
and Hannibal of New York,' is to see a genuine gift often mis-
directed. From the novels turn to Bobbo,' and in, a flash the true
final Wharton stands revealed. This is what the gods made him for:
weaver of fancies, rainbow-colored whims, dreams away from the
jangle of life, through which life's pathos and humor and tenderness
should delicately play. Had the word gem with us Americans not
been thumbed out of all critical meaning, Bobbo) should be called a
gem. Its light completely radiates from a form complete.
Wharton attained this through newspaper work, and side work of
verses and fantastic texts for operas. The newspaper made him
master of his scholarship instead of being mastered by it, and set
free his fancy. From Charlemagne's paladins, from the teocalli of
Montezuma, from Paris streets as Villon knew them, he brought
fancies, and more fancies, verse and prose ever finer tempered,- the
spontaneity shining even brighter through the chiseled language. It
is wholesome knowledge that he was a civilized college-bred Ameri-
can, dwelling quiet at home; that cultivation made valuable his gift;
that he did not believe rawness to be symptom of originality. Cer-
tainly, for our pleasure and his rare example, we can ill spare him.
So many of us seem born mere observers, with all the note-making
apparatus — but no wings!
Ourn Wister.


## p. 15821 (#153) ##########################################

THOMAS WHARTON
15821
BOBBO
I
-
From (Bobbo and Other Fancies. Copyright 1897, by Harper & Brothers
WAS Ash-Wednesday morning; and thanks to the carnival the
night before, the labors of Monsieur Anatole Doblay, most
respected of the magistrates of Paris, seemed likely to be
severe. True, the prospect did not weigh upon the mind of
the worthy magistrate, who customarily busied himself only
with his duty, and accepted that duty in whatever form it was
arrested and brought before him, so to speak, by the gen-
darmes. But the thought of a long and harassing session was
anything but refreshing to another functionary of the court, — the
clerk, Paul Patureau. Half asleep and nodding was Monsieur
Paul as he sat and waited for the hour of opening court; his
head ached, and the riotous melodies of the carnival still rang in
his ears.
He had been out very late himself, -oh, very late! -
and this morning his dearly despised official duties seemed, like
the vast court-room, more forbidding and gloomy than ever.
Now, when a young man finds his office gloomy in the morn-
ing and his clerical duties irksome, that generally means that he
has a soul above routine; and dissipation the night before only
aggravates his unrest. And as a matter of fact, Paul Patureau
deemed that in being made a clerk, he had arrived at the wrong
address: like most other young Frenchmen, he thought he had
been directed "À la Gloire. ” And he wished to be, instead of a
«»
clerk in the Correctional Court, a poet, a dramatist, and most
particularly a writer of librettos,— librettos that should make all
Paris laugh and sing and dance; that should go round the world,
like the Grande Duchesse' or the Fille de Madame Angot';
that should bring him fame and money, and the friendship of the
Muse,- and it need not be said that as yet he had not achieved
his chef-d'œuvre. Alas, the dramatic ambition, if it is only to
write a play around a tank, is the most torturing of all ambi-
tions; for while there are theatres and actors the appetite can
never be controlled. As it feeds, it grows and grows; it begins
in the gallery and descends by degrees to the orchestra stall;
sometimes it may even conquer the green-room and the coulisse:
but thus to feed unsatisfied is the bitterest vanity if the ideas
will not arrive. And that was the difficulty with Paul Patureau.
Ideas cut him dead.
Except when he was asleep. For when he was asleep and
dreaming, the most striking plots revealed themselves to him,


