No More Learning

I'll ne'er open my beak, if the gods please,
For such mean little fishes as these. ”
He did it for less;
For it came to pass,
That not another fish could he see;
And at last so hungry was he
That he thought it some avail
To find on the bank a single snail.
Translation of Elizur Wright.
>


## p. 8799 (#419) ###########################################

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
8799
THE ANIMALS SICK OF THE PLAGUE
T"
(C
THE sorest ill that Heaven hath
Sent on this lower world in wrath -
The plague (to call it by its name),
One single day of which
Would Pluto's ferryman enrich,-
Waged war on beasts, both wild and tame.
They died not all, but all were sick:
No hunting now, by force or trick,
To save what might so soon expire.
No food excited their desire;
Nor wolf nor fox now watched to slay
The innocent and tender prey.
The turtles fed;
So love and therefore joy were dead.
The lion council held, and said :-
“My friends, I do believe
This awful scourge, for which we grieve,
Is for our sins a punishment
Most righteously by Heaven sent.
Let us our guiltiest beast resign,
A sacrifice to wrath divine.
Perhaps this offering, truly small,
May gain the life and health of all.
By history we find it noted
That lives have been just so devoted.
Then let us all turn eyes within,
And ferret out the hidden sin.
Himself let no one spare nor flatter,
But make clean conscience in the matter.
For me, my appetite has played the glutton
Too much and often upon mutton.
What harm had e'er my victims done?
I answer truly, None.
Perhaps sometimes, by hunger pressed,
I've eat the shepherd with the rest.
I yield myself, if need there be:
And yet I think in equity,
Each should confess his sins with me;
For laws of right and justice cry,
The guiltiest alone should die. ”
Sire,” said the fox, “your Majesty
Is humbler than a king should be,


## p. 8800 (#420) ###########################################

8800
JEAN DE LA FONTAINE
And over-squeamish in the case.
What! eating stupid sheep a crime?
No, never, sire, at any time.
It rather was an act of grace,
A mark of honor to their race.
And as to shepherds, one may swear,
The fate your Majesty describes
Is recompense less full than fair
For such usurpers o'er our tribes. ”
»
Thus Reynard glibly spoke,
And loud applause from flatterers broke.
Of neither tiger, boar, nor bear,
Did any keen inquirer dare
To ask for crimes of high degree;
The fighters, biters, scratchers, all
From every mortal sin were free;
The very dogs, both great and small,
Were saints as far as dogs could be.
The ass, confessing in his turn,
Thus spoke in tones of deep concern:
“I happened through a mead to pass;
The monks, its owners, were at mass;
Keen hunger, leisure, tender grass,
And add to these the Devil too,
All tempted me the deed to do.
I browsed the bigness of my tongue;
Since truth must out, I own it wrong. ”
On this, a hue and cry arose,
As if the beasts were all his foes:
A wolf, haranguing lawyer-wise,
Denounced the ass for sacrifice,
The bald-pate, scabby, ragged lout,
By whom the plague had come, no doubt.
His fault was judged a hanging crime.
“What! eat another's grass ? oh, shame!
The noose of rope and death sublime,
For that offense, were all too tame! )
And soon poor Grizzle felt the same.
Thus human courts acquit the strong,
And doom the weak as therefore wrong.
Translation of Elizur Wright.


## p. 8800 (#421) ###########################################



## p. 8800 (#422) ###########################################


A. DE LAMARTINE.


## p. 8800 (#423) ###########################################

L'ARTIVE
Virt: PER
1
F (! stentorini *** in Fr,
for in orcart
wi:
mit ! :"""; in puris;
te elegant,
ľ bol pri 75 tion
is in the
"
Istin-
Cit1,--
:
f.
hivy
de
#hids in diuini 13:43
010!
still will telliittiois' of
Larrart:
»ť, urip, 5,345 Inchirg to Crenier, wil
is esse . .
Leith ir le lyre passion,
If we Wi-
P" L70s to Lamartine, we must go back to
prone writis: to ]. l. Imotli, whose works are so fuil of l'un an
Passion and at the salt i re of love of naiure; to Bernardal de
Saint-Piurie, whose Hill an! Virvinia' is so siirple and charlig:
to Viciary Steel bez pi's kinni to the Trench the ***
Gestan laris, Gersthetics
ir to Chereauiri. se
burn
1). tic tran áil '.
of Anisi rhétur
Wity for a nu kriis
::? 11tly; an! Lamartine viis
1 : ;: :.
inh vilretted iti unison the
3-2. Istor, and harmonios irds
**rataire :
Sal Sub-
(1. text:-
ܕܐ. ܢܨܶܐܪ } ܢ ܐ ; ܕ
***! ! !
fo Witi * (!
itt:1's Vi
in Fr: 1
unts of the
nuing
ISOT the


