No More Learning

And the dead captains as they lay
In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay,
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:-
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "
I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering's Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:-
-
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "


## p. 9175 (#183) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9175
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the schoolboy's brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:-
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "
―
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:-
-
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "
Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:-
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "
And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there;
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:-
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. "


## p. 9176 (#184) ###########################################

9176
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
MY BOOKS
ADLY as some old mediæval knight
SAD
Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield,
The sword two-handed and the shining shield
Suspended in the hall, and full in sight,
While secret longings for the lost delight
Of tourney or adventure in the field
Came over him, and tears but half concealed
Trembled and fell upon his beard of white,—
So I behold these books upon their shelf,
My ornaments and arms of other days;
Not wholly useless, though no longer used,
For they remind me of my other self,
Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways
In which I walked, now clouded and confused.
CHANGED
ROM the outskirts of the town
Where of old the milestone stood,
Now a stranger, looking down
FR
I behold the shadowy crown
Of the dark and haunted wood.
Is it changed, or am I changed?
Ah! the oaks are fresh and green,
But the friends with whom I ranged
Through their thickets are estranged
By the years that intervene.
Bright as ever flows the sea,
Bright as ever shines the sun;
But alas! they seem to me
Not the sun that used to be,
Not the tides that used to run.


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## p. 9176 (#186) ###########################################

1
1
די


## p. 9176 (#187) ###########################################


LONGFELLOW'S
HOME, CAMBRIDGE,
MASS.


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## p. 9177 (#189) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE
'The Landlord's Tale' in 'Tales of a Wayside Inn'
L
ISTEN, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm. "
Then he said, “Good night! " and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
9177


## p. 9178 (#190) ###########################################

9178
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the church-yard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well! »
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed in his flight
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.


## p. 9179 (#191) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,-
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
9179


## p. 9180 (#192) ###########################################

9180
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
J
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
THANGBRAND THE PRIEST
From The Saga of King Olaf' in 'Tales of a Wayside Inn'
SHO
HORT of stature, large of limb,
Burly face and russet beard,
All the women stared at him,
When in Iceland he appeared.
"Look! " they said,
With nodding head,
"There goes Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. "
All the prayers he knew by rote,
He could preach like Chrysostome,
From the Fathers he could quote,
He had even been at Rome.
A learned clerk,
A man of mark,
Was this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
He was quarrelsome and loud,
And impatient of control,
Boisterous in the market crowd,
Boisterous at the wassail-bowl;
Everywhere
Would drink and swear,-
Swaggering Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
-
In his house this malcontent
Could the King no longer bear,
So to Iceland he was sent
To convert the heathen there;
And away
One summer day
Sailed this Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.


## p. 9181 (#193) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9181
There in Iceland, o'er their books
Pored the people day and night;
But he did not like their looks,
Nor the songs they used to write.
"All this rhyme
Is waste of time! "
Grumbled Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
To the alehouse, where he sat,
Came the skalds and saga-men:
Is it to be wondered at
That they quarreled now and then,
When o'er his beer
Began to leer
Drunken Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest?
All the folk in Altafiord
Boasted of their island grand;
Saying in a single word,
"Iceland is the finest land
That the sun
Doth shine upon! "
Loud laughed Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
And he answered, "What's the use
Of this bragging up and down,
When three women and one goose
Make a market in your town! "
Every skald
Satires scrawled
On poor Thangbrand. Olaf's Priest.
Something worse they did than that:
And what vexed him most of all
Was a figure in shovel hat,
Drawn in charcoal on the wall;
With words that go
Sprawling below,
"This is Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest. "
Hardly knowing what he did,
Then he smote them might and main;
Thorvald Veile and Veterlid
Lay there in the alehouse slain.
"To-day we are gold,
To-morrow mold! "
Muttered Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.


## p. 9182 (#194) ###########################################

9182
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Much in fear of axe and rope,
Back to Norway sailed he then.
"O King Olaf! Little hope
Is there of these Iceland men! "
Meekly said,
With bending head,
Pious Thangbrand, Olaf's Priest.
KAMBALU
"The Spanish Jew's Tale' in Tales of a Wayside Inn'
NTO the city of Kambalu,
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan,
At the head of his dusty caravan,
Laden with treasure from realms afar,
Baldacca and Kelat and Kandahar,
Rode the great captain Alau.
The Khan from his palace window gazed,
And saw in the thronging street beneath,
In the light of the setting sun, that blazed
Through the clouds of dust by the caravan raised,
The flash of harness and jeweled sheath,
And the shining scimitars of the guard,
And the weary camels that bared their teeth,
As they passed and passed through the gates unbarred
Into the shade of the palace-yard.
Thus into the city of Kambalu
Rode the great captain Alau;
And he stood before the Khan, and said:
"The enemies of my lord are dead;
All the Kalifs of all the West
Bow and obey thy least behest;
The plains are dark with the mulberry-trees,
The weavers are busy in Samarcand,
The miners are sifting the golden sand,
The divers plunging for pearls in the seas,
And peace and plenty are in the land.
"Baldacca's Kalif, and he alone,
Rose in revolt against thy throne:
His treasures are at thy palace-door,
With the swords and the shawls and the jewels he wore;
His body is dust o'er the desert blown.


