No More Learning

On their requisition, I took another; and when about to depart,
the amount was called for. The two servants paid their quota,
and I was called on for mine. Nemo dat quod non habet — this
maxim, to my no small vexation, I was compelled to exemplify.
Mr. Palethorp, the landlord, had a visage harsh and ill-favored,
and he insisted on my discharging my debt. At this very early
age, without having put in for my share of the gifts of fortune,
I found myself in the state of an insolvent debtor. The demand
harassed me so mercilessly that I could hold out no longer: the
door being open, I took to my heels; and as the way was too
plain to be missed, I ran home as fast as they could carry me.
The scene of the terrors of Mr. Palethorp's name and visitation,
in pursuit of me, was the country-house at Barking; but neither
was the town-house free from them; for in those terrors, the
servants possessed an instrument by which it was in their power
at any time to get rid of my presence. Level with the kitchen-
level with the landing-place in which the staircase took its com-
mencement — were the usual offices. When my company became
troublesome, a sure and continually repeated means of exoner-
ating themselves from it was for the footman to repair to the
adjoining subterraneous apartments, invest his shoulders with
some strong covering, and concealing his countenance, stalk in
with a hollow, menacing, and inarticulate tone. Lest that should
not be sufficient, the servants had, stuck by the fireplace, the
portraiture of a hobgoblin, to which they had given the name of
Palethorp. For some years I was in the condition of poor Dr.
Priestley, on whose bodily frame another name, too awful to be
mentioned, used to produce a sensation more than mental.


## p. 1781 (#579) ###########################################

JEREMY BENTHAM
1781
see-
W* common right, for the ladies.
LETTER FROM BOWOOD TO GEORGE WILSON (1781)
SUNDAY, 12 o'clock.
HERE
The first place, by
common right, to the ladies. The ideas I brought with
me respecting the female part of this family are turned
quite topsy-turvy, and unfortunately they are not yet cleared up.
I had expected to find in Lady Shelburne a Lady Louisa Fitz-
patrick, sister of an Earl of Ossory, whom I remember at school;
instead of her, I find a lady who has for her sister a Miss Caro-
line V—i is not this the maid of honor, the sister to Lady
G— ? the lady who was fond of Lord C—, and of whom he
was fond ? and whom he quitted for an heiress and a pair of
horns ? Be they who they may, the one is loveliest of matrons,
the other of virgins: they have both of them more than I could
wish of reserve, but it is a reserve of modesty rather than of
pride.
The quadrupeds, whom you know I love next, consist of a
child of a year old, a tiger, a spaniel formerly attached to Lady
Shelburne - at present to my Lord — besides four plebeian cats
who are taken no notice of, horses, etc. , and a wild boar who is
sent off on a matrimonial expedition to the farm. The four first
I have commenced a friendship with, especially the first of all,
to whom I am body-coachman extraordinary en titre d'office:
Henry, (for that is his name) [the present Lord Lansdowne]
for such an animal, has the most thinking countenance I ever
saw; being very clean, I can keep him without disgust and even
with pleasure, especially after having been rewarded, as I have
just now, for my attention to him, by a pair of the sweetest
smiles imaginable from his mamma and aunt. As Providence
hath ordered it, they both play on the harpsichord and at chess.
I am flattered with the hopes of engaging with them, before
long, either in war or harmony: not to-day — because, whether
you know it or not, it is Sunday; I know it, having been pay-
ing my devotions— our church, the hall — our minister, a sleek
young parson, the curate of the parish — our saints, a naked
Mercury, an Apollo in the same dress, and a Venus de' Medi-
cis - our congregation, the two ladies, Captain Blankett, and
your humble servant, upon the carpet by the minister — below,
the domestics, superioris et inferioris ordinis. Among the former
I was concerned to see poor Mathews, the librarian, who, I could


