hast thou slain my
brother?
Warner - World's Best Literature - v19 - Oli to Phi
A woeful sound, and O a
woeful sound, is that the deer utters in Drumdaleish! Dead lies
the doe of Druim Silenn: the mighty stag bells after her. Sore
suffering to me, and O suffering sore, is the hero's death-his
death, that used to lie with me!
Sore suffering to me is
Cael, and O Cael is a suffering sore, that by my side he is in
dead man's form! That the wave should have swept over his
white body, that is what hath distracted me, so great was his
* It is interesting to note that he has an equivalent in the Peronik of
Breton-Celtic legend, as well as in Cymric and Arthurian romance.
## p. 10877 (#85) ###########################################
OSSIAN
10877
delightfulness. A dismal roar, and O a dismal roar, is that the
shore-surf makes upon the strand! seeing that the same hath
drowned the comely noble man; to me it is an affliction that Cael
ever sought to encounter it. A woeful booming, and O a boom
of woe, is that which the wave makes upon the northward beach!
beating as it does against the polished rock, lamenting for Cael,
now that he is gone. A woeful fight, and O a fight of woe, is
that the wave wages against the southern shore! As for me, my
span is determined!
A woeful melody, and O a melody
of woe, is that which the heavy surge of Tullachleish emits! As
for me, the calamity that is fallen upon me having shattered me,
for me prosperity exists no more. Since now Crimthann's son is
drowned, one that I may love after him there is not in being.
Many a chief is fallen by his hand, and in the battle his shield
never uttered outcry!
There are some who prefer these old Celtic productions literally
translated, while others can take no pleasure in them unless they
are rendered anew in prose narrative or in rhymed verse. 'Credhe's
Lament' exemplifies one kind; the following Ossianic ballad the
other. It is an extended and less simple but otherwise faithful
version of the lament of Deirdrê (Macpherson's Darthula-for the
Irish Deirdre is in the Highlands Dearduil, which is pronounced Dar-
thool), the Helen of Gaeldom.
DEIRDRE'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH
HE lions of the hill are gone,
And I am left alone- alone:
THE
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
For I am sick, and fain would sleep!
The falcons of the wood are flown,
And I am left alone - alone:
Dig the grave both deep and wide,
And let us slumber side by side.
The dragons of the rock are sleeping,
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping:
Dig the grave, and make it ready,
Lay me on my true-love's body.
Lay their spears and bucklers bright
By the warriors' sides aright:
Many a day the three before me
On their linkèd bucklers bore me.
## p. 10878 (#86) ###########################################
10878
OSSIAN
Lay upon the low grave floor,
'Neath each head, the blue claymore:
Many a time the noble three
Reddened their blue blades for me.
Lay the collars, as is meet,
Of the greyhounds at their feet:
Many a time for me have they
Brought the tall red deer to bay.
In the falcon's jesses throw,
Hook and arrow, line and bow:
Never again, by stream or plain,
Shall the gentle woodsmen go.
Sweet companions were ye ever,—
Harsh to me, your sister, never;
Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,
Were with you as good's a palace.
Oh to hear my true-love singing!
Sweet as sounds of trumpets ringing;
Like the sway of ocean swelling
Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.
Oh! to hear the echoes pealing
Round our green and fairy shealing,
When the three, with soaring chorus,
Passed the silent skylark o'er us.
Echo, now sleep, morn and even:
Lark, alone enchant the heaven!
Ardan's lips are scant of breath,
Neesa's tongue is cold in death.
Stag, exult on glen and mountain —
Salmon, leap from loch to fountain
Heron, in the free air warm ye-
Usnach's sons no more will harm ye!
Erin's stay no more you are,
Rulers of the ridge of war;
Never more 'twill be your fate
To keep the beam of battle straight!
Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,
Traitors false and tyrants strong,
Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,
For Barach's feast and Conor's gold!
## p. 10879 (#87) ###########################################
OSSIAN
10879
Woe to Eman, roof and wall!
Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!
Tenfold woe and black dishonor
To the foul and false Clan Conor!
Dig the grave both wide and deep:
Sick I am, and fain would sleep!
Dig the grave and make it ready;
Lay me on my true-love's body.
Here now are two of the Ossianic ballads as Macpherson has ren-
dered them, trying in his rhythmic prose to capture the spirit and
charm and glamour of the original. The theme of the first, of a
woman disguising herself as a man so as to be near or perhaps to
reach her lover, is common to many lands.
COLNA-DONA
From the Poems of Ossian,' by James Macpherson
ARGUMENT. - Fingal dispatched Ossian, and Toscar the son of Conloch and
father of Malvina, to raise a stone on the banks of the stream of
Crona, to perpetuate the memory of a victory which he had obtained
in that place. When they were employed in that work, Car-ul, a
neighboring chief, invited them to a feast. They went: and Toscar
fell desperately in love with Colna-dona, the daughter of Car-ul.
Colna-dona became no less enamored of Toscar. An incident at a
hunting party brings their loves to a happy issue.
COL
OL-AMON of troubled streams, dark wanderer of distant vales,
I behold thy course, between trees, near Car-ul's echoing
halls! There dwelt bright Colna-dona, the daughter of the
king. Her eyes were rolling stars; her arms were white as the
foam of streams. Her breast rose slowly to sight, like ocean's
heaving wave. Her soul was a stream of light.
Who among
the maids was like the Love of Heroes?
Beneath the voice of the king we moved to Crona of the
streams,― Toscar of grassy Lutha, and Ossian, young in fields.
Three bards attended with songs. Three bossy shields were
borne before us; for we were to rear the stone, in memory of
the past. By Crona's mossy course, Fingal had scattered his
foes; he had rolled away the strangers like a troubled sea. We
came to the place of renown; from the mountains descended
night. I tore an oak from its hill, and raised a flame on high.
I bade my fathers to look down, from the clouds of their hall;
for at the fame of their race they brighten in the wind.
## p. 10880 (#88) ###########################################
10880
OSSIAN
I took a stone from the stream, amidst the song of bards.
The blood of Fingal's foes hung curdled in its ooze. Beneath, I
placed at intervals three bosses from the shields of foes, as rose
or fell the sound of Ullin's nightly song. Toscar laid a dagger
in earth, a mail of sounding steel. We raised the mold around
the stone, and bade it speak to other years.
Oozy daughter of streams, that now art reared on high, speak
to the feeble, O stone! after Selma's race have failed! Prone,
from the stormy night, the traveler shall lay him by thy side:
thy whistling moss shall sound in his dreams; the years that
were past shall return. Battles rise before him, blue-shielded
kings descend to war; the darkened moon looks from heaven
on the troubled field. He shall burst, with morning, from dreams,
and see the tombs of warriors round. He shall ask about the
stone, and the aged shall reply, "This gray stone was raised by
Ossian, a chief of other years. "
From Col-amon came a bard, from Car-ul, the friend of
strangers. He bade us to the feast of kings, to the dwelling
of bright Colna-dona. We went to the hall of harps. There
Car-ul brightened between his aged locks, when he beheld the
sons of his friends, like two young branches, before him.
