I cannot lop away those twelve swift,
changeful
years that are gone.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v17 - Mai to Mom
10098 (#526) ##########################################
10098
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
highly successful experiment with a kindred patois; but up to his day,
no Frenchman for generations had dreamed of writing in anything
but classic French. Some time in the early fifties, however, Master
Roumanille set up a publishing house at Avignon; and he and his
disciples formed themselves into a society which they called the Fili-
brige, whose members, the Félibres, agreed not merely to compose
in the rustic dialect which they were born to speak, but gravely to
combine for the purpose of formulating its etymology and grammar,
and establishing, beyond cavil, its claim to a high literary descent.
Like William Barnes, the Dorsetshire poet, who considered the
language of Shakespeare only a late and rather weak offshoot from
the primitive speech of Dorset, the Félibres claimed for their dialect
the full honors of a language. They held it to be essentially the
same as that of the mediæval Troubadours, many of whose Courts of
Love and Contests of Song had flourished within their territory; and
they also maintained that the early Provençal sprang directly from
the language of Rome, and was itself the parent of Italian, French,
and Spanish, as well as of all the other living forms of Latin speech.
Needless to say that these linguistic pretensions were never made
good; but this matters little beside the fact that works of great
freshness and distinction were actually produced under the impulse
of the so-called Provençal revival.
Among these works Mistral's were easily first; and his masterpiece,
Mirèio,' was originally printed at Avignon in 1858, in Provençal only,
and under the auspices of Roumanille. A year later it was brought
out in Paris with a very striking parallel French version of the
poet's own, which, by rendering it easily intelligible to the ordinary
reader, invited general criticism, while incidentally it revealed the
almost unparalleled wealth of the writer's vocabulary in both forms
of speech.
Mirèio,' then, was a pastoral poem of the present time, all suf-
fused with the hot sunshine of Southern France; as full as the
Georgics themselves of rustic lore and homely agricultural detail, but
embodying also, in twelve leisurely books, the tale of two very young
lovers, their innocent passion, thrilling adventures, and hapless end.
The story was told with a kind of sweet garrulity, and an affluence
of unworn imagery, that simply took the world by storm. The elab-
orate measure adopted by Mistral (apparently he did not, as was at
first claimed, invent it) was managed with consummate grace, and
gave a high idea of the musical capacities of the Provençal speech,
and its curious richness, especially in feminine rhymes. It is well
understood now that Mistral and his colleagues fashioned their new
instrument more or less to suit themselves: improvising grammati-
cal forms at need, and manipulating and modifying terminal syllables
## p. 10099 (#527) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
10099
with glorious license. But the Troubadours of the twelfth century
had done just the same; and these were the alleged heirs both of
their inspiration and their methods.
In 1867, after an interval of nine years, Mirèio was followed by
(Calendau, another poem of epic proportions; which naturally created
less astonishment than its predecessor, but really fell very little short
of it in vigor of conception, variety of action, and beauty of imagery.
The heroine of the new romance was a dispossessed Princess of Baux,
in whose veins ran the blood of more than one queen of love; while
her suitor was a man of humble birth, whom she inspired by reciting
legends of chivalry, and compelled to win her hand by a series of
extraordinary tests and adventures.
In 1875 M. Mistral published a collection of fugitive pieces under
the title of Lis Isclo d'Oro,' or the Golden Isles. In 1883 appeared
his third long poem, "Nerto,' a tale of the last days of the Popes at
Avignon. The florid stanza of the two previous compositions was
abandoned in Nerto for a simply rhymed octosyllabic metre, like
that employed for narrative by Chaucer, Byron, and William Morris;
and the whole tone and movement of the story were more tame and
conventional than those of the earlier ones. Here too we have for
the first time a didactic purpose plainly avowed by the author: the
singular but perfectly serious one of illustrating the personal exist-
ence and persistent activity among mankind of that formidable Being
whose name (O Lucifer, son of the morning! ) is oddly abbreviated by
the Provençaux into Cifèr.
In 1897 appeared M. Mistral's last extended poetical work up to
the date of this notice,-'Le Poème du Rhône) (The Poem of the
Rhône), eagerly expected during many years of slow completion. It
proved to be in twelve cantos; a highly romantic description and
indeed poetic romance of the great river and of sundry of its towns,
based on a narrative half mundane and half mysterious, that deals
with the humble life of the Rhodane boatmen prior to the advent
of the first steamboat that ruined the romance and industry of their
boating craft. A superb episode in the fourth canto presents Napo-
leon in his famous flight;— though it is but one passage among many
that won special praise. The whole work possesses a movement and
dramatic charm worthy of the poet.
M. Mistral writes always from the point of view of a devout
Catholic believer, whom no mysteries, whether of holy miracle or
Satanic witchcraft, can avail to stagger. Both in Mirèio) and in
Nerto' we find, by way of episode, specimens of the légende pieuse
in very beautiful modern renderings. But the plentiful lack of humor
which he shares with most of the associated Félibres —— wherein they
are, one and all, so inferior to Jasmin causes him to mingle the
## p. 10100 (#528) ##########################################
10100
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
supernatural and the matter-of-fact sometimes in a manner which is
almost grotesque. It is his one great fault as an artist.
M. Mistral has toiled heroically in his later years at a compre-
hensive lexicon of ancient and modern Provençal, two volumes of
which have appeared in print. France has awarded him all those
nominal distinctions — Academy crowns and prizes, badges of the
Legion – which she delights to bestow upon her gifted sons; but
he clings always, in his own person, to the old-fashioned rustic ways
which acquire so strong a fascination under his picturesque pen. He
lives very simply, on the farm or mas in the neighborhood of Saint
Rémy where he was born, and practices a free but homely hospi-
tality. He married, rather late in life, an exceedingly beautiful
bourgeoise of the renowned Arlesian type; and he himself has been,
from youth to old age, one of the handsomest men of his generation.
Harmet aux Prestone
THE INVOCATION, FROM MIRÈIO)
Copyright 1872, by Roberts Brothers
SING the love of a Provençal maid;
How through the wheat-fields of La Crau she strayed,
Following the fate that drew her to the sea.
Unknown beyond remote La Crau was she;
And I, who tell the rustic tale of her,
Would fain be Homer's humble follower.
What though youth's aureole was her only crown?
And never gold she wore, nor damask gown?
I'll build her up a throne out of my song,
And hail her queen in our despised tongue.
Mine be the simple speech that ye all know,
Shepherds and farmer-folk of lone La Crau.
Methinks I see yon airy little bough:
It mocks me with its freshness even now;
The light breeze lifts it, and it waves on high
Fruitage and foliage that cannot die.
Help me, dear God, on our Provençal speech,
To soar until the birds' own home I reach!
God of my country, who didst have thy birth
Among poor shepherds when thou wast on earth,
## p. 10101 (#529) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
JOIOI
Breathe fire into my song! Thou knowest, iny God,
How, when the lusty summer is abroad,
And figs turn ripe in sun and dew, comes he,-
Brute, greedy man,- and quite despoils the tree.
Yet on that ravaged tree thou savest oft
Some little branch inviolate aloft,
Tender and airy up against the blue,
Which the rude spoiler cannot win unto:
Only the birds shall come and banquet there,
When, at St. Magdalene's, the fruit is fair.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
THE TUNNY FISHING
From "Calendau,' in the Atlantic Monthly.
Mifflin & Co.
By permission of Houghton,
B
UT when with dawn the pallid moon had set,
The whole unnumbered shoal into the net
Came pouring. Ah, but then I was elate!
Drunk with my joy, thought I had conquered fate:
“Now, love,” I said, “thou shalt have gems and gems;
I'll spoil the goldsmiths for thy diadems!
Love is the sun, the king of all this earth —
He fires, unites, fulfills with joy, gives birth,
Calls from the dead the living by the score,
And kindles war, and doth sweet peace restore.
Lord of the land, lord of the deep is he,
Piercing the very monsters of the sea
With fire-tipped arrows. Lo, the tunny yon!
Now in one silver phalanx press they on;
Anon they petulantly part and spring
And plunge and toss, their armor glittering
Steel-blue upon their crystal field of fight,
Or rosy underneath the growing light.
'Twas nuptial bliss they sought. What haste! what
fire!
With the strong rush of amorous desire
Spots of intense vermilion went and came
On some, like sparkles of a restless flame,
A royal scarf, a livery of gold,
A wedding robe, fading as love grew cold.
## p. 10102 (#530) ##########################################
IOIO2
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
So at the last came one prodigious swell,
And the last line, that seemed invincible,
Brake with the pressure, and our boats leaped high.
«Huzza! the prey is caged! ” we wildly cry:
Courage, my lads, and don't forget the oil!
The fish we have, let not the dressing spoil!
« 'Bout ship! ” We bent our shoulders with a will,
Our oars we planted sturdily but still,
And the gay cohort, late alive with light,
Owned, with a swift despair, its prisoned plight;
And where it leaped with amorous content,
Quivered and plunged in fury impotent.
"Now then, draw in! But easy, comrades bold,
We are not gathering figs ! » And all laid hold
With tug and strain to land the living prize,
Fruit of the treacherous sea. In ecstasies
Of rage our victims on each other flew,
Dashing the fishers o'er with bitter dew.
Too like, too like our own unhappy people,
Who, when the tocsin clangs from tower and steeple
Peril to freedom and the land we cherish,
Insensate turn like those foredoomed to perish,
Brother on brother laying reckless hand,
Till comes a foreign lord to still the land.
Yet had we brave and splendid sport, I ween,
For some with tridents, some with lances keen,
Fell on the prey. And some were skilled to fling
A wingèd dart held by a slender string.
The wounded wretches 'neath the wave withdrew,
Trailing red lines along the mirror blue.
Slowly the net brimful of treasure mounted;
Silver was there, turquoise and gold uncounted,
Rubies and emeralds million-rayed. The men
Flung them thereon like eager children when
They stay their mother's footsteps to explore
Her apron bursting with its summer store
Of apricots and cherries.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
## p. 10103 (#531) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
10103
THE BALLAD OF GUIBOUR
From "Calendau,' in the Atlantic Monthly. By permission of Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.
A"
T Arles in the Carlovingian days,
By the swift Rhône water,
A hundred thousand on either side,
Christian and Saracen, fought till the tide
Ran red with the slaughter.
May God foreſend such another flood
Of direful war!
The Count of Orange on that black morn
By seven great kings was overborne,
And fied afar
Whenas he would avenge the death
Of his nephew slain.
Now are the kings upon his trail;
He slays as he flies: like fiery hail
His sword-strokes rain.
He hies him into the Aliscamp, —
No shelter there!
A Moorish hive is the home of the dead,
And hard he spurs his goodly steed
In his despair.
Over the mountain and over the moor
Flies Count Guillaume;
By sun and by moon he ever sees
The coming cloud of his enemies;
Thus gains his home,
Halts and lifts at the castle gate;
A mighty cry,
Calling his haughty wife by name;
«Guibour, Guibour, my gentle dame,
Open! 'Tis I!
« Open the gate to thy Guillaume!
Ta'en is the city
By thirty thousand Saracen,
Lo, they are hunting me to my den:
Guibour, have pity! ”
## p. 10104 (#532) ##########################################
10104
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
But the countess from the rampart cried,
Nay, chevalier,
I will not open my gates to thee;
For, save the women and babes,” said she,
« Whom I shelter here,
And the priest who keeps the lamps alight,
Alone am I.