## p. 1782 (#580) ###########################################

1782
JEREMY BENTHAM
not help thinking, had as good a title to be upon the carpet as
myself.
Of Lord Fitzmaurice I know nothing, but from his bust and
letters: the first bespeaks him a handsome youth, the latter an
ingenious one. He is not sixteen, and already he writes better
than his father. He is under the care of a Mr. Jervis, a dis-
senting minister, who has had charge of him since he was six
years old. He has never been at any public school of education.
He has now for a considerable time been traveling about the
kingdom, that he may know something of his own country before
he goes to others, and be out of the way of adulation.
I am interrupted - adieu! le reste à l'ordinaire prochain.
FRAGMENT OF A LETTER TO LORD LANSDOWNE (1790)
I"
and your
T was using me very ill, that it was, to get upon stilts as you
did, and resolve not to be angry with me, after all the pains
I had taken to make you so.
You have been angry, let me
tell you, with people as little worth it before now;
being so niggardly of it in my instance, may be added to the
account of your injustice. I see you go upon the old Christian
principle of heaping coals of fire upon people's heads, which is
the highest refinement upon vengeance. I see, moreover, that
according to your system of cosmogony, the difference is but
accidental between the race of kings and that of the first Baron
of Lixmore: that ex-lawyers come like other men from Adam,
and ex-ministers from somebody who started up out of the
ground before him, in some more elevated part of the country.
To lower these pretensions, it would be serving you right, if
I were to tell you that I was not half so angry as I appeared
to be; that, therefore, according to the countryman's rule, you
have not so much the advantage over me as you may think you
have: that the real object of what anger I really felt was rather
the situation in which I found myself than you or anybody; but
that, as none but a madman would go to quarrel with a
entity called a situation, it was necessary for me to look out for
somebody who, somehow or other, was connected with it.
non-


## p. 1782 (#581) ###########################################



## p. 1782 (#582) ###########################################


P. J. DE BERANGER.


## p. 1782 (#583) ###########################################

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## p. 1782 (#584) ###########################################


P. J. DE BERANGER.


## p. 1782 (#585) ###########################################

Trine
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pic


## p. 1782 (#586) ###########################################


FANUL


## p. 1783 (#587) ###########################################

1783
JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
(1780–1857)
BY ALCÉE FORTIER
B
ÉRANGER, like Hugo, has commemorated the date of his birth,
but their verses
are very different. Hugo's poem is lofty
in style, beginning -
Ce siècle avait deux ans! Rome remplaçait Sparte,
Déjà Napoléon perçait sous Bonaparte,
Et du premier consul déjà, par maint endroit,
Le front de l'empereur brisait le masque étroit. ”
(This century was two years old; Rome displaced Sparta,
Napoleon already was visible in Bonaparte,
And the narrow mask of the First Consul, in many places,
Was already pierced by the forehead of the Emperor. )
Béranger's verses have less force, but are charming in their sim-
plicity:-
«Dans ce Paris plein d'or et de misère,
En l'an du Christ mil sept cent quatre-vingt,
Chez un tailleur, mon pauvre et vieux grand-père,
Moi, nouveau-né, sachais ce qui m'advint. ”
(In this Paris full of gold and misery,
In the year of Christ one thousand seven hundred and eighty,
At the house of a tailor, my grandfather poor and old,
I, a new-born child, knew what happened to me. )
Authors of the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries are more
subjective in their writings than those of the seventeenth, whose
characters can rarely be known from their works. A glance at the
life and surroundings of Béranger will show their influence on his
genius.
Béranger's mother was abandoned by her husband shortly after
her marriage, and her child was born at the house of her father, the
old tailor referred to in the song The Tailor and the Fairy. ' She
troubled herself little about the boy, and he was forsaken in his
childhood. Béranger tells us that he does not know how he learned
to read. In the beginning of the year 1789 he was sent to a school
in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and there, mounted on the roof of
a house, he saw the capture of the Bastille on the 14th of July.


