No More Learning



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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


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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


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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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9206
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
9207
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. That morning
it was untraceable under the gray mist, and a dragging drapery
of clouds overhung the horizon like a mourning veil.
Another gust of wind, and other leaves danced in whirls. A
stronger gust still; as if the western storm which had strewn
those dead over the sea wished to deface the very inscriptions
which kept their names in memory with the living.


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9208
PIERRE LOTI
Gaud looked with involuntary persistency at an empty space
upon the wall which seemed to yawn expectant. By a terrible
impression, she was pursued by the thought of a fresh slab which
might soon perhaps be placed there,- with another name which.
she did not even dare think of in such a spot.
She felt cold, and remained seated on the granite bench, her
head reclining against the stone wall.
NEAR THE NORDEN-FJORD
In the storm of the 4th and 5th of August, 1880
At the age of 23 years
Requiescat in pace!
Then Iceland loomed up before her, with its little cemetery
lighted up from below the sea-line by the midnight sun. Sud-
denly, in the same empty space on the wall, with horrifying
clearness she saw the fresh slab she was thinking of; a clear
white one, with a skull and crossbones, and in a flash of fore-
sight a name,- the worshiped name of "Yann Gaos"! Then she
suddenly and fearfully drew herself up straight and stiff, with a
hoarse wild cry in her throat like a mad creature.
Outside, the gray mist of the dawn fell over the land, and the
dead leaves were again blown dancingly into the porch.
She rose,
Steps on the footpath! Somebody was coming?
and quickly smoothed down her cap and composed her face.
Nearer drew the steps. She assumed the air of one who might
be there by chance; for above all, she did not wish to appear
yet like the widow of a shipwrecked mariner.
It happened to be Fante Floury, the wife of the second mate
of the Léopoldine. She understood immediately what Gaud was
doing there: it was useless to dissemble with her. At first each
woman stood speechless before the other. They were angry and
almost hated each other for having met holding a like sentiment
of apprehension.
"All the men of Tréguier and Saint-Brieuc have been back
for a week," said Fante at last, in an unfeeling, muffled, half-
irritated voice.
She carried a blessed taper in her hand, to offer up a prayer.
Gaud did not wish yet to resort to that extreme resource of de-
spairing wives. Yet silently she entered the chapel behind Fante,
and they knelt down together side by side like two sisters.


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PIERRE LOTI
9209
To the "Star of the Sea" they offered ardent imploring
prayers, with their whole soul in them. A sound of sobbing was
alone heard, as their rapid tears swiftly fell upon the floor. They
rose together, more confident and softened. Fante held up Gaud,
who staggered; and taking her in her arms, kissed her.
Wiping their eyes and smoothing their disheveled hair, they
brushed off the salt dust from the flag-stones which had soiled
their gowns, and went away in opposite directions without another
word.
This end of September was like another summer, only a little
less lively. The weather was so beautiful that had it not been
for the dead leaves which fell upon the roads, one might have
thought that June had come back again. Husbands and sweet-
hearts had all returned, and everywhere was the joy of a second
springtime of love.
At last, one day, one of the missing ships was signaled.
Which one was it?
The groups of speechless and anxious women had rapidly
formed on the cliff. Gaud, pale and trembling, was there, by
the side of her Yann's father.
"I'm almost sure," said the old fisher, "I'm almost sure it's
them. A red rail and a topsail that clews up,-it's very like
them, anyhow. What do you make it, Gaud? "
"No, it isn't," he went on, with sudden discouragement:
"we've made a mistake again; the boom isn't the same, and ours
has a jigger-sail. Well, well, it isn't our boat this time, it's only
the Marie-Jeanne. Never mind, my lass, surely they'll not be
long now. "
But day followed day, and night succeeded night, with un-
interrupted serenity.
Gaud continued to dress up every day; like a poor crazed
woman, always in fear of being taken for the widow of a ship-
wrecked sailor, feeling exasperated when others looked furtively
and compassionately at her, and glancing aside so that she might
not meet those glances which froze her very blood.
She had fallen into the habit of going at the early morning
right to the end of the headland, on the high cliffs of Pors-
Even; passing behind Yann's old home, so as not to be seen by
his mother or little sisters. She went to the extreme point of
the Ploubazlanec land, which is outlined in the shape of a rein-
deer's horn upon the gray waters of the Channel, and sat there


