No More Learning

Sir Sampson [aside] — Odsbud, I believes she likes me!
[Aloud. ] Ah, madam, all my affairs are scarce worthy to be laid
at your feet: and I wish, madam, they were in a better posture,
that I might make a more becoming offer to a lady of your
incomparable beauty and merit. -If I had Peru in one hand,
and Mexico in t'other, and the Eastern Empire under my feet, it
would make me only a more glorious victim to be offered at the
shrine of your beauty.
Angelica - Bless me, Sir Sampson, what's the matter?
Sir Sampson - Odd, madam, I love you! and if you would
take my advice in a husband
—
-
Angelica - Hold, hold, Sir Sampson! I asked your advice for
a husband, and you are giving me your consent. I was indeed
thinking to propose something like it in jest, to satisfy you
about Valentine: for if a match were seemingly carried on
between you and me, it would oblige him to throw off his dis-
guise of madness, in apprehension of losing me; for you know
he has long pretended a passion for me.


## p. 3953 (#319) ###########################################

WILLIAM CONGREVE
3953
Sir Sampson-Gadzooks, a most ingenious contrivance! if
we were to go through with it. But why must the match only
be seemingly carried on? Odd, let it be a real contract.
Angelica - Oh fy, Sir Sampson! what would the world say?
Sir Sampson - Say! they would say you were a wise woman
and I a happy man. Odd, madam, I'll love you as long as I
live, and leave you a good jointure when I die.
Angelica-Ay; but that is not in your power, Sir Sampson;
for when Valentine confesses himself in his senses, he must
make over his inheritance to his younger brother.
Sir Sampson-Odd, you're cunning, a wary baggage! faith
and troth, I like you the better. But I warrant you, I have a
proviso in the obligation in favor of myself. Body o' me, I
have a trick to turn the settlement!
Angelica-Will you? Well, do you find the estate, and leave
the other to me.
Sir Sampson-O rogue! but I'll trust you. And will you con-
sent? is it a match, then?
Angelica - Let me consult my lawyer concerning this obliga-
tion; and if I find what you propose practicable, I'll give you
my answer.
Sir Sampson With all my heart: come in with me and I'll
lend you the bond. You shall consult your lawyer, and I'll
consult a parson. Odzooks, I'm a young man: odzooks, I'm a
young man, and I'll make it appear. Odd, you're devilish hand-
some: faith and troth, you're very handsome; and I am very
young, and very lusty! Odsbud, hussy, you know how to
choose, and so do I; odd, I think we are very well met. Give
me your hand,- odd, let me kiss it; 'tis as warm and as soft –
as what? Odd, as t'other hand; give me t'other hand, and I'll
mumble 'em and kiss 'em till they melt in my mouth.
Angelica- Hold, Sir Sampson: you're profuse of your vigor
before your time: you'll spend your estate before you come to it.
Sir Sampson-No, no, only give you a rent-roll of my pos-
sessions,-ha! baggage!
Odd, Sampson's a very good
name for an able fellow: your Sampsons were strong dogs from
the beginning.
If you
Angelica Have a care, and don't overact your part.
remember, Sampson, the strongest of the name, pulled an old
house over his head at last!
VII-248
-


## p. 3954 (#320) ###########################################

3954
WILLIAM CONGREVE
ALMERIA IN THE MAUSOLEUM
From The Mourning Bride'
Enter Almeria and Leonora
A
LMERIA- It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed.
Leonora It bore the accent of a human voice.
Almeria-It was thy fear, or else some transient wind
Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle.
We'll listen.
Leonora - Hark!
Almeria-No, all is hushed and still as death. -'Tis dreadful!
How reverend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable,
Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight; the tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice - my own affrights me with its echoes.
Leonora - Let us return; the horror of this place,
And silence, will increase your melancholy.
It may my fears, but cannot add to that.
No, I will on: show me Anselmo's tomb;
Almeria
-
Lead me o'er bones and skulls and moldering earth
Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them:
Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corse
Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride
Of Garcia's more detested bed: that thought
Exerts my spirits; and my present fears
Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me,
Lead me, for I am bolder grown; lead on
Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again
To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul.
Leonora - I go; but Heaven can tell with what regret.
Heli-
The Scene opening discovers a place of tombs; one monument fronting the
view greater than the rest
Enter Heli
I wander through this maze of monuments,
Yet cannot find him. - Hark! sure 'tis the voice