## p. 15822 (#154) ##########################################

15822
THOMAS WHARTON
whole dramas performed themselves before him as author and
sole spectator; only, when he awoke he could not remember a
single situation. It was a new demonstration of Fate's unfailing
and subtle irony that poor Paul Patureau should nightly renew
the bitterness of his own conviction that he deserved success,
and daily exasperate himself against his own unlucky memory as
being to blame for his inability to command it. Yes, when he
slept he saw all kinds of plays, with characters and motives,
plots and stories, drawn from every age and clime: heroes more
romantic than Ruy Blas, more comic than Figaro; theatrical sur-
prises more thrilling than the horn in Hernani,' more clever
than the scented glove in ‘Diplomacy': and as for stage pictures,
he had but to close his eyes and they crowded on his sight,
magnificent in their complex accuracy and perfection. Yet what
good did they do to him ? None at all. Now, at this very mo-
ment, should he yield to his overwhelming desire to doze off,
forgetful of the criminals and the gendarmes and the stuffy, evil-
smelling crowd of spectators, he would probably witness one of
these very productions, to be performed only once and then to
be lost forever — which would leave him no better off. Still, if
he remained awake the criminals and the gendarmes and the
spectators would suggest nothing to him, and he would in addi-
tion be bored, so that there was some reason for going to sleep.
“Indeed, I wish I could go to sleep,” he said to himself; and
he folded his arms and closed his eyes. Almost every Frenchman
looks as if he had artistic possibilities; and with his pale cheeks
- the result of the carnival — and thin, delicate, closed eyelids,
the young clerk was by no means a bad type of a poet and a
dreamer. "A pretty figure I must be,” he said drowsily to
himself, “to assist at the administration of justice to unfortunate
carnival-makers who have been less cautious than myself! ” And
he began to wonder how he could best secure the magistrate's
clemency for some of those very unfortunates in whom he was
particularly interested. Among the prisoners waiting their turn
to appear before Monsieur Doblay were certain masqueraders,
who, it was said among the ushers, were well-known actors; they
had been quarreling among themselves at a restaurant after
the ball, and their quarrel had grown so violent that the whole
party had been taken into custody. It may be guessed with
what sympathy Monsieur Paul viewed their incarceration. If he
could have passed upon their offense, their detention would have
been very quickly at an end.
a


## p. 15823 (#155) ##########################################

THOMAS WHARTON
15823
All of a sudden there broke out from the adjoining room,
where the prisoneșs were in custody, a snatch of a chorus:
"And every time the princess sighs,
Her tearful subjects wipe their eyes. ”
>>
Paul started up, instinctively crying out Silence! ) and he
heard the officers calling for order; but a few voices still con-
tinued:
They sorrow most because her griefs
Entail such waste of handkerchiefs. ”
(C
"Outrageous! What do they mean by such a disturbance ? »
said a stern voice behind him; and Paul turned with an almost
guilty realization of the dignity of the court and of Monsieur
Doblay. To tell the truth, he had just lost his own conscious-
ness of official dignity in the perception that the words of the
chorus were new to him, and that discovery never fails to set
the nerve cells of the amateur tingling.
He explained the situation to Monsieur Doblay.
“Actors, indeed! They take great liberties. ”
« They are a most picturesque collection,” said Paul, longing
to find a good word to throw in on their behalf. « There is a
Punchinello, a Harlequin, a Pierrot, a Pantaloon, a Domino Noir,
a Pierrette - »
«The classics, eh? ” growled Monsieur Doblay. “They wish
to turn my court-room into a scene from Racine ? »
"Monsieur,” cried Paul, suddenly illumed, "I have it! They
must be singing from the new operetta at the Folles-Farces: it
is the one operetta I have not heard; but only because I had
not time: and perhaps this is the cast. ”
« Have them in at once,” said Monsieur Doblay, replying, it
almost seemed, to Paul's unspoken wish. « Have them in, and
we will see how they excuse themselves for their follies. ”
"Ah, monsieur, wait till you see the Pierrette,” said Paul.
"She is a nymph - a true nymph! Oh, she is wonderful!
It is always these old 'friends of ours who are getting into
trouble, thought Paul, as the masqueraders were ushered into the
court-room, disheveled, haggard, absurdly out of keeping with
the daylight in their carnival paint. The Pierrot and the Pun-
chinello led, followed by all the other familiar figures,- a Panta-
loon, a Harlequin, a Columbine (wrapped in a long fur cloak), a