"Sons of the mighty," he said, "ye bring back the days of
old, when first I descended from waves, on Selma's streamy
vale! I pursued Duthmocarglos, dweller of ocean's wind. Our
fathers had been foes, we met by Clutha's winding waters. He
fled along the sea, and my sails were spread behind him. Night
deceived me, on the deep. I came to the dwelling of kings, to
Selma of high-bosomed maids. Fingal came forth with his bards,
and Conloch, arm of death. I feasted three days in the hall, and
saw the blue eyes of Erin, Ros-crána, daughter of heroes, light
of Cormac's race. Nor forgot did my steps depart: the kings
gave their shields to Car-ul; they hang, on high, in Col-amon, in
memory of the past. Sons of the daring kings, ye bring back
the days of old! "
Car-ul kindled the oak of feasts. He took two bosses from
our shields. He laid them in earth, beneath a stone, to speak to
the hero's race. "When battle," said the king, "shall roar, and
our sons are to meet in wrath, my race shall look, perhaps, on
this stone, when they prepare the spear. Have not our fathers
met in peace? they will say, and lay aside the shield. "
Night came down. In her long locks moved the daughter of
Car-ul. Mixed with the harp arose the voice of white-armed
## p. 10881 (#89) ###########################################
OSSIAN
10881
Colna-dona. Toscar darkened in his place, before the love of
heroes. She came on his troubled soul like a beam to the dark-
heaving ocean, when it bursts from a cloud and brightens the
foamy side of a wave.
[Here an episode is entirely lost; or at least is handed down so imper-
fectly that it does not deserve a place in the poem. ]
With morning we awaked the woods, and hung forward on
the path of the roes. They fell by their wonted streams.
We
returned through Crona's vale. From the wood a youth came
forward, with a shield and pointless spear. "Whence," said Tos-
car of Lutha, "is the flying beam? Dwells there peace at Col-
amon, round bright Colna-dona of harps? "
"By Col-amon of streams," said the youth, "bright Colna-dona
dwelt. She dwelt; but her course is now in deserts, with the son
of the king; he that seized with love her soul as it wandered
through the hall. " "Stranger of tales," said Toscar, "hast thou
marked the warrior's course? He must fall: give thou that bossy
shield! " In wrath he took the shield. Fair behind it rose the
breasts of a maid, white as the bosom of a swan, rising graceful
on swift-rolling waves. It was Colna-dona of harps, the daughter
of the king! Her blue eyes had rolled on Toscar, and her love
arose!
THE SONGS OF SELMA
From the Poems of Ossian,' by James Macpherson
STA
TAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! Thou
liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are
stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain?
The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes
from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of
evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on
the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost
smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they
bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the
light of Ossian's soul arise!
And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed
friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other
years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes
are around. And see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin!
stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint
XIX-681
## p. 10882 (#90) ###########################################
10882
OSSIAN
of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of
Selma's feast! when we contended like gales of spring, as they
fly along the hill and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.
Minona came forth in her beauty; with downcast look and
tearful eye.
Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed un-
frequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when
she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of
Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left
alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised
to come; but the night descended around. Hear the voice of
Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!
COLMA
It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The
wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours down the
rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of
winds!
Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night,
arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests
from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung; his dogs
panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of
the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear
not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar, why the chief
of the hill, his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree!
here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to
be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would
fly, from my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our
race have long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar!
stream, be thou silent awhile!
Cease a little while, O wind!
let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me!
Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock.
Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming?
Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the
vale. The rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not on the
brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near
approach. Here I must sit alone.
Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my
brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no
reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is tormented with
fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight.
O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar?
why, O Salgar!
hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both
## p. 10883 (#91) ###########################################
OSSIAN
10883
to me! what shall I say in your praise ? Thou wert fair on the
hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me;
hear my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent;
silent forever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay! Oh! from
the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye
ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye
gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed?
No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half drowned in the
storm!
I sit in my grief! I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the
tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it now till Colma come.
My life flies away like a dream: why should I stay behind?
Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sound-
ing rock. When night comes on the hill; when the loud winds
arise; my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of
my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall
fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my
friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma!
Once more, readers may care to see a fragment of an authentic
old Ossianic ballad, that of the Colloquy of Oisin and St. Patrick,'
with literal translation by its side. Oisin and St. Patrick are at
feud throughout; Oisin in effect ever telling the Christian saint that
he cannot believe his unworthy tales, and above all his disparage-
ments about Fionn and his heroes; and St. Patrick in turn assuring
him that Fionn and all his chivalry now have hell for their portion. "
<<
13
'Nuair a shuig headh Fiunn air chnochd
Sheinnemid port don Ord fhiann
Chuire nan codal na slòigh
'S Ochòin ba bhinne na do chliar.
14
Smeorach bheag dhuth O Ghleann
smail
Faghar nom bàre rie an tuinn
Sheinnemid fein le' puist
'Sbha sinn feinn sair Cruitt ro bhinn.
15
Bha bri gaothair dheug aig Fiunn
Zugradhmed cad air Ghleann smàil
'Sbabhenne Glaoghairm air còn
Na do chlaig a Cleirich chaidh.
13
When Fionn sat upon a hill, and sang
a song to our heroes which would en-
chant the multitude to sleep, oh how
much sweeter was it than thy hymns!
14
Sweet are the thrush's notes, and long
the sound of the rushing waves; but
sweeter far the voice of the harps,
when we struck them to the sound of
our songs.
15
Loud of old we heard the voices of
our heroes among the hills and glens;
and more sweet in mine ears that
noise, and the noise of your hounds,
than thy bells, O cleric!
## p. 10884 (#92) ###########################################
10884
OSSIAN
Students of old Gaelic literature in the original should consult in
particular the 'Transactions of the Ossianic Society' (Dublin), and the
late J. F. Campbell's superb and invaluable 'Leabhar na Feinne. '
-
But now the subject may fittingly be taken leave of in the 'Death-
Song of Ossian,' - a song familiar throughout Gaeldom in a score of
forms. Here the rendering of Macpherson is given, as not only
beautiful in itself, and apt to the chief singer of ancient Gaels, but
also as conveying something of the dominant spirit which permeates
the Ossianic ballads and poems and prose romances, from the days
when the earliest Fian bards struck their clarsachs (rude harps) to
the latest of the Ossianic chroniclers of to-day, the poet of 'The
Wanderings of Usheen' (W. B. Yeats):-
THE DEATH-SONG OF OSSIAN
SUCH
UCH were the words of the bards in the days of song; when.
the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times!