## p. 3955 (#321) ###########################################

WILLIAM CONGREVE
3955
―――――――
Leonora Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb
The poor remains of good Anselmo rest,
Yet fresh and unconsumed by time or worms!
What do I see? O Heaven! either my eyes
Are false, or still the marble door remains
Unclosed: the iron gates that lead to death
Beneath, are still wide-stretched upon their hinge,
And staring on us with unfolded leaves.
Almeria-Sure, 'tis the friendly yawn of death for me;
And that dumb mouth, significant in show,
Invites me to the bed where I alone
Osmyn-
Of one complaining. - There it sounds: I'll follow it.
[Exit.
Shall rest; shows me the grave, where nature, weary
And long oppressed with woes and bending cares,
May lay the burden down, and sink in slumbers
Of peace eternal. Death, grim death, will fold
Me in his leaden arms, and press me close
To his cold clayey breast: my father then
Will cease his tyranny; and Garcia too
Will fly my pale deformity with loathing.
My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount,
Aud range the starry orbs, and milky ways,
Of that refulgent world, where I shall swim
In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss
To my Alphonso's soul. O joy too great!
O ecstasy of thought! Help me, Anselmo:
Help me, Alphonso; take me, reach thy hand;
To thee, to thee I call, to thee, Alphonso:
O Alphonso!
Osmyn ascends from the tomb
Osmyn-
Who calls that wretched thing that was Alphonso?
Almeria-Angels, and all the host of heaven, support me!
Osmyn Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, from the grave,
And growing to his father's shroud, roots up Alphonso?
Almeria-Mercy! Providence! O speak!
Speak to it quickly, quickly! speak to me,
Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, hide me,
Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light,
And from my eyes!
Amazement and illusion!
Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye powers;
[Coming forward.


## p. 3956 (#322) ###########################################

3956
WILLIAM CONGREVE
That motionless I may be still deceived.
Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve
That tender lovely form of painted air,
So like Almeria. Ha! it sinks, it falls;
I'll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade.
'Tis life! 'tis warm! 'tis she! 'tis she herself!
Nor dead nor shade, but breathing and alive!
It is Almeria, 'tis, it is my wife!


## p. 3957 (#323) ###########################################

3957
HENRI CONSCIENCE
(1812-1883)
BY WILLIAM SHARP
ENRI CONSCIENCE (not Hendrik Conscience, as commonly
written, for though the great romancist was a Fleming by
maternal descent and by native sympathy, he was the son
of a naturalized Frenchman and was christened Henri), who is
popularly known as the Walter Scott of Flanders, is with the excep-
tion of Georges Eekhoud the one Belgian author who has succeeded
in gaining the ear of Europe. There is not one of the leading
languages, and few of the less important, into which one or more of
his books have not been translated: indeed,
his works are to be found complete or all
but complete in French, German, Norwe-
gian, and English. One story for example,
'Rikke-Tikke-Tak,' has not only been ren-
dered into every European tongue, but has
been paraphrased to such an extent that
variants of it occur, in each instance as an
indigenous folk-tale, in every land, from
Great Britain in the west to India and
even to China in the east.

HENRI CONSCIENCE
To-day to our changed tastes the tales
of Conscience may seem somewhat insipid,
- that is, in translation; for the style of the
original is characterized by singular verve and charm,- but there
must be a radical appeal in writings which have reached the home-
circle readers of Belgium and Holland, of Germany and of Scandi-
navia, of France and England and America. Born in Antwerp in
1812, of a French father and a Flemish mother, the childhood of
the novelist-to-be was passed during the French domination in the
Netherlands. While a youth, he watched with eager intelligence the
growing pressure of the Dutch yoke upon Flanders, the restless
vicissitudes and memorable events which culminated in the revolution
of 1830 and the separation of Belgium from the neighboring country.
This uprising of the Flemish people was followed by a re-birth of
Flemish literature, of which the informing spirit was Henri Con-
science. Thitherto, the young writers of his day modeled themselves


