No More Learning

Gorgo-Courage, Praxinoë. We are safe behind them now,
and they have gone to their station.
Praxinoë- There! I begin to be myself again. Ever since I
was a child I have feared nothing so much as horses and the
chilly snake. Come along the huge mob is overflowing us.
Gorgo [to an old woman]-Are you from the court, mother?
Old Woman-I am, my child.
Praxinoë-Is it easy to get there?
Old Woman - The Achæans got into Troy by trying, my
prettiest of ladies. Trying will do everything in the long run.
Gorgo-The old wife has spoken her oracles, and off she
goes.
Praxinoë-Women know everything, yes; and how Zeus mar-
ried Hera!
Gorgo-See, Praxinoë, what a crowd there is about the doors.
Praxinoë- Monstrous, Gorgo! Give me your hand: and you,
Eunoë, catch hold of Eutychis; never lose hold of her, for fear
lest you get lost. Let us all go in together; Eunoë, clutch tight
to me. Oh, how tiresome, Gorgo: my muslin veil is torn in two
already! For heaven's sake, sir, if you ever wish to be fortu-
nate, take care of my shawl!
Stranger I can hardly help myself, but for all that I will be
as careful as I can.
Praxinoë- How close-packed the mob is! they hustle like a
herd of swine.
Stranger-Courage, lady: all is well with us now.
Praxinoë- Both this year and for ever may all be well with
you, my dear sir, for your care of us. A good kind man! We're
letting Eunoë get squeezed: come, wretched girl, push your way
through. That is the way. We are all on the right side of the
door, quoth the bridegroom, when he had shut himself in with.
his bride.
―
Gorgo-Do come here, Praxinoë. Look first at these em-
broideries. How light and how lovely! You will call them the
garments of the gods.
Praxinoë- Lady Athene! what spinningwomen wrought them,
what painters designed these drawings, so true they are? How


## p. 14787 (#361) ##########################################

THEOCRITUS
14787
woven.
naturally they stand and move, like living creatures, not patterns
What a clever thing is man! Ah, and himself - Adonis
how beautiful to behold he lies on his silver couch, with the
first down on his cheeks, the thrice-beloved Adonis,- Adonis be-
loved even among the dead.
A Stranger-You weariful women, do cease your endless
cooing talk! -They bore one to death with their eternal broad
vowels!
-
Gorgo-Indeed!
And where may this person come from?
What is it to you if we are chatterboxes? Give orders to your
own servants, sir. Do you pretend to command ladies of Syra-
cuse? If you must know, we are Corinthians by descent, like
Bellerophon himself, and we speak Peloponnesian. Dorian women
may lawfully speak Doric, I presume?
Praxinoë- Lady Persephone! never may we have more than
one master. I am not afraid of your putting me on short com-
mons.
Gorgo-Hush, hush, Praxinoë: the Argive woman's daugh-
ter, the great singer, is beginning the 'Adonis'; she that won
the prize last year for dirge-singing. I am sure she will give us
something lovely; see, she is preluding with her airs and graces.
THE PSALM OF ADONIS
O QUEEN that lovest Golgi, and Idalium, and the steep of
Eryx! O Aphrodite that playest with gold! lo, from the stream
eternal of Acheron they have brought back to thee Adonis —
even in the twelfth month they have brought him, the dainty-
footed Hours. Tardiest of the Immortals are the beloved Hours;
but dear and desired they come, for always to all mortals they
bring some gift with them. O Cypris, daughter of Dione, from
mortal to immortal, so men tell, thou hast changed Berenice,
dropping softly in the woman's breast the stuff of immortality.
Therefore, for thy delight, O thou of many names and many
temples, doth the daughter of Berenice, even Arsinoë, lovely as
Helen, cherish Adonis with all things beautiful.
Before him lie all ripe fruits that the tall trees' branches bear;
and the delicate gardens, arrayed in baskets of silver, and the
golden vessels, are full of incense of Syria. And all the dainty
cakes that women fashion in the kneading-tray, mingling blos-
soms manifold with the white wheaten flour, all that is wrought