The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the
lovely sound. They praised the Voice of Cona! the first among
a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has
failed! I hear at times the ghosts of the bards, and learn their
pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call
of years! They say, as they pass along, Why does Ossian sing?
Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise
his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on
your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has
failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains,
like a blast that roars lonely on a sea-surrounded rock, after
the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant
mariner sees the waving trees!
Woman Sharp
Ernest Rhys
Rhys
## p. 10885 (#93) ###########################################
10885
OUIDA
(LOUISE DE LA RAMÉE)
(1840-)
HE novels of Ouida belong to no distinct school of fiction.
They are rather a law unto themselves in their mingling of
extravagant romance with realism; of plots that might have
come out of the 'Decameron,' with imaginative fancies as pure and
tender as those of an innocent and dreamy child; of democratic ideals
worthy of Rousseau and Byron, with a childlike love of rank and its
insignia.
Ouida is less dramatic than lyric in the
style and form of her novels. Her strong
poetic feeling is the source at once of her
weakness and of her strength as a writer
of fiction. She has the poet's sympathy
with nature, and the poet's sensitiveness
to beauty in every form; but she lacks the
dramatist's insight into the complexities of
human nature. She has only a faint per-
ception of the many delicate gradations of
character between exalted goodness and its
opposite extreme. She is at her best when
she is writing of primitive natures, and of
lives close to the earth. The peasant boy
in 'A Dog of Flanders,' yearning to look once upon the Christ of
Rubens; Signa, a gifted child of the people, striving to express the
passionate soul of music within him; the heroine of 'In Maremma,'
hiding her girlhood in the dim richness of an Etruscan tomb; Cigar-
ette in 'Under Two Flags,' dying for love as only a child of nature
can: these simple, sensuous, passionate children are the creation of
Ouida's genius. She has sympathy with the single-hearted emotions
of the sons of the soil. Her temperament fits her to understand their
hates and loves, so free from artificial restraints; their hopes and fears
compressed into intensity by the narrowness of their mental outlook.
She can portray child-life with exquisite truthfulness, because children
when left to themselves are primitive in thought and feeling; natural
in their emotions and direct in their expression of them. They are
OUIDA
## p. 10886 (#94) ###########################################
10886
OUIDA
the true democrats of society. Because Ouida is a poet, she has the
spirit of democracy; which belongs to poets and children, and to all
childlike souls who have love in their hearts, and know nothing of
the importance of amassing money and making proper marriages.
This idealizing, dreamy, and from an economical standpoint worthless.
democracy of feeling, draws her to the oppressed, the down-trodden,
and the poor; to suffering children, and to geniuses whose souls seek
the stars while their bodies are racked with hunger.
Ouida's creed receives a personal embodiment in Tricotrin, the
hero of the novel by that name. He is one of the most fascinating
of her creations; yet he is only half real, being the product of her
poetical rather than her dramatic instinct. He is entitled to wealth
and rank, yet he despises both; he has the knowledge of the man of
the world combined with the saintliness of Francis of Assisi, yet he
is less of a saint than of a philosopher, and less of a philosopher than
of a poet.
He roams over the world, living out the poetry within
him in Christ-like deeds of mercy; he sacrifices his life at last for the
good of the Paris mob.
In Ouida's novels the innocent and the high-minded are continu-
ally suffering for others. To her, the world stands ready to stone
genius and goodness. The motto of her books might be the one
which she places at the head of 'Signa': "I cast a palm upon the
flood; the deeps devour it. Others throw lead, and lo! it buoyant
sails. " Her women who are near to God and nature are crucified by
their love; her men of the same type by their nobility. Ouida finds
no place for great souls in society as it exists. She divides humanity
into two classes, - the good and the bad, the artificial and the nat-
ural. In one class she places children, peasants, and poets; and about
these three orders she has woven her most beautiful and tender and
unreal romances. In the other class she places the Vere de Veres,
the worshipers of Mammon, the schemers and the sharks of society.
Ouida's intense temperament induces her always to deal in extremes,
whether of wealth or rank or goodness. In her, however, exaggeration
becomes refreshment, because she is enough of an artist to clothe
her most daring excursions into the improbable with a realistic atmo-
sphere. Her society novels are as far removed from the realism of
modern fiction as The Mysteries of Udolpho'; yet their epigram-
matic comments upon society and human nature lend to them a ficti-
tious lifelikeness. In The Princess Napraxine,' 'Othmar,' 'A House
Party, Friendship,' and the redoubtable Moths,' Ouida portrays a
world with which she is somewhat familiar. She has been upon the
edges of it,—a precarious position for a woman of her temperament.
She is half in and half out of the society towards which she is, on
the whole, antagonistic.
## p. 10887 (#95) ###########################################
OUIDA
10887
Her real name is Louise de la Ramée; an Englishwoman of
French extraction, she was born at Bury St. Edmunds in 1840. She
was reared in London, and there began to write for periodicals; tak-
ing as a pen-name a younger sister's contraction of her Christian
name, "Louise. " Her first novel, 'Granville de Vigne,' was published
as a serial in Colburn's New Monthly Magazine, and appeared in
book form in 1863. It is typical of the majority of her later stories
of high life. Ouida is a lover of rank only when rank is synonymous
with distinction. She appreciates to the full the poetic elements in
the character of the true aristocrat, the Vandyke or Velasquez noble;
but she has the greatest contempt for the modern fashionable mob
of London or Paris, which values wealth above blood, and notoriety
above breeding. The insular, Philistine materialism of high-born
Englishmen is peculiarly distasteful to her. Her latest novel, The
Massarenes,' is a powerful satire upon the English aristocracy. Will-
iam Massarene is a low-born Irishman, who, having made a mon-
strous fortune in the United States, buys the way for himself and
his family into the highest circles in England. His millions secure
him everything from a seat in Parliament to the friendship of roy-
alty. Ouida treats this theme with great skill and penetration. Her
mockery of the "thoroughbred" puppets, fawning on wealth in the
guise of vulgarity, reaches its height of expression in this book. At
the same time she does justice to the genuine aristocrat by portray-
ing one English nobleman, at least, who refuses to join the mob in
their chase of gold. Ouida matches the vulgarity of America with
the vulgarity of England; her fiercest condemnation falls on her own
countrymen, however, because she assumes that they know better.
She finds her consolation in the last home and refuge of poetry in
this century,-Italy. Of late years she has lived in Florence. Her
susceptibility to beauty makes her peculiarly successful in her nov-
els of Italian life. These are worked out against a background of
romantic nature, and of places rich in traditions of poetry and art.
They are steeped in the magical air of the land which knew Petrarch
and Raphael. They portray with sympathy the gay, pensive, pas-
sionate, graceful Italian character. Not a few of Ouida's novels and
stories will live because of the leaven of poetry in them. Their
barbarous extravagance and their meretricious one-sidedness are out-
weighed by their genuine perception of the noblest qualities of
human nature, and by their recognition of the beautiful. Although
they do not conform to the highest standard of romantic fiction, the
first demand of which is truth to reality, they provide an escape into
that world which differs sufficiently from the actual world to offer
all the refreshments of change. In their character they approach
the fairy tales which grown-up children cannot altogether do without.