## p. 3958 (#324) ###########################################

3958
HENRI CONSCIENCE
upon the then all-potent romantic school of literature in France;
moreover, without exception they wrote in French, in accordance
with the all-but universal prejudice that Flemish was merely a patois
used only by the vulgar people. Although Conscience's first literary
efforts martial songs and poems were written in French, he
exclaimed in 1830, when he was only a youth of eighteen, and with
prophetic insight:-"I confess I find in the real Flemish something
indescribably romantic, mysterious, profound, energetic, even savage.
If ever I gain the power to write, I shall throw myself head over
ears into Flemish literature. "
The little Henri was a cripple till his seventh year, and the child's
mother was wont to amuse him by the narration of wonderful tales
of fairies and angels. Later he passed his time in reading forgotten
books that were stowed away in the garret, or in exercising his
creative faculties in inventing local stories for his admiring com-
panions. At his mother's death his father removed to a lonely spot
a mile from the old Antwerp wall, and here was first aroused in the
boy the warm love of nature that is so strongly marked in all his
writings. After acting as assistant master for two years at Delin
College, he in 1830 joined the Belgian patriots as a volunteer.
During the six years of his service in the country he gained an
insight not only into the beauties of nature, but into the lives and
feelings of the Flemish peasantry, into their manners and customs;
he grew intimate with the gentle nobility of their character, which
underlies the stern melancholy of their outward disposition. Con-
science's first important work was written in 1836—after the cessation
of the war-to gain him admission to the Olijftak (Olive Branch),
a literary club of young enthusiasts. 'Het Wonder Jaar' (1566)
was written in Flemish, and was published in Ghent in 1837. This
historical romance, full of color and rich in dramatic incident, gave
the death-blow to the existing didactic prose and poetry, and was
the foundation-stone on which arose the new Flemish school of
literature. Pierre Conscience, however, saw his son's partisanship in
the Flemish literary movement with such displeasure that eventually
the young man had to leave home altogether. His friend Wappers,
the eminent painter, procured him a small appointment in the
department of political archives, which however he lost, owing to a
violent political speech. A funeral oration at the tomb of a director
of the Antwerp Academy was the indirect means of his gaining a
post in the offices of the Academy, where he remained till 1855.
In
1857 he was appointed to the local administration of Courtrai; and
in 1868 the Belgian government conferred on him the title of Con-
servateur des Musées Royaux de Peinture et de Sculpture, a guardian-
ship held by him until his death in 1883.


## p. 3959 (#325) ###########################################

HENRI CONSCIENCE
•
3959
Conscience's literary career divides itself into two periods, and
shows him as historical romancist and as a writer of novels and
short tales. The success of 'Het Wonder Jaar' inspired him to a sec-
ond venture, and in 1858 he published his 'De Leeuw van Vlaen-
deren' (The Lion of Flanders), an undertaking which despite its
subsequent fame brought the author six francs for net profit! He
writes of himself that "the enthusiasm of my youth and the labors
of my manhood were rooted in my love for my country. " To raise
Flanders was to him a holy aim. France threatened Flemish free-
dom: therefore he wrote his two finest historical novels, those which
depict the uprising of the Flemings against French despotism, The
Lion of Flanders' and 'The Peasants' War. '
From the literary point of view the second book is superior to its
predecessor; the plot is not so closely linked to history, and though
there is less regard to historical accuracy, the story gains more in
dramatic unity. As a historical novelist Conscience does not belong
to the school of realism and archæology: in a word, he pertains to
the school of Walter Scott, not to that of Gustave Flaubert. He
writes of himself, "In Holland my works have met with the same
favor from Catholics and Lutherans alike;" yet his Catholic predilec-
tions have in many instances impaired his historical accuracy, and
even deprived his brilliant, vivid History of Belgium' of scientific
value.
To his second period belong his stories, in which he directs his
powers to the task of social regeneration, and of painting the life of
his own day as he saw it around him. In such novels as 'De Gieri-
gaerd' (The Miser), 'De Arme Edelman' (The Poor Nobleman), he
resolved "to apply the glowing steel to the cankered wounds of
which society is dying. " He describes the qualities which equipped
him for his task when he says, "I am one whom God endowed at
least with moral energy and with a vast instinct of affection. " It is
however in the tales of Flemish peasant life,— 'Rikke-Tikke-Tak,’
'How Men Become Painters,' 'What a Mother Can Suffer,' 'The
Happiness of Being Rich,' etc. , that the author's exquisite style
shows itself at its finest. There is nothing in the conception of the
stories to show great inventive talent; but the execution, the way in
which these simple things are recounted, is of the highest artistic
excellence. In the matter of style his dual nationality proved an ad-
vantage; for to the homely vigor of the Teuton he added the grace-
fulness, the sobriety, the sense of measure and proportion, which are
peculiar to the best French prose. Georges Eckhoud, his celebrated
fellow-countryman, says of him:-"In simplicity of form, coupled
with the intensity of the idea expressed, lies the eloquence of this
Flemish author's tales. Thus is explained the popularity of that
--