## p. 15824 (#156) ##########################################

15824
THOMAS WHARTON
Domino Noir, and two young men in dress-coats and false
noses: their costumes gave them all that droll, half-deprecating
look of conscious guilt which Punchinello and Pierrot wear before
the Law.
And Paul, as he prepared to take down their names
with a stub-pen on stiff court paper, felt himself a figure in the
comedy which the carnival and the stage hand down unchanged,
eternal,- the comedy which shows man human, weak, but there-
fore lovable.
And here a singular incident happened. For while this red-
and-white procession was being marshaled toward the seat of
justice, to the immense delight of the habitués of the court-
room, an altercation was heard to arise next door, in the room
devoted to the prisoners. "I will not accompany the rest of the
troupe,” cried a woman's voice – a young and fresh voice. " I
am the prima donna, my good man, and I insist on my entrée! ” .
You hear her ? That is Adèle," murmured the Pierrot, as
he lounged forward, his eyes dropping with sleep. He shrugged
his sloping shoulders. It was indeed Mademoiselle Adèle, of the
Folles-Farces, as Paul all of a sudden became aware; and a hard
time the gendarme had to bring her out into the court-room,-
flushed, frowning, mutinous, long strands of her straight glossy
black hair undone, and falling over her creamy cheeks and the
white sleeves of her Pierrette dress. The tall rebellious andro-
gyn tossed back her hair, and put her hands on her supple slim
hips, and looked devastation at the magistrate; but he was not
nearly so much affected as was Monsieur Paul Patureau as he
took the names down.
He thought it more appropriate to set them out as a cast, as
follows:-
• PUNCHINELLO
PIERROT
PANTALOON -
HARLEQUIN
COLUMBINE
DOMINO NOIR
PIERRETTE
MM. TAVERNIER.
BRÉBANT.
MUELLER.
GERVAIS.
Mmes. JOLIFROY.
GAUDRION.
ADÈLE.
All of the Théâtre des Folles-Farces. In addition to these,
M. Rébus of the Matinée, and M. Obus of the claque.


## p. 15825 (#157) ##########################################

THOMAS WHARTON
15825
»
>>
Monsieur Doblay listened gravely to the report of the gen-
darme. A case of disorderly conduct, fracas, and defiance of the
authorities of the Café des Blafards. Blows had been struck and
furniture broken. The women of the party encouraged the par-
ticipants. The defendants Brébant and Rébus had taken no part
in the fracas, but on the appearance of the authorities had inter-
fered to protect their companions. It had consequently been
necessary to arrest the whole party.
"And all,” cried Mademoiselle Adèle, “because Tavernier can-
not act Bobbo. ”
“Silence! ” cried the ushers. And everybody stood aghast.
Monsieur Doblay pressed his fingers together and looked over
his spectacles, not so much severely as reflectively, at the rebel-
lious Pierrette, so full of grace and wild beauty.
"Upon my word,” he said at last, “I should be glad to have
some explanation why so many people of reputation and intelli-
gence have been engaging in such a lamentable dispute. Is it
only because Monsieur Tavernier cannot act Bobbo ? Pray what
is Bobbo ? )
"An opera-bouffe, Monsieur le Juge,” said the actress, proudly
inclining her head, composed for the Folles-Farces by Monsieur
Brébant there, and the libretto is by Monsieur Tavernier himself.
And I am the Princess Lisa. ”
“You mean that you take that part in the opera ? »
« Yes, Monsieur le Juge. And Monsieur Tavernier has the
title rôle. ”
“Which he sustains with the utmost art,” murmured Bré-
bant.
Adèle gave him a glance which might have withered him.
« Which he does not sustain with art, Monsieur le Juge – oh,
not at all. For though it is an adorable little story, but adorable,
it does not draw the public; and why? Because Monsieur Taver-
nier, though a comedian not a little proud of his own prowess,
cannot carry out the very part he has imagined for himself. ”
And here her slender limbs began visibly to chafe under the
oppression of keeping still. Her voice rang higher, but always
sweet. "And the Folles-Farces is a new theatre, Monsieur le
Juge; not a rich theatre. It is most important to us to draw the
public: and we do not draw the public, monsieur, because Mon-
sieur Tavernier cannot act Bobbo. And we shall all starve! ”
And she looked daggers at poor Tavernier, who twisted his
XXVII-990