## p. 1784 (#588) ###########################################

1784
JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
This event made a great impression on him, and may have laid
the foundations of his republican principles. When he was nine and
a half his father sent him to one of his sisters, an innkeeper at
Péronne, that town in the north of France famous for the interview
in 1468 between Louis XI. and Charles the Bold, when the fox, put
himself in the power of the lion, as related so vividly in Quentin
Durward.
Béranger's aunt was very kind to him. At Péronne he went to
a free primary school founded by Ballue de Bellenglise, where the
students governed themselves, electing their mayor, their judges, and
their justices of the peace. Béranger was president of a republican
club of boys, and was called upon several times to address members
of the Convention who passed through Péronne. His aunt was an
ardent republican, and he was deeply moved by the invasion of
France in 1792. He heard with delight of the capture of Toulon in
1793 and of Bonaparte's exploits, conceiving a great admiration for
the extraordinary man who was just beginning his military career.
At the age of fifteen Béranger returned to Paris, where his father
had established a kind of banking house. The boy had previously
followed different trades, and had been for two years with a pub-
lishing house as a printer's apprentice. There he learned spelling
and the rules of French prosody. He began to write verse when
he was twelve or thirteen, but he had a strange idea of prosody.
In order to get lines of the same length he wrote his words between
two parallel lines traced from the top to the bottom of the page.
His system of versification seemed to be correct when applied to the
Alexandrine verse of Racine; but when he saw the fables of La
Fontaine, in which the lines are very irregular, he began to distrust
his prosody.
Béranger became a skillful financier, and was very useful to his
father in his business. When the banker failed the young man was
thrown into great distress. He now had ample opportunity to become
familiar with the garret, of which he has sung so well. In 1804 he
applied for help to Lucien Bonaparte, and received from Napoleon's
brother his own fee as member of the Institute. He obtained shortly
afterwards a position in a bureau of the University. Having a
weak constitution and defective sight, he avoided the conscription.
He was however all his life a true patriot, with republican instincts;
and he says that he never liked Voltaire, because that celebrated
writer unjustly preferred foreigners and vilified Joan of Arc, “the
true patriotic divinity, who from my childhood was the object of my
worship. ” He had approved of the eighteenth of Brumaire: for my
soul,” says he, “has always vibrated with that of the people as when
I was nineteen years old;" and the great majority of the French


## p. 1785 (#589) ###########################################

JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
1785
people in 1799 wished to see Bonaparte assume power and govern
with a firm hand. In 1813 Béranger wrote The King of Yvetot,'
a pleasing and amusing satire on Napoleon's reign. What a contrast
between the despotic emperor and ruthless warrior, and the simple
king whose crown is a nightcap and whose chief delight is his bottle
of wine! The song circulated widely in manuscript form, and the
author soon became popular. He made the acquaintance of Désau-
giers and became a member of the Caveau. Concerning this joyous
literary society M. Anatole France says, in his Vie Littéraire, that
the first Caveau was founded in 1729 by Gallet, Piron, Crébillon
fils, Collé, and Panard. They used to meet at Laudelle the tavern-
keeper's. The second Caveau was inaugurated in 1759 by Marmontel,
Suard, Lanoue, and Brissy, and lasted until the Revolution. In 1806
Armand Gouffé and Capelle established the modern Caveau, of which
Désaugiers was president. The members met at Balaine's restaurant.
In 1834 the society was reorganized at Champlanc's restaurant. The
members wrote and published songs and sang them after dinner.
“The Caveau,” says M. France, “is the French Academy of song,”
and as such has some dignity. The same is true of the Lice, while
the Chat Noir is most fin de siècle.
To understand Béranger's songs and to excuse them somewhat,
we must remember that the French always delighted in witty songs
and tales, and pardoned the immorality of the works on account of
the wit and humor. This is what is called l'esprit gaulois, and is
seen principally in old French poetry, in the fabliaux, the farces, and
(Le Roman de Renart. ' Molière had much of this, as also had La
Fontaine and Voltaire, and Béranger's wildest songs appear mild and
innocent when compared with those of the Chat Noir. In his joyous
songs he continues the traditions of the farces and fabliaux of the
Middle Ages, and in his political songs he uses wit and satire just
as in the sottises of the time of Louis XII.
Béranger's first volume of songs appeared at the beginning of the
second Restoration; and although it was hostile to the Bourbons, the
author was not prosecuted. In 1821, when his second volume was
published, he resigned his position as clerk at the University, and
was brought to trial for having written immoral and seditious songs.
He was condemned, after exciting scenes in court, to three months'
imprisonment and a fine of five hundred francs, and in 1828 to nine
months' imprisonment and a fine of ten thousand francs, which was
paid by public subscription.
No doubt he contributed to the Revolution of July, 1830; but
although he was a republican, he favored the monarchy of Louis
Philippe, saying that “it was a plank to cross over the gutter, a
preparation for the republic. ” The king wished to see him and