## p. 3960 (#326) ###########################################

3960
HENRI CONSCIENCE
delicate casket to the furthest ends of the earth, to the simplest as
well as to the most cultivated circles.
The work of Con-
science is like a sociable country-house, a place where men can
regain the simplicity which they had lost through cheating and
deception. "
No better summing-up of the writings of Henri Conscience can be
given than that penned by himself in his biographical notes:-
·
me.
"I write my books to be read by the people. I have always made the
intellectual development and education of the ignorant my aim. . . . I
have sketched the Flemish peasant as he appeared to me. I drew him
calm, peaceable, religious, patriotic, attached to his traditions and opposed
somewhat vehemently to all innovations; in short, as he appeared to me at
that period of my life in 1830, when, hungry and sick, I enjoyed hospitality
and the tenderest care amongst them. I have never inspired my heroes with
the poetic glamour for which I have been reproached; it is they who inspired
And then a man may dwell by preference on the defective side and the
coarseness of the laborer, may sketch him as the slave of drunkenness and
animal passion. I shall not deny the picturesqueness of this work. But
between that and the admission of my delusion there is a wide margin. My
neighbor's heroes are not necessarily mine, nor do I see them in the same
light. People are constantly discussing whether he who paints things in their
darkest colors, or he who sees all in a materialistic light, or he who presents
everything in its happiest form,- whether he who takes a subjective or an
objective point of view,- is right. All I know is,- and it is my settled con-
viction, that a conscientious writer is never wrong; and I believe myself to
be conscientious. »
This is a frank, manly, and honest pronouncement, and will surely
be admitted as such even by those who may not care either for the
matter or manner, the method or the literary principles, of Henri
Conscience. Perhaps the best commentary is, that after a European
success ranking only after that of Scott, Balzac, Dumas, Hugo, and
Hans Andersen, Henri Conscience is still (thirteen years after his
death at an advanced age) a name of European repute; is still, in
his own country, held in highest honor and affection.
Winans Sharpe


## p. 3961 (#327) ###########################################

HENRI CONSCIENCE
3961
THE HORSE-SHOE
From Rikke-Tikke-Tak'
IN
IN THE village of Westmal, some two or three miles from Ant-
werp, on the road toward Turnhout, stood a little smithy, in
which four men - the master and his three journeymen
were busy at various work in the way of their trade; and at the
same time were conversing—as much, that is, as the noise of
hammers and files would let them of Napoleon and his mighty
deeds of war. One of the journeymen, who had lost two fingers
of his left hand, was just beginning a story of the Italian wars,
when two horsemen pulled up before the door, and one of them
called out, "Hola, my men! my horse wants shoeing. "
The journeymen looked curiously at the strangers, who by
this time had dismounted. They were evidently both military
men. One of them had a great scar right across his face and
wore a red riband in his button-hole: the other, though dressed
like a gentleman, seemed in some sort his subordinate; he held
the horse by the bridle and asked, "Which shoe, colonel? "
"The near forefoot, lieutenant," was the reply.
One of the journeymen took the horse and led it into the
shed; and meanwhile the colonel entered the smithy, looked
about him, and took up first one, then another, of the tools, as
if looking out for an old acquaintance. At last he seemed to
have found what he wanted; in one hand he held a heavy pair
of tongs, in the other a hammer, both of which he surveyed with
so peculiar a smile that the journeymen stood round, gaping and
staring in no little amaze.
Meanwhile the iron was in the fire, the bellows panted away,
and a garland of sparks spurted from the glowing coals. The
journeymen stood by the anvil, hammers in hand, till the mas-
ter took the iron from the fire; then began the work of forging.
The colonel evidently took a lively interest in what was going
on; his features lighted up, as they might have done at the
finest music. But when the shoe was taken from the anvil, as
ready for putting on, he eyed it a moment not a little disdain-
fully, took the tongs which held it from the master-smith's hand,
and put it back into the fire.
"That will never do," said he; "the shoe's too clumsy by
half, master. Now, my lads! look alive! blow away! "
And while one of the journeymen, with an
air of great
respect, obeyed his directions, he threw off his coat and bared
―


## p. 3962 (#328) ###########################################

3962
HENRI CONSCIENCE
his sinewy arms. Soon the iron was at a white heat: he turned
it twice or thrice in the fire with all the air of an experienced
hand, laid it on the anvil, and then called to the journeymen in
a cheerful tone:-
"Now, my men! look out! I'll give the time, and we'll turn
out a shoe fit for the Emperor's nags.
So now,
attention:-
'Rikketikketak,
Rikketikketoo;
The iron's warm;
Up with your arm,
Now strike,- one, two,
Rikketikketoo.
Rikketikketak,
Rikketikketoo,
Strike while it is hot,
And tarry not.
Again, one two,
Rikketikketoo. '
There, look at the shoe now! "
The journeymen eyed the light neat piece of work agape,
and as it were, struck dumb. The master meanwhile seemed to
be turning some thought in his head, which he every now and
then shook, as though quite unable to come to a satisfactory
conclusion. He drew near the stranger, who by this time had
resumed his coat; but however closely he scanned him, he
seemed unable to recognize him.
The horse was soon shod, and now stood before the smithy
ready for its master to mount, who took leave of the party with
a friendly shake of the hand to each, laying also a couple of
gold pieces on the anvil.
"One for the master, one for the men. Drink my health
together and good-by to you. ”
With these words he threw himself into the saddle and rode
off with his companion.
"Well," said the master, "I never in my life knew but one
man who could knock off a shoe like that,- so light and neat,
and so handily; and I must be greatly mistaken if the colonel
isn't just Karl van Milgem himself; he, you know,- but to be
sure you don't know, he that the folks used always to call
Rikke-Tikke-Tak. "
-