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THOMAS WHARTON
»
hands together — the thick, short-fingered hands of a true bouffe
actor and drew a long sigh.
"And yet,” said Monsieur Doblay, gravely, “if there was a
quarrel, mademoiselle, there must have been those who disagreed
with you. Why did the quarrel arise ? »
"Because,” cried Mademoiselle Adèle, “I frankly counseled
Monsieur Tavernier to leave the cast. As a friend. ”
"That was the way of it, Monsieur le Juge,” said Brébant,
who shrugged his shoulders with languid cynicism. “She frankly
counseled my colleague, the author of the operetta, part owner of
the theatre, stage-manager, and leading actor, to leave the cast.
I forgot to add that it was to him she owed her engagement. ”
"And when Mademoiselle Adèle gave this advice to Monsieur
Tavernier, there was opposition ? ” asked Monsieur Doblay.
« Pronounced,” said Brébant.
“Vociferous,” said Rébus. “Even minatory. ”
“Upon which ” — Mademoiselle Adèle's eyes were blazing indig-
nantly at Brébant, but he persevered relentlessly — "upon which
Mademoiselle Adèle treated her colleagues, particularly Made-
moiselle Jolifroy, to epithets of an injurious character. ”
Pray, if I might ask — »
“I called them pigs of gallery-crushers,” said Adèle, impetu-
ously breaking in,
« The words were uttered in heat,” said Brébant dryly.
"I do not withdraw them,” said Adèle.
"And it was on this provocation that the fracas arose ?
Monsieur Doblay patiently.
"As if the words had been dynamite,” said Rébus.
There was a moment's silence.
"Ladies and gentlemen,” said the magistrate, "I am afraid
that I see nothing for it but to fine you all. I regret that there
should be differences among you behind the scenes, if I may so
express myself; but the law really cannot concern itself with the
origin of these differences. »
“I would leave the cast willingly,” said Tavernier, whose
heavy face looked so sad that his Punchinello's hump seemed to
belong to him, but we cannot afford another actor. ”
"Monsieur le Juge,” said Madame Gaudrion, speaking with
dignity from the mysterious folds of her domino, “I desire it
should go on record as the opinion of those members of the com-
pany whose sentiments are in accord with what has just fallen
» said


