The above
translations
are all by Gertrude Hall.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v26 - Tur to Wat
• The mother bent her head as if under the weight of an inevi.
table punishment.
But afterwards Bice became her natural self, and seemed to
be asking forgiveness of them all by means of affectionate words
and kisses. As soon as she was able to leave her bed, the count-
ess set the day of her departure. When they bade each other
farewell at the station, both mother and daughter were deeply
affected: they kissed each other, and at the last moment, were as
unable to say a word as if they never expected to meet again!
The countess reached home late at night, deeply depressed,
benumbed with cold. The great deserted house was also cold, in
spite of the great fire that had been lighted, in spite of the soli-
tary lights in the melancholy rooms.
The Countess Anna's health rapidly failed. At first she attrib-
uted it to her weariness after the journey, the excitement, the
severity of the season. For about three months she vibrated
between her bed and her lounge, and the doctor came to see her
every day.
"It is nothing,” she would say. "To-day I feel better. To-
morrow I shall get up. ”
To her daughter she wrote regularly, but without referring to
the seriousness of the disease that was killing her. Toward the
beginning of the autumn she seemed to be really getting better;
but all of a sudden she grew so much worse that her household
felt obliged to telegraph to the marquis.
Roberto came the following day, greatly alarmed.
## p. 15312 (#260) ##########################################
15312
GIOVANNI VERGA
»
“Bice is not well,” he said to the doctor who was awaiting
him. “I am anxious about her too. She knows nothing about
it. I was afraid that the news — the excitement the journey
« You are right. The marchesa's health must be carefully
watched. It is a disease that runs in the blood, surely. I myself
should not have assumed such a responsibility; and if it had not
been for the gravity of the case
"Is it very serious ? asked Roberto.
The doctor made a motion with his head.
The sick woman, as soon as her son-in-law's arrival was an-
nounced, became greatly agitated.
“And Bice ? » she asked as soon as she saw him, “why did
she not come ? »
He hesitated, grew as pale as she was, and felt a cold per-
spiration at the roots of his hair.
“Have you been — did you tell her not to come ? ” she asked
in a choked and broken voice.
He had never heard that voice nor seen those eyes before.
A woman, leaning over the pillow, endeavored to calm the inva-
lid. Finally she relapsed into silence, closing her eyes, and con-
vulsively clasping her hands over her bosom.
Her last confession was made that evening. After she had
partaken of the Communion she had her son-in-law called in
again, and she pressed his hand as if to ask his pardon.
The vague odor of the incense still hovered in the room,-
the odor of death, - now and again overcome by the sharper odor
of ether, penetrating and choking. Livid shadows seemed to
wander over the face of the dying countess.
« Tell her,” murmured the poor woman, “tell my daugh-
ter - »
She struggled with shortness of breath, which choked
the words that she wanted to speak, and made her eyes roll as
in delirium. Then she signified with a pitiful motion of her head
that she could say no more.
From time to time it was necessary to lift from the pillows
her poor wasted body, in the supreme anguish of the death-agony.
But she signified that Roberto was not to touch her. Her hair,
which was white as snow, was in disorder.
“No— no —” those were her last words, heard indistinctly
murmured. She put up her hands to join together the night-
robe, which had opened at the neck; and thus with her hands
folded she passed away.
>
## p. 15313 (#261) ##########################################
15313
PAUL VERLAINE
(1844-1896)
BY VICTOR CHARBONNEL
»
JUSTICE, for Paul Verlaine, came only with death.
He was
assuredly one of the greatest poets of France in the nine-
teenth century. But the strangeness of his life, and of some
parts of his work, injured his glory. Severe critics treated him as
bohemian” and “decadent,” and believed they had thus fairly judged
him. He was, according to his own expression, "a cursed poet. ”
Only now does time throw over the wrongs
of the man and the errors of the writer the
forgetfulness necessary to conceal what was
not truly noble and glorious. And the name
of Paul Verlaine has its place in the lumi-
nous train marked by the names of Victor
Hugo, Lamartine, Alfred de Musset, Alfred
de Vigny, Théodore de Banville, and Le-
conte de Lisle, across the history of French
letters.
Paul Verlaine was born at Metz in 1844.
His father was officer of a regiment of en-
gineers in that city. When, in 1851, he
retired from the army, he established him- PAUL VERLAINE
self in Paris. The future poet followed
him there, and then pursued his classical studies. He scarcely
distinguished himself except for an impatient eagerness 'to read all
the poets both ancient and modern. As soon as he had left school,
he yielded to his poetic instinct, abandoned the different employ-
ments to which they wished to attach him, and joined a group of
young poets who had published their first verses with conspicuous
success, and who were forming a kind of literary association called
the Parnasse. It was to the Parnasse that in 1866 he carried his
initial work, Les Poèmes Saturniens. ' The book was distinguished
for the gracious and harmonious freedom of rhythm, and for a charm
of tender melancholy.
From that time the young author became the friend of the Par-
nassians”: of Leconte de Lisle, of Sully-Prudhomme, of Léon Diers,
of Catulle Mendès, and especially of François Coppée.