My brave Guillaume and his barons all
Are fighting the Moor by the Aliscamp wall,
And scorn to fly! ”
« Guibour, Guibour, it is I myself!
And those men of mine
(God rest their souls! ) they are dead,” he cried.
«Or rowing with slaves on the salt sea-tide.
I have seen the shine
« Of Arles on fire in the dying day;
I have heard one shriek
Go up from all the arenas where
The nuns disfigure their bodies fair
Lest the Marran wreak
«His brutal will. Avignon's self
Will fall to-day!
Sweetheart, I faint; oh, let me in
Before the savage Mograbin
Fall on his prey! »
(
“I swear thou liest,” cried Guibour,
“Thou base deceiver!
Thou art perchance thyself a Moor
Who whinest thus outside my door;-
My Guillaume, never!
«Guillaume to look on burning towns
And fired by — thee!
Guillaume to see his comrades die,
Or borne to sore captivity,
And then to flee !
“He knows not fight! He is a tower
Where others fly!
The heathen spoiler's doom is sure,
The virgin's honor aye secure,
When he is by ! »
## p. 10105 (#533) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
I0105
Guillaume leapt up, his bridle set
Between his teeth,
While tears of love and tears of shame
Under his burning eyelids came,
And hard drew breath,
And seized his sword and plunged his spurs
Right deep, and so
A storm, a demon, did descend
To roar and smite, to rout and rend
The Moorish foe.
As when one shakes an almond-tree,
The heathen slain
Upon the tender grass fall thick,
Until the flying remnant seek
Their ships again.
Four kings with his own hand he slew,
And when once more
He turned him homeward from the fight
Upon the drawbridge long in sight
Stood brave Guibour.
“By the great gateway enter in,
My lord! ” she cried;
And might no further welcome speak,
But loosed his helm, and kissed his cheek,
With tears of pride.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
THE SCALING OF VENTOUR
From "Calendau, in the Atlantic Monthly.
Mifflin & Co.
By permission of Houghton,
SY
AVAGE at once and sheer, yon tower of rocks;
To tufts of lavender and roots of box
I needs must cling, and as my feet I ground
In the thin soil, the little stones would bound
With ringing cry from off the precipice,
And plunge in horror down the long abyss.
Sometimes my path along the mountain face
Would narrow to a thread; I must retrace
## p. 10106 (#534) ##########################################
10106
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
My steps and seek some longer, wearier way.
And if I had turned dizzy in that day,
Or storm had overtaken me, then sure
I had lain mangled at thy feet, Ventour.
But God preserved me. Rarely as I strove
With only death in view, I heard above
Some solitary skylark wing her flight
Afar, then all was still. Only by night
God visits these drear places. Cheery hum
Of insect rings there never. All is dumb.
Oft as the skeleton of some old yew,
In a deep chasm, caught my downward view,
« Thou art there! ) I cried; and straightway did discover
New realms of wood towering the others over,
A deeper depth of shadows. Ah, methought
Those were enchanted solitudes I sought!
>
From sun to sun I clambered, clinging fast
Till all my nails were broken. At the last,
The utter last, -oh palms of God, - I caught
The soft larch murmur near me, and distraught
Embraced the foremost trunk, and forward fell;
How broken, drenched, and dead, no words can tell!
But sleep renews. I slept, and with the dawn
A fresh wind blew, and all the pain was gone,
And I rose up, both stout of limb and glad;
Bread in my sack for nine full days I had, -
A drinking-flask, a hatchet, and a knife
Wherewith to carve the story of my strife
Upon the trunks. Ah! fine that early breeze
On old Ventour, rushing through all the trees!
A symphony sublime I seemed to hear,
Where all the hills and vales gave answer clear,
Harmonious. In a stately melancholy,
From the sun's cheerful glances hidden wholly
By the black raiment of their foliage,
The larches rose. No tempest's utmost rage
Could shake them, but with huge limbs close entwined,
Mutely they turned their faces to the wind;
Some hoar with mold and moss, while some lay prone,
Shrouded in the dead leaves of years agone.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
## p. 10107 (#535) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
10107
THE EPILOGUE, FROM NERTO)
From the Atlantic Monthly. By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
I
F HAPLY some day, reader bland,
Thou voyagest through St. Gabriel's land,
Caring for aught that might avail
To prove the truth of this my tale,
There in the levels fair with corn
Thou shalt behold my nun forlorn,
Bearing upon her marble brow
Lucifer's lightning mark. But now,
Mute as a milestone. All these years
The murmur of budding life she hears;
And the white snails for coolness hide
Her rigid vesture folds inside,
Mint-perfumed; while about her feet
The shadow turns, the seasons fleet,
And everything beneath the sun
Changes, except the lonely nun.
Mute, said I? nay, the whisper goes
That here, when high midsummer glows,
There breathes at noon a dulcet tone.
Lay then thine ear against the stone,
And if thou hearest aught at all,
'Twill be the hymn angelical.
St. Gabriel hath, not far away,
An ancient, small basilica;
Sorrowful, as it would appear,
Because for now so many a year
No Christian footstep thither goes;
But there the guardian olive grows,
And in the archivolt of the door,
St. Gabriel -— kneeling as of yore-
Says Ave to Our Lady, while
The snaky author of all guile,
Twining around the knowledge-tree,
Lures from their primal innocency
Adam and Eve. A silent place:
The careless hind upon his ways
Mayhap salutes the Queen Divine,
But sets no candle at her shrine.
Only the blessed plants of God,
Among the court-yard stones untrod,
## p. 10108 (#536) ##########################################
10108
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
In fissures of the massy wall,
Between the roof tiles, over all
Take root and beauteously bloom,
And in the heat their wild perfume
Rises like altar incense. There
God's tiny living creatures fare;
Flutter the chickens of St. John;
Butterflies light and waver on;
Among the grass blades, mute and lean
The mantis kneels; the rifts between
Of the high roof-ridge, hides the bee
His honey hoard right busily;
'Neath gauzy wings, the livelong day
The innocent cicadas play
One only silver tune; — and these
Are as the parish families
Who throng the door, and tread the choir
Evermore gilt by sunshine. Higher
In window niches, with the wind
For organ bass, the sparrows find
Their place, and emulously swell
The lauds of that good Gabriel
Who saves them from the hawk. And I,
Maillano's minstrel, passing by
Thy widowed church, this very day,
Did enter in, and softly lay –
O Gabriel of Tarascon!
Upon thy altar this my song:
A simple tale, new come to light,
And only with thy glory bright.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
THE ALISCAMP
From Nerto,' in the Atlantic Monthly. By permission of Houghton, Mifflin
& Co.
AR below in those old days
FSpread that miraculous burial-place,
The Aliscamp of history,
With legend fraught, and mystery,
All full of tombs and chapels thrust,
And hilly with heaps of human dust.
## p. 10109 (#537) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
I0109
This is the legend ever told:-
When good St. Trophimus of old
The ground would consecrate, not one
Of all the congregation
Of fathers met, so meek they were,
Dared sprinkle the holy water there.
Then, ringed about with cloud and flame
Of angels, out of heaven came
Our Lord himself to bless the spot,
And left- if the tale erreth not-
The impress of his bended knee
Rock-graven. Howso this may be,
Full oft a swarm of angels white
Bends hither, on a tranquil night,
Singing celestial harmonies.
Wherefore the spot so holy is,
No man would slumber otherwhere;
But hither kings and priests repair,
And here earth's poor; and every one
Hath here his deep-wrought funeral stone
Or pinch of dust from Palestine:
The powers of hell in vain combine
'Gainst happy folk in slumber found
Under the cross, in that old ground.
And all along the river clear,
With silver laid upon the bier
For burial fees, men launched and sped
Upon the wave their kinsfolk dead
Who longed in Aliscamp to lie;
Then, as the coffins floated by,
Balancing on the waters bright,
All sailors turned them at the sight,
And helped the little skiffs ashore,
And signed the cross the sleepers o'er,
And kneeling under the willow-trees,
Piously prayed for their souls' peace.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
## p. 10110 (#538) ##########################################
IOIIO
DONALD G. MITCHELL
(IK MARVEL)
(1822-)
-
>
-
T is almost half a century since the Reveries of a Bachelor
– far the most popular of Mr. Mitchell's books — made its
public appearance, and instantly won for «Ik Marvel » the
kindly feeling of the young people of the land, - of the young of all
ages. It retains its place as securely to-day.
There is always a new generation coming forward, to the members
of which the brightness of the sunshine, and the freshness of the air,
and the greenness of the woods and fields, appeal; whose hearts are
full of romance, and whose minds are full
of hope and enthusiasm: and even when
mayhap youth has taken flight, there is with
some — it is to be hoped with many — a
kindly response to the thoughts, the dreams,
the hopes, and the ambitions of the days of
youth:-
«A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts. ”
A certain French professor once said,
referring to Evangeline,' «What have I
DONALD G. MITCHELL to do with that cow ? » The Reveries of a
Bachelor) and Dream Life) were not writ-
ten for such as he, nor do they appeal to the taste which is gratified
by much of the French and not a little of the English school of
to-day; but they are true to youth in every age, and grateful to the
unspoiled appetite to which they appeal.
They are exuberant. They are books of sentiment — some would
say even of sentimentalism. Yet the sentiment is as eternal as the
race; and deep down in his heart the critic responds to it, unless his
lost youth be not only lost but forgotten — buried in Lethe. The love
that is the theme of these books may be vealy; but he is to be pitied
who has no chord far within which vibrates in response to its por-
trayal, with a feeling which is pure, positive, and intense.
nature of the life which they depict may be simple, but it is never-
(
-
## p. 10111 (#539) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
IOIII
theless based upon the eternal verities. It is a comfort to the reader,
and sets him up a little in his own esteem, that after knocking about
this world for forty years,—this world which each sometimes thinks
that he could reconstruct upon a better plan,- he can again take up
the Reveries of a Bachelor,' and read it with much the same feel-
ings with which he read it when he, it, and the world were young.
And it speaks well for the book itself that this can be; for only a
book which is sound at the core, and which appeals to a true and
abiding sentiment in the race,- only a book which also has definite
literary merit, - could endure this test.
In the preface to an edition printed in 1863, its author said:-
“My publisher has written me that the old type of this book of the Rev-
eries) are so far worn and battered that they will bear no further usage; and
in view of a new edition, he asks for such revision of the text as I
may
deem
judicious, and for a few lines in way of preface.
«I began the revision. I scored out word after word; presently I came
to the scoring out of paragraphs; and before I had done, I was making my
scores by the page.
“It would never do. It might be the better, but it would not be the same.
I cannot lop away those twelve swift, changeful years that are gone.
“Middle age does not look on life like youth; we cannot make it. And
why mix the years and the thoughts? Let the young carry their own burdens
and banner; and we — ours.
“I have determined not to touch the book. A race has grown up which
may welcome its youngness, and find a spirit or a sentiment in it that cleaves
to them, and cheers them, and is true. I hope they will. )
The instinct of the author was sound. The printer's types may
have been worn and battered, but the types of youth were still fresh
and true and clear cut. They were types of American — of New
England - humanity, but also of universal humanity as well; and so
the books were appreciated when translated into another tongue.