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9210
PIERRE LOTI
all day long at the foot of the lonely cross which rises high
above the immense waste of the ocean. There are many of these
crosses hereabout; they are set up on the most advanced cliffs
of the sea-bound land, as if to implore mercy, and to calm that
restless mysterious power which draws men away, never to give
them back, and in preference retains the bravest and noblest.
Around this cross stretches the evergreen waste, strewn with
short rushes. At this great height the sea air was very pure; it
scarcely retained the briny odor of the weeds, but was perfumed
with all the exquisite ripeness of September flowers.
Far away, all the bays and inlets of the coast were firmly
outlined, rising one above another; the land of Brittany termi-
nated in jagged edges, which spread out far into the tranquil
surface.
Near at hand the reefs were numerous; but out beyond, noth-
ing broke its polished mirror, from which arose a soft caressing
ripple, light and intensified from the depths of its many bays.
Its horizon seemed so calm, and its depths so soft!
The great
blue sepulchre of many Gaoses hid its inscrutable mystery; whilst
the breezes, faint as human breath, wafted to and fro the per-
fume of the stunted gorse, which had bloomed again in the
latest autumn sun.
At regular hours the sea retreated, and great spaces were
left uncovered everywhere, as if the Channel was slowly drying
up; then with the same lazy slowness the waters rose again, and
continued their everlasting coming and going without any heed
of the dead.
At the foot of the cross Gaud remained, surrounded by these
tranquil mysteries, gazing ever before her until the night fell and
she could see no more.
September had passed. The sorrowing wife took scarcely any
nourishment, and could no longer sleep.
She remained at home now, crouching low with her hands
between her knees, her head thrown back and resting against
the wall behind. What was the good of getting up or going to
bed now? When she was thoroughly exhausted she threw her-
self, dressed, upon her bed. Otherwise she remained in the same
position, chilled and benumbed; in her quiescent state, only her
teeth chattered with the cold; she had that continual impression
of a band of iron round her brows; her cheeks looked wasted;
her mouth was dry, with a feverish taste, and at times a painful


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PIERRE LOTI
9211
hoarse cry rose from her throat and was repeated in spasms,
whilst her head beat backwards against the granite wall. Or else
she called Yann by his name in a low, tender voice, as if he were
quite close to her, whispering words of love to her.
Sometimes she occupied her brain with thoughts of quite
insignificant things; for instance, she amused herself by watch-
ing the shadow of the china Virgin lengthen slowly over the
high woodwork of the bed, as the sun went down. And then
the agonized thoughts returned more horribly, and her wailing
cry broke out again as she beat her head against the wall.
All the hours of the day passed; and all the hours of even-
ing, and of night; and then the hours of the morning. When she
reckoned the time he ought to have been back, she was seized
with a still greater terror; she wished to forget all dates and the
very names of the days.
Generally, there is some information concerning the wrecks
off Iceland; those who return have seen the tragedy from afar,
or else have found some wreckage or bodies, or have an indica-
tion to guess the rest. But of the Léopoldine nothing had been
seen, and nothing was known. The Marie-Jeanne men- the last
to have seen it on the 2d of August—said that she was to have
gone on fishing farther towards the north; and beyond that the
secret was unfathomable.
Waiting, always waiting, and knowing nothing! When would
the time come when she need wait no longer? She did not even
know that; and now she almost wished that it might be soon.
Oh! if he were dead, let them at least have pity enough to tell
her so!
Oh to see her darling, as he was at this very moment,- that
is, what was left of him! If only the much-implored Virgin,
or some other power, would do her the blessing to show her
by second-sight her beloved! either living and working hard to
return a rich man, or else as a corpse surrendered by the sea, so
that she might at least know a certainty.
Sometimes she was seized with the thought of a ship appear-
ing suddenly upon the horizon; the Léopoldine hastening home.
Then she would suddenly make an instinctive movement to rise,
and rush to look out at the ocean, to see whether it were true.
But she would fall back. Alas! where was this Léopoldine
now? Where could she be? Out afar, at that awful distance of
Iceland, forsaken, crushed, and lost.