XXVI–958
## p. 15314 (#262) ##########################################
15314
PAUL VERLAINE
In 1867, the Fêtes Galantes' appeared. The novelty and the
poetic daring of this work were warmly discussed. Then Verlaine
went away from literary environments, and lived a life of mad de-
bauchery. He returned to letters in 1870 with a volume entitled
"La Bonne Chanson,' in which are some of his best pieces.
Married to a young girl of sixteen, he made her very unhappy by
the eccentricities of his character. Moreover, having allowed him-
self to be drawn into the revolutionary movement of the Commune
of Paris in 1871, he was obliged to leave France and take refuge in
London. This separation completed the disunion between the poet
and his young wife. Henceforth it was impossible for them to estab-
lish a good understanding with each other. This domestic misfortune
certainly seems to have been the primary cause of all the miseries
and disorders of Verlaine's existence.
In his forlorn condition he bound himself in close friendship with
a young poet, Arthur Rimbaud. As the two friends were traveling
together in Belgium, Paul Verlaine, carried away by a sudden in-
explicable fit of wrath, drew a revolver and shot his companion twice.
The court of Brussels condemned him to two years' imprisonment.
It was then, from 1873 to 1875, that he wrote in the prison of
Brussels Romances Sans Paroles”; (Romances Without Words); and
that in the prison of Mons, he pondered over the poems which were
to compose his masterpiece, “Sagesse. ' This last book was not pub-
lished, however, until 1881. Meantime Verlaine had exiled himself in
England, not having dared to revisit his friends in France, and had
earned his living as a teacher of French and of the classics. These
years were, he says in the preface of (Sagesse' (Wisdom), «six years
of austerity, of meditation, of obscure labor. ” Converted by the good
counsels of the chaplain of the Mons prison, there was revived in his
spirit the Christian sentiments of his childhood.
But, returned to Paris, he abandoned himself to debauchery again,
and lived in the greatest distress. His friends gave him some assist-
ance; and when he no longer had bread, or when disease succeeded
long privations, he went to the hospital. For fifteen years he was
the “poor Lélian. ”
His work since (Sagesse (1881) is quite considerable, and very
confused. There are in verse — Jadis et Naguère) (Days Past and
Gone: 1885). Amour (Love: 1888), Parallèlement' (In Parallels:
1889), (Dédicaces) (Dedications: 1890), "Bonheur (Happiness: 1891),
(Choix de Poésies) (Chosen Poems: 1891), Chansons pour Elle
(Songs for Her: 1891), "Liturgies Intimes) (Personal Liturgies: 1892),
*Elegies) (1893), Odes en Son Honneur) Odes in Her Honor: 1893),
Dans les Limbes (In Limbo: 1894), "Epigrammes) (1894), (Chair'
(Flesh : 1896); and in prose —'Les Poètes Maudits) (The Cursed Poets:
)
(
(
## p. 15315 (#263) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
15315
>
1884), Memoires d'un Veuf' (Memories of a Widower: 1892), Mes
Hôpitaux (My Hospitals: 1892), Mes Prisons' (1893), Confessions
(1895), Quinze jours en Hollande) (A Fortnight in Holland: 1895),
twenty-six biographies in "Les Hommes d'Aujourd'hui (The Men of
To-day).
Paul Verlaine died the 8th of January, 1896. His end was with-
out suffering. Death was gentler than life had been to him. A11
the poets, and the poets only, accompanied his coffin to the church
and to the cemetery. He received no official honors. And the noble
simplicity of this funeral was a touching spectacle, well befitting
“poor Lélian. ”
Before his tomb, the poet François Coppée thus began his address
of farewell to the dead: “Let us bow over the bier of a child; let
us respectfully salute the tomb of a true poet. ” A child in his life,
a true poet in his work: such indeed was Paul Verlaine. . Like a
child, he had a tender heart, a candid and changeable spirit, a weak
and capricious character. According to chance, sometimes evil car-
ried him away, and sometimes good. One might almost say that good
and evil sprang up within him in a kind of dim half-consciousness,
but that he did not do either good or evil. If he had a sinful life,
it was a life without perversity. And his repentance, apparently
childish, attained the grandeur of holy tears. He remained a child
always; and a child whose natural goodness was better than its
existence. Even by this he was the poet. Like all true poets, he
spoke out the sincerity of his soul. His poetry is a cry of the soul.
.
It is a song of faith, or a complaint; it is the free fancy of a being
who is happy or who weeps. By a kind of art, involuntary, sponta-
neous, and yet refined and supremely delicate, he wrote exquisite
little songs; and also the most serious, most Christian poems of this
century.
kietor Charbonneh
.
[The following poems by Paul Verlaine are reprinted by permission of Stone
& Kimball, publishers. ]
CLAIR DE LUNE
Your
OUR soul is as a moonlit landscape fair,
Peopled with maskers delicate and dim,
That play on lutes, and dance, and have an air
Of being sad in their fantastic trim.