In later years Mr. Mitchell published a novel more ambitious
in intention, Dr. Johns,' in which the motif is the contrast between
the life of a retired village of Puritan Connecticut and that of the
South of France. It is full of carefully drawn pictures of the former, -
pictures drawn by one whose early life had been spent amid just
such scenes. A different life — that of the metropolis in the days
of the Potiphar Papers) and Mr. Brown of Grace Church - is de-
picted with a satiric pen in the Lorgnette, which was issued anony-
mously, and periodically, after the manner of the Spectator; and in
Fudge Doings,' a slight novel of New York society (which appears
in the Grand Dictionnaire Universel du XIXe Siècle, par Pierre
Larousse,' as Aventures de la Famille Doings'). He also rewrote
for children a number of familiar tales, under the title About Old
Story-Tellers, and did other work of a similar character. He has
(
## p. 10112 (#540) ##########################################
IOII2
DONALD G. MITCHELL
been a traveler; and his first book, "Fresh Gleanings, or a New Sheaf
from the Old Fields of Continental Europe,' which was published in
1847, was the fruit of his maiden tour. His sketches are very unequal
in interest, and are interspersed with stories picked up here and there.
The work is marked by an immaturity, the gradual disappearance of
which it is interesting to follow in succeeding volumes. After this
came, two years later, “The Battle Summer' — Paris in 1848. This is
written in short fragmentary paragraphs, and apparently under the
spell of Victor Hugo; and would be more valuable to the reader of
to-day if it appeared to be more absolutely a record of personal obser-
vation of the dramatic period of which it treats, like that of Victor
Hugo in the later Histoire d'un Crime. )
He has been a frequent lecturer on literature and history; and in
English Lands, Letters, and Kings' has gathered pleasant perceptive
sketches of literature and social forces from the time of the Celt to
the time of Wordsworth.
But after his books of sentiment, those which are best known are
his books upon rural life: My Farm at Edgewood,' Wet Days at
Edgewood,' (Rural Studies, etc. ; written from the standpoint of the
man of letters and of worldly experience, who enjoys to the utter-
most the varying aspects of nature, the growth and passing of vege-
tation, and the changes of the seasons. These books are full of
prudent caution to the over-sanguine, of wise advice, of healthy
delight in the contest of man with nature.
Mr. Mitchell was born at Norwich, Connecticut, April 12th, 1822;
was graduated at Yale College in 1841; studied law; was appointed
United States Consul at Venice in 1853, remaining there however but
a short time; and in 1855 purchased the farm near New Haven which
he calls Edgewood, which has since been his home.
>
OVER A WOOD FIRE
From (Reveries of a Bachelor): Charles Scribner & Co. , New York
I
HAVE got a quiet farm-house in the country,- a very humble
place to be sure, tenanted by a worthy enough man of the
old New England stamp, where I sometimes go for a day or
two in the winter, to look over the farm accounts and to see how
the stock is thriving on the winter's keep.
One side the door, as you enter from the porch, is a little
parlor, scarce twelve feet by ten, with a cozy-looking fireplace, a
heavy oak floor, a couple of arm-chairs and a brown table with
carved lions' feet. Out of this room opens a little cabinet, only
## p. 10113 (#541) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
IO113
big enough for a broad bachelor bedstead, where I sleep upon
feathers, and wake in the morning with my eye upon a saucy-
colored lithographic print of some fancy Bessy. "
It happens to be the only house in the world of which I am
bona fide owner; and I take a vast deal of comfort in treating it
just as I choose.
I manage to break some article of furniture
almost every time I pay it a visit; and if I cannot open the
window readily of a morning, to breathe the fresh air, I knock
out a pane or two of glass with my boot. I lean against the
walls in a very old arm-chair there is on the premises, and
scarce ever fail to worry such a hole in the plastering as would
set me down for a round charge for damages in town, or make
a prim housewife fret herself into a raging fever. I laugh out
loud with myself, in my big arm-chair, when I think that I am
neither afraid of one nor the other.
As for the fire, I keep the little hearth so hot as to warm
half the cellar below, and the whole space between the jambs
roars for hours together with white flame. To be sure, the
windows are not very tight, between broken panes and bad joints;
so that the fire, large as it is, is by no means an extravagant
comfort.
As night approaches, I have a huge pile of oak and hickory
placed beside the hearth; I put out the tallow candle on the
mantel (using the family snuffers, with one leg broken) — then,
drawing my chair directly in front of the blazing wood, and set-
ting one foot on each of the old iron fire-dogs, until they grow
too warm, I dispose myself for an evening of such sober and
thoughtful quietude as I believe, on my soul, that very few of
my fellow-men have the good fortune to enjoy.
My tenant, meantime, in the other room, I can hear now and
then-though there is a thick stone chimney and broad entry
between - multiplying contrivances with his wife, to put two
babies to sleep. This occupies them, I should say, usually an
hour; though my only measure of time (for I never carry a
watch into the country) is the blaze of my fire. By ten, or there-
abouts, my stock of wood is nearly exhausted; I pile upon the
hot coals what remains, and sit watching how it kindles, and
blazes, and goes out-even like our joys! - and then slip by the
light of the embers into my bed, where I luxuriate in such sound
and healthful slumber as only such rattling window frames and
country air can supply.
XVII-633
-
## p. 10114 (#542) ##########################################
IO114
DONALD G. MITCHELL
But to return: the other evening - it happened to be on my
last visit to my farm-house - when I had exhausted all the ordi- .
nary rural topics of thought: had formed all sorts of conjectures
as to the income of the year; had planned a new wall around
one lot, and the clearing up of another, now covered with patri.
archal wood; and wondered if the little rickety house would not
be after all a snug enough box to live and to die in,- I fell on
a sudden into such an unprecedented line of thought, which took
such deep hold of my sympathies, sometimes even starting tears,
that I determined the next day to set as much of it as I could
recall, on paper.
Something - it may have been the home-looking blaze (I am
a bachelor of say six-and-twenty), or possibly a plaintive cry of
the baby in my tenant's room— had suggested to me the thought
of - Marriage.
I piled upon the heated fire-dogs the last armful of my wood;
and now, said I, bracing myself courageously between the arms
of my chair,- I'll not flinch; - I'll pursue the thought wherever
—
it leads, though it leads me to the D— (I am apt to be hasty)
at least - continued I, softening - until my fire is out.
The wood was green, and at first showed no disposition to
blaze. It smoked furiously. Smoke, thought I, always goes
before blaze; and so does doubt go before decision: and my
Revery, from that very starting-point, slipped into this shape:-
-
I.
SMOKE
SIGNIFYING DOUBT
A WIFE? - thought I; — yes, a wife!
And why?
And pray, my dear sir, why not — why? Why not doubt;
why not hesitate; why not tremble ?
Does a man buy a ticket in a lottery - a poor man, whose
whole earnings go in to secure the ticket - without trembling,
hesitating, and doubting ?
Can a man stake his bachelor respectability, his independence
and comfort, upon the die of absorbing, unchanging, relentless
marriage, without trembling at the venture ?
Shall a man who has been free to chase his fancies over the
wide world, without let or hindrance, shut himself up to marriage.
ship, within four walls called home, that are to claim him, his
time, his trouble, and his tears, thenceforward forevermore, with
out doubts thick and thick-coming as smoke?
## p. 10115 (#543) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
I0115
Shall he who has been hitherto a mere observer of other
men's cares and business — moving off where they made him sick
of heart, approaching whenever and wherever they made him
gleeful — shall he now undertake administration of just such cares
and business, without qualms ? Shall he, whose whole life has
been but a nimble succession of escapes from trifling difficulties,
now broach without doubtings that matrimony, where if difficulty
beset him there is no escape? Shall this brain of mine, careless-
working, never tired of idleness, feeding on long vagaries and
high gigantic castles, dreaming out beatitudes hour by hour -
turn itself at length to such dull task-work as thinking out a
livelihood for wife and children ?
Where thenceforward will be those sunny dreams in which I
have warmed my fancies and my heart, and lighted my eye with
crystal? This very marriage, which a brilliant-working imagina-
tion has invested time and again with brightness and delight,
can serve no longer as a mine for teeming fancy: all, alas, will
be gone— reduced to the dull standard of the actual!
No more
room for intrepid forays of imagination, no more gorgeous realm-
making -- all will be over!
Why not, I thought, go on dreaming ?
Can any wife be prettier than an after-dinner fancy, idle
and yet vivid, can paint for you? Can any children make less
noise than the little rosy-cheeked ones who have no existence
except in the omnium gatherum of your own brain ? Can any
housewife be more unexceptionable than she who goes sweeping
daintily the cobwebs that gather in your dreams?
domestic larder be better stocked than the private larder of
your head dozing on a cushioned chair-back at Delmonico's ? Can
any family purse be better filled than the exceeding plump one
you dream after reading such pleasant books as Münchausen' or
'Typee'?
But if, after all, it must be — duty, or what-not, making provo-
cation - what then ? And I clapped my feet hard against the
fire-dogs, and leaned back, and turned my face to the ceiling, as
much as to say:— "And where on earth, then, shall a poor devil
look for a wife ? »
Somebody says -- Lyttleton or Shaftesbury, I think that
« marriages would be happier if they were all arranged by the
Lord Chancellor. ” Unfortunately, we have no Lord Chancellor to
make this commutation of our misery.
Can any
>
-
## p. 10116 (#544) ##########################################
1016
DONALD G. MITCHELL
Shall a man, then, scour the country on a mule's back, like
honest Gil Blas of Santillane; or shall he make application to
some such intervening providence as Madame St. Marc, who, as
I see by the Presse, manages these matters to one's hand, for
some five per cent. on the fortunes of the parties?
I have trouted, when the brook was so low and the sky so
hot that I might as well have thrown my fly upon the turnpike:
and I have hunted hare at noon, and woodcock in snow-time,
never despairing, scarce doubting: but for a poor hunter of his
kind, without traps or snares, or any aid of police or constabu-
lary, to traverse the world, where are swarming, on a moderate
computation, some three hundred and odd millions of unmarried
women, for a single capture — irremediable, unchangeable — and
yet a capture which by strange metonymy, not laid down in the
books, is very apt to turn captor into captive, and make game
of hunter — all this surely, surely may make a man shrug with
doubt!
Then, again, there are the plaguy wife's relations. Who
knows how many third, fourth, or fifth cousins will appear at
careless complimentary intervals, long after you had settled into
the placid belief that all congratulatory visits were at an end?
How many twisted-headed brothers will be putting in their ad-
vice, as a friend to Peggy?
How many maiden aunts will come to spend a month or two
with their “dear Peggy," and want to know every tea-time "if
she isn't a dear love of a wife” ? Then dear father-in-law will
beg (taking dear Peggy's hand in his) to give a little wholesome
counsel; and will be very sure to advise just the contrary of
what you had determined to undertake. And dear mamma-in-
law must set her nose into Peggy's cupboard, and insist upon
having the key to your own private locker in the wainscot.
Then, perhaps, there is a little bevy of dirty-nosed nephews
who come to spend the holidays, and eat up your East India
sweetmeats; and who are forever tramping over your head or
raising the Old Harry below, while you are busy with your clients.
Last, and worse, is some fidgety old uncle, forever too cold or
too hot, who vexes you with his patronizing airs, and impudently
kisses his little Peggy!
