victor hugo _his life and work_ by g. barnett smith, author of 'shelley: a critical biography,' 'poets and novelists,' etc. _with a portrait of victor hugo._ london: ward and downey, 12, york street, covent garden. 1885. [_all rights reserved._] [illustration: victor hugo] i inscribe this volume to algernon charles swinburne, rejoicing thus to connect the great bard and prophet of france with the english singer of a younger day, who has drunk deeply of the master's spirit. _g. b. s._ preliminary note. i began this study of victor hugo in december last, and arrangements were made for its early publication. the great poet has now passed away, and this melancholy event gives the biographical portion of the present volume a completeness not originally anticipated. notwithstanding the multitude of criticisms which have appeared in our own and other languages upon hugo's works, this is the only book which relates the full story of his life, and now traces to its close his literary career. more than twenty years have elapsed since the publication of madame hugo's memorials of the earlier portion of the poet's history, and since that time m. barbou's work (excellently translated by miss frewer) is the only narrative of a biographical character which has appeared. the writings of various french and english critics, the two works i have named, and those valuable chroniclers, the journals of london and paris, have been of considerable service to me in the preparation of the biography now offered to the public. the writings of victor hugo are so varied and multifarious, and many of them are so well known to english readers, that i have not deemed it necessary to subject them to a detailed analysis. at the same time, the reader unfamiliar with these powerful works will, i trust, be able to gather something of their purport and scope from the ensuing pages. as they have impressed all minds, moreover, by their striking originality, i thought that it would not be without its value if, while venturing to record my own impressions, i gave at the same time a representation of critical contemporary opinion upon them. finally, it has been my object to present to the reader, within reasonable compass, a complete survey of the life and work of the most celebrated frenchman of the nineteenth century. g. barnett smith. highgate, london, n., _june 3rd, 1885_. contents. chapter page i. early years 1 ii. dawnings of genius 18 iii. victor hugo's humanitarianism 37 iv. the triumph of romanticism 49 v. 'notre-dame de paris' 65 vi. 'marion de lorme' and other dramas 77 vii. last dramatic writings 92 viii. the french academy 110 ix. personal and political 121 x. the poet in exile 141 xi. in guernsey.--'les misérables' 152 xii. literary and dramatic 169 xiii. paris and the siege 186 xiv. 'quatre-vingt-treize.'--politics, etc. 201 xv. poems on religion 217 xvi. public addresses, etc. 223 xvii. 'la légende des siècles,' etc. 237 xviii. honours to victor hugo 248 xix. personal and miscellaneous 261 xx. the poet's death and burial 274 xxi. genius and characteristics 304 victor hugo: his life and work. chapter i. early years. the glory of france touched its zenith at the period when our narrative opens. europe virtually lay at the feet of napoleon, who had risen to a height of authority and power which might well have satisfied the most vaulting ambition. nations whose records extended back into the ages of antiquity trembled before him; and only one people, that of this sea-girt isle of britain, declined to bend the knee to the all-conquering first consul. yet the philosophic mind, reflecting that the stability of a nation or a throne must be measured by its growth, must surely have distrusted the permanence of a grandeur and a greatness thus rapidly achieved. and speedily would such prevision have been justified, for in little more than one brief decade the sun of napoleon set as suddenly as it arose. but while as yet the fame and the splendour of the conqueror were in their noonday, there was born at besançon another child of genius, whose triumphs were to be won in a different and a nobler sphere. he was destined to touch, as with ithuriel's spear, the sleeping spirit of french poesy, and to animate it with new life, vigour, and enthusiasm; he was to recall the divine muse from the drear region of classicism, and, by revivifying almost every branch of imaginative literature, he was himself to gain the triple crown of poet, romancist, and dramatist. and not alone for this was the child victor hugo to grow into manhood and venerable age. he was to become a great apostle of liberty, and as his life opened with the triumphs of the first napoleon, so before its close he was destined to behold the last of that name pass away in the whirlwind, and france recover much of her prosperity and her power under the ægis of the republic, of which the poet sang and for which he laboured. the ancestry of victor hugo were not undistinguished. documents concerning them before the fifteenth century were lost in the pillage of nancy, but since that time a clear genealogy is claimed. there was one hugo, a soldier, who obtained in 1535 letters patent of nobility for himself and his descendants from cardinal jean de lorraine, archbishop of rheims, which letters were subsequently confirmed by the cardinal's brother, antoine, duke of lorraine. the fifth descendant from this warrior-noble, charles hyacinthe hugo, obtained new letters patent; and his grandson, joseph leopold sigisbert, was the father of the poet. in the seventeenth century, a member of the hugo family was known both in the church and in literature, and became abbé of estival and bishop of ptolemais. another who lived in the eighteenth century, louis antoine hugo, was a member of the convention, and was executed for moderatism. thus in career, as in character, there was much variety in the hugo family. sigisbert hugo, who entered the army as a cadet in 1788, ultimately attained the rank of general under the first empire. although the hereditary title of count was the appanage of this rank, he never took it up. while brave and fearless in war, he is represented as being devotion and goodness personified, and humane to a fault. 'he set his children a fine example of duty, being ever their instructor in the paths of honour.' during a period of military service at nantes, he became acquainted with sophie trébuchet, the daughter of a wealthy shipowner. an attachment soon sprang up between them, and they were married in paris, hugo having been summoned thither as reporter to the first council of war on the seine. though the grandfather of victor hugo on the maternal side was engaged in commerce, he belonged to an old family, and one famous in la vendée for its devotion to the royalist cause. a cousin of madame hugo was the count de chasseboeuf, better known as volney, the author of _les ruines_; and another cousin was count cornet, who was very prominent in political matters both before and during the first empire. two sons were born to major hugo and his wife, and then they looked forward with hope to the birth of a daughter, whom it was decided to name victorine. another son, however, came instead, and one so weakly and diminutive that the accoucheur declared strongly against his chances of life. the babe was taken to the mairie at besançon, and registered as having been born on the 26th of february, 1802. he received the names of victor marie hugo, and his godfather was major hugo's intimate friend, general lahorie, chief of the staff to general moreau. it has been pointed out that the word hugo in old german was the equivalent of the latin word _spiritus_, and this fact, combined with the christian name of victor, caused dumas the elder to say that 'the name of victor hugo stands forth as the conquering spirit, the triumphant soul, the breath of victory.' but for some time there could be little presage of triumph or victory in connection with victor hugo. languid and ailing in body, he became unusually sad for a child of such tender years, and 'was sometimes discovered in a corner, weeping silently without any reason.' he afterwards described his untoward childhood in the opening lines of the _feuilles d'automne_. for some time the hugo family accompanied its head in his military journeyings; but when major hugo was ultimately ordered to join the army of italy, he settled his wife and their three young children in paris, in the rue de clichy. that the youngest scion of the house could not really have been as feeble and frail as he looked, and that he must have had the basis of a good, sound constitution, is proved by his long life; but we must not forget also in this regard the great care and assiduous attention lavished upon him by his mother. his career furnishes another illustration of the truth that while the most glorious promise sometimes sets in gloom and premature death, on the other hand genius also not infrequently advances from the wavering spark to a noble flame, and out of weakness is made strength. major (afterwards general) hugo rendered conspicuous service in italy by the capture of the notorious bandit chief, fra diavolo, and the pacification of naples. for these acts he was made colonel of royal corsica and governor of avellino. when not quite five years old victor was taken by his mother, with his brothers, abel and eugène, to avellino, and the journey to italy is associated with his first observations of natural scenery. though so young, his imagination was fired by all he saw, and the impressions he formed were very distinct--so much so that in after life he would discuss with alexandre dumas the aspects of the country through which he had travelled in his childhood. in 1808 colonel hugo was sent to madrid in the train of joseph bonaparte; but, as spain was disturbed by war, he would not hazard the presence of his wife and children in that country. madame hugo accordingly went to paris, and established herself at the house no. 12, in the impasse des feuillantines, where she now devoted herself to the education of her children. late in life, victor hugo described the household in the feuillantines. near by there was an aged priest, who acted as tutor to the boys, teaching them a good deal of latin, a smattering of greek, and the barest outlines of history. in the gardens, and amid the ruins of an old convent in the grounds, the hugo boys passed many happy days. 'together in their work and in their play, rough-hewing their lives regardless of destiny, they passed their time as children of the spring, mindful only of their books, of the trees, and of the clouds, listening to the tumultuous chorus of the birds, but watched over incessantly by one sweet and loving smile.' 'blessings on thee, o my mother!' was the invocation of the poet in his later years. once the family received an accession in the person of general lahorie, who had been connected with moreau's conspiracy, and was condemned to death for contumacy. madame hugo, in her secluded dwelling, and in a little chapel buried amongst the foliage, gave him a secure shelter for eighteen months. young victor did not then know that the stranger in whom he took so deep an interest, and in whom he begat an equal interest, was his godfather. lahorie took kindly to the boy, and frequently conversed with him, saying to him on one occasion with great impressiveness, 'child, everything must yield to liberty!' the precautions of lahorie and his friends were in the end of no avail. in 1811 he was arrested at the feuillantines, tried and condemned by court-martial, and shot on the plain of grenelle. napoleon was implacable in his revenge; his wrath might sleep, but it was never allowed to die. another visitor to the feuillantines was general louis hugo, uncle to the youths. with that strong poetic imagery which characterized him, little victor said that the entrance of his uncle into the salon 'had on us the effect of the archangel michael appearing on a beam of light.' the visitor came at the request of his brother to hasten the departure of the family for spain. the boys hugo were informed by their mother that they must learn spanish, and just as they would have performed much more impossible feats under such a command, they acquired the language in the course of a few weeks. in the spring of 1811, madame hugo and her children began their journey into spain. at bayonne they had to await a convoy for madrid. here the travellers paid several visits to the theatre, which made a deep impression upon victor, yet one which, while more lasting perhaps, was not so deep as that made by the little daughter of a widow, who seems to have quite captivated the boy. he afterwards referred to this attachment as bearing the same relation to love that the light of dawn bears to the full blaze of day. but he never saw again the youthful _inamorata_ who stirred 'the first cry of the awakening heart.' the dilatory progress of the convoy to madrid, though irksome to madame hugo, was not so to her youngest son. he delighted in observing the features of the scenery and the towns through which they passed. with ernani he was especially pleased, and subsequently gave to one of his dramas the name of this town. after a number of adventures, some of them of a trying character, the convoy entered madrid, and madame hugo and her family were accommodated at the palace of prince masserano. their rooms and all the appointments were very sumptuous, and there was a great display of bohemian and venetian glass and magnificent china vases. concerning the latter, victor hugo said that he had 'never since met with any so remarkable.' victor's eldest brother, abel, was made a page to king joseph, and it was intended that victor himself should follow his example. meanwhile eugène and victor were placed in the seminary of nobles, a proceeding which affected them deeply, and made them inexpressibly miserable after the happiness they had found in the masserano palace. but great and dire events were impending in napoleonic history. by the beginning of the year 1812 the position of french affairs generally became so threatening that general hugo decided to send his wife and the two younger children back to paris. not many months elapsed before his prescience was justified. bonaparte's army was decimated by the inclement snows of russia after the burning of moscow, and the kings he had set up in the european capitals began to tremble for the stability of their thrones. madame hugo and her two sons safely reached paris after a tedious journey, and once more established themselves in the feuillantines. the biographical work written by the poet's wife shows that madame hugo had liberal ideas on the subject of education: that where religion was in question she was averse to forcing any particular persuasion on her sons, or to interfere with their natural tendencies; neither did she wish to tax their intelligence any more than their consciences. in the matter of reading she was equally liberal: the boys were allowed the greatest freedom, and read rousseau, voltaire, diderot, and other authors; but the works of such writers paled in comparison with captain cook's travels, which had a great fascination for the young students. madame hugo judged that any errors her sons were likely to imbibe in their wide and catholic reading would be rendered innocuous by the influence of a good example and the purity of the home life. she restrained them by her authority, and, while attending to their mental and moral development, she did not neglect the physical. she desired them to grow up healthy and complete in mind and body alike. the troubles in spain thickened apace, and king joseph left madrid, being followed by general hugo. the victory of the allies at vittoria practically settled the fate of joseph bonaparte and the spanish crown. the king dismissed his retinue of officers and retired into private life, and general hugo returned to paris with his son abel. madame hugo and the other children had moved into the rue du cherche-midi. having herself been an invader, it was now the turn of france to be invaded. general hugo was no favourite with the emperor (who had not forgotten the moreau conspiracy), but when his country was in danger he could not remain inactive. so he volunteered, and went into the provinces, where he rendered conspicuous service. he long held thionville, keeping the allies at bay, and refused to open the town until he received official despatches from his general-in-chief announcing the cessation of hostilities. the restoration of the bourbons followed, and, although this was hailed with great joy by madame hugo, it led to general hugo being deprived of his command and removed from active employment, together with all the officers who had shared in the defence of thionville. eugène and victor hugo now lost the liberty they had for some time enjoyed, and were sent to school, being placed in the collége cordier et decotte, in the rue ste. marguerite. at first the removal was especially bitter to victor, as it separated him from adèle foucher, a young girl who had completely won his youthful heart. this love continued to grow from its inception in the rue du cherche-midi till the time when adèle became his devoted wife, and returned victor hugo's affection with an ardour equal to his own. the hugo boys were naturally the subject of a cross-fire in regard to politics. their father was devoted to the empire, and their mother was equally devoted to the royalists. but as the influence of a mother always has priority in regard to time, victor hugo was for a season enthusiastic about royalty. he could not, with his warm temperament and lively imagination, be half-hearted about anything. nor need it surprise us that he yielded first to the influence of his mother as regarded the bourbons, and then to that of his father as regarded the bonapartes. in youth it is the imagination which is developed; the judgment is formed by slow stages. it would have surprised us more if victor hugo had not shown himself amenable to the potent influences of his home training. his father and mother were of no ordinary type; they had both great latent force of nature and character, which deeply impressed itself upon their children. in estimating the career of victor hugo, then, with its later changes of opinion, the circumstances which surrounded his early years, and greatly assisted in moulding his character, must not be forgotten. early in 1815 paris was electrified by the news that napoleon had returned from elba. for a brief period the magic of his name once more exercised a profound influence; and under this revival of bonapartist prospects general hugo was again despatched to take the command of thionville. he exhibited the same capacity and spirit as before, but all was of no avail. the crowning disaster of waterloo extinguished the hopes of the bonapartists, and napoleon fell, 'like lucifer, never to rise again.' it is matter for regret that the differences between general and madame hugo on the subject of politics and dynasties led to a separation between them, though one that was mutually desired. each felt too strongly on these subjects to give way, and thereby stultify his or her convictions. but political disagreements did not affect the deep interest of both parents in their children. the boys made great progress at school, and also attended courses of lectures in physics, philosophy, and mathematics at the collége louis-le-grand. their proficiency was especially marked in mathematics, and it obtained for both honourable mention in the examinations. poetry, however, even thus early, was the real mistress of victor hugo. his tentative efforts in this direction were as varied as they were numerous, and he has left an amusing record of his first wooings of the muse. he alternated fights at the college (he and eugène were the kings of the school) with flights of the imagination. nothing came amiss to him, whether ode, satire, epistle, lyric, tragedy, elegy, etc.; and he imitated ossian and translated from virgil, horace, and lucan at an age when others only just begin to acquire an appreciation and understanding of those authors. nor were such writers as martial and ausonius unknown to him. then from poetry he would turn to romances, fables, stories, epigrams, madrigals, logographs, acrostics, charades, enigmas, and impromptus; and he even wrote a comic opera. in one of these youthful pieces he deprecated the exercise of the reader's satirical rage over the effusion; and certainly the chief impression which these initial attempts at composition leave upon the reader is not a critical one founded upon their manifest crudity and inconsequences of thought, but one of surprise at the exuberance of fancy and command of expression so soon and so singularly displayed. there was more than sufficient in them to the observant eye to foreshadow the genius which their author afterwards developed. each of these poems was an effort of the imagination after strength of wing. but of all those who perused these early poetic efforts, madame hugo was probably the only one able to gauge the great promise of the writer. she could not but anticipate much from that genius which was just essaying to unfold itself in the sun. yet even she could not fully foresee the magnificent, eagle-like flights of which these imaginings were but the first faint flutterings of the eaglet's wing. chapter ii. dawnings of genius. victor hugo was not quite thirteen when he wrote his first poetical essay, which had for its subject _roland and chivalry_. this was followed in the same year, 1815, by an intensely royalist poem, and one breathing indignation against the emperor, after the disaster of waterloo. the poet had been thrown constantly into the midst of royalist influences and surroundings; not only his mother, but general lahorie and m. foucher, her most intimate friends, were enemies of the empire, and the youth consequently imbibed at the same time hatred of the empire and love of the bourbons. his first tragedy, _irtamène_, was written in honour of louis xviii., and though professedly dealing with egyptian themes, it was really a defence of the french king. there is a usurper in it, who meets with condign chastisement, and the play ends with the coronation of the legitimate monarch. 'those who hate tyrants should love kings,' said the writer, to whom at that time the restoration of the bourbons meant liberty. but these things must not be made too much of. the poet was at that nebulous stage when the fact of writing poetry was more to him than the subject-matter of his exercises. he read voluminously, but he had not as yet begun to separate, to weigh, and to discriminate. a course of the _théâtre de voltaire_ led him to begin a new tragedy, _athéli; or, the scandinavians_, all in dramatic order, with its five acts, and its due regard to narrative, scenery, etc. before he had completed it, however, he turned to a comic opera, _a quelque chose hasard est bon_. then he reverted to the drama, and wrote a play in three acts, with two interludes, entitled _inez de castro_. from the point of view of literary art, little is to be said of these things; but there are many scattered passages in them which reveal remarkable insight on the part of one so young. in the year 1817 he first sought publicity for his compositions, competing for the poetical prize annually offered by the french academy. the subject chosen was, _the advantages of study in every situation of life_, and amongst the competitors were lebrun, delavigne, saintine, and loyson, who all on this occasion made their poetical debut. the first prize was divided between saintine and lebrun, and hugo received honourable mention; but when the poems came to be declaimed in public, the warmest applause followed that by victor hugo. the academy judges were considerably puzzled by master hugo's exercise. in one place he wrote as though he had arrived at years of discretion and comparative maturity, and then demolished this idea by the lines- 'i, who have ever fled from courts and cities, scarce three short lustres have accomplished yet.' the judges came to the conclusion that the young poet was playing with them, and in their report accordingly threw doubt upon his statement that he was only fifteen years old. the production of his birth certificate set this question at rest, and victor's name now became prominent in the newspapers. m. raynouard, the cultured secretary of the academy, finding that the 'most potent, grave, and reverend signors' had not been deceived, expressed the great pleasure he had in making the youthful competitor's acquaintance. other distinguished men followed suit, and hugo was described as 'the sublime child,' either by chateaubriand or soumet. the evidence points to the latter having first made use of this phrase, but its origin matters little, for chateaubriand fully adopted it, remarking that anyone might naturally have used the words, they expressed so decided a truth. hugo was taken by a friend to see the author of _atala_, and the impression made upon his mind by this man of genius found utterance in the exclamation, 'i would be chateaubriand or nothing.' in 1818 victor's brother eugène was awarded a prize at the floral games of toulouse. the younger brother's ambition was touched, and in the following year he secured two prizes from the same academy for his poems on _the statue of henry iv._, and _the virgins of verdun_. the former poem gained the golden lily, and the latter the golden amaranth. it seems that just as the writer was about to set to work on the first-named poem, madame hugo was seized with inflammation of the chest. she lamented that her son would be unable to complete his poem in time; but he set to work, wrote it in a single night, and it was despatched next morning in time to compete for the prize. the president of the toulouse academy admitted that it was an enigma for one so young to exhibit such remarkable talents in literature. a poem, _moses on the nile_, gained him a third prize at toulouse, and this constituted him master of the floral games, so that at the age of eighteen he became a provincial academician. he was still royalist in his opinions, and on the few occasions when he was in the company of his father, the latter did not attempt to change his views, feeling that it would be useless to attempt to set the arguments of a few hours against a daily and hourly influence. but he had a true apprehension of his son's character, and on one occasion, when victor had expressed himself warmly in favour of the vendeans, general hugo turned to general lucotte, and said: 'let us leave all to time. the child shares his mother's views; the man will have the opinions of his father.' victor hugo was now the subject of conflicting claims. there was the law, which he had chosen as a profession, with its demands upon him, and there was literature, which he loved too much to surrender; while at the same time love and politics also claimed their share in him. he determined to throw himself ardently into literature. separated from the object of his youthful affections, he wrote his _han d'islande_, in which, while there are many crimes and horrors, there are also passages of tenderness, wherein he sought to embalm and reveal his feelings of love. his courage sustained him through many trials, but at last he was called upon to bear one that made a profound impression upon his heart. madame hugo, who was now living in the rue mézières, was seized with serious illness after working in her garden, which was her favourite occupation. for some time she struggled successfully with the disease, but it had obtained too firm a hold upon her, and she died suddenly on the 27th of june, 1821. on the evening of the funeral, adèle foucher, unconscious of what had occurred, was dancing at a party given in celebration of her birthday. next morning victor called upon her, and the lovers, mingling their tears together, mutually renewed their old vows of attachment. victor, to whom life had seemed without an object on the death of his mother, speedily found another after his betrothal to adèle. her parents no longer actively opposed the union, but stipulated for its postponement until victor could provide a home. in conjunction with several friends, hugo had already founded the _conservateur littéraire_, to which he contributed articles on sir walter scott, byron, moore, etc., and a number of political satires. he had a sum of seven hundred francs, upon which he subsisted for a year, and the method by which he did it will be found related in the experiences of marius in _les misérables_. translations from lucan and virgil, which appeared under the name of d'auverney, and the epistles from aristides to brutus on _thou_ and _you_, emanated from his pen. he also wrote a very noticeable article on lamartine's _méditations poétiques_, which had just appeared. then came the first instalment of his own _odes et ballades_, a work in which his genius began to attain a fuller freedom and a richer expression. the volume was received with very wide favour, and though, as m. barbou has observed, it presents many ideas that would find no approval now, the poet, nevertheless, declared that he could proudly and conscientiously place the work side by side with the democratical books and poems of his matured manhood. this, he said, he should be prepared to do, because in 'the fierce strife against early prejudices imbibed with a mother's milk, and in the slow rough ascent from the false to the true, which to a certain extent makes up the substance of every man's life, and causes the development of his conscience to be the type of human progress in general; each step so taken represents some material sacrifice to moral advancement, some interest abandoned, some vanity eschewed, some worldly benefit renounced--nay, perhaps, some risk of home or even life incurred.' this justification may fairly be accepted, but from another aspect also these _odes_ are worthy of attention. they were the first noble efforts of the poet to emancipate french poetry from the trammels which had too long governed it, and which had rendered it almost dead, and effete alike in spirit and in form. at length imagination was to resume its rightful sway, and exhibit some return to its pristine vigour. the _odes_ not only brought the author friends like émile deschamps and alfred de vigny, but they were pecuniarily successful. the first edition yielded him a profit of seven hundred francs, and a second quickly followed. the attention of the king was called to the poems, and the interest his majesty took in them, together with a romantic incident in connection with the saumur plot, led to a pension of 1,000 francs being conferred upon the poet from the king's privy purse. he now thought he was entitled to press the question of his marriage. his father, who had married again, offered no opposition; the fouchers also gave way, and bestowed the hand of their daughter adèle upon the young and now successful poet. victor hugo had shortly before this made the acquaintance of the celebrated priest lamennais, and it was from his hands that he received the certificate of confession required before he could get married. 'i trust with all my heart,' wrote the priest, 'that god will bless this happy union, which he appears himself to have prepared by implanting in you a long and unchanged affection, and a mutual love as pure as it is sweet.' the saumur plot, to which i have referred, took place in 1822, and amongst those implicated in it was a young man named delon, who had been an intimate friend of victor hugo in his childhood. on hearing of delon's danger, hugo wrote to the conspirator's mother, offering an asylum for her son in his own house, and remarking that as the writer was well known for his devotion to the bourbons, he would never be sought in such a retreat. this letter fell into the hands of the king, but instead of its prejudicing him against victor hugo, he generously said, 'that young man has a good heart as well as great genius; he is an honourable fellow; i shall take care he has the next pension that falls vacant.' this was the origin of the poet's pension, which was in nowise due to an expressed wish or desire on his own part. _hans of iceland_, the first published romance of victor hugo, appeared anonymously in 1823. the work at once attracted attention by reason of its graphic power and the startling nature of its contrasts. it combines horror with tenderness, the deepest gloom with flashes of the purest light. the author himself had a great affection for it, on the personal ground already mentioned. but its chief features are of a different order. in this northern romance, as one critic has observed, the youthful novelist has turned to great account the savage wilds, gloomy lakes, stormy seas, pathless caves, and ruined fortresses of scandinavia. 'a being savage as the scenery around him--human in his birth, but more akin to the brute in his nature; diminutive, but with a giant's strength; whose pastime is assassination, who lives literally as well as metaphorically on blood--is the hero; and round this monster are grouped some of the strangest, ghastliest, and yet not wholly unnatural beings which it is possible for the imagination to conceive--spiagudry, the keeper of the dead-house, or _morgue_, of drontheim, and orugex, the state executioner--while gentler forms, the noble and persecuted schumacker, and the devoted and innocent ethel, relieve the monotony of crime and horror.' m. charles nodier, one of the ablest of french contemporary critics, in a review of the work in the _quotidienne_, remarked upon the fact that there were men of a certain organization, to whom glory and distinction were temptations, just as happiness and pleasure tempted other men. 'precocious intellects and deep sensibility do not take the future into consideration--they devour their future. the passions of a young and powerful mind know no to-morrow; they look to satiate their ambition and their hopes with the reputation and excitement of the present moment. _han d'islande_ has been the result of this kind of combination, if indeed one can describe as a combination that which is only the thoughtless instinct of an original genius, who obeys, without being aware of it, an impulse at variance with his true interests, but whose fine and wide career may not improbably justify this promise of excellence, and may hereafter redeem all the anxiety he has caused by the excusable error he committed when he first launched himself upon the world.' m. nodier then discussed with much freedom, and yet with almost as much fairness, the peculiar features of the romance, its close and painful search into the morbidities of life, its pictures of the scaffold and the _morgue_, etc., as well as its strong local colouring, its historical truth, its learning, its wit, and its vigorous and picturesque style. the author and his critic became personally acquainted. the latter called upon victor hugo, who, after other changes of abode, had now established himself in the rue de vaugirard. a second pension of 2,000 francs had been awarded him by the king; hence his migration into comparatively sumptuous quarters. other literary friendships besides that with m. nodier were formed as the result of victor hugo's first romance. at this period he wrote an ode on the _arc de triomphe de l'étoile_, and there were many indications that his early royalist opinions were in process of abandonment. he visited his father at blois, and the general was not slow to observe the changes taking place in his son's views. while he could not admire napoleon personally, he began to do justice to those who had planted the french standard in all the capitals of europe. but it seemed as though the king was resolved to retain him by favours, for there was now conferred upon him the coveted badge of the legion of honour. he attended the coronation of charles x. at rheims, and from thence went to pay a visit to lamartine. a project was formed and a treaty signed with a publisher, by which m. lamartine, victor hugo, m. charles nodier, and m. taylor engaged to prepare a work detailing a poetical and picturesque trip to mont blanc and the valley of chamouni. for four meditations lamartine was to receive 2,000 francs, hugo 2,000 for four odes, taylor 2,000 for eight drawings, and nodier 2,250 for all the text. the travellers set out, hugo being accompanied by his wife and child. on reaching geneva--after a temporary arrest of hugo, some time before, on account of the delay of his passport in its journey from paris--the visitors found the police regulations very annoying. each hotel possessed a register, in which every traveller was bound to write his name, his age, his profession, the place from whence he came, and his object in travelling. m. nodier was so exasperated that in reply to the last query he wrote, 'come to upset your government.' for a few moments the hotel-keeper was not unnaturally electrified. the travellers got their jaunt, but owing to the insolvency of the publisher with whom they had arranged, the literary scheme was never carried out. in ascending the alps to the mer de glace, victor hugo had a narrow escape. his guide, who was new to the business, took the wrong path, and landed the visitor upon a dangerous tongue of ice. from this he was rescued with great difficulty, and for several moments, which seemed like hours, he was suspended over a terrible abyss. victor hugo wrote a description of the journey from sallenches to chamouni, which was translated by madame hugo, and published in her sketch of the poet. _bug jargal_, the second romance by victor hugo, but the earliest in point of time, was published in 1826. it had been originally written for the _conservateur littéraire_; but after its appearance there, it was almost entirely remodelled and rewritten. it is a tale of the insurrection in st. domingo. the essential improbability of such a character as bug jargal (by what means did the author get such an uncouth name?), a negro of the noblest moral and intellectual character, passionately in love with a white woman, has been unfavourably commented upon. the hero is represented as not only tempering the wildest passion with the deepest respect, but he even sacrifices life itself at last in behalf of the woman of his love, and of her husband. it was objected that this was too violent a call upon the imagination, but knowledge of the negro character would tend to prove that such a devotion as bug jargal's is by no means impossible. in any case, as the novelist is allowed great license, this objection cannot be regarded as fatal to the romance. notwithstanding its alleged defects of plot, however, this story has many enthralling passages. no reader is likely to forget 'the scenes in the camp of the insurgent chief biassou, or the death-struggle between habihrah and d'auverney on the brink of the cataract. the latter, in particular, is drawn with such intense force, that the reader seems almost to be a witness of the changing fortunes of the fight, and can hardly breathe freely till he comes to the close.' whatever else these early romances demonstrated, or failed to demonstrate, they were at least inspired by enthusiasm, and tinged with aspirations of a noble order. the genius of the author had drawn towards him the admiration, and very speedily the friendship, of such men as m. méry, the journalist; m. rabbe, author of the 'history of the popes;' m. achille devéria and m. louis boulanger, the eminent artists; m. sainte-beuve, one of the most incisive of critics, and others whose names have since occupied considerable space in the roll of fame. hugo was indefatigable in his literary efforts. _la revue française_, a periodical which unfortunately had but a brief existence, bore testimony to this, as well as his poetical miscellany entitled _la muse française_. he also wrote a criticism upon voltaire, which was afterwards reprinted in his _mélanges de littérature_; but this estimate did not reveal the breadth of view which the writer manifested in later years, when he passed an eloquent eulogium upon the philosopher of ferney. for a new edition of the _odes_ issued in 1826, and now separated from the _ballades_, the author wrote an introduction in which he distinctly unfolded his principles of liberty in the realm of literature. he expressed his belief that 'in a literary production the bolder the conception the more irreproachable should be the execution;' and he added that liberty need not result in disorder. it was the first occasion on which the claims of what was called, for want of a better word, romanticism were formally promulgated by a writer eminent in that school. we shall shortly see how victor hugo translated these ideas into a concrete form in his works. meantime, in february, 1827, an incident occurred which led to a stirring poem by hugo, and one which made him friends in a new quarter, while it lost them in an old one. it appears that at a ball given by the austrian ambassador in paris, the distinguished french marshals who attended were deliberately shorn of their legitimate titles. thus, the duke of taranto was announced as marshal macdonald; the duke of dalmatia as marshal soult; the duke of treviso as marshal mortier, and so on. the insult was studied and deliberate on the part of the ambassador; 'austria, humiliated by titles which recalled its defeats, publicly denied them. the marshals had been invited in order to show contempt for their victories, and the empire was insulted in their persons. they immediately quitted the embassy in a body.' victor hugo's blood was stirred by this incident, and, without counting the cost, he took his revenge. throwing all the weight of his indignation into the _ode à la colonne_, he hurled that effusion at the enemies of france. he was now only anxious to show that he was a frenchman first, and a vendéan afterwards. the ode made a great sensation, but it had a wider effect than its author anticipated. the opposition welcomed him as one of themselves, for in celebrating the marshals had not the poet celebrated the empire? the royalists, on the other hand, seeing this bitter attack upon the austrians, who were the most powerful friends of the bourbons, naturally thought that victor hugo had abandoned the royalist cause. neither side could quite understand how such a burst of invective as that witnessed in the ode might be due alone to the outraged feelings of a frenchman, without being intended in the least to partake of the nature of a political manifesto. to these fierce partisans, party was everything; to victor hugo it was the nation that was everything. but his rupture with the royalists is naturally enough traced to this period. he and they could never be the same again to each other. the poet passed now from his admiration of the bourbons to an acknowledgment of the glory and prowess of the empire, as at a later period he pressed still further forward, and hailed the fuller liberty of republican france. chapter iii. victor hugo's humanitarianism. in 1829 victor hugo published anonymously his _le dernier jour d'un condamné_ ('the last day of a convict'). it thrilled the heart of paris by its vivid recitals. while having no pretensions to the character of a regular tale, it was, as a writer in the _edinburgh review_ remarked, one of the most perfect things the author had as yet produced. it was the representation of one peculiar state of mind--that of a criminal faced by the certainty of his approaching death under the guillotine. like sterne, hugo had taken a single captive, shut him up in his dungeon, and 'then looked through the twilight of the grated door, to take his picture.' the work is a chronicle of thoughts, a register of sensations; and it is amazing to see what variety and dramatic movement may be imparted to a monologue in which the scene shifts only from, the bicètre to the conciergerie, the hôtel de ville, and the place de grève. few descriptions could be found in literature to vie with that in which victor hugo places the criminal before us as he enters the court to receive his sentence on a lovely august morning. but all the incidents attending the trial, the condemnation, and the execution are depicted with graphic skill and powerful energy. no one knows better than victor hugo how to relieve unutterable gloom by some brilliant ray of human affection, and so upon this condemned prisoner he causes to break a temporary vision of youth and innocence. the intensity all through this piece is such as to give the reader a strange realization of the criminal, with his weight of guilt, and his terrible and conflicting emotions. but the critic of the _edinburgh_ would have us believe that all this was merely due to a desire by victor hugo to exhibit his literary skill. he even calls it absurd to regard the sketch as a pleading against the punishment of death, and roundly denies that the author had any such esoteric purpose. unfortunately for him, there is conclusive evidence to prove that victor hugo had a deeper intent in this painful representation than a mere literary play upon the feelings. in a preface to the edition of 1832 he distinctly avows his purpose: 'it is the author's aim and design that posterity should recognise in his work _not_ a mere special pleading for any one particular criminal, which is always easy and always transitory, but a general and permanent appeal in behalf of all the accused, alike of the present and of the future. its great point is the right of humanity urged upon society.' moreover, there is another powerful argument to be considered. ever since 1820 victor hugo had been deeply moved on the question of capital punishment, and resolved to labour for its abolition. it will be convenient here to review briefly his public utterances on the subject, both before and subsequent to the appearance of _le dernier jour d'un condamné_. we shall thereby be enabled to keep the literary and personal thread of our narrative intact. in the year above named victor hugo had seen louvel, the murderer of the duke of berry, on his way to the scaffold. the culprit was a being for whom he had not the slightest sympathy; but his fate begat pity, and he began to reflect on the anomaly that society should, in cold blood, commit the same act as that which it punished. from that time, observes madame hugo, he had an idea of writing a book against the guillotine. two executions which he witnessed during the next few years strengthened his convictions, and led to the work we have already discussed. subsequently he wrote _claude gueux_, founded upon the sad and miserable story of a man of that name. gueux was condemned to death in 1832 for a crime to which the pangs of hunger had impelled him. the case was doubly painful from the fact that the father of claude, a very old man, had been sentenced to a punishment in the prison of clairvaux, and the son, in order to bring help to him, committed an act whose consequences brought him within the walls of the same prison. strenuous exertions were made by hugo and others to save gueux, but the council of ministers rejected the appeal. the man was executed, and a noble protest which victor hugo afterwards issued greatly moved the public conscience, and rendered society still more familiar with the writer's views. in may, 1839, one barbès was condemned to death for his share in the insurrection in the place royale. victor hugo immediately sent this message of appeal to the king: 'by your guardian-angel fled away like a dove, by your royal child, a sweet and frail reed, pardon yet once more, pardon in the name of the tomb! pardon in the name of the cradle!' the king, against the advice of his ministers, insisted on pardoning barbès. more than twenty years afterwards the latter figured as a character in _les misérables_, and a correspondence, alike honourable to both, ensued between him and the author. twice as a peer of france victor hugo was called upon to give verdicts in cases where capital punishment would follow conviction, and in both instances he voted in favour of perpetual imprisonment and against the death-penalty. when the question of capital punishment came before the assembly in 1848, victor hugo ascended the tribune and made an impassioned speech, from which i take these extracts: 'what is the penalty of death? it is the especial and eternal mark of barbarism. wherever the penalty is, death is common, barbarism dominates; wherever the penalty of death is rare, civilization reigns supreme. you have just acknowledged the principle that a man's private dwelling should be inviolate; we ask you now to acknowledge a principle much higher and more sacred still--the inviolability of human life. the nineteenth century will abolish the penalty of death. you will not do away with it, perhaps, at once; but be assured, either you or your successors will abolish it. i vote for the abolition, pure, simple, and definitive, of the penalty of death.' in march, 1849, victor hugo made an unsuccessful appeal in the case of daix, condemned to death for the affair of bréa; and in the following year the poet himself appeared as an advocate in the court of assize. he defended his eldest son, charles hugo, who had been summoned for protesting in his journal, _l'évènement_, against the execution, which had been accompanied by revolting circumstances. in the course of his eloquent pleadings, victor hugo said: 'the real culprit in this matter, if there is a culprit, is not my son. it is i myself. i, who, for a quarter of a century, have not ceased to battle against all forms of the irreparable penalty--i, who, during all this time, have never ceased to advocate the inviolability of human life.... yes, i assert it, this remains of barbarous penalties--this old and unintelligent law of retaliation--this law of blood for blood--i have battled against it all my life; and, so long as there remains one breath in my body, i will continue to battle against it with all my power as an author, and with all my acts and votes as a legislator. and i make this declaration'--(_the pleader here stretched out his arm towards the crucifix at the end of the hall above the tribunal_)--'before the victim of the penalty of death, whose effigy is now before us, who is now looking down upon us, and who hears what i utter. i swear it, i say, before this sacred tree, on which, nearly two thousand years ago, and for the instruction of men to the latest generation, the laws, instituted by men, fastened with accursed nails the divine son of god!' in conclusion, the orator exclaimed, 'my son! thou wilt this day receive a great honour. thou art judged worthy of fighting, perhaps of suffering, for the sacred cause of truth. from to-day thou enterest the just and true manly life of our time, the struggle for the true. be proud, thou who art now admitted to the ranks of those who battle for the human and democratic idea! thou art seated on the bench where béranger and lamennais have sat.' notwithstanding his father's defence, which powerfully moved the whole court, charles hugo was sentenced to six months' imprisonment. while living in exile in jersey, in 1854, victor hugo made an appeal on behalf of a man who was to be hanged in guernsey. one of his letters was addressed to the people of guernsey, who petitioned, but in vain, for the life of the convict tapner. another was addressed to lord palmerston, who gave the usual orders for the execution; and probably no english minister ever received, either before or since, a communication couched in such burning and passionate language. the writer was literally overwhelming in his indignant rhetoric. for john brown, of harper's ferry, the anti-slavery enthusiast, victor hugo put in a strong plea with the united states. he told that country that 'brown's executioner would neither be the attorney hunter, nor the judge parker, nor the governor wyse, nor the state of virginia; it would be, though one shudders to think it, and still more to say it, the great american republic itself.... when we consider that this nation is the glory of the whole earth; that, like france, england, and germany, it is one of the organs of civilization, that it has even gone beyond europe in certain sublime strokes of bold progress, that it is at the summit of the whole world, that it wears on its brow the star of liberty, we are tempted to affirm that john brown will not die; for we shrink back horrified at the idea of so great a crime being committed by so great a nation!' the writer predicted that 'the murder of brown would make in the union a rent, at first concealed, but which would end by splitting it asunder.' john brown was executed, and hugo's prediction was verified. the south did indeed discover that the spirit of brown was 'marching on'; and the american union was for a time convulsed to its centre, ostensibly on the ground of union, but practically on account of slavery. brown, the martyr, was justified by the event, and slavery was abolished in the united states. during the year 1861, a belgian jury pronounced, on a single occasion only, nine sentences of death. thereupon a writer, assuming the name of victor hugo, published some verses in the belgian journals, imploring the king's pardon for the nine convicts. hugo's attention was drawn to the verses, when he replied that he was quite willing for his name to be used, or even abused, in so good a cause. as his _alter ego_ had addressed the king, so he now addressed the nation. he called upon it to arrest this great sacrifice of life, and to abolish the scaffold. 