## p. 1786 (#590) ###########################################

1786
JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
procession.
thank him, but Béranger replied that he was too old to make new
acquaintances. ” He was invited to apply for a seat in the French
Academy, and refused that honor as he had refused political honors
and positions. He said that he “wished to be nothing”; and when
in 1848 he was elected to the Constitutional Assembly, he resigned
his seat almost immediately. He has been accused of affectation, and
of exaggeration in his disinterestedness; but he was naturally timid
in public, and preferred to exert an influence over his countrymen
by his songs rather than by his voice in public assemblies.
Béranger was kind and generous, and ever ready to help all who
applied to him. He had
He had a pension given to Rouget de l'Isle, the
famous author of the Marseillaise,' who was reduced to poverty,
and in 1835 he took into his house his good aunt from Péronne, and
gave hospitality also to his friend Mlle. Judith Frère. In 1834 he
sold all his works to his publisher, Perrotin, for an annuity of eight
hundred francs, which was increased to four thousand by the pub-
lisher. On this small income Béranger lived content till his death on
July 16th, 1857. The government of Napoleon III. took charge of his
funeral, which was solemnized with great pomp. Although Béranger
was essentially the poet of the middle classes, and was extremely
popular, care was taken to exclude the people from the funeral
While he never denied that he was the grandson of a
tailor, he signed de Béranger, to be distinguished from other writers
of the same name. The de, however, had always been claimed by
his father, who had left him nothing but that pretense of nobility.
For forty years, from 1815 to his death, Béranger was perhaps the
most popular French writer of his time, and he was ranked amongst
the greatest French poets. There has been a reaction against that
enthusiasm, and he is now severely judged by the critics. They say
that he lacked inspiration, and was vulgar, bombastic, and grandilo-
quent. Little attention is paid to him, therefore, in general histories
of French literature. But if he is not entitled to stand on the high
pedestal given to him by his contemporaries, we yet cannot deny
genius to the man who for more than a generation swayed the
hearts of the people at his will, and exerted on his countrymen and
on his epoch an immense influence.
Many of his songs are coarse and even immoral; but his muse
often inspired by patriotic subjects, and in his poems on
Napoleon he sings of the exploits of the great general defending
French soil from foreign invasion, or he delights in the victories of
the Emperor as reflecting glory upon France. Victor Hugo shared
this feeling when he wrote his inspiring verses in praise of the con-
queror.
Both poets, Béranger and Hugo, contributed to create the
Napoleonic legend which facilitated the election of Louis Napoleon
was