## p. 8800 (#424) ###########################################


1. JE LAMARINE


## p. 8801 (#425) ###########################################

8801
LAMARTINE
(1790–1869)
BY ALCÉE FORTIER
OK
He eighteenth century in France was not fruitful in poets;
for in order to be a poet it is not sufficient to write elegant,
witty, and correct verses. There must be real inspiration
in a great poem; and that indispensable quality was lacking in the
works of Voltaire, of J. B. Rousseau, of Gilbert, and of their contem-
poraries. There was only one true poet in France in that century,-
André Chénier, who fell a victim to the Revolution on July 25th,
1794, two days before the 9th Thermidor, which put an end to Robes-
pierre's life and to the Reign of Terror. Chénier's brief works are
charming; they were inspired by the poets of Greece, and are grace-
ful and tender. They were little known at the time of the author's
death, however, and a complete edition was published only in 1819,
one year before the world was delighted with the Méditations) of
Lamartine. The latter poet, however, owes nothing to Chénier, who
is essentially a classic animated with true lyric passion.
If we wish to find precursors to Lamartine, we must go back to
prose writers: to J. J. Rousseau, whose works are so full of human
passion and at the same time of love of nature; to Bernardin de
Saint-Pierre, whose Paul and Virginia' is so simple and charming;
to Madame de Staël, who made known to the French the great
German bards, Goethe and Schiller; finally to Châteaubriand, whose
Atala,' (René,' and Martyrs) are more poetic than all the verses
written in the eighteenth century except those of André Chénier. The
great writers just mentioned had prepared the way for a new Renais-
sance in the beginning of the nineteenth century; and Lamartine was
fortunate in striking a new chord with which vibrated in unison the
hearts of all who read the tender, melancholy, and harmonious words
of the Méditations. '
It was the first time in French literature that poetry was so sub-
jective. The works of Rousseau, of Madame de Staël, of Château-
briand, were permeated with the personality of the authors; but such
had not been the case with André Chénier and with the poets of the
seventeenth century. Lamartine's Méditations) resembled nothing
which had yet been published in France, and for that reason the
>
XV-551


## p. 8802 (#426) ###########################################

8802
LAMARTINE
manuscript was rejected by the great publishing firm of Firmin Didot.
The poet expressed his own feelings in such melodious language, and
those feelings were so natural and human, that all the readers of the
(Méditations) took a personal interest in sentiments which were their
own as well as those of the poet. A critic has said of Lamartine,
“He was not a poet, but poetry itself. ” This is eminently true; for
there had not been in the French language for nearly two centuries
such touching, such musical lines as those of the Méditations. )
Racine's verses alone could be compared with them. It was in 1820
that the Méditations were published; after their rejection by Didot
the author read 'Le Lac) in the parlor of Madame de Saint-Aulaire,
and created a deep impression. The volume of Méditations) soon
found a publisher, and he became speedily famous.
Alphonse de Prat de Lamartine was born on October 21st, 1790,
at Mâcon, on the Saône. The country watered by this river is pict-
uresque and fertile, and the Saône itself is a pretty stream which
meets the Rhône at Lyon, and is merged into the impetuous river
claimed as their own by the men of Provence. In his Confidences
and his (Raphael Lamartine gives us his autobiography; somewhat
idealized, perhaps, but correct in the main. He speaks with venera-
tion of his father, who lived long enough to see his son become an
illustrious man; but he has a perfect devotion for his mother, who
was beautiful, noble, and pious, and who communicated to him that
sensibility, that generosity, which have inspired his poetical works.
His father, however, was an austere soldier, and transmitted to his
son that courage which enabled him later to quell the surging masses
by his manly eloquence.
Lamartine's early years were free and happy; he spent some time
at a Jesuit college, but when he returned home it seemed to him
that in the poetry of Creation, he read Greek and Latin verses
translated by God himself into grand and living images. ” His favor-
ite authors were Tasso, Dante, Petrarch, Milton, Shakespeare, Château-
briand, and above all «Ossian,” the mythical Homer of the Gaels,
whose alleged poem was so popular in the beginning of the nine-
teenth century.
Lamartine relates to us in his Confidences) his innocent love
for Lucy, when both he and the young girl were sixteen years old.
Then comes that most charming episode of the poet's life, his voy-
age to Italy and his love for Graziella, the Neapolitan fisherman's
daughter. The simple girl gives her heart to the young stranger: but
the latter is obliged to return to France, and a few months later he
receives a letter and a small package; it is the last farewell of the
dying girl, and her beautiful black locks sent as a memento. M. Ed-
mond Biré, who is a true iconoclast, wishes to prove that Graziella
»