## p. 9183 (#195) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9183
"A mile outside of Baldacca's gate
I left my forces to lie in wait,
Concealed by forests and hillocks of sand,
And forward dashed with a handful of men,
To lure the old tiger from his den
Into the ambush I had planned.
Ere we reached the town the alarm was spread,
For we heard the sound of gongs from within:
And with clash of cymbals and warlike din
The gates swung wide; and we turned and fled;
And the garrison sallied forth and pursued,
With the gray old Kalif at their head,
And above them the banner of Mohammed:
So we snared them all, and the town was subdued.
"As in at the gate we rode, behold,
A tower that is called the Tower of Gold!
For there the Kalif had hidden his wealth,
Heaped and hoarded and piled on high,
Like sacks of wheat in a granary;
And thither the miser crept by stealth
To feel of the gold that gave him health,
And to gaze and gloat with his hungry eye
On jewels that gleamed like a glow-worm's spark,
Or the eyes of a panther in the dark.
"I said to the Kalif:-Thou art old;
Thou hast no need of so much gold.
Thou shouldst not have heaped and hidden it here
Till the breath of battle was hot and near,
But have sown through the land these useless hoards
To spring into shining blades of swords,
And keep thine honor sweet and clear.
These grains of gold are not grains of wheat;
These bars of silver thou canst not eat;
These jewels and pearls and precious stones
Cannot cure the aches in thy bones,
Nor keep the feet of Death one hour
From climbing the stairways of thy tower! '
"Then into his dungeon I locked the drone,
And left him to feed there all alone
In the honey-cells of his golden hive:
Never a prayer, nor a cry, nor a groan,
Was heard from those massive walls of stone,
Nor again was the Kalif seen alive!


## p. 9184 (#196) ###########################################

9184
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
"When at last we unlocked the door,
We found him dead upon the floor;
The rings had dropped from his withered hands,
His teeth were like bones in the desert sands:
Still clutching his treasure he had died;
And as he lay there, he appeared
A statue of gold with a silver beard,
His arms outstretched as if crucified. "
This is the story, strange and true,
That the great Captain Alau
Told to his brother the Tartar Khan,
When he rode that day into Kambalu
By the road that leadeth to Ispahan.
THE NEW HOUSEHOLD
From The Hanging of the Crane'
FORTUNATE, O happy day,
O
When a new household finds its place
Among the myriad homes of earth,
Like a new star just sprung to birth,
And rolled on its harmonious way
Into the boundless realms of space!
So said the guests in speech and song,
As in the chimney, burning bright,
We hung the iron crane to-night,
And merry was the feast and long.
And now I sit and muse on what may be,
And in my vision see, or seem to see,
Through floating vapors interfused with light,
Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade,
As shadows passing into deeper shade
Sink and elude the sight.
For two alone, there in the hall
Is spread the table round and small:
Upon the polished silver shine
The evening lamps, but, more divine,
The light of love shines over all;
Of love, that says not "mine" and "thine,»
But «< ours," » for ours is thine and mine.


## p. 9185 (#197) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9185
They want no guests, to come between
Their tender glances like a screen,
And tell them tales of land and sea,
XVI-575
And whatsoever may betide
The great, forgotten world outside;
They want no guests: they needs must be
Each other's own best company.
CHAUCER
AN
N OLD man in a lodge within a park;
The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
The Canterbury Tales,' and his old age
Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note
Of lark and linnet, and from every page
Rise odors of plowed field or flowery mead.
MILTON
I
PACE the sounding sea-beach and behold
How the voluminous billows roll and run,
Upheaving and subsiding, while the sun
Shines through their sheeted emerald far unrolled,
And the ninth wave, slow gathering fold by fold
All its loose-flowing garments into one,
Plunges upon the shore, and floods the dun
Pale reach of sands, and changes them to gold.
So in majestic cadence rise and fall.
The mighty undulations of thy song,
O sightless bard, England's Mæonides!
And ever and anon, high over all
Uplifted, a ninth wave superb and strong.
Floods all the soul with its melodious seas.


## p. 9186 (#198) ###########################################

9186
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
HAROUN AL RASCHID
Ο
NE day, Haroun Al Raschid read
A book wherein the poet said:-
"Where are the kings, and where the rest
Of those who once the world possessed?
"They're gone with all their pomp and show,
They're gone the way that thou shalt go.
"O thou who choosest for thy share
The world, and what the world calls fair,
"Take all that it can give or lend,
But know that death is at the end! "
Haroun Al Raschid bowed his head;
Tears fell upon the page he read.
DIVINA COMMEDIA
I
OFT
FT have I seen at some cathedral door
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er:
Far off the noises of the world retreat;
The loud vociferations of the street
Become an undistinguishable roar.
So, as I enter here from day to day,
And leave my burden at this minster gate,
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,
The tumult of the time disconsolate
To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
While the eternal ages watch and wait.
II
How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!
This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves
Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves
Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers,
And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers!