## p. 14788 (#362) ##########################################

14788
THEOCRITUS
of honey sweet, and in soft olive oil, all cakes fashioned in the
semblance of things that fly and of things that creep,-lo, here
they are set before him.
Here are built for him shadowy bowers of green, all laden
with tender anise; and children flit overhead - the little Loves-
as the young nightingales perched upon the trees fly forth and
try their wings from bough to bough.
Oh, the ebony; oh, the gold; oh, the twin eagles of white
ivory that carry to Zeus the son of Cronos his darling, his cup-
bearer! Oh, the purple coverlet strown above, more soft than
sleep! So Miletus will say, and whoso feeds sheep in Samos.
Another bed is strown for beautiful Adonis, one bed Cypris
keeps, and one the rosy-armed Adonis. A bridegroom of eighteen
or nineteen years is he; his kisses are not rough, the golden
down being yet upon his lips! And now, good-night to Cypris
in the arms of her lover! But lo, in the morning we will all of
us gather with the dew, and carry him forth among the waves
that break upon the beach; and with locks unloosed, and ungirt
raiment falling to the ankles, and bosoms bare, we will begin our
shrill sweet song.
Thou only, dear Adonis, so men tell,- thou only of the demi-
gods dost visit both this world and the stream of Acheron. For
Agamemnon had no such lot; nor Aias, that mighty lord of the
terrible anger; nor Hector, the eldest born of the twenty sons of
Hecabe; nor Patroclus; nor Pyrrhus, that returned out of Troy-
land; nor the heroes of yet more ancient days, the Lapithe
and Deucalion's sons; nor the sons of Pelops, and the chiefs of
Pelasgian Argos. Be gracious now, dear Adonis, and propitious
even in the coming year. Dear to us has thine advent been,
Adonis, and dear shall it be when thou comest again.
Gorgo-Praxinoë, the woman is cleverer than we fancied!
Happy woman to know so much; thrice happy to have so sweet
a voice. Well, all the same, it is time to be making for home.
Diocleides has not had his dinner, and the man is all vinegar,—
don't venture near him when he is kept waiting for dinner.
Farewell, beloved Adonis: may you find us glad at your next
coming!
Translation of Andrew Lang.


## p. 14789 (#363) ##########################################

14789
THEOGNIS
(SIXTH AND FIFTH (? ) CENTURIES B. C. )
UR ignorance as to the life of this favorite didactic poet
is almost ludicrously complete. So early and competent a
literary critic as Plato quotes from "Theognis, a citizen
of Megara in Sicily. " Yet the poet himself declares he was but a
visitor in Sicily, and a native of the parent-city Megara in Hellas
proper, the jealous neighbor of Athens. Again, the lexicographers
assign him to the 58th Olympiad (about the middle of the sixth cen-
tury); but he himself thanks Apollo for averting from his native land
"the insolent host of the Medes," so he must at least have outlived
the first Persian invasion, by Mardonius, in 492 B. C.
There is, however, another possibility. In this corpus of six
hundred and ninety-four elegiac couplets are found frequently verses
elsewhere accredited to Solon, to Mimnermus, to Tyrtæus, etc. There
is also a deal of repetition, with little or no change of words. So it
appears that the very popularity of the work has drawn into it much
alien or unclaimed material. It is perhaps a general collection of
ethical maxims, representing the morality of an epoch, of a race. In
that case, all attempt at chronology becomes desperate.
The chief trace of unity in the volume is to be sought in the
name of the beautiful boy Kyrnos; who is often addressed by name,
and for whose education and worldly success these warnings and
suggestions are gathered up. Some expressions of warm affection
and admiration may remind us that it was almost solely masculine
youth and loveliness that aroused in the Hellenic mind the sentiment
which the Italian poet devotes to a real or ideal Laura, Beatrice, or
Corinna.
-
Much of this volume is as prosaic as Solon's political harangues:
and we could easily accept Athenæus's assertion that Theognis did
not set his poems to music. But as usual, Theognis himself refutes
our later informant; especially in the passage wherein he claims to
have immortalized his boyish friend by his songs.
If we may judge from the prevailing tone of the poem, Theognis
had little of Solon's gentle and conciliatory nature. In the civic strife
that long distracted Megara, he is a fierce partisan of the oligarchs;
sharing their exile and poverty, their restoration amid threats of sav-
age vengeance, their utter contempt for the base-born.