'it would be a noble thing that a small people should give a lesson to the great, and by this fact alone should become greater than they. it would be a fine thing that, in the face of the abominable growth of darkness, in the presence of a growing barbarism, belgium, taking the place of a great power in civilization, should communicate to the human race by one act the full glare of light.' the sentence of seven of the condemned men was commuted, but the two remaining convicts were executed. when the republic of geneva revised its constitution in 1862, the principal question remitted to the people was the abolition of the punishment of death. m. bost, a genevese author, appealed to victor hugo for his intervention in the discussion. the poet replied by a long and exhaustive communication, in which he reviewed the leading cases in various european countries where the scaffold had recently been called into requisition, and he closed with this exordium: 'o people of geneva, your city is situate on a lake in the garden of eden! you live in a blessed place! all that is most noble in creation surrounds you! the habitual contemplation of the beautiful reveals the truth and imposes duties on you! your civilization ought to be in harmony with nature. take counsel of all these merciful marvels. believe in your sky so bright; and as goodness descends from the sky, abolish the scaffold. be not ungrateful. let it not be said that in gratitude, and, as it were, in exchange for this admirable corner of the earth, where god has shown to man the sacred splendour of the alps, the arve and the rhone, the blue lake, and mont blanc in the glory of sunlight, man has offered to the deity the spectacle of the guillotine.' the question had already been decided by the retention of the scaffold when this letter reached geneva, but victor hugo now addressed the people. his second letter had an immense effect, and secured the rejection of the constitution proposed by the conservatives. it also brought over a great number of adherents to the cause of abolition, which ultimately triumphed. on many subsequent occasions, and notably in connection with italy and portugal, victor hugo wrote and strove for the abolition of capital punishment. in france his pressing personal appeals more than once availed to procure a commutation of the death-punishment. to his _last day of a convict_ was due the introduction of extenuating circumstances in the criminal laws of france, and he projected a work to be entitled _le dossier de la peine de mort_. it is not my intention here, nor, indeed, is it necessary, to discuss the arguments which may be advanced for or against capital punishment. it has been simply my object to present victor hugo in a light which, while it may divide men in their judgments, will unite them in their sympathies. the cases i have cited will be more than sufficient to demonstrate that noble enthusiasm of humanity which forms so conspicuous a feature in victor hugo's character. chapter iv. the triumph of romanticism. the war between the two great schools of french poetry, the classic and the romantic, passed into an acute stage shortly before the publication of victor hugo's _cromwell_. romanticism meant more than was implied in the definition of madame de staël, viz., the transference to french literature of 'the poetry originating in the songs of the troubadours, the offspring of chivalry and christianity.' victor hugo, and men of a kindred if not an equal genius, were engaged in a struggle for the very life and soul of poetry. poetic genius in france was wrapped in the grave-clothes of classicism; it was a corpse that needed galvanizing into life; and it was practically victor hugo who rose and said, 'loose her, and let her go.' goethe had already fought the battle of literary freedom from old superstitions in germany, and byron had done the same in england. it was now the turn of france to feel the new gush of life, and to gather strength and lustre in the revival. as m. asselineau has observed of the french romanticists, 'to their sincerity, their detestation of tediousness, their sympathy with life and joy and freshness, as well as to their youthful audacity, that was not abashed either by ridicule or insult, belongs the honour of securing to the nineteenth century the triumph of liberty, invaluable for its preciousness in the world of art.' and in enumerating the leaders of the movement, he cites as the most prominent and influential, chateaubriand, victor hugo, madame de staël, lamartine, dumas, alfred de vigny, balzac, george sand, théophile gautier, mérimée, philarète chasles, alfred de musset, and jules janin. certainly the influence that developed the talents of such a galaxy of genius, so far from being despised, should be acclaimed as a force worthy of all admiration. it was one, in fact, that practically saved french literature from expiring of inanition. but the romantics were fiercely assailed; so fiercely that victor hugo said, if they had been thieves, murderers, and monsters of crime, they could not have been exposed to severer condemnation. duvergier de hauranne treated romanticism as a brain disease, and recommended a careful diagnosis of those suffering from it, in order to recover for them gradually their lost senses. but pleasantries such as these were not likely to affect a man in severe earnest. the literary revolutionaries of the cénacle club, whose leading spirit was victor hugo, laughed at the denunciations hurled against them, knowing that their opportunity had come. there was only one writer who, having put his hand to the plough, turned backward. this was sainte-beuve. the temper of his mind was critical, and after the first burst of enthusiasm with which he hailed the new school, and under whose influence he for a time joined it, had spent itself, he threw off his allegiance to the movement, and vowed that he had never really belonged to the reforming band. victor hugo soon gave a pledge, though not in some respects a successful one, of the sincerity of his own convictions. m. taylor, commissaire royal at the comédie française, and afterwards widely known in the world of art, asked the poet on one occasion why he never wrote for the theatre. hugo replied that he was thinking of doing so, and had already commenced a drama on the subject of cromwell. 'a cromwell of your writing should only be acted by talma,' said taylor; and he forthwith arranged a meeting between the famous tragedian and the dramatist. talma was at that time greatly depressed, taking gloomy views of the stage, and asserting that his own career had been a failure--had never fulfilled its ends. no one knew what he might have been, he confided to hugo, but now he expected to die without having really acted once. nevertheless, from the genius of hugo he did look for something original, and he had always longed to act cromwell. in response, the author explained his intentions with regard to the proposed play, and also his views upon the drama generally. these views he afterwards enlarged upon in the preface to the play. he asserted that there were three epochs in poetry, each corresponding to an era in society; and these were the ode, the epic, and the drama. 'primitive ages are the lyric, ancient times the heroic, and modern times the dramatic. the ode sings of eternity, the epic records history, the drama depicts life.... the characters of the ode are colossal--adam, cain, noah; those of the epic are gigantic--achilles, atreus, orestes; those of the drama are human--hamlet, othello, macbeth. the ode contemplates the ideal; the epic, the sublime; the drama, the real. and, to sum up the whole, this poetical triad emanates from three fountain-heads--the bible, homer, and shakespeare.' in _cromwell_, urged hugo, he intended to substitute a drama for a tragedy, a real man for an ideal personage, reality for conventionalism; the piece was to pass from the heroic to the positive; the style was to include all varieties, epic, lyric, satiric, grave, comic; and there were to be no verses for effect. the author repeated his first line, '_demain, vingt-cinq juin, mil six cent cinquante-sept_,' which was certainly ludicrously matter-of-fact. talma was delighted with the whole idea, and begged the poet to complete his work at once. unfortunately the actor died soon afterwards, and the dramatist now went leisurely on with his play. while engaged upon the preface he saw some shakespearean dramas performed in english at the odéon, and the representations affected him deeply, and tinged his dramatic views. at the close of 1827 _cromwell_ was published, and great indeed was the controversy to which it gave rise. the period dealt with was not what would be considered one of the most dramatic in the career of the protector. it was that 'when his ambition made him eager to realize the benefits of the king's death,' when, having attained what any other man would have reckoned the summit of fortune, being not only master of england, but by his army, his navy, and his diplomacy, master of europe too, he was urged onwards to fulfil the visions of his youth, and to make himself a king. cromwell's final relinquishment of the kingly idea, with the preliminary stages which led up to his resolution, were delineated with subtle power and psychological skill. but it was not the play so much as its preface--which the author put forward as the manifesto of himself and his literary friends--that stirred the gall of the critics. a writer in the _gazette de france_, referring to hugo's avowed aim to break 'all those threads of spiders' web with which the army of liliput have undertaken to chain the drama whilst slumbering,' reminded him that in this liliputian army there were some dwarfs to be found not so despicable after all; and amongst others stood out those men who had written for the stage from _le cid_ down to _cromwell_. 'but what would these men be worth in the eyes of him who calls shakespeare the god of the theatre? it is necessary to possess some strength to venture to attack giants; and when one undertakes to dethrone writers whom whole generations have united in admiring, it would be advisable to fight them with weapons which, if not equal to theirs, are at least so constructed as to have some chance.' m. de rémusat in _le globe_ endeavoured to hold the scales of justice between the contending parties, while the famous preface acted as a rallying-cry for the supporters of the new principles. m. soumet, hugo's old friend, wrote concerning the drama: 'it seems to me full of new and daring beauties; and although in your preface you spoke mercilessly of mosses and climbing ivy, i cannot do less than acknowledge your admirable talent, and i shall speak of your work--grand in the style of michael angelo--as i formerly spoke of your odes.' about the time of the publication of _cromwell_, victor hugo was severely visited in his domestic relations. madame foucher, his wife's mother, and a woman of many and great virtues, passed away; and on the 28th of january, 1828, the poet's father died suddenly of apoplexy. the general and his second wife had been quite reconciled to victor and his brothers, and the government had once more recognised the title of the old soldier as general of division. he was happy in the affection of his sons, his daughter-in-law, and victor hugo's two children--léopoldine and charles. on the evening of his death he had spent several happy hours with the poet, but in the night the apoplexy struck him with the rapidity of a shot, and he immediately expired. the incident, as may be imagined, profoundly affected the sensitive and impressionable spirit of victor hugo. some years before these events, victor hugo had, in conjunction with m. soumet, written a play entitled _amy robsart_, founded upon scott's _kenilworth_. not being able to agree as to the value of each other's contributions, the two authors separated, each bearing away his own dramatic goods. hugo afterwards handed over his play to his brother-in-law, paul foucher, who produced the piece in his own name at the odéon. it was loudly hissed. there were passages in it that unmistakably bore the impress of victor hugo, and the latter chivalrously wrote to the newspapers to say that those parts which had been hissed were his own work. this acknowledgment drew a number of young men to the theatre, who were as loud in their applause as a large portion of the audience were in their condemnation. altogether, matters became so lively that the government interfered, and, to allay the tumult, interdicted the play. in the rue notre-dame des champs there were some rare meetings of poets and wits, when victor hugo and alfred de musset would recite poems composed during the day, and mérimée and sainte-beuve would engage in arguments. m. henri beyle, m. louis boulanger, and m. eugène delacroix were also to be seen there; and once the venerable benjamin constant was a guest. when béranger was condemned to three months' imprisonment for one of his songs, victor hugo visited him in his cell. he found that the french burns, though obnoxious to the authorities, was the idol of the populace. his cell was generally full of visitors, and he was inundated with pâtés, game, fruit, and wine. another great stride in romanticism was made by the publication of victor hugo's _orientales_, which appeared in 1828. these lyrical poems were full of energy and inspiration, and it was clear that the very antithesis of the classical style had now been reached. they enhanced the reputation of the writer, while they charmed all readers by their freshness, simplicity, and vigour. in july, 1829, a brilliant company assembled at hugo's house to listen to the reading of a new play by the poet, the famous _marion de lorme_, originally called _a duel under richelieu_. the writer, it was soon seen, had avoided the faults which marked the construction of _cromwell_, and had produced a real drama, and one well adapted for stage representation. the company present at the reading included balzac, delacroix, alfred de musset, mérimée, sainte-beuve, alfred de vigny, dumas, deschamps, and taylor. dumas, with the generous frankness which always characterized him, afterwards wrote respecting the play: 'i listened with admiration the most intense, but yet an admiration that was tinged with sadness, for i felt that i could never attain to such a powerful style. i congratulated hugo very heartily, telling him that i, deficient in style as i was, had been quite overwhelmed by the magnificence of his.' but there was one point upon which dumas, supported by sainte-beuve and mérimée, pleaded, and pleaded successfully. not feeling satisfied that didier should meet his death without forgiving marion, hugo yielded to the pressure put upon him, and altered the drama accordingly. the news of a new play by victor hugo brought forward the managers at once, but it had already been promised to m. taylor for the théâtre français. however, there was the ordeal of the censors yet to pass through, and fears were entertained as to the fourth act, in which louis xiii. was described as a hunter, and represented as governed by a priest--points in which everybody would see a resemblance to charles x. permission to perform the play was refused. victor hugo appealed to the king, who removed from office the minister of the interior (m. de martignac), the dramatist's chief enemy, and promised to read the offending act himself. having done so, his majesty declined to give his sanction to the representation of the drama, but by way of a solatium granted the poet a fresh pension of 4,000 francs. hugo was indignant, and at once wrote declining the pension, upon which the _constitutionnel_ remarked, 'youth is less easily corrupted than the ministers think.' with regard to the drama itself, it has been well remarked that 'had marion, in spite of her heroism and her repentance, been adequately chastised for her lapse from virtue, probably much of the sentimentality would have been avoided, which, although now exploded, at the time caused a great depravity of taste, and invested the "dames aux camellias" and the "mimis" of bohemian life with an interest that they did not deserve.' undismayed by what had occurred, victor hugo now devoted himself to the composition of another drama, and his _hernani_ was shortly in the hands of m. taylor for production. the censors again interfered, and in the course of a very impertinent report, observed that the play was 'a tissue of extravagances, generally trivial, and often coarse, to which the author has failed to give anything of an elevated character. yet while we animadvert upon its flagrant faults, we are of opinion that not only is there no harm in sanctioning the representation of the piece, but that it would be inadvisable to curtail it by a single word. it will be for the benefit of the public to see to what extremes the human mind will go, when freed from all restraint.' these literary censors did, however, require the alteration or removal of certain passages in which the kingly state and dignity were handled with too much freedom; and they forbade the name of jesus to be used throughout the piece. the supporters of the classical drama strenuously exerted themselves to prevent the play from being produced, but in vain. of course, this creation of a new style meant the decline of the old one. the play went into rehearsal, and the author had a passage of arms with mademoiselle mars, who took the part of doña sol. this lady, whose power had made her imperious, found her master in hugo, and when threatened with the loss of her part, she consented to deliver a disputed phrase as written. the time for production came, and when the author was asked to name his systematic applauders, according to custom, he declined to do so, stating that there would be no systematic applause. the play excited the liveliest curiosity. benjamin constant was amongst those who earnestly begged for seats, and m. thiers wrote personally to the author for a box. the literary friends of victor hugo attended in great numbers, including gautier, borel, and balzac. the theatre was crowded, and the feeling of all parties intense. as the play progressed from act to act, nevertheless, it gained in its hold upon the audience. when the fourth act closed, m. maine, a publisher, sought out victor hugo, and offered him 6,000 francs for the play, but the matter, he said, must be decided at once. the author protested, remarking that the success of the piece might be less complete at the end. 'ah, that's true, but it may be much greater,' replied the publisher. 'at the second act i thought of offering 2,000 francs; at the third act i got up to 4,000; i now at the fourth act offer 6,000; and after the fifth i am afraid i should have to offer 10,000.' hugo laughingly concluded the bargain for 6,000 francs, and went with the eager publisher into a tobacco shop to sign a roughly improvised agreement. the play concluded brilliantly, mademoiselle mars securing a great triumph in the last act. the whole house applauded vociferously, and the triumph of romanticism was complete. the literary war which ensued was very fierce. in the provinces, as in paris, it divided the public into hostile camps, and so deep were the feelings which it excited that in toulouse a duel was fought over the play, and one of the antagonists was killed. armand carrel was especially bitter in his assaults upon _hernani_, but hugo was more than consoled for this and other attacks by the following letter from chateaubriand: 'i was present, sir, at the first representation of _hernani_. you know how much i admire you. my vanity attaches itself to your lyre, and you know the reason. i am going--you are coming. i commend myself to the remembrance of your muse. a pious glory ought to pray for the dead.' as an amusing pendant to this, it may be mentioned in connection with the poet and _hernani_, that a provincial frenchman (in making his will) ordered the following inscription to be placed on his tombstone: 'here lies one who believed in victor hugo.' in spite of the attacks in the press, also of personal threats and of the deliberate and almost unparalleled attempts to stifle the play in the theatre itself, _hernani_ held its own, and continued to be played with great pecuniary success until the enforced absence of mademoiselle mars, when it was withdrawn from the stage, and not acted again for some years. but the play had practically established the new drama. it was the herald of the renaissance, and for this reason must continue to occupy a conspicuous position whenever an attempt is made to estimate the dramatic work and influence of victor hugo. chapter v. 'notre-dame de paris.' there is a natural desire to know something of the personal aspect of men who have become great. what would the world give, for example, for a faithful account of the character, the appearance, the sayings, the habits of shakespeare, written by a friend and a contemporary? in the case of victor hugo we fortunately have such a description from the pen of one of his most enthusiastic admirers, théophile gautier. the sketch represents the poet as he appeared at the time which we have now reached in his history, that is when he was about twenty-eight years of age. gautier was exceedingly nervous over his contemplated interview with victor hugo, and twice failed to summon up the necessary courage for the meeting. on the third occasion he found himself in the poet's study. all his prepared eloquence, we are told, at once vanished away; the long apostrophe of praise which he had spent whole evenings in composing came to nothing. he felt like heine, who, when he was going to have an interview with goethe, prepared an elaborate speech beforehand, but at the crucial moment could find nothing better to say to the author of _faust_ than that the plum-trees on the road between jena and weimar bore plums that were very nice when one was thirsty. but the jupiter of german poetry was probably more flattered by his visitor's bewilderment than he would have been by the most glowing eulogium. passing over gautier's panegyrics, here is what he wrote concerning the person of hugo: 'he was then twenty-eight years of age, and nothing about him was more striking than his forehead, that like a marble monument rose above his calm and earnest countenance: the beauty of that forehead was well-nigh superhuman; the deepest of thoughts might be written within, but it was capable of bearing the coronet of gold or the chaplet of laurel with all the dignity of a divinity or a cæsar. this splendid brow was set in a frame of rich chestnut hair that was allowed to grow to considerable length behind. his face was closely shaven, its peculiar paleness being relieved by the lustre of a pair of hazel eyes, keen as an eagle's. the curved lips betokened a firm determination, and when half opened in a smile, displayed a set of teeth of charming whiteness. his attire was neat and faultless, consisting of black frock-coat, grey trousers, and a small lay-down collar. nothing in his appearance could ever have led anyone to suspect that this perfect gentleman was the leader of the rough-bearded, dishevelled set that was the terror of the smooth-faced _bourgeoisie_. such was victor hugo. his image, as we saw it in that first interview, has never faded from our memory. it is a portrait that we cherish tenderly; its smiles, beaming with talent, continue with us, ever diffusing a clear and phosphorescent glory!' in the year 1831 victor hugo published a work which, if he had written nothing else, would have given him a place amongst the immortal writers of france. this was his _notre-dame de paris_, undertaken and produced under extraordinary circumstances. it was received with mixed favour by the critics, but at once made its way to the heart of the people. any number of hostile reviews would have been insufficient to check the progress of so singular and powerful a work. the author had made an engagement to write this book for a publisher named gosselin, and the latter now claimed the execution of the contract. the work was originally to have been ready by the close of 1829, but in july, 1830, it was not yet begun, and a new contract was prepared, under which it was to be completed by the ensuing december. political events greatly disturbed the progress of the romance, and a further difficulty was created by the loss of manuscript notes which had taken two months to collect. in the removal of hugo's books and manuscripts from the house in the rue jean goujon to the rue du cherche-midi, these valuable notes went astray. they were not recovered till some years afterwards, when they were incorporated in a later edition of the novel. a still further delay was granted by the publisher, in accordance with which the author was to complete the story by february, 1831, having just five months in which to accomplish the task. hugo set to work with marvellous energy, and some amusing details are given of the way in which he laboured with his romance. 'he bought a bottle of ink, and a thick piece of grey worsted knitting which enveloped him from the neck to the heels; he locked up his clothes, in order not to be tempted to go out, and worked at his novel as if in a prison. he was very melancholy.' it appears that he never left the writing-table except to eat and to sleep, and occasionally to read over some chapters to his friends. the book was finished on the 14th of january, and as the writer concluded his last line and his last drop of ink at the same moment, he thought of changing the title of the novel, and calling it 'the contents of a bottle of ink.' this title, which was not thus used, however, was subsequently adopted by alphonse karr. on being asked by his publisher for some descriptive notes upon the work, which might be useful in advertising it, victor hugo wrote: 'it is a representation of paris in the fifteenth century, and of the fifteenth century in its relations to paris. louis xi. appears in one chapter, and the king is associated with, or practically decides, the _dénouement_. the book has no historical pretensions, unless they be those of painting with some care and accuracy--but entirely by sketches, and incidentally--the state of morals, creeds, laws, arts, and even civilization, in the fifteenth century. this is, however, not the most important part of the work. if it has a merit, it is in its being purely a work of imagination, caprice, and fancy.' nevertheless, the author has underrated in certain respects the value of his own work. powerful as it is from the imaginative point of view, it is no less remarkable for the way in which the writer has brought together a mass of historical and antiquarian lore. its thoroughness and careful construction in regard to such details may be recommended to less accurate writers in the field of historical romance. paris, with its myriad interests, is vividly represented by one to whom it had given up its past as well as its present. whether we see life beneath the shadow of notre-dame, in the cour des miracles, the place de grève, the palais de justice, the bastille or the louvre, it is all the same--the master-hand has given life and vitality to all it has touched. the gipsy girl esmeralda, a fascinating creation, has been compared with the fenella of scott, the la gitanilla of cervantes, and the mignon of goethe. but she has a character of her own distinct from all of these. in her history the power of love is once more exemplified, and if round her centres the finest pathos of the work, so also is she its noblest gleam of light and grace and beauty. it has been said that love makes the learned archdeacon forget his studies, his clerical character, his reputation for sanctity, to court the favours of a volatile bohemian. 'love for this same parisian fenella softens the human savage quasimodo, the dumb one-eyed bell-ringer of notre-dame, and transforms him into a delicate monster, a devoted humble worshipper of the bohemian. while she, who is the cynosure of neighbouring eyes, the object of adoration to these singular lovers, is herself hopelessly attached in turn to a giddy-pated captain of the guard, who can afford to love no one but himself.' in his grand and startling effects, the writer has been compared with the painter martin. there is an almost unparalleled breadth, which gives the work a rembrandtish effect in all the chief scenes. the siege of the cathedral by the banded beggars and vagabonds of paris in the night is one not readily effaced from the memory; and this is equally true of the terrible interview between the infatuated monk and his victim in the filthy dungeons of the palais de justice; of the weird scene of the fête de fous in the hall of the palace; of the alsatian picture of the examination and projected hanging of gringoire among the thieves in the cour des miracles; of the execution of esmeralda; and of the fearful fate of the impassioned monk. the strange fatality attending upon mere passion is insisted on all through; it binds together in one miserable chain the priest who is prepared to sacrifice all that is sacred in duty for love, the heartless soldier, and the trusting maiden. as to the _dramatis personæ_, the _athenæum_, observed, 'no character can be more intimately identified with the genius of victor hugo than the interesting, generous, and high-minded gipsy girl esmeralda. the character of phoebus de chateaupers, the bold, reckless, gay, gallant, good-tempered, light-hearted, and faithless captain of gendarmerie, is also original, and wrought out with great skill. the archdeacon claude frollo is a striking specimen of those churchmen of the fifteenth century who united the grossest superstition to the most consummate hypocrisy, and applied the influences of religion to acts of the blackest perfidy. there are many historical characters in this work, and, among others, our old acquaintances in quentin durward, louis xi., olivier-le-daim, and the squinting provost, tristan l'hermite.' in eloquence, in vigour, in animation, and in all the masterly pageantry of a bygone age, this work will continue to hold a unique position amongst symbolical and historical romances. _notre-dame_ was assailed by the majority of the parisian journals, but in the minority warmly in its favour were to be found some of the first writers of the age. touching the style of the work, sainte-beuve said, 'there is a magical facility and freedom in saying all that should be said; there is a striking keenness of observation, especially is there a profound knowledge of the populace, and a deep insight into man in his vanity, his emptiness, and his glory, whether he be mendicant, vagabond, _savant_, or sensualist. moreover, there is an unexampled comprehension of form; an unrivalled expression of grace, material beauty, and greatness; and altogether a worthy presentment of an abiding and gigantic monument. alike in the pretty prattlings of the nymph-like child, in the cravings of the she-wolf mother, and in the surging passion, almost reaching to delirium, that rages in a man's brain, there is the moulding and wielding of everything just at the author's will.' alfred de musset, while unable to take in the scope of the work, acknowledged that it was colossal. jules janin remarked that 'of all the works of the author it is pre-eminently that in which his fire of genius, his inflexible calmness, and his indomitable will are most conspicuous. what accumulation of misfortunes is piled up in these mournful pages! what a gathering together there is of ruinous passion and bewildering incident! all the foulness as well as all the faith of the middle ages are kneaded together with a trowel of gold and of iron. at the sound of the poet's voice all that was in ruins has risen to its fullest height, reanimated by his breath.... victor hugo has followed his vocation as poet and architect, as writer of history and romance; his pen has been guided alike by ancient chronicle and by his own personal genius; he has made all the bells of the great city to clang out their notes; and he has made every heart of the population, except that of louis xi., to beat with life! such is the book; it is a brilliant page of our history, which cannot fail to be a crowning glory in the career of its author.' finally, eugène sue wrote: 'if the useless admiration of a barbarian like myself had the power to express and interpret itself in a manner worthy of the book which has inspired it, i should tell you, sir, that you are a great spendthrift; that your critics resemble those poor people on the fifth story, who, whilst gazing on the prodigalities of the great nobleman, would say to each other, with anger in their hearts, "i could live during my whole life on the money spent in a single day."' the publisher had some doubts of the pecuniary success of the novel, but these speedily disappeared, as edition after edition was called for. in the course of a year only, eight large editions had been disposed of, and the number of editions which have been issued since that time may be described as legion. from thinking, as he did originally, that he had made a bad bargain, m. gosselin soon had reason to arrive at the conclusion that he had made a remarkably good one. together with other publishers, he now pestered the author continually for more novels. hugo protested that he had none to give them; but wearied at length by their importunities he furnished the titles of two stories he proposed to write, which were to be called the _fils de la bossue_ and _la quinquengrogne_. the latter name was the popular designation of one of the towers of bourbon l'aschembault, and in the novel the author intended to complete the account of his views concerning the art of the middle ages. notre-dame was the cathedral, la quinquengrogne was to be the dungeon. victor hugo wrote at this time his admirable descriptive work _le rhin_--a work full of learning, vivacity, and humour--but he never proceeded with the two projected novels. _notre-dame_ remained for many years the only romance in which the author revealed his marvellous power of moulding human sympathies, of throwing into imaginative conceptions the very form and substance of being, and of realizing a dead-past age as though it were that of the actual and the living. chapter vi. 'marion de lorme' and other dramas. that despotic monarch, charles x., having been driven from his throne by the revolution of july, 1830, there naturally followed the removal of the interdict from the theatres. victor hugo was at once applied to by the comédie française for his drama of _marion de lorme_, which had been in enforced abeyance. but when the political reaction was an absolute certainty, the sensitive mind of hugo shrank from a demonstrative triumph. it is true that he was now in the full tide of masculine judgment, and that his ideas of progress and liberty were crystallized and matured; but he could not forget his early opinions. though crudely formed, and based upon sentiment and not upon reason, they had been genuine and disinterested, and his chief feeling at this later period was not one of hatred of the king, but rather of rejoicing with the people. however, after a year had elapsed from charles's fall, there was no reason why a drama should be lost to the stage simply because it contained an historical presentment of louis xiii. after declining many offers, the author resolved to give the play to m. crosnier, for the theatre of the porte st. martin; and he also entered into an agreement to write yearly two works of importance for this theatre. dumas's _antony_ was being performed at the porte st. martin, but on the conclusion of its run _marion de lorme_ was produced, with madame dorval in the part of marion, and m. bocage in that of didier. difficulties as usual were thrown in the way of the new play, but it eventually triumphed over them. the journals, nevertheless, were hostile, the _moniteur_ especially so, affirming that the author had never yet conceived anything more meagre and commonplace, and more full of eccentricities, than this piece. one critic asserted that the character of didier was taken from that of antony, although hugo's play had been written first. those friends who formerly applauded hugo and dumas conjointly, now divided themselves into two parties, one of which persistently assailed the writer of _marion de lorme_. from a variety of causes the play was only performed four nights on its first production, but the performances were afterwards resumed. it may be added that the _revue des deux mondes_, whose judgment was better worth having than that of most of its contemporaries, remarked that victor hugo had never so truly shown himself a poet, nor attained to so high a range of vision, nor so wide a field of judgment, as in this piece. a tragic incident which occurred not long after the representation of this play affected the poet deeply. amongst the warmest of his band of admirers was m. ernest de saxe-coburg, whose race and origin are indicated by his name. he and his mother lived in paris, on a pension granted them by the duke. ernest was taken seriously ill, and the distracted parent rushed to the house of victor hugo, exclaiming, 'you alone can save him! come at once!' but the unfortunate young man was already dead; and a painful scene took place in the chamber of death on the arrival of victor hugo and the mother. 'the unhappy woman, who had but this only child in the world to love, would not believe that he was dead. he was but cold, she said; and she threw herself on his bed, encircling him in her arms in order to impart warmth to the corpse. she frantically kissed his marble face, which was already cold. suddenly she felt within herself that it was all over; she raised herself, and haggard and wild as she was, though still beautiful, she exclaimed, "he is dead!" m. victor hugo spent the night by the side of the mother and the corpse.' it was the lot of hugo to awaken by his genius many personal attachments and enthusiasms such as that felt for him by this ill-fated youth; and these attachments were invariably strengthened and deepened by subsequent friendship. in 1832 the poet wrote his _le roi s'amuse_. it has been charged against this play that it presents an unredeemed picture of vice and licentiousness. it has 'overstepped all bounds,' wrote one critic; 'history, reason, morality, artistic dignity, and refinement, are all trampled under foot. the whole piece is monstrous; history is set at nought, and the most noble characters are slandered and vilified. the play is entirely void of interest, and the horrible, the mean, and the immoral are all jumbled together into a kind of chaos.' as we shall see, victor hugo traversed the whole of these and similar judgments. baron taylor secured the play for the théâtre français, triboulet being assigned to m. ligier, saint-vallier to m. joanny, blanche to mademoiselle anaïs, and francis i. to m. perrier. a preliminary flourish occurred between hugo and m. d'argout, the minister of public works, in whose department the theatres lay. the minister first demanded the manuscript, then sent for the author, and finally wrote that the monarchical principle in france must suffer from the author's attacks on francis i., which would be taken as being levelled against louis philippe. the poet replied that the interests of history were to be consulted before those of royalty, but he denied that there was anything in the piece reflecting on louis philippe. the play was produced on the 22nd of november, and met with a very mixed reception, the hisses predominating. it was partly damned by the defects of the actors. when the curtain fell upon the last act, and it was felt that the play had failed, the leading performer said to the author, 'shall i mention your name?' hugo answered haughtily, 'sir, i have a rather higher opinion of my play now it is a failure.' next day the play was suspended, the reason given being that it was an offence against public morality. it appears that a number of devotees of the classical school had persuaded the minister that a drama which had for its subject the assassination of a king was not to be tolerated on the very day after the existing monarch had himself escaped assassination; that the play was an apology for regicides, etc. victor hugo was not the man to be thus crushed without an effort to save his drama. in the first place he issued a manifesto to the public, briefly summarizing the plot of the piece, and denying that it was immoral. then he entered a civil suit before the board of trade to compel the théâtre français to perform _le roi s'amuse_, and likewise to compel the government to sanction the performance. the trial opened in a densely crowded court, many celebrities being amongst the audience. they had been attracted by the announcement that the author would plead his own case. hugo's speech was applauded by a band of very sympathetic listeners, and on its conclusion m. de montalembert assured him that he was as great an orator as he was a writer, and that if the doors of the theatre were closed against him, the tribune was still available. judgment was given against the poet, and for the minister. m. paul foucher, describing the scene on the night of the first performance of _le roi s'amuse_, observed that while the whole theatre was in an uproar, and hugo's name was drowned in the sea of roaring voices, 'the author's face exhibited no sign of despondency at the failure any more than it had shown passion or excitement during the struggle. his olympian brow had withstood the tempest with the firmness of a rock, and after the curtain fell, he went to offer his thanks and encouragements to the actors and actresses, saying, "you are a little discomposed to-night; but you will find it different the day after to-morrow!" in spite of the hissing, he was sanguine about his play; nevertheless, it was not destined to be repeated.' the poet's enemies now caused him considerable annoyance on the subject of his pension. he had ceased to receive the 1,000 francs granted him by louis xviii. out of his privy purse, but still received the 2,000 francs allowed him by the home minister. in reply to the recriminations of the ministerial journals, he wrote a letter to m. d'argout, showing that this pension was clearly granted to him on literary grounds, quite apart from political opinions. but he had decided to accept it no longer, and thus stated his reasons: 'now that the government appears to regard what are called literary pensions as proceeding from itself, and not from the country, and as this kind of grant takes from an author's independence; now that this strange pretension of the government serves as the basis to the somewhat shameful attacks of certain journals, the management of which is, unfortunately, though no doubt incorrectly, imagined to be in your hands; as it is also of importance to me to maintain my relations with the government in a higher region than that in which this kind of warfare goes on--without discussing whether your pretensions relating to this indemnity have the smallest foundation, i hasten to inform you that i entirely relinquish it.' the minister replied, taking the poet's view, that the pension was a debt due from the country, and stating that it should still be reserved for him; but victor hugo never took it up from this time forward. for a brief period managers held aloof from the dramatist, and when he wrote _le souper à ferrare_, which title was afterwards changed to that of _lucrèce borgia_, no one was eager for it. but this attitude changed after his speech at the tribunal, and m. harel, director of the porte st. martin, sought for and obtained the play. admirable representatives were found for the chief parts, frédérick lemaître taking that of grennaro, delafosse that of don alphonse d'esté, mademoiselle georges that of lucretia, and mademoiselle juliette that of the princess negroni. meyerbeer and berlioz composed the music for the song which was sung at the supper given by the princess negroni. only one person was allowed to be present at the final rehearsal, and that was sainte-beuve. the critic was playing a double part towards the dramatist, with whom he had been out of sympathy for some time past, and it is recorded that at the close of the rehearsal of _lucrèce borgia_ he warmly congratulated the author upon his drama, and went away circulating reports everywhere that the piece was an utter absurdity! 'it was solely due to his treachery and infamous gossip that on the morning of the day on which the piece was to be performed in the evening, several newspapers announced that they were in possession of the plot, and that the whole production was in the highest degree obscene, depicting orgies terrible and indecent beyond conception.' great interest, notwithstanding, was manifested in the play, and amongst those who implored the author for first-night seats was general lafayette. the representation was a triumphant success, and for awhile nothing was talked about in paris but the new play. the monetary success was equal to the literary and dramatic. the receipts for the first three performances amounted to 84,769 francs--a sum which no other work had equalled or approached during m. harel's management. referring to two of his most widely known dramas, victor hugo predicted that _le roi s'amuse_ would one day prove to be the principal political era, and _lucrèce borgia_ the principal literary era of his life. he had purposely presented deformities in both, but he believed that by uniting monsters to humanity, one could not fail to excite interest and perhaps sympathy. 'physical deformity, sanctified by paternal love, this is what you have in _le roi s'amuse_; moral deformity, purified by maternal love, this is what you find in _lucrèce borgia_.' hugo was fated to be the victim of misunderstanding with regard to almost all his dramas, and he found no exception in _lucrèce borgia_. from an attitude of delight and complacency, m. harel, the director of the theatre, passed to one of studious neglect and insolence. he took off the play, and then demanded a new one, which he averred the poet had agreed to write for him. a quarrel ensued, and the manager challenged the dramatist to a duel. it would have taken place, but m. harel thought better of the affair, and apologized, whereupon hugo agreed to give him his next piece. m. harel remarked upon the whole incident, 'you are probably the first author to whom a manager has said, "your play or your life!"' _marie tudor_, produced in november, 1833, was the next play by victor hugo. it was concerned with a queen, a favourite, and an executioner, a trio as common in history as upon the mimic stage. the dramatist had now two difficulties to contend with. in the first place, the partisans of dumas sowed dissension between the two authors, and spread lying reports respecting hugo and his attitude towards dumas; and in the second place, the writer's own friends grew alarmed at various reports which gained currency. 'i hear on all sides,' wrote one of them, 'that your play is more than ever a tissue of horrors--that your mary is a bloodthirsty creature, that the executioner is perpetually on the stage, and several other reproaches all equally well founded.' hugo remained calm and unmoved, though he was warned that the presence of the executioner on the stage had been given as the watchword to those who intended to hiss the play. the piece was produced in due course, and mademoiselle georges looked superbly and acted well. but the author's enemies kept up a persistent hissing, and there was a strong contest between those who formed a genuine judgment upon the play and greatly admired it, and those who were resolved upon its ruin. the first night left the result dubious, but the piece continued to be played beyond the time generally regarded as constituting an average success. on its withdrawal, all the relations between the author and the porte st. martin naturally ceased, and the treaty with m. harel for a third drama was destroyed by mutual consent. hugo's dramatic work was now interrupted by the composition of his _l'étude sur mirabeau_, which may be taken as an apology for his advanced political and social views. he felt it necessary to review his past career, and to make known to the world the processes of education through which his mind had passed since his early days of royalist fervour. this study, which appeared in his _littérature et philosophie mêlées_, is a defence of conscience, and illustrates the power of growing convictions to emancipate the mind from prejudice and error, regarding the matter, of course, from the standpoint of the writer himself. in 1835 the théâtre français applied to victor hugo for a new drama, and in response he gave to it his _angelo_, one of his best pieces for construction and for rapid and vigorous effects. it was the author's intention in this drama, as he has himself stated, 'to depict two sad but contrasted characters--the woman in society, and the woman out of society; the one he has endeavoured to deliver from despotism, the other he has striven to defend from contempt; he has shown the temptations resisted by the virtue of the one, and the tears shed over her guilt by the other; he has cast blame where blame is due, upon man in his strength and upon society in its absurdity; in contrariety to the two women, he has delineated two men--the husband and the lover, one a sovereign and one an outlaw, and, by various subordinate methods, has given a sort of summary of the relations, regular and irregular, in which a man can stand with a woman on the one hand, and with society in general on the other.' there is nothing more characteristic of the author's dramas than this exhibition of striking contrasts; and, indeed, in all his poetic work is to be traced this juxtaposition of the strongest lights and shades of which human life and human emotion are capable. the two leading stars in _angelo_ were mademoiselle mars and madame dorval. unfortunately, a serious feud arose in consequence of the former discovering that the part she had chosen was not the most forcible and picturesque; and it required all the strong will of victor hugo to bring the actress to reason. the two ladies had their partisans in the theatre when the play came to be acted, but the representation passed over without mishap, and it was conceded that a fair success had been achieved. whatever might be victor hugo's defects as a dramatist, and however he might divide in opinion the theatre-going public of paris upon the general claims of his plays, he had certainly infused life into the dramatic literature of the time. he had attained a commanding position, and although his genius was marred by some eccentricities, it was also as unquestionably distinguished for its grand conceptions, its dramatic felicities, and its splendours of diction. chapter vii. last dramatic writings. in some respects, no man of equal genius was ever so unfortunate as victor hugo in his relations with the stage. i refer, of course, to the earlier part of his career, for there came a time when the appreciation of him as a dramatist was as high and universal as was the admiration of his literary excellence. but during the long struggle between the old and the new drama there were always enemies ready to denounce and hiss whatsoever he produced; and had he given them a _romeo and juliet_ or a _hamlet_, the result would have been precisely the same. we have seen the alternations of failure and success which attended the plays already passed in review; and the same mixed reception was awarded to those final efforts in connection with the drama which led him to adopt the resolution to quit the stage for ever. an operatic venture into which the poet was drawn in 1836 resulted in the same ill-fortune which had marked more regular dramatic compositions. meyerbeer and other celebrated musicians had begged victor hugo to make an opera of _notre-dame de paris_, but he had steadfastly declined all such proposals. at length he yielded to friendship, and wrote the libretto of an opera called _la esmeralda_, the music being composed by mademoiselle bertin, daughter of the conductor of the _journal des débats_. curiously enough, the libretto ended with the word 'fatality,' and this represented the misfortune of the piece and its performers. though boasting a singular array of talent in its production and representation, it was hissed. mademoiselle falcon, the leading singer, lost her voice; m. nourrit, the tenor, subsequently went to italy, and killed himself; the duke of orleans gave the name of _esmeralda_ to a valuable mare, which was killed at a steeplechase; and finally, a ship called the esmeralda was lost in crossing from england to ireland, and every soul on board perished. a domestic grief visited the poet in the following year, when his brother eugène died. for some time before his death he had been insane, and towards the end his one favourite relative, victor, even could not visit him, as the sight of his brother conjured up illusions which made him dangerously violent. though of strong constitution naturally, when the sufferer's mind gave way his physical health began to fail also, and he gradually wasted away until death released him in february, 1837. this was the brother who had been victor hugo's constant companion in early life, and the news of his death deeply agitated the survivor, keenly awakening the slumbering recollections of childhood. louis philippe gave a grand fête at versailles in the summer of 1837, on the occasion of the marriage of the duke of orleans. victor hugo, dumas, balzac, and other men of letters were invited, and were obliged to appear in fancy dress, the result being ludicrous in some cases, as in that of balzac, who had on the dress of a marquis, which, it was jokingly said, fitted him as badly as the title itself would. hugo was an object of special distinction by the royal family. the king conversed with him, and the duchess of orleans paid him marked attention. there were two people, she said, with whom she wished to become acquainted--m. cousin and himself. she had often spoken of him to monsieur de goethe; she had read all his works, and knew his poems by heart. her favourite book was the _chants du crépuscule_; and she added, 'i have visited _your_ notre-dame.' hugo was promoted to the rank of officer of the legion of honour, and he received from the duchess a painting by m. saint-evre representing inez de castro. it was a valuable work, and on the gilding of the frame was inscribed, '_le duc et la duchesse d'orléans à m. victor hugo, 27 juin, 1837_.' at this juncture the poet brought a second action before the board of trade, to compel the comédie française to fulfil its agreement with him by producing his plays. he also claimed compensation for past neglect. hugo's advocate, m. paillard de villeneuve, in an effective speech, demonstrated the injustice of a theatre supported by the state becoming the monopoly of a clique; showed how the existing state of things pressed heavily upon such men of genius as his client; and asserted that not only had no pieces ever realized greater profits, but that actually at that moment, while they were prohibited in france, they were drawing large and appreciative audiences in london, vienna, madrid, moscow, and other important cities. victor hugo himself also spoke, complaining that the manager of the french theatre had deceived him, and that he wore two masks--one of which was intended to deceive authors, and the other to elude justice. the board gave judgment in the poet's favour, sentencing the comédie française to pay 6,000 francs damages, and to perform _hernani_, _marion de lorme_, and _angelo_ without delay. an appeal was entered against this judgment, and when it came on for hearing hugo pleaded his cause in person, asserting that there was an organized effort to close the stage against the new and rising school of literature. the appeal was dismissed, and justice was at length done to the dramatist. in conformity with the judgment, _hernani_ was first produced, and the play was brilliantly successful. i must refer in this place to some of victor hugo's lyrical efforts. not without reason has the volume entitled _feuilles d'automne_ held a high place in the regard of his admirers. it is the poetry of the emotions expressed in such graceful lyric verse as has rarely been penned. in these tender and exquisite poems, as m. alfred nettement observed, the poet's 'lay is of what he has seen, of what he has felt, of what he has loved: he sings of his wife, the ornament of his home; of his children, fascinating in their fair-haired beauty; of landscapes ever widening in their horizon; of trees under which he has enjoyed a grateful shade.' nature and personal experiences--from the opening thoughts of the child to the greater aspirations of the man--are blended in beautiful harmony in these poems, which may be turned to again and again for their sweetness and melody. in 1835 appeared _les chants du crépuscule_, which truly represent a kind of twilight of the soul. 