That could be borne, however; for perhaps he has promised
his fortune to Peggy. Peggy, then, will be rich (and the thought
made me rub my shins, which were now getting comfortably
1
## p. 10117 (#545) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
IOI17
warm upon the fire-dogs). Then she will be forever talking of
her fortune; and pleasantly reminding you, on occasion of a favor-
ite purchase, how lucky that she had the means; and dropping
hints about economy; and buying very extravagant Paisleys.
She will annoy you by looking over the stock-list at breakfast-
time; and mention quite carelessly to your clients that she is
interested in such or such a speculation.
She will be provokingly silent when you hint to a tradesman
that you have not the money by you for his small bill: in short,
she will tear the life out of you, making you pay in righteous
retribution of annoyance, grief, vexation, shame, and sickness of
heart, for the superlative folly of "marrying rich. ”
But if not rich, then poor. Bah! the thought made me stir
the coals; but there was still no blaze. The paltry earnings you
are able to wring out of clients by the sweat of your brow will
now be all our income; you will be pestered for pin-money, and
pestered with your poor wife's relations. Ten to one, she will.
stickle about taste,-“Sir Visto's,”— and want to make this so
pretty, and that so charming, if she only had the means; and is
sure Paul (a kiss) can't deny his little Peggy such a trifling sum,
and all for the common benefit.
Then she, for one, means that her children shan't go a-beg-
ging for clothes,- and another pull at the purse. Trust a poor
mother to dress her children in finery!
Perhaps she is ugly; not noticeable at first, but growing on
her, and (what is worse) growing faster on you. You wonder
why you didn't see that vulgar nose long ago; and that lip-
it is very strange, you think, that you ever thought it pretty.
And then to come to breakfast with her hair looking as it does,
and you not so much as daring to say, “Peggy, do brush your
hair! ” Her foot too -- not very bad when decently chaussée -
but now since she's married she does wear such infernal slip-
pers! And yet for all this, to be prigging up for an hour when
any of my old chums come to dine with me!
“Bless your kind hearts! my dear fellows,” said I, thrusting
the tongs into the coals, and speaking out loud, as if my voice
could reach from Virginia to Paris - "not married yet! ”
Perhaps Peggy is pretty enough — only shrewish.
No matter for cold coffee: you should have been up before.
What sad, thin, poorly cooked chops to eat with your rolls!
She thinks they are very good, and wonders how you can set
such an example to your children.
(
i
## p. 10118 (#546) ##########################################
10118
DONALD G. MITCHELL
>
»
son ;
The butter is nauseating.
She has no other, and hopes you'll not raise a storm about
butter a little turned. I think I see myself, ruminated I, sitting
I
meekly at table, scarce daring to lift up my eyes, utterly fagged
out with some quarrel of yesterday, choking down detestably
sour muffins, that my wife thinks are “delicious,” — slipping in
dried mouthfuls of burnt ham off the side of my fork-tines, -
slipping off my chair sideways at the end, and slipping out with
my hat between my knees, to business, and never feeling myself
a competent, sound-minded man till the oak door is between me
and Peggy!
"Ha, ha,- not yet! ” said I; and in so earnest a tone, that
my dog started to his feet, cocked his eye to have a good look
into my face, met my smile of triumph with an amiable wag of
the tail, and curled up again in the corner.
Again, Peggy is rich enough, well enough, mild enough, only
she doesn't care a fig for you. She has married you because
father or grandfather thought the match eligible, and because
she didn't wish to disoblige them. Besides, she didn't positively
hate you, and thought you were a respectable enough young per-
-she has told you so repeatedly at dinner. She wonders
you like to read poetry; she wishes you would buy her a good
cook-book; and insists upon your making your will at the birth
of the first baby.
She thinks Captain So-and-So a splendid-looking fellow, and
wishes you would trim up a little, were it only for appearance's
sake.
You need not hurry up from the office so early at night: she,
bless her dear heart! does not feel lonely. You read to her a
love tale: she interrupts the pathetic parts with directions to her
seamstress. You read of marriages: she sighs, and asks if Cap-
tain So-and-So has left town! She hates to be mewed up in a
cottage, or between brick walls: she does so love the Springs!
But again, Peggy loves you; at least she swears it, with her
hand on the Sorrows of Werther. ) She has pin-money which
she spends for the Literary World and the Friends in Council. '
She is not bad-looking, save a bit too much of forehead; nor
is she sluttish, unless a negligé till three o'clock, and an ink-
stain on the forefinger, be sluttish; — but then she is such a sad
blue!
You never fancied, when you saw her buried in a three-
volume novel, that it was anything more than a girlish vagary;
## p. 10119 (#547) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
10119
and when she quoted Latin, you thought innocently that she had
a capital memory for her samplers.
But to be bored eternally about divine Dante and funny Gol-
doni is too bad. Your copy of Tasso, a treasure print of 1680,
is all bethumbed and dog's-eared, and spotted with baby-gruel.
Even your Seneca - an Elzevir - is all sweaty with handling.
-
She adores La Fontaine, reads Balzac with a kind of artist scowl,
and will not let Greek alone.
You hint at broken rest and an aching head at breakfast, and
she will Aling you a scrap of Anthology — in lieu of the camphor
bottle - or chant the aiai aiai of tragic chorus.
The nurse is getting dinner; you are holding the baby: Peggy
is reading Bruyère.
The fire smoked thick as pitch, and puffed out little clouds
over the chimney-piece. I
gave the forestick a kick, at the
thought of Peggy, baby, and Bruyère.
Suddenly the flame flickered bluely athwart the smoke -
caught at a twig below — rolled around the mossy oak stick - -
twined among the crackling tree-limbs -- mounted - lit up the
whole body of smoke, and blazed out cheerily and bright. Doubt
vanished with Smoke, and Hope began with Flame.
II.
BLAZE — SIGNIFYING CHEER
I PUSHED my chair back; drew up another; stretched out my
feet cozily upon it, rested my elbows on the chair arms, leaned
my head on one hand, and looked straight into the leaping and
dancing flame.
Love is a flame — ruminated I; and (glancing round the room)
how a flame brightens up a man's habitation!
"Carlo,” said I, calling up my dog into the light, "good fel-
low, Carlo! " and I patted him kindly, and he wagged his tail,
and laid his nose across my knee, and looked wistfully up in my
face; then strode away,— turned to look again, and lay down to
sleep.
Pho, the brute! ” said I; “it is not enough, after all, to like
a dog. ”
If now
in that chair yonder,— not the one your feet lie
upon, but the other, beside you — closer yet — were seated a sweet-
faced girl, with a pretty little foot lying out upon the hearth, a
bit of lace running round the swelling throat, the hair parted to
(C
»
## p. 10120 (#548) ##########################################
IOI 20
DONALD G. MITCHELL
-
a charm over a forehead fair as any of your dreams — and if
you could reach an arm around that chair-back, without fear of
giving offense, and suffer your fingers to play idly with those
curls that escape down the neck; and if you could clasp with
your other hand those little white taper fingers of hers, which
lie so temptingly within reach, - and so talk softly and low in
presence of the blaze, while the hours slip without knowledge,
and the winter winds whistle uncared-for;- if, in short, you
were no bachelor, but the husband of some such sweet image
(dream, call it rather), — would it not be far pleasanter than this
cold single night-sitting - counting the sticks — reckoning the
length of the blaze and the height of the falling snow?
And if some or all of those wild vagaries that grow on your
fancy at such an hour, you could whisper into listening, because
loving ears - ears not tired with listening, because it is you who
whisper-ears ever indulgent because eager to praise ;- and if
your darkest fancies were lit up, not merely with bright wood
fire, but with a ringing laugh of that sweet face turned up in
fond rebuke how far better than to be waxing black and sour
over pestilential humors — alone -- your very dog asleep!
And if when a glowing thought comes into your brain,
quick and sudden, you could tell it over as to a second self, to
that sweet creature, who is not away, because she loves to be
there; and if you could watch the thought catching that girlish
mind, illuming that fair brow, sparkling in those pleasantest of
eyes- how far better than to feel it slumbering, and going out,
- heavy, lifeless, and dead, in your own selfish fancy.
generous emotion steals over you, coming you know not whither,
would there not be a richer charm in lavishing it in caress or
endearing word upon that fondest and most dear one, than in
patting your glossy-coated dog, or sinking lonely to smiling slum-
bers ?
How would not benevolence ripen with such monitor to task
it! How would not selfishness grow faint and dull, leaning ever
to that second self, which is the loved one! How would not
guile shiver, and grow weak, before that girl-brow and eye of
innocence! How would not all that boyhood prized of enthusi-
asm, and quick blood, and life, renew itself in such a presence!
The fire was getting hotter, and I moved into the middle of
the room. The shadows the flames made were playing like fairy
forms over floor and wall and ceiling,
## p. 10121 (#549) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
IOI 21
My fancy would surely quicken, thought I, if such a being
were in attendance. Surely imagination would be stronger and
purer, if it could have the playful fancies of dawning womanhood
to delight it. All toil would be torn from mind-labor, if but
another heart grew into this present soul, quickening it, warming
it, cheering it, bidding it ever - God-speed !
Her face would make a halo, rich as a rainbow, atop of all
such noisome things as we lonely souls call trouble. Her smile
would illumine the blackest of crowding cares; and darkness that
now seats you despondent in your solitary chair for days together,
weaving bitter fancies, dreaming bitter dreams, would grow light
and thin, and spread and float away — chased by that beloved
smile.
Your friend
- poor fellow ! — dies; never mind: that gentle
clasp of her fingers, as she steals behind you, telling you not
to weep — it is worth ten friends!
Your sister, sweet one, is dead — buried. The worms are busy
with all her fairness. How it makes you think earth nothing but
a spot to dig graves upon!
It is more: she, she says, will be a sister; and the waving
curls as she leans upon your shoulder, touch your cheek, and
your wet eye turns to meet those other eyes. — God has sent his
angel, surely.
Your mother, alas for it, she is gone! Is there any bitterness
to a youth, alone and homeless, like this ?
But you are not homeless; you are not alone: she is there;
- her tears softening yours, her smile lighting yours, her grief
killing yours; and you live again, to assuage that kind sorrow of
hers.
Then – those children, rosy, fair-haired; no, they do
, not
disturb you with their prattle now — they are yours ! Toss
away there on the greensward-never mind the hyacinths, the
–
snowdrops, the violets, if so be any are there: the perfume of
their healthful lips is worth all the flowers of the world. No
need now to gather wild bouquets to love and cherish: flower,
tree, gun, are all dead things; things livelier hold your soul.
And she, the mother, sweetest and fairest of all, watching,
tending, caressing, loving, till your own heart grows pained with
tenderest jealousy, and cures itself with loving.
You have no need now of any cold lecture to teach thankful-
ness: your heart is full of it. No need now, as once, of burst-
ing blossoms, of trees taking leaf, and greenness, to turn thought
## p. 10122 (#550) ##########################################
IOI 22
DONALD G. MITCHELL
kindly and thankfully: forever beside you there is bloom, and
ever beside you there is fruit, - for which eye, heart, and soul
are full of unknown, and unspoken, because unspeakable, thank-
offering
And if sickness catches you, binds you, lays you down — no
lonely moanings, and wicked curses at careless-stepping nurses.
The step is noiseless, and yet distinct beside you, .