## p. 14790 (#364) ##########################################

14790
THEOGNIS
The general ethical tone of the verse is not high. Loyalty to
friendship is the chord most enthusiastically struck. There is a
frequent pessimistic tone about human life. The very gods are
reproached for grievous injustice. Poverty is so bitter that suicide is
a justifiable means of escape. Temperance - in the Greek sense — — is
praised; yet even here there are exceptions:-
--
"Shameful it is for a man to be drunk among those who are sober:
Shameful as well to remain sober when others are drunk! »
Altogether, the book is not a remarkably edifying one; and the
attempt to disentangle the various poems, authors, and times repre-
sented in it is a task "for a laborious man, and a patient,—and not
very happy at that! " as Plato says of those who would expound the
meaning of the myths.
Perhaps Theognis appears at his best-and he certainly appears
with great frequency-as he is cited in quotation, by Plato and
nearly every later author who discourses on social and ethical themes.
His great fame in antiquity demanded some attempt at analysis here.
The verses of Theognis are accessible as printed in any text of
the Greek lyric poetry; and some portions of his work are usually
included in the annotated anthologies. Any one who wishes to make
a thorough study of him either in Greek or English will find abund-
ant aid in the volume of the Bohn Library which is chiefly devoted
to Hesiod. This contains a literal prose translation of Theognis,
with copious references to parallel literature. Furthermore, the most
gifted of translators, John Hookham Frere, undertook to reconstruct
both the outer and inner biography of our poet from hints afforded
in his verse. The attempt itself could hardly be successful if our
account of the materials given above has any elements of truth.
Incidentally, however, Frere provided us also with a happy translation
of nearly or quite the entire body of verse, rearranged freely for his
special purposes. This essay of Frere is also included in the vol-
ume before mentioned, and from it we draw all the citations given
below.


## p. 14791 (#365) ##########################################

THEOGNIS
14791
THE BELOVED YOUTH GAINS FAME FROM THE POET'S SONGS
you soar aloft, and over land and wave
You
Are borne triumphant on the wings I gave
(The swift and mighty wings, Music and Verse).
Your name in easy numbers smooth and terse
Is wafted o'er the world; and heard among
The banquetings and feasts, chanted and sung,
Heard and admired; the modulated air
Of flutes, and voices of the young and fair,
Recite it, and to future times shall tell,
When, closed within the dark sepulchral cell,
Your form shall molder, and your empty ghost
Wander along the dreary Stygian coast.
Yet shall your memory flourish fresh and young,
Recorded and revived on every tongue,
In continents and islands, every place
That owns the language of the Grecian race.
No purchased prowess of a racing steed,
But the triumphant Muse, with airy speed,
Shall bear it wide and far, o'er land and main,
A glorious and unperishable strain;
A mighty prize, gratuitously won,
Fixed as the earth, immortal as the sun.
But for all this no kindness in return!
No token of attention or concern!
Baffled and scorned, you treat me like a child,
From day to day, with empty words beguiled.
Remember! common justice, common-sense,
Are the best blessings which the gods dispense:
And each man has his object; all aspire
To something which they covet and desire.
Like a fair courser, conqueror in the race,
Bound to a charioteer sordid and base,
I feel it with disdain; and many a day
Have longed to break the curb and burst away.


## p. 14792 (#366) ##########################################

14792
THEOGNIS
WORLDLY WISDOM
Jon
OIN with the world; adopt with every man
His party views, his temper, and his plan;
Strive to avoid offense, study to please,-
Like the sagacious inmate of the seas,
That an accommodating color brings,
Conforming to the rock to which he clings;
With every change of place changing his hue:
The model for a statesman such as you.
Learn, Kurnus, learn to bear an easy mind;
Accommodate your humor to mankind
And human nature; - take it as you find!
A mixture of ingredients, good or bad, -
Such are we all, the best that can be had:
The best are found defective; and the rest,
For common use, are equal to the best.
Suppose it had been otherwise decreed-
How could the business of the world proceed?
―
Fairly examined, truly understood,
No man is wholly bad nor wholly good,
Nor uniformly wise. In every case,
Habit and accident, and time and place,
Affect us. 'Tis the nature of the race.
Entire and perfect happiness is never
Vouchsafed to man; but nobler minds endeavor
To keep their inward sorrows unrevealed.
With meaner spirits nothing is concealed:
Weak, and unable to conform to fortune,
With rude rejoicing or complaint importune,
They vent their exultation or distress.
Whate'er betides us, grief or happiness,
The brave and wise will bear with steady mind,
Th' allotment unforeseen and undefined
Of good or evil, which the gods bestow,
Promiscuously dealt to man below.
Learn patience, O my soul! though racked and torn
With deep distress - bear it! - it must be borne!
Your unavailing hopes and vain regret,
Forget them, or endeavor to forget:
Those womanish repinings, unrepressed
(Which gratify your foes), serve to molest
Your sympathizing friends- learn to endure!
And bear calamities you cannot cure!