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9212
PIERRE LOTI
All ended by a never-fading vision appearing to her, an
empty, sea-tossed wreck, slowly and gently rocked by the silent
gray and rose-streaked sea; almost with soft mockery, in the
midst of the vast calm of deadened waters.
Two o'clock in the morning.
It was at night especially that she kept attentive to approach-
ing footsteps; at the slightest rumor or unaccustomed noise her
temples vibrated: by dint of being strained to outward things,
they had become fearfully sensitive.
Two o'clock in the morning. On this night as on others,
with her hands clasped and her eyes wide open in the dark, she
listened to the wind sweeping in never-ending tumult over the
heath.
-
Suddenly a man's footsteps hurried along the path! At this
hour who would pass now? She drew herself up, stirred to the
very soul, her heart ceasing to beat.
Some one stopped before the door, and came up the small
stone steps.
He! O God! -he! Some one had knocked, it could be no
other than he! She was up now, barefooted; she, so feeble for
the last few days, had sprung up as nimbly as a kitten, with her
arms outstretched to wind round her darling. Of course the Léo-
poldine had arrived at night, and anchored in Pors-Even Bay,
and he had rushed home; she arranged all this in her mind with
the swiftness of lightning. She tore the flesh off her fingers in
her excitement to draw the bolt, which had stuck.
"Eh ? »
She slowly moved backward, as if crushed, her head falling on
her bosom. Her beautiful insane dream was over. She could
just grasp that it was not her husband, her Yann, and that noth-
ing of him, substantial or spiritual, had passed through the air;
she felt plunged again into her deep abyss, to the lowest depths
of her terrible despair.
-
-
――――
Poor Fantec-for it was he stammered many excuses: his
wife was very ill, and their child was choking in its cot, suddenly
attacked with a malignant sore throat; so he had run over to beg
for assistance on the road to fetch the doctor from Paimpol.
What did all this matter to her? She had gone mad in her
own distress, and could give no thoughts to the troubles of oth-
ers. Huddled on a bench, she remained before him with fixed
glazed eyes, like a dead woman's; without listening to him, or


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PIERRE LOTI
9213
What to her was
even answering at random or looking at him.
the speech the man was making?
He understood it all, and guessed why the door had been
opened so quickly to him; and feeling pity for the pain he had
unwittingly caused, he stammered out an excuse.
"Just so: he never ought to have disturbed her—her in par-
ticular. "
"I! " ejaculated Gaud quickly, "why should I not be disturbed
particularly, Fantec ? »
Life had suddenly come back to her; for she did not wish
to appear in despair before others. Besides, she pitied him now;
she dressed to accompany him, and found the strength to go and
see to his little child.
-
At four o'clock in the morning, when she returned to throw
herself on the bed, sleep subdued her, for she was tired out.
But that moment of excessive joy had left an impression on her
mind, which in spite of all was permanent; she awoke soon with
a shudder, rising a little and partially recollecting-she knew
not what. News had come to her about her Yann. In the midst
of her confusion of ideas, she sought rapidly in her mind what
it could be; but there was nothing save Fantec's interruption.
For the second time she fell back into her terrible abyss,
nothing changed in her morbid, hopeless waiting.
Yet in that short, hopeful moment, she had felt him so near
to her that it was as if his spirit had floated over the sea unto
her, what is called a foretoken (pressigne) in Breton land; and
she listened still more attentively to the steps outside, trusting
that some one might come to her to speak of him.
Just as the day broke, Yann's father entered. He took off
his cap, and pushed back his splendid white locks, which were in
curls like Yann's, and sat down by Gaud's bedside.
His heart ached heavily too; for Yann, his tall, handsome
Yann, was his first-born, his favorite and his pride: but he did
not despair yet. He comforted Gaud in his own blunt, affection-
ate way.
To begin with, those who had last returned from Ice-
land spoke of the increasing dense fogs, which might well have
delayed the vessel; and then too an idea struck him,- they
might possibly have stopped at the distant Faroe Islands on
their homeward course, whence letters were so long in traveling.
This had happened to him once forty years ago, and his own
poor dead and gone mother had had a mass said for his soul.