## p. 10888 (#96) ###########################################
10888
OUIDA
THE SILK STOCKINGS
From Bébée, or Two Little Wooden Shoes'
"IF
F I could save a centime a day, I could buy a pair of stock-
ings this time next year," thought Bébée, locking her shoes
with her other treasures in her drawer the next morning,
and taking her broom and pail to wash down her little palace.
But a centime a day is a great deal in Brabant, when one has
not always enough for bare bread, and when, in the long chill
winter, one must weave thread lace all through the short day-
light for next to nothing at all: for there are so many women in
Brabant, and every one of them, young or old, can make lace,
and if one do not like the pitiful wage, one may leave it and
go and die for what the master lace-makers care or know; there
will always be enough, many more than enough, to twist the
thread round the bobbins, and weave the bridal veils and the
trains for the courts.
"And besides, if I can save a centime, the Varnhart children
ought to have it," thought Bébée, as she swept the dust together.
It was so selfish of her to be dreaming about a pair of stock-
ings, when those little things often went for days on a stew of
nettles.
—
So she looked at her own pretty feet,-pretty and slender
and arched, rosy and fair and uncramped by the pressure of
leather, and resigned her day-dream with a brave heart, as she
put up her broom and went out to weed and hoe and trim and
prune the garden that had been for once neglected the night
before.
"One could not move half so easily in stockings," she thought
with true philosophy, as she worked among the black fresh sweet-
smelling mold, and kissed a rose now and then as she passed
one.
When she got into the city that day, her rush-bottomed chair,
which was always left upside down in case rain should fall in
the night, was set ready for her; and on its seat was a gay,
gilded box, such as rich people give away full of bonbons.
Bébée stood and looked from the box to the Broodhuis, from
the Broodhuis to the box; she glanced around, but no one had
come there so early as she, except the tinker, who was busy
quarreling with his wife, and letting his smelting-fire burn a hole.
in his breeches.
## p. 10889 (#97) ###########################################
OUIDA
10889
"The box was certainly for her, since it was set upon her
chair. " - Bébée pondered a moment; then little by little opened
the lid.
Within, on a nest of rose-satin, were two pair of silk stock-
ings! - real silk! - with the prettiest clocks worked up their sides
in color!
Bébée gave a little scream, and stood still, the blood hot in
her cheeks. No one heard her: the tinker's wife, who alone
was near, having just wished Heaven to send a judgment on her
husband, was busy putting out his smoking small-clothes. It
is a way that women and wives have, and they never see the
bathos of it.
The Place filled gradually.
The customary crowds gathered. The business of the day
began underneath the multitudinous tones of the chiming bells.
Bébée's business began too; she put the box behind her with a
beating heart, and tied up her flowers.
It was fairies, of course! but they had never set a rush-
bottomed chair on its legs before, and this action of theirs fright-
ened her.
It was rather an empty morning. She sold little, and there
was the more time to think.
About an hour after noon, a voice addressed her,-
"Have you more moss-roses for me? "
Bébée looked up with a smile, and found some. It was her
companion of the cathedral. She had thought much of the red
shoes and the silver clasps, but she had thought nothing at all of
him.
―
"You are not too proud to be paid to-day? " he said, giving
her a silver franc - he would not alarm her with any more
gold; she thanked him, and slipped it in her little leathern
pouch, and went on sorting some clove-pinks.
"You do not seem to remember me? " he said with a little
sadness.
"Oh, I remember you," said Bébée, lifting her frank eyes.
"But you know I speak to so many people, and they are all
nothing to rae. "
"Who is anything to you? " It was softly and insidiously
spoken, but it awoke no echo.
"Vanhart's children," she answered him instantly. "And old
Annémie by the wharfside - and Tambour-and Antoine's grave
—and the starling - and of course, above all, the flowers. "
## p. 10890 (#98) ###########################################
10890
OUIDA
"And the fairies, I suppose? though they do nothing for
you. "
She looked at him eagerly:
"They have done something to-day. I have found a box,
and some stockings- such beautiful stockings! Silk ones! Is it
not very odd? "
"It is more odd they should have forgotten you so long.
May I see them? »
"I cannot show them to you now. Those ladies are going to
buy. But you can see them later-if you wait. "
"I will wait and paint the Broodhuis. "
"So many people do that: you are a painter then? "
"Yes-in a way. "
He sat down on an edge of the stall, and spread his things
there, and sketched, whilst the traffic went on around them. He
was very many years older than she; handsome, with a dark
and changeful and listless face; he wore brown velvet, and had
a red ribbon at his throat; he looked a little as Egmont might
have done when wooing Claire.
Bébée, as she sold the flowers and took the change fifty times.
in the hour, glanced at him now and then, and watched the
movements of his hands - she could not have told why.
Always among men and women, always in the crowds of the
streets, people were nothing to her; she went through them as
through a field of standing corn, only in the field she would
have tarried for poppies, and in the town she tarried for no
one.
―――――――
She dealt with men as with women: simply, truthfully, frankly,
with the innocent fearlessness of a child. When they told her
she was pretty, she smiled; it was just as they said that her
flowers were sweet.
But this man's hands moved so swifty; and as she saw her
Broodhuis growing into color and form beneath them, she could
not choose but look now and then, and twice she gave her change
wrong.
He spoke to her rarely, and sketched on and on in rapid
bold strokes the quaint graces and massive richness of the Mai-
son du Roi.
There is no crowd so busy in Brabant that it will not find
leisure to stare. The Fleming or the Walloon has nothing of
the Frenchman's courtesy: he is rough and rude; he remains
a peasant even when town-bred, and the surly insolence' of the
## p. 10891 (#99) ###########################################
OUIDA
10891
"Gueux" is in him still. He is kindly to his fellows, though
not to beasts; he is shrewd, patient, thrifty, industrious, and good
in very many ways, but civil never.
A good score of them left off their occupations and clus-
tered round the painter, staring, chattering, pushing, pointing,
as though a brush had never been seen in all the land of
Rubens.
Bébée, ashamed of her people, got up from her chair and
rebuked them.
"O men of Brussels, fie then, for shame! " she called to them.
as clearly as a robin sings. "Did never you see a drawing be-
fore? and are there not saints and martyrs enough to look at
in the galleries? and have you never some better thing to do
than to gape wide-mouthed at a stranger? What laziness - ah!
just worthy of a people who sleep and smoke while their dogs
work for them!
woeful sound, is that the deer utters in Drumdaleish! Dead lies
the doe of Druim Silenn: the mighty stag bells after her. Sore
suffering to me, and O suffering sore, is the hero's death-his
death, that used to lie with me!