## p. 9187 (#199) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9187
But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves
Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves,
And underneath the traitor Judas lowers!
Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,
What exultations trampling on despair,
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
Uprose this poem of the earth and air,
This mediæval miracle of song!
THE POET AND HIS SONGS
AⓇ
S THE birds come in the Spring,
We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
From the depths of the air;
As the rain comes from the cloud
And the brook from the ground;
As suddenly, low or loud,
Out of silence a sound;
As the grape comes to the vine,
The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
And the tide to the sea;
As come the white sails of ships
O'er the ocean's verge;
As comes the smile to the lips,
The foam to the surge;—
So come to the Poet his songs,
All hitherward blown
From the misty realm that belongs
To the vast Unknown.
His, and not his, are the lays
He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
And the pride of a name.
For voices pursue him by day,
And haunt him by night,
And he listens, and needs must obey,
When the Angel says, "Write! "


## p. 9188 (#200) ###########################################

9188
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
FINALE TO CHRISTUS: A MYSTERY›
[St. John, wandering over the face of the Earth, speaks:-]
HE Ages come and go,
THE
The Centuries pass as Years;
My hair is white as the snow,
My feet are weary and slow,
The earth is wet with my tears!
The kingdoms crumble and fall
Apart like a ruined wall,
Or a bank that is undermined
By a river's ceaseless flow,
And leave no trace behind!
The world itself is old;
The portals of Time unfold
On hinges of iron, that grate
And groan with the rust and the weight,
Like the hinges of a gate
That hath fallen to decay:
But the evil doth not cease,-
There is war instead of peace,
Instead of Love there is hate;
And still I must wander and wait,
Still I must watch and pray,
Not forgetting in whose sight
A thousand years in their flight
Are as a single day.
The life of man is a gleam
Of light, that comes and goes
Like the course of the Holy Stream
The cityless river, that flows
From fountains no one knows,
Through the Lake of Galilee,
Through forests and level lands,
Over rocks and shal ws, and sands
Of a wilderness wild and vast,
Till it findeth its rest at last
In the desolate Dead Sea!
But alas! alas! for me
Not yet this rest shall be!
What, then! doth Charity fail?
Is Faith of no avail?
-


## p. 9189 (#201) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9189
Is Hope blown out like a light
By a gust of wind in the night?
The clashing of creeds, and the strife
Of the many beliefs, that in vain
Perplex man's heart and brain,
Are naught but the rustle of leaves,
When the breath of God upheaves
The boughs of the Tree of Life,
And they subside again!
And I remember still
The words, and from whom they came,-
"Not he that repeateth the name,
But he that doeth the will! "
And Him evermore I behold
Walking in Galilee,
Through the cornfield's waving gold,
In hamlet, in wood, and in wold,
By the shores of the Beautiful Sea.
He toucheth the sightless eyes;
Before Him the demons flee;
To the dead He sayeth, "Arise! "
To the living, "Follow me! "
And that voice still soundeth on
From the centuries that are gone,
To the centuries that shall be!
From all vain pomps and shows,
From the pride that overflows,
And the false conceits of men;
From all the narrow rules
And subtleties of Schools,
And the craft of tongue and pen;
Bewildered in its search,-
Bewildered with the cry,
Lo, here! lo, there! the Church! -
Poor, sad Humanity
Through all the dust and heat
Turns back with bleeding feet,
By the weary road it came,
Unto the simple thought
By the great Master taught,
And that remaineth still,-
"Not he that repeateth the name,
But he that doeth the will! "


## p. 9190 (#202) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9190
THE YOUNG HIAWATHA
From the Song of Hiawatha'
HEN the little Hiawatha
THE
Learned of every bird its language,
Learned their names and all their secrets,
How they built their nests in Summer,
Where they hid themselves in Winter;
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens. »
Of all beasts he learned the language,
Learned their names and all their secrets,
How the beavers built their lodges,
Where the squirrels hid their acorns,
How the reindeer ran so swiftly,
Why the rabbit was so timid;
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers. "
Then Iagoo, the great boaster,
He the marvelous story-teller,
He the traveler and the talker,
He the friend of old Nokomis,
Made a bow for Hiawatha;
From a branch of ash he made it,
From an oak-bough made the arrows,
Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers,
And the cord he made of deerskin.
Then he said to Hiawatha:-
་
Go, my son, into the forest,
Where the red deer herd together,
Kill for us a famous roebuck,
Kill for us a deer with antlers! "
Forth into the forest straightway
All alone walked Hiawatha
Proudly, with his bow and arrows;
And the birds sang round him, o'er him,
"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha! "
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa,
"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha! "
Up the oak-tree, close beside him,
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
In and out among the branches,


## p. 9191 (#203) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9191
Coughed and chattered from the oak tree,
Laughed, and said between his laughing,
"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha! »
And the rabbit from his pathway
Leaped aside, and at a distance
Sat erect upon his haunches,
Half in fear and half in frolic,
Saying to the little hunter,
"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha! "
But he heeded not, nor heard them,
For his thoughts were with the red deer;
On their tracks his eyes were fastened,
Leading downward to the river,
To the ford across the river,
And as one in slumber walked he.
Hidden in the alder-bushes,
There he waited till the deer came,
Till he saw two antlers lifted,
Saw two eyes look from the thicket,
Saw two nostrils point to windward,
And a deer came down the pathway,
Flecked with leafy light and shadow.
And his heart within him fluttered,
Trembled like the leaves above him,
Like the birch-leaf palpitated,
As the deer came down the pathway.
Then, upon one knee uprising,
Hiawatha aimed an arrow;
Scarce a twig moved with his motion,
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled,
But the wary roebuck started,
Stamped with all his hoofs together,
Listened with one foot uplifted,
Leaped as if to meet the arrow;
Ah! the singing, fatal arrow,
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him!
Dead he lay there in the forest,
By the ford across the river;
Beat his timid heart no longer,
But the heart of Hiawatha
Throbbed and shouted and exulted,
As he bore the red deer homeward
And Iagoo and Nokomis
Hailed his coming with applauses.