## p. 8803 (#427) ###########################################

LAMARTINE
8803
He was
was not a fisherman's daughter; that she was a shoemaker's daugh-
ter, and never sailed with the poet on the blue waters of the Medi-
terranean. What care we for the truth of Lamartine's story? The
creatures of the poet's imagination are more real than any living
man and woman; and on the way from Naples to Pompeii, one looks
with eager eyes at the fair island of Procida, where Lamartine met
Graziella and began his delightful idyl.
It is in 'Raphael' that we must look for other episodes in Lamar-
tine's life. We see the poet at Aix, in Savoy; he saves the life of
Julie, and relates this incident in his admirable "Le Lac. He loves
Julie, and goes with her to the Charmettes, where had lived Rousseau
and Madame de Warens; and he pays a just tribute to the woman
who gave hospitality and glory to Rousseau, while the author of the
Confessions) has degraded her and has bequeathed shame to her. ”
As the 'Méditations) had made Lamartine immediately famous, he
married a beautiful and wealthy English woman, Miss Marianne Birch,
and became secretary of the French embassy at Florence.
later appointed minister to Greece; but the Revolution of July 1830
interrupted his diplomatic career, and he undertook in 1832 a voyage
to the Orient, which he has related in one of his best-written books.
He traveled with princely magnificence, in company with his wife and
Julia his only child, — whom he lost in the East. The Voyage en
Orient’ is a beautiful work, and may be read with interest even after
Châteaubriand's 'Itinéraire de Paris à Jérusalem. Lamartine's prose
is almost as harmonious as his verses; and the only defect of the
book is that the author has colored somewhat, with the glamour of his
imagination, the description of the places which he visited.
When the Voyage en Orient' was published, Lamartine was
already a member of the French Academy, and had written the
Méditations) (1820), the Nouvelles Méditations) (1823), and the
Harmonies Poétiques et Religieuses) (1830). The first-named poems
are sad and religious, but are also essentially tender; a hymn to love
and the well-beloved. On reading them one feels no despondency:
it is a melodious voice which speaks to us of love, of death, and of
God, and reconciles us to the idea of death by the idea of God. In
the Harmonies' we see that it is indeed the religious idea that
animates the book; but it is an idea loftier and less tender sometimes
than that of the Méditations. ) The Harmonies) may be called a
religious epic; it is in some parts the glorification of Jehovah through
the marvels of Creation. Ask the oak-tree how it was born: An
eagle has caught the acorn fallen from the tree, and has carried it
to its nest. Soon the nest rolls along swept away by a tempest, and
the acorn falls into a furrow. It is watered by the showers of spring,
the seed opens, and the gigantic oak spreads its knotty and power-
ful boughs over the peaceful flocks in the fields. The worlds which
(


## p. 8804 (#428) ###########################################

8804
LAMARTINE
us
surround are also the work of Jehovah; and the poet, in con-
templating the Infinite, is touched with sadness. He asks himself
what is life, what is death? and he says that one must regret, on
leaving this world, only one thing,- love and the woman loved.
In Jocelyn (1836), however, love is conquered by duty. Jocelyn
has entered a seminary in order that his sister may have a larger
dowry and marry the man she loves. He is on the point of becom-
ing a priest, when he is cast into a grotto on the top of the Alps
by the storm of the Revolution. He receives into his wild abode
Laurence, whom he believes to be a boy: he loves her after he has
learnt who she is, and she also loves him: but he abandons the
charming child to answer the call of an old priest, his benefactor.
He takes the oath which binds him to God's altar, and Laurence is
lost to him. He is at first in despair; but his soul is quieted, and he
leads until old age the saintly life of a devoted priest. These few
words do not give an adequate idea of Jocelyn,' in the opinion of
many critics the most beautiful poem in the French language. If
ever the author of the Méditations, and the Harmonies) were to
be forgotten, the humble Jocelyn would recall to men the name of
him who composed such noble verses.
In the mind of the poet, Jocelyn) was an episode of the great
epic in which he intended to show in what way the human soul
reaches perfection. La Chute d'un Ange) (1838) is the second epi-
sode of the poem; but in spite of beautiful verses, we no longer
recognize in this work the tender lover of Elvire, of the Médita-
tions. ? 'La Chute d'un Ange) presents to us some horrible scenes,
and the story is supernatural and uninteresting. However, if Lamar-
tine had completed his epic, he doubtless would have shown us in
another episode not the fallen angel, but man elevated by his cour-
age and by his piety, and rising to heaven in the form of an angel.
He succeeded better in the Last Song of Childe Harold's Pilgrim-
age,' and in the (Recueillements Poétiques) (1839), where we
the last beam of that poetic sun which had guided so many thousand
souls in their route toward the supreme ends,— love and religion.
After the 'Recueillements) Lamartine became a historian, a man
of action; and he pleaded in his “History of the Girondists' the cause
of the Revolution. His is a most eloquent plea, and his work was
received with enthusiasm; although as a history it is not sufficiently
based on documents, and is not reliable. The style of the book is
entrancing and passionate, and it will live as a work of art, as a
masterpiece of vigorous and poetic prose.
The History of the Girondists' appeared not long before the Rev-
olution of 1848; and the men of 1789 and 1793 as depicted by Lamar-
tine exerted a great influence on the men of 1848, who established
the second French republic. Such is the magic of Lamartine's style
see


## p. 8805 (#429) ###########################################

LAMARTINE
8805
that we excuse the faults of the great Revolution, and exclaim with
him:—“That history is glorious and sad, like the day after a victory
and like the eve of another combat. But if that history is full of
mourning, it is above all full of faith. It resembles the antique
drama; where, while the narrator relates the events, the chorus of
the people sings of the victory, weeps for the victims, and addresses
a hymn of consolation and hope to God. ” Let us hope, although
the other combat predicted by the poet failed in 1848, that it was a
success in 1870, when was established the third republic, which has
rendered France again prosperous and powerful.
Lamartine played a very important part in the Revolution of
1848, and during the provisional government he became Minister of
Foreign Affairs. During a riot in Paris he opposed the red flag
of anarchy and sedition; and speaking to the people from the Hôtel
de Ville, he said:–«I shall repulse unto death this flag of blood.
The red flag has only been dragged around the Champ de
Mars in the blood of the people in '91; the tricolored flag has gone
around the world with the name, the glory, and the liberty of the
Fatherland! For a short time Lamartine was the most popular
man in France; he saved the country from anarchy in May 1848, and
was a candidate for the presidency of the republic. He obtained
very few votes, and disappeared almost completely from the political
France rejected the great poet, the orator and statesman; and
elected as President, Louis Napoleon, who was soon to throttle the
republic and to become Napoleon III. Lamartine would not have
thrown France into the disaster of Sedan.
His political career being practically ended, Lamartine became
again a writer. His History of the Revolution of 1848) is rather
partial; but he gives in his History of the Restoration an interest-
ing account of the literary salons of the time. During the empire
the poet, who had always been prodigal, fell into poverty, and wrote
for a living a great many works which have not added to his glory.
We may mention, however, (Généviève,' the Tailleur de Pierre de
Saint-Point,' and his familiar course of literature, where are to be
seen some traces of the exquisite grace of his earlier works. ( Tous-
saint L'Ouverture,' a drama, has little merit; and Lamartine will
remain for posterity the author of the Méditations, of the Harmo-
nies,' of Jocelyn. ' He died in Paris on March ist, 1869. His works
are not as popular now as in his lifetime; but he certainly deserves
to be ranked among the first of French poets, with Hugo, Musset, and
Vigny, and his sweet though not faultless verses will ever be the
delight of mankind.
arena.
Alis Fortien