## p. 1787 (#591) ###########################################

JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
1787
to the presidency in 1848, and brought about the Second Empire.
What is more touching than The Reminiscences of the People'?
Are we not inclined to cry out, like the little children listening to
the old grandmother who speaks of Napoleon: “He spoke to you,
grandmother! He sat down there, grandmother! You have yet his
glass, grandmother! ” The whole song is poetic, natural, and simple.
François Coppée, the great poet, said of it: “Ah! if I had only writ-
ten (The Reminiscences of the People,' I should not feel concerned
about the judgment of posterity. ”
Other works of Béranger's are on serious subjects, as Mary
Stuart's Farewell to France,' 'The Holy Alliance,' (The Swallows,'
and "The Old Banner. ) All his songs have a charm. His wit is not
of the highest order, and he lacks the finesse of La Fontaine, but he
is often quaint and always amusing in his songs devoted to love and
Lisette, to youth and to wine. He is not one of the greatest French
lyric poets, and cannot be compared with Lamartine, Hugo, Musset,
and Vigny; nevertheless he has much originality, and is without doubt
the greatest song-writer that France has produced. He elevated
the song and made it both a poem and a drama, full of action and
interest.
Béranger wrote slowly and with great care, and many of his songs
cost him much labor. He was filled with compassion for the weak,
for the poor and unfortunate; he loved humanity, and above all he
dearly loved France. Posterity will do him justice and will pre-
serve at least a great part of his work. M. Ernest Legouvé in his
interesting work, La Lecture en Action,' relates that one day,
while walking with Béranger in the Bois de Boulogne, the latter
stopped in the middle of an alley, and taking hold of M. Legouvé's
hand, said with emotion, “My dear friend, my ambition would be
that one hundred of my lines should remain. ” M. Legouvé adds,
“There will remain more than that,” and his words have been con-
firmed. If we read aloud, if we sing them, we too shall share the
enthusiasm of our fathers, who were carried away by the pathos, the
grandeur, the wit, the inexpressible charm of the unrivaled chansonnier.
Alio Portien


## p. 1788 (#592) ###########################################

1788
JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
FROM THE GIPSIES)
(LES BOHÉMIENS)
Tº
O SEE is to have. Come, hurry anew!
Life on the wing
Is a rapturous thing.
To see is to have. Come, hurry anew!
For to see the world is to conquer it too.
So naught do we own, from pride left free,
From statutes vain,
From heavy chain;
So naught do we own, from pride left free, -
Cradle nor house nor coffin have we.
But credit our jollity none the less,
Noble or priest, or
Servant or master;
But credit our jollity none the less.
Liberty always means happiness.
THE GAD-FLY
(LA MOUCHE)
IN
N The midst of our laughter and singing,
'Mid the clink of our glasses so gay,
What gad-fly is over us winging,
That returns when we drive him away?
'Tis some god. Yes, I have a suspicion
Of our happiness jealous, he's come:
Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.
Transformed to a gad-fly unseemly,
I am certain that we must have here
Old Reason, the grumbler, extremely
Annoyed by our joy and our cheer.
He tells us in tones of monition
Of the clouds and the tempests to come:
Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.
It is Reason who comes to me, quaffing,
And says, “It is time to retire:


## p. 1789 (#593) ###########################################

JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
1789
At your age one stops drinking and laughing,
Stops loving, nor sings with such fire ; ».
An alarm that sounds ever its mission
When the sweetest of flames overcome:
Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.
It is Reason! Look out there for Lizzie!
His dart is a menace alway.
He has touched her, she swoons - she is dizzy:
Come, Cupid, and drive him away.
Pursue him; compel his submission,
Until under your strokes he succumb.
Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.
Hurrah, Victory! See, he is drowning
In the wine that Lizzetta has poured.
Come, the head of Joy let us be crowning,
That again he may reign at our board.
He was threatened just now with dismission,
And a fly made us all rather glum:
But we've sent him away to perdition;
He will bore us no more with his hum.
Translation of Walter Learned.
DRAW IT MILD
(LES PETITS COUPS)
L
ET's learn to temper our desires,
Not harshly to constrain;
And since excess makes pleasure less,
Why, so much more refrain.
Small table— cozy corner — here
We well may be beguiled;
Our worthy host old wine can boast :
Drink, drink — but draw it mild !
He who would many an evil shun
Will find my plan the best,
To trim the sail as shifts the gale,
And half-seas over rest.
Enjoyment is an art - disgust
Is bred of joy run wild;