Sore suffering to me is
Cael, and O Cael is a suffering sore, that by my side he is in
dead man's form! That the wave should have swept over his
white body, that is what hath distracted me, so great was his
* It is interesting to note that he has an equivalent in the Peronik of
Breton-Celtic legend, as well as in Cymric and Arthurian romance.
## p. 10877 (#85) ###########################################
OSSIAN
10877
delightfulness. A dismal roar, and O a dismal roar, is that the
shore-surf makes upon the strand! seeing that the same hath
drowned the comely noble man; to me it is an affliction that Cael
ever sought to encounter it. A woeful booming, and O a boom
of woe, is that which the wave makes upon the northward beach!
beating as it does against the polished rock, lamenting for Cael,
now that he is gone. A woeful fight, and O a fight of woe, is
that the wave wages against the southern shore! As for me, my
span is determined!
A woeful melody, and O a melody
of woe, is that which the heavy surge of Tullachleish emits! As
for me, the calamity that is fallen upon me having shattered me,
for me prosperity exists no more. Since now Crimthann's son is
drowned, one that I may love after him there is not in being.
Many a chief is fallen by his hand, and in the battle his shield
never uttered outcry!
There are some who prefer these old Celtic productions literally
translated, while others can take no pleasure in them unless they
are rendered anew in prose narrative or in rhymed verse. 'Credhe's
Lament' exemplifies one kind; the following Ossianic ballad the
other. It is an extended and less simple but otherwise faithful
version of the lament of Deirdrê (Macpherson's Darthula-for the
Irish Deirdre is in the Highlands Dearduil, which is pronounced Dar-
thool), the Helen of Gaeldom.
DEIRDRE'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH
HE lions of the hill are gone,
And I am left alone- alone:
THE
Dig the grave both wide and deep,
For I am sick, and fain would sleep!
The falcons of the wood are flown,
And I am left alone - alone:
Dig the grave both deep and wide,
And let us slumber side by side.
The dragons of the rock are sleeping,
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping:
Dig the grave, and make it ready,
Lay me on my true-love's body.
Lay their spears and bucklers bright
By the warriors' sides aright:
Many a day the three before me
On their linkèd bucklers bore me.
## p. 10878 (#86) ###########################################
10878
OSSIAN
Lay upon the low grave floor,
'Neath each head, the blue claymore:
Many a time the noble three
Reddened their blue blades for me.
Lay the collars, as is meet,
Of the greyhounds at their feet:
Many a time for me have they
Brought the tall red deer to bay.
In the falcon's jesses throw,
Hook and arrow, line and bow:
Never again, by stream or plain,
Shall the gentle woodsmen go.
Sweet companions were ye ever,—
Harsh to me, your sister, never;
Woods and wilds, and misty valleys,
Were with you as good's a palace.
Oh to hear my true-love singing!
Sweet as sounds of trumpets ringing;
Like the sway of ocean swelling
Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.
Oh! to hear the echoes pealing
Round our green and fairy shealing,
When the three, with soaring chorus,
Passed the silent skylark o'er us.
Echo, now sleep, morn and even:
Lark, alone enchant the heaven!
Ardan's lips are scant of breath,
Neesa's tongue is cold in death.
Stag, exult on glen and mountain —
Salmon, leap from loch to fountain
Heron, in the free air warm ye-
Usnach's sons no more will harm ye!
Erin's stay no more you are,
Rulers of the ridge of war;
Never more 'twill be your fate
To keep the beam of battle straight!
Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,
Traitors false and tyrants strong,
Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold,
For Barach's feast and Conor's gold!
## p. 10879 (#87) ###########################################
OSSIAN
10879
Woe to Eman, roof and wall!
Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!
Tenfold woe and black dishonor
To the foul and false Clan Conor!
Dig the grave both wide and deep:
Sick I am, and fain would sleep!
Dig the grave and make it ready;
Lay me on my true-love's body.
Here now are two of the Ossianic ballads as Macpherson has ren-
dered them, trying in his rhythmic prose to capture the spirit and
charm and glamour of the original. The theme of the first, of a
woman disguising herself as a man so as to be near or perhaps to
reach her lover, is common to many lands.
COLNA-DONA
From the Poems of Ossian,' by James Macpherson
ARGUMENT. - Fingal dispatched Ossian, and Toscar the son of Conloch and
father of Malvina, to raise a stone on the banks of the stream of
Crona, to perpetuate the memory of a victory which he had obtained
in that place. When they were employed in that work, Car-ul, a
neighboring chief, invited them to a feast. They went: and Toscar
fell desperately in love with Colna-dona, the daughter of Car-ul.
Colna-dona became no less enamored of Toscar. An incident at a
hunting party brings their loves to a happy issue.
COL
OL-AMON of troubled streams, dark wanderer of distant vales,
I behold thy course, between trees, near Car-ul's echoing
halls! There dwelt bright Colna-dona, the daughter of the
king. Her eyes were rolling stars; her arms were white as the
foam of streams. Her breast rose slowly to sight, like ocean's
heaving wave. Her soul was a stream of light.
Who among
the maids was like the Love of Heroes?
Beneath the voice of the king we moved to Crona of the
streams,― Toscar of grassy Lutha, and Ossian, young in fields.
Three bards attended with songs. Three bossy shields were
borne before us; for we were to rear the stone, in memory of
the past. By Crona's mossy course, Fingal had scattered his
foes; he had rolled away the strangers like a troubled sea. We
came to the place of renown; from the mountains descended
night. I tore an oak from its hill, and raised a flame on high.
I bade my fathers to look down, from the clouds of their hall;
for at the fame of their race they brighten in the wind.
## p. 10880 (#88) ###########################################
10880
OSSIAN
I took a stone from the stream, amidst the song of bards.
The blood of Fingal's foes hung curdled in its ooze. Beneath, I
placed at intervals three bosses from the shields of foes, as rose
or fell the sound of Ullin's nightly song. Toscar laid a dagger
in earth, a mail of sounding steel. We raised the mold around
the stone, and bade it speak to other years.
Oozy daughter of streams, that now art reared on high, speak
to the feeble, O stone! after Selma's race have failed! Prone,
from the stormy night, the traveler shall lay him by thy side:
thy whistling moss shall sound in his dreams; the years that
were past shall return. Battles rise before him, blue-shielded
kings descend to war; the darkened moon looks from heaven
on the troubled field. He shall burst, with morning, from dreams,
and see the tombs of warriors round. He shall ask about the
stone, and the aged shall reply, "This gray stone was raised by
Ossian, a chief of other years. "
From Col-amon came a bard, from Car-ul, the friend of
strangers. He bade us to the feast of kings, to the dwelling
of bright Colna-dona. We went to the hall of harps. There
Car-ul brightened between his aged locks, when he beheld the
sons of his friends, like two young branches, before him.