,
## p. 15316 (#264) ##########################################
15316
PAUL VERLAINE
The while they celebrate in minor strain
Triumphant love, effective enterprise,
They have an air of knowing all is vain, -
And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise,
The melancholy moonlight, sweet and lone,
That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,
And in their polished basins of white stone
The fountains tall to sob with ecstasy.
LE FAUNE
A
N ANCIENT terra-cotta Faun,
A laughing note in 'mid the green,
Grins at us from the central lawn,
With secret and sarcastic mien.
It is that he foresees, perchance,
A bad end to the moments dear,
That with gay music and light dance
Have led us, pensive pilgrims, here.
MANDOLINE
T
HE courtly serenaders,
The beauteous listeners,
Sit idling 'neath the branches;
A balmy zephyr stirs.
It's Tircis and Aminta,
Clitandre, - ever there!
Damis, of melting sonnets
To many a frosty fair.
Their trailing flowery dresses,
Their fine beflowered coats,
Their elegance and lightness,
And shadows blue, - all floats
And mingles, - circling, wreathing,
In moonlight opaline,
While through the zephyr's harping
Tinkles the mandoline.
## p. 15317 (#265) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
15317
L'AMOUR PAR TERRE
THE
He wind the other night blew down the Love
That in the dimmest corner of the park
So subtly used to smile, bending his arc,
And sight of whom did us so deeply move
One day! The other night's wind blew him down!
The marble dust whirls in the morning breeze.
Oh, sad to view, o'erblotted by the trees,
There on the base, the name of great renown!
Oh, sad to view the empty pedestal!
And melancholy fancies come and go
Across my dream, whereon a day of woe
Foreshadowed is. -I know what will befall!
Oh, sad ! — And you are saddened also, Sweet,
re not you, by this scene? although your eye
Pursues the gold and purple butterfly
That flutters o'er the wreck strewn at our feet.
THE SPELL
“Son joyeux, importun, d'un clavecin sonore. — PÉTRUS BOREL.
TH?
HE keyboard, over which two slim hands float,
Shines vaguely in the twilight pink and gray,
Whilst with a sound like wings, note after note
Takes flight to form a pensive little lay
That strays, discreet and charming, faint, remote,
About the room where perfumes of Her stray.
What is this sudden quiet cradling me
To that dim ditty's dreamy rise and fall ?
What do you want with me, pale melody?
What is it that you want, ghost musical,
That fades toward the window waveringly,
A little open on the garden small ?
## p. 15318 (#266) ##########################################
15318
PAUL VERLAINE
FROM BIRDS IN THE NIGHT)
SOME
OME moments, I'm the tempest-driven bark
That runs dismasted mid the hissing spray,
And seeing not Our Lady through the dark,
Makes ready to be drowned, and kneels to pray.
Some moments, I'm the sinner at his end,
That knows his doom if he unshriven go,
And losing hope of any ghostly friend,
Sees hell already gape, and feels it glow.
Oh, but! -some moments, I've the spirit stout
Of early Christians in the lion's care,
That smile to Jesus witnessing, without
A nerve's revolt or turning of a hair!
1
1
Give ear unto the gentle lay
That's only sad that it may please;
It is discreet, and light it is:
A whiff of wind o'er buds in May.
The voice was known to you, and dear ? )
But it is muffled latterly
As is a widow,- still, as she
It doth its sorrow proudly bear,
And through the sweeping mourning-veil
That in the gusts of Autumn blows,
Unto the heart that wonders, shows
Truth like a star now flash, now fail.
It says — the voice you knew again!
That kindness, goodness, is our life;
And that of envy, hatred, strife,
When death is come, shall naught remain.
It says how glorious to be
Like children, without more delay,
The tender gladness it doth say
Of peace not bought with victory.
Accept the voice,- ah, hear the whole
Of its persistent, artless strain:
Naught so can soothe a soul's own pain,
As making glad another soul !
## p. 15319 (#267) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
15319
It pines in bonds but for a day,-
The soul that without murmur bears.
How unperplexed, how free it fares!
Oh, listen to the gentle lay!
I've seen again the One child, verily;
I felt the last wound open in my breast, -
The last, whose perfect torture doth attest
That on some happy day I too shall die!
Good, icy arrow, piercing thoroughly!
Most timely came it from their dreams to wrest
The sluggish scruples laid too long to rest,
And all my Christian blood hymned fervently.
I still hear, still I see! O worshiped rule
,
Of God! I know at last how comfortful
To hear and see! I see, I hear alway!
O innocence, O hope! Lowly and mild,
How I shall love you, sweet hands of my child,
Whose task shall be to close our eyes one day!
The sky-blue smiles above the roof
Its tenderest;
A green tree rears above the roof
Its waving crest.
The church-bell in the windless sky
Peaceably rings;
A skylark soaring in the sky
Endlessly sings.
My God, my God, all life is there,
Simple and sweet;
The soothing beehive murmur there
Comes from the street!