## p. 1790 (#594) ###########################################

1790
JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
Too deep a drain upsets the brain:
Drink, drink -- but draw it mild!
Our indigence - let's cheer it up;
'Tis nonsense to repine;
To give to Hope the fullest scope
Needs but one draught of wine.
And oh! be temperate, to enjoy,
Ye on whom Fate hath smiled;
If deep the bowl, your thirst control:
Drink, drink --- but draw it mild!
What, Phyllis, dost thou fear ? at this
My lesson dost thou scoff ?
Or would'st thou say, light draughts betray
The toper falling off ?
Keen taste, eyes keen whate'er be seen
Of joy in thine, fair child,
Love's philtre use, but don't abuse:
Drink, drink — but draw it mild !
Yes, without hurrying, let us roam
From feast to feast of gladness;
And reach old age, if not quite sage,
With method in our madness!
Our health is sound, good wines abound;
Friends, these are riches piled.
To use with thrift the twofold gift:
Drink, drink - but draw it mild!
Translation of William Young.
THE KING OF YVETOT
TER
HERE was a king of Yvetot,
Of whom renown hath little said,
Who let all thoughts of glory go,
And dawdled half his days a-bed;
And every night, as night came round,
By Jenny with a nightcap crowned,
Slept very sound:
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.
And every day it came to pass,
That four lusty meals made he;
And step by step, upon an ass,
Rode abroad, his realms to see;


## p. 1791 (#595) ###########################################

JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
1791
And wherever he did stir,
What think you was his escort, sir ?
Why, an old cur.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.
If e'er he went into excess,
'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst;
But he who would his subjects bless,
Odd's fish! - must wet his whistle first;
And so from every cask they got,
Our king did to himself allot
At least a pot.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.
To all the ladies of the land
A courteous king, and kind, was he -
The reason why, you'll understand,
They named him Pater Patriæ.
Each year he called his fighting men,
And marched a league from home, and then
Marched back again.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.
Neither by force nor false pretense,
He sought to make his kingdom great,
And made (O princes, learn from hence)
<Live and let live » his rule of state.
'Twas only when he came to die,
That his people who stood by
Were known to cry.
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.
The portrait of this best of kings
Is extant still, upon a sign
That on a village tavern swings,
Famed in the country for good wine.
The people in their Sunday trim,
Filling their glasses to the brim,
Look up to him,
Singing “ha, ha, ha! ” and “he, he, he!
That's the sort of king for me. ”
Version of W. M. Thackeray.


## p. 1792 (#596) ###########################################

1792
JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
FORTUNE
R
AP! rap! - Is that my lass
Rap! rap! - is rapping there?
It is Fortune. Let her pass!
I'll not open the door to her.
Rap! rap! -
All of my friends are making gay
My little room, with lips wine-wet:
We only wait for you, Lisette!
Fortune! you may go your way.
Rap! rap!
If we might credit half her boast,
What wonders gold has in its gift!
Well, we have twenty bottles left
And still some credit with our host.
Rap! rap! -
1
Her pearls, and rubies too, she quotes,
And mantles more than sumptuous:
Lord! but the purple's naught to us, -
We're just now taking off our coats.
Rap! rap! -
She treats us as the rawest youths,
With talk of genius and of fame:
Thank calumny, alas, for shame!
Our faith is spoiled in laurel growths.
Rap! rap! -
Far from our pleasures, we care not
Her highest heavens to attain;
She fills her big balloons in vain
Till we have swamped our little boat.
Rap! rap! -
Yet all our neighbors crowd to be
Within her ring of promises,
Ah! surely, friends! our mistresses
Will cheat us more agreeably.
Rap! rap! -


## p. 1793 (#597) ###########################################

JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
1793
THE PEOPLE'S REMINISCENCES
(LES SOUVENIRS DU PEUPLE)
A"
Y, MANY a day the straw-thatched cot
Shall echo with his glory!
The humblest shed, these fifty years,
Shall know no other story.
There shall the idle villagers
To some old dame resort,
And beg her with those good old tales
To make their evenings short.
“What though they say he did us harm?
Our love this cannot dim;
Come, granny, talk of him to us;
Come, granny, talk of him. ”
“Well, children — with a train of kings,
Once he passed by this spot;
'Twas long ago; I had but just
Begun to boil the pot.
On foot he climbed the hill, whereon
I watched him on his way:
He wore a small three-cornered hat;
His overcoat was gray.
I was half frightened till he said
"Good day, my dear! ) to me. ”
"O granny, granny, did he speak?
What, granny! you and he ? »
“Next year, as I, poor soul, by chance
Through Paris strolled one day,
I saw him taking, with his court,
To Notre Dame his way.
The crowd were charmed with such a show;
Their hearts were filled with pride:
(What splendid weather for the fête !
Heaven favors him! ) they cried.
Softly he smiled, for God had given
To his fond arms a boy. "
“Oh, how much joy you must have felt!
O granny, how much joy!
« But when at length our poor Champagne
By foes was overrun,
III-113