## p. 8806 (#430) ###########################################

8806
LAMARTINE
THE FISHERMAN'S DAUGHTER
From (Graziella. Reprinted by permission of its publishers, A. C. McClurg
& Co.
T"
HE prow of the boat in striking against the rock gave a
dry and hollow sound, like the crash of a board that falls
accidentally and breaks. We jumped into the water; we
fastened the boat as well as we could with the rope that was
left, and then followed the old man and the child, who took the
lead.
We climbed a sort of narrow stairway that led up the side
of the cliff, - a succession of uneven steps, slippery with the
spray from the sea, which had been dug out with a chisel. The
ascent up this steep stairway had been greatly facilitated by some
artificial steps, made by long poles, the points of which had been
forced into the apertures of the rock; and these frail supports
were covered by planks torn from old boats, or by heaps of
branches from the chestnut-trees, still ornamented with their dead ·
leaves.
After having ascended slowly four or five hundred steps in
this way, we found ourselves in a kind of inclosure, suspended
on high, and surrounded by a parapet of stones. At the end of
this court-yard there were two gloomy archways that seemed to
lead into a cave. Above these great arches were two arcades,
low and rounded, with a terrace for a roof, the edges of which
were decorated with flower-pots of rosemary. Under the arcades
a rustic walk could be seen, in which hanging masses of maïs
glistened in the light of the moon like golden ornaments.
A door made of planks, rudely dovetailed, opened upon this
walk. At the right an inclined plane of ground, upon which a
little house was situated, gradually came up to the same level.
A great fig-tree and some tortuous vine stalks were bending over
the angle of the house, confusing their leaves and fruits at the
entrance of the walk, festooned and creeping over the wall that
supported the arcades above. Their branches had formed bars
to the two low windows that looked out upon this little garden
walk; and if there had been no window, the low, square, and
solid house might have been mistaken for one of the light-gray
rocks, peculiar to the coast, or for one of those blocks of petri-
fied lava (entwined in the branches of the chestnut, the ivy, and
the vine) out of which the grape cultivators of Castellamare and


## p. 8807 (#431) ###########################################

LAMARTINE
8807
Sorrento hew caves, close them with a door, and there preserve
the wine by the side of the stock that first bore it.
Out of breath from the long and steep ascent we had made,
and from the weight of the oars which we carried on our shoul-
ders, the old man, my companion, and I stopped in this court-
yard for a moment in order to rest. But the boy, tossing his
oar upon a pile of brushwood, ran lightly up the stairway; and
with his torch still lighted and in his hand, began knocking at
one of the windows and calling in glee for his grandmother and
sister.
« Mother! Sister! Madre! Sorrellina! Gaetano! Graziella!
Graziella! ” he shouted. “Wake up; open the door: it's father;
it's me; and we have strangers with us. "
We soon heard a voice, not more than half awake, yet clear
and soft, utter some exclamations of surprise from within the
house. Then the window was partly opened, pushed up by an
arm naked and white, that reached out from a flowing sleeve;
and we saw by the light of the torch which the boy, balancing
himself on tiptoe, raised toward the window, the lovely face of
a young girl appear between the shutters which were thrown
widely open.
Awakened from a sound sleep by the unexpected sound of
her brother's voice, Graziella did not think, nor had she time, to
arrange her dress.
She had hurried to the window in bare feet
and just as she had arisen from the bed. Her long black hair,
half of which fell down over one of her cheeks, the other half
curled around her neck, was swept from one side of her shoul-
der to the other by the wind; which still blew harshly, and kept
hitting the shutter and lashing her face like the wing of a raven
driven by the storm.
The young girl rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands,
raising her elbows and expanding her shoulders, with the first
natural gesture of a child on awakening, that wishes to drive
away sleep. Her night-robe, fastened lightly around her neck,
revealed only the outlines of a high and delicate waist, the
youthful rounding of which was scarcely perceptible under the
covering. Her eyes, large and oval in form, were of that un-
decided color between deep black and the blue of the sea, which
tones down the natural radiance by a certain softness of ex-
pression, and unites in the woman's eye the gentleness of her
soul and the force of her passion in about equal proportions:


## p.
8808 (#432) ###########################################

8808
LAMARTINE
a celestial color which the eyes of the Asiatic and Italian women
borrow from the brilliant light of their fiery days, and from the
serene blue of their heaven, their sea, and their night. Her
cheeks were full, round, plump, of a natural pale complexion,
but a little browned by the climate; not of the unnatural pallor
of the North, but of that pure whiteness of the South, which
resembles the color of marble exposed for centuries to the air
and sea. Her mouth, the lips of which were half opened and
very full, and heavier than those of our women, had the charac-
teristic lines of frankness and goodness. Her teeth, small but
shining, sparkled in the fluttering light of the torch like shells
of pearl glistening at the bottom of a wave under the rays of
the sun.
While she was talking to her little brother, half of her words
were carried to us by the wind; and though somewhat sharply
accentuated, they sounded like sweet music to our ears. Her
features, as changeable as the Aittering torch that lighted them
up, rapidly passed from surprise to alarm, from alarm to joy,
from sympathy to laughter. Then she saw us standing behind
the trunk of the great fig-tree, and retired in confusion from the
window. Her hand abandoned the shutter, which now began to
beat freely against the wall. She only took the time to awaken
her grandmother and half dress herself when she came to open
the door for us under the arcades, and tenderly kissed her grand-
father and her brother.
The old grandmother soon made her appearance, holding in
her hand a lamp of red earthenware, which cast its light upon
her thin pale face, and her hair as white as the skeins of wool
which were tossed over the table at the side of the spinning-
wheel. She kissed her husband's hand, and kissed the boy on
the forehead. The recital of what had occurred, which has
taken up so many of these pages, required only a few words and
gestures between the different members of this poor family.
We did not hear the whole of it: we stood apart from them that
we might not stop the natural outpourings of their hearts. They
were poor; we were strangers: and we owed them a certain
respect. The only way we had of showing it was by taking
the place nearest the door and keeping perfectly still.
Graziella looked at us in surprise from time to time, as if
she were in a dream. When the father had finished his story,
the grandmother fell on her knees by the fireside. Graziella,


## p. 8809 (#433) ###########################################

LAMARTINE
8809
stepping up to the terrace above, brought in a branch of rose-
mary, and some orange-blossoms like large white stars. She took
a chair, arranged her flowers into a bouquet, fastening them
with the long pins that she drew from her hair, and placed them
before a little plaster image of the Virgin, which stood above
the door, and before which a lamp was burning. We understood
that this was an offering of thanks to her divine protectress
for having saved her brother and her grandfather; and we shared
her expression of gratitude.
The inside of the house was bare, and in almost every way
as like to the outside as both inside and outside were like the
immense rocks that surrounded it. The walls were entirely with-
out plaster, and covered only with a thin coat of whitewash. Liz-
ards, aroused by the light, shone in the crevices of the rocks,
and crept under the fern leaves that served as the children's bed.
Nests of swallows, whose little black heads peeped out, and whose
restless eyes twinkled in surprise, hung down from the beams,
still covered with bark, which formed the roof. Graziella and
her grandmother slept in the second room on a curious bedstead,
covered with a piece of coarse linen. A few baskets of fruits
and a mule's pack-saddle lay on the shelf.
The fisherman turned toward us with a look of shame, as he
indicated by a sweep of his arm the poverty of his home; then
he led us up to the terrace, the place of honor both in the Orient
and in the south of Italy. With the assistance of Graziella and
the child Beppo, he made us a sort of shed, by placing one end
of our oars upon the wall surrounding the terrace and the other
end upon the ground, then covering these with a dozen or more
branches from a horse-chestnut tree, recently cut on the side of
the mountain. Under this shelter he spread a lot of fern leaves;
he then brought us two pieces of bread, some fresh water and
figs, and wished that we might sleep well.
The physical fatigue and the emotions of the day threw us
into a sudden and deep sleep. When we awoke, the swallows
were chirping around our bed and picking from the ground the
crumbs of our supper; and the sun, already high in the heaven,
heated the fagots of leaves over our heads as if they had been
in a furnace.
We lay a long time stretched upon our fern leaves, lost in
that peculiar state of half-sleep in which the mental faculties


## p. 8810 (#434) ###########################################

8810
LAMARTINE
perceive and think before the senses give one the courage to
get up or move. We exchanged a few inarticulate words, which
were interrupted by long pauses and were lost in our dreams.
The experiences of the previous day,—the boat rolling under
our feet, the angry sea, the unapproachable rocks of the coast,
the face of Graziella looking out between the two shutters and
in the light of the torch, — all these visions flitted before us con-
fusedly, and without connection or appreciation.
We were attracted from this drowsiness by the sobs and com-
plaints of the old grandmother, who was talking to her husband
inside of the house. The chimney, which ran through the ter-
race, brought us the sound of the voices, so that we could hear
some words of the conversation. The poor woman was lamenting
the loss of her jars, of the anchor, of the ropes that were almost
new, and above all, of the beautiful sails woven by her own
hands from her own hemp, all of which we had been cruel
enough to throw into the sea to save our own lives.
“What business had you,” she asked of the old man, who was
frightened into silence, "to take these two strangers, these two
Frenchmen, with you? Don't you know that they are pagans
(pagani), and that they always bring misfortune with their wicked-
ness? The saints have punished you for it. They have stripped
us of our riches, and you may still thank them that they have
not taken away our souls. ”
The poor man did not know what to say. But Graziella, with
the authority and impatience of a spoiled child, to whom the
grandmother always gives way, protested against these reproaches
as unjust, and taking the part of the old man, said to her grand-
mother:
«Who tells you that these strangers are pagans? Are pagans
ever so compassionate for the trials of poor people as these gen-
tlemen have shown themselves? Do pagans make the sign of
the cross like ourselves before the statues of the saints ? Now
let me tell you that yesterday evening, when you had fallen on
your knees to return thanks to God, and when I had adorned the
image of the Madonna with flowers, I saw them bow their heads
as if they were praying, make the sign of the cross upon their
breasts, and I even saw a tear glisten in the eye of the younger
and fall upon his hand. ”
"A tear, indeed! ” the old woman sharply exclaimed.
nothing but a drop of sea-water that fell from his hair. ”
»
~ It was