What have you done, O you that weep
In the glad sun,
Say, with your youth, you man that weep,
What have you done?
## p. 15320 (#268) ##########################################
15320
PAUL VERLAINE
APRÈS TROIS ANS
HEN I had pushed the narrow garden-door,
Once more I stood within the green retreat;
Softly the morning sunshine lighted it,
And every flower a humid spangle wore.
W***
Nothing is changed. I see it all once more:
The vine-clad arbor with its rustic seat;
The water-jet still plashes silver sweet,
The ancient aspen rustles as of yore.
The roses throb as in a bygone day,
As they were wont; the tall proud lilies sway.
Each bird that lights and twitters is a friend.
I even found the Flora standing yet,
Whose plaster crumbles at the alley's end
Slim, 'mid the foolish scent of mignonette.
MON RÊVE FAMILIER
O
Ft do I dream this strange and penetrating dream:
An unknown woman, whom I love, who loves me well,
Who does not every time quite change, nor yet quite
dwell
The same,- and loves me well, and knows me as I am.
For she knows me! My heart, clear as a crystal beam
To her alone, ceases to be inscrutable
To her alone, and she alone knows to dispel
My grief, cooling my brow with her tears' gentle stream.
Is she of favor dark or fair ? - I do not know.
Her name? All I remember is that it doth flow
Softly, as do the names of them we loved and lost.
Her eyes are like the statues', — mild, grave, and wide;
And for her voice she has as if it were the ghost
Of other voices, - well-loved voices that have died.
## p. 15321 (#269) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
1532 1
LE ROSSIGNOL
L"
IKE to a swarm of birds, with jarring cries
Descend on me my swarming memories;
Light 'mid the yellow leaves, that shake and sigh,
Of the bowed alder — that is even I! -
Brooding its shadow in the violet
Unprofitable river of Regret,
hey settle screaming. Then the evil sound,
By the moist wind's impatient hushing drowned,
Dies by degrees, till nothing more is heard
Save the long singing of a single bird,
Save the clear voice-o singer, sweetly done! -
Warbling the praises of the Absent One.
And in the silence of a summer night
Sultry and splendid, by a late moon's light
That sad and sallow peers above the hill,
The humid hushing wind that ranges still
Rocks to a whispered sleep-song languidly
The bird lamenting and the shivering tree.
INSPIRATION
H,
A* Egeria with the lightsome eyes profound,
Sudden Erato, Genius quick to grant,
Old picture Angel of the gilt background!
Muse, – ay, whose voice is powerful indeed,
Since in the first-come brain it makes to grow
Thick as some dusty yellow roadside weed,
A gardenful of poems none did sow! -
Dove, Holy Ghost, Delirium, Sacred Fire,
Transporting Passion,-seasonable queen!
Gabriel and lute, Latona's son and lyre, -
Ay, Inspiration, summoned at sixteen!
What we have need of, we, the poets true,
That not believe in gods, and yet revere,
That have no halo, hold no golden clue,
For whom no Beatrix leaves her radiant sphere,-
## p. 15322 (#270) ##########################################
15322
PAUL VERLAINE
We that do chisel words like chalices,
And moving verses shape with unmoved mind,
Whom wandering in groups by evening seas,
In musical converse ye scarce shall find, -
What we need is, in midnight hours dim-lit,
Sleep daunted, knowledge earned, - more knowledge
still!
Is Faust's brow, of the woodcuts, sternly knit,-
Is stubborn Perseverance, and is Will!
Is Will eternal, holy, absolute,
That grasps — as doth a noble bird of prey
The steaming flanks of the foredoomed brute –
Its project, and with it - skyward, away!
What we need, we, is fixedness intense,
Unequaled effort, strife that shall not cease;
Is night, the bitter night of labor, whence
Arises, sun-like, slow, the Masterpiece!
Let our inspired hearts, by an eye-shot tined,
Sway with the birch-tree to all winds that blow,
Poor things! Art knows not the divided mind -
Speak - Milo's Venus, is she stone or no?
We therefore, carve we with the chisel thought
The pure block of the beautiful, and gain
From out the marble cold where it was not,
Some starry-chiton'd statue without stain,
That one far day, posterity, new morn,
Enkindling with a golden-rosy flame
Our work, new Memnon, shall to ears unborn
Make quiver in the singing air our name!
The above translations are all by Gertrude Hall.
## p. 15323 (#271) ##########################################
15323
JONES VERY
(1803–1880)
F A parallel were sought from nature in describing a poet
like Jones Very, the hermit-thrush might well be named.
His life had the seclusion of that with awn chanter in the
woods, his song had the shy removed quality and the spiritual note
of that most ethereal of bird-inusicians. A New-Englander, a tran-
scendentalist, naturally affiliating with men
like Channing and Emerson, Very walked
by the inner light, and obeyed the vision.