## p. 9214 (#226) ###########################################

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9214
The Léopoldine was such a good boat,—next to new,— and her
crew were such able-bodied seamen.
Granny Moan stood by them shaking her head: the distress
of her granddaughter had almost given her back her own strength.
and reason. She tidied up the place, glancing from time to time
at the faded portrait of Sylvestre, which hung upon the granite
wall with its anchor emblems and mourning-wreath of black
bead-work. Ever since the sea had robbed her of her own last
offspring, she believed no longer in safe returns; she only prayed
through fear, bearing Heaven a grudge in the bottom of her
heart.
But Gaud listened eagerly to these consoling reasonings; her
large sunken eyes looked with deep tenderness out upon this old
sire, who so much resembled her beloved one: merely to have
him near her was like a hostage against death having taken the
younger Gaos; and she felt reassured, nearer to her Yann. Her
tears fell softly and silently, and she repeated again her passion-
ate prayers to the "Star of the Sea. "
A delay out at those islands to repair damages was a very
likely event. She rose and brushed her hair, and then dressed
as if she might fairly expect him. All then was not lost, if a
seaman, his own father, did not yet despair. And for a few days
she resumed looking out for him again.
Autumn at last arrived, a late autumn too,-its gloomy
evenings making all things appear dark in the old cottage; and
all the land looked sombre too.
-
The very daylight seemed a sort of twilight; immeasurable
clouds, passing slowly overhead, darkened the whole country at
broad noon. The wind blew constantly with the sound of a great
cathedral organ at a distance, but playing profane, despairing
dirges; at other times the noise came close to the door, like the
howling of wild beasts.
She had grown pale,-aye, blanched, and bent more than
ever; as if old age had already touched her with its featherless
wing. Often did she finger the wedding clothes of her Yann,
folding them and unfolding them again and again like some
maniac, especially one of his blue woolen jerseys which still
had preserved his shape: when she threw it gently on the table,
it fell with the shoulders and chest well defined; so she placed
it by itself in a shelf of their wardrobe, and left it there, so that
it might forever rest unaltered.


## p. 9215 (#227) ###########################################

PIERRE LOTI
9215
Every night the cold mists sank upon the land, as she gazed
over the depressing heath through her little window, and watched
the thin puffs of white smoke arise from the chimneys of other
cottages scattered here and there on all sides. There the hus-
bands had returned, like wandering birds driven home by the
frost. Before their blazing hearths the evenings passed, cozy
and warm; for the springtime of love had begun again in this
land of North Sea fishermen.
Still clinging to the thought of those islands where he might
perhaps have lingered, she was buoyed up by a kind hope, and
expected him home any day.
*
*
But he never returned. One August night, out off gloomy
Iceland, mingled with the furious clamor of the sea, his wedding
with the sea was performed. It had been his nurse; it had
rocked him in his babyhood and had afterwards made him big
and strong; then, in his superb manhood, it had taken him back
again for itself alone. Profoundest mystery had surrounded this
unhallowed union. While it went on, dark curtains hung pall-
like over it as if to conceal the ceremony, and the ghoul howled
in an awful, deafening voice to stifle his cries. He, thinking
of Gaud, his sole, darling wife, had battled with giant strength
against this deathly rival, until he at last surrendered, with a
deep death-cry like the roar of a dying bull, through a mouth
already filled with water; and his arms were stretched apart and
stiffened forever.
All those he had invited in days of old were present at his
wedding. All except Sylvestre, who had gone to sleep in the
enchanted gardens far, far away, at the other side of the earth.