## p. 8811 (#435) ###########################################

LAMARTINE
8811
"I tell you it was a tear,” said Graziella angrily. ~ The wind
that was blowing so fiercely had plenty of time to dry his hair
from the time he left the beach until he had climbed to the top
of the cliff. But the wind cannot dry the heart, and I tell you
again that there was water in his eye. ”
We understood that we had an all-powerful friend in that
house, for the grandmother did not answer, nor did she complain
any more.
Translation of James B. Runnion.
TO MY LAMP
H*
AIL! sole companion of my lonely toil,
Dear witness once of dearer loves of mine!
My happiness is fled, — thy store of oil
Still with clear light doth shine!
Thou dost recall the bright days of my life,
When in Pompeii's streets I roamed along,
Evoking memories of her brilliant strife,
Half tearful, half in song.
The sun was finishing his mighty round;
I was alone among a buried host;
And in the dust my idle glances found
The name of some poor ghost.
And there I saw thee, 'neath the ashes piled;
And near thee, almost buried with the rest,
The impress left there by some lovely child,
The outline of a breast.
Perhaps by thy light did the virgin go
To pray within the fane, now desolate,
For happiness that she should never know,-
Love, ne'er to be her fate!
Within the tomb her perished beauty lies:
Youth, maiden modesty, the dawning love
A mother's tender glance could scarce surprise,
Fled to the heavens above!
She vanished like the lightning's sudden gleam,
As one wave by another swiftly borne;


## p. 8812 (#436) ###########################################

8812
LAMARTINE
Or as the last hope of some wretch's dream,
When he awakes at morn!
Beauty is not the idol of the best!
I was a fool before her feet to lie,
Forgetting that, a stranger like the rest,
She too must fade and die.
What matter, then, whether she smile or frown?
My soul would seek the worship that is sure!
It needs a god to triumph, be cast down,
And, after all, endure!
Yes, I would tear myself from vain desires,
From all that perishes and is forgot;
And I would seek, to start my altar fires,
A hope that dieth not !
The resting eagle is an eagle still:
Though 'neath his mighty wing he hides his head,
He sees his prey, he strikes it, takes his fill, -
Perchance you thought him dead ?
I pity those who thought one ivy-crowned,
Child of the lyre, born but to touch the string,
Would die inglorious, - yield the golden round,
Live like a banished king.
Never shall weariness make me abjure
The gifts once prized, and cherished still the same.
My dreams shall summon back the enchantress pure,
And whisper her dear name.
Her eyes shall watch over my soul at last;
And when, dear lamp, shall come that mournful night,
When weeping friends behold me fading fast,
Thy flame shall burn more bright!
That flame has often filled my wondering thought;
The sacred emblem of our transient breath,
Mysterious power, to man's dull uses brought,
Sister of life and death!
A breath creates it, at a breath it dies;
It blots in one brief day a city's name;
Like fate ignored, or held a peerless prize
Like beauty or like fame.


## p. 8813 (#437) ###########################################

LAMARTINE
8813
See how it leaps up with a quick desire!
A spirit from on high, to earth no friend;
It takes its flight as human souls aspire,
To seek the unknown end!
All nature slowly to this end is drawn!
'Tis but a sleep, the so-called death of men:
The fly shall have its day, the flower its dawn;
Our clay shall wake again.
Do we the secrets of all nature know?
The sounds of night that on the horizon fail,
The passing cloud that lays the flowers low,
The will-o'-the-wisp of the vale ?
Know we the secret of the nesting dove?
The cradle whence the tomb has snatched its prey ?
What is the mystery of grief, or love,
Or night that follows day?
Have not the murmuring winds a voice, a mood ?
Is not the leaf a book we cannot read ?
The stream that brings us harvest or a flood,
Has not it too its screed?
Let us not strive the kindly veils to raise
Till all that we should see, life's end shall show:
Better know naught than into mysteries gaze!
Better believe than know!
Farewell, my lamp! Blessings upon thy flame!
While I believe and hope, watch thou o'er me!
If ever prideful doubt my soul should claim,
May I go out with thee!
Translation of Katharine Hillard.
ODE TO THE LAKE OF B-
TH
VHUS sailing, sailing on forevermore,
Still borne along, to winds and waves a prey,
Can we not, on life's sea without a shore,
Cast anchor for a day?
Dear lake! one little year has scarcely flown,
And near thy waves she longed once more to see,