'as compared with what had gone before, the book exhibits the same ideas; the poet is identically the same poet, but his brow is furrowed by deeper lines, and maturity is more stamped upon his years; he laments that he cannot comprehend the semi-darkness that is gathering around; his hope seems damped by hesitation; his love-songs die away in sighs of misgiving; and when he sees the people enveloped in doubt, he begins to be conscious of faltering too. but from all this temper of despondency he quickly rallies, and returns to a bright assurance of a grand development of the human race.' the volume has tones of gentleness and also tones of lofty scorn. to the suffering and the unfortunate the poet was ever tender and pitiful; but to the mean, the base, and the vicious he was as a whip and a scourge. he always endeavoured to separate the worthy from the unworthy, and wherever the latter were to be found, whether in the ranks of friends or foes, they were never suffered to escape the lash of his indignation. another volume of poems, _les voix intérieures_, was published in 1837. 'the poet in this production,' says one of his biographers, 'regards life under its threefold aspect, at home, abroad, and at work; he maintains that it is the mission of the poet not to suffer the past to become an illusion to blind him in the present, but to survey all things calmly, to be ever staunch yet kind, to be impartial, and equally free from petty wrath and petty vanity; in everything to be sincere and disinterested. such was his ideal, and in accordance with it victor hugo spared no effort to improve the minds and morals of men in general, and by his poetry, as well as by his romances and his plays, he desired to constitute himself the champion of amelioration.' this same desire for the elevation of the race ran through all his efforts--social, literary, and political. he may have been mistaken in his means sometimes, never in the honesty and purity of his intent. returning to the stage, victor hugo had become so impressed with the idea that the french nation had a right to have a theatre in which the higher drama should be performed, that he was brought to consent to several interviews on the subject with m. guizot. the latter admitted that there never was a more legitimate request; he agreed with the poet that a new style of art required a new style of theatre; that the comédie française, which was the seat of tradition and conservatism, was not the proper arena for original literature of the day; and that the government would only be doing its duty in creating a theatre for those who had created a department of art. a scheme was perfected for a new theatre, and m. anténor joly was named as manager. no building but a very old one was to be had, however, and this--which was in a bad situation--was transformed into the théâtre de la renaissance. for this theatre hugo wrote his _ruy blas_, a drama which, as is well known, deals with the love of a queen for a valet who subsequently becomes a minister. the play was in five acts, and the leading character was sustained by lemaître. the actor strongly approved the first three acts, but was more than dubious about the fourth and fifth. during the final rehearsals of this piece victor hugo had a marvellous escape of his life. two of the actors happening to station themselves awkwardly, he got up in order to indicate their right positions. scarcely had he left his chair when a great bar of iron fell upon it from an arch above, smashing it to atoms. the author would undoubtedly have been killed on the spot but for this momentary rising to correct the mistake of the actors. the body of the theatre being incomplete when the play came to be produced, difficulties beset the representation. it was winter, and many of the audience were chilled by violent draughts. but the play soon warmed them into enthusiasm. in the fifth act, we are told by one who was present, lemaître rivalled the greatest comedians, and success was more decided than ever. 'the way in which he tore off his livery, drew the bolt, and struck his sword on the table, the way in which he said to don sallustre: '"_tenez_, pour un homme d'esprit, vraiment vous m'étonnez!" --the way in which he came back to entreat the queen's pardon, and finally drank off the poison--everything had so much greatness, truth, depth, and splendour, that the poet had the rare joy of seeing the ideal of which he had dreamt become a living soul.' the play was successful with that part of the public which was unprejudiced, and the press generally was in its favour. but it appears that the theatre was wanted by the co-manager for comic opera, so the fourth act of hugo's play was persistently hissed at every representation by interested persons. the _claqueurs_ were detected and instantly recognised. _ruy blas_ ran for fifty nights, the same programme of hissing being carried through to the end. the manuscript of the piece was sold to the manager of a publishing company, m. delboye. the company also purchased the right of publication of the whole of the poet's works for eleven years, for which they agreed to pay 240,000 francs; and the poet on his part agreed to add two unpublished volumes. victor hugo produced no drama after this for several years; but in 1840 he issued his work _les rayons et les ombres_, consisting of poems which had previously been read to his friends lamartine, deschamps, de lacretelle, and others. here again he sought expression for his ever-widening aspirations after human perfectibility. once more in this work 'he claims the right of expressing his goodwill for all who labour, his aversion to all who oppress; his love for all who serve the good cause, and his pity for all who suffer in its behalf; he declares himself free to bow down to every misery, and to pay homage to all self-sacrifice.' in the poetical alternations and contrasts in this volume will be discovered a profound love and appreciation of nature, as well as an undercurrent of affection for the human. the poet himself, looking back upon what he had accomplished, and forward towards what he hoped to do, at the transition period before he went into exile, asserted his thesis that 'a poet ought to have in him the worship of conscience, the worship of thought, and the worship of nature; he should be like juvenal, who felt that day and night were perpetual witnesses within him; he should be like dante, who defined the lost to be those who could no longer think; he should be like st. augustine, who, heedless of any accusation of pantheism, declared the sky to be an intelligent creation.' and it is under such inspiration that 'he has attempted to write the poem of humanity. he loves brightness and sunshine. the bible has been his book; virgil and dante have been his masters; he has laboured to reconcile truth and poetry, knowing that knowledge must precede thought, and thought must precede imagination, while knowledge, thought, and imagination combined are the secret of power.' it would be impossible for a poet with any vigour of imagination, and any perception of the soul of beauty in all things, to fail with these sublime ideals before him. i now come to the last of victor hugo's writings for the stage, and in _les burgraves_ we have in some respects the best of his dramatic works. it was written towards the close of 1842, and produced (like its predecessors) in the midst of difficulties in march, 1843, at the comédie française. at the time of its production, the author's political opinions had arrived at a stage of compromise. though he was a republican in theory, he had no strong objection to such a monarchy as that of louis philippe, which was liberty itself compared with that which it overthrew. for a sovereign who refrained from tyranny, and was not inimical to progress, he had some sympathy, and he was willing to wait until the time became ripe for the advent of the republic. writing to m. thiers, indeed, to beg for some amelioration in the lot of an imprisoned editor, he said of himself, 'i do not at the present time take any definite political part. i regard all parties as acting with impartiality, full of affection for france, and anxious for progress. i applaud sometimes those in power, sometimes the opposition, according as those in power or in opposition seem to me to act best for the country.' the catholic spirit in which he looked upon public affairs was manifested in his study upon mirabeau. defining the position of the wise politician, he remarked that 'he must give credit to the moderate party for the way in which they smooth over transitions; to the extreme parties for the activity with which they advance the circulation of ideas, which are the very life-blood of civilization; to lovers of the past for the care which they bestow on roots in which there is still life; to people zealous for the future, for their love of those beautiful flowers which will some day produce fine fruits; to mature men for their moderation, to young men for their patience; to those for what they do, to those for what they desire to do; to all the difficulty of everything.' so, some years later he stated that the aim he had in view was 'to agree with all parties in what is liberal and generous, but with none in what is illiberal and mischievous.' the form of government he regarded as a secondary affair; liberty and progress demanded the first and most urgent thought. herein, of course, he differed from the professional politician, who has ever looked at great questions not from the poet's point of view, but from the immediately personal and practical. many of his humanitarian ideas appeared quixotic and chimerical to those who viewed politics as a matter of party, or as a means of personal triumph; while unjust and illiberal men were not also wanting in the ranks of the republicans. then there were some who, like armand carrel, were prepared to go with victor hugo in politics, but rejected his new literary ideas. they clung to the old form of the drama, and found a new star in ponsard, the author of _lucrèce_, a tragedy which had for its subject the expulsion of the tarquins and the establishment of a republic in rome. so the parisians were beguiled by the name of ponsard, who found a great and useful ally in rachel; and hugo was contemned, in spite of such strictures as those of thierry in _le messager_, who drew a comparison between the ostracism with which his countrymen visited such brilliant writers as hugo, and that of the athenians, who punished people whose renown lasted too long. it was at this juncture that _les burgraves_ was produced, and even the genius of the writer himself added to the difficulties by which he was beset. he had conceived three stupendous characters, job, otbert, and barbarossa; and although the actors who sustained these characters, mm. beauvallet, geffroy, and ligier, were undoubtedly men of dramatic instinct and ability, neither they nor any other living tragedians could adequately set forth these epic creations. in the matter of this magnificent trilogy, the author has been not inaptly compared with æschylus. 'the first of greek tragedians, æschylus, after he had long stirred the emotions of the athenians, was finally deserted by them; they preferred sophocles to him, and full of dejection he went into exile, saying, 'i dedicate my works to time;' and time at last did him ample justice, though he did not live to enjoy his triumph. but in this, hugo differed from the glorious greek, for he lived to witness the repentance of the people. _les burgraves_ was ill received on the first night, but this was nothing compared with the opposition subsequently manifested. at every representation, sneers and hissing interrupted the progress of the piece; but the manager and the actors struggled on and played the drama for thirty nights. some of the most influential journals joined themselves to the enemy, and the time was marked by the defection of lamartine to the side of ponsard. théophile gautier was one of the small band who boldly applauded hugo's drama in the press. 'in our day,' he asserted, 'there is no one except m. hugo who is capable of giving the epic tone to three great acts, or of maintaining their lyric swing. every moment seems to produce a magnificent verse that resounds like the stroke of an eagle's wing, and exalts us to the supremest height of lyric poetry. the play is diversified in tone, and displays a singular flexibility of rhythm, making its transitions from the tender to the terrible, from the smile to the tear, with a happy facility that no other author has attained.' with the production of this play dates victor hugo's final abandonment of the stage. strange fate this for a writer for whom charles nodier claimed the honour of being, after rabelais and molière, one of the most original geniuses that french literature ever saw. but the dramatist was disgusted with the literary hostility, the political insincerity, and the personal antipathy which abounded, and although he had a play, _les jumeaux_, which had never been produced, he resolved to give no more of his writings to the stage. he was repeatedly pressed in after years to depart from this resolution, but in vain. 'my decision is final,' he said on one occasion. 'under no pretext shall any more of my plays appear on the stage during my life.' the poet wrote several plays not for publication after this time, and one of them, _torquemada_, has been published. others, named respectively _l'épée_, _la grand'mère_, and _peut-être frère de gavoche_, will only appear posthumously. that there will be in them characters which will live, and that the plays themselves are such as to enhance the public view of victor hugo's dramatic talents, are points upon which we have explicit assurances from those who have had the privilege of listening to the pieces as read by the late venerable author himself. chapter viii. the french academy. a seat amongst the 'forty immortals' is the high and honourable aim of every distinguished frenchman. but the chequered history of the academy since its formation by richelieu two centuries and a half ago, furnishes another evidence of the truth that merit does not always secure its just reward. again and again have men illustrious in letters been passed over, whilst those who had no claim upon the nation's regard have snatched fortuitous honours by unworthy means. amongst those who knocked on more than one occasion at the doors of the french academy in vain, was victor hugo. that such a man must be ultimately successful was beyond a doubt; but it says little for the academy that it failed to recognise his claims until its hostile attitude had become a scandal to literature. as a kind of apology for, or defence of his career, in 1834 hugo published his _littérature et philosophie mêlées_. for those who could see nothing but tergiversation in the development of his views, as regarded from the royalist standpoint of 1819 and the revolutionary standpoint of 1834, these collected papers presented a series of progressive arguments well worthy of study. nor was it merely from the personal point of view that the author issued this work; he believed that the gradual changes of thought which they revealed, all tending towards a fuller liberty in art, politics, and literature, were but typical of the states of mind through which a very large moiety of the young thinkers of his generation had passed. that he did not spare the crudities and defects which marked his own period of literary adolescence will be apparent from this passage, in which he frankly discusses his early compositions: 'there were historical sketches and miscellaneous essays, there were criticism and poetry; but the criticism was weak, the poetry weaker still; the verses were some of them light and frivolous, some of them tragically grand; the declamations against regicides were as furious as they were honest; the men of 1793 were lampooned with epigrams of 1754, a species of satire now obsolete, but very fashionable at the date at which they were published; next came visions of regeneration for the stage, and vows of loyalty to the state; every variety of style is represented; every branch of classical knowledge made subordinate to literary reform; finally, there are schemes of government and studies of tragedies, all conceived in college or at school.' the time had now come in which he demanded a larger scope. his ideas had expanded, and while not abandoning the life contemplative, he desired to become in some way the man of action, and to mingle in the literary and political conflicts going forward around him. taxed with forsaking the study of nature, the poet replied that he still loved that holy mother, but in this century of adventure a man must be the servant of all. reviewing his political position, he felt that he had more than paid his debt to the fallen monarchy, while he could at the same time conscientiously acknowledge louis philippe. the recollection of a pension was balanced by the confiscation of a drama, observes madame hugo, and he was now his own master to follow out his convictions. in the adoption of a public career there were two courses nominally open to him. but with respect to one of these, that of entering the chamber of deputies, he was met by an obstacle which completely disbarred him. he was not a wealthy man, and by the electoral law of that day only wealthy men could become deputies. moreover, if he could have secured by some means a nominal qualification, the electors looked askance upon literary men. they regarded them as more fitted for the quietude of the study than the bustling activity of the tribune. lamartine was a deputy, it is true, but he was a rare exception. abandoning all idea of the chamber of deputies at that time, victor hugo next thought of the chamber of peers. but here again he was met by a practical difficulty. in the selection of peers the king could only choose men who had attained to certain dignities; and in hugo's case election to the academy was the only qualifying dignity that was open to him. to the academy accordingly he appealed. the first vacancy occurred in 1836. but victor hugo had enemies, and amongst these was casimir delavigne, who had considerable weight amongst the forty. m. barbou states that 'the poet of the imperial era was sickly and asthmatic, and he detested victor hugo simply for his robustness and power.' when dumas canvassed delavigne in the interest of his friend, the author of _notre-dame_, delavigne replied with warmth that he would vote for dumas with all his heart, but for hugo never. the academicians elected m. dupaty, probably on the principle that his fame was of such a restricted character that it could not in the least detract from their own lustre. commenting upon his defeat, hugo said, 'i always thought the way to the académie was across the pont des arts; i find that it is across the pont neuf.' three years later there was another vacancy, and hugo canvassed the academicians in turn. but the whole nature of his work was opposed in spirit to the exclusives of the academy, and it is not to be wondered at, from this standpoint, that he failed to meet with a favourable appreciation. however brilliant a candidate might be, most of the members were unable to take a large and liberal view. alexandre duval was especially bitter against hugo, and when the poet was asked what he had done to offend him, he replied, 'i had written _hernani_.' though in a dying condition, duval insisted upon being taken from his bed to vote against hugo. m. molé was elected. in 1840 a third vacancy occurred, and although hugo was again a candidate, the academicians elected m. flourens. at length, in 1841, on the occasion of his fourth candidature, victor hugo was successful. amongst the distinguished men who voted for him were lamartine, chateaubriand, villemain, mignet, cousin, and thiers. in the list of those who opposed him were the names of only two men of real note, delavigne and scribe. one, m. viennet, voted for hugo, though the amusing anecdote is told concerning him that when the poet was made a chevalier of the legion of honour, he said he should like to claim 'the cross of a chevalier for everyone who had the courage to read right through any work of a romantic, and the cross of an officer for everyone who had the wit to understand it!' amidst much that is paltry in the jealousies of literary men, it deserves to be stated to the honour of balzac that this eminent writer declined to become a candidate against victor hugo. the new academician, who was by no means universally congratulated upon his success, was received on the 3rd of june, 1841. according to custom he was called on to pronounce a eulogium upon his predecessor, m. népomucène lemercier. his oration began with a description of the splendour and power of napoleon. before his greatness, said the speaker, the whole universe bowed down, with the exception of six contemplative poets. 'those poets were ducis, delille, madame de staël, benjamin constant, chateaubriand, and lemercier. but what did their resistance mean? europe was dazzled, and lay, as it were, vanquished and absorbed in the glory of france. what did these six resentful spirits represent? why, they represented for europe the only thing in which europe had failed--they represented independence; and they represented for france the only thing in which france was wanting--they represented liberty.' alluding still more directly to m. lemercier, hugo related that he was on brotherly terms with bonaparte the consul, but that when the consul became an emperor he was no longer his friend. finally, the orator declared with much eloquence that it was the mission of every author to diffuse civilization; and avowed that for his own part it had ever been his aim to devote his abilities to the development of good fellowship, feeling it his duty to be unawed by the mob, but to respect the people; and although he could not always sympathize with every form of liberty which was advocated, he was yet ever ready to hold out the hand of encouragement to all who were languishing through want of air and space, and whose future seemed to promise only gloom and despair. to ameliorate the condition of the masses he would have every generous and thinking mind lay itself out by devising fresh schemes of improvement; and libraries, studies, and schools should be multiplied, as all tending to the advancement of the human race, and to the propagation of the love of law and liberty. victor hugo's address was enthusiastically received by the bulk of the members of the academy, and the press generally commented upon it in flattering terms. times had changed since the poet had first called upon m. royer-collard to solicit his vote, when the latter professed his entire ignorance of victor hugo's name, and the following conversation took place: 'i am the author of _notre-dame de paris_, _bug jargal_, _le dernier jour dun condamné_, _marion delorme_, etc.' 'i never heard of any of them.' 'will you do me the honour of accepting a copy of my works?' 'i never read new books.' the later relations of hugo with the academy are of considerable interest. a generous forgetfulness of offence characterized him. when casimir delavigne died, and it fell upon hugo to deliver the funeral oration over one who had been his enemy, he testified to the fine talents of delavigne, and magnanimously exclaimed: 'let all the petty jealousies that follow high renown, let all disputes of the conflicting schools, let all the turmoil of party feeling and literary rivalry be forgotten. let them pass into the silence into which the departed poet has gone to take his long repose!' in january, 1845, hugo had to reply to the speech of m. saint marc girardin, and shortly afterwards--which was a much more difficult and delicate matter--to the opening address of m. sainte-beuve. in the early stage of the poet's career, sainte-beuve, as we have seen, warmly hailed his advent, but he afterwards became his enemy, turning his back upon all his old literary beliefs. by way of covering his retreat, he advocated in the _revue des deux mondes_ a union between the classics and romanticists; and while he did justice to every other writer whom he named, he arrested his praise when he came to the name of victor hugo. he remarked that all signs of magnificent promise were forgotten, 'as soon as we think of his numerous stubborn relapses, or consider the way in which he holds to theories which public opinion has already condemned. sentiments of humanizing art, which might easily enough be praised, are utterly ignored, and m. hugo clings with a steadfast persistence to his own peculiar style.' the public were naturally curious to know how hugo would speak of one who had acted treacherously towards him, but with his usual high-minded courtesy, the speaker uttered not one word of a personal character against the man who had been so unjust towards himself. the academy had few members who were so regular in attendance, or were so useful to that august body, as victor hugo. he brought into all his relations with it the same energy and conscientiousness which marked his course in connection with literature and the drama. his association with the academy was virtually the first stage of a new departure in his career. chapter ix. personal and political. amongst all victor hugo's contemporaries there was no greater admirer of the poet than balzac. there mingled with his admiration a feeling which amounted almost to reverence; and probably the proudest moment in the novelist's life was that in which he received hugo at the jardies. léon grozlan tells us that he awaited his arrival with eagerness; indeed, so great was his anxiety that he could not remain for an instant in one place. these distinguished men of letters were noticeable in their attire, which was certainly far from solomon-like in its splendour. 'balzac was picturesque in rags. his pantaloons, without braces, receded from his ample waistcoat _à la financière_; his shoes, trodden down, receded from his pantaloons; the knot of his cravat darted its points close to his ear; his beard was in a state of four days' high vegetation. as to victor hugo, he wore a grey hat of a rather doubtful shade; a faded blue coat with gilt buttons, and a frayed black cravat, the whole set off by green spectacles of a shape and form to rejoice a rural bailiff.' during breakfast, in speaking of literature and the drama, hugo incidentally mentioned his large profits as a dramatist. 'balzac listened with the air of a martyr listening to an angel, while he heard hugo recount the enormous sums which had accrued to him from his magnificent dramas. this _coup de soleil_ was likely to excite balzac's brain for a long time to come.' at that period the author of the _comédie humaine_ was a personal authority on the bitterness of poverty. the talk proceeded to royalty, to the patronage of talent, and such like matters. balzac spoke eloquently upon the lustre which men of genius have shed upon their own times. 'the pen alone,' he said, 'can save kings and their reigns from oblivion. without virgil, horace, livy, ovid, who would recognise augustus in the midst of so many of his name?... without shakespeare the reign of elizabeth would gradually disappear from the history of england. without boileau, without racine, without corneille, without pascal, without la bruyère, without molière, louis xiv., reduced to his mistresses and his wigs, is but a crowned goat, like the sign of an inn. without the pen, philippe le roi would leave behind him a name less known than that of philippe the eating-house keeper of the rue montorgueil, or of philippe the famous pilferer and juggler. some day it will be said (at least, i hope so, for his majesty's sake), "once upon a time there lived a king called louis philippe, who, by the grace of victor hugo, lamartine, etc."' french rulers were emphatically destined to live in the pages of victor hugo, but in the case of at least one sovereign it was to be by the immortality of contempt. at the residence of hugo in the place royale, whither he had moved on leaving the rue jean goujon, there was a frequent visitor in the person of one auguste vacquerie. this young poetic enthusiast was born at villequier, in la seine inférieure, in the year 1820. he was educated first at rouen, but having an unconquerable longing to see and be near victor hugo, he went to complete his studies at the pension favart, paris, within a few doors of hugo's house. in one of his poems he confessed that though he ardently sighed for paris, that city meant to him hugo and nothing beside--it was the shrine of the poet's fame. like his friend paul meurice, he lived in the inspiration of victor hugo's name, and the two youths became constant and intimate visitors at the house in the place royale. vacquerie fell seriously ill, and he was nursed with all the devotion of a mother by madame hugo. after his recovery, and in acknowledgment of the care bestowed on his son, m. vacquerie, senior, invited madame hugo to occupy his château at villequier during the summer vacation. the offer was gladly accepted, and madame hugo and her four children left paris for normandy on this pleasurable excursion. in the course of this visit, auguste vacquerie's brother charles was introduced to léopoldine hugo, and these impressionable natures at once fell in love. an engagement of no long duration followed, for the young couple were married in the following spring of 1843. the wedded life of the poet's daughter was unfortunately as brief as it was happy and joyous. after a period of five months only it came to a sad and tragic termination. the catastrophe with which it closed is thus described: 'the vacquerie family property at yillequier is on the banks of the seine, which is tidal as far as rouen; but the periodical rising of the water was a matter of no uneasiness to the family, who were accustomed to make excursions almost daily from villequier to caudebec. one of these excursions was arranged for the 4th of september, when m. charles vacquerie, with his wife, his uncle, and cousin, started to make a trial trip in a large new boat. they all set out in high spirits upon what was quite an ordinary outing; but a sudden squall came on, and the boat capsized. léopoldine had always been taught that in the event of being upset, the safest thing to do was to cling to the boat, and accordingly she now instinctively grasped its side amidst convulsions of alarm; her husband was a good swimmer, and, anxious to carry her off, did his utmost to make her relax her hold. but all his efforts were unavailing; in her agony she seemed to have embedded her finger-nails in the wood; his very attempt to break her fingers proved ineffectual. he was but a few yards from the shore, but finding it was impossible to save her, he determined not to survive her, and, taking her into his embrace, sank with her in the stream. the two bodies were recovered a few hours afterwards.' one can well understand the accession of melancholy which would come over the poet and his wife in consequence of such a disaster as this. gloom fell upon the house in the place royale, but victor hugo found consolation in the affection of the partner of his youth, whose devotion had seemed thus far to increase with the lapse of years. again and again she animated his lyre, and gave his verse much of its sweetest and noblest inspiration. she entered fully into his high aspirations, and received with grace and _bonhomie_ visitors like lamartine and madame de girardin, who came to exchange the courtesies of friendship and genius. victor hugo was given to silent wanderings by night in the champs élysées and the vicinity, and he has stated that many of his finest thoughts occurred to him during these midnight walks. on one occasion this habit nearly proved of serious import to him, for as he was passing along near the rue des tournelles, wrapped in meditation, he was attacked and knocked down by a band of pickpockets, and would in all probability have suffered severe injury had not some passers-by caused his assailants to take precipitate flight. the incident caused no modification in the poet's custom, for of physical or moral fear he had scant knowledge. notwithstanding his advanced political views in later life, victor hugo, as i have already had occasion to observe, moved forward towards a republic by gradual stages. he had no faith in the stability of a government which was merely the result of revolt, and in 1832, when there appeared considerable danger of insurrectionary bloodshed, he wrote: 'some day we shall have a republic, and it will be a good one. but we must not gather in may the fruit which will only be ripe in august. we must learn to be patient, and the republic proclaimed by france will be the crown of our hoary heads.' his political honesty impressed his contemporaries. louis blanc saw a noble unity in his political progressiveness; and another critic, m. spuller, in eulogizing the three great french poets of the nineteenth century, chateaubriand, lamartine, and hugo, observed that although they were all born outside the pale of the revolution, they proved to be the very men to help forward and to glorify the democracy, hugo especially being a noble exponent of the new social truths. there naturally came a time, therefore, when hugo desired actual contact with political life. at first, as i have remarked, he formed the design of getting returned for the chamber of deputies, but this idea had to be abandoned. then he was sent for by louis philippe. this monarch, though generally immovable on social and literary questions, and caring little for the conciliation of the democracy, was much impressed by the power he recognised in victor hugo. stories are told of interviews, prolonged into the night, between the king and the poet. the result was that on the 13th of april, 1845, hugo was created a peer--an event which was warmly applauded by the bulk of the people. in taking his seat in the upper chamber the new peer was by profession an independent conservative, but there was in him already a large republican leaven. his maiden speech was delivered in defence of artists and their copyright, and this was followed in march, 1846, by a vigorous address on poland. as was the case with many other literary men, victor hugo sympathized deeply with the poles. he denounced the avowed policy of m. guizot, that france could do nothing towards re-establishing the polish nationality. 'he maintained that it was not a material but a moral intervention that was required, and that such intervention ought to be made in the name of european civilization, of which the french were the missionaries and the poles the champions. he reminded his audience how sobieski had been to poland what leonidas had been to greece, and he claimed the gratitude and moral support of france for a people who had done their part in the noble defence of freedom.' but, apart from the fact that poland had few friends, the ideas of freedom expounded by hugo excited little sympathy in the breasts of the french aristocracy. in 1847 the new peer showed his catholicity of spirit by supporting the petition of prince jerome napoleon bonaparte, praying that his family might be allowed to return to france. his chief arguments were: that the chamber would evidence its strength by its generosity; that it was repugnant to his feelings for any frenchman to be an exile or an outlaw; that any pretender must be harmless in the midst of a nation where there was freedom of work and of thought; and that by mercifulness the chamber would consolidate its power with the people. louis philippe was so impressed by these views that he allowed the bonapartes to return. that momentous revolutionary year, 1848, did not come upon victor hugo altogether as a surprise. that which astonished him was not the character, but the strength of the new movement. he had long before seen that the stability of any french government would depend upon its attitude towards the people and the pressing social and political questions of the time. if a government ignored, or attempted to crush the forces which were at work in society, then it was inevitably doomed to fall before them. he had indulged some hope that the government of louis philippe would inaugurate an enlightened policy; but it failed to do this, while it perpetuated abuses which had long been obnoxious. that which the far-seeing predicted actually occurred; the monarchy was swept away. hugo thought for a moment that a compromise might be effected by constituting the duchess of orleans regent; but he speedily saw that the popular movement was against all royalty and its forms, and he gave in his adhesion to the republic. the provisional government having fixed the elections for the 23rd of april, hugo was nominated as a candidate for paris; but he was unsuccessful. shortly afterwards, however, he was returned to the national assembly, on the occasion of the supplementary elections rendered necessary in paris. he took an independent part in the debates in the assembly, voting now with the right and now with the left. his socialistic views found expression during the discussion upon the national factories, which had borne such lamentable results. 'admitting the necessity which might seem to justify their establishment, he insisted that practically they had had a most disastrous influence upon business, and pointed out the serious danger which they threatened, not alone to the finances, but to the population of paris. as a socialist, he addressed himself to socialists, and invoked them to labour in behalf of the perishing, but to labour without causing alarm to the world at large; he implored them to bestow upon the disendowed classes, as they were called, all the benefits of civilization, to provide them with education, with the means of cheap living; and, in short, to put them in the way of accumulating wealth instead of multiplying misery.' from the point of view of the social reformer, his utterances were wise and conciliatory. during the sanguinary days of june he went from place to place, striving to avert bloodshed; and after the outbreak he was instrumental in saving the lives of several of the insurgents. he advocated mercy, and in the assembly proposed that an entire amnesty should be proclaimed. a deputy rose and embraced him, and with this deputy, who was none other than victor schoelcher, a close friendship was formed. hugo would have no part in the proceedings against louis blanc, and he declined to assent to the vote that cavaignac deserved the gratitude of his country. he opposed the project of having but one chamber, and it has been pointed out that the existence of a second chamber would in all probability have saved france from the _coup d'état_. from his place in the assembly he spoke strongly in favour of the liberty of the press and of the abolition of capital punishment. in april, 1848, he started the journal _l'évènement_, which had for its motto 'intense hatred to anarchy, tender love for the people,' and which included amongst its contributors charles hugo, paul meurice, auguste vitu, théophile gautier, and auguste vacquerie. this journal, which supported the cause of the revolution, was for a time, but a brief one only, successful. in january, 1849, the constituent assembly was dissolved, and a legislative assembly summoned in its stead a few months afterwards. hugo was elected one of the twenty-eight deputies for paris, his name standing tenth on the list. he has left it on record in _le droit et la loi_ that this year formed an epoch in his life. he became at this time a thorough republican. 'an inanimate body was lying on the ground; he was told that that lifeless thing was the republic; he drew near and gazed, and lo! it was liberty; he bent over it and raised it to his bosom. before him might be ruin, insult, banishment, and scorn, but he took it unto him as a wife! from that moment there existed within his very soul the union between liberty and the republic.' the uncompromising attitude he now assumed seems to have alarmed some persons, who charged him with apostasy; but they must have been superficial students of his career. the poet had long been drifting towards this end. with the advance in his political views there seems to have come an expansion in his eloquence; and the tribune witnessed many impassioned speeches from the deputy--speeches which moved his auditors to the utmost depths of emotion. when he defended italy at the time the french entered rome--and in doing so strongly attacked the abuses attendant upon ecclesiastical domination--he incurred the anger of his former friend montalembert. replying to the comte he said: 'there was a time when he employed his noble talents better. he defended poland as now i defend italy. i was with him then; he is against me now. the explanation is not far to seek. he has gone over to the side of the oppressors: i have remained on the side of the oppressed.' presiding at the peace congress of paris, held on the 21st of august, 1849, and addressing richard cobden and his fellow-delegates from various parts of the world, hugo gave expression to his sanguine humanitarian sentiments. 'you have come,' he observed to these representatives of peace, 'to turn over, if it may be, the last and most august page of the gospel, the page that ordains peace amongst the children of the one creator; and here in this city, which has rejoiced to proclaim fraternity to its own citizens, you have assembled to proclaim fraternity to all men.' the orator expressed his conviction that universal peace was attainable, and at the closing sitting of the congress, held on the 24th, the anniversary of st. bartholomew, he spoke in this impassioned strain: 'on this very day, 277 years ago, this city of paris was aroused in terror amidst the darkness of the night. the bell, known as the silver bell, chimed from the palais de justice, and a bloody deed, unprecedented in the annals of crime, was perpetrated; and now, on that self-same date, in that self-same city, god has brought together into one general concourse the representatives of that old antagonism, and has bidden them transform their sentiments into sentiments of love. the sad significance of this mournful anniversary is removed; each drop of blood is replaced by a ray of light. well-nigh beneath the shadow of that tower whence tolled the fatal vespers of st. bartholomew, not only englishmen and frenchmen, germans and italians, europeans and americans, but actually papists and huguenots have been content to meet, happy, nay proud, to unite themselves together in an embrace alike honourable and indissoluble.' these words excited a strange fervour and enthusiasm in the audience, and amidst the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, and other demonstrations of applause, a roman catholic abbé and a protestant pastor might have been seen embracing, overcome by the power of the orator's language. during the debate on the new education bill, introduced by m. de falloux in january, 1850, victor hugo adversely criticized the measure as placing too much power in the hands of the clergy. he announced that he should oppose any scheme which entrusted the education of youth to the clerical party, who were always seeking to fetter the human mind. church and state must pursue independent courses. 'your law,' he exclaimed, directly addressing the minister, 'is a law with a mask. it says one thing, it does another. it may bear the aspect of liberty, but it means thraldom. it is practically confiscation under the name of a deed of gift. but it is all one with your usual policy. every time that you forge a new chain you cry, "see, here is freedom!"' during the same session hugo appealed for mercy for the political criminals, and condemned the law of transportation, by which they were not only banished but liable to be shut up in citadels. his speech on this occasion created such a profound impression that it was afterwards printed and distributed throughout the country, and a medal was struck in honour of the orator. troublous times were again looming over france. the protestations of louis napoleon that he desired to rank as a patriot only, and not as a bonaparte, had been accepted by victor hugo, louis blanc, and others, in good faith. in his prison at ham, he had been visited by several staunch republicans, who believed his asseverations that he had no other end in view than the welfare of france and the consolidation of her liberties. indeed, when the exile returned to paris he sought out victor hugo, and in the most frank and unambiguous language said to him, 'what would it be for me to be napoleon over again? why, it would not simply be an ambition, it would be a crime. why should you suppose me a fool? i am not a great man, and when the republic is made i shall never follow the steps of napoleon. as for me, i am honest; and i shall follow in the way of washington.' it never struck the poet that his visitor protested too much. upright and sincere himself, he liked to believe in the integrity of others, and he little dreamt that louis napoleon, who had sworn fidelity to the constitution, and again and again declared himself bound by his oath, would in a short time strangle the republic with his own hands. but, alas! it was not long before the poet and his friends were disillusioned, for, as proudhon remarked, 'citizen bonaparte, who but yesterday was a mere speck in the fiery heavens, has become an ominous cloud, bearing storm and tempest in its bosom.' hugo, seeing what was advancing, bore himself courageously, and from his place in the tribune never ceased to advocate the cause of freedom, while he bade the people repose securely in their own strength. the reactionary policy began with the curtailment of the liberty of the press, and culminated in the _coup d'état_ of the 2nd december, 1851. on that date the legislative assembly was dissolved; universal suffrage was established, and paris was declared to be in a state of siege. thiers, cavaignac, and others were arrested and sent to the castle of vincennes. about 180 members of the assembly, with m. berryer at their head, on endeavouring to meet, were also arrested, and paris was occupied by troops. sanguinary conflicts ensued between the people and the soldiery, but the troops were victorious. napoleon put a pistol at the head of paris, and ultimately, by means which will be condemned in history to all ages, the empire was established. victor hugo did all in his power for the maintenance of the rights of the people, but in vain. in the tribune he indignantly inveighed against the tyranny of napoleon, and was in consequence placed at the head of the list of the proscribed. he supported the committee of resistance in their efforts to depose the prince; but the people were paralyzed by the display of power, and he was obliged to fly from paris. a sum of 25,000 francs was offered to anyone who would either kill or arrest him, and so great was the terror of the populace that no one could be found who would give the friend of freedom an asylum. at length he secured temporary shelter beneath the roof of a relation, remaining here until the 12th of december, when he left paris, completely disguised, by the northern railway station. the expatriated poet reached brussels in safety, but his sons and the rest of the staff of _l'évènement_ had been cast into prison. it was a momentous time for the friends of victor hugo, who were naturally anxious for his safety when so many of the friends of the republic had been seized and incarcerated. in his retreat the great patriot found himself confronted by a new task. he resolved to compile a history of the infamous events which had driven him into exile. 'his lashes should reach to the faces of napoleon and his acolytes at the tuileries; he became at once the tacitus and juvenal of his time, only his accents were mightier than theirs, because his indignation was greater and his wrath more just.' napoleon had triumphed, but the scourge was soon to descend which should leave him exposed to the derision and contempt of the world to the end of time. the sword is powerful; but the pen, which is the stronger weapon, has always overtaken it, and adjusted the historical balance in the interests of humanity. chapter x. the poet in exile. in brussels victor hugo came upon friends, amongst them being the novelist, alexandre dumas. the latter was living in this city because he was the better able to pursue his literary work there, undistracted by the myriad claims which such a centre as paris presents. he had never mixed ardently in politics, but he was so chagrined at the banishment of hugo that he chivalrously resolved never to visit louis napoleon or the tuileries again; and he resolutely adhered to this decision. victor schoelcher followed hugo to brussels, having escaped from his pursuers in the disguise of a priest. towards the close of december, 1851, the poet began to write his stirring narrative, _l'histoire d'un crime_, and the work was completed by the following may. it was not published until 1877, and i shall make some references to it in a later chapter. amongst other exiles in brussels were the ill-assorted couple émile de girardin and general lamoricière. but belgium also sheltered in this hour of peril ledru rollin, the sculptor david, barbès, louis blanc, edgar quinet, and eugène sue. indeed, many of the finest and choicest spirits of france had been driven from their native soil. the sons of victor hugo joined their father in january, 1852, and the poet determined to remain in brussels so long as napoleon iii. reigned at the tuileries. fate, nevertheless, decreed otherwise. the belgian government, though favourable to hugo, was still more anxious to maintain friendly relations with the new french empire. victor hugo soon made it impossible, however, for the belgian rulers to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. the publication of his _napoléon le petit_ fell like a thunderbolt over both paris and brussels. that scathing work made the dictator writhe amid the splendours of his palace. it was charged with wit, pathos, sarcasm, and invective. amongst the many personal passages denunciatory of louis napoleon was the following: 'he will never be other than the nocturnal strangler of liberty; he will never be other than the man who has intoxicated his soldiers, not with glory, like the first napoleon, but with wine; he will never be other than the pigmy tyrant of a great people. grandeur, even in infamy, is utterly inconsistent with the character and calibre of the man. as dictator, he is a buffoon; let him make himself emperor, he would be grotesque. that would at once put an end to him. his destiny is to make mankind shrug their shoulders. will he be less severely punished for that reason? not at all: contempt does not in his case mitigate anger. he will be hideous, and he will remain ridiculous. that's all. history laughs, and crushes. what would you have the historian do with this fellow? he can only lead him to posterity by the ear. the man once stripped of success, the pedestal removed, the dust fallen, the lace and spangles and the great sabre taken away, the poor little skeleton laid bare and shivering--can anyone imagine anything meaner and more miserable?' this powerful satire closed with a vision of vengeance: 'you do not perceive that the 2nd of december is nothing but an immense illusion, a pause, a stop, a sort of working curtain, behind which the deity, that marvellous machinist, is preparing and constructing the last act, the final and triumphant scene of the french revolution! you look stupefied upon the curtain, upon the things painted upon the coarse canvas, this one's nose, that one's epaulettes, the great sabre of a third, those embroidered vendors of _eau-de-cologne_ whom you call generals, those _poussahs_ that you call magistrates, those worthy men that you call senators, this mixture of caricatures and spectres--and you take them all for realities. you do not hear yonder in the shade that hollow sound! you do not hear some one going backwards and forwards! you do not see that curtain shaken by the breath of him who is behind!' the excitement caused by this work proved too much for the belgian government, and, desirous of keeping well with napoleon iii., it reluctantly decided that the author must be expelled. as there was no law bearing upon hugo's case, the belgian chamber passed one to meet it, and hugo was cast out from what he deemed to be a secure asylum. he embarked for england, but only on his way to jersey, which he had decided upon as his next place of habitation. he landed at st. helier on the 5th of august, 1852, and was received by a body of french compatriots and exiles. hugo was now somewhat straitened in means, as he derived nothing from his dramas and his various works. from his very ability and genius, he was singled out as a special object of disapprobation on the part of the french rulers. the poet first settled down in a small house on the marine terrace, and the money he received from the sale of his effects in paris was a very welcome addition to his small store. but he had passed through too many periods of hardship and vicissitude to repine over these altered circumstances--he rather rejoiced to suffer for conscience' sake. he now gave himself up to intellectual labour, and found much happiness in his leisure hours in the bosom of his family, every member of which was deeply attached to him; and in the interchange of affectionate confidences with his intimate friends, vacquerie, paul meurice, and others. he was treated with great distinction by the islanders, not (as he himself said) because he was victor hugo the poet, but because he was a peer of france. in consequence of his rank, observes one writer, 'he enjoyed certain privileges, one of which was that he was exempt from the obligation of sweeping his doorstep and clearing away the grass from the front of his house!' but he was obliged to supply the suzerain of the duchy of normandy with two fowls every year, a tax that was religiously exacted from 'his lordship.' yet even in the little island home of their adoption the exiles were not permitted to rest in peace. spies were sent amongst them, who endeavoured to gather evidence of sedition, and although jersey had its own laws, as napoleon was now the ally of england the situation was not without its dangers. one imperial spy, named hubert, was discovered; and when the exiles determined that he should die for his treachery, hugo, with his usual large-hearted magnanimity, came forward and saved his life. another terrible denunciation of napoleon and his satellites was penned by hugo during his stay in jersey. _les châtiments_, this new satire, was even more powerful and telling than _napoléon le petit_. its verse burned with indignation. the poet spared no one who was in any degree responsible for the crime of the 2nd december. 