## p. 9216 (#228) ###########################################

9216
SAMUEL LOVER
(1797-1868)
HE lovable Irishman who wrote The Low-Backed Car,' 'The
Irish Post-Boy,' and 'Widow Machree,' was, as Renan said,
kissed by a fairy at his birth. He had that indomitable joy-
ousness of spirit which neither stress of circumstances, nor personal
sorrows, nor long-continued illness could abate. Besides this charm-
ing gayety, the generous fairy godmother bestowed on him the most
various talents. He was a miniature-painter, a marine-painter, a clever
etcher in the days when good etching was little practiced, a carica-
turist, a composer, an accomplished singer,
a novelist, and a dramatist. And with all
this versatility, he possessed an immense
capacity for hard work.
He was born in 1797, in Dublin, where
his father was a comfortable stock-broker.
From his mother, whom he worshiped, he
inherited his musical talents, his sensitive
temperament, and his upright character.
She died when he was twelve years old, but
her influence never left him.

SAMUEL LOVER
Stockbroker Lover wished to make a
good business man of his clever son; who
however, if he consented to add columns of
figures and to correct stock lists by day,
consoled himself with the practice of music and painting by night.
The disgusted father sent him off to a London business house of the
Gradgrind order, which had had much success in uprooting any va-
grant flowers of fancy from the minds of its apprentices. But in this
instance the experiment failed. At the age of seventeen, young Lover
resolved to turn his back forever on day-book and ledger and set up
as an artist, although he had yet to learn his craft.
He had saved a little money; he found music-copying and occas-
ional sketching to do; and after three frugal years of close study,
he exhibited some excellent miniatures and asked for patronage. Be-
fore the invention of the daguerreotype and the photograph, every
"genteel" household had its collection of portraits on ivory; and the
young painter made his way at once, on the score of being a capi-
tal good fellow. He could sing to his own accompaniment songs of


## p. 9217 (#229) ###########################################

SAMUEL LOVER
9217
his own composing; he could draw caricatures of an entire dinner-
company; he could recite in the richest brogue, Irish stories of his
own writing: and every social assemblage welcomed him.
In 1832 he had the good fortune to paint an admirable miniature
of Paganini, which the best critics pronounced a study worthy of
Gerard Dow. The admiration it excited in London led in time to his
removal thither. His gift for friendship soon attracted to his fireside
clever personages like Talfourd, Campbell, Jerrold, Mahony, Barham,
Mrs. Jamieson, Allan Cunningham, Lady Blessington, Sydney Smith,
Maclise, and Wilkie. Moore was already an old friend. The beauti-
ful Malibran and the clever Madame Vestris became his patrons, and
his work was soon the fashion.
He had already published illustrated by his own etchings—a
successful series of Irish sketches, containing that delightful absurdity
'The Gridiron,' and 'Paddy the Piper. ' After settling in London he
brought out a second volume of the 'Legends and Tales,' and became
a contributor to the new Bentley's Miscellany. His three-volume
novel of 'Rory O'More' appeared in 1836. Of the title character
Mahony wrote: "Hearty, honest, comic, sensible, tender, faithful, and
courageous, Rory is the true ideal of the Irish peasant,—the humble
hero who embodies so much of the best of the national character,
and almost lifts simple emotion to the same height as ripened mind. "
This novel Lover dramatized with immense success; which encouraged
him to write The White Horse of the Peppers,' three or four other
plays, two or three operettas for Madame Vestris, and both the words
and music of Il Paddy Whack in Italia,' a capital whimsicality.
His portrait was included in Maclise's 'Gallery of Celebrities'; and
Blackwood "discovered" him as "a new poet who is also musician,
painter, and novelist, and therefore quadruply worth wondering at. »
It was his clever countrywoman, Lady Morgan, who first prompted
him to the writing of Irish songs. His 'Rory O'More' took the gen-
eral fancy. To its strains the Queen at her coronation was escorted
to Buckingham Palace. To its strains the peasant baby in its box
cradle fell asleep. To its strains Phelim O'Shea footed the reel. at
Limerick Fair, and the ladies at Dublin Castle trod their quadrille.
'Molly Carew,' a better piece of work, would doubtless have at-
tracted equal favor, had not the music been more difficult. 'Widow
Machree,' written for the whimsical tale of 'Handy Andy,' is full of
Irish character. What Will Ye Do, Love? ' written also for 'Handy
Andy,' fairly sings itself; and 'How to Ask and Have' is as pretty a
piece of coquetry as any gray-eyed and barefooted beauty ever devised.
'The Road of Life,' which is the song of the Irish post-boy, was
Lover's own favorite, because of its note of unobtrusive pathos. In
another group are included the laughing 'Low-Backed Car,' 'The Girl
I Left Behind Me,' 'Mary of Tipperary,' 'Molly Bawn,' and 'The
XVI-577
―