"Sons of the mighty," he said, "ye bring back the days of
old, when first I descended from waves, on Selma's streamy
vale! I pursued Duthmocarglos, dweller of ocean's wind. Our
fathers had been foes, we met by Clutha's winding waters. He
fled along the sea, and my sails were spread behind him. Night
deceived me, on the deep. I came to the dwelling of kings, to
Selma of high-bosomed maids. Fingal came forth with his bards,
and Conloch, arm of death. I feasted three days in the hall, and
saw the blue eyes of Erin, Ros-crána, daughter of heroes, light
of Cormac's race. Nor forgot did my steps depart: the kings
gave their shields to Car-ul; they hang, on high, in Col-amon, in
memory of the past. Sons of the daring kings, ye bring back
the days of old! "
Car-ul kindled the oak of feasts. He took two bosses from
our shields. He laid them in earth, beneath a stone, to speak to
the hero's race. "When battle," said the king, "shall roar, and
our sons are to meet in wrath, my race shall look, perhaps, on
this stone, when they prepare the spear. Have not our fathers
met in peace? they will say, and lay aside the shield. "
Night came down. In her long locks moved the daughter of
Car-ul. Mixed with the harp arose the voice of white-armed
## p. 10881 (#89) ###########################################
OSSIAN
10881
Colna-dona. Toscar darkened in his place, before the love of
heroes. She came on his troubled soul like a beam to the dark-
heaving ocean, when it bursts from a cloud and brightens the
foamy side of a wave.
[Here an episode is entirely lost; or at least is handed down so imper-
fectly that it does not deserve a place in the poem. ]
With morning we awaked the woods, and hung forward on
the path of the roes. They fell by their wonted streams.
We
returned through Crona's vale. From the wood a youth came
forward, with a shield and pointless spear. "Whence," said Tos-
car of Lutha, "is the flying beam? Dwells there peace at Col-
amon, round bright Colna-dona of harps? "
"By Col-amon of streams," said the youth, "bright Colna-dona
dwelt. She dwelt; but her course is now in deserts, with the son
of the king; he that seized with love her soul as it wandered
through the hall. " "Stranger of tales," said Toscar, "hast thou
marked the warrior's course? He must fall: give thou that bossy
shield! " In wrath he took the shield. Fair behind it rose the
breasts of a maid, white as the bosom of a swan, rising graceful
on swift-rolling waves. It was Colna-dona of harps, the daughter
of the king! Her blue eyes had rolled on Toscar, and her love
arose!
THE SONGS OF SELMA
From the Poems of Ossian,' by James Macpherson
STA
TAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! Thou
liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are
stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain?
The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes
from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of
evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on
the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost
smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they
bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the
light of Ossian's soul arise!
And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed
friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other
years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes
are around. And see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin!
stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint
XIX-681
## p. 10882 (#90) ###########################################
10882
OSSIAN
of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of
Selma's feast! when we contended like gales of spring, as they
fly along the hill and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.
Minona came forth in her beauty; with downcast look and
tearful eye.
Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed un-
frequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when
she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of
Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left
alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised
to come; but the night descended around. Hear the voice of
Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!
COLMA
It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The
wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours down the
rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of
winds!
Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night,
arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests
from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung; his dogs
panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of
the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear
not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar, why the chief
of the hill, his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree!
here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to
be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would
fly, from my father; with thee, from my brother of pride. Our
race have long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar!
stream, be thou silent awhile!
Cease a little while, O wind!
let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me!
Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock.
Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy coming?
Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the
vale. The rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not on the
brow. His dogs come not before him, with tidings of his near
approach. Here I must sit alone.
Who lie on the heath beside me? Are they my love and my
brother? Speak to me, O my friends! To Colma they give no
reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is tormented with
fears! Ah! they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight.
O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar?
why, O Salgar!
hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both
## p. 10883 (#91) ###########################################
OSSIAN
10883
to me! what shall I say in your praise ? Thou wert fair on the
hill among thousands! he was terrible in fight. Speak to me;
hear my voice; hear me, sons of my love! They are silent;
silent forever! Cold, cold are their breasts of clay! Oh! from
the rock on the hill; from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye
ghosts of the dead! speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye
gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed?
No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half drowned in the
storm!
I sit in my grief! I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the
tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it now till Colma come.
My life flies away like a dream: why should I stay behind?
Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sound-
ing rock. When night comes on the hill; when the loud winds
arise; my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of
my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall
fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my
friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma!
Once more, readers may care to see a fragment of an authentic
old Ossianic ballad, that of the Colloquy of Oisin and St. Patrick,'
with literal translation by its side. Oisin and St. Patrick are at
feud throughout; Oisin in effect ever telling the Christian saint that
he cannot believe his unworthy tales, and above all his disparage-
ments about Fionn and his heroes; and St. Patrick in turn assuring
him that Fionn and all his chivalry now have hell for their portion. "
<<
13
'Nuair a shuig headh Fiunn air chnochd
Sheinnemid port don Ord fhiann
Chuire nan codal na slòigh
'S Ochòin ba bhinne na do chliar.
14
Smeorach bheag dhuth O Ghleann
smail
Faghar nom bàre rie an tuinn
Sheinnemid fein le' puist
'Sbha sinn feinn sair Cruitt ro bhinn.
15
Bha bri gaothair dheug aig Fiunn
Zugradhmed cad air Ghleann smàil
'Sbabhenne Glaoghairm air còn
Na do chlaig a Cleirich chaidh.
13
When Fionn sat upon a hill, and sang
a song to our heroes which would en-
chant the multitude to sleep, oh how
much sweeter was it than thy hymns!
14
Sweet are the thrush's notes, and long
the sound of the rushing waves; but
sweeter far the voice of the harps,
when we struck them to the sound of
our songs.
15
Loud of old we heard the voices of
our heroes among the hills and glens;
and more sweet in mine ears that
noise, and the noise of your hounds,
than thy bells, O cleric!
## p. 10884 (#92) ###########################################
10884
OSSIAN
Students of old Gaelic literature in the original should consult in
particular the 'Transactions of the Ossianic Society' (Dublin), and the
late J. F. Campbell's superb and invaluable 'Leabhar na Feinne. '
-
But now the subject may fittingly be taken leave of in the 'Death-
Song of Ossian,' - a song familiar throughout Gaeldom in a score of
forms. Here the rendering of Macpherson is given, as not only
beautiful in itself, and apt to the chief singer of ancient Gaels, but
also as conveying something of the dominant spirit which permeates
the Ossianic ballads and poems and prose romances, from the days
when the earliest Fian bards struck their clarsachs (rude harps) to
the latest of the Ossianic chroniclers of to-day, the poet of 'The
Wanderings of Usheen' (W. B. Yeats):-
THE DEATH-SONG OF OSSIAN
SUCH
UCH were the words of the bards in the days of song; when.
the king heard the music of harps, the tales of other times!