'sometimes he is full of pity for the victims of the dastardly aggression, pouring out his sympathy for those whom the convict-ships were conveying to the deadly climates of cayenne and lambessa, to receive for political offences the fate of the worst of felons; sometimes he sounds forth their virtues in brilliant strophes; and sometimes he rises into grandeur as he scourges the great men of the second empire, whilst at others he uses the lash of satire, and depicts them all as circus grooms and mountebanks. page after page seems to bind his victim to an eternal pillory.' the work showed, in its various divisions, how society was 'saved,' order re-established, the dynasty restored, religion glorified, authority consecrated, stability assured, and the deliverers themselves delivered. it was first published in brussels, but only in a mutilated form, the belgian government dreading the effects of some of its bitter attacks upon the ruler of france. in vain the poet protested against this infringement of liberty. a complete edition of the work, however, soon appeared at st. helier, and it speedily got into circulation in all the european capitals, ingeniously defying every effort to suppress it. 'the more it was hunted down the more thoroughly it penetrated france. it had as many disguises as an outlaw. sometimes it was enclosed in a sardine-box, or rolled up in a hank of wool; sometimes it crossed the frontier entire, sometimes in fragments; concealed occasionally in plaster busts or clocks, laid in the folds of ladies' dresses, or even sewn in between the double soles of men's boots.' matters were thus rendered righteously unpleasant for napoleon, who dreaded these attacks upon his person and power. a man of genius fighting for liberty is sometimes stronger than a throne; and it was possible that this might be the issue between the poet and the dictator. the work brought no profit to its author, but he had the far higher reward of seeing it carry terror into the midst of the tuileries, while it at the same time stirred the slumbering conscience of the french nation. for two or three years the jersey exiles remained unmolested, but napoleon, feeling insecure, determined that they should 'move on.' victor hugo on several occasions delivered funeral orations over departed patriots. he never spared the french rulers, and invariably expressed sympathy with 'the heartrending cry of humanity which made the crowned criminal turn pale upon his throne.' at the obsequies of one félix bony, who had been a victim of imperial tyranny, the poet referred to the british alliance with the emperor of the french as a degradation to england. upon this, sir robert peel intimated in the house of commons that he should feel it his duty to put an end to this kind of language on the part of french refugees as soon as possible. ribeyrolles, the editor of _l'homme_, the french newspaper in jersey, retorted that england was england no longer, and victor hugo returned the following answer: 'm. bonaparte has driven me from france because i have acted on my rights as a citizen, and as a representative of the people; he has driven me from belgium because i have written _napoléon le petit_, and he will probably drive me from england because of the protests that i have made and shall continue to make. be it so. that concerns england more than it concerns me. america is open to me, and america is sufficiently after my heart. but i warn him, that whether it be from france, from belgium, from england, or from america, my voice shall never cease to declare that sooner or later he will have to expiate the crime of the 2nd of december. what is said is true: there _is_ a personal quarrel between him and me; there is the old quarrel of the judge upon the bench and the prisoner at the bar.' the tension became too great when félix pyat published in _l'homme_ a 'letter to queen victoria,' commenting in sarcastic but foolish terms upon her majesty's visit to the emperor and empress of the french. some of the personal portions of the pamphlet affecting the queen were perfectly unjustifiable, and the result was a serious agitation in jersey for the expulsion of the exiles. at one moment their lives were in danger. hugo confessed that he did not care for this, but he should greatly regret the destruction of his manuscripts. his compositions, which represented thirty years' labour, and included _les contemplations_, _la légende des siècles_, and the first portion of _les misérables_, were accordingly secured in a strong iron-bound chest. madame hugo, though warned of her danger, resolutely remained by the side of her husband. the conductors of _l'homme_ were at once expelled from jersey, whereupon victor hugo drew up a protest on behalf of the exiles. 'the _coup d'état_,' said this document, 'has penetrated into english liberty. england has reached this point that she now banishes exiles.' it then went onto inveigh against the crimes of 'treason, perjury, spoliation, and murder,' committed by napoleon iii., for which he had been legally condemned by the french court of assize, and morally by the bulk of the english press. the protest received thirty-seven signatures, amongst them being those of louis blanc and victor schoelcher. after a period of uncertainty, the english government consented to the expulsion of the refugees. on the 27th of october, 1855, the news was communicated to victor hugo that he must quit the island by the 2nd of november. the poet said to the constable of st. clément, the bearer of the tidings, 'i do not await the expiration of the respite that is given me. i hasten to quit a land where honour has no place, and which burns my feet.' after paying a farewell visit to the graves of their dead comrades, the exiles dispersed, leaving jersey for various destinations; and on the 31st of october, hugo and his family embarked for guernsey. chapter xi. in guernsey.--'les misérables.' though harassed in mind and in person, victor hugo had reserved to himself, during his troubled stay in jersey, leisure in which to devote himself to the muses pure and simple. as the result of these periods of meditation, there appeared in paris in 1856 _les contemplations_. this work, which speedily went through several editions, was the lyrical record of twenty-five years. according to the author himself, it holds, more than any other of the numerous collections of his poetry, 'as in a rocky chalice, the gathered waters of his life.' and, again, he observed that 'the author has allowed this book to form itself, so to speak, within him. life, filtering drop by drop, through events and sufferings, has deposited it in his heart.' divided into two parts, the earlier division of the work dealt with other times, the second with 'to-day.' from the trials and the joys through which the poet had passed he endeavoured to extract the philosophy of life. everything is tinged with deep feeling, for it would be superfluous to say that hugo was ever the subject of profound emotions. he felt more deeply and strongly than other men, and this gives that intense personal realism to his work which distinguished it from the first recorded utterance to the last. virulently attacked in some quarters, this series of poems was as warmly welcomed in others. with the public it found ready favour, and speedily ran through numerous editions. it may safely be affirmed that criticism which is merely captious has never yet permanently injured any work. wherever there is genius, it will force its way through such obstacles, and find an honest public appreciation. if hugo had not himself had faith in the poetic seed in such works as _les contemplations_, he must have despaired; but with that egotism of talent which is never offensive, he left his work confidently to the judgment of minds which could think and souls which could feel. of that gigantic work, _la légende des siècles_, the first part of which appeared in 1859, i shall speak in greater detail when referring to its completion. expelled from jersey, the poet found a home in guernsey; for although the islands are geographically near, the sentiments of the islanders differed greatly on the subject of political refugees. at hauteville house, which, as its name implies, occupied a commanding elevation, victor hugo found a home which is now peculiarly linked with his name. the re-arrangement of the place was a work of time. writing to jules janin, hugo announced his getting into new quarters: 'england has hardly been a better guardian of my fireside than france. my poor fireside! france broke it up, belgium broke it up, jersey broke it up; and now i am beginning, with all the patience of an ant, to build it up anew. if ever i am driven away again i shall turn to england, and see whether that worthy prude albion can help me to find myself _at home_.... i have taken a house in guernsey. it has three stories, a flat roof, a fine flight of steps, a courtyard, a crypt, and a look-out; but it is all being paid for by the proceeds of _les contemplations_.' innumerable are the pilgrimages which have been made to hauteville house, with consequent descriptions of the residence. a brief sketch of the leading features of the poet's home, for which i am indebted to an account written by one of such visitors, will not be unacceptable. hauteville house, which overlooks the city and fort beneath, and commands a vast expanse of sea, is likewise famed for its interior treasures. the visitor finds carvings of the renaissance and the middle ages, and porcelain, enamels, and glass, the work of venetian and florentine masters. entering the house by a vestibule, there is first perceived on the upper lintel a _basso-relievo_ representing the chief subject in _notre-dame de paris_. on the right and left, in carved oak, are two medallions, by david, of victor hugo and his second daughter. a fine renaissance column supports the whole. passing on, the monumental door of the dining-room is reached. upon one of the panels is written 'love and believe;' and over one of the doors, and below a statuette of the virgin, is the word of welcome to the visitor, '_ave_.' in the billiard-saloon are hung the poet's designs, framed in varnished fir. to his other evidences of ability hugo adds that of a graphic artist. many of his sketches have a breadth and power which strongly recall the pencil of rembrandt, though in the matter of drawing and some other points they will not, of course, sustain comparison with the work of that wonderful master. the tapestry-parlour is an apartment of special interest, the mantelpiece particularly fixing the attention. imagine a cathedral of carved oak, which, rising vigorously from the floor, springs up to the ceiling, where its upper carving touches the tapestry. the doorway corresponds to the fireplace; the rosace is a convex mirror, placed above the mantelpiece; the central gable is a firm entablature covered with fantastic foliage, and decorated by arches of exquisite taste, in which the byzantine mingles with the rococo; the two towers are two counterforts, which repeat all the ornamentation of the entire mass. the coping, very imposing in its effect, recalls the fronts of the houses in antwerp and bruges. a face appears amid the woodwork, vigorously thrown out. it is that of a bishop, whose crosier alone is gilded. on each side of it is a shield, with the witty motto: 'crosier of wood, bishop of gold: crosier of gold, bishop of wood.' on two scrolls, representing rolled parchment, are inscribed the names of those whom victor hugo looks upon as the principal poets of humanity--job, isaiah, homer, æschylus, lucretius, dante, shakespeare, molière. on the opposite side are the names of moses, socrates, christ, columbus, luther, washington. two oaken statues lean from the double entablature of the chimney-piece. one represents st. paul reading, with an inscription on the pedestal--'the book;' the other shows a monk in ecstasy, with his eyes uplifted, and on the pedestal is written 'heaven.' the working-room contains another fine monumental piece of work, bearing a motto taken from the fourth act of _hernani_, '_ad augusta per angusta_.' the dining-room walls are covered with splendid dutch delf of the seventeenth century, and the room has also a magnificent mirror and a piece of gobelin tapestry representing the riches of summer. vases and statuettes are to be met with everywhere; and on panels are carved various legends--'man,' 'god,' 'my country,' 'life is exile.' an armchair of carved oak, which was regarded by the poet as the ancestral seat at his table, is closed by a chain, and bears the inscription, 'the absent are here.' the galleries and rooms of the first story are likewise rich in renaissance work, and in chinese and japanese treasures. the oak gallery, which is a kind of guest-chamber, has six windows looking out upon fort st. george, which distribute the light through a perfect forest of carved oak. the mantelpiece--a marvellous piece of work, represents the sacrifice of isaac. a state bed and a massive candelabrum in oak, surmounted by a figure carved by victor hugo, are also noticeable objects; but they are almost eclipsed by the splendid door of entrance, which, as seen from the interior, is as brilliant as a church window. two spiral columns sustain a pediment of oak with renaissance grotesques, surrounded by arabesques and monsters; it advances with two folds, which are resplendent with paintings, among which are eight large figures of the martyrs, attired in gold and purple, the principal being st. peter. there is inscribed on the lintel, '_surge, perge_,' and close by the words of lucan, 'the conquerors have the gods, with the conquered cato remains.' there are also numerous maxims, poetic and otherwise. hugo's own room was the look-out--a little belvedere open in all directions, but very small in extent. it contains the poet's writing-table and an iron bed. whether regarded from the point of view of its noble situation, or from that of the artistic treasures which find a lodgment in its interior, hauteville house is a place to inspire a poet of a far less expansive imagination than victor hugo. while the author of _notre-dame_ pursued his studies and compositions in the belvedere, the other inmates of hauteville house were generally engaged in a variety of pursuits beneath. the elder son, charles, devoted himself to the writing of dramas and romances, while the second son, victor françois, undertook with much spirit and success a translation of shakespeare. adèle, the one daughter now remaining, composed music; auguste vacquerie plunged into a series of curious literary studies, which resulted in the production of _les mielles de l'histoire_ and _profils et grimaces_; and madame victor hugo busied herself in collecting notes for her husband's _life_. unfortunately, owing to her death, her task was never completed, a portion only of her labour of love seeing the light in 1863. the whole family ever cordially welcomed any frenchmen who sought a refuge at hauteville house, and gérard de nerval, balzac, and many others occupied in turns a room specially set apart for the use of such visitors. two or three years after hugo established himself in guernsey, an amnesty was announced by the emperor of the french. the proclamation was dated the 15th of august, 1859. the poet refused to avail himself of the act of grace, and in conjunction with louis blanc, edgar quinet, and others, replied to the imperial pardon by a counter manifesto. he was blamed by some for this step, it being urged that it was his duty to return to france during the days of the second empire, and to use every effort to procure that amelioration of the condition of the people, and the fruition of their hopes, which he and other patriots desired. but victor hugo was very depressed at this time, and saw little prospect of the realization of his own aspirations and of those who felt and acted with him. but an idea of the vast personal influence attributed to the poet may be gathered from such language as the following which was used concerning him at this time: 'had victor hugo stood forward, as he was morally bound to do, the fatal day of sadowa might never have happened, the disastrous ministry of m. émile ollivier would have been impossible, and france could have been spared the overwhelming ruin which fell upon her when absolutely abandoned to the counsels and government of the feeblest mediocrity.' it is impossible, of course, to say that these sanguine expectations would have been justified; but they will at least serve to show the high esteem in which the poet was held, and the weight attached to his individual will and example. another epoch in the literary career of victor hugo was reached in 1862 by the publication of the celebrated romance, _les misérables_. this work had been begun many years before, and was to have been published in 1848. its original conception was vastly extended in course of time, until what was at first meant to occupy only two octavo volumes ultimately spread over ten. the work appeared simultaneously in paris, london, brussels, new york, madrid, berlin, turin, st. petersburg, leipzig, milan, rotterdam, warsaw, pesth, and rio de janeiro. the first paris edition amounted to 15,000 copies, the first brussels edition to 12,000, and the first leipzig edition to 3,000. no fewer than 150,000 copies were sold in one year, and altogether, in various forms and editions, more than three times this immense number of copies were disposed of. the book was found everywhere, from the steppes of russia to the battlefields of the united states, where it solaced many a soldier during the civil war. this stupendous work is divided into five parts, entitled respectively 'fantine,' 'cosette,' 'marius,' 'l'idylle rue plumet et l'épopée rue st. denis,' and 'jean valjean.' each of these parts consists of eight or more books, which are again divided into chapters. it was complained that the book was partly the offspring of a poet, and partly the offspring of a social philosopher, and that while the poetry was noble the philosophy was detestable. at the same time it was admitted that the writer had stamped upon every page the hall-mark of genius, and the loving patience and conscientious labour of a true artist. the romance opens with a finely-sketched portrait of a worthy bishop, called by the people monseigneur bienvenu, a noble creation, which surprised those who looked upon hugo merely as a curser of the church and all its works. a scene of strong dramatic power occurs in chapter x., which deals with an interview between the bishop and a dying conventionnel, who had all but voted for the death of the king. victor hugo's unequalled command of language and his terse and vigorous emphasis come here into full play. 'all french writers of mark,' says a writer in the _quarterly review_, 'are divisible into two schools; the one is characterized by the polish and smoothness to which the romance element is carried in a racine, or, in more modern times, a lamartine; the other is full of a _viel esprit gaulois_, a molière or a la fontaine. for this rugged force of speech, all knots, the bark still on, m. hugo is very remarkable. the terseness with which he throws into a word the compressed power which a feebler but more elegant writer would draw out into a whole sentence, indicates an amount of genius which belongs only to the kinglier spirits of an age, and which in french literature has only been matched by rabelais, in italian by dante.' the real hero of the story is jean valjean, the son of a woodcutter of faverolles. losing his father and mother when a child, he grew up to carry on the former's craft, supporting thereby an elder sister (left a widow) and her seven children. one night, in that terrible year of famine, 1795, jean valjean broke into a baker's shop to steal a loaf for the starving children at home. he was arrested for the theft, and condemned to five years at the galleys. frequent attempts to escape added fourteen years more to his punishment. at length, after nineteen years, he was liberated; but, while now free, his lot was as hard as though he were still in confinement. no one will recognise or aid this pariah of civilization, and he enters the episcopal town of d---in despair. the good bishop alone will receive the outcast, and he entertains him, and has a bed provided for him. in the middle of the night valjean is overcome by wild impulses. he steals the spoons from the cupboard over the bed of the sleeping bishop, and escapes through the garden. in the morning he is caught and brought back, but the bishop only heaps coals of fire upon his head in return for his perfidy. valjean is allowed to go out into the world, but there is a terrible struggle between the good and the evil nature within him. the psychological power of this part of the novel is marvellous. the conflict between right and wrong is renewed periodically in valjean's breast all through the romance, and it is the influence of the christian bishop which prevents the miserable man from becoming dead to all his better instincts. the third book of the first part is devoted to the episode of fantine, an unhappy being who is more sinned against than sinning, and whose sorrows are vividly and painfully described, with some few delicate lights thrown in upon child-life. a striking portrait of javert, a severe french _agent de police_, testifies once more to victor hugo's power of human analysis; but the most thrilling scenes still centre round valjean. the ex-convict becomes a respectable provincial mayor under an assumed name, and when a man is arrested in his old name of valjean, after a tremendous struggle, in which he sees the dead bishop calling upon him to be true to his conscience, he resolves to deliver himself up and save the innocent man. i cannot follow all the ramifications of this extraordinary work, which absolutely teems with exciting incidents, all graphically told, and having for their central and cardinal motive the trials of valjean and the revolt against society. in the last volume we have the marriage of cosette, daughter of fantine, with one marius, both of whom owed their lives to valjean. marius and cosette shrink from valjean when they hear his confession that he is a liberated convict. but when marius learns further that valjean had saved his life and conveyed him from the barricades to his grandfather's house, and that he had also secured for him his wife's dowry of 600,000 francs, remorse overcomes him for his ingratitude. he and cosette seek out valjean at his lodgings, but only arrive in time to witness the death of the suffering, sinning, struggling convict, and to receive his last blessing. this romance contains passages which, for grandeur of conception and skill in execution, have never been equalled by any other french writer. at the same time the work is not without its defects, chief of which is the frequent recurrence of prolix digressions. for example, at a very critical point in the story, when jean valjean has effected his escape with marius in his arms from the pursuit of the soldiery, the reader is treated to some hundred pages of speculation on the valuable uses to which the sewage of large towns may be put. other eccentricities might be pointed out, but high and above them all burns the light of the original genius of the author, which transforms the book for us into a veritable wizard's spell. hugo, even with his perversities and his literary contradictions, can move us as no other man can. writing to lamartine, who had been considerably exercised by the social views promulgated in this book, the author said: 'a society that admits misery, a humanity that admits war, seem to me an inferior society and a debased humanity; it is a higher society, and a more elevated humanity at which i am aiming--a society without kings, a humanity without barriers. i want to universalize property, not to abolish it; i would suppress parasitism; i want to see every man a proprietor, and no man a master. this is my idea of true social economy. the goal may be far distant, but is that a reason for not striving to advance towards it? yes, as much as a man can long for anything i long to destroy human fatality. i condemn slavery; i chase away misery; i instruct ignorance; i illumine darkness; i discard malice. hence it is that i have written _les misérables_.' so much for one side of the work; but if its social and political philosophy be condemned to the exclusion of its manifold excellences and beauties, then i can only pity the mole-like blindness of those who, in their haste to be critical, have lost that key-note of human sympathy which alone can unlock the treasures of _les misérables_. chapter xii. literary and dramatic. utopian as some of victor hugo's social theories might be, his aspirations after the perfection of the race were unquestionably noble. what is more, he furnished practical evidence of the sincerity of his desire to bridge over the gulf which separates humanity into classes. at his house in guernsey he entertained periodically the children of the poor, frequently to the number of forty, at his own table. they would be accompanied by their mothers, and would sit down to an excellent repast, the hospitable board being presided over by the poet himself. in this fraternal spirit he endeavoured to carry out his democratic ideas. at one of his christmas feasts at hauteville house, hugo remarked: 'my idea of providing a substantial dinner for the destitute has been well received almost everywhere; as an institution of fraternity it is accepted with a cordial welcome--accepted by christians as being in conformity with the gospel, and by democrats as being agreeable to the principles of the revolution.' he also advocated the education of children, as well in the principles of justice and real happiness as in the various branches of knowledge; for by elevating the child they would elevate the people of the future. the good work thus initiated in guernsey was imitated by humanitarians in london, who provided acceptable meals for the poor in the ragged schools, and for the neglected and the outcast. hugo's example was therefore not barren of results, though systematic care for the poor was still a dream of the future. a strangely interesting scene took place at brussels, when victor hugo's publishers in that city, messrs. lacroix and verboeckhoven, gave a grand banquet to the author in celebration of the success of _les misérables_. distinguished representatives of the english, french, italian, spanish and belgian press attended, and amongst the chief guests were the burgomaster of brussels, the president of the chamber of representatives, mm. eugène pelletan, de banville, champfleury, and louis blanc. the illustrious exile was much moved as he listened to speeches breathing sympathy and affection for himself as a man, and admiration for him as a writer. 'eleven years ago, my friends,' he said in reply, 'you saw me departing from among you comparatively young. you see me now grown old. but though my hair has changed, my heart remains the same. i thank you for coming here to-day, and beg you to accept my best and warmest acknowledgments. in the midst of you i seem to be breathing my native air again; every frenchman seems to bring me a fragment of france; and while thus i find myself in contact with your spirits, a beautiful glamour appears to encircle my soul, and to charm me like the smile of my mother-country.' the empire had made this gathering impossible in paris, the city where it should naturally have been held. a pleasant act of reparation for past injustice was performed when, on the 18th of may, 1860, the inhabitants of jersey once more welcomed hugo to their island. he went over upon the requisition of five hundred sympathizers with liberty, who invited him to speak on behalf of the subscription which was being raised to assist garibaldi in the liberation of italy. the occasion was pre-eminently one to unseal the fount of eloquence in the exile and the poet. his own deep love for france led him to feel profoundly with the noble patriot who was struggling for a united italy. hugo spoke with great energy, first depicting italy in her bondage, then pleading for her freedom and independence, and prophesying the near approach of the time when, with the sword of garibaldi, aided by the support of france and england, italy would rise victorious in the struggle for liberty. a few years later, and we have some glimpses of the domestic relations of the poet. his son charles was married in 1866, at brussels, to the ward of m. jules simon. in april, 1867, victor hugo became a grandfather, and amongst the many evidences of his affection for children this little letter, written upon his grandson's birth, is well worthy of preservation: 'georges,--be born to duty, grow up for liberty, live for progress, die in light! bear in thy veins the gentleness of thy mother, the nobleness of thy father. be good, be brave, be just, be honourable! with thy grandmother's kiss, receive thy father's blessing.' the child had scarcely come, however, to gladden the household before he was taken away again. he lived a twelvemonth only; but in his place there soon came another georges, and he was followed by a sister jeanne--offshoots of humanity which twined themselves round the heart of the grandfather, and on more than one occasion inspired his pen. in the summer of 1866, the poet and his two sons, with a party of friends, went upon a tour of pleasure through zealand. but the journey, which was intended to be pursued strictly incognito, became in reality a kind of progress. the principal traveller was recognised at antwerp, and charles hugo, who afterwards published a work entitled _victor hugo en zélande_, remarked that though his father had come to discover zealand, zealand had discovered him instead. many pleasant incidents marked the journey, not the least gratifying being a reception at ziericsee, when, in addition to being welcomed by the municipal authorities, two little girls, dressed in white, came forward and presented hugo with magnificent bouquets. on leaving dordrecht, the farewell was one that might have been tendered to a sovereign. shortly before making this tour hugo had issued _les chansons des rues et des bois_. in these songs of the streets and the woods will be discovered the amusing recreations of a great spirit and the representations of its lighter moods. applying to the volume a standpoint quite out of keeping with its scope and motive, some of the reviewers saw in it a decadence of genius. they had no ear for its music or for its more delicate undertones. it was so different from the work they expected from such a writer that it must be bad. charles monselet thought there were some passages in this book which, in pure musical quality, were worthy of rossini or hérold. but those who complained of the poems had no reason to complain of the work which followed it in 1866, _les travailleurs de la mer_. this was another of the great romances by which the name of victor hugo will live. in announcing the completion of the work the author wrote, 'in these volumes i have desired to glorify work, will, devotion, and whatever makes man great. i have made it a point to demonstrate how the most insatiable abyss is the human heart, and that what escapes the sea, does not escape a woman.' in the work itself was the inscription, 'i dedicate this book to the rock of hospitality and liberty, to that portion of old norman ground inhabited by the noble little people of the sea: to the island of guernsey, severe yet kind, my present refuge, and probably my grave.' this powerful story dealt with the last of three great forces which victor hugo had now illumined by his genius--religion, society, and nature. in these forces were to be seen the three struggles of man. they constitute at the same time, said the writer, his three needs. man has need of a faith; hence the temple. he must create; hence the city. he must live; hence the plough and the ship. but these three solutions comprise three perpetual conflicts. the mysterious difficulty of life results from all three. man strives with obstacles under the form of superstition, under the form of prejudice, and under the form of the elements. he is weighed down by a triple kind of fatality or necessity. first, there is the fatality of dogmas, then the oppression of human laws, and finally the inexorability of nature. the author had denounced the first of these fatalities in _notre-dame de paris_; the second was fully exemplified in _les misérables_; and the third was indicated in _les travailleurs de la mer_. but with all these fatalities there also mingled that inward fatality, the supreme agonizing power, the human heart. this book on the toilers of the sea has been compared with the _prometheus_ of æschylus. the story or plot is very subordinate, the author having devoted himself to the great contest between his hero and the powers of nature. in the whole range of literature there is probably nothing more graphic than the account of gilliatt's battle with the devil-fish. 'this is st. george and the dragon over again,' remarked a critic in the _british quarterly review_; 'and you might as well blame ariosto or dante, or great mediæval painters and sculptors, for their innumerable elaborate creations of such monstrous objects, as blame the modern who has, by his study of modern science, seen and restored much that our ancestors conceived. the pieuvre, moreover, is an ugly symbol of the evil spiritual powers with which man contends. for the rest, hugo may revel in his strength of creation in this region, as ariosto and dante revelled before him, as the builders, too, of our great gothic cathedrals revelled in their gargoyles and hobgoblins. but before we quit this romance, observe the perfect unity of it as a work of art.' the career of gilliatt, the hero of this romance, is important from certain social and philosophical aspects, as well as from the individual point of view. the work is a dissertation upon the dignity, duty, and power of labour, the french writer thus endorsing the dictum of carlyle on this great question. gilliatt, hand to hand with the elements, grapples with the last form of external force that is brought against him. it has been well observed that the artistic and moral lesson are worked out together, and are, indeed, one. gilliatt, alone upon the reef at his herculean task, offers a type of human industry in the midst of the vague 'diffusion of forces into the illimitable' and the visionary development of 'wasted labour' in the sea, and the winds, and the clouds. it is man harassed and disappointed, and yet unconquered. in 1869 appeared a fourth important romance by victor hugo, the strange and grotesque _l'homme qui rit_. in this book there is a good deal to make the reader restive, for in some parts it is unquestionably repulsive. but when this has been borne with, there is still much invested with that peculiar interest which only the author can weave round his creations. the movement of life plays a subordinate part in the story, and the real purpose of the work is seen to be a description of the battle waged in the individual breast, first with fate, and then with those ancient enemies of man, the world, the flesh, and the devil. criticizing this book, mr. swinburne remarked: 'has it not been steeped in the tears and the fire of live emotion? if the style be overcharged and overshining with bright sharp strokes and points, these are no fireworks of any mechanic's fashion; these are the phosphoric flashes of the sea-fire moving in the depths of the limitless and living sea. enough that the book is great and heroic, tender and strong, full from end to end of divine and passionate love, of holy and ardent pity for men that suffer wrong at the hands of men; full, not less, of lyric loveliness and lyric force; and i, for one, am content to be simply glad and grateful: content in that simplicity of spirit to accept it as one more benefit at the hands of the supreme singer now living among us the beautiful and lofty life of one loving the race of men he serves, and of them in all time to be beloved.' yet, notwithstanding its evidences of power, _l'homme qui rit_ failed to obtain that deep hold upon the public mind which was secured by its predecessors. a writer in the _cornhill_ pointed out that it was hugo's object in this romance to denounce the aristocratic principle as it is exhibited in england. satire plays a conspicuous part, but the constructive ingenuity exhibited throughout is almost morbid. 'nothing could be more happily imagined, as a _reductio ad absurdum_ of the aristocratic principle, than the adventures of gwynplaine, the itinerant mountebank, snatched suddenly out of his little way of life, and installed without preparation as one of the hereditary legislators of a great country. it is with a very bitter irony that the paper, on which all this depends, is left to float for years at the will of wind and tide.' there are also other striking contrasts. 'what can be finer in conception than that voice from the people heard suddenly in the house of lords, in solemn arraignment of the pleasures and privileges of its splendid occupants? the horrible laughter, stamped for ever "by order of the king" upon the face of this strange spokesman of democracy, adds yet another feature of justice to the scene; in all time, travesty has been the argument of oppression; and, in all time, the oppressed might have made this answer: "if i am vile, is it not your system that has made me so?" this ghastly laughter gives occasion, moreover, for the one strain of tenderness running through the web of this unpleasant story: the love of the blind girl dea for the monster. it is a most benignant providence that thus harmoniously brings together these two misfortunes; it is one of these compensations, one of these after-thoughts of a relenting destiny, that reconcile us from time to time to the evil that is in the world; the atmosphere of the book is purified by the presence of this pathetic love; it seems to be above the story somehow, and not of it, as the full moon over the night of some foul and feverish city.' this last sentence exhibits a misapprehension of victor hugo's method. it is part of his plan to discover that which would be accounted as the most vile, the most contemptible, the most loathsome in human nature, and to show that it has some point of contact with the most educated, the most refined, the most beautiful. critics may complain that he sacrifices art sometimes in doing so, but his reply would be that there can be no sacrifice of art where truth is concerned. falsehood alone is destructive of art. i must pause here to note some interesting dramatic reproductions which took place in paris in connection with the exhibition of 1867. existing dramatic literature was at a very low ebb, when the emperor felt that this important international occasion ought to be further distinguished by the production of some new dramas. the managers were nonplussed, for they had nothing worth producing, and the minister of fine arts ventured to hint as much to his majesty. ultimately the name of victor hugo was brought forward, and it was decided to bring out _hernani_ at the théâtre français, and _ruy blas_ at the odéon. on the 20th of june, accordingly, _hernani_ was produced, and performed by a brilliant company, including delaunay, bressant, and mademoiselle favart. twenty thousand applications had been made for tickets for the first performance. the audience was a very mixed one, and as it was feared that political disturbances might occur, the most rigid precautions were taken by the authorities. but there was no need for this--the piece was received with a favour that was practically unanimous; and although m. francisque sarcey (who was not then numbered amongst hugo's admirers) hinted that the applause was not precisely genuine, his insinuations were soon rudely scattered to the winds. on the next night, and for eighty succeeding nights, this remarkable play drew forth the most genuine and vociferous applause. a number of young authors, including françois coppée, armand silvestre, and sully prudhomme, were so delighted with the success of _hernani_ that they addressed the following letter to the poet: 'master most dear and most illustrious, we hail with enthusiastic delight the reproduction of _hernani_. the fresh triumph of the greatest of french poets fills us with transports. the night of the 20th of june is an era in our existence. yet sorrow mingles with our joy. your absence was felt by your associates of 1830; still more was it bewailed by us younger men, who never yet have shaken hands with the author of _la légende des siècles_. at least they cannot resist sending you this tribute of their regard and unbounded admiration.' writing from brussels, hugo thus replied: 'dear poets, the literary revolution of 1830 was the corollary of the revolution of 1789; it is the speciality of our century. i am the humble soldier of the advance. i fight for revolution in every form, literary as well as social. liberty is my principle, progress my law, the ideal my type. i ask you, my young brethren, to accept my acknowledgments. at my time of life, the end, that is to say the infinite, seems very near. the approaching hour of departure from this world leaves little time for other than serious meditations; but while i am thus preparing to depart, your eloquent letter is very precious to me; it makes me dream of being among you, and the illusion bears to the reality the sweet resemblance of the sunset to the sunrise. you bid me welcome whilst i am making ready for a long farewell. thanks; i am absent because it is my duty; my resolution is not to be shaken; but my heart is with you. i am proud to have my name encircled by yours, which are to me a crown of stars.' the writer who thus contemplated an early departure from the stage of human life was to accomplish much more before that event, and to witness many startling changes in his beloved france. the third napoleon seems to have been inspired by a bitter jealousy of the genius of victor hugo, whose great influence he dreaded; and the poet answered this by an unconquerable distrust of the emperor. after the representations to which i have drawn attention, hugo declined to allow his play to be acted, and it was only at the close of napoleon's reign that he could be prevailed upon to allow the production of _lucrèce borgia_ at the porte st. martin. george sand was present on this occasion, and thus wrote to the dramatist: 'i was present thirty-seven years ago at the first representation of _lucrèce_, and i shed tears of grief; with a heart full of joy i leave the performance of this day. i still hear the acclamations of the crowd as they shout, "vive victor hugo!" as though you were really coming to hear them.' hugo's sympathy with garibaldi--for whom he had a profound admiration--found vent in 1867, in a poem entitled _la voix de guernesey_. it severely condemned the mentana expedition, and encouraged garibaldi under the check he had sustained at the hands of the pope and napoleon iii. garibaldi replied with some verses styled 'mentana,' and this interchange of friendship and goodwill between the two patriots stirred the worst blood of the french clerical party. the poems were circulated by some means throughout france in considerable numbers, the result being an imperial order to stop the representations of _hernani_, while the following letter was also despatched to the poet in guernsey: 'the manager of the imperial théâtre de l'odéon has the honour to inform m. victor hugo that the reproduction of _ruy blas_ is forbidden.--chilly.' from guernsey came this pithy reply, addressed to the tuileries: 'to m. louis bonaparte.--sir, it is you that i hold responsible for the letter which i have just received signed chilly.--victor hugo.' the emperor would doubtless have given much could he have quenched the genius and subdued the patriotism of the exile. but though the former affected security in his power, and the latter looked for the triumph of the people, neither could anticipate the dawning of that day of humiliation and blood which in the course of a few years was to break over unhappy france. chapter xiii. paris and the siege. having vowed never again to visit the land that was 'the resting-place of his ancestors and the birthplace of his love' until she had been restored to liberty, it is not surprising that victor hugo rejected the renewed amnesty offered him by napoleon in 1869. the past ten years had wrought in him no signs of relenting, and when he was urged by his friend m. félix pyat to accept this new offer of a truce, he replied, '_s'il n'en reste qu'un, je serai celui-là_' ('if there remain only one, i will be that one'). when the republican journal _le rappel_ was started, with charles and françois hugo, auguste vacquerie, and paul meurice as its principal contributors (joined subsequently by m. rochefort), he wrote for the opening number a congratulatory manifesto addressed to the editors. by every means in his power, indeed, he endeavoured to advance republican principles. early in 1870 napoleon was so impressed by the spread of republican feeling that he resolved to test the stability of his power and the magic of his name by a _plébiscite_. this step was condemned by hugo, who asked why the people should be invited to participate in another electoral crime. he thus gave vent to his burning indignation at the proposal: 'while the author of the _coup d'état_ wants to put a question to the people, we would ask him to put this question to himself, "ought i, napoleon, to quit the tuileries for the conciergerie, and to put myself at the disposal of justice?" "yes!"' this bold and stinging retort led to the prosecution of the journal and the writer for inciting to hatred and contempt of the imperial government. but the poet went on his course unmoved, now engaged in writing his study of _shakespeare_, and now in responding to the appeals made to him from various quarters, including those from the insurgents of cuba, the irish fenians who had just been convicted, and the friends of peace at the lausanne congress. he had suffered another domestic grief in 1868 by the death of his wife, his unfailing sympathizer and consoler in his early struggles, and other sorrows were impending. the war with prussia in 1870 led to the disaster of sedan, and the collapse of the empire. hugo at once hastened to france, where he was welcomed with heartfelt enthusiasm by his friends of the revolutionary government formed on the 4th of september. m. jules claretie, who accompanied the poet on the journey from brussels to paris, has written a graphic account of his return to the beloved city. at landrecies hugo saw evidences of the rout and the ruin which had overtaken france. 'in the presence of the great disaster, whereby the whole french army seemed vanquished and dispersed, tears rolled down his cheeks, and his whole frame quivered with sobs. he bought up all the bread that could be secured, and distributed it among the famished troops.' the scene in paris on hugo's arrival was a memorable one. 'through the midst of the vast populace,' continues the narrator, 'i followed him with my gaze. i looked with admiration on that man, now advancing in years, but faithful still in vindicating right, and never now do i behold him greeted with the salutations of a grateful people without recalling the scene of that momentous night, when with weeping eyes he returned to see his country as she lay soiled and dishonoured and well-nigh dead.' concerning this scene, m. alphonse daudet also wrote: 'he arrived just as the circle of investment was closing in around the city; he came by the last train, bringing with him the last breath of the air of freedom. he had come to be a guardian of paris; and what an ovation was that which he received outside the station from those tumultuous throngs already revolutionized, who were prepared to do great things, and infinitely more rejoiced at the liberty they had regained than terrified by the cannon that were thundering against their ramparts! never can we forget the spectacle as the carriage passed along the rue lafayette, victor hugo standing up, and being literally borne along by the teeming multitudes.' at one point, in acknowledging his enthusiastic reception, hugo said: 'i thank you for your acclamations. but i attribute them all to your sense of the anguish that is rending all hearts, and to the peril that is threatening our land. i have but one thing to demand of you. i invite you to union. by union you will conquer. subdue all ill-will; check all resentment. be united, and you shall be invincible. rally round the republic. hold fast, brother to brother. victory is in our keeping. fraternity is the saviour of liberty!' addressing also the crowd assembled in the avenue frochot, the place of his destination, the poet assured them that that single hour had compensated him for all his nineteen years of exile. installed at the house of his friend paul meurice, hugo remained in paris all through the siege. the empire having fallen, the cause of strife had ceased, and hugo addressed a manifesto to the germans, in which he said: 'this war does not proceed from us. it was the empire that willed the war; it was the empire that prosecuted it. but now the empire is dead, and an excellent thing too. we have nothing to do with its corpse; it is all the past, we are the future. the empire was hatred, we are sympathy; that was treason, we are loyalty. the empire was capua, nay, it was gomorrha; we are france. our motto is "liberty, equality, fraternity;" on our banner we inscribe, "the united states of europe." whence, then, this onslaught? pause a while before you present to the world the spectacle of germans becoming vandals, and of barbarism decapitating civilization.' but the victorious germans did not share the peaceful sentiments of the writer, and it would have gone ill with him if, like his manifesto, he had fallen into the hands of the prussian generals. the siege went on, and the poet laid the funds from his works at the feet of the republic. readings were given of _les châtiments_, and other poems, and the proceeds expended in ammunition. it was a brave struggle on the part of the parisians. gambetta called on hugo to thank him for his services to the country, when the latter replied: 'make use of me in any way you can for the public good. distribute me as you would dispense water. my books are even as myself; they are all the property of france. with them, with me, do just as you think best.' the poet kept up a brave heart during the privations of hunger, and cheered many of the younger spirits at his table by his pleasantry and wit, which relieved the gloom that pressed so heavily over all. when the great and terrible time of peril and suffering was past, he left it on record: 'never did city exhibit such fortitude. not a soul gave way to despair, and courage increased in proportion as misery grew deeper. not a crime was committed. paris earned the admiration of the world. her struggle was noble, and she would not give in. her women were as brave as her men. surrendered and betrayed she was; but she was not conquered.' one can scarcely wonder that men who loved paris as a woman loves her child can never forget the humiliation she was called upon to pass through. in the list of the committee of public safety, which was responsible for the insurrectionary movement of the 31st of october, the name of victor hugo appeared; but he disavowed its use, and on the ensuing 5th of november he declined to become a candidate at the general election of the mayors of paris. nevertheless, 4,029 suffrages were accorded him in the 15th arrondissement. in the elections of february, 1871, he was returned second on the list with 214,000 votes, louis blanc coming first with 216,000, and garibaldi third with 200,000 votes. speaking on the 1st of march in the national assembly--which met at bordeaux--hugo strongly denounced the preliminaries of peace. the treaty, however, was ratified. interposing in the debate which subsequently took place on the election of garibaldi, he said: 'france has met with nothing but cowardice from europe. not a power, not a single king rose to assist us. one man alone intervened in our favour; that man had an idea and a sword. with his idea he delivered one people; with his sword he delivered another. of all the generals who fought for france, garibaldi is the only one who was not beaten.' a strange scene of tumult arose upon this speech, many members of the right gesticulating and threatening violently. rising in the midst of an uproar that was indescribable, hugo announced that he should send in his resignation. this he accordingly did, and remained firm, notwithstanding the earnest entreaties to withdraw it on the part of the president, m. grévy. next day, in consequence, there was nothing for the president to do but to announce the resignation, which was couched in these terms: 'three weeks ago the assembly refused to hear garibaldi; now it refuses to hear me. i resign my seat.' louis blanc expressed his profound grief at the resignation; it was, he said, adding another drop of sorrow to a cup that seemed already over-full; and he grieved that a voice so powerful should be hushed just at an emergency when the country should be showing its gratitude to all its benefactors. garibaldi thus wrote to hugo: 'it needs no writing to show that we are of one accord; we understand each other; the deeds that you have done, and the affection that i have borne for you make a bond of union between us. what you have testified for me at bordeaux is a pledge of a life devoted to humanity.' it was at this juncture that the poet was called upon to mourn the loss of his son charles, who died suddenly from congestion of the brain. there had been an unusually close bond between the two, and the shock came with great force upon the father. the body of the deceased was brought to paris for interment, hugo following the hearse on foot to the family vault at père la chaise. funeral orations were delivered by auguste vacquerie and louis mie. from brussels, whither he had gone after his son's death, the poet protested against the horrors of the commune. he also vainly tried to preserve the column in the place vendôme from destruction. he wrote his poem, _les deux trophées_, referring to the column and the arc de triomphe, with the object of staying the hands of the destroyers, but the mad work went forward. nevertheless, it was characteristic of him that after the insurrection was at an end, he pleaded for mercy towards the offenders. in his house at brussels many fugitives found shelter, until the belgian government banished them from the country. in reply to this edict hugo published an article in _l'indépendance_. he declared that although belgium by law might refuse an asylum to the refugees, his own conscience could not approve that law. the church of the middle ages had offered sanctuary even to parricides, and such sanctuary the fugitives should find at his home; it was his privilege to open his door if he would to his foe, and it ought to be belgium's glory to be a place of refuge. england did not surrender the refugees, and why should belgium be behindhand in magnanimity? but these arguments were of no avail with the exasperated belgians. a few of the more ruffianly spirits of brussels actually made an attack upon the poet's house, which they assaulted with stones, to the great danger of madame charles hugo and her children. defeated in their attempts to break in the door or to scale the house, the assailants at length made off. so far at first from any redress being granted to hugo for this outrageous assault, or any punishment being meted out to the offenders, the poet himself was ordered to quit the kingdom immediately, and forbidden to return under penalties of the law of 1865. a debate took place in the chamber, and as the result of this debate and various protests, the government did not order the indiscriminate expulsion of all exiles, as they had contemplated. they also made some show of satisfaction to hugo by ordering a judicial inquiry into the attack upon his residence. in the end a son of the minister of the interior was fined a nominal sum of 100 francs for being concerned in the outrage. hugo now made a tour through luxemburg, and afterwards visited london, returning to paris at the close of the year 1871. after the trial of the communists he pleaded earnestly, but in vain, for the lives of rossel, lullier, ferré, crémieux, and maroteau. in the elections of january, 1872, he got into a difficulty with the radicals of paris in consequence of his refusal to accept the _mandat impératif_. this, he explained, was contrary to his principles, for conscience might not take orders. he was willing to accept a _mandat contractuel_, by which there could be a more open discussion between the elector and the elected. hugo was defeated, receiving only 95,900 votes, as against 122,435 given to his opponent, m. vautrain, a result partly accounted for by hugo's amnesty proposals. the poet published, in september, 1873, _la libération du territoire_, a poem which was sold for the benefit of the inhabitants of alsace and lorraine. in it the writer strongly condemned the adulation poured upon the shah of persia, then on a visit to france, and respecting whose cruelty and barbarism many anecdotes were current. on the morning following christmas day, 1873, the poet was again called upon to bear a great loss by the death of his only remaining son, françois victor. at the funeral louis blanc delivered a short address, in which he extolled the literary ability, the integrity, and the virtues of the deceased. to the shouts of '_vive victor hugo! vive la république!