## p. 8814 (#438) ###########################################

8814
LAMARTINE
Behold I sit alone upon this stone,
Where once she sat with me.
As now, thy restless waves were moaning through
The creviced rocks, where they their death did ineet;
And flecks of foam from off thy billows blew
Over my dear one's feet.
One night we rowed in silence,- dost recall
That night ? When under all the starry sky
Was heard alone the beat of oars that fall
In cadenced harmony.
When suddenly, upon the startled ear
Accents unknown to earth melodious break;
And with these mournful words, a voice most dear
Charms all the listening lake:--
“ O Time, pause in thy flight! and you, propitious hours,
Pause on your rapid ways!
Let us enjoy the springtime of our powers,
The fairest of all days!
“So many wretched souls would speed your flight,
Urge on the lingering suns,
Take with their days the canker and the blight;
Forget the happy ones!
“But all in vain I try to stay its course:
Time slips away and flies.
I say to night, Pass slowly! and the dawn
Breaks on my startled eyes.
“Let us love, then, and love forevermore!
Enjoy life while we may;
Man has no port, nor has time any shore;
It flees, we pass away! ”
She paused : our hearts speak through our ardent eyes,
Half-uttered phrases tremble on the air;
And in that ecstasy our spirits rise
Up to a world more fair.
And now we cease to speak; in sweet eclipse
Our senses lie, weighed down with all love's store;
Our hearts are beating, and our clinging lips
Murmur, "Forevermore ! »
(C


## p. 8815 (#439) ###########################################

LAMARTINE
8815
Great Heaven! can then these moments of delight,
When love all happiness upon us showers,
Vanish away as swiftly in their flight
As our unhappy hours ?
Eternity, the Darkness, and the Past,
What have you done with all you've made your prey ?
Answer us! will you render back at last
What you have snatched away?
O lake, O silent rocks, O verdurous green! -
You that time spares, or knows how to renew,
Keep of this night, set in this lovely scene,
At least a memory true!
A memory in thy storms and thy repose,
O lake! and where thy smiling waters lave
The sunny shore, or where the dark fir grows,
And hangs above the wave.
In the soft breeze that sighs and then is gone,
In thy shores' song, by thy shores echoed still;
In the pale star whose silvery radiance shone
Above thy wooded hill!
That moaning winds, and reeds that clashing strike,
And perfumes that on balmy breezes moved,
With all we hear, we see, we breathe, alike
May say,
« They loved ! »
Translation of Katharine Hillard.
FAR FROM THE WORLD
F
AR from the faithless and the wicked world,
Fly, O my soul! to some deep solitude;
Fly, shaking from our feet the weary dust
Of love, desire, hope, and carking care
Upon the threshold of these deserts wild.
Behold the rocks, the forests, and the shores,
Nature has molded with her mighty hands:
The streams alone have hollowed out these paths;
Their foam alone has touched the river banks
Where never human foot has left a trace.


## p. 8816 (#440) ###########################################

8816
LAMARTINE
There seek at last for peace within thyself;
Thy dreams of happiness have been but brief!
Drive them forever far from this retreat;
Love nothing but the blue sky that loves thee,
And of the sun alone ask happy days!
To wounded hearts, nature is ever sweet,
And solitude belongs to wretchedness.
Already peace re-enters my sad heart;
Already life takes up, without a jar,
Its course suspended by th and of grief!
Translation of Katharine Hillard.


## p. 8817 (#441) ###########################################

8817
CHARLES LAMB
(1775-1834)
BY ALFRED AINGER
1
O Find anything new to write about Charles Lamb might tax
the ingenuity of the most versatile and resourceful critic in
the Old or New World. And yet experience shows that the
lovers of Elia are never weary of listening for something more about
him, and continue to welcome whatever crumbs of anecdote or frag-
ments of biographical fact may have yet escaped collection. And
this very circumstance shows that Lamb stands in a category of
English-speaking humorists which is not large. Of whom could be
said precisely the same thing, except such few as Shakespeare, Gold-
smith, Johnson, Scott, - writers, that is to say, in whom the human
personality is as interesting or even more so than anything they
have written ? We are interested in Shakespeare's personality, in-
deed, because of the very little we know about him. We are inter-
ested in Goldsmith or Lamb because we know so much, and feel
towards them more as personal friends than as authors.
The personality of Lamb, indeed, is so inwrought and intertwined
with the very fibre of his essays and letters that it is impossible to
separate criticism of the one fr tha of the other. His life is
written in the confidential utterances of his essays; and his occas-
ional verse embodies allusions, even more intimate and touching, to
the sadder epochs and incidents of that life. The saddest of all such
incidents was in the first instance recorded in the most famous of
all his lyrics — the Old Familiar Faces); though Lamb rightly and
wisely withdrew, when the first spasm of bitter emotion was past,
the stanza concerning his mother's death.
Egotism in a writer is either the most unattractive of qualities
or the most engaging. We either rejoice in it or resent it. There
is hardly a third course possible. We resent it when it is a mere
"trap for admiration, or a palpable desire to establish the writer's
importance. We welcome it when the heart is pure, when there is
the requisite genius and individuality to make it precious. But the
writer who indulges in perpetual confidences as to self must be like
Cæsar's wife, “beyond suspicion”: the faintest tinge of self-conscious-
ness is fatal to the charm of self-disclosure. Charles Lamb possesses
XV-552