## p. 14793 (#367) ##########################################

THEOGNIS
14793
"DESERT A BEGGAR BORN»
B
LESSED, almighty Jove! with deep amaze
I view the world, and marvel at thy ways!
All our devices, every subtle plan,
Each secret act, and all the thoughts of man,
Your boundless intellect can comprehend!
On your award our destinies depend.
How can you reconcile it to your sense
Of right and wrong, thus loosely to dispense
Your bounties on the wicked and the good?
How can your laws be known or understood,
When we behold a man faithful and just,
Humbly devout, true to his word and trust,
Dejected and oppressed; whilst the profane
And wicked and unjust, in glory reign,
Proudly triumphant, flushed with power and gain?
What inference can human reason draw?
How can we guess the secret of thy law,
Or choose the path approved by power divine?
We take, alas! perforce, the crooked line,
And act unwillingly the baser part,
Though loving truth and justice at our heart;
For very need, reluctantly compelled
To falsify the principles we held;
With party factions basely to comply;
To flatter, and dissemble, and to lie!
---
Yet he the truly brave tried by the test
Of sharp misfortune, is approved the best;
While the soul-searching power of indigence
Confounds the weak, and banishes pretense.
Fixt in an honorable purpose still,
The brave preserve the same unconquered will;
Indifferent to fortune, good or ill.
-
A SAVAGE PRAYER
M
AY Jove assist me to discharge the debt
Of kindness to my friends, and grant me yet
A further boon-revenge upon my foes!
With these accomplished, I could gladly close
My term of life—a fair requital made;
My friends rewarded, and my wrongs repaid:


## p. 14794 (#368) ##########################################

14794
THEOGNIS
Revenge and gratitude, before I die,
Might make me deemed almost a deity!
Yet hear, O mighty Jove, and grant my prayer,
Relieve me from affliction and despair!
Oh, take my life, or grant me some redress,
Some foretaste of returning happiness!
Such is my state: I cannot yet descry
A chance of vengeance on mine enemy,
The rude despoilers of my property;
Whilst I like to a scared and hunted hound
That scarce escaping, trembling and half drowned,
Crosses a gully, swelled with wintry rain
Have crept ashore, in feebleness and pain.
Yet my full wish,- to drink their very blood,—
Some power divine, that watches for my good,
May yet accomplish. Soon may he fulfill
My righteous hope, my just and hearty will.
-


## p. 14795 (#369) ##########################################

14795
ANDRÉ THEURIET
(1833-)
N 1857 a poem by a new hand appeared in the Revue des
Deux Mondes. 'In Memoriam' was a romance in verse,
and it showed the qualities which distinguish all its author's
prose and poetry.
André Theuriet was born at Marly-le-Roi in 1833, and passed his
school days at Bar-le-Duc. Later he studied law in Paris, and then
accepted a position in the Treasury Department.
Theuriet began his literary career with poems; but he has also
been popular as a writer of stories, and has
been a well-known contributor of both to
many Paris journals; among them L'Illus-
tration, Le Moniteur, Le Figaro, Le Gau-
lois, and the Revue des Deux Mondes.

His poems were first collected in 1867,
when he published them in a volume enti-
tled 'Chemin du Bois,' which had the honor
of being crowned by the French Academy.
He has since then published several new
volumes of poems. Both in verse and
prose Theuriet excels in delicate depiction
of country life and of nature, and in his
sympathetic analysis of beauty.
ANDRE THEURIET
Theuriet has also attempted drama; and
in 1871 his 'Jean Marie,' a one-act play, was given with success at
the Odéon.
He has written a large number of novels and short stories, and
many of these have been translated into English. Among the best
known are 'The Maugars,' 'Angela's Fortune,' 'The House of the
Two Barbels,' 'Madame Heurteloup,' and 'Stories of Every-day Life. '
Perhaps their greatest charm is the quiet simplicity with which the
characters are drawn and the plot developed. "Theuriet is cer-
tainly," said Jules Lemaître, "the best, most cordial, and most accu-
rate painter of our little French bourgeoisie, half peasant in nature
and half townsfolk. "
He has a gentleness of spirit which makes him more alive to the
pathetic than to the tragic. He is more tender than strong. So both