_' the weeping poet was led away from the grave-side. during the siege of paris, hugo kept a diary of this lurid history, and upon this he constructed his poem _l'année terrible_--the events celebrated extending from august, 1870, to july, 1871. speaking of this work, a writer whom i have already quoted remarked that 'the poems of the siege at once demand and defy commentary; they should be studied in their order as parts of one tragic symphony. from the overture, which tells of the old glory of germany before turning to france with a cry of inarticulate love, to the sad majestic epilogue which seals up the sorrowful record of the days of capitulation, the various and continuous harmony flows forward through light and shadow, with bursts of thunder and tempest, and interludes of sunshine and sweet air.' the variety of note in these tragic poems has also been well insisted upon. 'there is an echo of all emotions in turn that the great spirit of a patriot and a poet could suffer and express by translation of suffering into song; the bitter cry of invective and satire, the clear trumpet-call to defence, the triumphal wail for those who fell for france, the passionate sob of a son on the stricken bosom of a mother, the deep note of thought that slowly opens into flower of speech; and through all and after all, the sweet unspeakable music of natural and simple love. after the voice which reproaches the priest-like soldier, we hear the voice which rebukes the militant priest; and a fire, as the fire of juvenal, is outshone by a light as the light of lucretius.' mr. dowden sees in these poems the work of a frenchman throughout, not a man of the commune, nor a man of versailles. 'the most precious poems of the book are those which keep close to facts rather than concern themselves with ideas. the sunset seen from the ramparts; the floating bodies of the prussians borne onward by the seine, caressed and kissed and still swayed on by the eddying water; the bomb which fell near the old man's feet while he sat where had been the convent of the feuillantines, and where he had walked in under the trees in aprils long ago, holding his mother's hand; the petroleuse, dragged like a chained beast through the scorching streets of paris; the gallant boy who came to confront death by the side of his friends--memories of these it is which haunt us when we have closed the book--of these, and of the little limbs and transparent fingers, and baby-smile, and murmur like the murmur of bees, and the face changed from rosy health to a pathetic paleness of the one-year-old grandchild, too soon to become an orphan.' but other critics, while acknowledging the force of the writing and the noble aspirations of the author, place the work on a considerably lower level as a whole. yet no one who knows the work can surely deny that the poet has thrown a halo of glory round the concrete facts of a disastrous and momentous period. while the language of despair was held by many of his friends at this dark crisis in french history, victor hugo never once wavered in his hopes for the future of his country. so far from being annihilated, he predicted that france would rise to enjoy a greater height of prosperity, and a more durable peace, than she had ever enjoyed under the empire. chapter xiv. 'quatre-vingt-treize.'--politics, etc. in 1874 appeared the last of victor hugo's great romances, _quatre-vingt-treize_. it was published on the same day in ten languages. this grand historical and political novel was a fitting close to a series of works unexampled in scope and breadth of conception. a great prose epic upon that terrible year in french history, 1793, it excited the liveliest interest throughout europe, and critics of all shades of opinion hastened to do justice to its extraordinary merits. even those warm admirers of the author's superb imaginative genius, who had looked forward with misgiving to this daring excursion into the historic field, admitted that his complete success had justified the effort. they extolled the work as 'a monument of its author's finest gifts; and while those who are, happily, endowed with the capacity of taking delight in nobility and beauty of imaginative work will find themselves in possession of a new treasure, the lover of historic truth, who hates to see abstractions passed off for actualities, and legend erected in the place of fact, escapes with his praiseworthy sensibilities unwounded.' the work is on a colossal scale, exhibiting great breadth of touch, while the style has now the power of the lightning, and now the calm and the depth of the measureless sea. 'with la vendée for background, and some savage incidents of the bloody vendean war for external machinery, victor hugo has realized his conception of '93 in three types of character--lantenac, the royalist marquis; cimourdain, the puritan turned jacobin; and gauvain, for whom one can as yet find no short name, he belonging to the millenarian times.' it was said that there is nothing more magnificent in literature than the last volume of this work, and while its author had no rival in the sombre, mysterious heights of imaginative effect, he was equally a master in strokes of tenderness and the most delicate human sympathy. rapidity and profusion are the pre-eminent characteristics of this work--'a profusion as of starry worlds, a style resembling waves of the sea, sometimes indeed weltering dark and massive, but ever and anon flashing with the foamy lightning of genius. the finish and rich accurate perfection of our own great living poet tennyson are absent. hugo is far more akin to byron; but his range is vaster than byron's. he has byron's fierce satire, and more than byron's humour, though it is the fashion to generalize and say that the french have none. he is both a lyrical and epic poet. he is a greater dramatist than byron; and whether in the dramas or prose romances, he shows that vast sympathy with, and knowledge of, human nature which neither byron, shelley, coleridge, nor wordsworth had. scott could be his only rival. in france they had lived dramatic lives for the last ninety years; we have lived much more quietly in england, and in france there is a real living drama.' as this book, full-hearted in its passion, and deeply-veined with human emotion, is the last of victor hugo's prose romances, some brief general allusions to him as a novelist will be appropriate. taking the five books (which have been referred to in the order of their publication) alone, viz., _notre-dame_, _les misérables_, _les travailleurs_, _l'homme qui rit_, and _quatre-vingt-treize_--they would have made the fame of any writer; and yet, it has been justly remarked, they are but one façade of the splendid monument that victor hugo has erected to his own genius. i am not one of those who would contend that hugo's style is everywhere immaculate. on the contrary, he sometimes sins greatly; but these occasions are rare compared with his mighty triumphs. still, justice must not be extinguished in admiration. my own view of hugo's literary gifts, as expressed more especially in his romances, has been so fairly put by another writer that i shall transfer, and at the same time in the main adopt, his language: 'everywhere we find somewhat the same greatness, somewhat the same infirmities. in his poems and plays there are the same unaccountable protervities that have already astonished us in the romances; there, too, is the same feverish strength, welding the fiery iron of his idea under forge-hammer repetitions; an emphasis that is somehow akin to weakness; a strength that is a little epileptic. he stands so far above all his contemporaries, and so incomparably excels them in richness, breadth, variety, and moral earnestness, that we almost feel as if he had a sort of right to fall oftener and more heavily than others; but this does not reconcile us to seeing him profit by the privilege so freely. we like to have in our great men something that is above question; we like to place an implicit faith in them, and see them always on the platform of their greatness: and this, unhappily, cannot be with hugo. as heine said long ago, his is a genius somewhat deformed; but, deformed as it is, we accept it gladly; we shall have the wisdom to see where his foot slips, but we shall have the justice also to recognise in him the greatest artist of our generation, and, in many ways, one of the greatest artists of all time. if we look back, yet once, upon these five romances, we see blemishes such as we can lay to the charge of no other man in the number of the famous; but to what other man can we attribute such sweeping innovations, such a new and significant view of life and man, such an amount, if we think of the amount merely, of equally consummate performance?' it is in the nature of the human intellect, finite as it is, to relax sometimes from its highest strain, and if victor hugo failed at times to scale his loftiest note of thought or expression, it may be remembered also that even shakespeare was not always in the mood for producing _hamlets_. there appeared, in 1874, hugo's pathetic sketch 'mes fils,' containing a tribute of affection to his own dead children; and in 1875-6 was published his _actes et paroles_. this justificatory work was in three parts, which dealt respectively with the period before exile, the period of exile, and the period since exile. 'the trilogy is not mine,' said the author, 'but the emperor napoleon's; he it is who has divided my life; to him the honour of it is due. that which is bonaparte's we must render to cæsar.' although he first strongly countenanced resistance, the writer concluded with an exhortation to clemency, holding that resistance to tyrants should not be deemed inconsistent with mercy to the vanquished. we have here a complete collection of hugo's addresses, orations, and confessions of faith, etc., during the preceding thirty years. _pour un soldat_, a little brochure written in favour of an obscure soldier, appeared in 1875. its publication not only resulted in saving the life of the soldier, who had been condemned for a venial crime, but the sufferers in alsace and lorraine reaped the pecuniary fruits of its popularity. the second part of _la légende des siècles_ was published in 1877. at this time the poet was living in the rue de clichy, no. 21, sharing part of the house with madame charles hugo, who, after a widowhood of some years, married m. charles lockroy, deputy for the seine, and also known as a man of letters. madame drouet, who had befriended the poet when he was proscribed in 1851, placed her salon in this house at the poet's disposal for the reception of his friends. m. barbou, who saw much of hugo in this residence, thus describes the man and his habits: 'the hand, no doubt, is too slow for the gigantic work that the poet conceives. and yet no moment is ever lost. generally up with the sun, he writes until mid-day, and often until two o'clock. then, after a light luncheon, he goes to the senate, where, during intervals of debate, he despatches all his correspondence. he finds his recreation generally by taking a walk, although not unfrequently he will mount to the top of an omnibus just for the sake of finding himself in the society of the people, with whom he has shown his boundless sympathy. at eight o'clock he dines, making it his habit to invite not only his nearest friends, but such as he thinks stand in need of encouragement, to join him and his grandchildren at their social meal. at table victor hugo relaxes entirely from his seriousness. the powerful orator, the earnest pleader, becomes the charming and attractive host, full of anecdote, censuring whatever is vile, but ever ready to make merry over what is grotesque.... hale and vigorous in his appearance, precise and elegant in his attire, with unbowed head, and with thick, white hair crowning his unfurrowed brow, he commands involuntary admiration. round his face is a close white beard, which he has worn since the later period of his sojourn in guernsey as a safeguard against sore throat; but he shows no token of infirmity. his countenance may be said to have in it something both of the lion and the eagle, yet his voice is grave, and his manner singularly gentle.' the same writer devotes a chapter to hugo's love of children, _à propos_ of his _l'art d'être grand-père_. it is perfectly true that women, and children also, stirred in the poet an element of chivalrous devotion. he also strove to exalt woman as something far beyond the mere passion and plaything of man; while as to children, 'he is pathetic over an infant's cradle, he is delighted at childhood's prattle, and to him the fair-haired head of innocence is as full of interest as the glory of a man.' nor was there anything derogatory to his genius in this, or in his making georges and jeanne, his two grandchildren, the hero and heroine of the work above named. when the wisdom of his indulgence was questioned, he replied that he agreed with m. gaucher, who held that 'a father's duties are by no means light; he has to instruct, to correct, to chastise; but with the grandfather it is different, he is privileged to love and to spoil.' but he taught the oneness of humanity even to his grandchildren; and once, when they were about to enjoy the good and pleasant things of this life, he bade the children fetch in some houseless orphans who were crouching under the window, in order to share their appetizing dishes. unconquered by his opponents, hugo confessed himself a captive to the children, and he defined paradise as 'a place where children are always little, and parents are always young.' towards the close of his eighth decade, the poet seemed to have almost abandoned political life, but he had not forgotten his friends and the electors of paris. innumerable letters published in the public press proved this, as well as his presence as chairman at a number of democratic conventions, and the delivery of a number of public discourses, such as those pronounced at the obsequies of m. edgar quinet and madame louis blanc. preparatory to the first senatorial elections, m. clémenceau, president of the municipal council of paris, waited upon the poet, and in the name of the majority of his colleagues offered him the function of delegate. hugo accepted, and at once issued his manifesto, entitled 'the delegate of paris to the delegates of the 36,000 communes of france,' in which he reiterated, with redoubled energy, his old idea of the abolition of monarchy by the federation of the peoples. on the 30th of january, 1876, he was elected senator of paris, but only after a keen struggle. he was fourth out of five, and was not returned until after a second scrutiny, when it was found that he had secured 114 votes out of a total of 216. soon after his election, hugo introduced a proposal in the senate for granting an amnesty to all those condemned for the events of march, 1871, and to all those then undergoing punishment for political crimes or offences in paris, including the assassins of the hostages. on the 22nd of may he delivered an eloquent oration in support of his motion. towards the close of his address, he described the state of the prisoners in new caledonia. having painted their agony, and deplored the continuation of the prosecutions and the last transport of convicts, he said: 'that is how the 18th of march has been atoned for. as for the 2nd of december, it has been glorified, it has been adored and venerated, it has become a legal crime. the priests have prayed for it, the judges have judged by it, and the representatives of the people, at whom the blows were dealt by this crime, not only received them, but accepted and submitted to them, acting with all rigour against the people and all baseness before the emperor. it is time to put a stop to the astonishment of the human conscience; it is time to renounce that double shame of two weights and two measures. i ask a full amnesty for the events of the 18th of march.' the motion was rejected, only about seven hands being held up for the amnesty. the poet-orator again pleaded the same cause in january, 1879, but his proposal was coldly received. nevertheless, in the following month an amnesty bill was passed by the chamber of deputies. early in 1877 appeared the second part of the _légende des siècles_; and it is pleasant to recall an interchange of courtesies which took place in this year between victor hugo and our own greatly-honoured poet, lord tennyson. in the month of june, 1877, there appeared in the _nineteenth century_ the following sonnet, addressed to hugo by the poet laureate: 'victor in poesy, victor in romance, cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears, french of the french, and lord of human tears; child-lover; bard whose fame-lit laurels glance, darkening the wreaths of all that would advance, beyond our strait, their claim to be thy peers; weird titan, by the winter-weight of years as yet unbroken, stormy voice of france; who dost not love our england--so they say; i know not--england, france, all man to be will make one people ere man's race be run: and i, desiring that diviner day, yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy to younger england in the boy, my son.' to this sonnet the french poet returned a reply which i may translate as follows: 'my dear and eminent _confrère_, i read with emotion your superb lines. it is a reflection of your own glory that you send me. how shall i not love that england which produces such men as you! the england of wilberforce, the england of milton and of newton! the england of shakespeare! france and england are for me one people only, as truth and liberty are one light only. i believe in the unity of humanity, as i believe in the divine unity. i love all peoples and all men. i admire your noble verses. receive the cordial grasp of my hand. it made me happy to know your charming son, for it seemed to me that while clasping his hand i was pressing yours.' in 1877-78 appeared hugo's _l'histoire d'un crime_. it possessed special interest from its autobiographical character, and, like many of its predecessors, it was instinct with energy and passion. by way of preface to this history, the author remarked, 'this work is more than opportune; it is imperative. i publish it.' then came the following explanatory note: 'this work was written twenty-six years ago at brussels, during the first months of exile. it was begun on the 14th of december, 1851, and on the day succeeding the author's arrival in belgium, and was finished on the 5th of may, 1852, as though chance had willed that the anniversary of the death of the first bonaparte should be countersigned by the condemnation of the third. it is also chance which, through a combination of work, of cares, and of bereavements, has delayed the publication of this history until this extraordinary year, 1877. in causing the recital of events of the past to coincide with the events of to-day, has chance had any purpose? we hope not. as we have just said, the story of the _coup d'état_ was written by a hand still hot from the combat against the _coup d'état_. the exile immediately became an historian. he carried away this crime in his angered memory, and he was resolved to lose nothing of it: hence this book. the manuscript of 1851 has been very little revised. it remains what it was, abounding in details, and living, it might be said bleeding, with real facts. the author constituted himself an interrogating judge; all his companions of the struggle and of exile came to give evidence before him. he has added his testimony to theirs. now history is in possession of it; it will judge. if god wills, the publication of this book will shortly be terminated. the continuation and conclusion will appear on the 2nd of december. an appropriate date.' when the second part of the work was issued at the beginning of 1878, france had fortunately passed through a time of great political excitement without those fearful consequences which have frequently followed such periods in her history. the continuation of victor hugo's work did not consequently create such popular fervour as it might otherwise have done. but the author was as scathing as ever in his invectives, and no one knew such strong depths of bitterness and indignation as he. the satellites of louis napoleon were sketched with the pen of a swift, and in the delineation of their master we find such touches as this: 'louis napoleon laid claim to a knowledge of men, and his claim was justified. he prided himself on it, and from one point of view he was right. others possess discrimination; he had a nose. 'twas bestial, but infallible.' as for the members of his court, 'they lived for pleasure. they lived by the public death. they breathed an atmosphere of shame, and throve on what kills honest people.' there are many interesting episodes in a momentous period dealt with throughout this work, which, like everything else by its author, is instinct with his strong personality. chapter xv. poems on religion. victor hugo's attitude on religion was the subject of frequent comment. it is now known that so far from being a sceptic, as was frequently declared, he had a firm belief in god and immortality. when a rationalist on one occasion said to him that though he himself had a dim belief in immortality, he doubted whether the outcasts of society could have any belief in their own immortality, the poet replied, 'perhaps they believe in it more than you do.' arsène houssaye has left an interesting sketch of certain religious confidences with which hugo favoured him some years before his last illness. 'i am conscious within myself of the certainty of a future life,' the poet expressly said. 'the nearer i approach my end the clearer do i hear the immortal symphonies of worlds that call me to themselves. for half a century i have been outpouring my volumes of thought in prose and in verse, in history, philosophy, drama, romance, ode, and ballad, yet i appear to myself not to have said a thousandth part of what is within me; and when i am laid in the tomb i shall not reckon that my life is finished; the grave is not a _cul-de-sac_, it is an avenue; death is the sublime prolongation of life, not its dreary finish; it closes in the twilight, it opens in the dawn. my work is only begun; i yearn for it to become brighter and nobler; and this craving for the infinite demonstrates that there is an infinity.' he denied that there were any occult forces responsible for the creation of man and nature; there was a luminous force, and that was god. continuing the thought as to his own future existence, he added, 'i am nothing, a passing echo, an evanescent cloud; but let me only live on through my future existences, let me continue the work i have begun, let me surmount the perils, the passions, the agonies, that age after age may be before me, and who shall tell whether i may not rise to have a place in the council-chamber of the ruler that controls all, and whom we own as god?' if his creed had not many doctrines, it was at least very clear upon those which he did hold. he set against the god of the papists, as he conceived him, another being whom he regarded as the personification of the true, the just, and the beautiful, who made his influence everywhere felt, but nowhere more deeply or more permanently than in the human conscience. in april, 1878, hugo gave a concrete form to some of his religious ideas in his poem entitled _le pape_. it represented the pope--though not the existing or any particular pontiff--as having a long dream. he finds himself treading in the steps of christ, mixing with and succouring the poor and the afflicted, eschewing all pomp, interposing between two hostile armies and preventing bloodshed, saving the malefactor from the scaffold, and finally leaving rome for jerusalem. all this, of course, is a fearful mistake; his holiness wakes up, declares that he has had a frightful dream, and clings to the syllabus and worldly state more firmly than ever. the contrast was very sharply drawn between the good, ideal pastor, and the worldly and sensual father too often met with. hugo's evolvement of his own ideas led to much controversy, and his book was severely attacked. by way of reply he issued _la pitié suprême_. for those who sinned through ignorance and defective education, he inculcated pity and forgiveness; and the work generally furnished but another illustration to many which had gone before of the liberality of his mind, and his support of the doctrine of universal toleration. at a still later date, in his _l'âne_, he once more denounced false teachers. desiring, like rabelais, to lash his kind, the poet put his denunciations into the mouth of an ass, which animal was taken to be the type of unsophisticated man. in the pages of this satire, observed louis ulbach, 'the poet at the climax of his life, dazzled though he is by the nearness of the dawn beyond, glances back at those whom he has left behind, addresses them with raillery keen enough to stimulate them, but not stern enough to discourage them, and from the standpoint of his severity, puts a fool's cap upon all false science, false wisdom, and false piety.' nevertheless, the work was regarded as a failure, in spite of its scintillations of genius, the satiric power of victor hugo being one rather of fierce denunciation than that which consists in the perception of the incongruous in humanity. another work in which hugo endeavoured to place the false and the true in religion side by side, was his _religions et religion_, issued in 1880. 'this book,' said the author in a prefatory note, 'was commenced in 1870, and completed in 1880. the year 1870 gave infallibility to the papacy, and sedan to the empire. what is the year 1880 to bring forth?' _religions et religion_ was an attack not only upon various systems of religion, but also upon those who attack all religion. the writer made an assault upon the system of milton, and established a system of religion of his own, which in its catholicity should embrace all spirits who love the good. the work was regarded as part of the great epic _le fin de satan_, which had been foreshadowed many years before. but, as one of his critics remarked, if hugo had fallen into the mistake of thinking that this book was not only a poem full of the loveliest sayings and the noblest aspirations, but a valuable treatise on theology and philosophy, it was but a mistake which he had been making ever since he began to write. hugo's new poem 'is an emphatic, not to say a violent, answer to two different systems of poetic religion, each of which is itself at war with the other--the system of dante and the system of milton. without hell, dante would never have been able to write a line of the inferno; and without the devil, milton would have been in a condition equally forlorn. yet m. hugo's book is an attack upon both these venerable beliefs, and also upon the positivists who are trying to undermine them.' hugo, in short, gave his support to the unconscious humourist who complained of _paradise lost_ that it proved nothing. as a polemic in verse, the poet was not very successful; but no one would turn to the poems of victor hugo in order to find the successful controversial theologian. no doubt he made the mistake of believing that he was eminently fitted for grappling with abstruse religious theories, and he was not the first literary genius who has done so. but if he failed in polemics in the work at which i have just glanced, there still remained, in all his energy and fulness, hugo the poet and the philanthropist. chapter xvi. public addresses, etc. victor hugo was unquestionably a great orator, or rather i ought perhaps to say he exhibited the powers of a great orator on special occasions. if eloquence is to be measured by the effect which it has upon the audience, he had the electrical force of the orator in no small degree; for in connection with certain persons and topics he was successful in enkindling an enthusiasm in his hearers which was almost unparalleled. but his oratory was not of that even kind which, if it never passes beyond a given elevation, never sinks on the other hand into bathos or commonplace. hugo had a wonderful gift of language, and he was an orator when his heart was thrown into his subject, and he pressed into its service all the wealth of rhetoric he had at command. nevertheless, some of his public utterances were far from being successful--a result due in some instances to extravagance of language and quixotism of idea, and in others to the absence of that 'sweet reasonableness' which dispassionately weighs and considers the opinions of others, and judges righteous judgment. at the celebration of the voltaire centenary in paris in may, 1878, hugo was the chief speaker. the great meeting was held in the gaîté theatre, which was crowded to suffocation. one who was present stated that while all the speakers at the demonstration were warmly applauded, it was only when victor hugo arose that the full tempest of acclamation burst forth. 'can a grander, a more striking, a more exaggerated scene be conceived than this association of victor hugo and voltaire, of the most eloquent and the most touching of french orators exhausting his mines of highly coloured epithets and colossal antitheses on the ironical head of voltaire? a report of his speech does not suffice; the white head and apostle's beard, the inspired eye, the solemn voice, rolling as if it would sound in the ears of posterity; the involuntarily haughty attitude in vain striving to seem modest; the imperturbable seriousness with which he piles antithesis upon antithesis--all this must be realized.' hugo was enthusiastically cheered on taking the chair. waving his arm he exclaimed, '_vive la république!_'--a cry which was then taken up with equal fervour by every person in the audience. after the other speakers had been heard, the distinguished chairman delivered his oration. he rapidly sketched the work accomplished by voltaire, and concluded thus: 'alas! the present moment, worthy as it is of admiration and respect, has still its dark side. there are still clouds on the horizon; the tragedy of peoples is not played out; war still raises its head over this august festival of peace; princes for two years have persisted in a fatal misunderstanding; their discord is an obstacle to our concord, and they are ill-inspired in condemning us to witness the contrast. this contrast brings us back to voltaire. amid these threatening events let us be more peaceful than ever. let us bow before this great dead, this great living spirit. let us bend before the venerated sepulchre. let us ask counsel of him whose life, useful to men, expired a hundred years ago, but whose work is immortal. let us ask counsel of other mighty thinkers and auxiliaries of this glorious voltaire--of jean jacques, diderot, montesquieu. let us stop the shedding of human blood. enough, despots. barbarism still exists. let philosophy protest. let the eighteenth century succour the nineteenth. the philosophers, our predecessors, are the apostles of truth. let us invoke these illustrious phantoms that, face to face with monarchies thinking of war, they may proclaim the right of man to life, the right of conscience to liberty, the sovereignty of reason, the sacredness of labour, the blessedness of peace. and as night issues from thrones, let light emanate from the tombs.' there are probably no two great french writers who present more marked points of contrast than voltaire and victor hugo; yet the latter, not only in praising his predecessor, but on many other occasions, gloried in being grandly inconsistent if he could thereby, as he believed, advance the interests of humanity. victor hugo presided at the international literary congress held in paris in june, 1878. his speech on that occasion, though by no means confined to business details, was accepted by the congress as forming the basis of its decisions. the speaker urged that a book once published becomes in part the property of society, and that after its author's death his family have no right to prevent its reissue. he held that a publisher should be required to declare the cost and the selling price of any book he intended to bring out; that the author's heirs should be entitled to 5 or 10 per cent. of the profit, and that in default of heirs the profit should revert to the state, to be applied to the encouragement of young writers. passing to more general questions, and dwelling on the memorableness of the year 1878, hugo defined the exhibition as the alliance of industry, the voltaire centenary as the alliance of philosophy, and the congress then sitting as the alliance of literature. 'industry seeks the useful, philosophy seeks the true, literature seeks the beautiful--the triple aim of all human forces.' he welcomed the foreign delegates as the ambassadors of the human mind, citizens of a universal city, the constituent assembly of literature. peoples, he remarked, were estimated by their literature; greece, small in territory, thereby earning greatness, the name of england suggesting that of shakespeare, and france being at a certain period personified in voltaire. he next showed that copyright was in the interest of the public, by securing the independence of the writer; and, glancing at the former dependent position of men of letters, he remarked that paternal government resulted in this--the people without bread and corneille without a sou. deriding the alleged dangerousness of books, and urging the real dangers of ignorance, he described schools as the luminous points of civilization. he ridiculed as harmless archæological curiosities those who wished mankind to be kept in perpetual leading-strings, and who anathematized 1789, liberty of conscience, free speech, and a free tribune. he exhorted men of letters to recognise as their mission conciliation for ideas and reconciliation for men. they should war against war. 'love one another' signified universal disarmament, the restoration to health of the human race, the true redemption of mankind. an enemy was better disarmed by offering him your hand than by shaking your fist. in lieu of _delenda est carthago_, he proposed the destruction of hatred, which was best effected by pardon. after showing her industry and hospitality, france should show her clemency, for a festival should be fraternal, and a festival which did not forgive somebody was not a real festival. the symbol of public joy was the amnesty, and let this be the crowning of the paris exhibition. in the august following this congress, a great working-men's conference was held in the french capital in favour of international arbitration. victor hugo being unable to attend and preside at the gathering, as originally announced, sent a communication expressing his approbation of the objects of the meeting. 'i demand what you demand,' he wrote. 'i want what you want. our alliance is the commencement of unity. let us be calm; without us, governments attempt something, but nothing of what they try to do will succeed against your decision, against your liberty, against your sovereignty. look on at what they do without uneasiness, always with serenity, sometimes with a smile. the supreme future is with you. all that is done, even against you, will serve you. continue to march, labour, and think. you are a single people; europe and you want a single thing--peace.' two or three months subsequent to this meeting, the english working-men's peace association waited upon victor hugo in paris, and presented him with an address, magnificently illuminated and framed, as a token of admiration for the services he had rendered to the cause of humanity and peace. in reply, hugo said: 'as long as i live i shall oppose war, and defend the cause which is dear and common to us all--the cause of labour and peace.' as honorary president of a secular education congress in 1879, victor hugo thus addressed that body: 'youth is the future. you teach youth, you prepare the future. this preparation is useful, this teaching is necessary to make the man of to-morrow. the man of to-morrow is the universal republic. the republic is unity, harmony, light, industry, creating comfort; it is the abolition of conflicts between man and man, nation and nation, the abolition of the law of death, and establishment of the law of life. the time of sanguinary and terrible revolutionary necessities is past. for what remains to be done the unconquerable law of progress suffices. great battles we have still to fight--battles the evident necessity of which does not disturb the serenity of thinkers; battles in which revolutionary energy will equal monarchical obstinacy; battles in which force joined with right will overthrow violence allied with usurpation--superb, glorious, enthusiastic, decisive battles, the issue of which is not doubtful, and which will be the hastings and the austerlitz of humanity. citizens, the time of the dissolution of the old world has arrived. the old despotisms are condemned by the providential law. every day which passes buries them still deeper in annihilation. the republic is the future.' another address, in which hugo expounded his views of the future of humanity, of labour and progress, etc., was delivered at château d'eau, on behalf of the workmen's congress at marseilles. differentiating the achievements of the centuries, he remarked that 'for four hundred years the human race has not made a step but what has left its plain vestige behind. we enter now upon great centuries. the sixteenth century will be known as the age of painters; the seventeenth will be termed the age of writers; the eighteenth, the age of philosophers; the nineteenth, the age of apostles and prophets. to satisfy the nineteenth century it is necessary to be the painter of the sixteenth, the writer of the seventeenth, the philosopher of the eighteenth; and it is also necessary, like louis blanc, to have the innate and holy love of humanity which constitutes an apostolate, and opens up a prophetic vista into the future. in the twentieth century war will be dead, the scaffold will be dead, animosity will be dead, royalty will be dead, and dogmas will be dead; but man will live. for all there will be but one country--that country the whole earth; for all there will be but one hope--that hope the whole heaven.' it will be seen that there was a sweeping breadth and magnificence about victor hugo's prophecies for the twentieth century. but that epoch is so near that we may well doubt whether the seer's extensive programme will so speedily be realized. still, the prophecy is lofty, generous, noble, and i will not attempt to destroy the horoscope. passing on to the great question of the day, that of labour, the orator observed: 'the political question is solved. the republic is made, and nothing can unmake it. the social question remains; terrible as it is, it is quite simple; it is a question between those who have, and those who have not. the latter of these two classes must disappear, and for this there is work enough. think a moment! man is beginning to be master of the earth. if you want to cut through an isthmus, you have lesseps; if you want to create a sea, you have roudaire. look you; there is a people and there is a world; and yet the people have no inheritance, and the world is a desert. give them to each other, and you make them happy at once. astonish the universe by heroic deeds that are better than wars. does the world want conquering? no, it is yours already; it is the property of civilization; it is already waiting for you; no one disputes your title. go on, then, and colonize.' this is no doubt grand, but it is vague. however, the men of highest aspiration have frequently proved themselves ill-fitted for the practical development of their own theories. it is the penalty which the brain has to pay for being stronger than the hand that it must often call in the services and co-operation of the latter. hugo was exceedingly happy in dealing with cavillers at material progress. he showed that those who make the worst mistakes are those who ought to be the least mistaken. 'forty-five years ago m. thiers declared that the railway would be a mere toy between paris and st. germain; another distinguished man, m. pouillet, confidently predicted that the apparatus of the electric telegraph would be consigned to a cabinet of curiosities. and yet these two playthings have changed the course of the world. have faith, then; and let us realize our equality as citizens, our fraternity as men, our liberty in intellectual power. let us love not only those who love us, but those who love us not. let us learn to wish to benefit all men. then everything will be changed; truth will reveal itself; the beautiful will arise; the supreme law will be fulfilled, and the world shall enter upon a perpetual fête-day. i say, therefore, have faith! look down at your feet, and you see the insect moving in the grass; look upwards, and you will see the star resplendent in the firmament: yet what are they doing? they are both at their work; the insect is doing its work upon the ground, and the star is doing its work in the sky. it is an infinite distance that separates them, and yet while it separates, unites. they follow their law. and why should not their law be ours? man, too, has to submit to universal force, and inasmuch as he submits in body and in soul, he submits doubly. his hand grasps the earth, but his soul embraces heaven; like the insect he is a thing of dust, but like the star he partakes of the empyrean. he labours and he thinks. labour is life, and thought is light!' some idea of victor hugo's social and humanitarian ideas may be gained from these addresses. in the course of a conversation with m. barbou, however, he supplemented these views and theories by explicit statements upon various questions. france, he said, was in possession of a _bourgeoise_ republic, which was not an ideal one, but which would undergo a slow and gradual transformation. he regarded himself and his contemporaries as having been pioneers and monitors, whose advice was worth obtaining, because they had gained their knowledge by experience, having lived through the struggles of the past; but whose theories could not be put into practice by themselves. the future solution of the social question belonged to younger men, and to the twentieth century. that solution, he maintained, would be found in nothing less than the universal spread of instruction; it would follow the formation of schools where salutary knowledge should be imparted. by educating the child they would endow the man, and when that had been accomplished, society might proceed to exercise severe repression upon anyone who resisted what was right, because he would have been already so trained that he could not plead ignorance in his own behalf. but hugo was careful to add that he did not expect a utopia to follow this universal dissemination of knowledge. when man had proceeded well on the path of advancement, he would require land to cultivate. he would go out and colonize, and the whole interior of africa was destined, he believed, before long to be conquered by civilization. frontiers would disappear, for the idea of fraternity was making its way throughout the world. as the whole earth belonged to man, men must go forth and reclaim it. for the whole race he saw a brighter future, and his watchwords in this respect would seem to have been--labour, progress, peace, happiness, and enlightenment. chapter xvii. 'la légende des siècles,' etc. i have reserved this poem for somewhat fuller mention than i have been able to accord to victor hugo's other works. this is called for by reason of the inherent grandeur of the work, and because upon this noble achievement the greatness of the poet's fame must ultimately rest. mr. swinburne holds it to be the greatest work of the century, and many critics who have not his _perfervidum ingenium_ incline to the same view. when the first part of the _légende_ appeared, in 1859, it excited so much interest that every poet of any note in france wrote warm letters of congratulation to the author. to one of these, penned by baudelaire, and typical of the rest, hugo characteristically replied. regarding humanity in two aspects--the historical and the legendary, and maintaining that the latter was in one sense as true as the former, hugo took up the legendary side of the question in this legend of the ages. it was intended to be followed by two other sections under the respective titles of 'the end of satan' and 'god.' the first part of this great trilogy was far more striking than any of its author's previous poems. its brilliancy and energy, its literary skill and its powerful conceptions, enchained the attention. the poet divided his work into sixteen cycles, extending from the creation to the trump of judgment. a full and on the whole discriminating criticism of this remarkable poem has been given by the bishop of derry, who also, with some success, has translated passages from it. but victor hugo's french is too peculiar and impassioned to be brought within the trammels of english verse. nevertheless, i will quote from the bishop the last three stanzas of that beautiful poem, _booz endormi_, one of the first set of poems, all of which are devoted to scriptural subjects. the rich man boaz sleeps, quite unconscious of the moabitess ruth, who lies expectant at his feet: 'asphodel scents did gilgal's breezes bring- through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast the angels sped, for momently there pass'd a something blue which seem'd to be a wing. 'silent was all in jezreel and in ur- the stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows. far west among those flowers of the shadows, the thin clear crescent, lustrous over her, 'made ruth raise question, looking through the bars of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what god, what comer unto the harvest of the eternal summer, had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.' the second section deals with the decadence of rome, and here the poet's imagination has full sway. the well-known story of androcles and the lion is the subject of a beautiful poem. the third section is islam, and then come the heroic christian cycle, the day of kings, etc. but perhaps the most important composition in the work is eviradnus, a poem in praise of the true and gentle knight. the thrones of the east, ratbert, sultan mourad, the twentieth century, and some other sections, all bear evidence of intense poetic realism, and show the mastery of the author over pictorial and dramatic effects. the bishop of derry raises a question upon which a good deal might be said, when he propounds a theory to the effect that victor hugo possesses fancy rather than imagination. it may not be possible to produce passages from hugo which, for sustained grandeur and breadth of conception, would be equal to isolated passages that could be cited from dante and milton; yet there are as unquestionably scores of other passages in the works of victor hugo in describing which it would be wholly inadequate to use the term fancy. they are either grandly and powerfully imaginative, or they are nothing. this writer no doubt too frequently distorts his conceptions, while his treatment sometimes falls from sublimity into caricature; but it is incontestable, i think, that in spite of all _bizarrerie_, and every other exception or qualification, he possesses a mobile and an impressive imagination. in 1877 appeared the second part of _la légende des siècles_. although it scarcely rose to the level of the first part, it was not without those exalted passages which gave supremacy to the poet. 'once again the seer surveys the cycle of humanity from the days of paradise to the future which he anticipates; he takes his themes alike from the legends of the heroic age of greece, and from the domains of actual history, and after singing of the achievements of the great, he dedicates his lay to the little ones, and in a charming poem entitled _petit paul_ he depicts with fascinating pathos all the tenderness and all the sorrows of childhood.' the third and final part of the work was published in 1883. discussing the unity of tone which entitles this strange work, with its multitude of separate characters and incidents, to be called a poem, a writer in the _athenæum_ observed: 'it is an apprehension, at once profound and tender, of the pathos of man's mysterious life on the earth; a pity such as has never before been expressed by any poet; a beautiful faith in god such as, in these days, can only find an echo in rare and noble souls; and an aspiration for justice and the final emancipation of man such as seems an anachronism, indeed, in a time which has given birth to gautier and to baudelaire on the one hand, and to zola and his followers on the other.' yet, notwithstanding its unity, it is not a little curious that the legend was as finished a work at the end of the first instalment as it was at the end of the whole. as to the poetic qualities of the closing part of the work, there was no decadence of true poetic impulse, nor any subsidence of that marvellous brilliance which dazzled europe when the first part of the poem appeared. but neither was there any growth of those highest poetic characteristics 'in which hugo's magnificent poetry was always weak--such as self-dominance, serenity, and that wise sweetness of a balancing judgment, equitable alike to the slave in the field and to the king on his throne, which belongs to the mind we call dramatic, whether the dramatist be the writer of _oedipus_ or the writer of _hamlet_.' the _légende des siècles_ offers a bewildering maze of things, sweet, beautiful, and sublime. it scintillates with the brilliant lights of genius as the vault of heaven is fretted with the glittering stars. yet what is perhaps nobler still, as mr. swinburne has said, 'over and within this book faith shines as a kindling torch, hope breathes as a quickening wind, love burns as a changing fire. it is tragic, not with the hopeless tragedy of dante, or the all but hopeless tragedy of shakespeare. whether we can or cannot share the infinite hope and inviolable faith to which the whole active and suffering life of the poet has borne such unbroken and imperishable witness, we cannot in any case but recognise the greatness and heroism of his love for mankind. as in the case of æschylus, it is the hunger and thirst after righteousness, the deep desire for perfect justice in heaven as on earth, which would seem to assure the prophet's inmost heart of its final triumph by the prevalence of wisdom and of light over all claims and all pleas established or asserted by the children of darkness, so in the case of victor hugo is it the hunger and thirst after reconciliation, the love of loving-kindness, the master-passion of mercy, which persists in hope and insists on faith, even in face of the hardest and darkest experience through which a nation or a man can pass. hugo's poetic masterpiece, to translate his own language concerning it, had its rise in the past, in the tomb, in the darkness and the night of the ages; but permeating all is the regenerating light of a mighty hope.' the poet published in 1881 _les quatre vents de l'esprit_. the work which bore this fanciful title of the four winds of the spirit was divided into four distinct sections--the book satiric, the book dramatic, the book lyric, and the book epic. the wind of victor hugo, however, is chiefly of the lyric kind. it 'is like a fine sou'wester, warm and bright, but deeply charged with tears. over the bitter and eager wind of satire, for instance, he has no real command, and none over that bracing north wind of masculine thought and intellectual strength which is necessary to vitalize epic and drama.' so it was complained, and not without force or reason, that while it would be impossible to praise the lyrical portions of his work too highly, the satirical lacked subtlety and delicacy to make it effective; the epic wanted a larger freedom of natural growth; while situations intended to be dramatic rarely rose above the merely theatrical. the play in which these situations occur is concerned with the absolute equality of all men in regard to the great human passions. cynicism or conventionality may for a long period encrust a man, but there comes a time when the heart will have its way. hugo's latest illustrator of this truth, duc gallus, rescues a peasant girl from a proposed marriage with a brutal fellow whom she loathes, but rescues her with the deliberate intention of making her his mistress. though surrounded with splendour, the girl soon pines and breaks her heart through sheer loneliness, and at last in despair she kills herself by means of a poisoned ring. the nemesis of remorse now overtakes the duc. beneath this pretended cynicism there has been all the while smouldering a real passion, which, now that it is too late, breaks out into a fierce and inextinguishable flame; it was in depicting these heights and depths of emotion that hugo found his keenest delight. the book epic deals with the great french revolution, but it is in the book lyric that the poet achieves his finest triumph. in considering the substance and variety of hugo's lyrical efforts, every reader will agree with the judgment that amongst poets of energy, as distinguished from the poets of art and culture, shelley's is the only name in nineteenth-century literature which can stand beside that of victor hugo. in 1882 was published _torquemada_, a drama written chiefly during victor hugo's exile in guernsey. the poet himself regarded it as one of his best efforts, and it certainly exhibits his glowing imagination and his power of depicting human misery at their highest. the great inquisitor is drawn as a single-minded enthusiast who, following relentlessly to their conclusion the doctrines upon which he has been nourished from childhood, burns and tortures people out of pure love of their souls--that is, fastens their bodies to the stake for the purpose of saving from the everlasting fires of hell both their souls and their bodies. the poet shows how the idea gradually mastered him until it became irresistible as fate. the chief point in the plot well illustrates this. torquemada having been condemned as a fanatic by the bishop of urgel, is ordered to be bricked up alive in a vault. he is rescued from his living tomb by two lovers, don sanche and donna rosa. torquemada swears to be their eternal friend, and subsequently saves them from the wrath of the king. sanche and rosa are just being freed when the former relates the manner of the deliverance of torquemada from his tomb. sanche had used as a lever on that occasion an iron cross which hung upon the tottering wall. 