## p. 9192 (#204) ###########################################

9192
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
THIS
From the red deer's hide Nokomis
Made a cloak for Hiawatha,
From the red deer's flesh Nokomis
Made a banquet in his honor.
All the village came and feasted,
All the guests praised Hiawatha,
Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-taha!
Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!
PRELUDE TO EVANGELINE: A TALE OF ACADIE'
HIS is the forest primeval.
The murmuring pines and the hem-
locks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twi-
light,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath
it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the
huntsman ?
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,———
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the
ocean,
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.


## p. 9193 (#205) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
PEACE IN ACADIA
From Evangeline'
9193
B
ENT like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the notary public;
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung
Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn
bows
Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.
Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred
Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.
Four long years in the times of the war had he languished a captive,
Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of the English.
Now, though warier grown, without all guile or suspicion,
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and childlike.
He was beloved by all, and most of all by the children;
For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the forest,
And of the goblin that came in the night to water the horses,
And of the white Létiche, the ghost of a child who unchristened
Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers of children;
And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the stable,
And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in a nutshell,
And of the marvelous powers of four-leaved clover and horseshoes,
With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village.
Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the blacksmith,
Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extending his right hand,
"Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast heard the talk in the
village,
And perchance canst tell us some news of these ships and their
errand. "
Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary public:-
Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never the wiser;
And what their errand may be I know not better than others.
Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil intention
Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why then molest us? "
"God's name! " shouted the hasty and somewhat irascible blacksmith:
"Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, and the
wherefore?
Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the strongest! "
But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary public,-
"Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally justice
Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often consoled me,
When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at Port Royal. "


## p. 9194 (#206) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9194
This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to repeat it
When his neighbors complained that any injustice was done them.
"Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer remember,
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice
Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its left hand,
And in its right hand a sword, as an emblem that justice presided
Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes of the people.
Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of the balance,
Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sunshine above them.
But in the course of time the laws of the land were corrupted;
Might took the place of right, and the weak were oppressed, and the
mighty
Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a nobleman's palace
That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a suspicion
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the household.
She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaffold,
Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of Justice.
As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit ascended,
Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of the thunder
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from its left hand
Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of the balance,
And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a magpie,
Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was inwoven. "
Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, the black-
smith
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;
All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.
Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the table,
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with home-brewed
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the village of
Grand-Pré.
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and inkhorn,
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the parties,
Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and in cattle.
Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were completed,
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on the margin.
Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the table
Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of silver;
And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and the bridegroom,
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their welfare.
Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and departed,
While in silence the others sat and mused by the fireside,
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its corner.


## p. 9195 (#207) ###########################################

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
9195
Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention the old men
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manœuvre,
Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was made in the
king-row.
Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's embrasure,
Sat the lovers, and whispered together, beholding the moon rise
Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the meadows.
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
Thus was the evening passed. Anon th bell from the belfry
Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and straightway
Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned in the household.
Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the doorstep
Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it with gladness.
Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed on the hearth-
stone,
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the farmer.
Soon with soundless step the foot of Evangeline followed,
Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the darkness,
Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the maiden.
Silent she passed the hall, and entered the door of her chamber.
Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, and its clothes-
press
Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were carefully folded
Linen and woolen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline woven.
This was the precious dower she would bring to her husband in mar-
riage,
Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skill as a housewife.
Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and radiant moon-
light
Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, till the heart
of the maiden
Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tides of the ocean.
Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she stood with
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of her chamber!
Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the orchard,
Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her lamp and her
shadow.
Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling of sadness
Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight
Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.
And as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely the moon pass
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,
As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar!


## p. 9196 (#208) ###########################################

9196
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
POSTLUDE TO EVANGELINE›
STE
TILL stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic church-yard,
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed.
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their
labors,
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!
Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its
branches
Dwells another race, with other customs and language.
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile
Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom.
In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy;
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun,
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story,
While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
All the foregoing selections from Longfellow's Poems are reprinted by per-
mission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers, Boston, Massachusetts