## p. 14796 (#370) ##########################################


14796
ANDRÉ THEURIET
in his dainty and musical poems, and his graceful prose, he pleases
by his calm and discriminating exposition of the life he studies rather
than by emotional force.
THE BRETONNE
From Stories of Every-day Life
Ο
NE November night, the eve of St. Catherine, the iron grating,
of the Auberive Central Prison turned on its hinges to
release a woman about thirty years old. She was dressed
in a faded woolen gown, and wore a white cap which made an
odd frame for a face puffed and bleached by the prison régime.
She was a prisoner whose sentence had just expired. Her fellow
convicts called her "The Bretonne. " Just six years before, the
prison wagon had brought her there condemned for infanticide.
After having dressed herself again in her own clothes, and being
paid her small savings at the office, she was once more free,
with a passport marked for Langres.
The mail had already started; so, frightened and awkward,
she went stumblingly to the chief inn of the place, and in a hesi-
tating voice requested a night's lodging. The inn was full; and
the landlady, who was not at all anxious to harbor a bird of this
feather, advised her to try the little public-house at the other
end of the village.
The Bretonne, more and more dazed and awkward, went on
her way, and knocked at the door of this inn, which was in truth
hardly more than a tavern for laborers. This landlady too glanced
her over distrustfully; and then, doubtless divining an ex-convict,
sent her away on the pretext that she did not keep people over
night. The Bretonne dared not insist, but went meekly with
drooping head; while a sullen hate rose in her heart against the
world which thus repulsed her. There was nothing to do but
walk on to Langres. By the end of November, night falls early;
and as she followed the gray road stretching between two rows
of trees, with a rude north wind whistling in the branches, and
scattering the dead leaves, she was soon enveloped in darkness.
After six years of a confined and sedentary life she had almost
forgotten how to walk.
Her knee-joints felt as though they
were bound; her feet, used to sabots, were uncomfortable in her
new shoes.
Before she had walked a league they were weary
I


## p. 14797 (#371) ##########################################

ANDRÉ THEURIET
14797
and blistered. She sat down on a stone and shivered, wonder-
ing if she must die of cold and hunger in the black night under
the chilling wind. Suddenly along the quiet road, through the
gusts of wind, she thought she heard the lingering sound of a
voice singing. As she listened, she distinguished the cadences of
one of the monotonous caressing little songs with which mothers
rock their children. Rising, she walked in the direction from
which it came; and reaching the turn of a cross-road, saw a light
glowing through the branches.
Five minutes later she reached a clay hut, with a roof covered
with clods of earth, and with a single window from which beamed
luminous rays. With a beating heart she made up her mind to
knock. The song stopped at once, and a peasant woman came
to the door. She was about the same age as the Bretonne, but
worn and faded with hard work. Her torn jacket showed some-
thing of her rough tanned skin; her red hair escaped in disorder
from her cloth cap. Her gray eyes gazed in surprise at this
rather odd-looking stranger.
"Well, good evening," she said, holding up her lamp.
is it? "
"I can go no farther," murmured the Bretonne with a stifled
sob. "The town is so far away; and if you will only take me
in for the night, I shall be very grateful. I shall be glad to pay
for your trouble. "
"Come in! " answered the other after a moment's hesitation.
Then she went on, in a voice that sounded inquisitive rather than
suspicious, "Why didn't you stay at Auberive ? »
"They wouldn't keep me;" and drooping her blue eyes, the
Bretonne, seized with a scruple, added: "You see I am just out
of prison, and people are afraid. "
"Ah! Come in just the same. I'm not at all afraid, as
I've never had anything but my poverty. It would be a sin to
shut the door on any Christian such a cold night. I'll get some
heather for your bed. "
She brought some armfuls of heather from a shed, and spread
them in a corner near the fire.
"What
"Do you live here all alone? " asked the Bretonne timidly.
"Yes, with my youngster who is nearly seven. I get our liv
ing by working in the wood,»
"So your husband is dead ? »
"I never had one," said the woman brusquely. "My poor
baby has no father. Never mind. Every one has his own