'o ciel! ils sont damnés!' exclaims torquemada, when he hears this. in his view the lovers are now condemned to eternal perdition, but in order to save their souls he sends their bodies to the stake. it need scarcely be said that the author, in ascribing honesty and other characteristics to the bloodthirsty inquisitor, gives a more exalted view of him than is taken by impartial history. but the play must be read for its poetry and its scenic effects, which are magnificent. a prose work by hugo, to which considerable interest attaches, was published in 1883, under the title of _l'archipel de la manche_. as its title implies, it deals with the channel islands, in one of which the author found for so long a time his home. from the literary aspect, the work suffers when compared with its author's verse, which alone can be grandly descriptive--at least since the production of his earlier romances. but for its glimpses of the inhabitants of guernsey, and its occasional touches of rich local colour, this work may be turned to with pleasure and advantage. chapter xviii. honours to victor hugo. unlike many other great men, victor hugo was not compelled to wait for a posthumous recognition of his powers. his genius was incontestable; he towered far above all his contemporaries; and the universal acknowledgment of his talents left no room for jealousy. hence writers and artists of all classes, and of varying eminence, combined with their less distinguished fellow-countrymen in paying homage to one who has shed undying lustre upon the french name. the chief ovations accorded to the poet i must briefly pass in review. several revivals of his best-known dramas have taken place of recent years, but the most striking of these celebrations was undoubtedly that at the théâtre français, on the 25th of february, 1880. it was the fiftieth anniversary of the original representation of _hernani_, and that play was again produced to mark 'the golden wedding of hugo's genius and his glory.' after the termination of the play the curtain was lifted, when a bust of the dramatist was seen elevated on a pedestal profusely decorated with wreaths and palm-leaves. the stage was filled with actors dressed to represent the leading characters in hugo's various plays. mademoiselle sarah bernhardt came forward in the character of doña sol, and recited with much feeling and energy some laudatory verses by m. françois coppée, which roused anew the enthusiasm of the audience. in response to the call of m. francisque sarcey, the vast assembly rose, and filled the air with their congratulatory vociferations. '_ad multos annos!_ long live victor hugo!' such were the cries from all parts of the house, which so affected the venerable poet that he was compelled to retire. a few days subsequent to this performance the members of the parisian press gave a grand banquet to victor hugo at the hôtel continental. the speech of welcome and honour to the poet was delivered by m. émile augier, himself a writer of considerable reputation. after referring to the marvellous vitality of victor hugo's poems and romances, the speaker said: 'time, o glorious master, takes no hold upon you; you know nothing of decline; you pass through every stage of life without diminishing your virility; for more than half a century your genius has covered the world with the unceasing flow of its tide. the resistance of the first period, the rebellion of the second, have melted away into universal admiration, and the last refractory spirits have yielded to your power.... when la bruyère before the academy hailed bossuet as father of the church, he was speaking the language of posterity, and it is posterity itself, noble master, that surrounds you here, and hails you as our father.' at the word 'father' the whole audience rose, and took up the salutation. when quiet was restored m. delaunay suggested that the poet should be solicited for a new dramatic work. the enthusiasm was renewed at this suggestion, and it may well be imagined that the acclamations reached their culminating point when sarah bernhardt rose and embraced the aged author of _hernani_. on this occasion victor hugo read his address of thanks, which was brief and pregnant in its allusions. 'before me i see the press of france,' said hugo. 'the worthies who represent it here have endeavoured to prove its sovereign concord, and to demonstrate its indestructible unity. you have assembled to grasp the hand of an old campaigner, who began life with the century, and lives with it still. i am deeply touched. i tender you all my thanks. all the noble words that we have just been hearing only add to my emotion. there are dates that seem to be periodically repeated with marked significance. the 26th of february, 1802, was my birthday; in 1830 it was the time of the first appearance of _hernani_; and this again is the 26th of february, 1880. fifty years ago, i, who am now here speaking to you, was hated, hooted, slandered, cursed. today, to-day--but the date is enough. gentlemen, the french press is one of the mistresses of the human intellect; it has its daily task, and that task is gigantic. in every minute of every hour it has its influence upon every portion of the civilized world; its struggles, its disputes, its wrath resolve themselves into progress, harmony, and peace. in its premeditations it aims at truth; from its polemics it flashes forth light. i propose as my toast the prosperity of the french press, the institution that fosters such noble designs, and renders such noble services.' on the 27th of december, 1880, there was a grand festival at besançon in honour of the poet, its most illustrious son. the chief inhabitants of the town, and the visitors from paris, assembled at the mairie, and proceeded thence to the place st. quentin. the mayor was accompanied by m. rambaud, chief secretary to the minister of public instruction, and general wolff, commander of the _corps d'armée_. there were also present deputations from the senate and the chamber of deputies, officers, university professors, a representative of the president of the republic, the rector of the academy, the prefect, the municipal councillors, and a large body of members of the press. the poet was represented by m. paul meurice. the whole of besançon was _en fête_. in a street facing the place st. quentin a large platform had been erected, and here the proceedings took place. a beautiful medallion affixed to a house near the platform was uncovered by the mayor. this medallion represented a five-stringed lyre with two laurel branches of gold, and there was an inscription which, by the poet's express desire, consisted simply of his name and the date of his birth--'victor hugo: 26th of february, 1802.' the lyre was surmounted by a head typical of the republic, encircled by rays. the procession adjourned from the place st. quentin to the stage at the besançon theatre, in the centre of which had been placed david's bust of victor hugo. at the request of the mayor, m. rambaud delivered an address upon the poet's character and genius. he recited the history of his struggles and of his literary conflicts, and of the gradual attainment of victory over thought and intellect; descanted upon his ever-increasing influence, his development as a politician, his internal conflicts, and his final triumph; described his prolonged duel with the empire, and his ultimate success; reviewed the leading characteristics of his lyrical, dramatic, and historical writings; and finally demonstrated how, after a life fraught with conflicts, trials, and sorrows, he found his reward in the revival of france, in the progress of democracy; and last, though not least, in the peaceful joys of domestic life and the society of his grandchildren. to this address m. paul meurice responded, and read the following letter from victor hugo himself: 'it is with deep emotion that i tender my thanks to my compatriots. i am a stone on the road that is trodden by humanity; but that road is a good one. man is master neither of his life nor of his death. he can but offer to his fellow-citizens his efforts to diminish human suffering; he can but offer to god his indomitable faith in the growth of liberty.' the marble bust of the poet was crowned with a wreath of golden laurel, and while the whole audience stood, a band of one hundred and fifty musicians performed the _marseillaise_. cries of '_vive victor hugo! vive la république!_' were heard as the audience left the theatre. an ovation such as few sovereigns have ever received was accorded to victor hugo by the city of paris on the 27th of february, 1881. the day before, the poet had completed his seventy-ninth year, and by the french people this is regarded as entitling to octogenarian honours. a celebration took place which was compared with the reception of voltaire in 1788. the avenue d'eylau, where victor hugo resided, was densely thronged, and the poet, being recognised with his children and grandchildren at an upper window of his house, was cheered by a vast multitude, estimated by unsympathetic observers at 100,000. the municipality had erected at the entrance to the avenue lofty flagstaffs decorated with shields bearing the titles of his works, and supporting a large drapery inscribed '1802, victor hugo, 1881.' early in the morning the avenue was thronged with processions consisting of collegians, trades unions, musical and benefit societies, deputations from the districts of paris and from the provinces, etc. a deputation of children, bearing a blue and red banner with the inscription, '_l'art d'être grand-père_,' and headed by a little girl in white, arrived at the house, and was received by victor hugo in the drawing-room. the little maiden, who recited some lines by m. mendès, was blessed by the venerable poet. among other incidents of the day, the paris municipality drew up in front of the house, and victor hugo read to them the following speech: 'i greet paris, i greet the city. i greet it not in my name, for i am naught, but in the name of all that lives, reasons, thinks, loves, and hopes on earth. cities are blessed places; they are the workshops of divine labour. divine labour is human labour. it remains human so long as it is individual; as soon as it is collective, as its object is greater than its worker, it becomes divine. the labour of the fields is human; the labour of the towns is divine. from time to time history places a sign upon a city. that sign is unique. history in 4,000 years has thus marked three cities, which sum up the whole effort of civilization. what athens did for greek antiquity, what rome did for roman antiquity, paris is doing to-day for europe, for america, for the civilized universe. it is the city of the world. who addresses paris addresses the whole world, _urbi et orbi_. i, a humble passer-by, who have but my share in your rights, in the name of all cities, of the cities of europe, of america, of the civilized world, from athens to new york, from london to moscow; in thy name, rome; in thine, berlin--i praise, with love i hail, the hallowed city, paris.' a stream of processions then filed past the house, many of them bearing imposing bouquets, which were deposited in front of hugo's residence. the musical societies alone exceeded 100; strains of the _marseillaise_ were now and again audible, and the entire avenue, nearly a mile long, was thickly lined with spectators, while that part of it commanding a view of the poet's house was densely packed, except for a passage-way for the processions. medals and photographs of the hero of the day were to be seen everywhere, and the behaviour of the enormous assemblage was most exemplary. victor hugo, whose love of the fresh air always made him careless of exposure, remained at the open window for several hours bareheaded, acknowledging the greetings of the successive deputations and of the multitude. at the trocadéro a musical and literary festival was held, when selections from victor hugo's works were sung or recited by some of the leading paris _artistes_, and the _marseillaise_ was performed by a military band. m. louis blanc, who presided, said that few great men had entered in their lifetime into their immortality. voltaire and victor hugo had both deserved this, one for stigmatizing religious intolerance, the other for having, with incomparable lustre, served humanity. he commended the committee for inviting the co-operation of men of different opinions, for genius united in a common admiration men otherwise at discord, and the idea of union was inseparable from a grand festival. 'there were enough days in the year given to what separated men. it was well to give a few hours to what brought them together, and there could be no better opportunity than the festival of an unrivalled poet, an eloquent apostle of human brotherhood, whose use of his genius was greater than his genius itself, the oneness of his life consisting in the constant ascent of his spirit towards the light.' in the evening of the day there was a victor hugo concert at the conservatoire, and at many of the theatres verses were recited in his honour. on the night of the 25th a special performance was given at the gaîté of _lucrèce borgia_, which had not been produced for ten years. the house was filled, all the notabilities of paris being present, while the poet himself also appeared for a short time. the celebration generally was one triumphant success. in honour of hugo's eightieth birthday, on the 26th of february, 1882, the french government ordered a free performance of _hernani_ at the théâtre français. crowds stood outside for hours waiting for admission, and 2,300 persons managed to squeeze themselves into seats intended to accommodate only 1,500. the poet and his grandchildren were present during the last act, and were loudly applauded. hugo's bust was placed on the stage at the close of the piece, and verses in his honour by m. coppée were recited. on the preceding evening 5,000 persons had attended his reception, when the committee of the previous year's grand celebration presented him with a bronze miniature of michael angelo's 'moses.' in acknowledging the gift, the poet said, 'i accept your present, and i await a still better one, the greatest a man can receive: i mean death--death, that recompense for the good done on earth. i shall live in my descendants, my grandchildren, jeanne and georges. if, indeed, i have a narrow-minded thought it is for them. i wish to ensure their future, and i confide them to the protection of all the loyal and devoted hearts here present.' yet one more celebration i must notice. on the 22nd of november, 1882, the théâtre français gave a brilliant performance of victor hugo's _le roi s'amuse_. it has already been seen that this piece was first produced on the 22nd of november, 1832, amid such a scene of disorder and tumult that the government forbade its further representation. from that time forward it had never been produced until this fiftieth anniversary in 1882. it was the subject of preliminary conversation for weeks in paris, and great anxiety was manifested on the subject of seats. it was stated that if the house, which had only provision for 1,500 persons, could have been made to accommodate 10,000, there would still have been an insufficiency of places to satisfy all the supplications with which the théâtre français was besieged. the intrinsic value of the work, however, was not the first thought of those who engaged in the feverish quest for seats, which for a full month possessed all fashionable, artistic, literary, political, diplomatic, and financial paris. it was chiefly the desire to do honour to the veteran poet. with regard to the representation itself, the splendour of the mounting, the beauty of the accessories, and the historical fidelity of the costumes, transcended all expectation. never was a piece placed on the stage with greater, or indeed probably equal, art. chapter xix. personal and miscellaneous. in private life and character, it is well known that victor hugo was one of the noblest and most unselfish of men. numberless are the anecdotes related of his generosity and kindliness of disposition. his children's repasts at hauteville house, guernsey, and his hospitality to the suffering and distressed in paris, i have already alluded to. he had a special talent for organizing christmas parties, and was never happier than when surrounded by his grandchildren. he mingled in all their games, and even shared their troubles and their punishments. when his favourite little grandchild was put on dry bread for bad conduct, the grandfather was so unhappy that he would take no dessert. his pleasures were as simple as his mind was great. the writer who furnishes me with these details warmly contradicted the statement that victor hugo was an infidel; on the contrary, he was a firm believer in god and in a future state; and this, as we have seen, the poet himself confirmed. even when in his octogenarian period it was the poet's habit to rise with the day, summer and winter, and to work until nine. he then allowed himself an hour's rest for breakfast and his morning constitutional, after which he again sat at his desk, mostly pursuing his intellectual labours, till five in the afternoon. work being concluded, he dined at half-past six, and invariably retired to rest at ten. on one occasion, speaking of his future works, the poet said, 'i shall have more to do than i have already done. one would think that with age the mind weakens; with me it appears, on the contrary, to grow stronger. the horizon gets larger, and i shall pass away without having finished my task.' on one occasion, a poor old woman was so delighted with the poetry of her grandson, aged eighteen, that in the fulness of her heart she sent his verses to victor hugo. the poet thus spoke of this incident to a friend--'in spite of myself, i must hurt this worthy woman's feelings by not replying to her letter; the verses of her grandson are simply mine, taken from _les contemplations_. i can't anyhow write to say i find my own verses beautiful--i can't encourage plagiarism; and i won't tell the grandmother that her grandson is a liar.' much has been written concerning hugo's skill as a draughtsman. it appears that this own discovery of his powers in this direction was made in a little village near meulan, where he stopped to change horses, when travelling with a lady in a diligence. he went inside the village church, and was so struck by the graceful beauty of the apse that he made an attempt to copy some of the details, using his hat as an easel. he obtained a fair _souvenir_ of the place, and for the first time realized how beneficially copying from nature might be combined with his literary pursuits. after that he always delighted in sketching architectural peculiarities of fabrics which remained in the original design, and had not been 'improved' by modern handling. he never took artistic lessons, but by constant practice he acquired considerable facility in representing a certain class of subjects, ruined castles with deep shadows, gloomy landscapes, stormy skies, etc. m. ph. burty and several writers and artists of the first class have expressed their admiration of his artistic work, and its striking effects. his drawings were chiefly illustrative of his own thoughts. they were employed either to develop his poems, or to serve as pictorial commentaries upon his own literary creations. théophile gautier wrote: 'm. hugo is not only a poet, he is a painter, and a painter whom louis boulanger, c. roqueplan, or paul huet would not refuse to own as a brother in art. whenever he travels he makes sketches of everything that strikes the eye. the outline of the hill, a break in the horizon, an old belfry--any of these will suffice for the subject of a rough drawing, which the same evening will see worked up well-nigh to the finish of an engraving, and the object of unbounded surprise even to the most accomplished artists.' m. castel collected many of hugo's early drawings into an album, and published them with the object of furthering the poet's work among poor children. théophile gautier supplied an introduction to the album, and it had an excellent sale. a number of land and sea pieces, bearing hugo's signature, passed into the possession of m. auguste vacquerie. the poet prepared a set of illustrations for his _les travailleurs de la mer_, and a second album, consisting of miscellaneous illustrations by hugo, has also been prepared. many of his sketches were left in hauteville house, and m. paul meurice, madame lockroy, and madame drouet came into possession of others. victor hugo himself sat for a great number of portraits between his twenty-fifth and his seventy-seventh year, and he was likewise the subject of numerous caricatures. these portraits and caricatures were edited and published by m. bouvenne. a very sumptuous volume is m. blémont's _livre d'or_ of victor hugo, containing beautiful illustrations by eminent artists, suggested by his poems and romances. during the latter years of his life victor hugo resided in the quarter already mentioned, the avenue d'eylau (near the bois de boulogne), whose name, out of compliment to the poet, has been changed by the municipality of paris into the avenue victor hugo. the house is semi-detached, and adjoins that occupied by m. and madame lockroy and georges and jeanne. a communication between the two residences, however, brought the whole of the family practically under the same roof. the house is three stories high, and the poet's study was on the first floor, where he lived in a kind of bower, looking out upon one side in the direction of the avenue, and on the other towards a pleasant garden, with a lawn surrounded by flowers and shaded by noble trees. the daily post to hugo's house was an important matter, for he had a stream of communications from all parts of the world. if a poetaster in america or australia thought he possessed immortal genius he could not rest content until he had received, or at least attempted to obtain, victor hugo's imprimatur. there were many things the kindly veteran would smooth over in order not to wound sensitive minds bitten with the _cacoëthes scribendi_. the poet was also very accessible to personal callers, so much so that it was said you had only to put on a black coat, pull at his bell, and there you were. sometimes his good-nature was imposed upon, as will happen with all men, little or great. an amusing story is told of a cabman who, after driving the poet one day, refused to take the fare, on the ground that the honour of having victor hugo in his vehicle was a sufficient reward. the author of _notre-dame_ asked his admiring jehu to dinner; but when the meal was over, and hugo might naturally have thought they could cry quits, the guest drew a manuscript from his pocket with the ominous words, 'i also am a poet!' greatness is thus not without its penalties. a good deal of interest attaches to victor hugo's manuscripts. madame drouet was the poet's literary secretary for thirty years, and during all that period she copied with her own hand the manuscripts of his various works as he wrote them. this was done to guard against the danger of the originals being lost, or mangled by printers. a writer in the _pall mall gazette_ has furnished some interesting details respecting the manuscripts, which will be valuable as showing how the poet worked. what he effaced, he says, was so covered with ink, applied in a horizontal direction, that nobody will ever be able to make it out. when he wanted to get a subject well into his mind's eye he drew it sometimes with great finish of detail on the margin. there is something in several of the manuscripts reminding one of doré's illustrations of the _contes drôlatiques_; while others bring to mind albert dürer's orfèvrerie. all victor hugo's important manuscripts have been bequeathed to the bibliothèque nationale. the writer to whom i have just referred further adds these personal details respecting the poet and his habits: 'victor hugo occupied the room looking on the garden in which he died. the window of his chamber is framed with ivy, and opens on an ivy-clad balcony. a vast old-fashioned four-post bed, with a flat, short drapery of antique brocade round the roof, stands in an alcove. the poet's body lay on it after death. a dressing-room is at the head, and a small closet used as a wardrobe at the foot. the desk is massive, and made with shelves, on which precious books are placed. one of them is the volume of the _contemplations_, paid for by public subscription when victor hugo was in exile, and presented to madame victor hugo. the vignettes and other illustrated portion of the work were done by the artists who had known, admired, and loved her husband. between every second page there was a blank sheet, upon which a literary celebrity wrote a thought, good wish, or sentiment. michelet led off; louis blanc, jules janin, théophile gautier, dumas père, and other celebrities of the time filled blank pages. lamartine shines by his absence. he was always jealous of victor hugo, and querulously attacked _les misérables_ soon after that strange _chef d'oeuvre_ was published. there is also a tall desk in victor hugo's bedroom. it was the one that he most used. he was up every morning at six, when he washed in cold water, and then took a cup of black coffee and a raw egg. this refection kept up strength and did not draw blood from the brain, as must a less easily digested one. if ideas did not come rapidly he went to the window, which was all day open, winter and summer, sought inspiration by gazing thence, returned to the desk, sketched, and then wrote. if his "go" slacked, he walked about, and again looked out and drew. at eleven he breakfasted. his pegasus, he used to say, was the knifeboard (impérial) of an omnibus, and he generally mounted it early in the afternoon. if he had nothing particular to do he did not get down till he had been to the terminus and back again. the objective faculties were not more active in these rides than the subjective. he used to observe, reflect, and dream simultaneously.' when not riding, hugo was equally fond of walking about paris, revisiting old sites associated with personal or historic events. it will have been seen in the course of this volume that victor hugo was much tried by domestic affliction. both his sons died young, charles leaving the two children, georges and jeanne, of whom their grandfather was so fond. madame charles hugo, the mother of these children, married afterwards, as already stated, m. lockroy, the extremist deputy and journalist. the poet's second daughter, adèle hugo, fifty years of age, is in an asylum in the neighbourhood of paris; and from the paris correspondent of the _times_, and other sources, i glean the following information concerning her: thirty years ago she married an officer of the english navy, while her father was living at guernsey. the marriage was contrary to the wishes of victor hugo, who refused to have further intercourse with his daughter. she went to india with her husband. some years afterwards she came back to europe insane, under the care of a negro woman, who had become attached to her. her father secured her admission to an asylum, and visited her there every week. on these journeys to st. mandé to see his daughter, he would take the muette-belville omnibus, with a correspondence to vincennes, and every christmas he sent 500 francs to the conductors of these lines. his pockets were stuffed with bonbons and little articles of finery which it gave adèle pleasure to receive. it is stated that her madness takes the gentle and childish form. she would always know victor hugo, but did not understand why he did not take her to live with him. he placed her under the guardianship of his and her old friend vacquerie, and made no attempt to evade the law, in virtue of which she comes, as alleged, into a fortune of £120,000, and half the income which may be derived from the copyright of victor hugo's works. the poet is said to have regretted during his later years his harshness in connection with his daughter's marriage, and her melancholy history cast over him one of the few sorrowful shadows that visited his life. hugo possessed one valuable piece of landed property, a plot of ground bought by him for 337,365 francs in the avenue which bears his name. it is covered with trees, which surround a bright patch of lawn, and throw deep shadows over the ground, grateful to the eyes of those accustomed to the dusty streets of paris. it says not a little for his vigour and apparent hold upon life, that after he had passed his eighty-second year he intended to superintend the erection of his new house, which was to be built entirely from his own designs. a large portion of hugo's fortune--which was estimated altogether at about four million francs--was invested in belgian national bank shares, english consols, and french rentes. for several years before his death victor hugo had renounced public speaking, his latest efforts in this direction having brought on an indisposition which obliged him to go to guernsey for rest and quiet. he had also ceased to issue political appeals and manifestoes, though agitators of all shades of opinion (including the irish nationalists) endeavoured to enlist his sympathies. occasionally he would give the weight of his name to a movement with whose ramifications he was not very familiar; but it was only for a time that he yielded to such blandishments. he attended the senate periodically until the very last, although his deafness prevented him from following the course of the discussions. the relation of the poet's life begun by madame hugo, has been completed by m. paul meurice, who includes in his work reprints of early poems and criticisms by hugo, which are useful as strengthening the view taken in the earlier part of this narrative of his youthful political opinions. the poet is stated to have bequeathed his theatrical copyrights to m. meurice, and the copyrights of his other works to m. vacquerie. a magnificent national edition of the whole of victor hugo's works is now being issued in paris. when completed, the work will contain etchings executed from original designs by fifty-seven of the chief french painters of the day, including bonnat, boulanger, baudry, cabanel, constant, comerre, cormon, gérôme, harpignies, henner, moreau, and rochegrosse. there will also be no fewer than 2,500 ordinary illustrations. the edition, which will extend to forty volumes, will contain unpublished, as well as all the published, works of the poet, and it will be completed by the opening day of the universal exhibition of 1889. no other monument could more fitly, or more worthily, commemorate this distinguished writer. chapter xx. the poet's death and burial. when the news that victor hugo had been seized with a serious illness was made known on the 17th of may, it excited a painful sensation not only in paris and throughout france, but also in london, vienna, and other european capitals. the great age of the sufferer caused the gravest apprehensions, notwithstanding his well-known vigour and robustness of constitution. the last public act of the poet was to stand sponsor to m. de lesseps at the academy reception, held towards the close of april, 1885. in accordance with his customary practice he was thinly clad, although the weather was inclement, and the rain fell while he stood for a considerable time in the quadrangle. his friends dreaded the result of this exposure. it seems that the spectators, as if with the presentiment that they would not see him again, gave him a prolonged cheer, 'which he acknowledged with the seriousness of a man already looking back, as from a distance, on the world's transient satisfactions. he then sat down, apparently absorbed in listening to what he called the inner voices, scarcely raising his head to respond to the plaudits evoked by the passage in his honour.' a fortnight after this incident, hugo received his friend lesseps and his family to dinner, according to his weekly custom. it was noticed by the poet's relatives, though it escaped the attention of his godson of the academy, that the host was far from being in his usual health. nevertheless, he exerted himself with his wonted courtesy, and remained with his guests until they departed at a late hour. he was already suffering from a cold, caught, it is said, on the 13th of may, when he took one of those omnibus rides to which, as we have seen, he was very partial. overtaxed by his exertions in entertaining his friends, and unable to shake off the effects of the cold, serious symptoms began to develop themselves. in addition to an affection of the heart, congestion of the lungs set in. although for some time he battled heroically with the disease, he at length looked for and anticipated death. a correspondent of the _daily news_, reporting a conversation with an intimate friend of the hugo family upon the poet's last illness, said: 'he tells me that he never heard of a more terrible struggle between organic vitality and the morbid causes that are at work. victor hugo would like to die, so that it cannot be said it is his strength of will that enables him to resist the disease from which he is suffering. contrary to what some of the journals have said, he is a very bad patient. last night, when after straining his whole body to breathe, he had fallen into a prostrate state, a strong blister was prescribed, and the three doctors agreed to stay and watch its effects. as one of them was going to apply it, victor hugo jumped up and not only pushed him away but the others also, with a muscular force that astounded them. he rushed to and fro, convulsively throwing up his arms, and clutching the furniture. in the intervals between the crises, the poet likes to have his granddaughter near him. he feels that death has come to summon him, and that medical help is impotent to save him. he chafes at having to lie in bed. his voice is very weak, but remains audible to those near him. he was greatly affected on hearing that numbers of working people come in the evening to stand mutely and respectfully at a short distance from his house, so as to hear from those who call, as they are walking away, how he is. with his characteristic politeness, he has ordered that a direct notification is to be made to the humble watchers in the street of his decease, and wishes it to be known that his last thoughts have been about his friends the poor of paris, with whom he has long been in brotherhood by feeling.' on hearing of victor hugo's alarming illness, cardinal guibert, the archbishop of paris, wrote to madame lockroy: 'i have the deepest sympathy with the sufferings of m. victor hugo and with the anxieties of his family. i have prayed much at the holy sacrifice of mass for the illustrious patient. should he desire to see a minister of our holy religion, although i am myself still weak, and in a state of convalescence from a disease much resembling his, i should make it my very pleasing duty to bring him the succour and consolation so much needed in these cruel ordeals.' m. lockroy at once replied as follows: 'madame lockroy, who cannot leave the bedside of her father-in-law, begs me to thank you for the sentiments which you have expressed with so much eloquence and kindness. as regards m. victor hugo, he has again said, within the last few days, that he had no wish during his illness to be attended by a priest of any persuasion. we should be wanting in our duty if we did not respect his resolution.' as the correspondent of the _times_ observed, the archbishop could scarcely have expected an acceptance of his offer, for victor hugo was not the man to play the revolting death-bed farce of talleyrand; and to have died a catholic would not even have been a reversion to the creed of his childhood, for, strictly speaking, he was not brought up a catholic. his mother, though a vendéan royalist, was a voltairian; and when she entered her sons at the monastic college of madrid, she declared them protestants in order to exempt them from the confessional. but all through life hugo was a theist, and ran the gauntlet of much criticism from sceptical friends in consequence of his firm belief in the deity. there seemed at one time a possibility of the poet's recovery, though he did not himself share this view. 'i only wish that death may come quickly,' he exclaimed the day before his death; and again, in passing through a severe spasmodic fit, he said: 'it is the struggle between day and night.' the patient's sufferings were very great, and those about him could desire nothing but his release. for several days he was kept alive only by injections of morphia. on the evening of the 21st he rallied sufficiently from his lethargy to embrace his two grandchildren, both in their 'teens, and to utter a few words. his breathing was temporarily easier, though the action of the heart continued to be very feeble. at five o'clock on the following morning the last agony commenced. almost his last words, addressed to his granddaughter, were, 'adieu, jeanne, adieu!' his final movement of consciousness was to grasp his grandson's hand. the pulse gradually grew weaker and weaker, and at half-past one o'clock he raised his head, made a gesture as if bowing, and fell back lifeless. in the afternoon m. nadar attended, to photograph the death-bed. m. bonnat, whose striking portrait of hugo was one of the features of the salon a few years ago, took a sketch, and m. dalou, the sculptor, made a cast of the head. m. and madame jules simon were the first amongst a long list of notabilities to pay a visit of condolence to the family. early on the morning of the poet's death a crowd had assembled in the avenue victor hugo, and the painful news of his decease rapidly spread through their midst, and was soon known throughout paris. when the senate met, shortly after the melancholy event, the president, m. le royer (a protestant), said: 'victor hugo is dead. he who for more than sixty years has excited the admiration of the world and the legitimate pride of france has entered into immortality. i will not sketch his life; everyone knows it. his glory is the property of no party or opinion; it is the appanage and inheritance of all. i have only to express the deep and painful emotion of the senate, and the unanimity of its regret. in sign of mourning, i have the honour to ask the senate to adjourn.' m. brisson then said: 'the government joins in the noble words of the president of the senate. to-morrow the government will have the honour of submitting to the chamber a bill for a national funeral to victor hugo.' the senate then rose. the municipal council paid similar homage to the man whose name was imperishably associated with that of paris. the council also resolved upon attending the funeral in a body. for some days the poet's death was the only subject of conversation in paris. foreign visitors delayed their departure in order to be able to say that they had witnessed his funeral. the mayor of the 46th arrondissement declared the house where he died to be sacred, and the property of the city of paris, and it was decided to give his name to new streets in the capital. for the first time, it was said, since lafayette's death--and even this comparison proved to be inadequate--france was to celebrate a truly national funeral. the funerals of thiers and gambetta, though the most striking in france for at least a generation, aroused sympathy in one section of the people, and drew forth protests from the rest; but all france felt that it could bow the head with unanimous respect and veneration before the remains of victor hugo. a doubt which had troubled all persons holding religious beliefs in france was set at rest by the publication of the following unsealed memorandum handed by the poet to m. vacquerie on the 2nd of august, 1883:--'i give 50,000 francs to the poor. i wish to be carried to the cemetery in their hearse. i refuse the prayers (_oraisons_) of all churches: i ask for a prayer (_prière_) from all souls. i believe in god.--victor hugo.' though rejecting creeds, it was seen that the illustrious departed had not rejected belief. on one point m. renan expressed the universal feeling when he wrote as follows:--'m. victor hugo was one of the evidences of the unity of our french conscience. the admiration which enveloped his last years has shown that there are still points upon which we are agreed. without distinction of class, party, sect, or literary opinion, the public, for some days past, has hung upon the heartrending narratives of his agony; and now there is nobody who does not perceive a great void in the heart of the country. he was an essential member of the church in whose communion we dwell--one might say that the spire of that old cathedral has crumbled into dust with the noble existence which has carried the banner of the ideal highest in our century.' at the opening of the french chamber on the 23rd, m. floquet pronounced an eloquent eulogium upon victor hugo. he spoke of france as having lost one of her best citizens, who had enriched the treasure of national glory, had restored courage in adversity, and after having suffered everything for the republic had inculcated concord and tolerance. he described him as a hero of humanity, who for sixty years had been the champion of the poor, the weak, the humble, the woman, and the child, and as the advocate of inviolable respect for life, and of mercy to those who had gone astray. his name ought to be proclaimed, not only in the academies of artists, poets, and philosophers, but in all legislative assemblies, on which he had sought to impress the inspirations of his all-powerful and benevolent genius. in proposing a vote of 20,000 francs for a national funeral, m. henri brisson said:--'victor hugo is no more. while living he became immortal. death itself, which often adds to the reputation of men, could not add to his glory. his genius dominates our century. through him france irradiated the world. it is not letters alone that mourn, but our country and humanity--every reading and thinking man in the whole world. as regards us frenchmen, for the last sixty-five years his voice has entered into our inner moral life and our national existence, bringing into them all that is sweetest and brightest, most touching and most elevated, in the private and public history of that long series of generations which he has charmed, consoled, kindled with pity or indignation, enlightened, and warmed with his own fire. what man of our time is not indebted to him? our democracy laments his loss. he has sung all its grandeurs; he has wept over all its miseries. the weak and lowly cherished and venerated his name. they knew that this great man had their cause in his heart. it is a whole people that will follow him to the grave.' loud acclamations followed this speech, and the proposal was adopted by 415 votes to 3. the news of the poet's death excited as much emotion in the french provinces as in the capital. the municipal councils of lyons, marseilles, and toulon closed their sittings as a mark of grief, after having appointed delegates to represent them at the funeral. the municipal council of besançon sent the following address to the hugo family:--'the native town of victor hugo, through the council, places at the feet of the departed its sentiments of profound grief. the glory of the greatest of her children will for ever irradiate her and the whole world. by his genius he was foremost among men of letters and poets. by his love of his country and of liberty he was the enemy of usurpers and despots, and the power of his heart and his zeal for the welfare of humanity place him at the head of the protectors of the oppressed, the humble, and the weak.' the mayor of nancy addressed the following letter to m. lockroy:--'the town of nancy has always felt proud of having been the birthplace of general hugo, the father of the man of genius for whom france mourns. she claimed as a glory for the blood of lorraine, which ran in his veins, the renown of the great poet. i am an inadequate but sincere interpreter of the general grief.' at algiers the municipal council closed its sittings, and from london, vienna, and st. petersburg messages of sympathy were despatched. on the day following the poet's death it was computed that at least ten thousand letters and messages of condolence reached the avenue victor hugo. a desire having been expressed that victor hugo should be buried in the panthéon, the feeling spread rapidly through almost all classes. in pursuance of this wish, m. anatole de la forge moved in the chamber of deputies that the panthéon, known as the church of st. geneviève, should be secularized, in order that victor hugo's remains might be buried there. urgency was voted for the motion by 229 against 114 votes, but the minister of the interior requested the house to postpone the vote upon it until the next sitting. it may be here stated that the panthéon was commenced in 1764 as a church, completed in 1790 as a walhalla, was a church from 1822 to 1830, and again from 1851 until 1885. the interments in it of mirabeau, voltaire, rousseau, and marat are matters of history, as are also the expulsions which followed. mirabeau's body was publicly expelled by the terrorists; marat's by the anti-terrorists; and voltaire's and rousseau's clandestinely by the legitimists. in 1881 the last french chamber passed a bill secularizing it; but this did not pass through the senate. two days after the discussion upon m. de la forge's motion, the _journal officiel_ published a series of documents which summarily disposed of the matter. ministers having advised president grévy that an opportune moment had arrived for accomplishing the wish expressed by the chamber in 1881, and for restoring the building to its original destination as a burial-place for illustrious frenchmen, two presidential decrees were made, one declaring the panthéon to be henceforth a mausoleum for great men who should have merited the gratitude of the nation, and the other directing that the body of victor hugo should be laid there. in the chamber an order of the day was proposed by the comte de mun, condemning the presidential decree as a provocation to catholics and as an act of feebleness; but this was rejected by 388 to 83. another motion expressing the chamber's entire approval of the letter and spirit of the decree was then submitted, and carried by 338 to 90. hugo's family consented to the body being taken to the panthéon, but insisted on its being carried in a pauper's hearse from the arc de triomphe, where it was to lie in state, to the national mausoleum. at six o'clock on the morning of the 31st of may the remains of the poet were transferred to the arc de triomphe, where waggon-loads of flowers and memorial wreaths had been constantly arriving. all the shops, cafés, and restaurants in the avenue victor hugo, and near the triumphal arch, had remained open all night. 'there was nothing disorderly,' wrote a correspondent, 'and the impression everything gave was one of sadness, though all day the aspect of the place de l'étoile had been really festive. the cenotaph was visible from the tuileries. the coffin was covered with a silver-spangled pall, which rose from a base covered with black and violet cloth, violet being regal mourning, and victor hugo having attained an intellectual and moral sovereignty over france.' early in the day the crowds of human beings in all the avenues leading to the place de l'étoile were very dense. as evening drew on the aspect was like that of some great fair. medals bearing _les châtiments, napoléon le petit_, and other legends, were offered for sale, as well as medallions and numberless other memorials of the dead. the display of flowers was wholly unparalleled. at night a flood of electric light poured upon the place de l'étoile, revealing the coffin with dalou's powerfully modelled bust at the foot, and bringing out the flowers and the names of victor hugo's works on shields. the effect of the horse guards with torches and veiled lamps was very striking. twelve schoolboys, relieved every hour, formed a picket in front of the cenotaph, round which there was an outer circle of juvenile guards, and an inner one of hugo's intimate friends. english literature and the fine arts were worthily represented in the votive offerings laid at the feet of the great poet. wreaths, flowers, and memorial cards were sent in great abundance. lord tennyson wrote under his name the word 'homage,' and at the top of his card, '_in memoriam celeberrimi poetæ_.' mr. browning also was represented, as well as sir frederick leighton, the president of the royal academy. archdeacon farrar sent the message, 'in honour of one who honoured man as man.' sir f. burton, director of the national gallery, wrote, 'honour to the memory of the great master;' and similar tributes were paid by many men of letters, poets, royal academicians, and others. the funeral ceremony took place on the 1st of june, and it was of such a character as to live in the memory of all who witnessed it. what distinguished the procession in honour of victor hugo from the only one comparable with it, that of gambetta, observed the correspondent of the _times_, was not only its vast size, which was without precedent, but also the distinct sentiment which dominated both its members and the crowd. it was at once the triumph of the democracy and an illustration of its power. in the case of gambetta, france beheld a statesman cut off in his prime, with all the dreams of hope and ambition before him. in the case of victor hugo, it was a veteran in letters entering into his rest. 'at the tidings of his death, all france, all parties, seemed to claim him; and it was the loss of the poet, the thinker, the humanitarian, which was first deplored. then, by degrees, party claims were put forth. the poet and thinker disappeared, and this made his funeral less sublime. the crowd paid homage to the political weaknesses of his latter years, to the democratic philanthropist, to the extremist senator, to a hugo, in fact, whom posterity will ignore, while honouring him with a place among great literary geniuses.' the struggle over his remains ended by other parties giving way, and the people for whom he had laboured claiming him as their especial champion and prophet. but certainly, whether for king, priest, statesman, or man of letters, paris and the provinces never before turned out in such vast multitudes. the wreaths arriving from all parts were placed on twelve cars, drawn by four or six horses each, and they formed a brilliant spectacle. before six o'clock in the morning there were already four rows of spectators assembled on each side of the champs élysées. 