## p. 9197 (#209) ###########################################

9197
LONGUS
(FIFTH CENTURY A. D. (? ))
T
HE author of 'Daphnis and Chloe' is absolutely unknown to
us. Even his name is questioned, and there would seem to
be no means of settling beyond dispute the age in which
this earliest of pastoral idyls was written. It is a mere novelette, of
perhaps thirty thousand words. The style is somewhat stilted and
pedantic. The author shows no especial familiarity in detail with
the remote corner of Lesbos in which his scene is laid. The rustics
are decidedly conventional, and at times even courtly.
On the other hand, the writer has succeeded in giving a realistic
and naïve picture of the two children, and of their growing affec-
tion for each other. The main purpose of the sketch is to trace the
instinctive origin and growth of passionate love in innocent and im-
mature beings, left without restraint in each other's companionship.
Naturally, there is much in the little tale which should be softened
or omitted in any modern treatment. Still, the frank sincerity of
the Greek story-teller is more agreeable than the rather mawkish
propriety of 'Paul and Virginia,' its most popular echo. It must be
confessed that the prose romance is among the least important or
masterly creations of Hellenic genius. Nevertheless this, the most
shapely, sane, and healthy among the few extant stories, could not be
denied mention at least.
The Greek text, with Latin translation, will be found in the
'Erotici Scriptores," a volume of the great classical library published
by Didot. The most accessible translation is, as usual, in the Bohn
Library, and seems sufficiently faithful. The opening pages, here
cited, are perhaps as adequate an example of the author's style as
could be selected.
THE TWO FOUNDLINGS
From Daphnis and Chloe'
IN THE island of Lesbos, whilst hunting in a wood sacred to the
Nymphs, I beheld the most beauteous sight that I have seen
in all my life: a painting which represented the incidents of
a tale of love. The grove itself was charming: it contained no


## p. 9198 (#210) ###########################################

9198
LONGUS
lack of flowers, trees thick with foliage, and a cool spring which
nourished alike trees and flowers. But the picture was more
pleasing than aught else by reason both of its amorous character
and its marvelous workmanship. So excellently was it wrought,
indeed, that the many strangers who had heard speak of it
came thither to render worship to the Nymphs and to view it.
Women in the throes of childbirth were depicted in it, nurses
wrapping infants in swathing-clothes, little babes exposed to the
mercy of fortune, animals suckling them, shepherds carrying
them away, young people exchanging vows of love, pirates at
sea, a hostile force scouring the country; with many other inci-
dents, all amorous, which I viewed with so much pleasure and
found so beautiful that I felt desirous of recording them in writ-
ing. Accordingly I sought for some one who could fully explain
them to me: and having been informed of everything, I com-
posed these four books, which I dedicate as an offering to Cupid,
to the Nymphs, and to Pan; hoping that the tale will prove
acceptable to many classes of people,- inasmuch as it may serve
to cure illness, console grief, refresh the memory of him who has
already loved, and instruct him who as yet knows not what love.
is. Never was there and never will there be a man able to resist
love, so long as beauty exists in the world and there are eyes to
behold it.
The gods grant that whilst describing the emotions of others,
I may remain undisturbed myself. `
Mitylene is a beautiful and extensive city of Lesbos, inter-
sected by various channels of the sea flowing through and around
it, and adorned with bridges of polished white stone. You might
imagine on beholding it that it was a collection of islets rather
than a city. About twenty-four miles from Mitylene, a rich man.
had an estate, none finer than which could be found in all the
surrounding country. The neighboring woods abounded with
game, the fields yielded corn, the hillocks were covered with
vines, there was pasture land for the herds; and the whole was
bounded by the sea, which washed an extensive smooth and
sandy shore.
On this estate, whilst a goatherd named Lamon was tending
his herds in the fields, he found a little child whom one of his
she-goats was suckling. There was here a dense thicket of brakes
and brambles, covered with intermingling branches of ivy; whilst
underneath, the soil was carpeted with soft fine grass, upon which


## p. 9199 (#211) ###########################################

LONGUS
9199
the infant was lying. To this spot the she-goat often betook
herself, abandoning her own kid and remaining with the child,
so that it was not known what had become of her. Lamon, who
was grieved to see the kid neglected, watched the dam's move-
ments; and one day when the sun was burning in his meridian
heat, he followed her and saw her softly enter the thicket, step-
ping carefully over the child so that she might not injure it,
whilst the babe took hold of her udder as if this had been its
mother's breast. Greatly surprised, and advancing close to the
spot, Lamon discovered that the infant was a male child with
well-proportioned limbs and handsome countenance, and wearing
richer attire than seemed suited to such an outcast; for its little
mantle was of fine purple and fastened by a golden clasp, whilst
near it lay a small knife with a handle of ivory.
At first Lamon resolved to leave the infant to its fate, and
only to carry off the tokens which had been left with it; but he
soon felt ashamed of showing himself less humane than his goat,
and at the approach of night he took up the infant and the
tokens, and with the she-goat following him, went home to Myr-
tale his wife.
Myrtale, who was astonished at the sight, asked if goats now
gave birth to babes instead of kids; whereupon her husband
recounted to her every particular of the discovery, saying how he
had found the child lying on the grass and the goat suckling
it, and how ashamed he had felt at the idea of leaving the babe
to perish. His wife declared that it would have been wrong to do
so, and they thereupon agreed to conceal the tokens and to adopt
the child. They employed the goat as his nurse, affirmed on all
sides that he was their own offspring, and in order that his
name might accord with their rustic condition they called him
Daphnis.
Two years had elapsed, when Dryas, a neighboring shepherd,
met with a similar adventure whilst tending his flock. In this
part of the country there was a grotto of the Nymphs, which
was hollowed out of a large rock rounded at the summit. Inside
there were statues of the Nymphs carved in stone, their feet
bare, their arms also naked, their hair flowing loosely upon their
shoulders, their waists girt, their faces smiling, and their atti-
tudes similar to those of a troop of dancers. In the deepest part
of the grotto a spring gurgled from the rock; and its waters,
spreading into a copious stream, refreshed the soft and abundant.