His unworldliness had in it something
almost uncanny. He made a unique im-
pression upon observant souls. “American
soil,” says James Freeman Clarke, «has
produced no other man like Jones Very. ”
In the case of one with whom the life
of the spirit is all-important, the outward
events of his career seem of little moment:
they were uneventful with Very. He was
born August 28th, 1813, at Salem, Massa-
chusetts; and his father was a sea-captain,
JONES VERY
at a time when men of that ancient profes-
sion were among the most respected citizens of the community, pos-
sessed of character and culture. He made several voyages with his
father; attended school in Salem, and in New Orleans, Louisiana; and
by teaching, saved money enough to go to Harvard, where he was
graduated in 1836, remaining as a tutor of Greek for two years more.
He then studied theology, and was licensed a Unitarian preacher of
the Cambridge Association in 1843. But he never took a pastorate:
he returned to his native town and led a retired life, contributing
occasionally to the Salem Gazette, the Christian Register, and other
papers representing his denomination. He read literature, ancient
and modern; but his main interest was always in religious and
ethical themes. When he felt a call to do so, he accepted an invita-
tion to preach. If he deemed that God wished him to go to Boston
for converse with Dr. Channing, thither he went. His smallest acts
were in response to heavenly guidance.
In 1839 appeared the volume of Very's essays and poems.
The
former are scholarly and thoughtful; but the chief interest centres in
## p. 15324 (#272) ##########################################
15324
JONES VERY
the verse, posthumous editions of which were published in 1883 and
1886. In few books by an American poet has the note been more
distinctive. Very's sonnets and lyrics are the musings of a mystic.
The sonnets in particular express the history of the poet's religious
nature. In the lyrics there is less subjectivity, more variety of form,
and a wider range of theme; so that this portion of his work, as a
whole, will have stronger attraction for the general reader. But in
the irregular Shakespearean sonnet, with an extra syllable in the
final line, Very has made his most intimate revelation of himself.
He seems to have found this form peculiarly suited to the expression
of his inmost ideals. Such verses — introspective, subtle, delicate,
dealing with the loftiest aspirations of the human soul — cannot be
expected to make a wide appeal. But they embody a remarkable
poetic sentiment of the life of the spirit, and will always be precious
to those for whom they were written. Lowell admired and loved
Very's poetry; it has always found critical appreciation. Few poets
had a deeper feeling for nature - nature as the garment of God -
than this Salem recluse. He is at his happiest when breathing out
his spiritual thought in descriptions which note affectionately, with a
lover's constant eye, the grass, the tree, and the flower, and inter-
pret the insect on the earth, and the clouds of the sky, as symbols of
the One, maker of them all. When he died in his native town on
May 8th, 1880, there were those who felt that one of the choicest of
that noteworthy group of New England idealists had been removed.
[All the following poems are copyrighted, and they are republished here by
permission of the family of Mr. Very. )
THE TREE
I
LOVE thee when thy swelling buds appear,
And one by one their tender leaves unfold,
As if they knew that warmer suns were near,
Nor, longer sought to hide from winter's cold;
And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen,
To veil from view the early robin's nest,
I love to lie beneath thy waving screen
With limbs by summer's heat and toil opprest;
And when the autumn winds have stript thee bare,
And round thee lies the smooth untrodden snow,
When naught is thine that made thee once so fair,
I love to watch thy shadowy form below,
And through thy leafless arms to look above
On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love.
## p. 15325 (#273) ##########################################
JONES VERY
15325
DAY
D^
AY! I lament that none can hymn thy praise
In fitting strains, of all thy riches bless;
Though thousands sport them in thy golden rays,
Yet none like thee their Maker's name confess.
Great fellow of my being! woke with me,
Thou dost put on thy dazzling robes of light,
And onward from the East go forth to free
Thy children from the bondage of the night:
I hail thee, pilgrim! on thy lonely way,
Whose looks on all alike benignant shine;
A child of light, like thee, I cannot stay,
But on the world I bless must soon decline,-
New rising still, though setting to mankind,
And ever in the eternal West my dayspring find.
NIGHT
I
THANK thee, Father, that the night is near
When I this conscious being may resign:
Whose only task thy words of love to hear,
And in thy acts to find each act of mine;
A task too great to give a child like me,
The myriad-handed labors of the day
Too many for my closing eyes to see,
Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say:
Yet when thou see'st me burthened by thy love,
Each other gift more lovely then appears,
For dark-robed Night comes hovering from above,
And all thine other gifts to me endears;
And while within her darkened couch I sleep,
Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep.
THE DEAD
I
SEE them: crowd on crowd they walk the earth,-
Dry leafless trees no autumn wind laid bare;
And in their nakedness find cause for mirth,
And all unclad would winter's rudeness dare :
No sap doth through their clattering branches flow,
Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright appear;
.
## p. 15326 (#274) ##########################################
15326
JONES VERY
Their hearts the living God have ceased to know,
Who gives the springtime to th' expectant year;
They mimic life, as if from him to steal
His glow of health to paint the livid cheek;
They borrow words for thoughts they cannot feel,
That with a seeming heart their tongue may speak:
And in their show of life more dead they live
Than those that to the earth with many tears they give.