'the authorities, with considerable skill and foresight, had directed most of the societies likely to bear what might be qualified as seditious banners to meet in the avenue du bois de boulogne. here accordingly, at a little before nine o'clock, were massed various free-thought societies, nearly all of them bearing red flags or banners, from boulogne, asnières, argenteuil, suresne, bicêtre, sèvres, puteaux, and other places. some of the banners were ornamented with phrygian caps. close by, in the avenue de la grande armée, the proscripts of 1851-52 had also a red banner. by ten o'clock there were fifteen red flags close to the arc de triomphe. at the corner of the rue brunel m. lissagaray, m. martin, and some thirty well-known anarchists had responded to the call of the revolutionary committee. they seemed, however, lost in the crowd. twice this little group of anarchists tried to unfurl a red flag, but being so closely watched, they had not time to hoist the colour in the air before flag-bearer and flag were both captured. by half-past ten the anarchists, having already lost two flags, abandoned the rue brunel. a little before eleven o'clock a commissioner of police, in plain clothes, accompanied by half-a-dozen policemen and a company of republican guards, marched down the avenue du bois de boulogne, and, accosting the bearer of every red flag that seemed at all objectionable, lifted his hat, and demanded that the emblem should be covered over.' although disturbances had been feared none occurred. the red republicans and anarchists (whom victor hugo had more than once condemned) were but as a drop in the bucket, compared with the myriads of other citizens assembled to do honour to the dead. although some arrests were made, the greatness of the whole occasion dwarfed their significance, and the most imposing spectacle within living memory became a veritable popular triumph, and one reflecting credit upon the french nation. vivid descriptions were penned of the ceremony. according to one of these, by eleven o'clock the sight at the foot of the arc de triomphe became more and more impressive. the dull, grey sky, the roll of the muffled drums, the mournful strains of chopin's _funeral march_, combined with the hushed tones of conversation, helped to impress the numerous audience gathered round. the bright red robes of the judges and the sombre gowns of the barristers made a picturesque contrast with the very plain, unpretending dress of the members of the government and of the foreign diplomatic corps, who sat in the most favoured places at the foot of the arc. in the background the glitter of cuirassier armour and the gold braiding of the representatives of the army gave tone and vivacity to the scene. much interest was manifested at the presence of the french cabinet, of both houses, and of the english ambassador, sitting side by side with m. de mohrenheim, the russian ambassador. when the mourning family had taken their places, ministers went to pay them their condolences. the funeral addresses were then delivered from a tribune erected on the left of the catafalque. the first speaker, m. le royer, president of the senate, described victor hugo as the most illustrious senator, whose olympian forehead, bowed on his breast in an anticipated posture of immortality, always attracted respectful homage from all his colleagues. he never mounted the tribune but to support a cause always dear to him--the amnesty. amidst apparent hesitations, he had all his life consistently pursued a high ideal of justice and humanity, and his moral action on france was immense. he unmasked the sophisms of crowned crime, comforted weak hearts, and restored to honest men right notions of moral law, which had been momentarily obscured. the speech of the day, however, was delivered by m. floquet, president of the chamber of deputies. in tones which could be distinctly heard throughout the vast arena, and with much eloquence of gesture, the orator said: 'what can equal the grandeur of the spectacle before us, which history will record! under this arch, constellated with the legendary names of so many heroes, who have made france free, and wished to render her glorious, we see to-day the mortal remains, or rather, i should say, the still serene image, of the great man who so long sang the glory of our country and struggled for her liberty. we see here around us the most eminent men in arts and sciences, the representatives of the french people, the delegates of our departments and communes, voluntary and spontaneous ambassadors, and missionaries from the civilized universe, piously bending the knee before him who was a sovereign of thought, an exile for crushed right and a betrayed republic, a persevering protector of all the weak and oppressed, and the chosen defender of humanity in our century. in the name of the nation we salute him, not in the humble attitude of mourning, but with all the pride of glorification. this is not a funeral, but an apotheosis. we weep for the man who is gone, but we acclaim the imperishable apostle whose word remains with us, and, surviving from age to age, will conduct the world to the definite conquest of liberty, equality, and fraternity. this immortal giant would have been ill at ease in the solitude and obscurity of subterranean crypts. we have elevated him there, exposed to the judgment of men and nature, under the grand sun which illuminated his august conscience. whole peoples realize the poetical dream of this sweet genius. may this coffin, covered with the flowers of the grateful inhabitants of paris, which victor hugo loved to call the _cité mère_, and of which he was the respectful son and faithful servant, teach the admiring multitude duty, concord, and peace.' m. floquet concluded by reciting the verses beginning '_je hais l'oppression d'une haine profonde_' ('i hate oppression with a profound hatred'). this address, which elicited enthusiastic approval, was followed by one from m. goblet, minister of public instruction. the minister said that victor hugo, while living, figured in the glorious pleiad of great poets--with corneille, molière, racine, and voltaire. he would always remain the highest personification of the nineteenth century, the history of which, with its contradictions, its doubts, its ideas, and aspirations, had been best reflected in his works. the speaker laid stress upon the profoundly human character of victor hugo, who represented in france the spirit of toleration and peace. m. émile augier, who appeared in the uniform of the academy, said: 'the great poet that france has lost vouchsafed me a place in his friendship. hence the honour i have to be chosen by the academy to express our grief, which is as nothing to that of the whole nation. to the sovereign poet france renders sovereign honours. she is not prodigal of the surname great. hitherto it has been almost the exclusive appanage of conquerors; but one preceding poet was universally called the great corneille, and henceforth we shall say the great victor hugo. his long-acquired renown is now called glory, and posterity commences. we are not celebrating a funeral, but a coronation.' m. michelin, president of the municipal council of paris, delivered the last speech of the day. on the conclusion of the addresses, the drums beat the salute, and then the band of the republican guard struck up the _marseillaise_. just as they had reached the chorus of the stirring french national anthem, the coffin was brought out from the catafalque, and at that precise moment the sun, bursting through the grey clouds, threw a ray of brilliant light on the mountain of flowers whence the remains of victor hugo had emerged. now the march commenced, the school battalions and the representatives of the press taking the lead, amid clapping of hands. chopin's _marche funèbre_ was the music played at the opening of the ceremonial. after this came in slow movement the strains of the _marseillaise_, which were soon followed by the _chant du départ_, and then by the girondins' celebrated chant, _mourir pour la patrie_. faithful to the stipulation of his will, victor hugo's body was conveyed to its last resting-place in the poor man's hearse--that is to say, the cheapest hearse which the pompes funèbres provide. as the corpse was being removed from the cenotaph every head was uncovered. the artillery of the invalides and of mont valérian boomed out a farewell salute. 'the procession,' wrote a correspondent of the _daily news_, 'had for vanguard a squadron of mounted gendarmes, followed by general saussier, the governor of paris, and the cuirassiers, with band playing; twelve crown-laden cars, the band of the republican guard, the delegates of besançon carrying a white crown, the french and foreign journalists, the society of dramatic authors, and the delegates of the national and other theatres. the cars were surrounded by the children of the school battalion. there was no crown on the pauper's hearse. the friends of the deceased held the cords of the pall, and georges hugo walked alone, behind. he was in evening dress, and looked a young man. his face is handsome, and his air distinguished. his mother, sister, and different ladies and other friends of the family walked at a short distance behind him. the crowd of people was astounding round the arch of triumph, and in the champs élysées' side-ways the windows, balconies, house-roofs, and even the chimney-tops were crowded.' the very trees seemed to bud with human beings; and the crowd of spectators in the streets was so deep and serried that it was impossible for any wearied senator, savant, or other venerable person to get out if once imprisoned. all along the route of the procession heads were religiously uncovered as the hearse passed. the school battalion guarded it, and then came many companies of boyish militia. gymnastic societies in white, blue, and red flannel shirts, with white trousers, gaiters, and caps; delegations of the learned societies, political clubs, printers, publishers, newspapers, foreign radicals, literati, philanthropical societies, fire brigades, humane societies, trades unions, came in processional order. each group was distinctly separated from the other. down the broad champs élysées the procession moved with great facility, as all carriages had been cleared away before eight o'clock in the morning. all the available standing-room of the broad causeway was filled with an eager throng; but the most sublime sight was presented at the place de la concorde. the corner from the champs élysées to the bridge was walled off by the troops, so that an innumerable multitude was able to collect at this point. not content with this, the banks of the seine, down to the water's edge, on both sides of the bridge, were thickly studded with people, and every floating barge or boat was dangerously loaded with spectators. far up the broad stretch of the avenue the procession, with its thousand crowns and banners, could be seen slowly descending. many groups had not yet left the arc de triomphe when the head of the procession reached the panthéon. a dense mass of spectators had gathered in and around the place de la concorde; but perhaps no portion of the route was so crowded as the rue soufflot, which leads from the boulevard st. michel to the panthéon. windows, ladders, roofs, and chimneys were all utilized by those eager to witness the passing of the procession. shortly after half-past one the head of the procession reached the steps of the panthéon, and at two o'clock the coffin was brought up the front steps, and placed on the catafalque. the representatives of the family, of government, and the various authorities took their places on either side of the main entrance. once more a grand spectacle was offered by the artistic grouping of crowns, flowers, uniforms, and colours under the majestic pillars of the panthéon. speeches were again delivered, and these continued while the procession, with, bands and banners, filed past. the working-class corporations followed in their various order, and these were succeeded by the secular technical school for girls, the republican socialist alliance, the comedians of paris, the montmartre choral society, the women's suffrage society, the radical socialist club, and many other bodies. 'a few minutes after six o'clock,' remarked the _times_ correspondent, 'the last crowns and banners passed by, and after a short interval the troops representing the army of paris commenced their march-past. dragoons, republican guard, and line were in their turn acclaimed by the multitude, pleased by their martial appearance and their light tread after the fatigues of the day. then came the blare of the artillery trumpets, followed by those of the dragoons, and at precisely a quarter to seven the last soldier made the last salute to the remains of victor hugo. a statue of hugo in his famous posture of reverie fronted the panthéon. this papier-mâché statue represented victor hugo watching the long procession that did him honour. it was a trifle; but there was a touch of tender thoughtfulness in this reminder to the surging multitude that they must not forget the man who was being borne to the grave.' thus ended a funeral pageant worthy, on the whole, of the poet and the nation--a pageant in which were to be found representatives of all classes of the french community. victor hugo, whose genius recalled the elder glory of french literature, now sleeps in the panthéon. while he differed from the illustrious men of the past, having neither the wit of rabelais nor molière, the classic dignity of corneille, nor the philosophic depth of voltaire, he had a greatness, though of a different kind, equal to their own. he therefore joins them as an equal. he has given to french literature a new departure; for every book he has written, while wet with human tears, is yet stamped with the terrible earnestness which possessed his spirit, and made immutable by the herculean strength of his genius. chapter xxi. genius and characteristics. victor hugo, though simple in nature, was many-sided in intellect. as i approach the conclusion of my task, i feel how truly great the sum of this man's work was, notwithstanding the flaws which disfigured it. and in proportion to its greatness is the difficulty of appraising, or even of approximately appraising, its value. this task belongs to a writer or writers yet unborn; for neither in his own nor even in the next generation does such a man of genius as hugo--an author _sui generis_, one utterly unlike all others--assume his distinctive niche in the walhalla of literature. but there are some suggestions of a general character which may be offered respecting his work, and these will naturally fall under four headings--political, social, moral or religious, and literary. it has been said that hugo failed in politics; but as he never posed for being a practical politician, the charge does not possess the significance that would have attached to it had he come forward as a political saviour--of whom france has had so many. for the sinuosities and compromises of party politics, however wise and necessary at times, he had no aptitude. he had no political creed; or, if he had, it might be summed up in one article. he individualized humanity, and declared it to be miserable. the whole of his creed, therefore, consisted in the destruction of monopolies and abuses, and the uplifting of the masses. but he was certainly unfitted for the debates of such a body as the french chamber, and it was probably one of the best things he ever did in his life when he shook the dust from under his feet, and bade the assembly an indignant farewell. yet he was more successful than scores of other politicians who have set up a claim to superior political wisdom. the french chamber has been too frequently suggestive of a _maison d'aliénés_. the modern gallic politician is about the most impulsive creature of which we have any knowledge. he lacks the phlegmatic nature of the german and the logical hardheadedness of the briton. he is hypersensitive and emotional, not argumentative and judicial. he only knows that he has ideas, and that every man who opposes those ideas is an enemy of the human species, and must be put out of the way. this was proved again and again in that terrible year of revolution, 1793, when the friends of reason sent each other to the block as they successively gained the upper hand. one would think that this was a sufficient baptism of blood; but it was not so; the tale has been renewed at intervals, and the communistic horrors of 1871 added another fearful page to the grim catalogue. french politics are a succession of storms; the lightning breaks, the thunder rolls, and the deluge follows; then, for a time, the sky clears and the sun shines brilliantly: but the clouds return after the rain; the barometer becomes demoralized; and electrical disturbance is once more the order of the day. but in the intervals of sanity in the french political world--i use the word 'sanity' in its larger sense--great and noble work is done, work worthy of the world's admiration. when the french mind conceives projects of amelioration, it conceives them with boldness and generosity. in this lies the safety-valve of the people, and also the best hope for the future of the race. men like hugo are the men to suggest and to push forward these great conceptions for the national welfare. they may have few political principles as such, but the political sympathies of such a man as victor hugo have more force and weight than the most orthodox and irreproachable doctrines of a hundred smaller men. while politicians may be struggling for unimportant details, men of great sympathies are mighty to the moving of mountains. as a practical politician, then, let it be frankly admitted that hugo was a failure; that in his speeches he was frequently rhapsodical; and that he could take no initiative in practical legislation. all these are matters in which lesser intellects might, could, should, would, and do succeed. but in that higher region where the eternal principles of justice come into play, where sublime benevolence holds her seat, where by a quick and living sympathy universal humanity is made to feel a universal brotherhood, then victor hugo had a political illumination to which none other of his contemporaries could lay claim. from the political to the social is but a step, and that a natural one. it cannot be said of hugo that he was liberal in his social theories and aristocratic in his practice. he had a courteousness of nature that made him equally esteemed, and had in reverence, by such an one as a king or an emperor, and the meanest of his compatriots who called upon him for advice or aid. if he endeavoured to teach the higher social life to others, he at least led the way by setting before himself only such aims as were noble and humane. he was the very soul of truth in all his relations, and if he were not the equal of rousseau as a great social teacher, he far transcended the author of the _contrat social_ in his irreproachable life and his deep personal sympathies. one writer has said that 'victor hugo's own strongest influence is but a breath of the influence of rousseau.' this is a deliverance as unhappy as it is dogmatic. there is neither necessity nor appositeness in placing the two writers in such juxtaposition. france before rousseau was not the france of victor hugo; the former had work of an originative character to do in the social sphere, as victor hugo had in that of literature. but while hugo was not the creator of a new social system, one of the primary causes of his influence was of a social character. his intense and genuine sympathy with the humble and the poor and the suffering gave him a place in the affection of thousands who knew little of social theories. the key, indeed, to hugo's personal character and influence, as distinguished from the literary, was that human sympathy which led to his untiring efforts to protect the weak against the strong. he would have no parleying with oppression and violence, and notwithstanding his passionateness he really exercised a salutary and calming influence in the main, and one which told for goodness. to him the orphan's rags, the shame of woman, and the anguish of the toiler never appealed in vain. i can imagine him doing what sturdy old samuel johnson did when he rescued the outcast woman in the strand, and himself bore her away to a place of safety. hugo had a clear enough insight into those social reforms which are still a necessity even in this enlightened age. he did not believe in the perfection of the poor, though he did believe in the absolute imperfection of kings and priests. by setting the latter in the full blaze of publicity, he believed he was doing a great social work, and helping on that golden age of happiness for which he laboured. in his earnestness and enthusiasm, he might commit, and doubtless did commit, errors of judgment; but then without these very qualities of earnestness and enthusiasm all the great things associated with his name could have had no birth. where we gain much, we can easily forgive a little. victor hugo had a conscience, and as a man amongst men, pleading for men, he threw it all into his social work. in jean valjean he will never cease to plead, though he himself is dead. he has given to the sufferings of humanity a voice which will continue to speak in tones of pathos and of sadness until the last of those sufferings and social wrongs shall have passed away. of many devastating spirits has the world been called upon to say that they made a solitude and called it peace; but of victor hugo we may say that he found humanity a bleak and cheerless wilderness, and endeavoured to make it blossom as the rose. yet loving the world and humanity as he did, and feeling that the earth was 'bound by gold chains about the feet of god,' hugo, as i have before said, has been claimed by some as an unbeliever. as though any great poet who had come to years of discretion could be a materialist or an infidel. so far from seeing no god in the universe, the poet as a rule is god-intoxicated. i shall be reminded, perhaps, of lucretius and shelley, but even these, as the exceptions, would only serve to prove the rule. the roman, however, was philosopher first, and poet afterwards; while as for the atheism of shelley, it was a spasmodic experience due to a revolt against authority--not a deep-settled conviction--and an experience out of which he was rapidly growing at the time of his death. no poet of the first order has ever been an atheist, and victor hugo was no exception to the rule. while discarding religious systems, he was, in fact, profoundly religious. he never swerved in this matter from the position he held in 1850, and which he thus explained at the close of a speech on public instruction, 'god will be found at the end of all. let us not forget him; and let us teach him to all. there would otherwise be no dignity in living, and it would be better to die entirely. what soothes suffering, what sanctifies labour, what makes man good, strong, wise, patient, benevolent, just, and at the same time humble and great, worthy of liberty, is to have before him the perpetual vision of a better world throwing its rays through the darkness of this life. as regards myself, i believe profoundly in this better world, and i declare it in this place to be the supreme certainty of my soul. i wish, then, sincerely, or, to speak more strongly, i wish ardently for religious instruction.' there is surely nothing vague or nebulous about this. no man could express himself more clearly or emphatically if directly questioned upon the great and momentous topics of god and immortality. as a religious teacher, then, hugo may be justly claimed; for the whole weight of his name and influence was thrown upon the side of those profound religious convictions which have been the consolation of the human race, and which have knit man in indissoluble bonds to the divine. what shall i say of victor hugo from the literary point of view? his true glory is that he revivified french literature--created it afresh, as it were--and was himself the best representative of its new excellences. but this subject is so great that i scarcely dare venture upon it. the poet carried out in his own person and work the advice he once gave to some younger spirits, 'act so that your conscience will approve, and your works praise you; and, like those great unknown, you will leave the world better than you found it; while, in virtue of the justice which i believe to be the law of the universe, you will rise high elsewhere in the scale of creation. a man is splendidly praised when he is praised by his works.' of course, he had his detractors--such men as charles maurice, who believed himself to be a greater writer than victor hugo, and who only perceived in _hernani_ the effects of 'an intolerable system of style destructive of all poesy.' the world has since regulated this matter adversely to maurice. then there were others not so unjust as this writer, but men who were so strongly impressed by the defects of hugo that they scarcely gave him due credit for his manifest powers of literary expression. heine and amiel may be taken to represent this type. to set against these are the hugolâtres, as théophile gautier called them. in england the most enthusiastic admirer of the poet is undoubtedly mr. swinburne, and from his numerous tributes i may select one passage that is a kind of triumphant summary of the rest. it is the last stanza from his new-year ode to hugo, in the _midsummer holiday, and other poems_: 'life, everlasting while the worlds endure, death, self-abased before a power more high, shall bear one witness, and their word stand sure, that not till time be dead shall this man die. love, like a bird, comes loyal to his lure; fame flies before him, wingless else to fly. a child's heart toward his kind is not more pure, an eagle's toward the sun no lordlier eye. awe sweet as love and proud as fame, though hushed and bowed, yearns toward him silent as his face goes by; all crowns before his crown triumphantly bow down, for pride that one more great than all draws nigh: all souls applaud, all hearts acclaim, one heart benign, one soul supreme, one conquering name.' making allowance for the fervour which a peculiarly fervid singer throws into his admiration, there is much truth in this metrical tribute to the literary and personal worth of the great poet. substantially the same high view of hugo is held by lord tennyson and other literary men in this country. but, with regard to criticism in particular, the writer from whom i have just quoted was even happier still in his prose comparisons. he remarked in his essay on _la légende des siècles_ that 'hugo, for all his dramatic and narrative mastery of effect, will always probably remind men rather of such poets as dante or isaiah than of such poets as sophocles or shakspeare. we cannot, of course, imagine the florentine or the hebrew endowed with his infinite variety of sympathies, of interests, and of powers; but as little can we imagine in the athenian such height and depth of passion, in the englishman such unquenchable and sleepless fire of moral and prophetic faith. and hardly in any one of these, though shakspeare perhaps may be excepted, can we recognise the same buoyant and childlike exultation in such things as are the delight of a high-hearted child--in free glory of adventure and ideal daring, in the triumph and rapture of reinless imagination, which gives now and then some excess of godlike empire and superhuman kinship to their hands whom his hands have created, and the lips whose life is breathed into them from his own.' and again, 'in his love of light and freedom, reason and justice, he not of jerusalem, but of athens; but in the bent of his imagination, in the form and colour of his dreams, in the scope and sweep of his wide-winged spiritual flight, he is nearer akin to the great insurgent prophets of deliverance and restoration than to any poet of athens, except only their kinsman æschylus.' even the most superficial reading of hugo must leave an impression of magnificent powers, of powers which in given circumstances might have produced many and different forms of greatness. he had that exaltation of the intellect and imagination, that lofty range of mental force, which moulds centuries and moves the world. but there are special literary qualities in hugo which should be noticed. first among them is his extreme conscientiousness. his natural eloquence has sometimes been regarded as a snare to him, and yet in all the details of his work he was rigidly exact, so far as the most minute search could enable him to be. this was apparent in _notre-dame_, and especially so in _les misérables_, where he devoted a volume to a description of the battle of waterloo, or mont st. jean, as the french designate it. before writing on this, he lived for some time in the vicinity of the scene, and closely noted every item in connection with the fight on that great battlefield. he wrote to a correspondent, 'i have studied waterloo profoundly; i am the only historian who has passed two months on the field of battle.' this same feeling of conscientiousness he also carried into other matters. another point which must be borne in mind in endeavouring to get at the source of victor hugo's influence upon literature is the extent and flexibility of his vocabulary. 'no one,' wrote m. edmond about, shortly after the appearance of _quatre-vingt-treize_, 'can fail to recognise the power of hugo's invention, the wealth of his ideas, the grandeur of his oratorical flights, and that sublimity which is the mark of a man of genius; but it is not known in europe, nor even in france, that victor hugo is the most learned of men of letters. he possesses an enormous vocabulary. out of the 27,000 words which the dictionary of the academy contains, and 6,000 of which have an individuality of their own, the language of common life employs at most about a thousand. i could mention illustrious publicists, popular dramatists, novelists, whose books are much read and much liked, none of whom has more than 1,500 words at his disposal. théophile gautier, a studious man and a dilettante, used to boast to his friends of possessing 3,000. "but," he used to add, "i might toil to the last day of my life without attaining to the vocabulary of hugo." genius apart, merely by his knowledge and use of his mother-tongue, hugo is the rabelais of modern days. this is the minor side of his glory, i allow; but critics ought not to neglect it, or they will lead people to form false ideas.' as to hugo's human passion, it agonizes in almost every page of his writings. he is nothing if not intensely human. and his weird and powerful effects are heightened by that undertone, that minor chord of music which he touches more often than the more jubilant major notes. 'the still sad music of humanity' is for ever beating in his ear, and he translates its moving pathos into words. a mind of this stamp feels that it can rarely turn to the humorous, and accordingly it is objected that he has no sense of humour. the charge is true in the main, for the grim humour of some of his situations may be better expressed by the epithet of grotesque. he lacked just this saving sense of humour to place him on a level with the greatest writers--or rather with those writers who are greatest in the delineation of human nature and its passions; for we have great writers, such as dante and milton, who are equal strangers with hugo to the humour which plays about the pages of shakspeare. but hugo is pre-eminent in other qualities. he is firmly and uncompromisingly veracious. no special correspondent who ever described a battlefield could be more vivid and telling in his reminiscences. there is the stamp of reality and truthfulness upon all that he has written. with a gloomy magnificence of imagery he has described scenes and events that are now immortal in literature. there is a grand spontaneity in his utterances--an eloquence that springs from the heart as much as from the head; while over all his poems and romances a noble halo has been thrown which is the reflex of the innate nobility of the man. m. émile montégut has observed that hugo is master of all that is colossal and fearful. his imagination prefers sublime and terrible spectacles: war, shipwreck, death, and primitive civilizations, with their babels and convulsions--these attract him. how well, also, can he imitate the plaintive cries of the ocean under the tempest which torments it! let him but paint a feudal ruin and you will be made to feel all its imposing horrors; or a palace of babylon, and you will realize its massive splendours. he knows the secrets of the sphinx, and of the monstrous idols; he is familiar with the burning deserts of africa, and the horrors of hyperborean countries. in the domain of the weird he is sovereign king, and no one will dispute with him. in other fields he may have rivals, but in the region where the fantastic mingles with the superhuman he has no equal. but there is yet another side to hugo which english critics have been just to note--it is that concerned with his human creations. while he may revel in the scenes which m. montégut depicts, his heart is mostly in his human creations. and with regard to his treatment of these, it has been observed that the spectator is put outside the scene, and can do nothing but look on breathless, while amid mist and cloud, with illuminations fiery or genial, as the case may be, the great picture rises before him, each actor detached and separate, some in boldest relief, with a force which is often tremendous, and always forcibly dramatic. the giant and the child are treated with equal care and conscientiousness. though first in massive effects, in deep broad lines, hugo is also first in the most delicate shades of tenderness. 'the babes are as distinct as the heroes, every pearly curve of them tender and sweet as rose-leaves, yet complete creatures, nowhere blurred or indefinite, even in the most delicious softness of execution.' i quote from a writer in _blackwood_, who had the candour (not always displayed by critics) to acknowledge that neither in france nor upon our own side of the channel is there a contemporary writer who can with any show of justice be placed by the side of victor hugo. 'his genius is too national, his workmanship too characteristic, to be contrasted with the calmer inspiration of any englishman.... his subject, the character he is unfolding, possesses the writer: he throws himself upon it with a glow and fervour of knowledge, with a certainty of delineation which is not the mere exercise of practised powers, but with that something indescribable, something indefinable, added to it, swelling in every line, and transforming every paragraph. the workmanship is often wonderful; but it is not the workmanship which strikes us most--it is the abundant, often wild, sometimes unguided and undisciplined touch of genius which inspires and expands and exaggerates and dilates the words it is constrained to make use of--almost forcing a new meaning upon them by way of fiery compulsion, to blazon its own meaning upon brain and sense, whether they will or not. we know no literary work of the age--we had almost said no intellectual work of any kind--so possessed and quivering with this indescribable but extraordinary power.' hugo's works are undoubtedly in parts eccentric, and all too frequently extravagant; but this is the nodding of homer. his conceptions are gigantic, and his figures truly dramatic; and these are the chief things with which we have to do. in his superb excellences he stands alone--he is unique. his table is weighted with intellectual sustenance; so great is his abundance that a myriad writers could be fed from the crumbs which fall from his table. from the literary point of view we must not forget his chief distinction--that he effected the most brilliant and complete revolution that has been witnessed in the history of french literature. he changed the whole face of art in french poetry, and destroyed for ever the poetry of conventionality. he has endowed his native language with new nerve and sensibility; he has given it a fresh and vital force, and the effects of his influence upon the nation and literature of which he was the brightest ornament must be radical and abiding. one quality only, or so it seems to me, hugo lacked to place him on a level with the few great master spirits of the world. he wanted the universality of homer and shakspeare. whenever the _iliad_ is read, the power of that mighty story is felt, and methinks that had i been born of any other than that english nationality of which i can boast, there is still something in shakspeare which would have moved me as no other writer does. it is that secret power which draws all hearts to him--'that touch of nature which makes the whole world kin,' and unites all men in admiration of his singular genius. hugo is great also, but he has not that shakspearean greatness which compels the tribute of all other peoples, as it receives the willing homage of his own. his noble poems and romances, with their sonorous eloquence, their rapid changes, their varied effects, remind me of nature on an autumn day. the gloomy cloud gathers in the heavens, the lurid lightning darts from its bosom, the thunder rolls and reverberates in the mountains; but anon the tempest passes, the heavens open, and the glorious and beneficent sun once more smiles upon the world. so hugo is a mixture of thunder and sunshine; of smiles and tears. no man had ever a greater heart--shakspeare, and few others only, a more expansive intellect. he lacks the grand impartiality and the majestic calm of the author of _hamlet_; but his soul is filled with the same love of his species, and it is large enough to embrace all the sons of humanity. his is a name which any nation, might well hold in everlasting honour. though his life be ended, the splendour of his fame has but just begun; for the works infused and moulded by his genius, and into which he threw so much of passionate energy, of a noble idealism, of radiant hope, of moral fervour, and of human sympathy, will assuredly confer upon him glory and immortality. billing and sons, printers, guildford. little journeys to the homes of the great elbert hubbard memorial edition printed and made into a book by the roycrofters, who are in east aurora, erie county, new york wm. h. wise & co. new york 1916 publisher's preface elbert hubbard is dead, or should we say, has gone on his last little journey to the great beyond. but the children of his fertile brain still live and will continue to live and keep fresh the memory of their illustrious forebear. fourteen years were consumed in the preparation of the work that ranks today as elbert hubbard's masterpiece. in eighteen hundred ninety-four, the series of little journeys to the homes of the great was begun, and once a month for fourteen years, without a break, one of these little pilgrimages was given to the world. these little gems have been accepted as classics and will live. in all there are one hundred eighty little journeys that take us to the homes of the men and women who transformed the thought of their time, changed the course of empire, and marked the destiny of civilization. through him, the ideas, the deeds, the achievements of these immortals have been given to the living present and will be sent echoing down the centuries. hubbard's little journeys to the homes of these men and women have not been equaled since plutarch wrote his forty-six parallel lives of the greeks and romans. and these were given to the world before the first rosy dawn of modern civilization had risen to the horizon. without dwelling upon their achievements, plutarch, with a trifling incident, a simple word or an innocent jest, showed the virtues and failings of his subject. as a result, no other books from classical literature have come down through the ages to us with so great an influence upon the lives of the leading men of the world. who can recount the innumerable biographies that begin thus: "in his youth, our subject had for his constant reading, plutarch's lives, etc."? emerson must have had in mind this silent, irresistible force that shaped the lives of the great men of these twenty centuries when he declared, "all history resolves itself very easily into the biography of a few stout and earnest persons." plutarch lived in the time of saint paul, and wrote of the early greeks and romans. after two thousand years hubbard appeared, to bridge the centuries from athens, in the golden age of pericles, to america, in the wondrous age of edison. with the magic wand of genius he touched the buried mummies of all time, and from each tomb gushed forth a geyser of inspiration. hugh chalmers once remarked that, if he were getting out a blue book of america, he would publish elbert hubbard's subscription-lists. whether we accept this authoritative statement or not, there is no doubt that the pen of this immortal did more to stimulate the best minds of the country than any other american writer, living or dead. eminent writers study hubbard for style, while at the same time thousands of the tired men and women who do the world's work read him for inspiration. truly, this man wielded his pen like an archangel. not only as a writer does this many-sided genius command our admiration, but in many chosen fields, in all of which he excelled. as an institution, the roycroft shops would reflect credit upon the business acumen of the ablest men that america has produced in the field of achievement. the industry, it would seem, was launched to demonstrate the practicality of the high principles and philosophy preached by its founder, not only by the printed page, but from the platform. right here let it be noted that, as a public speaker, hubbard appeared before more audiences than any other lecturer of his time who gave the platform his undivided attention. where, one asks in amazement, did this remarkable man find the inspiration for carrying forward his great work? it is no secret. it was drawn from his own little pilgrimages to the haunts of the great. again like plutarch, these miniature biographies were composed for the personal benefit of the writer. it was his own satisfaction and moral improvement that inspired the work. following hubbard's tragic death, the announcement was made from east aurora that "the philistine" magazine would be discontinued--hubbard had gone on a long journey and might need his "philistine." besides, who was there to take up his pen? it was also a beautiful tribute to the father from the son. the same spirit of devotion has prompted the roycrofters to issue their memorial edition of the "little journeys to the homes of the great." in no other way could they so fittingly perpetuate the memory of the founder of their institution as to liberate the influence that was such an important factor in molding the career of his genius. if he should cast a backward glance, he would nod his approval. if there is to be a memorial, certainly let it be a service to mankind. he would have us all tap the same source from which he drew his inspiration. autobiographical the mintage of wisdom is to know that rest is rust, and that real life is in love, laughter and work. --_elbert hubbard_ i have been asked to write an article about myself and the work in which i am engaged. i think i am honest enough to sink self, to stand outside my own personality, and answer the proposition. let me begin by telling what i am not, and thus reach the vital issue by elimination. first, i am not popular in "society," and those who champion _my cause in my own town_ are plain, unpretentious people. second, i am not a popular writer, since my name has never been mentioned in the "atlantic," "scribner's," "harper's," "the century" or the "ladies' home journal." but as a matter of truth, it may not be amiss for me to say that i have waited long hours in the entryway of each of the magazines just named, in days agone, and then been handed the frappe. third, i am not rich, as the world counts wealth. fourth, as an orator i am without the graces, and do scant justice to the double-breasted prince albert. fifth, the roycroft shop, to the welfare of which my life is dedicated, is not so large as to be conspicuous on account of size. sixth, personally, i am no ten-thousand-dollar beauty: the glass of fashion and the mold of form are far from mine. then what have i done concerning which the public wishes to know? simply this: in one obscure country village i have had something to do with stopping the mad desire on the part of the young people to get out of the country and flock to the cities. in this town and vicinity the tide has been turned from city to country. we have made one country village an attractive place for growing youth by supplying congenial employment, opportunity for education and healthful recreation, and an outlook into the world of art and beauty. all boys and girls want to make things with their hands, and they want to make beautiful things, they want to "get along," and i've simply given them a chance to get along here, instead of seeking their fortunes in buffalo, new york or chicago. they have helped me and i have helped them; and through this mutual help we have made head, gained ground upon the whole. by myself i could have done nothing, and if i have succeeded, it is simply because i have had the aid and co-operation of cheerful, willing, loyal and loving helpers. even now as i am writing this in my cabin in the woods, four miles from the village, they are down there at the shop, quietly, patiently, cheerfully doing my work--which work is also theirs. no man liveth unto himself alone: our interests are all bound up together, and there is no such thing as a man going off by himself and corraling the good. when i came to this town there was not a house in the place that had a lavatory with hot and cold water attachments. those who bathed, swam in the creek in the summer or used the family wash tub in the kitchen in winter. my good old partner, ali baba, has always prided himself on his personal cleanliness he is arrayed in rags, but underneath, his hide is clean, and better still, his heart is right. yet when he first became a member of my household, he was obliged to take his saturday-night tub out in the orchard, from spring until autumn came with withered leaves. he used to make quite an ado in the kitchen, heating the water in the wash-boiler. six pails of cistern-water, a gourd of soft soap, and a gunny-sack for friction were required in the operation. of course, the baba waited until after dark before performing his ablutions. but finally his plans were more or less disturbed by certain rising youth, who timed his habits and awaited his disrobing with o'erripe tomatoes. the bombardment, and the inability to pursue the enemy, turned the genial current of the baba's life awry until i put a bathroom in my house, with a lock on the door. this bit of history i have mentioned for the dual purpose of shedding light on former bathing facilities in east aurora, and more especially to show that once we had the hoodlum with us. hoodlumism is born of idleness; it is useful energy gone to seed. in small towns hoodlumism is rife, and the hoodlums are usually the children of the best citizens. hoodlumism is the first step in the direction of crime. the hoodlum is very often a good boy who does not know what to do; and so he does the wrong thing. he bombards with tomatoes a good man taking a bath, puts ticktacks on windows, ties a tin can to the dog's tail, takes the burs off your carriage-wheels, steals your chickens, annexes your horse-blankets, and scares old ladies into fits by appearing at windows wrapped in a white sheet. to wear a mask, walk in and demand the money in the family ginger-jar is the next and natural evolution. to a great degree the roycroft shop has done away with hoodlumism in this village, and a stranger wearing a silk hat, or an artist with a white umbrella, is now quite safe upon our streets. very naturally, the oldest inhabitant will deny what i have said about east aurora--he will tell you that the order, cleanliness and beauty of the place have always existed. the change has come about so naturally, and so entirely without his assistance, that he knows nothing about it. truth when first presented is always denied, but later there comes a stage when the man says, "i always believed it." and so the good old citizens are induced to say that these things have always been, or else they gently pooh-pooh them. however, the truth remains that i introduced the first heating-furnace into the town; bought the first lawn-mower; was among the first to use electricity for lights and natural gas for fuel; and so far, am the only one in town to use natural gas for power. until the starting of the roycroft shop, there were no industries here, aside from the regulation country store, grocery, tavern, blacksmith-shop and sawmill--none of which enterprises attempted to supply more than local wants. there was hamlin's stock-farm, devoted to raising trotting-horses, that gave employment to some of the boys; but for the girls there was nothing. they got married at the first chance; some became "hired girls," or, if they had ambitions, fixed their hearts on the buffalo normal school, raised turkeys, picked berries, and turned every honest penny towards the desire to get an education so as to become teachers. comparatively, this class was small in number. most of the others simply followed that undefined desire to get away out of the dull, monotonous, gossiping village; and so, craving excitement, they went away to the cities, and the cities swallowed them. a wise man has said that god made the country, man the city, and the devil the small towns. the country supplies the city its best and its worst. we hear of the few who succeed, but of the many who are lost in the maelstrom we know nothing. sometimes in country homes it is even forbidden to mention certain names. "she went to the city," you are told--and there the history abruptly stops. and so, to swing back to the place of beginning, i think the chief reason many good folks are interested in the roycroft shop is because here country boys and girls are given work at which they not only earn their living, but can get an education while doing it. next to this is the natural curiosity to know how a large and successful business can be built up in a plain, humdrum village by simply using the talent and materials that are at hand, and so i am going to tell now how the roycroft shop came to start; a little about what it has done; what it is trying to do; and what it hopes to become. and since modesty is only egotism turned wrong side out, i will make no special endeavor to conceal the fact that i have had something to do with the venture. in london, from about sixteen hundred fifty to sixteen hundred ninety, samuel and thomas roycroft printed and made very beautiful books. in choosing the name "roycroft" for our shop we had these men in mind, but beyond this the word has a special significance, meaning king's craft--king's craftsmen being a term used in the guilds of the olden times for men who had achieved a high degree of skill--men who made things for the king. so a roycrofter is a person who makes beautiful things, and makes them as well as he can. "the roycrofters" is the legal name of our institution. it is a corporation, and the shares are distributed among the workers. no shares are held by any one but roycrofters, and it is agreed that any worker who quits the shop shall sell his shares back to the concern. this co-operative plan, it has been found, begets a high degree of personal diligence, a loyalty to the institution, a sentiment of fraternity and a feeling of permanency among the workers that is very beneficial to all concerned. each worker, even the most humble, calls it "our shop," and feels that he is an integral and necessary part of the whole. possibly there are a few who consider themselves more than necessary. ali baba, for instance, it is said, has referred to himself, at times, as the whole thing. and this is all right, too--i would never chide an excess of zeal: the pride of a worker in his worth and work is a thing to foster. it's the man who "doesn't give a damn" who is really troublesome. the artistic big-head is not half so bad as apathy. * * * * * in the month of december, eighteen hundred ninety-four, i printed the first "little journeys" in booklet form, at the local printing-office, having become discouraged in trying to find a publisher. but before offering the publication to the public, i decided to lay the matter again before g.p. putnam's sons, although they had declined the matter in manuscript form. mr. george h. putnam rather liked the matter, and was induced to issue the periodical as a venture for one year. the scheme seemed to meet with success, the novel form of the publication being in its favor. the subscription reached nearly a thousand in six months; the newspapers were kind, and the success of the plan suggested printing a pamphlet modeled on similar lines, telling what we thought about things in general, and publishers and magazine-editors in particular. there was no intention at first of issuing more than one number of this pamphlet, but to get it through the mails at magazine rates we made up a little subscription list and asked that it be entered at the post office at east aurora as second-class matter. the postmaster adjusted his brass-rimmed spectacles, read the pamphlet, and decided that it surely was second class matter. we called it "the philistine" because we were going after the "chosen people" in literature. it was leslie stephen who said, "the term philistine is a word used by prigs to designate people they do not like." when you call a man a bad name, you are that thing--not he. the smug and snugly ensconced denizens of union square called me a philistine, and i said, "yes, i am one, if a philistine is something different from you." my helpers, the printers, were about to go away to pastures new; they were in debt, the town was small, they could not make a living. so they offered me their outfit for a thousand dollars. i accepted the proposition. i decided to run "the philistine" magazine for a year--to keep faith with the misguided and hopeful parties who had subscribed--and then quit. to fill in the time, we printed a book: we printed it like a william morris book--printed it just as well as we could. it was cold in the old barn where we first set up "the philistine," so i built a little building like an old english chapel right alongside of my house. there was one basement and a room upstairs. i wanted it to be comfortable and pretty, and so we furnished our little shop cozily. we had four girls and three boys working for us then. the shop was never locked, and the boys and girls used to come around evenings. it was really more pleasant than at home. i brought over a shelf of books from the library. then i brought the piano, because the youngsters wanted to dance. the girls brought flowers and birds, and the boys put up curtains at the windows. we were having a lot o' fun, with new subscriptions coming in almost every day, and once in a while an order for a book. the place got too small when we began to bind books, so we built a wing on one side; then a wing on the other side. to keep the three carpenters busy who had been building the wings, i set them to making furniture for the place. they made the furniture as good as they could--folks came along and bought it. the boys picked up field-stones and built a great, splendid fireplace and chimney at one end of the shop. the work came out so well that i said, "boys, here is a great scheme--these hardheads are splendid building material." so i advertised we would pay a dollar a load for niggerheads. the farmers began to haul stones; they hauled more stones, and at last they had hauled four thousand loads. we bought all the stone in the dollar limit, bulling the market on boulders. three stone buildings have been built, another is in progress, and our plans are made to build an art-gallery of the same material--the stones that the builders rejected. an artist blew in on the way to nowhere, his baggage a tomato-can. he thought he would stop over for a day or two--he is with us yet, and three years have gone by since he came, and now we could not do without him. then we have a few remittance-men, sent to us from a distance, without return-tickets. some of these men were willing to do anything but work--they offered to run things, to preach, to advise, to make love to the girls. we bought them tickets to chicago, and without violence conducted them to the four-o'clock train. we have boys who have been expelled from school, blind people, deaf people, old people, jailbirds and mental defectives, and have managed to set them all at useful work; but the remittance-man of good family who smokes cigarettes in bed has proved too much for us--so we have given him the four-o'clock without ruth. we do not encourage people from a distance who want work to come on--they are apt to expect too much. they look for utopia, when work is work, here as elsewhere. there is just as much need for patience, gentleness, loyalty and love here as anywhere. application, desire to do the right thing, a willingness to help, and a well-curbed tongue are as necessary in east aurora as in tuskegee. we do our work as well as we can, live one day at a time, and try to be kind. * * * * * the village of east aurora, erie county, new york, the home of the roycrofters, is eighteen miles southeast of the city of buffalo. the place has a population of about three thousand people. there is no wealth in the town and no poverty. in east aurora there are six churches, with pastors' salaries varying from three hundred to one thousand dollars a year; and we have a most excellent school. the place is not especially picturesque or attractive, being simply a representative new york state village. lake erie is ten miles distant, and cazenovia creek winds its lazy way along by the village. the land around east aurora is poor, and so reduced in purse are the farmers that no insurance-company will insure farm property in erie county under any conditions unless the farmer has some business outside of agriculture--the experience of the underwriters being that when a man is poor enough, he is also dishonest; insure a farmer's barn in new york state, and there is a strong probability that he will soon invest in kerosene. however, there is no real destitution, for a farmer can always raise enough