## p. 9200 (#212) ###########################################

9200
LONGUS
herbage of a delightful meadow that stretched before the en-
trance, where milk-pails, transverse flutes, flageolets, and pas-
toral pipes were suspended, the votive offerings of many an old
shepherd.
An ewe of Dryas's flock, which had lately lambed, frequently
resorted to this grotto, raising apprehensions that she was lost.
The shepherd, to prevent her straying in future, and to keep her
with the flock as previously, twisted some green osiers so as to
form a noose, and went to seize her in the grotto. But upon his
arrival there, he beheld a sight far contrary to his expectation.
He found his ewe presenting, with all the tenderness of a real
mother, her udder to an infant; which, without uttering the
faintest cry, eagerly turned its clean and glossy face from one
teat to the other, the ewe licking it as soon as it had had its fill.
This child was a girl; and in addition to the garments in which
it was swathed, it had, by way of tokens to insure recognition, a
head-dress wrought with gold, gilt sandals, and golden anklets.
Dryas imagined that this foundling was a gift from the gods:
and, inclined to love and pity by the example of his ewe, he
raised the infant in his arms, placed the tokens in his bag, and
invoked the blessing of the Nymphs upon the charge which he
had received from them; and when the time came for driving
his cattle from their pasture, he returned to his cottage and
related all the circumstances of his discovery to his wife, exhibit-
ing the foundling, and entreating her to observe secrecy and to
regard and rear the child as her own daughter.
Nape (for so his wife was called) at once adopted the infant,
for which she soon felt a strong affection; being stimulated
thereto, perhaps, by a desire to excel the ewe in tenderness.
She declared herself a mother; and in order to obtain credit for
her story, she gave the child the pastoral name of Chloe.
Daphnis and Chloe grew rapidly, and their comeliness far
exceeded the common appearance of rustics. The former had
completed his fifteenth year and Chloe her thirteenth, when on
the same night a vision appeared to Lamon and Dryas in a
dream. They each thought that they beheld the Nymphs of the
grotto, where the fountain played and where Dryas had found
the little girl, presenting Daphnis and Chloe to a young boy of
very sprightly gait and beautiful mien, who had wings on his
shoulders, and who carried a little bow and some arrows in his
hand. The urchin lightly touched the young people with one of


## p. 9201 (#213) ###########################################

LONGUS
9201
his shafts, and commanded them to devote themselves to a pas-
toral life. To Daphnis he committed the care of the sheep.
When this vision appeared to the shepherd and the goatherd,
they were grieved to think that their adopted children should,
like themselves, be destined to tend animals. From the tokens
found with the infants, they had augured for the latter a better
fortune; and in this expectation they had brought them up in a
more delicate manner, and had procured for them more instruc-
tion and accomplishments, than usually fall to the lot of shep-
herds' offspring.
It appeared to them, however, that with regard to children.
whom the gods had preserved, the will of the gods must be
obeyed; and each having communicated his dream to the other,
they repaired to the grotto, offered up a sacrifice to the com-
panion of the Nymphs,-"the winged boy," with whose name
they were unacquainted,- and then sent the youth and maiden.
forth into the fields, having however first instructed them in their
pastoral duties. They taught them, for instance, whither they
should guide their herds before the noonday heat, whither they
should conduct them when it had abated, at what time it was
meet to lead them to the stream, and at what hour they should
drive them home to the fold. They showed them also in which
instances the use of the crook was required, and in which the
voice alone would suffice.
The young people received the charge of the sheep and goats
with as much exultation as if they had acquired some powerful
sovereignty, and felt more affection for their animals than shep-
herds usually feel; for Chloe reflected that she owed her pres-
ervation to a ewe, and Daphnis remembered that a she-goat had
suckled him.
It was then the beginning of spring. In the wood and mead-
ows and on the mountains the flowers were blooming amid the
buzzing murmurs of the bees, the warbling of the birds, and the
bleating of the lambs. The sheep were skipping on the slopes,
the bees flew humming through the meadows, and the songs of
the birds resounded among the bushes. All nature joined in
rejoicing at the springtide; and Daphnis and Chloe, as they were
young and susceptible, imitated whatever they saw or heard.
Hearing the carols of the birds, they sang; at sight of the play-
ful skipping of the lambs they danced; and in imitation of the
bees they gathered flowers, some of which they placed in their
XVI-576


## p. 9202 (#214) ###########################################

9202
LONGUS
bosoms, whilst with others they wove chaplets which they carried
as offerings to the Nymphs. They tended their flocks and herds
together, and carried on all their vocations in common. Daph-
nis frequently collected such of the sheep as had strayed; and if
a goat ventured too near a precipice, Chloe drove it back. Some-
times one took the entire management both of the goats and the
sheep, whilst the other was engaged in some amusement.
Their sports were of a childish, pastoral character: Chloe
would neglect her flocks to roam in search of day-lilies, the stalks
of which she twisted into traps for locusts; while Daphnis often
played from morn till eve upon a pipe which he had formed of
slender reeds, perforating them between their joints and securing
them together with soft wax. The young folks now often shared
their milk and wine, and made a common meal of the food which
they had brought from home as provision for the day; and the
sheep might sooner have been seen to disperse and browse apart
than Daphnis to separate himself from Chloe.