## p. 3963 (#329) ###########################################

HENRI CONSCIENCE
3963
THE PATIENT WAITER
From Rikke-Tikke-Tak
SH
Slowly she
He took her way with the cow toward the brook, which was
edged about with a scanty growth of grass.
went, step by step, leading the creature after her by a
cord. At last she reached the line where the heath passed into
a range of low-lying boggy pastures, and the alder and juniper.
bushes formed a closer thicket; there she left the foot-path.
solitary beech stood there-sown probably by a bird, for as far
as the eye could see it descried no similar foliage. Magdalen
sank down at the foot of the tree. Deeply she bowed her head;
motionless she gazed on space; the cord fell from her hand and
her accustomed reverie came over her.
A
Now in the free open air, under the beautiful deep-blue
heaven, the sore load of trouble which weighed upon her heart
fell from it. Her lips did not move, no sigh escaped from them;
but a quiet stream of tears trickled into her lap. Long, very
long she sat there without changing her position; but by degrees
her tears fell more slowly, till at last she lifted her head, and
with a calmer air murmured her old favorite tune:
"Rikketikketak,
Rikketikketoo;
The iron's warm;
Up with your arm,
Now strike,- one, two,
Rikketikketoo. "
What could this strange jingle mean? It would have been
useless to ask Magdalen, for she herself knew not how it was
that of themselves, almost without will or consciousness of hers,
the meaningless words came tripping over her lips. A faint
recollection she had of some one having often sung them to her;
but that was long, long ago. They spoke but indistinctly, still
they had ever more and more fixed themselves in her train of
associations, had become ever more and more the accompaniment
both of her joys and of her sorrows.
After she had repeated the rhyme a few times, and each time
less sadly, she seemed quite to forget her melancholy and the
causes of it. She stood up, her face radiant with contentment,
briskly led the cow to a place where there was better pasture,


## p. 3964 (#330) ###########################################

3964
HENRI CONSCIENCE
and ran towards a sandy hillock which rose a little above the
general surface of the heath. She had often visited this spot.
Steadying herself with her hands upon her knees, she fixed her
eyes on a bluish point far away upon the extremest verge of the
horizon, a town it was probably, or a large village.
With unwearied eyes she gazed upon the road, doubtless in the
unconscious hope that by it he who should release her from her
bondage would one day approach that way.
THE LOST GLOVE
"THIS
HIS is the celebrated bear-pit of Berne," said the guide.
"Pass here when you choose, you will always find people
of all ages who are amusing themselves throwing bread
and fruit to these ferocious beasts. Here is a good place. See
the tricks of these bears, and how they lift up their arms like
real beggars. "
While Max Rapelings was entirely absorbed in contemplating
the amusing antics of the bears, Herman, glancing round, noticed
a lady wrapped in a red shawl, who had dropped a yellow glove,
and who would probably have lost it, as she continued walking
on. He picked up the glove, ran after the lady, and said to her
in French, "You have lost something, madam. "
The lady turned. Herman seemed transfixed. This lady was
no other than the pale maiden of the Aarberggasse, whom he
had not recognized at first, owing to her wearing a colored shawl.
She made a step toward him, took her glove with a smile of
thanks, and said in a voice whose sweetness was great, “I thank
you infinitely, sir. "
But at once appeared beside her the old gentleman with the
crabbed face, who fixed upon the young man a look both pier-
cing and interrogative.
Just at this moment Max turned toward his friend and cried
out:-
"Here, Herman; come quick; there are some bears fighting
furiously. "
This cry produced upon the young girl and old gentleman an
extraordinary effect-it seemed to strike them with terror and
affright. They turned away and walked off rapidly, as if in the
young doctor they had recognized a dreaded enemy.