## p. 15827 (#159) ##########################################

THOMAS WHARTON
15827
(
from the lips of Monsieur Brébant, that the rôle of Bobbo is per-
fectly sustained by Monsieur Tavernier, and that if any one's
acting is at fault it is Mademoiselle Adèle's. ”
« Mazette! I believe you,” murmured the little Jolifroy. (Un-
derstudy. )
From Adèle's eyes shot forth a flame of contempt; she spread
her small brown hands wide to the poles. "Listen, Monsieur le
Juge,” she cried, -"listen, and you will understand why they all
speak evil of me. I am alone against them all; and last night
they would have driven me out of the theatre forever, except
that Monsieur Gervais, that good young man whom you see there
as Harlequin, Monsieur le Juge, and Monsieur Obus, with the
false nose, like chivalrous and gallant friends, constituted them-
selves my champions,— and the resistance they encountered was
such that the gendarmes were hurled upon us. It is true,
Monsieur le Juge, it is true that I act badly — that in my great
scene where I should laugh I want to cry — and thus I am so
angry that I cannot laugh at all — and the whole scene is spoiled,
and the whole play is spoiled, and our happiness, and our busi-
ness, and my career, all, all are spoiled! But why? Because it
is Bobbo who should make me want to laugh, and every night
when I play it is Bobbo who makes me want to cry! ”
«Fudge! ” said Madame Gaudrion, decisively, and quite loud
enough to be heard.
" You say that, madame began Adèle; but Monsieur Do-
blay silenced her with a word.
“You are a firebrand, mademoiselle,” he said; and he turned
to Brébant. "As I am still in the dark, monsieur, perhaps you
will explain a little further. ”
“Willingly, Monsieur le Juge,” said the Pierrot. « The fact
is, Mademoiselle Adèle is convicting herself by her own testi-
mony; for Monsieur Tavernier's rôle, admirably conceived, is one
of those which blend humor and pathos, and it is the pathos
which should make, not Mademoiselle Adèle, you understand, but
the Princess Lisa laugh. And if Mademoiselle Adèle forgets that
she is the Princess Lisa, and herself feels the pathos of the scene,
she is not an actress, that is all. ”
"Ah! ” said Monsieur Doblay, looking benignly wise. The
paradox of acting. ”
"Exactly, Monsieur le Juge. ”
)
>>
>
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THOMAS WHARTON
»
(
>
“But,” cried Adèle in a transport, “it is Tavernier who is
not acting! ”
"Not acting! ” cried Brébant, Gervais, and Mueller together.
In fact, the whole company turned to Adèle with looks of aston-
ishment.
"No, he is not acting! Do you suppose that I, an actress,
cannot tell ? It is real with him; yes, I affirm it, Monsieur le
Juge, it is real with him! and that makes it real with me, and I
cry instead of laughing. ”
At this remarkable statement all eyes were turned on Taver-
nier. His face was doleful enough; but he only shrugged his
hump, as if to say, "I do not understand, but I will not oppose
her. ”
Monsieur Doblay laid down his pen in despair. “The further
we go,” he said, “the greater is my perplexity. Suppose, made-
moiselle, I were to ask you to give me a brief précis of the plot,
and then perhaps I shall understand. For really it has come to
this,- that Monsieur Tavernier's acting is on trial, and I feel it
my duty to examine into his case and pronounce one way or the
other. »
It seemed to Paul Patureau as if his ideas mysteriously com-
municated themselves to his superior, and what was
markable, controlled him.
Adèle stood forward. She made a gesture of such grace and
eloquence as thrilled Paul Patureau to the marrow. “Monsieur
le Juge," she said, “I am overcome by the honor — oh, but over-
come! You ask me for the plot of Bobbo,' Monsieur le Juge.
Monsieur Tavernier's idea was charming, most charming; and I
should be the first to make its eulogiums, for he honored me by
giving me the chief rôle,- after his own. I, do you see, am the
Princess Lisa. The scene is laid in Italy at the time they called
the Middle Ages,—but how did they know then they were the
Middle Ages, Monsieur le Juge ? -- and I am very melancholy.
Oh, I am the most melancholy princess that ever was known!
They give fêtes for me, balls, tournaments, cavalcades, water par-
ties, illuminations — all to no purpose; they might as well have
paraded the funerals of the town before me. Then they have
plays to amuse me, jugglers, clowns, dancing-dogs, acrobats, the
whole Folies Bergères: worse and worse — I weep all day long,
and I swear that nothing can cure me. So my father, the king,
more
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THOMAS WHARTON
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C
who is excellently played by Monsieur Mueller, Monsieur le Juge,
- my father is in agonies; for not only am I his favorite child,
but if I do not marry, the kingdom must go to his brother, whom
he despises. And when they talk to me of marriage, I weep so
bitterly that even Madame Gaudrion, my governess, you under-
stand, my most aristocratic governess,- gives me up. So the
king has an idea. He offers my hand to any one who will make
me laugh. Is not that an idea worthy of a father ? But, never-
theless, so stupid are men that numbers of poor young princes
and counts and barons come and try to win a smile from me,
and they all fail, and their heads are taken off by the headsman
- Monsieur Gervais. Such things happen, you know, in opera-
bouffe - in the Middle Ages. And of course, as these repeated
executions happen, I go into convulsions of grief, and grow more
and more melancholy. ”
“Because none of the young men succeeds ? " asked Monsieur
Doblay with a smile.
"Possibly,” said Mademoiselle Adèle. “But of course," she
added, with a sudden and dazzling smile of her own,-
of course
I do not confess that to myself, so there my poor father is at
the end of his resources; and even my sister, the Princess
Beatrice (played by Mademoiselle Jolifroy), confesses she does not
know what is to be done.
And as a last resource my
father
thinks once
more of Bobbo. Bobbo, Monsieur le Juge, is the
most celebrated jester in the world, - irresistible, enchanting, the
very soul of drollery and humor. It is not only that his wit is
so quick and keen, but his features are the perfect epitome of
comedy. You die of laughing just to look at him; it is impos-
sible to remain grave in his presence. My father would have
brought him before me long ago but for one unfortunate circum-
stance,- Bobbo is attached to the court of our young and hot-
headed neighbor the Prince Eugenius. Now some time ago,
before all these experiments that ended so sadly on the heads-
man's block, the prince personally asked for my hand; and as I
declined to hear of marriage, it was refused him. So he vowed
that if my melancholy was not removed by the announcement
of his suit, I might remain in my present state of depression till
the end of my days before he would lift a finger to prevent it.
Accordingly my father goes to war with him, captures both
him and Bobbo, and brings the captives back to court. For he