10098
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
highly successful experiment with a kindred patois; but up to his day,
no Frenchman for generations had dreamed of writing in anything
but classic French. Some time in the early fifties, however, Master
Roumanille set up a publishing house at Avignon; and he and his
disciples formed themselves into a society which they called the Fili-
brige, whose members, the Félibres, agreed not merely to compose
in the rustic dialect which they were born to speak, but gravely to
combine for the purpose of formulating its etymology and grammar,
and establishing, beyond cavil, its claim to a high literary descent.
Like William Barnes, the Dorsetshire poet, who considered the
language of Shakespeare only a late and rather weak offshoot from
the primitive speech of Dorset, the Félibres claimed for their dialect
the full honors of a language. They held it to be essentially the
same as that of the mediæval Troubadours, many of whose Courts of
Love and Contests of Song had flourished within their territory; and
they also maintained that the early Provençal sprang directly from
the language of Rome, and was itself the parent of Italian, French,
and Spanish, as well as of all the other living forms of Latin speech.
Needless to say that these linguistic pretensions were never made
good; but this matters little beside the fact that works of great
freshness and distinction were actually produced under the impulse
of the so-called Provençal revival.
Among these works Mistral's were easily first; and his masterpiece,
Mirèio,' was originally printed at Avignon in 1858, in Provençal only,
and under the auspices of Roumanille. A year later it was brought
out in Paris with a very striking parallel French version of the
poet's own, which, by rendering it easily intelligible to the ordinary
reader, invited general criticism, while incidentally it revealed the
almost unparalleled wealth of the writer's vocabulary in both forms
of speech.
Mirèio,' then, was a pastoral poem of the present time, all suf-
fused with the hot sunshine of Southern France; as full as the
Georgics themselves of rustic lore and homely agricultural detail, but
embodying also, in twelve leisurely books, the tale of two very young
lovers, their innocent passion, thrilling adventures, and hapless end.
The story was told with a kind of sweet garrulity, and an affluence
of unworn imagery, that simply took the world by storm. The elab-
orate measure adopted by Mistral (apparently he did not, as was at
first claimed, invent it) was managed with consummate grace, and
gave a high idea of the musical capacities of the Provençal speech,
and its curious richness, especially in feminine rhymes. It is well
understood now that Mistral and his colleagues fashioned their new
instrument more or less to suit themselves: improvising grammati-
cal forms at need, and manipulating and modifying terminal syllables
## p. 10099 (#527) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
10099
with glorious license. But the Troubadours of the twelfth century
had done just the same; and these were the alleged heirs both of
their inspiration and their methods.
In 1867, after an interval of nine years, Mirèio was followed by
(Calendau, another poem of epic proportions; which naturally created
less astonishment than its predecessor, but really fell very little short
of it in vigor of conception, variety of action, and beauty of imagery.
The heroine of the new romance was a dispossessed Princess of Baux,
in whose veins ran the blood of more than one queen of love; while
her suitor was a man of humble birth, whom she inspired by reciting
legends of chivalry, and compelled to win her hand by a series of
extraordinary tests and adventures.
In 1875 M. Mistral published a collection of fugitive pieces under
the title of Lis Isclo d'Oro,' or the Golden Isles. In 1883 appeared
his third long poem, "Nerto,' a tale of the last days of the Popes at
Avignon. The florid stanza of the two previous compositions was
abandoned in Nerto for a simply rhymed octosyllabic metre, like
that employed for narrative by Chaucer, Byron, and William Morris;
and the whole tone and movement of the story were more tame and
conventional than those of the earlier ones. Here too we have for
the first time a didactic purpose plainly avowed by the author: the
singular but perfectly serious one of illustrating the personal exist-
ence and persistent activity among mankind of that formidable Being
whose name (O Lucifer, son of the morning! ) is oddly abbreviated by
the Provençaux into Cifèr.
In 1897 appeared M. Mistral's last extended poetical work up to
the date of this notice,-'Le Poème du Rhône) (The Poem of the
Rhône), eagerly expected during many years of slow completion. It
proved to be in twelve cantos; a highly romantic description and
indeed poetic romance of the great river and of sundry of its towns,
based on a narrative half mundane and half mysterious, that deals
with the humble life of the Rhodane boatmen prior to the advent
of the first steamboat that ruined the romance and industry of their
boating craft. A superb episode in the fourth canto presents Napo-
leon in his famous flight;— though it is but one passage among many
that won special praise. The whole work possesses a movement and
dramatic charm worthy of the poet.
M. Mistral writes always from the point of view of a devout
Catholic believer, whom no mysteries, whether of holy miracle or
Satanic witchcraft, can avail to stagger. Both in Mirèio) and in
Nerto' we find, by way of episode, specimens of the légende pieuse
in very beautiful modern renderings. But the plentiful lack of humor
which he shares with most of the associated Félibres —— wherein they
are, one and all, so inferior to Jasmin causes him to mingle the
## p. 10100 (#528) ##########################################
10100
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
supernatural and the matter-of-fact sometimes in a manner which is
almost grotesque. It is his one great fault as an artist.
M. Mistral has toiled heroically in his later years at a compre-
hensive lexicon of ancient and modern Provençal, two volumes of
which have appeared in print. France has awarded him all those
nominal distinctions — Academy crowns and prizes, badges of the
Legion – which she delights to bestow upon her gifted sons; but
he clings always, in his own person, to the old-fashioned rustic ways
which acquire so strong a fascination under his picturesque pen. He
lives very simply, on the farm or mas in the neighborhood of Saint
Rémy where he was born, and practices a free but homely hospi-
tality. He married, rather late in life, an exceedingly beautiful
bourgeoise of the renowned Arlesian type; and he himself has been,
from youth to old age, one of the handsomest men of his generation.
Harmet aux Prestone
THE INVOCATION, FROM MIRÈIO)
Copyright 1872, by Roberts Brothers
SING the love of a Provençal maid;
How through the wheat-fields of La Crau she strayed,
Following the fate that drew her to the sea.
Unknown beyond remote La Crau was she;
And I, who tell the rustic tale of her,
Would fain be Homer's humble follower.
What though youth's aureole was her only crown?
And never gold she wore, nor damask gown?
I'll build her up a throne out of my song,
And hail her queen in our despised tongue.
Mine be the simple speech that ye all know,
Shepherds and farmer-folk of lone La Crau.
Methinks I see yon airy little bough:
It mocks me with its freshness even now;
The light breeze lifts it, and it waves on high
Fruitage and foliage that cannot die.
Help me, dear God, on our Provençal speech,
To soar until the birds' own home I reach!
God of my country, who didst have thy birth
Among poor shepherds when thou wast on earth,
## p. 10101 (#529) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
JOIOI
Breathe fire into my song! Thou knowest, iny God,
How, when the lusty summer is abroad,
And figs turn ripe in sun and dew, comes he,-
Brute, greedy man,- and quite despoils the tree.
Yet on that ravaged tree thou savest oft
Some little branch inviolate aloft,
Tender and airy up against the blue,
Which the rude spoiler cannot win unto:
Only the birds shall come and banquet there,
When, at St. Magdalene's, the fruit is fair.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
THE TUNNY FISHING
From "Calendau,' in the Atlantic Monthly.
Mifflin & Co.
By permission of Houghton,
B
UT when with dawn the pallid moon had set,
The whole unnumbered shoal into the net
Came pouring. Ah, but then I was elate!
Drunk with my joy, thought I had conquered fate:
“Now, love,” I said, “thou shalt have gems and gems;
I'll spoil the goldsmiths for thy diadems!
Love is the sun, the king of all this earth —
He fires, unites, fulfills with joy, gives birth,
Calls from the dead the living by the score,
And kindles war, and doth sweet peace restore.
Lord of the land, lord of the deep is he,
Piercing the very monsters of the sea
With fire-tipped arrows. Lo, the tunny yon!
Now in one silver phalanx press they on;
Anon they petulantly part and spring
And plunge and toss, their armor glittering
Steel-blue upon their crystal field of fight,
Or rosy underneath the growing light.
'Twas nuptial bliss they sought. What haste! what
fire!
With the strong rush of amorous desire
Spots of intense vermilion went and came
On some, like sparkles of a restless flame,
A royal scarf, a livery of gold,
A wedding robe, fading as love grew cold.
## p. 10102 (#530) ##########################################
IOIO2
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
So at the last came one prodigious swell,
And the last line, that seemed invincible,
Brake with the pressure, and our boats leaped high.
«Huzza! the prey is caged! ” we wildly cry:
Courage, my lads, and don't forget the oil!
The fish we have, let not the dressing spoil!
« 'Bout ship! ” We bent our shoulders with a will,
Our oars we planted sturdily but still,
And the gay cohort, late alive with light,
Owned, with a swift despair, its prisoned plight;
And where it leaped with amorous content,
Quivered and plunged in fury impotent.
"Now then, draw in! But easy, comrades bold,
We are not gathering figs ! » And all laid hold
With tug and strain to land the living prize,
Fruit of the treacherous sea. In ecstasies
Of rage our victims on each other flew,
Dashing the fishers o'er with bitter dew.
Too like, too like our own unhappy people,
Who, when the tocsin clangs from tower and steeple
Peril to freedom and the land we cherish,
Insensate turn like those foredoomed to perish,
Brother on brother laying reckless hand,
Till comes a foreign lord to still the land.
Yet had we brave and splendid sport, I ween,
For some with tridents, some with lances keen,
Fell on the prey. And some were skilled to fling
A wingèd dart held by a slender string.
The wounded wretches 'neath the wave withdrew,
Trailing red lines along the mirror blue.
Slowly the net brimful of treasure mounted;
Silver was there, turquoise and gold uncounted,
Rubies and emeralds million-rayed. The men
Flung them thereon like eager children when
They stay their mother's footsteps to explore
Her apron bursting with its summer store
Of apricots and cherries.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
## p. 10103 (#531) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
10103
THE BALLAD OF GUIBOUR
From "Calendau,' in the Atlantic Monthly. By permission of Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.
A"
T Arles in the Carlovingian days,
By the swift Rhône water,
A hundred thousand on either side,
Christian and Saracen, fought till the tide
Ran red with the slaughter.
May God foreſend such another flood
Of direful war!
The Count of Orange on that black morn
By seven great kings was overborne,
And fied afar
Whenas he would avenge the death
Of his nephew slain.
Now are the kings upon his trail;
He slays as he flies: like fiery hail
His sword-strokes rain.
He hies him into the Aliscamp, —
No shelter there!
A Moorish hive is the home of the dead,
And hard he spurs his goodly steed
In his despair.
Over the mountain and over the moor
Flies Count Guillaume;
By sun and by moon he ever sees
The coming cloud of his enemies;
Thus gains his home,
Halts and lifts at the castle gate;
A mighty cry,
Calling his haughty wife by name;
«Guibour, Guibour, my gentle dame,
Open! 'Tis I!
« Open the gate to thy Guillaume!
Ta'en is the city
By thirty thousand Saracen,
Lo, they are hunting me to my den:
Guibour, have pity! ”
## p. 10104 (#532) ##########################################
10104
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
But the countess from the rampart cried,
Nay, chevalier,
I will not open my gates to thee;
For, save the women and babes,” said she,
« Whom I shelter here,
And the priest who keeps the lamps alight,
Alone am I.