## p. 1794 (#598) ###########################################

1794
JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
He seemed alone to hold his ground;
Nor dangers would he shun.
One night — as might be now - I heard
A knock — the door unbarred-
And saw
-good God! 'twas he, himself,
With but a scanty guard.
(Oh, what a war is this! he cried,
Taking this very chair. ”
“What! granny, granny, there he sat ?
What! granny, he sat there? »
« I'm hungry,' said he: quick I served
Thin wine and hard brown bread;
He dried his clothes, and by the fire
In sleep dropped down his head.
Waking, he saw my tears — Cheer up,
Good dame! ) says he, I go
'Neath Paris' walls to strike for France
One last avenging blow. '
He went; but on the cup he used
Such value did I set -
It has been treasured. ) ( What! till now?
You have it, granny, yet ? ”
« Here 'tis: but 'twas the hero's fate
To ruin to be led;
He whom a Pope had crowned, alas!
In a lone isle lies dead.
'Twas long denied: No, no,' said they,
(Soon shall he reappear!
O'er ocean comes he, and the foe
Shall find his master here. )
Ah, what a bitter pang I felt,
When forced to own 'twas true ! »
Poor granny! Heaven for this will look -
Will kindly look on you. ”
Translation of William Young.


## p. 1795 (#599) ###########################################

JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
1795
THE OLD TRAMP
(LE VIEUX VAGABOND)
H
ERE in this gutter let me die:
Weary and sick and old, I've done.
« He's drunk,” will say the passers-by:
All right, I want no pity — none.
I see the heads that turn away,
While others glance and toss me
« Off to your junket! go! ” I say:
Old tramp,- to die I need no help from you.
ous:
Yes, of old age I'm dying now:
Of hunger people never die.
i hoped some almshouse might allow
A shelter when my end was nigh;
But all retreats are overflowed,
Such crowds are suffering and forlorn.
My nurse, alas! has been the road:
Old tramp,- here let me die where I was born.
When young, it used to be my prayer
To craftsmen, “Let me learn your trade. ”
« Clear out - we've got no work to spare;
Go beg,” was all reply they made.
You rich, who bade me work, I've fed
With relish on the bones you threw;
Made of your straw an easy bed:
Old tramp,- I have no curse to vent on you.
Poor wretch, I had the choice to steal ;
But no, I'd rather beg my bread.
At most I thieved a wayside meal
Of apples ripening overhead.
Yet twenty times have I been thrown
In prison — 'twas the King's decree;
Robbed of the only thing I own:
Old tramp, — at least the sun belongs to me.
The poor man is a country his?
What are to me your corn and wine,
Your glory and your industries,
Your orators? They are not mine.
And when a foreign foe waxed fat
Within your undefended walls,


## p. 1796 (#600) ###########################################

1796
JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
I shed my tears, poor fool, at that:
Old tramp,- his hand was open to my calls.
Why, like the hateful bug you kill,
Did you not crush me when you could ?
Or better, teach me ways and skill
To labor for the common good ?
The ugly grub an ant may end,
If sheltered from the cold and fed.
You might have had me for a friend:
Old tramp,–I die your enemy instead.
Translated for the World's Best Literature. )
FIFTY YEARS
(CINQUANTE ANS)
W"
HEREFORE these flowers ? floral applause ?
Ah, no, these blossoms came to say
That I am growing old, because
I number fifty years to-day.
O rapid, ever-fleeting day!
O moments lost, I know not how!
O wrinkled cheek and hair grown gray!
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Not yet
Sad age, when we pursue no more
Fruit dies upon the withering tree:
Hark! some one rapped upon my door.
Nay, open not. 'Tis not for me
Or else the doctor calls.
Must I expect his studious bow.
Once I'd have called, «Come in, Lizzette » -
Alas, for I am fifty now!
In age what aches and pains abound:
The torturing gout racks us awhile;
Blindness, a prison dark, profound;
Or deafness that provokes a smile.
Then Reason's lamp grows faint and dim
With flickering ray. Children, allow
Old Age the honor due to him—
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Ah, heaven! the voice of Death I know,
Who rubs his hands in joyous mood;