## p. 3965 (#331) ###########################################

HENRI CONSCIENCE
3965
Max had observed this inopportune meeting; he left the
Swiss, who was still amusing himself by looking into the bear-
pit, ran towards his friend, looked at his face attentively, and
cried with astonishment:
say to you? Did her tyrant
"You are pale! What did she
insult you? You do not answer.
Alas! there is an end of all
our pleasure for to-day! I would give the poor five francs were
you nevermore to meet the pale maiden and her dragon! "
"Hush, hush, Max! I have heard her voice; it is marvel-
ously sweet and fascinating-it still resounds in my ear like a
cry of distress. "
"A cry of distress! Did she complain to you? What did she
say? »
"Only I thank you infinitely, sir. '"
"And you call that a cry of distress? You are surely losing
your wits! »
>>
"Yes, but her voice was so plaintive, her smile
"Oh! she smiled upon you, did she? The Devil! Things
begin to look serious. "
"Her smile is so sweet, sad, and plaintive. "
"There now; you are beginning to talk in verse! This does
not seem to me the fitting spot, beside a bear-pit. Come, behave
yourself, Herman; here is our host coming. For the love of
Heaven, do not mention the pale maiden before him, for he
might think you have lost your wits. "
THE IRON TOMB
IT
T WOULD be difficult to describe to you the strange life I led
at Bodeghem. I wandered daily along the walks of the
uninhabited country-houses, in the woods and shady groves,
my mind enveloped as it were in a dream, which like a thick.
cloud held me aloof from the uter world. It was useless to
call to my assistance all my energy and will to dissipate the fog
that thus covered my intellect; it was trouble lost. I could only
see Rose and her pitiful look; I could only feel the worm of
sorrow that gnawed at my heart and only heard the terrible
words —“Do you know the news? Rose is going to be married”—
that followed me everywhere, without giving me one moment's
peace. The violence of passion, the bitterness of despair, had


## p. 3966 (#332) ###########################################

3966
HENRI CONSCIENCE
left me entirely. I hated no one, accused no one, not even
my cruel fate; not even the future husband, my rival. An
intense sorrow, a dreamy resignation, a species of quiet sympa-
thy with my anguish, took the place of all violent emotion in my
heart.
Convinced that I was never destined to experience real hap-
piness in this world, I recalled one by one all the recollections
of my past life, and with these reminiscences I created for
myself an imaginary world, wherein my soul could find a source
of peace and consolation.
In walking through the garden I would stop on the bridge
and gaze into the water, then returning to less sad thoughts I
would contemplate for hours together the lawn that stretched
itself before me. I saw in imagination a delicate little girl,
pretty as an angel; by her side was a little boy who could not
talk, but his eyes at the least word or smile from the little girl
would lighten with admiration, gratitude, and pride. I followed
these happy children; I trembled with heartfelt emotion when I
perceived upon the little girl's face a smile of friendship for the
poor boy.
I shared in their games as they traced out a bed of
flowers in the grass; I ran behind them as they chased the but-
terflies I listened to their childish chatterings and each beating
of their little hearts, and I recognized with cruel satisfaction
that even then a fatal power dominated over these innocent
creatures and had already sown in their hearts a seed of a
future love. I spoke to the trees, the flowers, the birds, to
revive again the memory of my lost happiness, until nightfall
and the weary throbbings of my heart warned me that it was
time to return home. On other days I would wander in the
woods and try to find out those trees to whom I had confided
my sorrows and hopes. I recognized the old places where I had
once sat, and I thought I could see glittering among the grass
the tears I had shed some eight long years ago.
-
Then I used to weep from pure happiness; the sun of hope
inundated my heart with its light. Now I had none; my life
was closed by the dark wall of the impossible-it was on that
account I had no more tears. Tears are both a prayer and an
intercession for help and pity. Why should I complain or
implore? —I, to whom no earthly power could give back to my
heart what it desired; whose sorrows by their very nature were
to be life-lasting.


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HENRI CONSCIENCE
3967
―――
Again at other times I would sit down on the hedge-side,
where the dumb child had worked for weeks carving wooden
figures - loved treasures with which he hoped to win a smile. I
saw again the spot where the child rolled on the ground, a prey
to con vulsions of despair, because his tongue refused to utter
any intelligible sounds. I saw the white poplar-trees whose
bark still bore the mysterious signs with which he tried to make
himself understood. The cows that were grazing in the fields,
the cracking of the shepherd's whip, the silvery dew arising
from the running brook, the splendor of the rising sun, all
recalled the memory of my childhood and helped me to forget
my mournful sadness, recalling to my mind a picture of happi-
ness that had been, but could never return.
SISKA VAN ROOSEMAEL
NOT
many years ago, you might have seen in one of the
streets behind the green churchyard of Antwerp, a fa-
mous old grocer's shop, which through many generations
had descended from father to son, and had always been conspic-
uous for good wares and low prices. The last proprietor of the
shop was James van Roosemael, son of Frank, son of Charles,
son of Gaspard van Roosemael, and had married Siska Pot, a
descendant of the famous Peter Pot, whose name is still to be
met in the two Peter-Pot Streets.
but on
This wedded pair, trained from early youth to a life of indus-
try, and now unremittingly busied with their small trade, had
never found time to take part in the progress of modern civili-
zation, or in other words, to Frenchify themselves. Their dress,
made of stout cloth, was plain, and hardly ever changed its cut;
they merely distinguished working dress, Sunday dress, and
Easter dress. The latter was never taken from the cupboard
great holidays, and when the Van Roosemaels took the
Holy Communion, or were invited by friends as godparents or
marriage guests. It was easily to be seen that the simple people
of the old Flemish world, in their quaint though valuable dress,
looked rather strangely if compared with many a fine beau, who
for a few francs had decked himself out in a fine showy dress,
and would, in passing, regard the Van Roosemaels with disdain.
But they did not mind it, and thought, "Every man has his own.