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15830
THOMAS WHARTON
is a terrible man, my father, as the prince -- who is Monsieur
Brébant — finds out. ”
"I begin to see the plot,” said Monsieur Doblay, deeply inter-
ested. Court officers and spectators too all hung upon her
words.
"Is it not too natural ? » cried Adèle, her eyes sparkling.
"What stupid beings fathers are, Monsieur le Juge! Why should
the king suppose that I, who have succeeded in my obstinacy —
yes, I admit that it is obstinacy: the idea of weeping one's eyes
out like that for any other reason! - that I, who have persisted
in torturing my lachrymal glands while any number of nice
young men were trying to entertain me, should all of a sudden
face about, dry my eyes, and laugh like a cook at the antics of a
professional clown ? Much he knows about a woman! Actually,
when he brings Bobbo before me, he is smiling for the first
time in years.
Poor man, he is doomed to disappointment. Per-
haps Bobbo is not over-confident, for he knows what will happen
to him if he fails; but no matter how he exerts himself, — and in
two minutes he has the rest of the court rolling on their sides
on the floor,- Monsieur le Juge, I pay absolutely no attention to
him. He says the wittiest, most excruciating things: I am deaf.
He gambols and capers so as to make you ill with laughing: I
scarcely lift my eyebrows. He even makes sport of his master,
the prince, for suffering himself to be captured: I turn away in-
different. And then what happens is that he loses his courage,
he falters, he stammers, he wrings his hands, and finally falls on
his knees and begs pathetically to be spared. Consequently my
father orders him to be beheaded at once. ”
"He was wrong," said Monsieur Doblay judicially.
"Very wrong, Monsieur le Juge; but after all, see how for-
tunately it turned out! For on hearing his sentence, Bobbo, in
despair, turns to me and sings a song begging me to intercede
for him; he joins his wrinkled old hands together, and the tears
run from his poor old face, and his nose is red, and his eyes are
bleared, and his voice cracks and creaks, and altogether he looks
so absurd and ridiculous, and he is such a refreshing, delightful,
irresistible contrast to the terrified and unnatural gayety which
every one about me has been forced to exhibit, that I burst out
into a good hearty fit of laughter, the first in years. Bobbo has
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THOMAS WHARTON
15831
(
>
Brava! There followed general applause, which was at once
suppressed, but which did not seem to annoy Monsieur Doblay
very greatly. He smiled with satisfaction at the escape of
Bobbo, and by the nodding of his head appeared to congratulate
the princess on the breaking of the spell that afflicted her. As
for Paul, his heart sank. “There! ” he said to himself:
« do you
wonder that it falls to the lot of others to write libretti, and not
to mine? Effectively! They have ideas, while I – »
"And so you marry the prince,” said Monsieur Doblay ap-
provingly.
“Oh, not yet! » cried Adèle, radiant with her success. « Of
course finally I do; but if it ended now it would be flat indeed. ”
Paul's heart sank again: he had supposed this was the finale,
and behold he did not know the elements of construction !
“What happens next is that I become serious once more,
and swear that as my father offered to marry me to whosoever
should make me laugh, and as Bobbo has been the one to suc-
ceed, I will marry Bobbo. This, of course, is meant to punish
the prince for his pride; yet, after all, I have a-a little feeling
for Bobbo. But you may guess, cried Adèle, with a heightened
color, “how this resolve affects my father and the court; and it is
only a very little while before they are all in tears at my feet,
begging me to reconsider my decision. And as they are now the
melancholy ones, I am well amused, I promise you. If you all
sniveled till Doomsday,' I say to them, you couldn't make me
break faith with my dear Bobbo. Poor Bobbo, you know! ready
'
to put his head in a meal-bag and pull the strings. Well, at last
the situation is resolved — but you must ask Madame Gaudrion
how. ”
How, Madame Gaudrion ? »
"Oh, very simply,” replied that lady in her measured tones.
"I am the governess, – very aristocratic, as Mademoiselle Adèle
says,- and I have been talking a great deal of my family pre-
tensions, and setting my cap at the king; and it turns out that
Bobbo is
my husband. "
Whereat there was a laugh.
“And everybody is made happy, except probably Bobbo,"
commented Monsieur Doblay. “Let me compliment you, Monsieur
Tavernier, on the grace and charm of your little theme. The
springs of sorrow and happiness lie very close together in our
hearts, and you have perceived this and made excellent use of
(
>
(
»
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## p. 15832 (#164) ##########################################

THOMAS WHARTON
15832
>
»
your penetration of human nature. ” And he made a polite yet
magisterial bow.