The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the
lovely sound. They praised the Voice of Cona! the first among
a thousand bards! But age is now on my tongue; my soul has
failed! I hear at times the ghosts of the bards, and learn their
pleasant song. But memory fails on my mind. I hear the call
of years! They say, as they pass along, Why does Ossian sing?
Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise
his fame! Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye bring no joy on
your course! Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has
failed. The sons of song are gone to rest. My voice remains,
like a blast that roars lonely on a sea-surrounded rock, after
the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there; the distant
mariner sees the waving trees!
Woman Sharp
Ernest Rhys
Rhys
## p. 10885 (#93) ###########################################
10885
OUIDA
(LOUISE DE LA RAMÉE)
(1840-)
HE novels of Ouida belong to no distinct school of fiction.
They are rather a law unto themselves in their mingling of
extravagant romance with realism; of plots that might have
come out of the 'Decameron,' with imaginative fancies as pure and
tender as those of an innocent and dreamy child; of democratic ideals
worthy of Rousseau and Byron, with a childlike love of rank and its
insignia.
Ouida is less dramatic than lyric in the
style and form of her novels. Her strong
poetic feeling is the source at once of her
weakness and of her strength as a writer
of fiction. She has the poet's sympathy
with nature, and the poet's sensitiveness
to beauty in every form; but she lacks the
dramatist's insight into the complexities of
human nature. She has only a faint per-
ception of the many delicate gradations of
character between exalted goodness and its
opposite extreme. She is at her best when
she is writing of primitive natures, and of
lives close to the earth. The peasant boy
in 'A Dog of Flanders,' yearning to look once upon the Christ of
Rubens; Signa, a gifted child of the people, striving to express the
passionate soul of music within him; the heroine of 'In Maremma,'
hiding her girlhood in the dim richness of an Etruscan tomb; Cigar-
ette in 'Under Two Flags,' dying for love as only a child of nature
can: these simple, sensuous, passionate children are the creation of
Ouida's genius. She has sympathy with the single-hearted emotions
of the sons of the soil. Her temperament fits her to understand their
hates and loves, so free from artificial restraints; their hopes and fears
compressed into intensity by the narrowness of their mental outlook.
She can portray child-life with exquisite truthfulness, because children
when left to themselves are primitive in thought and feeling; natural
in their emotions and direct in their expression of them. They are
OUIDA
## p. 10886 (#94) ###########################################
10886
OUIDA
the true democrats of society. Because Ouida is a poet, she has the
spirit of democracy; which belongs to poets and children, and to all
childlike souls who have love in their hearts, and know nothing of
the importance of amassing money and making proper marriages.
This idealizing, dreamy, and from an economical standpoint worthless.
democracy of feeling, draws her to the oppressed, the down-trodden,
and the poor; to suffering children, and to geniuses whose souls seek
the stars while their bodies are racked with hunger.
Ouida's creed receives a personal embodiment in Tricotrin, the
hero of the novel by that name. He is one of the most fascinating
of her creations; yet he is only half real, being the product of her
poetical rather than her dramatic instinct. He is entitled to wealth
and rank, yet he despises both; he has the knowledge of the man of
the world combined with the saintliness of Francis of Assisi, yet he
is less of a saint than of a philosopher, and less of a philosopher than
of a poet.
He roams over the world, living out the poetry within
him in Christ-like deeds of mercy; he sacrifices his life at last for the
good of the Paris mob.
In Ouida's novels the innocent and the high-minded are continu-
ally suffering for others. To her, the world stands ready to stone
genius and goodness. The motto of her books might be the one
which she places at the head of 'Signa': "I cast a palm upon the
flood; the deeps devour it. Others throw lead, and lo! it buoyant
sails. " Her women who are near to God and nature are crucified by
their love; her men of the same type by their nobility. Ouida finds
no place for great souls in society as it exists. She divides humanity
into two classes, - the good and the bad, the artificial and the nat-
ural. In one class she places children, peasants, and poets; and about
these three orders she has woven her most beautiful and tender and
unreal romances. In the other class she places the Vere de Veres,
the worshipers of Mammon, the schemers and the sharks of society.
Ouida's intense temperament induces her always to deal in extremes,
whether of wealth or rank or goodness. In her, however, exaggeration
becomes refreshment, because she is enough of an artist to clothe
her most daring excursions into the improbable with a realistic atmo-
sphere. Her society novels are as far removed from the realism of
modern fiction as The Mysteries of Udolpho'; yet their epigram-
matic comments upon society and human nature lend to them a ficti-
tious lifelikeness. In The Princess Napraxine,' 'Othmar,' 'A House
Party, Friendship,' and the redoubtable Moths,' Ouida portrays a
world with which she is somewhat familiar. She has been upon the
edges of it,—a precarious position for a woman of her temperament.
She is half in and half out of the society towards which she is, on
the whole, antagonistic.
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Her real name is Louise de la Ramée; an Englishwoman of
French extraction, she was born at Bury St. Edmunds in 1840. She
was reared in London, and there began to write for periodicals; tak-
ing as a pen-name a younger sister's contraction of her Christian
name, "Louise. " Her first novel, 'Granville de Vigne,' was published
as a serial in Colburn's New Monthly Magazine, and appeared in
book form in 1863. It is typical of the majority of her later stories
of high life. Ouida is a lover of rank only when rank is synonymous
with distinction. She appreciates to the full the poetic elements in
the character of the true aristocrat, the Vandyke or Velasquez noble;
but she has the greatest contempt for the modern fashionable mob
of London or Paris, which values wealth above blood, and notoriety
above breeding. The insular, Philistine materialism of high-born
Englishmen is peculiarly distasteful to her. Her latest novel, The
Massarenes,' is a powerful satire upon the English aristocracy. Will-
iam Massarene is a low-born Irishman, who, having made a mon-
strous fortune in the United States, buys the way for himself and
his family into the highest circles in England. His millions secure
him everything from a seat in Parliament to the friendship of roy-
alty. Ouida treats this theme with great skill and penetration. Her
mockery of the "thoroughbred" puppets, fawning on wealth in the
guise of vulgarity, reaches its height of expression in this book. At
the same time she does justice to the genuine aristocrat by portray-
ing one English nobleman, at least, who refuses to join the mob in
their chase of gold. Ouida matches the vulgarity of America with
the vulgarity of England; her fiercest condemnation falls on her own
countrymen, however, because she assumes that they know better.
She finds her consolation in the last home and refuge of poetry in
this century,-Italy. Of late years she has lived in Florence. Her
susceptibility to beauty makes her peculiarly successful in her nov-
els of Italian life. These are worked out against a background of
romantic nature, and of places rich in traditions of poetry and art.