## p. 9218 (#230) ###########################################

9218
SAMUEL LOVER
Bowld Sojer Boy. ' In all, Lover published two hundred and sixty-
three songs, for more than two hundred of which he wrote or adapted
the music.
'Handy Andy,' his best novel, was published in 1842. It is almost
without a plot; but unrivaled as a sketch of the blundering, stupid,
inconsequent peasant, whose heart is as kind as his head is dense.
In 1844 appeared Lover's most elaborate novel, Treasure Trove';
not so good a piece of work as its predecessors. His eyesight had
begun to fail, and his purse was light. He therefore invented an
entertainment called "Irish Evenings," in which he read his own
stories and sang his own songs. Successful in England and Ireland,
he decided in 1846 to try his fortune in the United States, where he
traveled from Boston to New Orleans and back to Montreal, appear-
ing before delighted audiences. On his return to England in 1848 he
produced "American Evenings," whose Yankee songs and backwoods
stories met with great favor.
During the last years of his life he wrote songs and magazine
papers, and painted pictures; but attempted no continuous literary
work. His health was delicate; and the need of constant labor, hap-
pily, was over. He removed to the soft climate of St. Helier's, on
the Isle of Jersey; and there the kindly gentleman and accomplished.
artist faded gently out of life. He died in the midsummer of 1868,
and was buried at Kensal Green Cemetery. He loved his race with
an affection not the less fond that it was not uncritical; and it is
his merit to have written the best Irish peasant sketches and the
best Irish peasant songs in the language.
THE LOW-BACKED CAR
HEN first I saw sweet Peggy,
'Twas on a market day;
WH
A low-backed car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay;
But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of spring,
No flower was there
That could compare
To the blooming girl I sing.
As she sat in her low-backed car,
The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll-
But just rubbed his owld poll,
And looked after the low-backed car!


## p. 9219 (#231) ###########################################

SAMUEL LOVER
9219
In battle's wild commotion,
The proud and mighty Mars
With hostile scythes demands his tithes
Of Death, in warlike cars!
But Peggy-peaceful goddess-
Has darts in her bright eye
That knock men down
In the market town,
As right and left they fly!
While she sits in her low-backed car,
Than battle more dangerous far;
For the doctor's art
Cannot cure the heart
That is hit from that low-backed car.
Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,
Has strings of ducks and geese,
But the scores of hearts she slaughters
By far outnumber these;
While she among her poultry sits,
Just like a turtle dove,—
Well worth the cage,
I do engage,
Of the blooming god of Love.
While she sits in her low-backed car,
The lovers come near and far,
And envy the chicken
That Peggy is pickin'
While she sits in the low-backed car.
I'd rather own that car, sir,
With Peggy by my side,
Than a coach and four, and gold galore,
And a lady for my bride;
For the lady would sit forninst me,
On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would be beside me,
With my arm around her waist,
As we drove in the low-backed car
To be married by Father Maher.
Oh, my heart would beat high,
At her glance and her sigh,
Though it beat in a low-backed car.