MAN IN HARMONY WITH NATURE
TF
He flowers I pass have eyes that look at me,
The birds have ears that hear my spirit's voice,
And I am glad the leaping brook to see,
Because it does at my light step rejoice.
Come, brothers all, who tread the grassy hill,
Or wander thoughtless o'er the blooming fields,
Come, learn the sweet obedience of the will;
Then every sight and sound new pleasure yields.
Nature shall seem another house of thine,
When he who formed thee bids it live and play:
And in thy rambles e'en the creeping vine
Shall keep with thee a jocund holiday;
And every plant and bird and insect be
Thine own companions born for harmony.
THE GIANTS
TH
HE giants, they who walked the earth of old,
Are come again to scourge this feeble race:
And weapons long forgot in pride they hold,
To dash to earth your idols in disgrace;
Their armor proof shall be 'gainst sword or spear,
Your strength now lifts to smite a feebler foe:
Your cries for help their ears can never hear,
Nor wounded can their eyes your sufferings know.
Arise! gird on the might that now you waste
On harlots and in feasting night and day:
Their comings-on shall be with eagles' haste,
As from the heights they dart upon their prey,
That all unknowing pass their eyries by,
With idle pace and earthward-turning eye.
.
## p. 15327 (#275) ##########################################
JONES VERY
15327
THE HUMMING-BIRD
I
CANNOT heal thy green-gold breast,
Where deep those cruel teeth have prest;
Nor bid thee raise thy ruffled crest,
And seek thy mate,
Who sits alone within thy nest,
Nor sees thy fate.
No more with him in summer hours
Thou'lt hum amid the leafy bowers,
Nor hover round the dewy Aowers,
To feed thy young;
Nor seek, when evening darkly lowers,
Thy nest high hung.
No more thou'lt know a mother's care
Thy honeyed spoils at eve to share;
Nor teach thy tender brood to dare,
With upward spring,
Their path through fields of sunny air,
On new-fledged wing.
For thy return in vain shall wait
Thy tender young, thy fond, fond mate,
Till night's last stars beam forth full late
On their sad eyes:
Unknown, alas! thy cruel fate,
Unheard thy cries!
THE BUILDERS
T"
HERE are who wish to build their houses strong,
Yet of the earth material they will take;
And hope the brick within the fire burnt long
A lasting home for them and theirs will make.
And one, who thought him wiser than the rest,
Of the rough granite hewed his dwelling proud;
And all who passed this eagle's lofty nest
Praised his secure retreat from tempest loud.
But one I knew who sought him out no wood,
No brick, no stone, though as the others born;
## p. 15328 (#276) ##########################################
15328
JONES VERY
And those who passed where waiting still he stood,
Made light of him and laughed his hopes to scorn.
And time went by, and he was waiting still;
No house had he, and seemed to need one less :
He felt that waiting yet his Master's will
Was the best shelter in this wilderness.
And I beheld the rich man and the wise,
When lapsing years fell heavy on each shed,
As one by one they fled in lowly guise
To his poor hut for refuge and for bread.
THE WOOD-WAX
AUGHING, midst its yellow blooms,
At the fire that it consumes,
Springs the wood-wax every year;
It has naught from man to fear.
L
From the turnpike's grassy side,
See it flourish far and wide,
On the steep and rocky hills:
Naught the wood-wax hurts or kills.
Glorious sight in summer-time
'Tis, to see it in its prime,
With its spikes of flowers untold,
Covering all the hills with gold!
Though a plant of stranger race,
It with us has found a place;
Vain the farmer's art or toil
That would drive it from the soil.
Vain in winter is the fire
Which he kindles in his ire;
Still it laughs, amidst its blooms,
At the flame that it consumes.
## p. 15329 (#277) ##########################################
JONES VERY
15329
BEAUTY
-
I
GAZED upon thy face, - and beating life
Once stilled its sleepless pulses in my breast,
And
every thought whose being was a strife
Each in its silent chamber sank to rest.
I was not, save it were a thought of thee;
The world was but a spot where thou hadst trod;
From every star thy glance seemed fixed on me;
Almost I loved thee better than my God.
And still I gaze, — but 'tis a holier thought
Than that in which my spirit lived before.
Each star a purer ray of love has caught,
Earth wears a lovelier robe than then it wore;
And every lamp that burns around thy shrine
Is fed with fire whose fountain is divine.
THE PRAYER
WT
ILT Thou not visit me ?
The plant beside me feels thy gentle
dew,
And every blade of grass I see
From thy deep earth its quickening moisture drew.
Wilt Thou not visit me ?
Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone;
And every hill and tree
Lend but one voice, — the voice of Thee alone.
Come, for I need thy love
More than the flower the dew, or grass the rain;
Come, gently as thy holy dove;
And let me in thy sight rejoice to live again.
I will not hide from them
When thy storms come, though fierce may be their wrath,
But bow with leafy stem,
And strengthened follow on thy chosen path.
Yes, Thou wilt visit me:
Nor plant nor tree thine eye delights so well,
As, when from sin set free,
My spirit loves with thine in peace to dwell.