## p. 9203 (#215) ###########################################

9203
PIERRE LOTI
(1850-)
IERRE LOTI is the pen-name chosen by Louis Marie Julien
Viaud, the French novelist and poet who was born at
5. 8. Rochefort, France, on January 14th, 1850, of an old Protest-
ant family. He studied in his native town; and it was while at
school that he received from his comrades the nickname "Loti,"
which he adopted later as a literary pseudonym. He was extremely
bashful and retiring as a boy; and his playmates in derision called
him Loti, the name of a tiny East-Indian flower which hides its face
in the grass. He must have left school very
early; for he was only seventeen when he
entered the French navy, having obtained
an appointment as midshipman (aspirant de
marine). For several years he saw a great
deal of active service, particularly on the
Pacific Ocean, where his vessel was sta-
tioned; and this unquestionably gave him
that love for and that knowledge of those
exotic countries which he has so admirably
and faithfully described in his books. Ever
since he joined the navy (1867) he had
given much attention to literature, and his
fellow officers often teased him on account
of his retiring and studious disposition. He
was regarded by them as a dreamer; but no one had ever any criti-
cism to make concerning the manner in which he performed his
duties.
PIERRE LOTI

It was not until 1876 that he published his first book, 'Aziyadé,'
although it is possible that some of the many volumes he has pub-
lished since then were written before that time. 'Rarahu' appeared
in 1880, and was afterwards given the title The Marriage of Loti. '
Had the French author been familiar with Herman Melville's 'Typee,'
he would have hesitated to write his own book lest he be charged
with imitation. In 1882 the war with Tonquin broke out, and Loti
distinguished himself in several engagements with the enemy. About
this time he committed an imprudence which, however pardonable in
a writer, was inexcusable in an officer on active service. He sent to


## p. 9204 (#216) ###########################################

PIERRE LOTI
9204
the Paris Figaro an account of the cruelty of the French soldiers at
the storming of Hué; and this so incensed the French government
that he was at once placed upon the retired list. But by that time
Loti was a public favorite, and there was a loud clamor for his re-
instatement. The government, perhaps in an attempt to regain some
of its lost popularity, gave way, and Loti was restored to his com-
mand the following year. Shortly afterwards (1886) he published
'An Iceland Fisherman'; a volume full of poetic feeling and dreamy
impressionism, and which is considered by many critics his best
work. It won for him the Vitet prize of the French Academy, and
had the honor of being translated into the Roumanian language by
the Queen of Roumania. In 1887 he was decorated with the cross of
the Legion of Honor, and in this year he published one of the best
known of his books, 'Madame Chrysanthème,'-less a novel than
impressions of a sojourn in Japan.
Loti was now one of the most prominent authors of his day, and
his election to the Academy was looked upon as a matter of course.
In 1890 he published another remarkable book, entitled 'Au Maroc';
an account of the trip to Morocco by an embassy of which the author
made part. In 'Le Roman d'un Enfant' (1890), which is autobio-
graphical in character, he shows how he was won over by modern
pessimism; how, chilled by the coldness of Protestantism, he was for
a moment attracted by the glittering ritual of the Catholic Church,
only in the end to lose his faith utterly. 'Le Livre de la Pitié et de la
Mort' (1891), contains reminiscences of the divers incidents and periods
during his career which have cast shadows on his life and thoughts.
On May 21st, 1891, he was elected to the seat left vacant in the
French Academy by the death of Octave Feuillet, receiving eighteen
votes out of thirty-five cast. He was on board the man-of-war For-
midable when he was told of his election to the most august literary
body in the world. The occasion of his reception at the Academy, in
view of the social prestige that he had gained, was the most brilliant
in years.
His main works are as follows:-'Aziyadé' (1876); 'Rarahu' (1880),
republished in 1882 under the title 'Le Mariage de Loti'; 'Le Roman
d'un Spahi' (1881); Fleurs d'Ennui' (1882); Mon Frère Yves' (1883);
'Trois Dames de la Kasbah' (1884); Pêcheur d'Islande' (1886); 'Le
Désert, Madame Chrysanthème' (1887); Propos d'Exil' (1887); Ja-
poneries d'Automme' (1889); 'Au Maroc' (1890); 'Le Roman d'un
Enfant (1890); 'Le Livre de la Pitié et de la Mort' (1891); 'Fantômes
d'Orient (1892); 'Le Galilée,' 'Jerusalem Matelot. '
Pierre Loti's success has been largely due to the peculiar sym-
pathy and charm with which he has depicted the simple, open, and
naïve life of the Orient and of the far East. The sensations, the