## p. 14798 (#372) ##########################################

14798
ANDRÉ THEURIET
troubles. Now there is your bed all ready for you, and here are
two or three potatoes left from our supper. It's all I can offer
you. "
She was interrupted by a childish voice from a dark little
hole separated from the main room by a wooden partition.
"Good-night," she added. "I hope you'll sleep well. I must
go to my baby: she's scared. "
She took the lamp and went into the next room, leaving her
guest in darkness. The Bretonne stretched herself out on the
heather. She ate her potatoes and then tried to close her
eyes, but sleep would not come to her. Through the thin parti-
tion she could hear the mother talking softly to the child, who
had been waked by the stranger's arrival and would not go to
sleep again. The mother petted and kissed her, with simple caress-
ing words which touched the Bretonne's heart.
This outbreak of tenderness stirred a confused maternal in-
stinct in the heart of the girl, who had been sentenced for stifling
her new-born baby. She remembered that her own child might
have been just the age of this little girl. This thought, and
the sound of the childish voice, made her shudder profoundly. A
gentle sentiment melted her bitter heart, and she felt moved to
weep.
"Come, my pet," said the mother. "If you are good, I will
take you to the fair of St. Catherine to-morrow. "
"St. Catherine is the little girls' saint, isn't she, mamma? "
"Yes, little one. "
"Does St. Catherine really bring playthings to children? "
"Yes, sometimes. "
"Why doesn't she bring me some? "
>>
"We live too far off, and then we are too poor. '
"Does she give them only to rich people? Why, mamma?
I would like some playthings too. "
"Well some day, if you are good-if you go to sleep like a
good girl-perhaps she will bring you some. "
"Then I'll go to sleep right away, so that she'll bring me
some to-morrow. "
Silence. Then light and even breathing. Both mother and
child were slumbering. The Bretonne alone could not sleep.
Her heart was wrung by a poignant yet tender emotion. She
thought more and more of her dead little one. At dawn the
mother and child were still fast asleep. The Bretonne slipped
quietly out of the house, and walking quickly towards Auberive,


## p. 14799 (#373) ##########################################

ANDRÉ THEURIET
14799
did not pause until she reached the first houses. Then she went
more slowly up the one street, reading the signs over the shops.
At last one seemed to satisfy her, and she knocked on the blinds
until she was admitted. It was a little haberdashery, where they
had also some playthings,-poor shopworn paper dolls, Noah's
arks, and sheepfolds. To the merchant's amazement, the Bre-
tonne bought them all, and then went away. She was going back
to the hut when she felt a hand on her shoulder; and turning
in fear, saw a police officer. The poor thing had forgotten that
convicts, after their release, were not allowed to remain in the
neighborhood of the prison.
"You ought to be at Langres by this time instead of vaga-
bonding here," said the officer severely. "Come, off with you. "
She tried to explain, but he would not listen. In a twinkling
a cart was obtained, she was forced to get in with a policeman
as escort, and off they went.
The cart jolted along the frozen road, and the poor Bre-
tonne pressed her package of toys between her chilled fingers.
They reached a turn in the road, and she recognized the foot-
path through the woods. Her heart leaped, and she implored the
policeman to stop and let her deliver a message to a woman who
lived only two steps away. She pleaded so earnestly that the
good-hearted fellow allowed himself to be persuaded. The horse
was tied to a tree, and they went along the path to the hut.
The woman was chopping kindling-wood in front of the door.
At sight of her guest returning with a policeman, she stood stu-
pefied, her arms hanging.
"Hush! " said the Bretonne. "Is the little one still sleep-
ing? "
"Yes - but — »
"Take these toys and put them softly on her bed. Tell her
St. Catherine sent them. I went back to Auberive for them,
but it seems I had no right, so they are taking me to Langres. "
"Blessed Virgin! " cried the mother.
"Hush! "
They went in the house to the bed. The Bretonne's escort
kept close behind her while she set out on the coverlid the dolls,
the ark, and the sheepfold. She kissed the bare little arm of the
sleeping child. Then she turned to the policeman, who was rub-
bing his eyes:-
«<
"Now," she said, we can start. "