XXVI–959
## p. 15330 (#278) ##########################################
15330
LOUIS VEUILLOT
(1813–1883)
BY FRÉDÉRIC LOLIÉE
身
louis VEUILLOT, the celebrated Catholic journalist, was born at
Boynes in the Department of Loiret, in 1813. He was a son
of the people. The accident of his humble birth and pop-
ular education aided rather than hampered the free development
of his innate literary talent. He entered upon journalism almost
without preparation, still very uncertain of his own tendencies, and
seeking a personal conviction while battling
against others. His early début dates from
1831, when he was eighteen years old. In
1838 he went to Rome. A witness of the
pomps of Holy Week in the metropolis of
Catholicism, he was profoundly impressed
by it. He was touched, he believed; and
vowed to himself to have henceforth but
one aim in life, that of unmasking and
stigmatizing the enemies of religion. Soon
after, he became editor-in-chief of L'Uni-
vers, the official sheet of ultramontanism. ”
With inequalities of talent, sometimes
Louis VEUILLOT doubtful taste, and excesses of language,
inherent in his profession as a polemist as
in his natural disposition, he possessed a vigorous, fruitful fancy, and
originality of touch. Both friends and enemies were soon forced to
recognize in Louis Veuillot an exceptional journalist, powerful in his
treatment of important subjects, sparkling with wit and malice in
articles written for special occasions.
The whole life of the great polemist was one struggle in defense
of religious interests, as he understood them; that is, in a way not
always conformed to Christian charity, or even to the spirit of purely
human justice. For thirty years, always armed, always ready to roll
in the dust whoever tried to bar his way, he used Catholicism as a
flag under the folds of which he led to combat not only the ardors
of a sincere faith, but also his own passions, his personal enthusi-
asms, and his intellectual hatreds. (I say intellectual hatreds because
he knew no others; and it is said, showed himself in his private rela-
tions the most conciliating of men. )
## p. 15331 (#279) ##########################################
LOUIS VEUILLOT
15331
Virulent continuer of the ideas of his compatriot Joseph de
Maistre, like him a fiery apostle of clerical immutability, less a
philosopher than a soldier more directly concerned with the events
of battle, he belonged primarily to the same authoritative school. He
too wished to lead a fierce crusade against the modern spirit. Of the
wrath and hatred roused by the publicist, nothing now remains but
the remembrance of a skilled writer, who knew how to set an in-
effaceable stamp upon the flying leaves of journalism. The power of
renewing and varying was the gift par excellence of Louis Veuillot.
He had those infinitely varied turns which continually stimulate and
renew the attention. According to the subject undertaken, or the
impression felt, he could combine in the most unexpected fashion,
qualities apparently most irreconcilable: sensibility of heart and lan-
guage rising to emotion and enthusiasm, with a biting criticism,
a sharp satire, a pitilessly vigorous censure; the most beautiful im-
pulses of faith and charity, the best-inspired Christian sentiment, with
an irony full of bitterness; a light tone and a meditative spirit; a
rare individuality of view and an imperturbable good sense; in fine,
an exquisite delicacy of thought and speech with crudities of ex-
pression often very curious.
With the exception of two simple and charming novels, Corbin
d'Aubecourt' and 'L'Honnête Femme,' a few stories or scattered
impressions of pure art,-'çà et Là,' -- and a volume of "Satires) in
verse, the twenty volumes of Louis Veuillot — Mélanges,' 'Les Libres
Penseurs, Les Odeurs de Paris,' etc. — are collections of articles
which have survived through the striking saliency of their style, the
abundance of strong and unexpected images, and the number and
variety of the portraits, for which he has been compared to La Bruy-
ère. Properly speaking, he was not "a maker of books, but the
most original writer who has emerged from the ranks of the French
press in the nineteenth century. That title is enough for his glory.
»
Prederic Police
A REMEMBRANCE
From (Çà et Là)
T*
HE Angelus was ringing. It rang softly, slowly, for a long
time. We fell on our knees, praying silently. There was
something broken and plaintive in the tone of the bell.
do not know why my heart was suddenly inclined to distrust life
and happiness. A serene and profound silence veiled all the joy,
all the splendor, of that beautiful day.
## p. 15332 (#280) ##########################################
15332
LOUIS VEUILLOT
(
»
“No, I went on, continuing the thought of my prayer, -
“no, the spirit is not deceived in the disquiet which human joy
imparts to it! It justly fears to grow fond of these intoxica-
tions, and to fall asleep in them. It aspires higher.
It aspires higher. I dare not
ask God for trials; nevertheless, his will be done. And if the
sunbeam which now brightens my life must vanish, I consent. ”
“And I,” she said in her turn, “thank God beforehand for
the sorrows he will send me. As I receive the good things, so
I protest I wish also to receive the evil things from him. I
firmly believe that he will send them to me out of love. O
Lord Jesus, who loved us unto death upon the cross, make us,
through the blossoms and delights we now enjoy, to love the
road to Calvary and the weight of the cross. ”
We pressed each other's hands and were silent. I see the
spot, I recall the words and their accent. Of that incident alone,
of all those of the journey, I have forgotten nothing. The sun
has vanished, the perfumes have fled, all the joyous sounds have
fallen into eternal silence, and even the bell which accompanied
our prayer will ring no more.