They are steeped in the magical air of the land which knew Petrarch
and Raphael. They portray with sympathy the gay, pensive, pas-
sionate, graceful Italian character. Not a few of Ouida's novels and
stories will live because of the leaven of poetry in them. Their
barbarous extravagance and their meretricious one-sidedness are out-
weighed by their genuine perception of the noblest qualities of
human nature, and by their recognition of the beautiful. Although
they do not conform to the highest standard of romantic fiction, the
first demand of which is truth to reality, they provide an escape into
that world which differs sufficiently from the actual world to offer
all the refreshments of change. In their character they approach
the fairy tales which grown-up children cannot altogether do without.
## p. 10888 (#96) ###########################################
10888
OUIDA
THE SILK STOCKINGS
From Bébée, or Two Little Wooden Shoes'
"IF
F I could save a centime a day, I could buy a pair of stock-
ings this time next year," thought Bébée, locking her shoes
with her other treasures in her drawer the next morning,
and taking her broom and pail to wash down her little palace.
But a centime a day is a great deal in Brabant, when one has
not always enough for bare bread, and when, in the long chill
winter, one must weave thread lace all through the short day-
light for next to nothing at all: for there are so many women in
Brabant, and every one of them, young or old, can make lace,
and if one do not like the pitiful wage, one may leave it and
go and die for what the master lace-makers care or know; there
will always be enough, many more than enough, to twist the
thread round the bobbins, and weave the bridal veils and the
trains for the courts.
"And besides, if I can save a centime, the Varnhart children
ought to have it," thought Bébée, as she swept the dust together.
It was so selfish of her to be dreaming about a pair of stock-
ings, when those little things often went for days on a stew of
nettles.
—
So she looked at her own pretty feet,-pretty and slender
and arched, rosy and fair and uncramped by the pressure of
leather, and resigned her day-dream with a brave heart, as she
put up her broom and went out to weed and hoe and trim and
prune the garden that had been for once neglected the night
before.
"One could not move half so easily in stockings," she thought
with true philosophy, as she worked among the black fresh sweet-
smelling mold, and kissed a rose now and then as she passed
one.
When she got into the city that day, her rush-bottomed chair,
which was always left upside down in case rain should fall in
the night, was set ready for her; and on its seat was a gay,
gilded box, such as rich people give away full of bonbons.
Bébée stood and looked from the box to the Broodhuis, from
the Broodhuis to the box; she glanced around, but no one had
come there so early as she, except the tinker, who was busy
quarreling with his wife, and letting his smelting-fire burn a hole.
in his breeches.
## p. 10889 (#97) ###########################################
OUIDA
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"The box was certainly for her, since it was set upon her
chair. " - Bébée pondered a moment; then little by little opened
the lid.
Within, on a nest of rose-satin, were two pair of silk stock-
ings! - real silk! - with the prettiest clocks worked up their sides
in color!
Bébée gave a little scream, and stood still, the blood hot in
her cheeks. No one heard her: the tinker's wife, who alone
was near, having just wished Heaven to send a judgment on her
husband, was busy putting out his smoking small-clothes. It
is a way that women and wives have, and they never see the
bathos of it.
The Place filled gradually.
The customary crowds gathered. The business of the day
began underneath the multitudinous tones of the chiming bells.
Bébée's business began too; she put the box behind her with a
beating heart, and tied up her flowers.
It was fairies, of course! but they had never set a rush-
bottomed chair on its legs before, and this action of theirs fright-
ened her.
It was rather an empty morning. She sold little, and there
was the more time to think.
About an hour after noon, a voice addressed her,-
"Have you more moss-roses for me? "
Bébée looked up with a smile, and found some. It was her
companion of the cathedral. She had thought much of the red
shoes and the silver clasps, but she had thought nothing at all of
him.
―
"You are not too proud to be paid to-day? " he said, giving
her a silver franc - he would not alarm her with any more
gold; she thanked him, and slipped it in her little leathern
pouch, and went on sorting some clove-pinks.
"You do not seem to remember me? " he said with a little
sadness.
"Oh, I remember you," said Bébée, lifting her frank eyes.
"But you know I speak to so many people, and they are all
nothing to rae. "
"Who is anything to you? " It was softly and insidiously
spoken, but it awoke no echo.
"Vanhart's children," she answered him instantly. "And old
Annémie by the wharfside - and Tambour-and Antoine's grave
—and the starling - and of course, above all, the flowers. "
## p. 10890 (#98) ###########################################
10890
OUIDA
"And the fairies, I suppose? though they do nothing for
you. "
She looked at him eagerly:
"They have done something to-day. I have found a box,
and some stockings- such beautiful stockings! Silk ones! Is it
not very odd? "
"It is more odd they should have forgotten you so long.
May I see them? »
"I cannot show them to you now. Those ladies are going to
buy. But you can see them later-if you wait. "
"I will wait and paint the Broodhuis. "
"So many people do that: you are a painter then? "
"Yes-in a way. "
He sat down on an edge of the stall, and spread his things
there, and sketched, whilst the traffic went on around them. He
was very many years older than she; handsome, with a dark
and changeful and listless face; he wore brown velvet, and had
a red ribbon at his throat; he looked a little as Egmont might
have done when wooing Claire.
Bébée, as she sold the flowers and took the change fifty times.
in the hour, glanced at him now and then, and watched the
movements of his hands - she could not have told why.
Always among men and women, always in the crowds of the
streets, people were nothing to her; she went through them as
through a field of standing corn, only in the field she would
have tarried for poppies, and in the town she tarried for no
one.
―――――――
She dealt with men as with women: simply, truthfully, frankly,
with the innocent fearlessness of a child. When they told her
she was pretty, she smiled; it was just as they said that her
flowers were sweet.
But this man's hands moved so swifty; and as she saw her
Broodhuis growing into color and form beneath them, she could
not choose but look now and then, and twice she gave her change
wrong.
He spoke to her rarely, and sketched on and on in rapid
bold strokes the quaint graces and massive richness of the Mai-
son du Roi.
There is no crowd so busy in Brabant that it will not find
leisure to stare. The Fleming or the Walloon has nothing of
the Frenchman's courtesy: he is rough and rude; he remains
a peasant even when town-bred, and the surly insolence' of the
## p. 10891 (#99) ###########################################
OUIDA
10891
"Gueux" is in him still. He is kindly to his fellows, though
not to beasts; he is shrewd, patient, thrifty, industrious, and good
in very many ways, but civil never.
A good score of them left off their occupations and clus-
tered round the painter, staring, chattering, pushing, pointing,
as though a brush had never been seen in all the land of
Rubens.
Bébée, ashamed of her people, got up from her chair and
rebuked them.
"O men of Brussels, fie then, for shame! " she called to them.
as clearly as a robin sings. "Did never you see a drawing be-
fore? and are there not saints and martyrs enough to look at
in the galleries? and have you never some better thing to do
than to gape wide-mouthed at a stranger? What laziness - ah!
just worthy of a people who sleep and smoke while their dogs
work for them!