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3968
HENRI CONSCIENCE
point to gain—you the shadow, we the substance. " They were
sufficiently uneducated not to know that gentlefolks do not dine
at noon, and they therefore were vulgar enough to sit down to
dinner when the clock struck twelve; yea, more, they never
forgot to say grace both before and after dinner. But there
were other imperfections with which they ought to be charged:
for instance, they did not understand a word of French, and
had never felt the want of this accomplishment; they were reli-
gious, humble, industrious, and above all peaceable. But the
height of their stupidity was, that they in their Flemish sim-
plicity considered it better every day to lay by an honest stiver,
than by lies and fraud to amass such riches in a few years, that
all the world should exclaim in astonishment, "In what hole
did the rat find it? " In a word, they were Flemish burghers of
the old school.
A PAINTER'S PROGRESS
A™
T THE funeral of Baron de Erct, a humble vehicle followed
the procession afar off. Arrived at the burial-ground,
three persons alighted from the poor conveyance. They
turned into a by-lane near the cemetery, and did not show them-
selves during the ceremony. But when all was over, and the
splendid carriages were returning in speed with all the mourners
to the town, three persons were seen entering the churchyard
with slow steps. It was Frank, his aged grandmother leaning
on his arm and supported by his mother on the other side.
Nobody saw them; all was still in the cemetery, and the greatest
silence prevailed around.
Do you mark them all three,— their eyes red with tears, their
breath choked by the agony of grief, approaching a mound of
newly dug-up earth? There rests the man who did good by
stealth. Oh, say not that virtue is not rewarded, not honored:
The tears of these people weigh thousands in the scales of the
heavenly Judge.
Look! the women are kneeling on the mound. They clasp
their hands and bend their heads over the grave; their lips
move. Is theirs a set speech? are their words studied, measured,
written down, in order that they may remember them? Oh no!
They know only one prayer, which the Lord himself has taught


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HENRI CONSCIENCE
3969
as we
them: they say the Lord's prayer over and over again. Their
voices become clearer whilst they pray:-"Forgive us our debts
forgive our debtors! Holy Mary, Mother of the Lord,
pray for us miserable sinners, now and in the hour of death.
Amen. » Their sobs, their tears, their sighs tell the rest:
"Sleep in peace, kind-hearted friend! we plant no flowers on thy
they are not everlasting as the memory of thy count-
less charities. May thy soul receive in the bosom of thy Maker
a reward which the world cannot give! "
grave;
And
why does not Frank also kneel on the ground? Why?
He is absorbed in grief; he feels no life in him, he has forgot-
ten where he is. Look! there he stands like a statue, his head
dropping
on his breast, his hand pressed to his forehead. How
the streaming tears sparkle which burst from his eyes! Unfor-
youth! who could describe the mortal despair which
weighs on thy bursting heart!
tunate
Awake! seest thou not that the cold ground will injure the
health of thy grandmother? Remove her from the grave, else
the evening will perhaps still find her kneeling and weeping
Take courage! return to thy home.
here.
On
parents,
the following day Frank said in a sorrowful tone to his
<<<We are unfortunate and poor -I am the cause of your
I know I am.
sorrow,
But let me now put a question to you,
and ansv
er it candidly! Can we still hold out for three months
earning any money? "
question remained long unanswered. The mother went
up to the invalid husband, and after a long serious conversation
with hin
longer. »
without
The
-
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
said, "Three months with the utmost stretch, but no
"Well then," said Frank, "I shall make a last attempt.
One picture I will paint still-one only, and if I do not sell it
soon, then I shall turn sign-painter. "
It gave him evident pain to utter this last word; there was a
spasm in
his throat,—yet he soon composed himself, and asked
without
once more whether they would let him work for three months
trouble or molestation. This his parents readily prom-
Frank then went to Mr. Wappers and received the
ised him.
him.
last twenty-five francs which his generous patron had left for
With part of this money he purchased colors, and on the
following day he shut himself up in the loft where he used to
work,
intended to execute.
and sketched the first outline of the picture which he
VII
-249