If I were to return to Chamonix, I should recognize only the
spot by the way, and the tuft of grass on which she knelt; and
I should go back only to see and kiss the spot. No, my God,
my kind just master, I would not weep; or if I did, my tears
would not accuse thee! I have always known thy mercy, and in
thy punishments have always felt thy love.
All that thou gavest me for the time passed with the time.
What matters it that the blossoms have perished, that the songs
are stifled, that darkness has followed the sunshine? What thou
gavest me for eternity I still possess, although I no longer see it.
At thy bidding, death entered my home full of cradles. He took
the young mother, he took my little children; and yet I denied
death.
In the presence of death, thy Church, our immortal mother,
lights torches symbolic of life, and with firm voice sings thy
victory over death. Those who are no longer with me, O Lord,
are with thee! I know that they live, I know that I shall live.
They have gone from life, but not from my life. Can I think
dead what is living in my heart ?
But, O God! how can they support life,- all those one meets
in the world who do not know thee, who run after joy and fear
death? Some in mockery have asked me what is hell, and I
have answered, “It is protracted life. ”
## p. 15333 (#281) ##########################################
LOUIS VEUILLOT
15333
TIGRUCHE
From (Les Odeurs de Paris )
I
Bless my lot: I have seen Tigruche!
There is a literary man in Paris who is the second cor-
respondent of a foreign journal. Do not build an air-castle.
This foreign journal is not English; it pays little, does little
business. The first correspondent, charged with furnishing French
news, which must eventually return to France, receives some-
thing from the State for divulging its secrets; he can, or at least
he could, pay his rent. The second correspondent is only charged
with overthrowing European kings and their ministers: that does
not bring in much. Nevertheless he does not do it sparingly.
But after all, his thunderbolts are not resounding, and the Euro-
pean kings and their ministers do not tremble at all.
This sec-
ond correspondent is named Péquet. It is Tigruche.
Péquet is the scourge of kings, Tigruche is the friend of
artists.
Those who know Péquet do not know Tigruche; those who
know Tigruche do not know Pequet. I have seen Péquet — as
one may see him; I have seen Tigruche.
It was one night toward morning. My good fortune led me
into a café on the boulevard where they were stipping. I
learned later that the artists of the neighboring theatres were
accustomed to go there to regale upon a certain popular soup
and certain ragoûts.
They entered in couples; and soon the café was full. Among
this crowd some were noted, even famous. They talked noisily in
a free language, coarse rather than original, startling rather than
picturesque. Men and women were called my old woman,"
my little old woman,” “my little olive-oil. It is current, and
”
has endured a long time. They thee-and-thou'd each other, I
listened without finding the scene as interesting as I should have
expected.
I saw the prima donna of a little theatre come in.
She was
accompanied by her master of earlier in the evening, and her
slave of a quarter of an hour. The master was not yet tired,
the slave not yet emancipated. She had also her companion,
who was very plump. She was a person of important duties,
however: she was intrusted with showing out the poets who
brought her mistress the conceptions of their genius. Twenty of
## p. 15334 (#282) ##########################################
15334
LOUIS VEUILLOT
them presented themselves every day. It was necessary to show
them out politely, because some of them might slip into the lit-
tle journals, and embarrass Madame. So she said; and her hat
astonished me.
The star was immediately surrounded, and warmly felicitated
upon her last creation, in which she sang "J'suis rincée,” which
will be the national song of the season.
She received all this
homage disdainfully, and said at last, « This bothers me. I wasn't
made for stale jokes, and to amuse good-for-naughts. I have
poetry in my heart. ” – I recalled Molière, so ambitious of play-
ing tragedy, and who felt so severely the blows which his writ-
ings drew upon him. But the shiny hat of the lady companion
stified the spark of compassion which these words had inspired,
If poetry were in your heart, old lady, your lady companion
would have another hat!
I might note that the great artist ordered the popular soup
and three poached eggs; but these details are in contemporary
chronicles.
My interest was languishing, and I was thinking of withdraw-
ing from the company of these stars, when a hurly-burly of a
hundred cries, making noise enough, rose from all the tab? es:
«Tigruche! uche! uche! Here, Tigruche! - Aren't you shabby,
—
Gruguche! Aren't you ugly! - You get crazier from hour to hour,
my jewel! - And your King of Prussia, won't he part with an
overcoat, then ? — And your scum of Norway, isn't he coming ? -
You haven't thrashed your Bismarck enough, Tigruche: go at it
again! uche! uche ! »
Thus made his entry, Péquet, the Terror of Princes!
In truth, Péquet is not prepossessing in appearance. I have
never seen man who looks more like a wet dog. He went
from table to table offering his hand and receiving fillips.