My brave Guillaume and his barons all
Are fighting the Moor by the Aliscamp wall,
And scorn to fly! ”
« Guibour, Guibour, it is I myself!
And those men of mine
(God rest their souls! ) they are dead,” he cried.
«Or rowing with slaves on the salt sea-tide.
I have seen the shine
« Of Arles on fire in the dying day;
I have heard one shriek
Go up from all the arenas where
The nuns disfigure their bodies fair
Lest the Marran wreak
«His brutal will. Avignon's self
Will fall to-day!
Sweetheart, I faint; oh, let me in
Before the savage Mograbin
Fall on his prey! »
(
“I swear thou liest,” cried Guibour,
“Thou base deceiver!
Thou art perchance thyself a Moor
Who whinest thus outside my door;-
My Guillaume, never!
«Guillaume to look on burning towns
And fired by — thee!
Guillaume to see his comrades die,
Or borne to sore captivity,
And then to flee !
“He knows not fight! He is a tower
Where others fly!
The heathen spoiler's doom is sure,
The virgin's honor aye secure,
When he is by ! »
## p. 10105 (#533) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
I0105
Guillaume leapt up, his bridle set
Between his teeth,
While tears of love and tears of shame
Under his burning eyelids came,
And hard drew breath,
And seized his sword and plunged his spurs
Right deep, and so
A storm, a demon, did descend
To roar and smite, to rout and rend
The Moorish foe.
As when one shakes an almond-tree,
The heathen slain
Upon the tender grass fall thick,
Until the flying remnant seek
Their ships again.
Four kings with his own hand he slew,
And when once more
He turned him homeward from the fight
Upon the drawbridge long in sight
Stood brave Guibour.
“By the great gateway enter in,
My lord! ” she cried;
And might no further welcome speak,
But loosed his helm, and kissed his cheek,
With tears of pride.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
THE SCALING OF VENTOUR
From "Calendau, in the Atlantic Monthly.
Mifflin & Co.
By permission of Houghton,
SY
AVAGE at once and sheer, yon tower of rocks;
To tufts of lavender and roots of box
I needs must cling, and as my feet I ground
In the thin soil, the little stones would bound
With ringing cry from off the precipice,
And plunge in horror down the long abyss.
Sometimes my path along the mountain face
Would narrow to a thread; I must retrace
## p. 10106 (#534) ##########################################
10106
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
My steps and seek some longer, wearier way.
And if I had turned dizzy in that day,
Or storm had overtaken me, then sure
I had lain mangled at thy feet, Ventour.
But God preserved me. Rarely as I strove
With only death in view, I heard above
Some solitary skylark wing her flight
Afar, then all was still. Only by night
God visits these drear places. Cheery hum
Of insect rings there never. All is dumb.
Oft as the skeleton of some old yew,
In a deep chasm, caught my downward view,
« Thou art there! ) I cried; and straightway did discover
New realms of wood towering the others over,
A deeper depth of shadows. Ah, methought
Those were enchanted solitudes I sought!
>
From sun to sun I clambered, clinging fast
Till all my nails were broken. At the last,
The utter last, -oh palms of God, - I caught
The soft larch murmur near me, and distraught
Embraced the foremost trunk, and forward fell;
How broken, drenched, and dead, no words can tell!
But sleep renews. I slept, and with the dawn
A fresh wind blew, and all the pain was gone,
And I rose up, both stout of limb and glad;
Bread in my sack for nine full days I had, -
A drinking-flask, a hatchet, and a knife
Wherewith to carve the story of my strife
Upon the trunks. Ah! fine that early breeze
On old Ventour, rushing through all the trees!
A symphony sublime I seemed to hear,
Where all the hills and vales gave answer clear,
Harmonious. In a stately melancholy,
From the sun's cheerful glances hidden wholly
By the black raiment of their foliage,
The larches rose. No tempest's utmost rage
Could shake them, but with huge limbs close entwined,
Mutely they turned their faces to the wind;
Some hoar with mold and moss, while some lay prone,
Shrouded in the dead leaves of years agone.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
## p. 10107 (#535) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
10107
THE EPILOGUE, FROM NERTO)
From the Atlantic Monthly. By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
I
F HAPLY some day, reader bland,
Thou voyagest through St. Gabriel's land,
Caring for aught that might avail
To prove the truth of this my tale,
There in the levels fair with corn
Thou shalt behold my nun forlorn,
Bearing upon her marble brow
Lucifer's lightning mark. But now,
Mute as a milestone. All these years
The murmur of budding life she hears;
And the white snails for coolness hide
Her rigid vesture folds inside,
Mint-perfumed; while about her feet
The shadow turns, the seasons fleet,
And everything beneath the sun
Changes, except the lonely nun.
Mute, said I? nay, the whisper goes
That here, when high midsummer glows,
There breathes at noon a dulcet tone.
Lay then thine ear against the stone,
And if thou hearest aught at all,
'Twill be the hymn angelical.
St. Gabriel hath, not far away,
An ancient, small basilica;
Sorrowful, as it would appear,
Because for now so many a year
No Christian footstep thither goes;
But there the guardian olive grows,
And in the archivolt of the door,
St. Gabriel -— kneeling as of yore-
Says Ave to Our Lady, while
The snaky author of all guile,
Twining around the knowledge-tree,
Lures from their primal innocency
Adam and Eve. A silent place:
The careless hind upon his ways
Mayhap salutes the Queen Divine,
But sets no candle at her shrine.
Only the blessed plants of God,
Among the court-yard stones untrod,
## p. 10108 (#536) ##########################################
10108
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
In fissures of the massy wall,
Between the roof tiles, over all
Take root and beauteously bloom,
And in the heat their wild perfume
Rises like altar incense. There
God's tiny living creatures fare;
Flutter the chickens of St. John;
Butterflies light and waver on;
Among the grass blades, mute and lean
The mantis kneels; the rifts between
Of the high roof-ridge, hides the bee
His honey hoard right busily;
'Neath gauzy wings, the livelong day
The innocent cicadas play
One only silver tune; — and these
Are as the parish families
Who throng the door, and tread the choir
Evermore gilt by sunshine. Higher
In window niches, with the wind
For organ bass, the sparrows find
Their place, and emulously swell
The lauds of that good Gabriel
Who saves them from the hawk. And I,
Maillano's minstrel, passing by
Thy widowed church, this very day,
Did enter in, and softly lay –
O Gabriel of Tarascon!
Upon thy altar this my song:
A simple tale, new come to light,
And only with thy glory bright.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
THE ALISCAMP
From Nerto,' in the Atlantic Monthly. By permission of Houghton, Mifflin
& Co.
AR below in those old days
FSpread that miraculous burial-place,
The Aliscamp of history,
With legend fraught, and mystery,
All full of tombs and chapels thrust,
And hilly with heaps of human dust.
## p. 10109 (#537) ##########################################
FRÉDÉRIC MISTRAL
I0109
This is the legend ever told:-
When good St. Trophimus of old
The ground would consecrate, not one
Of all the congregation
Of fathers met, so meek they were,
Dared sprinkle the holy water there.
Then, ringed about with cloud and flame
Of angels, out of heaven came
Our Lord himself to bless the spot,
And left- if the tale erreth not-
The impress of his bended knee
Rock-graven. Howso this may be,
Full oft a swarm of angels white
Bends hither, on a tranquil night,
Singing celestial harmonies.
Wherefore the spot so holy is,
No man would slumber otherwhere;
But hither kings and priests repair,
And here earth's poor; and every one
Hath here his deep-wrought funeral stone
Or pinch of dust from Palestine:
The powers of hell in vain combine
'Gainst happy folk in slumber found
Under the cross, in that old ground.
And all along the river clear,
With silver laid upon the bier
For burial fees, men launched and sped
Upon the wave their kinsfolk dead
Who longed in Aliscamp to lie;
Then, as the coffins floated by,
Balancing on the waters bright,
All sailors turned them at the sight,
And helped the little skiffs ashore,
And signed the cross the sleepers o'er,
And kneeling under the willow-trees,
Piously prayed for their souls' peace.
Translation of Harriet Waters Preston.
## p. 10110 (#538) ##########################################
IOIIO
DONALD G. MITCHELL
(IK MARVEL)
(1822-)
-
>
-
T is almost half a century since the Reveries of a Bachelor
– far the most popular of Mr. Mitchell's books — made its
public appearance, and instantly won for «Ik Marvel » the
kindly feeling of the young people of the land, - of the young of all
ages. It retains its place as securely to-day.
There is always a new generation coming forward, to the members
of which the brightness of the sunshine, and the freshness of the air,
and the greenness of the woods and fields, appeal; whose hearts are
full of romance, and whose minds are full
of hope and enthusiasm: and even when
mayhap youth has taken flight, there is with
some — it is to be hoped with many — a
kindly response to the thoughts, the dreams,
the hopes, and the ambitions of the days of
youth:-
«A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts. ”
A certain French professor once said,
referring to Evangeline,' «What have I
DONALD G. MITCHELL to do with that cow ? » The Reveries of a
Bachelor) and Dream Life) were not writ-
ten for such as he, nor do they appeal to the taste which is gratified
by much of the French and not a little of the English school of
to-day; but they are true to youth in every age, and grateful to the
unspoiled appetite to which they appeal.
They are exuberant. They are books of sentiment — some would
say even of sentimentalism. Yet the sentiment is as eternal as the
race; and deep down in his heart the critic responds to it, unless his
lost youth be not only lost but forgotten — buried in Lethe. The love
that is the theme of these books may be vealy; but he is to be pitied
who has no chord far within which vibrates in response to its por-
trayal, with a feeling which is pure, positive, and intense.
nature of the life which they depict may be simple, but it is never-
(
-
## p. 10111 (#539) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
IOIII
theless based upon the eternal verities. It is a comfort to the reader,
and sets him up a little in his own esteem, that after knocking about
this world for forty years,—this world which each sometimes thinks
that he could reconstruct upon a better plan,- he can again take up
the Reveries of a Bachelor,' and read it with much the same feel-
ings with which he read it when he, it, and the world were young.
And it speaks well for the book itself that this can be; for only a
book which is sound at the core, and which appeals to a true and
abiding sentiment in the race,- only a book which also has definite
literary merit, - could endure this test.
In the preface to an edition printed in 1863, its author said:-
“My publisher has written me that the old type of this book of the Rev-
eries) are so far worn and battered that they will bear no further usage; and
in view of a new edition, he asks for such revision of the text as I
may
deem
judicious, and for a few lines in way of preface.
«I began the revision. I scored out word after word; presently I came
to the scoring out of paragraphs; and before I had done, I was making my
scores by the page.
“It would never do. It might be the better, but it would not be the same.
I cannot lop away those twelve swift, changeful years that are gone.
“Middle age does not look on life like youth; we cannot make it. And
why mix the years and the thoughts? Let the young carry their own burdens
and banner; and we — ours.
“I have determined not to touch the book. A race has grown up which
may welcome its youngness, and find a spirit or a sentiment in it that cleaves
to them, and cheers them, and is true. I hope they will. )
The instinct of the author was sound. The printer's types may
have been worn and battered, but the types of youth were still fresh
and true and clear cut. They were types of American — of New
England - humanity, but also of universal humanity as well; and so
the books were appreciated when translated into another tongue.