## p. 8818 (#442) ###########################################

8818
CHARLES LAMB
ness.
this charm; and hence his extraordinary popularity with thousands
even of those whose acquaintance with his favorite authors would
not of itself suffice to make them appreciate his multifarious allusive-
Lamb was a man of widest reading; and in directions in which
the ordinary reader even now, after seventy years or so, is little
versed. But thus far back, it is not too much to say that the very
names of the old English writers on whom Lamb's love of poetry
had been chiefly fed, were unknown to the bulk of the magazine
readers whom in his essays he first addressed. It was not therefore
to exhibit his reading or his antiquarian research, that he interlarded
his discourse with the words of Massinger or Marlowe, Marvell or
Sidney, Fuller or Sir Thomas Browne. He did not even, for the
most part, introduce his quotations with any names attached. He
cited them usually without even inverted commas. He had himself
roamed at will in gardens and orchards of exquisite beauty and
flavor, and could not help pouring what he had gathered at the
feet of his readers. And his instinct did not fail him in taking this
course. It was a curiously bold step, that of daring, when invited to
contribute essays to the London Magazine, to depart from the famil-
iar didactic or allegorical type which had been set by the Spectator
or Rambler, and trust to the perennial attraction of the humblest
human experiences. The South Sea House' was not an alluring
title for the first essay he contributed. The (South Sea Bubble)
might have been; but all that remained of the once famous specu-
lation was a building and a staff of clerks. But yet every dingiest
and most old-fashioned institution in which men go to and fro about
their business has its human side; and wherever there were men,
or the traditions of men, Lamb could make their companionship full
of charm. And how exquisite a thing did he make out of the memo-
ries of that old building where only two years of his own boyish life
were spent:-
“This was once a house of trade, a centre of busy interests. The throng
of merchants was here, the quick pulse of gain; and here some forms of
business are still kept up, though the soul be long since fled. Here are still
to be seen stately porticos; imposing staircases; offices roomy as the state
apartments in palaces, — deserted, or thinly peopled with a few straggling
clerks; the still more sacred interiors of court and committee rooms, with
venerable faces of beadles, doorkeepers — directors seated in form on solemn
days (to proclaim a dead dividend), at long worm-eaten tables that have been
mahogany, with tarnished gilt leather coverings, supporting many silver ink-
stands long since dry _ »
« There are many echoes,” Goethe said, “but few voices. It is
the « voices » in literature that become classics. The echoes have
their short life and then die away. Lamb is one of such voices; and
»
))
(C


## p. 8819 (#443) ###########################################

CHARLES LAMB
8819
(
thus he has lived, and will live. It was not a voice that protested or
proclaimed much, - and certainly never from the. housetops, — but it
was his own. Compounded of many simples,” like the melancholy
of Jaques in the forest, Lamb's humor was altogether free from the
self-assertion or the discontent of the exiled philosopher of Arden.
His sweet acquiescence in the burdens and sorrows of his life was
rather that of the laughing philosopher Touchstone, whom Shake-
speare has pitted against the more specious moralist. He would have
pleaded that if the manner he had adopted was strange or ill-favored,
it was at least his own. ”
It is remarkable that Lamb's most universally popular essay, that
on Roast Pig,' is by no means one of his most characteristic. It is
not too much to say that many inferior humorists could have made a
success almost as great out of the same material. For in this case
Lamb had a really humorous notion put into his head. Given the
accidental discovery of the gastronomic value of cooked meat, the
humorous possibilities are at once perceptible. It is where the raw
material of the essay is nothing and the treatment everything that
the real individuality of Lamb stands forth. It is in such essays as
the Praise of Chimney-Sweepers,' or (Mrs. Battle on Whist, or the
(Recollections of an old Manor-House in Hertfordshire,' that we are
to look for what gives Lamb his unique place in literature and in
the hearts of those who love him.
There is food, however, for many tastes in Charles Lamb. There
is the infinite pathos of such a revelation as that in Dream Child-
ren,' which for delicate beauty and tenderness has no rival in Eng-
lish literature; there is the consummate observation and criticism of
human character in Imperfect Sympathies’; there is the perfection
of narrative art in such an anecdote as that told in Barbara S. );
there is the supreme æsthetic quality, as where he descants on the
superiority of Shakespeare to any of his contemporaries, or where he
compels our admiration for the moral value of such a satirist as
Hogarth. We are always discovering some new faculty in Lamb, and
passing from one to another with astonishing suddenness,— from the
poet to the humorist, from the moral teacher to the æsthetic critic;
and all the while the manner is often so like that of the gossip and
j ester that the reader would undervalue it as very easy writing,”
did we not know by Lamb's own confessions that his most lucid and
a pparently facile confidences were often wrung from him with slow
pain. ” So certain is it always that “easy writing) makes “hard
reading, and that the most seeming-casual of essays, if it is to live,
must have something in it of the life-blood of the writer.
And beyond all question it is the personal experiences of Lamb
that generate the supreme quality of all he wrote. It is the beauty
»


## p. 8820 (#444) ###########################################

8820
CHARLES LAMB
-
of his character — its charity and tenderness, its capacity for lifelong
sacrifice and devotion, fruits of the discipline it had undergone - that
constitutes the soil which nourished even the lightest flowers and
graces of his style. Lamb had contemporaries and rivals in his own
walk, each with rare and attractive gifts of his own,- Hazlitt and
Leigh Hunt. We owe much to both of these. Each was endowed
with critical faculties of the highest order. Each in his own line has
done memorable service in establishing the true canons of literary
criticism.