## p. 9220 (#232) ###########################################

9220
SAMUEL LOVER
WIDOW MACHREE
ow machree, it's no wonder you frown,
Och hone! widow machree:
WIDOW
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown.
Och hone! widow machree.
How altered your air,
With that close cap you wear
'Tis destroying your hair,
—
Which should be flowing free:
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,
Och hone! widow machree!
Widow machree, now the summer is come,-
Och hone! widow machree,—
When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum?
Och hone! widow machree!
See, the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares.
Why, even the bears
Now in couples agree.
And the mute little fish,
Though they can't spake, they wish,-
Och hone! widow machree!
-
Widow machree, and when winter comes in,
Och hone! widow machree,
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone! widow machree!
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,
And the kettle sings songs
Full of family glee;
While alone with your cup,
Like a hermit you sup,
Och hone! widow machree!
And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld,
Och hone! widow machree,
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld?
Och hone! widow machree!
With such sins on your head,
Sure your peace would be fled.
Could you sleep in your bed,
Without thinking to see


## p. 9221 (#233) ###########################################

SAMUEL LOVER
9221
Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,
Crying, "Och hone! widow machree! »
Then take my advice, darling widow machree,
Och hone! widow machree;
And with my advice, faith, I wish you'd take me,
Och hone! widow machree!
You'd have me to desire
Then to stir up the fire;
And sure Hope is no liar
In whispering to me
That the ghosts would depart
When you'd me near your heart,
Och hone! widow machree!
HOW TO ASK AND HAVE
H, 'TIS time I should talk to your mother,
"O" Sweet Mary," says I.
"Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
"For my mother says men are deceivers,
And never, I know, will consent;
She says girls in a hurry who marry
At leisure repent. "
"Then suppose I would talk to your father,
Sweet Mary," says I.
"Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
"For my father, he loves me so dearly,
He'll never consent I should go-
If you talk to my father," says Mary,
"He'll surely say 'No. '»
"Then how shall I get you, my jewel?
Sweet Mary," says I:
"If your father and mother's so cruel,
Most surely I'll die! "
"Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary;
"A way now to save you I see:
Since my parents are both so contrary-
You'd better ask me. "


## p. 9222 (#234) ###########################################

SAMUEL LOVER
9222
THE GRIDIRON
OR, PADDY MULLOWNEY'S TRAVELS IN FRANCE
"B
Y-THE-BY, Sir John," said the master, addressing a distin-
guished guest, "Pat has a very curious story which some-
thing you told me to-day reminds me of. You remember,
Pat" (turning to the man, evidently pleased at the notice thus
paid to himself), "you remember that queer adventure you had
in France? "
"Throth I do, sir," grins forth Pat.
"What! " exclaims Sir John, in feigned surprise, "was Pat
ever in France ? »
"Indeed he was," cries mine host; and Pat adds, "Ay, and
farther, plaze your Honor. "
"I assure you, Sir John," continues my host, "Pat told me a
story once that surprised me very much respecting the ignorance
of the French. "
"Indeed! " rejoins the baronet; "really, I always supposed the
French to be a most accomplished people. "
"Throth then, they're not, sir," interrupts Pat.
"Oh, by no means," adds mine host, shaking his head emphati-
cally.
"I believe, Pat, 'twas when you were crossing the Atlantic? "
says the master, turning to Pat with a seductive air, and leading
into the "full and true account" (for Pat had thought fit to visit
North Amerikay, for "a raison he had," in the autumn of the
year 'ninety-eight).
"Yes, sir," says Pat, "the broad Atlantic";- a favorite phrase
of his, which he gave with a brogue as broad, almost, as the
Atlantic itself. "It was the time I was lost in crassin' the broad
Atlantic, a-comin' home," began Pat, decoyed into the recital;
"whin the winds began to blow, and the sae to rowl, that you'd
think the Colleen Dhas (that was her name) would not have a
mast left but what would rowl out of her.
"Well, sure enough, the masts went by the boord at last, and
the pumps were choaked (divil choak them for that same), and
av coorse the wather gained an us; and throth, to be filled with
wather is neither good for man or baste; and she was sinkin'
fast, settlin' down, as the sailors calls it; and faith, I never was
good at settlin' down in my life, and I liked it then less nor
ever: accordingly we prepared for the worst, and put out the