## p. 14800 (#374) ##########################################

14800
ANDRÉ THEURIET
AN EASTER STORY
From Stories of Every-day Life'
TH
HERE was at Seville, in the faubourg of Triana, a boy of
fifteen years named Juanito el Morenito.
He was an
orphan; had grown by good luck, like a weed, on the pave-
ment of Triana: sleeping now out of doors, now in the stable of
a lodging-house; living on a handful of sweet acorns, or a fried
fish bought at a discount, and earning his living in a hundred
little occupations, of which the most lucrative was selling pro-
grammes at the doors of the theatres. In spite of his rags, he was
a pretty boy; with luminous eyes, smiling mouth, and curly hair,
and so deeply tanned that he had been surnamed Morenito. He
had, moreover, a little gipsy blood in his veins; and like the gip-
sies, he was of an independent disposition, loving vagrancy, and
passionately fond of bull-fights.
Upon Good Friday he awoke in a morose spirit. Throughout
Holy Week the theatres had been closed; and not having been
able to pursue his business of selling programmes, he had not
a cuarto in his pocket. His poverty was the more irksome that
upon Easter Day there was to be a magnificent bull-baiting, with
Mazzantini and Frascuelo as spadas, and that his empty purse
would deprive him of his favorite spectacle.
Nevertheless he resolved to go and seek his luck in the streets
of Seville; and after addressing a prayer to the Virgin de la
Esperanza, to whom he was very devoted, he shook off the bits
of straw which clung to his hair, and hurried out of the stable
where he had slept.
The morning was magnificent. The slender rose-tower of the
Giralda stood out clearly against the deep-blue sky. The streets
were already full of people from the country, who had come
to Seville to see the processions of the Confradias. In passing
before the Plaza de Toros, Morenito saw a long line of eager
people already besieging the ticket-office; and this augmented the
bitterness of his regrets. For four hours he rambled about Rue
Sierpes, sniffing the fried fish and the cinnamon cakes brown-
ing in boiling oil, and following the toreadors as they strutted
slowly before the cafés in their short coats and narrow breeches.
He racked his brain for an honest means of gaining a few pese-
tas. He attempted in vain to join those who were crying pro-
grammes of the procession with the names of the different


## p. 14801 (#375) ##########################################

ANDRÉ THEURIET
14801
fraternities: all the places were taken, and he was repulsed on
all sides. At last, having tried everything he could think of,-
his stomach empty, and his back baked by the sun,- he came out
on the Plaza de la Constitucion, where the processions must stop;
and finding a shady corner under one of the portals of the Audi-
encia, he decided to rest there while waiting for the Confradias
to pass.
"Who sleeps, dines;" and in place of a breakfast, Morenito
gave himself a good slice of slumber. He soon slept profoundly;
and upon my word he looked very handsome, stretched his full
length upon the white pavement, one arm folded under his curly
black head,- his eyelids shut tight with their long lashes, and
his red lips half open in a vague smile which partly uncovered
his little white teeth.
-
While he was slumbering, a couple of tourists passed; young
people, husband and wife probably,- certainly a pair of lovers,
as was evident by the way they held each other's arms.
"See what a pretty fellow he is," said the young man, stop-
ping to contemplate the sleeper; "and what a charming picture
that would make! What a delightful attitude! It's all there;
even the significant gesture of this open hand, which looks as if
it were expecting some windfall to drop into it during sleep. "
"Do you know," answered the young wife, "how to give this
sleeper a fine surprise? Put a piece of silver in his hand for
him to find when he wakes! >>
Lovers are generous. The young man took a five-franc piece
from his purse, and placed it gently on the open hand; which
by a mechanical movement half closed at the cool contact of the
metal. Then the couple went away laughing.
Morenito continued to sleep; and while sleeping, he dreamed.
He dreamed that the pure Virgin of the Esperanza was descend-
ing to him on a ladder the color of a rainbow. She had a crown
of lilies in her hair, and was carrying white roses in her hands.
And she said to him in a voice sweet as honey: "Juanito, thou
hast never forgotten to pray to me morning and evening. In
honor of the resurrection of my son, I wish to recompense thee.
Thou shalt go to see the bulls on Sunday! " At the same time,
the Virgin shook the petals from her white roses into Morenito's
hand; and in falling, each rose leaf changed into a piece of sil-
ver: and Morenito experienced such joy that it awoke him. He
stretched himself, and from one of his hands-oh, miracle! -
XXV-926