## p. 9205 (#217) ###########################################

PIERRE LOTI
9205
ideas, the types of civilization,-in brief, the whole life and manners
of the people and countries,-successively set forth in 'An Iceland
Fisherman,' 'To Morocco,' The Desert,' 'Phantoms of the Orient,'
and 'Madame Chrysanthème,' contrasted so vividly with the formal,
complex, and sophisticated civilization of France, England, and Amer-
ica, and this life was laid bare with such penetration and insight, and
withal invested with such spirit and poetry and romance, that it is
slight wonder it appealed strangely and strongly to the overwrought
and overstrained nerves of our Western peoples.
Loti had apparently been one of those young spirits, so frequently
to be met with nowadays, to whom the intense, highly developed, and
artificial life of the time brought even with a first taste a pall of
ennui. With a cry of anguish and discouragement he had fled to far
distant lands. As a naval officer he was able to give rein to his
antipathy, and the years that followed found him searching this corner
and that of the earth in quest of the unconventional and the unique.
It was awakening Japan which appeared to have given him his first.
literary impulse; and it was the curious and richly colored volume in
which he describes his love affair with one of the daughters of that
country, to whom he gave the fanciful title of Madame Chrysanthe-
mum, which won for him his greatest acclaim in the field of letters.
Other volumes of a similar character followed rapidly, and the young
writer quickly found himself elevated in popular esteem to the first
rank of French littérateurs. It was an open door and a step into the
Academy.
It is to be noted in passing, that the Orient and the desert- their
life, their customs, their literature, and their religions-have always
exercised a strong attraction for the French mind: a fact exemplified
in the long line of writers from the stately declamation of Volney's
'Ruins,' and the weird tales of arabesque and grotesque, down to
the poet Leconte de Lisle, whose melancholy and majestic verse has
so strongly influenced the poetry of the day.
Loti caught a phase of this life which had been touched upon by
no other writer. The East, to Volney, was the inspiration of philo-
sophical reflections upon the rise and fall of nations; to Gautier, a
land wherein his imagination and love of the antique might run riot;
to Leconte de Lisle, a sermon upon the evanescence of all earthly
things. To Loti it was none of these. With the eye of the poet and
with the pen of a realist he saw and painted the lands and people
which he visited. And into these pictures he infused a sympathy and
a human interest which lifted his pages from the dull and common-
place routine of ordinary sketches of travel, into an atmosphere whose
warmth and glow afforded a new and rare sensation to the reading
public. Above all, there is in Loti's work a delicacy, a subtlety of


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PIERRE LOTI
understanding, a poetic instinct, and the play of a dainty and lively
fancy, that lend to his descriptions a quality which is hardly else-
where to be found.
He is an admirable artist, some of whose work is tainted by mor-
bidness and sensuality, but who at his ethical and artistic best-in
'An Iceland Fisherman' and 'The Book of Pity and of Death,' for
example has great charm and power.
THE SAILOR'S WIFE
From An Iceland Fisherman: A Story of Love on Land and Sea. ' Trans-
lated from the French by Clara Cadiot. William S. Gottsberger, New
York, 1888.
THE
HE Icelanders were all returning now. Two ships came in
the second day, four the next, and twelve during the fol-
lowing week. And all through the country, joy returned
with them; and there was happiness for the wives and mothers,
and junkets in the taverns where the beautiful barmaids of
Paimpol served out drink to the fishers.
The Léopoldine was among the belated; there were yet an-
other ten expected. They would not be long now; and allowing
a week's delay so as not to be disappointed, Gaud waited in
happy, passionate joy for Yann, keeping their home bright and
tidy for his return. When everything was in good order there
was nothing left for her to do; and besides, in her impatience,
she could think of nothing else but her husband.
Three more ships appeared; then another five.
only two lacking now.
"Come, come," they said to her cheerily, "this year the Léo-
poldine and the Marie-Jeanne will be the last, to pick up all the
brooms fallen overboard from the other craft. "
There were
Gaud laughed also. She was more animated and beautiful
than ever, in her great joy of expectancy.
But the days succeeded one another without result.
She still dressed up every day, and with a joyful look went
down to the harbor to gossip with the other wives. She said
that this delay was but natural: was it not the same event
every year? These were such safe boats, and had such capital
sailors.
But when at home alone, at night, a nervous anxious shiver
of apprehension would run through her whole frame.


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PIERRE LOTI
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Was it right to be frightened already? Was there even a
single reason to be so? But she began to tremble at the mere
idea of grounds for being afraid.
The 10th of September came. How swiftly the days flew by!
One morning-a true autumn morning, with cold mist falling
over the earth in the rising sun-she sat under the porch of
the chapel of the shipwrecked mariners, where the widows go to
pray; with eyes fixed and glassy, and throbbing temples tight-
ened as by an iron band.
These sad morning mists had begun two days before; and on
this particular day Gaud had awakened with a still more bitter
uneasiness, caused by the forecast of advancing winter. Why
did this day, this hour, this very moment, seem to her more
painful than the preceding? Often ships are delayed a fortnight;
even a month, for that matter.
But surely there was something different about this particular
morning; for she had come to-day for the first time to sit in the
porch of this chapel and read the names of the dead sailors,
perished in their prime.
IN MEMORY OF
GAOS YVON
Lost at Sea
NEAR THE NORDEN-FJORD
Like a great shudder, a gust of wind rose from the sea, and
at the same time something fell like rain upon the roof above.
It was only the dead leaves, though;-many were blown in at
the porch; the old wind-tossed trees of the graveyard were losing
their foliage in this rising gale, and winter was marching nearer.
Lost at Sea
NEAR THE NORDEN-FJORD
In the storm of the 4th and 5th of August, 1880
She read mechanically under the arch of the doorway; her
eyes sought to pierce the distance over the sea.