In later years Mr. Mitchell published a novel more ambitious
in intention, Dr. Johns,' in which the motif is the contrast between
the life of a retired village of Puritan Connecticut and that of the
South of France. It is full of carefully drawn pictures of the former, -
pictures drawn by one whose early life had been spent amid just
such scenes. A different life — that of the metropolis in the days
of the Potiphar Papers) and Mr. Brown of Grace Church - is de-
picted with a satiric pen in the Lorgnette, which was issued anony-
mously, and periodically, after the manner of the Spectator; and in
Fudge Doings,' a slight novel of New York society (which appears
in the Grand Dictionnaire Universel du XIXe Siècle, par Pierre
Larousse,' as Aventures de la Famille Doings'). He also rewrote
for children a number of familiar tales, under the title About Old
Story-Tellers, and did other work of a similar character. He has
(
## p. 10112 (#540) ##########################################
IOII2
DONALD G. MITCHELL
been a traveler; and his first book, "Fresh Gleanings, or a New Sheaf
from the Old Fields of Continental Europe,' which was published in
1847, was the fruit of his maiden tour. His sketches are very unequal
in interest, and are interspersed with stories picked up here and there.
The work is marked by an immaturity, the gradual disappearance of
which it is interesting to follow in succeeding volumes. After this
came, two years later, “The Battle Summer' — Paris in 1848. This is
written in short fragmentary paragraphs, and apparently under the
spell of Victor Hugo; and would be more valuable to the reader of
to-day if it appeared to be more absolutely a record of personal obser-
vation of the dramatic period of which it treats, like that of Victor
Hugo in the later Histoire d'un Crime. )
He has been a frequent lecturer on literature and history; and in
English Lands, Letters, and Kings' has gathered pleasant perceptive
sketches of literature and social forces from the time of the Celt to
the time of Wordsworth.
But after his books of sentiment, those which are best known are
his books upon rural life: My Farm at Edgewood,' Wet Days at
Edgewood,' (Rural Studies, etc. ; written from the standpoint of the
man of letters and of worldly experience, who enjoys to the utter-
most the varying aspects of nature, the growth and passing of vege-
tation, and the changes of the seasons. These books are full of
prudent caution to the over-sanguine, of wise advice, of healthy
delight in the contest of man with nature.
Mr. Mitchell was born at Norwich, Connecticut, April 12th, 1822;
was graduated at Yale College in 1841; studied law; was appointed
United States Consul at Venice in 1853, remaining there however but
a short time; and in 1855 purchased the farm near New Haven which
he calls Edgewood, which has since been his home.
>
OVER A WOOD FIRE
From (Reveries of a Bachelor): Charles Scribner & Co. , New York
I
HAVE got a quiet farm-house in the country,- a very humble
place to be sure, tenanted by a worthy enough man of the
old New England stamp, where I sometimes go for a day or
two in the winter, to look over the farm accounts and to see how
the stock is thriving on the winter's keep.
One side the door, as you enter from the porch, is a little
parlor, scarce twelve feet by ten, with a cozy-looking fireplace, a
heavy oak floor, a couple of arm-chairs and a brown table with
carved lions' feet. Out of this room opens a little cabinet, only
## p. 10113 (#541) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
IO113
big enough for a broad bachelor bedstead, where I sleep upon
feathers, and wake in the morning with my eye upon a saucy-
colored lithographic print of some fancy Bessy. "
It happens to be the only house in the world of which I am
bona fide owner; and I take a vast deal of comfort in treating it
just as I choose.
I manage to break some article of furniture
almost every time I pay it a visit; and if I cannot open the
window readily of a morning, to breathe the fresh air, I knock
out a pane or two of glass with my boot. I lean against the
walls in a very old arm-chair there is on the premises, and
scarce ever fail to worry such a hole in the plastering as would
set me down for a round charge for damages in town, or make
a prim housewife fret herself into a raging fever. I laugh out
loud with myself, in my big arm-chair, when I think that I am
neither afraid of one nor the other.
As for the fire, I keep the little hearth so hot as to warm
half the cellar below, and the whole space between the jambs
roars for hours together with white flame. To be sure, the
windows are not very tight, between broken panes and bad joints;
so that the fire, large as it is, is by no means an extravagant
comfort.
As night approaches, I have a huge pile of oak and hickory
placed beside the hearth; I put out the tallow candle on the
mantel (using the family snuffers, with one leg broken) — then,
drawing my chair directly in front of the blazing wood, and set-
ting one foot on each of the old iron fire-dogs, until they grow
too warm, I dispose myself for an evening of such sober and
thoughtful quietude as I believe, on my soul, that very few of
my fellow-men have the good fortune to enjoy.
My tenant, meantime, in the other room, I can hear now and
then-though there is a thick stone chimney and broad entry
between - multiplying contrivances with his wife, to put two
babies to sleep. This occupies them, I should say, usually an
hour; though my only measure of time (for I never carry a
watch into the country) is the blaze of my fire. By ten, or there-
abouts, my stock of wood is nearly exhausted; I pile upon the
hot coals what remains, and sit watching how it kindles, and
blazes, and goes out-even like our joys! - and then slip by the
light of the embers into my bed, where I luxuriate in such sound
and healthful slumber as only such rattling window frames and
country air can supply.
XVII-633
-
## p. 10114 (#542) ##########################################
IO114
DONALD G. MITCHELL
But to return: the other evening - it happened to be on my
last visit to my farm-house - when I had exhausted all the ordi- .
nary rural topics of thought: had formed all sorts of conjectures
as to the income of the year; had planned a new wall around
one lot, and the clearing up of another, now covered with patri.
archal wood; and wondered if the little rickety house would not
be after all a snug enough box to live and to die in,- I fell on
a sudden into such an unprecedented line of thought, which took
such deep hold of my sympathies, sometimes even starting tears,
that I determined the next day to set as much of it as I could
recall, on paper.
Something - it may have been the home-looking blaze (I am
a bachelor of say six-and-twenty), or possibly a plaintive cry of
the baby in my tenant's room— had suggested to me the thought
of - Marriage.
I piled upon the heated fire-dogs the last armful of my wood;
and now, said I, bracing myself courageously between the arms
of my chair,- I'll not flinch; - I'll pursue the thought wherever
—
it leads, though it leads me to the D— (I am apt to be hasty)
at least - continued I, softening - until my fire is out.
The wood was green, and at first showed no disposition to
blaze. It smoked furiously. Smoke, thought I, always goes
before blaze; and so does doubt go before decision: and my
Revery, from that very starting-point, slipped into this shape:-
-
I.
SMOKE
SIGNIFYING DOUBT
A WIFE? - thought I; — yes, a wife!
And why?
And pray, my dear sir, why not — why? Why not doubt;
why not hesitate; why not tremble ?
Does a man buy a ticket in a lottery - a poor man, whose
whole earnings go in to secure the ticket - without trembling,
hesitating, and doubting ?
Can a man stake his bachelor respectability, his independence
and comfort, upon the die of absorbing, unchanging, relentless
marriage, without trembling at the venture ?
Shall a man who has been free to chase his fancies over the
wide world, without let or hindrance, shut himself up to marriage.
ship, within four walls called home, that are to claim him, his
time, his trouble, and his tears, thenceforward forevermore, with
out doubts thick and thick-coming as smoke?
## p. 10115 (#543) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
I0115
Shall he who has been hitherto a mere observer of other
men's cares and business — moving off where they made him sick
of heart, approaching whenever and wherever they made him
gleeful — shall he now undertake administration of just such cares
and business, without qualms ? Shall he, whose whole life has
been but a nimble succession of escapes from trifling difficulties,
now broach without doubtings that matrimony, where if difficulty
beset him there is no escape? Shall this brain of mine, careless-
working, never tired of idleness, feeding on long vagaries and
high gigantic castles, dreaming out beatitudes hour by hour -
turn itself at length to such dull task-work as thinking out a
livelihood for wife and children ?
Where thenceforward will be those sunny dreams in which I
have warmed my fancies and my heart, and lighted my eye with
crystal? This very marriage, which a brilliant-working imagina-
tion has invested time and again with brightness and delight,
can serve no longer as a mine for teeming fancy: all, alas, will
be gone— reduced to the dull standard of the actual!
No more
room for intrepid forays of imagination, no more gorgeous realm-
making -- all will be over!
Why not, I thought, go on dreaming ?
Can any wife be prettier than an after-dinner fancy, idle
and yet vivid, can paint for you? Can any children make less
noise than the little rosy-cheeked ones who have no existence
except in the omnium gatherum of your own brain ? Can any
housewife be more unexceptionable than she who goes sweeping
daintily the cobwebs that gather in your dreams?
domestic larder be better stocked than the private larder of
your head dozing on a cushioned chair-back at Delmonico's ? Can
any family purse be better filled than the exceeding plump one
you dream after reading such pleasant books as Münchausen' or
'Typee'?
But if, after all, it must be — duty, or what-not, making provo-
cation - what then ? And I clapped my feet hard against the
fire-dogs, and leaned back, and turned my face to the ceiling, as
much as to say:— "And where on earth, then, shall a poor devil
look for a wife ? »
Somebody says -- Lyttleton or Shaftesbury, I think that
« marriages would be happier if they were all arranged by the
Lord Chancellor. ” Unfortunately, we have no Lord Chancellor to
make this commutation of our misery.
Can any
>
-
## p. 10116 (#544) ##########################################
1016
DONALD G. MITCHELL
Shall a man, then, scour the country on a mule's back, like
honest Gil Blas of Santillane; or shall he make application to
some such intervening providence as Madame St. Marc, who, as
I see by the Presse, manages these matters to one's hand, for
some five per cent. on the fortunes of the parties?
I have trouted, when the brook was so low and the sky so
hot that I might as well have thrown my fly upon the turnpike:
and I have hunted hare at noon, and woodcock in snow-time,
never despairing, scarce doubting: but for a poor hunter of his
kind, without traps or snares, or any aid of police or constabu-
lary, to traverse the world, where are swarming, on a moderate
computation, some three hundred and odd millions of unmarried
women, for a single capture — irremediable, unchangeable — and
yet a capture which by strange metonymy, not laid down in the
books, is very apt to turn captor into captive, and make game
of hunter — all this surely, surely may make a man shrug with
doubt!
Then, again, there are the plaguy wife's relations. Who
knows how many third, fourth, or fifth cousins will appear at
careless complimentary intervals, long after you had settled into
the placid belief that all congratulatory visits were at an end?
How many twisted-headed brothers will be putting in their ad-
vice, as a friend to Peggy?
How many maiden aunts will come to spend a month or two
with their “dear Peggy," and want to know every tea-time "if
she isn't a dear love of a wife” ? Then dear father-in-law will
beg (taking dear Peggy's hand in his) to give a little wholesome
counsel; and will be very sure to advise just the contrary of
what you had determined to undertake. And dear mamma-in-
law must set her nose into Peggy's cupboard, and insist upon
having the key to your own private locker in the wainscot.
Then, perhaps, there is a little bevy of dirty-nosed nephews
who come to spend the holidays, and eat up your East India
sweetmeats; and who are forever tramping over your head or
raising the Old Harry below, while you are busy with your clients.
Last, and worse, is some fidgety old uncle, forever too cold or
too hot, who vexes you with his patronizing airs, and impudently
kisses his little Peggy!