## p. 14802 (#376) ##########################################

14802
ANDRÉ THEURIET
He
a white coin slipped and fell with a silvery sound upon the
flagging. He could not believe either his eyes or his ears.
picked up the coin. It was a beautiful bright piece of five
pesetas. The Virgin had not mocked him, and he could go to
the bull-fight! With a bound he was on his feet, and running
toward the Plaza de Toros.
As he was turning the corner of the Calle San Pablo, he
almost rushed against a slip of a girl of the faubourg of Triana,
whom he had known since childhood, and who was named Chata.
She was very pale, and her great black eyes were full of tears.
"What is the matter, Chata? " he asked her.
"My mother is sick," she answered, "and I have not been
to bed for two nights. The doctor came this morning and or-
dered remedies. I went to the druggist's, but he would not give
me anything on credit. What shall I do?
What shall I do? If the bells toll for
her, they will toll for me too: I will not outlive her! "
Morenito remained thoughtful a moment, his gaze plunged
into Chata's tearful black eyes; then suddenly, taking the miracu-
lous coin, he put it into the hand of his little friend.
"Here, nina mia," he said, "take this money: it came from
the Virgin of the Esperanza, and the bonita Madre will not be
vexed if I use it to cure your mother. "
Chata was so excited that she did not take time even to
thank him, but ran to the druggist's without once looking back.
It was written that Morenito was surely not to go to the
prime bull-fight. But as there are compensations in the world,
he passed a gay Sunday nevertheless. That day Chata's mother
was better, and the little girl came to the lodging-house court
to thank Juanito. She had made something of a toilet; and
with the remainder of Morenito's money she had bought two
red roses, which she had thrust into her black hair.
The two
went for a walk along the Guadalquivir, under the orange-trees
in blossom.
The springtide had kindled an indescribable light in Chata's
eyes, and perhaps a more tender sentiment contributed to this
illumination. When they found themselves in a corner shaded
by high bushes of myrtle, she suddenly threw her two arms
around Morenito's neck, and said without the least false shame,
"Te quiero, companero! " (I love you, comrade! ) And while the
bells rang for the Easter festival, these two children tasted their
first kiss of love.
CH


## p. 14803 (#377) ##########################################

14803
AUGUSTIN THIERRY
(1795-1856)
BY FREDERIC LOLIÉE
UGUSTIN THIERRY, the celebrated historian and renovator of
historical research in France, was born at Blois, May 10th,
1795. He died in 1856. A pupil of the École Normale, and
at first destined to the profession of teaching, he was for several
years the collaborator of Saint-Simon. With this venturous economist
he prepared several works upon industry, speculative politics, and the
organization of European societies; imbib-
ing his master's ideas without sharing his
chimeras. But his true vocation was else-
where. He had felt it awakening within
him from his school days. This was in
1811, as he was finishing his studies at the
lyceum of his native town.
An enthusiastic reading of Châteaubri-
and's 'Martyrs' lighted the spark in his
intellect and decided his destiny. The
striking evocation of the empire of the
Cæsars in its decline; and the admirable
narrative of Eudorus; and the dramatic pict-
ure of a Roman army marching across the
marches of Batavia to meet an army of
Franks, -as though to hurl against each other, in one terrible shock,
civilization and barbarism,- had given him already a very vivid
glimpse of a new and picturesque manner of exhuming and reanimat-
ing the past. He was still very young when he decided to establish
the basis of his renovating method. He began by a straightforward
attack upon the erroneous science of the old historical school, and by
demonstrating the necessity of breaking with the false views of tra-
ditional teaching. This was the object of his 'Lettres sur l'Histoire
de France (Letters upon French History: 1827), in which are brill-
iantly developed the principles of an entirely modern art of restoring
to original documents their primitive physiognomy, their color, and
significance. For he possessed to a marvelous degree the intuition
which could discover the spirit under the dead letter of charters and

AUGUSTIN THIERRY


## p. 14804 (#378) ##########################################

14804
AUGUSTIN THIERRY
chronicles. Then, armed with a science painfully acquired in the
depths of libraries, where he lost health and later sight, he proceeded
from theory to practice. He published 'L'Histoire de la Conquête
de l'Angleterre par les Normands, de ses Causes et de ses Suites'
(History of the Norman Conquest of England, its Causes and Conse-
quences: 1825, 3 vols. ; new edition revised and enlarged, 1845, 4 vols. );
an account, detailed and extremely lucid, not only of the national
struggle which followed the victory of the Normans over the Saxons,
but also of the tendencies, impulses, motives, which impelled men
placed in a social state approaching barbarism. Then in his 'Récits
des Temps Mérovingiens' (Narratives of the Merovingian Era: 1840,
2 vols. ), he presented with a truly Homeric color of truth the man-
ners of the destroyers of the Roman Empire, their odd and savage
aspect, and the violent contrasts of the races which in the sixth cen-
tury were mingled but not yet blended on the soil of Gaul. This is
the most finished of Augustin Thierry's works. One should read also
the pages, full of candor and charm, of his 'Dix Ans d'Études' (Ten
Years of Study: 1834).
Augustin Thierry did not wholly escape the risk of errors, - the
anticipating views or daring conjectures always more or less entailed
by the spirit of generalization. In return he penetrated with astonish-
ing profundity to the very heart of barbarism; and rendered as living
as contemporaries the characters of one of the most complex and
least known epochs of European history. A great author as well
as a great historian, he carried his care for form to an incomparable
degree. Sainte-Beuve called him a translator of genius, of our old
chroniclers.