## p. 9223 (#235) ###########################################

SAMUEL LOVER
9223
boat, and got a sack o' bishkits, and a cashk o' pork, and a kag
o' wather, and a thrifle o' rum aboord, and any other little mat-
thers we could think iv in the mortial hurry we wor in-and
faith, there was no time to be lost, for my darlint, the Colleen
Dhas went down like a lump o' lead afore we wor many sthrokes
o' the oar away from her.
"Well, we dhrifted away all that night, and next mornin' we
put up a blanket an the ind av a pole as well as we could, and
then we sailed iligant; for we darn't show a stitch o' canvas the
night before, bekase it was blowin' like bloody murther, savin'
your presence, and sure it's the wondher of the world we worn't
swally'd alive by the ragin' sae.
―
"Well, away we wint for more nor a week, and nothin'
before our two good-lookin' eyes but the canophy iv heaven and
the wide ocean, - the broad Atlantic; not a thing was to be seen
but the sae and the sky: and though the sae and the sky is
mighty purty things in themselves, throth they're no great things
when you've nothin' else to look at for a week together; and the
barest rock in the world, so it was land, would be more welkim.
And then soon enough, throth-our provisions began to run
low; the bishkits, and the wather, and the rum,-throth that was
gone first of all,- God help uz: and oh! it was thin that starva-
tion began to stare us in the face. 'Oh, murther, murther,
captain darlint,' says I, 'I wish we could see land anywhere,'
says I.
"More power to your elbow, Paddy, my boy,' says he, 'for
sich a good wish; and throth it's myself wishes the same. '
"Oh,' says I, 'that it may plaze you, sweet queen iv heaven,
supposing it was only a dissolute island,' says I, 'inhabited wid
Turks, sure they wouldn't be such bad Christians as to refuse us
a bit and a sup. '
"Whisht, whisht, Paddy,' says the captain, 'don't be talkin'
bad of any one,' says he; 'you don't know how soon you may
want a good word put in for yourself, if you should be called to
quarters in th' other world all of a suddint,' says he.
"Thrue for you, captain darlint,' says I,-I called him darlint
and made free wid him, you see, bekase disthress makes uz all
equal,—'thrue for you, captain jewel: God betune uz and harm,
I owe no man any spite;'-and throth that was only thruth.
Well, the last bishkit was sarved out, and by gor, the wather
itself was all gone at last, and we passed the night mighty cowld.


## p. 9224 (#236) ###########################################

9224
SAMUEL LOVER
Well, at the break o' day the sun riz most beautiful out o' the
waves that was as bright as silver and as clear as chrysthal. But
it was only the more cruel upon us, for we wor beginnin' to feel
terrible hungry; when all at wanst I thought I spied the land.
By gor I thought I felt my heart up in my throat in a minnit,
and 'Thunder an turf, captain,' says I, 'look to leeward,' says I.
"What for? ' says he.
<<<I think I see the land,' says I.
"So he ups with his bring-'m-near (that's what the sailors call
a spy-glass, sir), and looks out, and sure enough it was.
«Hurrah! ' says he, 'we're all right now: pull away, my
boys,' says he.
"Take care you're not mistaken,' says I; 'maybe it's only a
fog-bank, captain darlint,' says I.
"Oh no,' says he, 'it's the land in airnest. '
"Oh then, whereabouts in the wide world are we, captain? '
says I: 'maybe it id be in Roosia, or Proosia, or the Jarman
Oceant? ' says I.
"Tut, you fool,' says he,- for he had that consaited way
wid him, thinkin' himself cleverer nor any one else, 'tut, you
fool,' says he, 'that's France,' says he.
"Tare an ouns,' says I, 'do you tell me so? and how do
you know it's France it is, captain dear? ' says I.