That could be borne, however; for perhaps he has promised
his fortune to Peggy. Peggy, then, will be rich (and the thought
made me rub my shins, which were now getting comfortably
1
## p. 10117 (#545) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
IOI17
warm upon the fire-dogs). Then she will be forever talking of
her fortune; and pleasantly reminding you, on occasion of a favor-
ite purchase, how lucky that she had the means; and dropping
hints about economy; and buying very extravagant Paisleys.
She will annoy you by looking over the stock-list at breakfast-
time; and mention quite carelessly to your clients that she is
interested in such or such a speculation.
She will be provokingly silent when you hint to a tradesman
that you have not the money by you for his small bill: in short,
she will tear the life out of you, making you pay in righteous
retribution of annoyance, grief, vexation, shame, and sickness of
heart, for the superlative folly of "marrying rich. ”
But if not rich, then poor. Bah! the thought made me stir
the coals; but there was still no blaze. The paltry earnings you
are able to wring out of clients by the sweat of your brow will
now be all our income; you will be pestered for pin-money, and
pestered with your poor wife's relations. Ten to one, she will.
stickle about taste,-“Sir Visto's,”— and want to make this so
pretty, and that so charming, if she only had the means; and is
sure Paul (a kiss) can't deny his little Peggy such a trifling sum,
and all for the common benefit.
Then she, for one, means that her children shan't go a-beg-
ging for clothes,- and another pull at the purse. Trust a poor
mother to dress her children in finery!
Perhaps she is ugly; not noticeable at first, but growing on
her, and (what is worse) growing faster on you. You wonder
why you didn't see that vulgar nose long ago; and that lip-
it is very strange, you think, that you ever thought it pretty.
And then to come to breakfast with her hair looking as it does,
and you not so much as daring to say, “Peggy, do brush your
hair! ” Her foot too -- not very bad when decently chaussée -
but now since she's married she does wear such infernal slip-
pers! And yet for all this, to be prigging up for an hour when
any of my old chums come to dine with me!
“Bless your kind hearts! my dear fellows,” said I, thrusting
the tongs into the coals, and speaking out loud, as if my voice
could reach from Virginia to Paris - "not married yet! ”
Perhaps Peggy is pretty enough — only shrewish.
No matter for cold coffee: you should have been up before.
What sad, thin, poorly cooked chops to eat with your rolls!
She thinks they are very good, and wonders how you can set
such an example to your children.
(
i
## p. 10118 (#546) ##########################################
10118
DONALD G. MITCHELL
>
»
son ;
The butter is nauseating.
She has no other, and hopes you'll not raise a storm about
butter a little turned. I think I see myself, ruminated I, sitting
I
meekly at table, scarce daring to lift up my eyes, utterly fagged
out with some quarrel of yesterday, choking down detestably
sour muffins, that my wife thinks are “delicious,” — slipping in
dried mouthfuls of burnt ham off the side of my fork-tines, -
slipping off my chair sideways at the end, and slipping out with
my hat between my knees, to business, and never feeling myself
a competent, sound-minded man till the oak door is between me
and Peggy!
"Ha, ha,- not yet! ” said I; and in so earnest a tone, that
my dog started to his feet, cocked his eye to have a good look
into my face, met my smile of triumph with an amiable wag of
the tail, and curled up again in the corner.
Again, Peggy is rich enough, well enough, mild enough, only
she doesn't care a fig for you. She has married you because
father or grandfather thought the match eligible, and because
she didn't wish to disoblige them. Besides, she didn't positively
hate you, and thought you were a respectable enough young per-
-she has told you so repeatedly at dinner. She wonders
you like to read poetry; she wishes you would buy her a good
cook-book; and insists upon your making your will at the birth
of the first baby.
She thinks Captain So-and-So a splendid-looking fellow, and
wishes you would trim up a little, were it only for appearance's
sake.
You need not hurry up from the office so early at night: she,
bless her dear heart! does not feel lonely. You read to her a
love tale: she interrupts the pathetic parts with directions to her
seamstress. You read of marriages: she sighs, and asks if Cap-
tain So-and-So has left town! She hates to be mewed up in a
cottage, or between brick walls: she does so love the Springs!
But again, Peggy loves you; at least she swears it, with her
hand on the Sorrows of Werther. ) She has pin-money which
she spends for the Literary World and the Friends in Council. '
She is not bad-looking, save a bit too much of forehead; nor
is she sluttish, unless a negligé till three o'clock, and an ink-
stain on the forefinger, be sluttish; — but then she is such a sad
blue!
You never fancied, when you saw her buried in a three-
volume novel, that it was anything more than a girlish vagary;
## p. 10119 (#547) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
10119
and when she quoted Latin, you thought innocently that she had
a capital memory for her samplers.
But to be bored eternally about divine Dante and funny Gol-
doni is too bad. Your copy of Tasso, a treasure print of 1680,
is all bethumbed and dog's-eared, and spotted with baby-gruel.
Even your Seneca - an Elzevir - is all sweaty with handling.
-
She adores La Fontaine, reads Balzac with a kind of artist scowl,
and will not let Greek alone.
You hint at broken rest and an aching head at breakfast, and
she will Aling you a scrap of Anthology — in lieu of the camphor
bottle - or chant the aiai aiai of tragic chorus.
The nurse is getting dinner; you are holding the baby: Peggy
is reading Bruyère.
The fire smoked thick as pitch, and puffed out little clouds
over the chimney-piece. I
gave the forestick a kick, at the
thought of Peggy, baby, and Bruyère.
Suddenly the flame flickered bluely athwart the smoke -
caught at a twig below — rolled around the mossy oak stick - -
twined among the crackling tree-limbs -- mounted - lit up the
whole body of smoke, and blazed out cheerily and bright. Doubt
vanished with Smoke, and Hope began with Flame.
II.
BLAZE — SIGNIFYING CHEER
I PUSHED my chair back; drew up another; stretched out my
feet cozily upon it, rested my elbows on the chair arms, leaned
my head on one hand, and looked straight into the leaping and
dancing flame.
Love is a flame — ruminated I; and (glancing round the room)
how a flame brightens up a man's habitation!
"Carlo,” said I, calling up my dog into the light, "good fel-
low, Carlo! " and I patted him kindly, and he wagged his tail,
and laid his nose across my knee, and looked wistfully up in my
face; then strode away,— turned to look again, and lay down to
sleep.
Pho, the brute! ” said I; “it is not enough, after all, to like
a dog. ”
If now
in that chair yonder,— not the one your feet lie
upon, but the other, beside you — closer yet — were seated a sweet-
faced girl, with a pretty little foot lying out upon the hearth, a
bit of lace running round the swelling throat, the hair parted to
(C
»
## p. 10120 (#548) ##########################################
IOI 20
DONALD G. MITCHELL
-
a charm over a forehead fair as any of your dreams — and if
you could reach an arm around that chair-back, without fear of
giving offense, and suffer your fingers to play idly with those
curls that escape down the neck; and if you could clasp with
your other hand those little white taper fingers of hers, which
lie so temptingly within reach, - and so talk softly and low in
presence of the blaze, while the hours slip without knowledge,
and the winter winds whistle uncared-for;- if, in short, you
were no bachelor, but the husband of some such sweet image
(dream, call it rather), — would it not be far pleasanter than this
cold single night-sitting - counting the sticks — reckoning the
length of the blaze and the height of the falling snow?
And if some or all of those wild vagaries that grow on your
fancy at such an hour, you could whisper into listening, because
loving ears - ears not tired with listening, because it is you who
whisper-ears ever indulgent because eager to praise ;- and if
your darkest fancies were lit up, not merely with bright wood
fire, but with a ringing laugh of that sweet face turned up in
fond rebuke how far better than to be waxing black and sour
over pestilential humors — alone -- your very dog asleep!
And if when a glowing thought comes into your brain,
quick and sudden, you could tell it over as to a second self, to
that sweet creature, who is not away, because she loves to be
there; and if you could watch the thought catching that girlish
mind, illuming that fair brow, sparkling in those pleasantest of
eyes- how far better than to feel it slumbering, and going out,
- heavy, lifeless, and dead, in your own selfish fancy.
generous emotion steals over you, coming you know not whither,
would there not be a richer charm in lavishing it in caress or
endearing word upon that fondest and most dear one, than in
patting your glossy-coated dog, or sinking lonely to smiling slum-
bers ?
How would not benevolence ripen with such monitor to task
it! How would not selfishness grow faint and dull, leaning ever
to that second self, which is the loved one! How would not
guile shiver, and grow weak, before that girl-brow and eye of
innocence! How would not all that boyhood prized of enthusi-
asm, and quick blood, and life, renew itself in such a presence!
The fire was getting hotter, and I moved into the middle of
the room. The shadows the flames made were playing like fairy
forms over floor and wall and ceiling,
## p. 10121 (#549) ##########################################
DONALD G. MITCHELL
IOI 21
My fancy would surely quicken, thought I, if such a being
were in attendance. Surely imagination would be stronger and
purer, if it could have the playful fancies of dawning womanhood
to delight it. All toil would be torn from mind-labor, if but
another heart grew into this present soul, quickening it, warming
it, cheering it, bidding it ever - God-speed !
Her face would make a halo, rich as a rainbow, atop of all
such noisome things as we lonely souls call trouble. Her smile
would illumine the blackest of crowding cares; and darkness that
now seats you despondent in your solitary chair for days together,
weaving bitter fancies, dreaming bitter dreams, would grow light
and thin, and spread and float away — chased by that beloved
smile.
Your friend
- poor fellow ! — dies; never mind: that gentle
clasp of her fingers, as she steals behind you, telling you not
to weep — it is worth ten friends!
Your sister, sweet one, is dead — buried. The worms are busy
with all her fairness. How it makes you think earth nothing but
a spot to dig graves upon!
It is more: she, she says, will be a sister; and the waving
curls as she leans upon your shoulder, touch your cheek, and
your wet eye turns to meet those other eyes. — God has sent his
angel, surely.
Your mother, alas for it, she is gone! Is there any bitterness
to a youth, alone and homeless, like this ?
But you are not homeless; you are not alone: she is there;
- her tears softening yours, her smile lighting yours, her grief
killing yours; and you live again, to assuage that kind sorrow of
hers.
Then – those children, rosy, fair-haired; no, they do
, not
disturb you with their prattle now — they are yours ! Toss
away there on the greensward-never mind the hyacinths, the
–
snowdrops, the violets, if so be any are there: the perfume of
their healthful lips is worth all the flowers of the world. No
need now to gather wild bouquets to love and cherish: flower,
tree, gun, are all dead things; things livelier hold your soul.
And she, the mother, sweetest and fairest of all, watching,
tending, caressing, loving, till your own heart grows pained with
tenderest jealousy, and cures itself with loving.
You have no need now of any cold lecture to teach thankful-
ness: your heart is full of it. No need now, as once, of burst-
ing blossoms, of trees taking leaf, and greenness, to turn thought
## p. 10122 (#550) ##########################################
IOI 22
DONALD G. MITCHELL
kindly and thankfully: forever beside you there is bloom, and
ever beside you there is fruit, - for which eye, heart, and soul
are full of unknown, and unspoken, because unspeakable, thank-
offering
And if sickness catches you, binds you, lays you down — no
lonely moanings, and wicked curses at careless-stepping nurses.
The step is noiseless, and yet distinct beside you, .