## p. 3970 (#336) ###########################################

3970
HENRI CONSCIENCE
It was the churchyard of Hemixem, with a newly thrown-up
grave, on which two women were kneeling in prayer; behind
them stood a young man weeping and absorbed in the deepest
grief; on the side were the walls of the chapel, and in the back-
ground a rich landscape. During two months and a half Frank
worked without intermission; he went out to the churchyard in
order to draw from nature, and made his mother and grand-
mother sit to him for models.
Never perhaps had an artist worked with more enthusiasm,
with more love and industry, at a picture. His soul was full of
his subject, and during all the time he was employed in his
work his head burnt feverishly. Could this picture turn out ill?
No, it must necessarily bear the stamp of inspiration. And so
it was.
Frank got on credit an appropriate frame for the exhibition.
But this time another thought struck him: he sent his picture to
Germany to the exhibition at Cologne. Will he be more suc-
cessful there? Yet the picture was gone, and stayed away with-
out any news of it whatever.
Poverty, greater than they had ever felt, now broke in upon
the longing family. They ate black bread, and were as if
crushed by the awaking to the dreadful reality. The good old
grandmother showed the greatest courage; she carried quietly
her best habiliments and her few trinkets to the pawnbroker's,
and consoled the others. But matters could not thus last long.
The clothes of Frank and of the mother must at last also be
pawned; even the prize medals and other honorable decorations
went to the baker as pledges for a little bread. They had already
run up an account with the butcher and the grocer― the baker
would let them have no more -none would trust the wretched
artist, as Frank was nicknamed in the neighborhood; the weekly
house-rent was unpaid during a whole month, and the landlord
had even sent the bailiff to exact payment.
One afternoon in the month of September the destitution of
these people reached its height. None of them had tasted a
morsel since the preceding evening. The bailiff had just left
them with the warning that he would return at six o'clock, and
if they did not then pay their rent they would be turned into
the street.
Grandmother held Frank's hand in hers, and sought to con-
sole him; the mother shed silent tears; the father, who still wore


## p. 3971 (#337) ###########################################

HENRI CONSCIENCE
3971
his arm in a sling, sat at the chimney and stared gloomily into
the chamber. All at once he burst into a flood of tears and
sobbed aloud.
Frank had never seen his father weep: this was the first
time in his life; it struck him like a thunderbolt. A shriek of
terror burst from him, and he fell on his knees before his
father. "Father," he cried, "father, you weep-you!
Oh, be
at ease; to-morrow I shall turn sign-painter; then I shall at
least earn sixpence a day. "
The workman raised his son from the floor, and pressed him
with his left arm to his heart. "Frank, my boy," he said,
"I don't lay blame on you; but we are so wretched. I weep
because I am in despair that I cannot work. We are starving,
and craving hunger is gnawing at our hearts.
Who will give us
to eat before the night falls in ? Where shall we go when they
turn us out to-morrow? Is it not sufficient to turn my brain, or
to make me —”
Frank pressed him forcibly to his bosom, and cut short his
awful speech by a tender embrace.
Whilst father and son were thus clasped in each other's arms,
the door opened, and a man with a leather bag strapped over
his shoulder stretched out his hand with a letter in it. With
a sudden start Frank disengaged himself from the arm of his
father, and attempted to seize the letter; but the postman drew
it back and said dryly, “A letter from Germany-two francs! "
Two francs! Where is such a treasure secreted in this poor
dwelling? Two francs from people who are starving! Who could
describe the tortures and sorrows of this family? The letter
contains perhaps what may put an end to their distress; perhaps
it would dry up their tears, satisfy their hunger, and protect
them from ejectment. And alas! whilst they are staring with
beating heart at the letter, and long so ardently to open it, the
postman is turning to go off with it and to rob them of all their
hopes. It is as if the ground was burning beneath their feet;
they stamp the floor from impatience and tear their hair.
Now the mother kneels down before the postman; she raises
her hands imploringly! Ha! he weeps - his heart is not of stone.
"Here" - he hands the letter to Frank-"take it; I am a poor
man too, but I can't stand this any longer. " Frank opens the
letter slowly with a trembling hand, cautiously undoing each and
every fold: but scarcely had he cast his eyes upon the contents,


## p. 3972 (#338) ###########################################

3972
HENRI CONSCIENCE
when the muscles of his face began to tremble convulsively; he
grows deadly pale, and a strange scream escapes his breast. He
supports himself upon the table, and the letter drops from his
hands on the floor. The room rings with lamentations, the
grandmother raises her hands to heaven, the mother sinks back-
ward from her chair as if paralyzed. Frank was struggling to
speak. It was evident he wanted to say something, but he could
not make it pass his trembling lips. At last his speech burst
forth" Grandmother, mother, father, I am a painter! Five
hundred francs for my picture! »


## p. 3973 (#339) ###########################################

3973
ROSE TERRY COOKE
(1827-1892)
OSE TERRY was born in Hartford, Connecticut, in 1827, of an
old and well-known family, and there nearly all the first
half of her life was passed. After that she was little there,
spending a number of years with her married sister in Collinsville,
and, for fifteen years following her own marriage, in Winsted, Con-
necticut.