## p. 1797 (#601) ###########################################

JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
1797
The sexton knocks and I must go-
Farewell, my friends the human brood!
Below are famine, plague, and strife;
Above, new heavens my soul endow:
Since God remains, begin, new life!
Alas, for I am fifty now!
But no, 'tis you, sweetheart, whose youth,
Tempting my soul with dainty ways,
Shall hide from it the sombre truth,
This incubus of evil days.
Springtime is yours, and flowers; come then,
Scatter your roses on my brow,
And let me dream of youth again
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Translation of Walter Learned.
THE GARRET
W"
Tu pensive eyes the little room I view,
Where in my youth I weathered it so long,
With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two,
And a light heart still breaking into song;
Making a mock of life, and all its cares,
Rich in the glory of my rising sun:
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
Yes; 'tis a garret — let him know't who will —
There was my bed — full hard it was and small;
My table there - and I decipher still
Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall.
Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away,
Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun:
For you I pawned my watch how many a day,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one!
And see my little Jessy, first of all;
She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes:
Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl
Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise:
Now by the bed her petticoat glides down,
And when did women look the worse in none ?
I have heard since who paid for many a gown,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.


## p. 1798 (#602) ###########################################

1798
JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
One jolly evening, when my friends and I
Made happy music with our songs and cheers,
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,
And distant cannon opened on our ears;
We rise, - we join in the triumphant strain, -
Napoleon conquers — Austerlitz is won -
Tyrants shall never tread us down again,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
Let us begone — the place is sad and strange
How far, far off, these happy times appear!
All that I have to live I'd gladly change
For one such month as I have wasted here
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,
From founts of hope that never will outrun,
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour:
Give me the days when I was twenty-one.
Version of W. M. Thackeray.
MY TOMB
(MON TOMBEAU)
W"
HAT! whilst I'm well, beforehand you design,
At vast expense, for me to build a shrine ?
Friends, 'tis absurd! to no such outlay go;
Le ve to the great the pomp and pride of woe.
Take what for marble or for brass would pay
For a dead beggar garb by far too gay -
And buy life-stirring wine on my behalf:
The money for my tomb right gayly let us quaff!
A mausoleum worthy of my thanks
At least would cost you twenty thousand francs:
Come, for six months, rich vale and balmy sky,
As gay recluses, be it ours to try.
Concerts and balls, where Beauty's self invites,
Shall furnish us our castle of delights;
I'll run the risk of finding life too sweet:
The money for my tomb right gayly let us eat!
But old I grow, and Lizzy's youthful yet:
Costly attire, then, she expects to get;
For to long fast a show of wealth resigns -
Bear witness Longchamps, where all Paris shines!


## p. 1799 (#603) ###########################################

JEAN-PIERRE DE BÉRANGER
1799
You to my fair one something surely owe;
A Cashmere shawl she's looking for, I know:
'Twere well for life on such a faithful breast
The money for my tomb right gayly to invest !
No box of state, good friends, would I engage,
For mine own use, where spectres tread the stage:
What poor wan man with haggard eyes is this?
Soon must he die — ah, let him taste of bliss !
The veteran first should the raised curtain see —
There in the pit to keep a place for me,
(Tired of his wallet, long he cannot live) –
The money for my tomb to him let's gayly give!
What doth it boot me, that some learned eye
May spell my name on gravestone, by and by ?
As to the flowers they promise for my bier,
I'd rather, living, scent their perfume here.
And thou, posterity!