produce to feed his family, and in a wooded country he can get fuel, even if he has to lift it between the dawn and the day. most of the workers in the roycroft shop are children of farming folk, and it is needless to add that they are not college-bred, nor have they had the advantages of foreign travel. one of our best helpers, uncle billy bushnell, has never been to niagara falls, and does not care to go. uncle billy says if you stay at home and do your work well enough, the world will come to you; which aphorism the old man backs up with another, probably derived from experience, to the effect that a man is a fool to chase after women, because, if he doesn't, the women will chase after him. the wisdom of this hard-headed old son of the soil--who abandoned agriculture for art at seventy--is exemplified in the fact that during the year just past, over twenty-eight thousand pilgrims have visited the roycroft shop--representing every state and territory of the union and every civilized country on the globe, even far-off iceland, new zealand and the isle of guam. three hundred ten people are on the payroll at the present writing. the principal work is printing, illuminating and binding books. we also have a furniture shop, where mission furniture of the highest grade is made; a modeled-leather shop, where the most wonderful creations in calfskin are to be seen; and a smithy, where copper utensils of great beauty are hammered out by hand. quite as important as the printing and binding is the illuminating of initials and title-pages. this is a revival of a lost art, gone with so much of the artistic work done by the monks of the olden time. yet there is a demand for such work; and so far as i know, we are the first concern in america to take up the hand-illumination of books as a business. of course we have had to train our helpers, and from very crude attempts at decoration we have attained to a point where the british museum and the "bibliotheke" at the hague have deigned to order and pay good golden guineas for specimens of our handicraft. very naturally we want to do the best work possible, and so self-interest prompts us to be on the lookout for budding genius. the roycroft is a quest for talent. there is a market for the best, and the surest way, we think, to get away from competition is to do your work a little better than the other fellow. the old tendency to make things cheaper, instead of better, in the book line is a fallacy, as shown in the fact that within ten years there have been a dozen failures of big publishing-houses in the united states. the liabilities of these bankrupt concerns footed the fine total of fourteen million dollars. the man who made more books and cheaper books than any one concern ever made, had the felicity to fail very shortly, with liabilities of something over a million dollars. he overdid the thing in matter of cheapness--mistook his market. our motto is, "not how cheap, but how good." this is the richest country the world has ever known, far richer per capita than england--lending money to europe. once americans were all shoddy--pioneers have to be, i'm told--but now only a part of us are shoddy. as men and women increase in culture and refinement, they want fewer things, and they want better things. the cheap article, i will admit, ministers to a certain grade of intellect; but if the man grows, there will come a time when, instead of a great many cheap and shoddy things, he will want a few good things. he will want things that symbol solidity, truth, genuineness and beauty. the roycrofters have many opportunities for improvement not the least of which is the seeing, hearing and meeting distinguished people. we have a public dining-room, and not a day passes but men and women of note sit at meat with us. at the evening meal, if our visitors are so inclined, and are of the right fiber, i ask them to talk. and if there is no one else to speak, i sometimes read a little from william morris, shakespeare, walt whitman or ruskin. david bispham has sung for us. maude adams and minnie maddern fiske have also favored us with a taste of their quality. judge lindsey, alfred henry lewis, richard le gallienne, robert barr, have visited us; but to give a list of all the eminent men and women who have spoken, sung or played for us would lay me liable for infringement in printing "who's who." however, let me name one typical incident. the boston ideal opera company was playing in buffalo, and henry clay barnabee and half a dozen of his players took a run out to east aurora. they were shown through the shop by one of the girls whose work it is to receive visitors. a young woman of the company sat down at one of the pianos and played. i chanced to be near and asked mr. barnabee if he would not sing, and graciously he answered, "fra elbertus, i'll do anything that you say." i gave the signal that all the workers should quit their tasks and meet at the chapel. in five minutes we had an audience of three hundred--men in blouses and overalls, girls in big aprons--a very jolly, kindly, receptive company. mr. barnabee was at his best--i never saw him so funny. he sang, danced, recited, and told stories for forty minutes. the roycrofters were, of course, delighted. one girl whispered to me as she went out, "i wonder what great sorrow is gnawing at barnabee's heart, that he is so wondrous gay!" need i say that the girl who made the remark just quoted had drunk of life's cup to the very lees? we have a few such with us--and several of them are among our most loyal helpers. * * * * * one fortuitous event that has worked to our decided advantage was "a message to garcia." this article, not much more than a paragraph, covering only fifteen hundred words, was written one evening after supper in a single hour. it was the twenty-second of february, eighteen hundred ninety-nine, washington's birthday, and we were just going to press with the march "philistine." the thing leaped hot from my heart, written after a rather trying day, when i had been endeavoring to train some rather delinquent helpers in the way they should go. the immediate suggestion, though, came from a little argument over the teacups when my son bert suggested that rowan was the real hero of the cuban war. rowan had gone alone and done the thing--carried the message to garcia. it came to me like a flash! yes, the boy is right, the hero is the man who does the thing--does his work--carries the message. i got up from the table and wrote "a message to garcia." i thought so little of it that we ran it in without a heading. the edition went out, and soon orders began to come for extra march "philistines," a dozen, fifty, a hundred; and when the american news company ordered a thousand i asked one of my helpers which article it was that had stirred things up. "it's that stuff about garcia," he said. the next day a telegram came from george h. daniels, of the new york central railroad, thus: "give price on one hundred thousand rowan article in pamphlet form--empire state express advertisement on back--also state how soon can ship." i replied giving price and stated we could supply the pamphlets in two years. our facilities were small, and a hundred thousand pamphlets looked like an awful undertaking. the result was that i gave mr. daniels permission to reprint the article in his own way. he issued it in booklet form in editions of one hundred thousand each. five editions were sent out, and then he got out an edition of half a million. two or three of these half-million lots were sent out by mr. daniels, and in addition the article was reprinted in over two hundred magazines and newspapers. it has been translated into eleven languages, and been given a total circulation of over twenty-two million copies. it has attained, i believe, a larger circulation in the same length of time than any written article has ever before reached. of course, we can not tell just how much good "a message to garcia" has done the shop, but it probably doubled the circulation of "the philistine." i do not consider it by any means my best piece of writing; but it was opportune--the time was ripe. truth demands a certain expression, and too much had been said on the other side about the downtrodden, honest man, looking for work and not being able to find it. the article in question states the other side. men are needed--loyal, honest men who will do their work. "the world cries out for him--the man who can carry a message to garcia." the man who sent the message and the man who received it are dead. the man who carried it is still carrying other messages. the combination of theme, condition of the country, and method of circulation was so favorable that their conjunction will probably never occur again. other men will write better articles, but they may go a-begging for lack of a daniels to bring them to judgment. * * * * * concerning my own personal history, i'll not tarry long to tell. it has been too much like the career of many another born in the semi-pioneer times of the middle west, to attract much attention, unless one should go into the psychology of the thing with intent to show the evolution of a soul. but that will require a book--and some day i'll write it, after the manner of saint augustine or jean jacques. but just now i 'll only say that i was born in illinois, june nineteenth, eighteen hundred fifty-six. my father was a country doctor, whose income never exceeded five hundred dollars a year. i left school at fifteen, with a fair hold on the three r's, and beyond this my education in "manual training" had been good. i knew all the forest-trees, all wild animals thereabout, every kind of fish, frog, fowl or bird that swam, ran or flew. i knew every kind of grain or vegetable, and its comparative value. i knew the different breeds of cattle, horses, sheep and swine. i could teach wild cows to stand while being milked; break horses to saddle or harness; could sow, plow and reap; knew the mysteries of apple-butter, pumpkin pie pickled beef, smoked side-meat, and could make lye at a leach and formulate soft soap. that is to say, i was a bright, strong, active country boy who had been brought up to help his father and mother get a living for a large family. i was not so densely ignorant--don't feel sorry for country boys: god is often on their side. at fifteen i worked on a farm and did a man's work for a boy's pay. i did not like it and told the man so. he replied, "you know what you can do." and i replied, "yes." i went westward like the course of empire and became a cowboy; tired of this and went to chicago; worked in a printing-office; peddled soap from house to house; shoved lumber on the docks; read all the books i could find; wrote letters back to country newspapers and became a reporter; next got a job as traveling salesman; taught in a district school; read emerson, carlyle and macaulay; worked in a soap factory; read shakespeare and committed most of "hamlet" to memory with an eye on the stage; became manager of the soap-factory, then partner; evolved an idea for the concern and put it on the track of making millions--knew it was going to make millions--did not want them; sold out my interest for seventy-five thousand dollars and went to harvard college; tramped through europe; wrote for sundry newspapers; penned two books (couldn't find a publisher); taught night school in buffalo; tramped through europe some more and met william morris (caught it); came back to east aurora and started "chautauqua circles"; studied greek and latin with a local clergyman; raised trotting-horses; wrote "little journeys to the homes of good men and great." so that is how i got my education, such as it is. i am a graduate of the university of hard knocks, and i've taken several postgraduate courses. i have worked at five different trades enough to be familiar with the tools. in eighteen hundred ninety-nine, tufts college bestowed on me the degree of master of arts; but since i did not earn the degree, it really does not count. i have never been sick a day, never lost a meal through disinclination to eat, never consulted a doctor, never used tobacco or intoxicants. my work has never been regulated by the eight-hour clause. horses have been my only extravagance, and i ride horseback daily now: a horse that i broke myself, that has never been saddled by another, and that has never been harnessed. my best friends have been workingmen, homely women and children. my father and mother are members of my household, and they work in the shop when they are so inclined. my mother's business now is mostly to care for the flowers, and my father we call "physician to the roycrofters," as he gives free advice and attendance to all who desire his services. needless to say, his medicine is mostly a matter of the mind. unfortunately for him, we do not enjoy poor health, so there is very seldom any one sick to be cured. fresh air is free, and outdoor exercise is not discouraged. * * * * * the roycroft shop and belongings represent an investment of about three hundred thousand dollars. we have no liabilities, making it a strict business policy to sign no notes or other instruments of debt that may in the future prove inopportune and tend to disturb digestion. fortune has favored us. first, the country has grown tired of soft platitude, silly truism and undisputed things said in such a solemn way. so when "the philistine" stepped into the ring and voiced in no uncertain tones what its editor thought, thinking men and women stopped and listened. editors of magazines refused my manuscript because they said it was too plain, too blunt, sometimes indelicate--it would give offense, subscribers would cancel, et cetera. to get my thoughts published i had to publish them myself; and people bought for the very reason for which the editors said they would cancel. the readers wanted brevity and plain statement--the editors said they didn't. the editors were wrong. they failed to properly diagnose a demand. i saw the demand and supplied it--for a consideration. next i believed the american public. a portion of it, at least, wanted a few good and beautiful books instead of a great many cheap books. the truth came to me in the early nineties, when john b. alden and half a dozen other publishers of cheap books went to the wall. i read the r.g. dun & company bulletin and i said, "the publishers have mistaken their public--we want better books, not cheaper." in eighteen hundred ninety-two, i met william morris, and after that i was sure i was right. again i had gauged the public correctly--the publishers were wrong, as wrong as the editors. there was a market for the best, and the problem was to supply it. at first i bound my books in paper covers and simple boards. men wrote to me wanting fine bindings. i said, "there is a market in america for the best--cheap boards, covered with cloth, stamped by machinery in gaudy tinsel and gilt, are not enough." i discovered that nearly all the bookbinders were dead. i found five hundred people in a book-factory in chicago binding books, but not a bookbinder among them. they simply fed the books into hoppers and shot them out of chutes, and said they were bound. next the public wanted to know about this thing--"what are you folks doing out there in that buckwheat town?" since my twentieth year i have had one eye on the histrionic stage. i could talk in public a bit, had made political speeches, given entertainments in crossroads schoolhouses, made temperance harangues, was always called upon to introduce the speaker of the evening, and several times had given readings from my own amusing works for the modest stipend of ten dollars and keep. i would have taken the lecture platform had it not been nailed down. in eighteen hundred ninety-eight, my friend major pond wanted to book me on a partnership deal at the waldorf-astoria. i didn't want to speak there--i had been saying unkind things in "the philistine" about the waldorf-astoria folks. but the major went ahead and made arrangements. i expected to be mobbed. but mr. boldt, the manager of the hotel, had placed a suite of rooms at my disposal without money and without price. he treated me most cordially; never referred to the outrageous things i had said about his tavern; assured me that he enjoyed my writings, and told me of the pleasure he had in welcoming me. thus did he heap hot cinders upon my occiput. the astor gallery seats eight hundred people. major pond had packed in nine hundred at one dollar each--three hundred were turned away. after the lecture the major awaited me in the anteroom, fell on my neck and rained pond's extract down my back, crying: "oh! oh! oh! why didn't we charge them two dollars apiece!" the next move was to make a tour of the principal cities under major pond's management. neither of us lost money--the major surely did not. last season i gave eighty-one lectures, with a net profit to myself of a little over ten thousand dollars. i spoke at tremont temple in boston, to twenty-two hundred people; at carnegie hall, new york; at central music hall, chicago. i spoke to all the house would hold; at chautauqua, my audience was five thousand people. it will be noted by the discerning that my lectures have been of double importance, in that they have given an income and at the same time advertised the roycroft wares. the success of the roycroft shop has not been brought about by any one scheme or plan. the business is really a combination of several ideas, any one of which would make a paying enterprise in itself. so it stands about thus: first, the printing and publication of three magazines. second, the printing of books (it being well known that some of the largest publishers in america--scribner and appleton, for instance--have no printing-plants, but have the work done for them). third, the publication of books. fourth, the artistic binding of books. fifth, authorship. since i began printing my own manuscript, there is quite an eager demand for my writing, so i do a little of class b for various publishers and editors. sixth, the lecture lyceum. seventh, blacksmithing, carpenter-work and basket-weaving. these industries have sprung up under the roycroft care as a necessity. men and women in the village came to us and wanted work, and we simply gave them opportunity to do the things they could do best. we have found a market for all our wares, so no line of work has ever been a bill of expense. i want no better clothing, no better food, no more comforts and conveniences than my helpers and fellow-workers have. i would be ashamed to monopolize a luxury--to take a beautiful work of art, say a painting or a marble statue, and keep it for my own pleasure and for the select few i might invite to see my beautiful things. art is for all--beauty is for all. harmony in all of its manifold forms should be like a sunset--free to all who can drink it in. the roycroft shop is for the roycrofters, and each is limited only by his capacity to absorb. * * * * * art is the expression of man's joy in his work, and all the joy and love that you can weave into a fabric comes out again and belongs to the individual who has the soul to appreciate it. art is beauty; and beauty is a gratification, a peace and a solace to every normal man and woman. beautiful sounds, beautiful colors, beautiful proportions, beautiful thoughts--how our souls hunger for them! matter is only mind in an opaque condition; and all beauty is but a symbol of spirit. you can not get joy from feeding things all day into a machine. you must let the man work with hand and brain, and then out of the joy of this marriage of hand and brain, beauty will be born. it tells of a desire for harmony, peace, beauty, wholeness--holiness. art is the expression of man's joy in his work. when you read a beautiful poem that makes your heart throb with gladness and gratitude, you are simply partaking of the emotion that the author felt when he wrote it. to possess a piece of work that the workman made in joyous animation is a source of joy to the possessor. and this love of the work done by the marriage of hand and brain can never quite go out of fashion--for we are men and women, and our hopes and aims and final destiny are at last one. where one enjoys, all enjoy; where one suffers, all suffer. say what you will of the coldness and selfishness of men, at the last we long for companionship and the fellowship of our kind. we are lost children, and when alone and the darkness gathers, we long for the close relationship of the brothers and sisters we knew in our childhood, and cry for the gentle arms that once rocked us to sleep. men are homesick amid this sad, mad rush for wealth and place and power. the calm of the country invites, and we would fain do with less things, and go back to simplicity, and rest our tired heads in the lap of mother nature. life is expression. life is a movement outward, an unfolding, a development. to be tied down, pinned to a task that is repugnant, and to have the shrill voice of necessity whistling eternally in your ears, "do this or starve," is to starve; for it starves the heart, the soul, and all the higher aspirations of your being pine away and die. at the roycroft shop the workers are getting an education by doing things. work should be the spontaneous expression of a man's best impulses. we grow only through exercise, and every faculty that is exercised becomes strong, and those not used atrophy and die. thus how necessary it is that we should exercise our highest and best! to develop the brain we have to exercise the body. every muscle, every organ, has its corresponding convolution in the brain. to develop the mind, we must use the body. manual training is essentially moral training; and physical work is, at its best, mental, moral and spiritual--and these are truths so great and yet so simple that until yesterday many wise men did not recognize them. at the roycroft shop we are reaching out for an all-round development through work and right living. and we have found it a good expedient--a wise business policy. sweat-shop methods can never succeed in producing beautiful things. and so the management of the roycroft shop surrounds the workers with beauty, allows many liberties, encourages cheerfulness and tries to promote kind thoughts, simply because it has been found that these things are transmuted into good, and come out again at the finger-tips of the workers in beautiful results. so we have pictures, statuary, flowers, ferns, palms, birds, and a piano in every room. we have the best sanitary appliances that money can buy; we have bathrooms, shower-baths, library, rest-rooms. every week we have concerts, dances, lectures. besides being a workshop, the roycroft is a school. we are following out a dozen distinct lines of study, and every worker in the place is enrolled as a member of one or more classes. there are no fees to pupils, but each pupil purchases his own books--the care of his books and belongings being considered a part of one's education. all the teachers are workers in the shop, and are volunteers, teaching without pay, beyond what each receives for his regular labor. the idea of teaching we have found is a great benefit--to the teacher. the teacher gets most out of the lessons. once a week there is a faculty meeting, when each teacher gives in a verbal report of his stewardship. it is responsibility that develops one, and to know that your pupils expect you to know is a great incentive to study. then teaching demands that you shall give--give yourself--and he who gives most receives most. we deepen our impressions by recounting them, and he who teaches others teaches himself. i am never quite so proud as when some one addresses me as "teacher." we try to find out what each person can do best, what he wants to do, and then we encourage him to put his best into it--also to do something else besides his specialty, finding rest in change. the thing that pays should be the expedient thing, and the expedient thing should be the proper and right thing. that which began with us as a matter of expediency is often referred to as a "philanthropy." i do not like the word, and wish to state here that the roycroft is in no sense a charity--i do not believe in giving any man something for nothing. you give a man a dollar and the man will think less of you because he thinks less of himself; but if you give him a chance to earn a dollar, he will think more of himself and more of you. the only way to help people is to give them a chance to help themselves. so the roycroft idea is one of reciprocity--you help me and i'll help you. we will not be here forever, anyway; soon death, the kind old nurse, will come and rock us all to sleep, and we had better help one another while we may: we are going the same way--let's go hand in hand! contents publisher's preface v autobiographical xi george eliot 47 thomas carlyle 65 john ruskin 85 william e. gladstone 101 j.m.w. turner 121 jonathan swift 141 walt whitman 161 victor hugo 183 william wordsworth 209 william m. thackeray 227 charles dickens 245 oliver goldsmith 271 william shakespeare 299 thomas a. edison 319 george eliot "may i reach that purest heaven, be to other souls the cup of strength in some great agony, enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, beget the smiles that have no cruelty- be the good presence of a good diffused, and in diffusion ever more intense. so shall i join the choir invisible whose music is the gladness of the world." [illustration: george eliot] warwickshire gave to the world william shakespeare. it also gave mary ann evans. no one will question that shakespeare's is the greatest name in english literature; and among writers living or dead, in england or out of it, no woman has ever shown us power equal to that of george eliot, in the subtle clairvoyance which divines the inmost play of passions, the experience that shows human capacity for contradiction, and the indulgence that is merciful because it understands. shakespeare lived three hundred years ago. according to the records, his father, in fifteen hundred sixty-three, owned a certain house in henley street, stratford-on-avon. hence we infer that william shakespeare was born there. and in all our knowledge of shakespeare's early life (or later) we prefix the words, "hence we infer." that the man knew all the sciences of his day, and had such a knowledge of each of the learned professions that all have claimed him as their own, we realize. he evidently was acquainted with five different languages, and the range of his intellect was worldwide; but where did he get this vast erudition? we do not know, and we excuse ourselves by saying that he lived three hundred years ago. george eliot lived--yesterday, and we know no more about her youthful days than we do of that other child of warwickshire. one biographer tells us that she was born in eighteen hundred nineteen, another in eighteen hundred twenty, and neither state the day; whereas a recent writer in the "pall mall budget" graciously bestows on us the useful information that "william shakespeare was born on the twenty-first day of april, fifteen hundred sixty-three, at fifteen minutes of two on a stormy morning." concise statements of facts are always valuable, but we have none such concerning the early life of george eliot. there is even a shadow over her parentage, for no less an authority than the "american cyclopedia annual," for eighteen hundred eighty, boldly proclaims that she was not a foundling and, moreover, that she was not adopted by a rich retired clergyman who gave her a splendid schooling. then the writer dives into obscurity, but presently reappears and adds that he does not know where she got her education. for all of which we are very grateful. shakespeare left five signatures, each written in a different way, and now there is a goodly crew who spell it "bacon." and likewise we do not know whether it is mary ann evans, mary anne evans or marian evans, for she herself is said to have used each form at various times. william winter--gentle critic, poet, scholar--tells us that the sonnets show a dark spot in shakespeare's moral record. and if i remember rightly, similar things have been hinted at in sewing-circles concerning george eliot. then they each found the dew and sunshine in london that caused the flowers of genius to blossom. the early productions of both were published anonymously, and lastly they both knew how to transmute thought into gold, for they died rich. lady godiva rode through the streets of coventry, but i walked--walked all the way from stratford, by way of warwick (call it warrick, please) and kenilworth castle. i stopped overnight at that quaint and curious little inn just across from the castle entrance. the good landlady gave me the same apartment that was occupied by sir walter scott when he came here and wrote the first chapter of "kenilworth." the little room had pretty, white chintz curtains tied with blue ribbon, and similar stuff draped the mirror. the bed was a big canopy affair--i had to stand on a chair in order to dive off into its feathery depths--everything was very neat and clean, and the dainty linen had a sweet smell of lavender. i took one parting look out through the open window at the ivy-mantled towers of the old castle, which were all sprinkled with silver by the rising moon, and then i fell into gentlest sleep. i dreamed of playing "i-spy" through kenilworth castle with shakespeare, walter scott, mary ann evans and a youth i used to know in boyhood by the name of bill hursey. we chased each other across the drawbridge, through the portcullis, down the slippery stones into the donjon-keep, around the moat, and up the stone steps to the topmost turret of the towers. finally shakespeare was "it," but he got mad and refused to play. walter scott said it was "no fair," and bill hursey thrust out the knuckle of one middle finger in a very threatening way and offered to "do" the boy from stratford. then mary ann rushed in to still the tempest. there's no telling what would have happened had not the landlady just then rapped at my door and asked if i had called. i awoke with a start and with the guilty feeling that i had been shouting in my sleep. i saw it was morning. "no--that is, yes; my shaving-water, please." after breakfast the landlady's boy offered for five shillings to take me in his donkey-cart to the birthplace of george eliot. he explained that the house was just seven miles north; but baalam's express is always slow, so i concluded to walk. at coventry a cab-owner proposed to show me the house, which he declared was near kenilworth, for twelve shillings. the advantages of seeing kenilworth at the same time were dwelt upon at great length by cabby, but i harkened not to the voice of the siren. i got a good lunch at the hotel, and asked the innkeeper if he could tell me where george eliot was born. he did not know, but said he could show me a house around the corner where a family of eliots lived. then i walked on to nuneaton. a charming walk it was; past quaint old houses, some with straw-thatched roofs, others tile--roses clambering over the doors and flowering hedgerows white with hawthorn-flowers. occasionally, i met a farmer's cart drawn by one of those great, fat, gentle shire horses that george eliot has described so well. all spoke of peace and plenty, quiet and rest. the green fields and the flowers, the lark-song and the sunshine, the dipping willows by the stream, and the arch of the old stone bridge as i approached the village--all these i had seen and known and felt before from "mill on the floss." i found the house where they say the novelist was born. a plain, whitewashed, stone structure, built two hundred years ago; two stories, the upper chambers low, with gable-windows; a little garden at the side bright with flowers, where sweet marjoram vied with onions and beets; all spoke of humble thrift and homely cares. in front was a great chestnut-tree, and in the roadway near were two ancient elms where saucy crows were building a nest. here, after her mother died, mary ann evans was housekeeper. little more than a child--tall, timid, and far from strong--she cooked and scrubbed and washed, and was herself the mother to brothers and sisters. her father was a carpenter by trade and agent for a rich landowner. he was a stern man--orderly, earnest, industrious, studious. on rides about the country he would take the tall, hollow-eyed girl with him, and at such times he would talk to her of the great outside world where wondrous things were done. the child toiled hard, but found time to read and question--and there is always time to think. soon she had outgrown some of her good father's beliefs, and this grieved him greatly; so much, indeed, that her extra-loving attention to his needs, in a hope to neutralize his displeasure, only irritated him the more. and if there is soft, subdued sadness in much of george eliot's writing we can guess the reason. the onward and upward march ever means sad separation. when mary ann was blossoming into womanhood her father moved over near coventry, and here the ambitious girl first found companionship in her intellectual desires. here she met men and women, older than herself, who were animated, earnest thinkers. they read and then they discussed, and then they spoke the things that they felt were true. those eight years at coventry transformed the awkward country girl into a woman of intellect and purpose. she knew somewhat of all sciences, all philosophies, and she had become a proficient scholar in german and french. how did she acquire this knowledge? how is any education acquired if not through effort prompted by desire? she had already translated strauss's "life of jesus" in a manner that was acceptable to the author. when ralph waldo emerson came to coventry to lecture, he was entertained at the same house where miss evans was stopping. her brilliant conversation pleased him, and when she questioned the wisdom of a certain passage in one of his essays the gentle philosopher turned, smiled, and said that he had not seen it in that light before; perhaps she was right. "what is your favorite book?" asked emerson. "rousseau's 'confessions,'" answered mary instantly. it was emerson's favorite, too; but such honesty from a young woman! it was queer. mr. emerson never forgot miss evans of coventry, and ten years after, when a zealous reviewer proclaimed her the greatest novelist in england, the sage of concord said something that sounded like "i told you so." miss evans had made visits to london from time to time with her coventry friends. when twenty-eight years old, after one such visit to london, she came back to the country tired and weary, and wrote this most womanly wish: "my only ardent desire is to find some feminine task to discharge; some possibility of devoting myself to some one and making that one purely and calmly happy." but now her father was dead and her income was very scanty. she did translating, and tried the magazines with articles that generally came back respectfully declined. then an offer came as sub-editor of the "westminster review." it was steady work and plenty of it, and this was what she desired. she went to london and lived in the household of her employer, mr. chapman. here she had the opportunity of meeting many brilliant people: carlyle and his "jeannie welsh," the martineaus, grote, mr. and mrs. mill, huxley, mazzini, louis blanc. besides these were two young men who must not be left out when we sum up the influences that evolved this woman's genius. she was attracted to herbert spencer at once. he was about her age, and their admiration for each other was mutual. miss evans, writing to a friend in eighteen hundred fifty-two, says, "spencer is kind, he is delightful, and i always feel better after being with him, and we have agreed together that there is no reason why we should not see each other as often as we wish." and then later she again writes: "the bright side of my life, after the affection for my old friends, is the new and delightful friendship which i have found in herbert spencer. we see each other every day, and in everything we enjoy a delightful comradeship. if it were not for him my life would be singularly arid." but about this time another man appeared on the scene, and were it not for this other man, who was introduced to miss evans by spencer, the author of "synthetic philosophy" might not now be spoken of in the biographical dictionaries as having been "wedded to science." it was not love at first sight, for george henry lewes made a decidedly unfavorable impression on miss evans at their first meeting. he was small, his features were insignificant, he had whiskers like an anarchist and a mouthful of crooked teeth; his personal habits were far from pleasant. it was this sort of thing, dickens said, that caused his first wife to desert him and finally drove her into insanity. but lewes had a brilliant mind. he was a linguist, a scientist, a novelist, a poet and a wit. he had written biography, philosophy and a play. he had been a journalist, a lecturer and even an actor. thackeray declared that if he should see lewes perched on a white elephant in piccadilly he should not be in the least surprised. after having met miss evans several times, mr. lewes saw the calm depths of her mind and he asked her to correct proofs for him. she did so and discovered that there was merit in his work. she corrected more proofs, and when a woman begins to assist a man the danger-line is being approached. close observers noted that a change was coming over the bohemian lewes. he had his whiskers trimmed, his hair was combed, and the bright yellow necktie had been discarded for a clean one of modest brown, and, sometimes, his boots were blacked. in july, eighteen hundred fifty-four, mr. chapman received a letter from his sub-editor resigning her position, and miss evans notified some of her closest friends that hereafter she wished to be considered the wife of mr. lewes. she was then in her thirty-sixth year. the couple disappeared, having gone to germany. many people were shocked. some said, "we knew it all the time," and when herbert spencer was informed of the fact he exclaimed, "goodness me!" and said--nothing. after six months spent at weimar and other literary centers, mr. and mrs. lewes returned to england and began housekeeping at richmond. any one who views their old quarters there will see how very plainly and economically they were forced to live. but they worked hard, and at this time the future novelist's desire seemed only to assist her husband. that she developed the manly side of his nature none can deny. they were very happy, these two, as they wrote, and copied, and studied, and toiled. three years passed, and mrs. lewes wrote to a friend: "i am very happy; happy with the greatest happiness that life can give--the complete sympathy and affection of a man whose mind stimulates mine and keeps up in me a wholesome activity." mr. lewes knew the greatness of his helpmeet. she herself did not. he urged her to write a story; she hesitated, and at last attempted it. they read the first chapter together and cried over it. then she wrote more and always read her husband the chapters as they were turned off. he corrected, encouraged, and found a publisher. but why should i tell about it here? it's all in the "britannica"--how the gentle beauty and sympathetic insight of her work touched the hearts of great and lowly alike, and of how riches began flowing in upon her. for one book she received forty thousand dollars, and her income after fortune smiled upon her was never less than ten thousand dollars a year. lewes was her secretary, her protector, her slave and her inspiration. he kept at bay the public that would steal her time, and put out of her reach, at her request, all reviews, good or bad, and shielded her from the interviewer, the curiosity-seeker, and the greedy financier. the reason why she at first wrote under a nom de plume is plain. to the great, wallowing world she was neither miss evans nor mrs. lewes, so she dropped both names as far as title-pages were concerned and used a man's name instead--hoping better to elude the pack. when "adam bede" came out, a resident of nuneaton purchased a copy and at once discovered local earmarks. the scenes described, the flowers, the stone walls, the bridges, the barns, the people--all was nuneaton. who wrote it? no one knew, but it was surely some one in nuneaton. so they picked out a mr. liggins, a solemn-faced preacher, who was always about to do something great, and they said "liggins." soon all london said "liggins." as for liggins, he looked wise and smiled knowingly. then articles began to appear in the periodicals purporting to have been written by the author of "adam bede." a book came out called "adam bede, jr.," and to protect her publisher, the public and herself, george eliot had to reveal her identity. many men have written good books and never tasted fame; but few, like liggins of nuneaton, have become famous by doing nothing. it only proves that some things can be done as well as others. this breed of men has long dwelt in warwickshire; shakespeare had them in mind when he wrote, "there be men who do a wilful stillness entertain with purpose to be dressed in an opinion of wisdom, gravity and profound conceit." lord acton in an able article in the "nineteenth century" makes this statement: "george eliot paid high for happiness with lewes. she forfeited freedom of speech, the first place among english women, and a tomb in westminster abbey." the original dedication in "adam bede" reads thus: "to my dear husband, george henry lewes, i give the manuscript of a work which would never have been written but for the happiness which his love has conferred on my life." lord acton of course assumes that this book would have been written, dedication and all, just the same had miss evans never met mr. lewes. once there was a child called romola. she said to her father one day, as she sat on his knee: "papa, who would take care of me--give me my bath and put me to bed nights--if you had never happened to meet mamma?" * * * * * the days i spent in warwickshire were very pleasant. the serene beauty of the country and the kindly courtesy of the people impressed me greatly. having beheld the scenes of george eliot's childhood, i desired to view the place where her last days were spent. it was a fine may day when i took the little steamer from london bridge for chelsea. a bird-call from the dingy brick building where turner died, and two blocks from the old home of carlyle, is cheyne walk--a broad avenue facing the river. the houses are old, but they have a look of gracious gentility that speaks of ease and plenty. high iron fences are in front, but they do not shut off from view the climbing clematis and clusters of roses that gather over the windows and doors. i stood at the gate of number 4 cheyne walk and admired the pretty flowers, planted in such artistic carelessness as to beds and rows; then i rang the bell--an old pull-out affair with polished knob. presently a butler opened the door--a pompous, tall and awful butler in serious black and with side-whiskers. he approached; came down the walk swinging a bunch of keys, looking me over as he came, to see what sort of wares i had to sell. "did george eliot live here?" i asked through the bars. "mrs. cross lived 'ere and died 'ere, sir," came the solemn and rebuking answer. "i mean mrs. cross," i added meekly; "i only wished to see the little garden where she worked." jeemes was softened. as he unlocked the gate he said: "we 'ave many wisiters, sir; a great bother, sir; still, i always knows a gentleman when i sees one. p'r'aps you would like to see the 'ouse, too, sir. the missus does not like it much, but i will take 'er your card, sir." i gave him the card and slipped a shilling into his hand as he gave me a seat in the hallway. he disappeared upstairs and soon returned with the pleasing information that i was to be shown the whole house and garden. so i pardoned him the myth about the missus, happening to know that at that particular moment she was at brighton, sixty miles away. a goodly, comfortable house, four stories, well kept, and much fine old carved oak in the dining-room and hallways; fantastic ancient balusters, and a peculiar bay window in the second-story rear that looked out over the little garden. off to the north could be seen the green of kensington gardens and wavy suggestions of hyde park. this was george eliot's workshop. there was a table in the center of the room and three low bookcases with pretty ornaments above. in the bay window was the most conspicuous object in the room--a fine marble bust of goethe. this, i was assured, had been the property of mrs. cross, as well as all the books and furniture in the room. in one corner was a revolving case containing a set of the "century dictionary" which jeemes assured me had been purchased by mr. cross as a present for his wife a short time before she died. this caused my faith to waver a trifle and put to flight a fine bit of literary frenzy that might have found form soon in a sonnet. in the front parlor, i saw a portrait of the former occupant that showed "the face that looked like a horse." but that is better than to have the face of any other animal of which i know. surely one would not want to look like a dog! shakespeare hated dogs, but spoke forty-eight times in his plays in terms of respect and affection for a horse. who would not resent the imputation that one's face was like that of a sheep or a goat or an ox, and much gore has been shed because men have referred to other men as asses--but a horse! god bless you, yes! no one has ever accused george eliot of being handsome, but this portrait tells of a woman of fifty: calm, gentle, and the strong features speak of a soul in which to confide. at highgate, by the side of the grave of lewes, rests the dust of this great and loving woman. as the pilgrim enters that famous old cemetery, the first imposing monument seen is a pyramid of rare, costly porphyry. as you draw near, you read this inscription: to the memory of ann jewson crisp who departed this life deeply lamented, jan. 20, 1889. also, her dog, emperor. beneath these tender lines is a bas-relief of as vicious-looking a cur as ever evaded the dog-tax. continuing up the avenue, past this monument just noted, the kind old gardener will show you another that stands amid others much more pretentious--a small gray-granite column, and on it, carved in small letters, you read: "of those immortal dead who live again in minds made better by their presence." here rests the body of "george eliot" (mary ann cross) born 22 november, 1819. died 22 december, 1880. thomas carlyle one comfort is that great men taken up in any way are profitable company. we can not look, however imperfectly, upon a great man without gaining something by it. he is the living fountain of life, which it is pleasant to be near. on any terms whatsoever you will not grudge to wander in his neighborhood for a while. --_heroes and hero-worship_ [illustration: thomas carlyle] while on my way to dumfries i stopped overnight at gretna green, which, as all fair maidens know, is in scotland just over the border from england. to my delight i found that the coming of runaway couples to gretna green was not entirely a matter of the past, for the very evening i arrived a blushing pair came to the inn and inquired for a "meenister." the ladye faire was a little stout and the worthy swain several years older than my fancy might have wished, but still i did not complain. the landlord's boy was dispatched to the rectory around the corner and soon returned with the reverend gentleman. i was an uninvited guest in the little parlor, but no one observed that my wedding-garment was only a cycling costume, and i was not challenged. after the ceremony, the several other witnesses filed past the happy couple, congratulating them and kissing the bride. i did likewise, and was greeted with a resounding smack which surprised me a bit, but i managed to ask, "did you run away?" "noo," said the groom; "noo, her was a widdie--we just coom over fram ecclefechan"; then, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, "we're goin' baack on the morrow. it's cheaper thaan to ha' a big, spread weddin'." this answer banished all tender sentiment from me and made useless my plans for a dainty love-story, but i seized upon the name of the place whence they came. "ecclefechan! ecclefechan! why that's where carlyle was born!" "aye, sir, and he's buried there; a great mon he was--but an infideel." ten miles beyond gretna green is ecclefechan--a little village of stucco houses all stretched out on one street. plain, homely, rocky and unromantic is the country round about, and plain, homely and unromantic is the little house where carlyle was born. the place is shown the visitor by a good old dame who takes one from room to room, giving a little lecture meanwhile in a mixture of gaelic and english which was quite beyond my ken. several relics of interest are shown, and although the house is almost precisely like all others in the vicinity, imagination throws round it all a roseate wreath of fancies. it has been left on record that up to the year when carlyle was married, his "most pleasurable times were those when he enjoyed a quiet pipe with his mother." to few men indeed is this felicity vouchsafed. but for those who have eaten oatmeal porridge in the wayside cottages of bonny scotland, or who love to linger over "the cotter's saturday night," there is a touch of tender pathos in the picture. the stone floor, the bare, whitewashed walls, the peat smoldering on the hearth, sending out long, fitful streaks that dance among the rafters overhead, and the mother and son sitting there watching the coal--silent. the woman takes a small twig from a bundle of sticks, reaches over, lights it, applies it to her pipe, takes a few whiffs and passes the light to her son. then they talk in low, earnest tones of man's duty to man and man's duty to god. and it was this mother who first applied the spark that fired carlyle's ambition; it was from her that he got the germ of those talents which have made his name illustrious. yet this woman could barely read and did not learn to write until her firstborn had gone away from the home nest. then it was that she sharpened a gray goose-quill and labored long and patiently, practising with this instrument (said to be mightier than the sword) and with ink she herself had mixed--all that she might write a letter to her boy; and how sweetly, tenderly homely, and loving are these letters as we read them today! james carlyle with his own hands built, in seventeen hundred ninety, this house at ecclefechan. the same year he married an excellent woman, a second cousin, by name janet carlyle. she lived but a year. the poor husband was heartbroken, and declared, as many men under like conditions had done before and have done since, that his sorrow was inconsolable. and he vowed that he would walk through life and down to his death alone. but it is a matter for congratulation that he broke his vow. in two years he married margaret aitken--a serving-woman. she bore nine children. thomas was the eldest and the only one who proved recreant to the religious faith of his fathers. one of the brothers moved to shiawassee county, michigan, where i had the pleasure of calling on him, some years ago. a hard-headed man, he was: sensible, earnest, honest, with a stubby beard and a rich brogue. he held the office of school trustee, also that of pound-master, and i was told that he served his township loyally and well. this worthy man looked with small favor on the literary pretensions of his brother tammas, and twice wrote him long letters expostulating with him on his religious vagaries. "i knew no good could come of it," sorrowfully said he, and so i left him. but i inquired of several of the neighbors what they thought of thomas carlyle, and i found that they did not think of him at all. and i mounted my beast and rode away. thomas carlyle was educated for the kirk, and it was a cause of much sorrow to his parents that he could not accept its beliefs. he has been spoken of as england's chief philosopher, yet he subscribed to no creed, nor did he formulate one. however, in "latter-day pamphlets" he partially prepares a catechism for a part of the brute creation. he supposes that all swine of superior logical powers have a "belief," and as they are unable to express it he essays the task for them. the following are a few of the postulates in this creed of the brotherhood of latter-day swine: "question. who made the pig? "answer. the pork-butcher. "question. what is the whole duty of pigs? "answer. it is the mission of universal pighood; and the duty of all pigs, at all times, is to diminish the quantity of attainable swill and increase the unattainable. this is the whole duty of pigs. "question. what is pig poetry? "answer. it is the universal recognition of pig's wash and ground barley, and the felicity of pigs whose trough has been set in order and who have enough. "question, what is justice in pigdom? "answer. it is the sentiment in pig nature sometimes called revenge, indignation, etc., which if one pig provoke, another comes out in more or less destructive manner; hence laws are necessary--amazing quantities of laws--defining what pigs shall not do. "question. what do you mean by equity? "answer. equity consists in getting your share from the universal swine-trough, and part of another's. "question. what is meant by 'your share'?" "answer. my share is getting whatever i can contrive to seize without being made up into side-meat." i have slightly abridged this little extract and inserted it here to show the sympathy which mr. carlyle had for the dumb brute. one of america's great men, in a speech delivered not long ago, said, "from scotch manners, scotch religion and scotch whisky, good lord deliver us!" my experience with these three articles has been somewhat limited; but scotch manners remind me of chestnut-burs--not handsome without, but good within. for when you have gotten beyond the rough exterior of sandy you generally find a heart warm, tender and generous. scotch religion is only another chestnut-bur, but then you need not eat the shuck if you fear it will not agree with your inward state. nevertheless, if the example of royalty is of value, the fact can be stated that victoria, queen of great britain and empress of india, is a presbyterian. that is, she is a presbyterian about one-half the time--when she is in scotland, for she is the head of the scottish kirk. when in england, of course she is an episcopalian. we have often been told that religion is largely a matter of geography, and here is a bit of something that looks like proof. of scotch whisky i am not competent to speak, so that subject must be left to the experts. but a kentucky colonel at my elbow declares that it can not be compared with the blue-grass article; though i trust that no one will be prejudiced against it on that account. scotch intellect, however, is worthy of our serious consideration. it is a bold, rocky headland, standing out into the tossing sea of the unknown. assertive? yes. stubborn? most surely. proud? by all means. twice as many pilgrims visit the grave of burns as that of shakespeare. buckle declares adam smith's "wealth of nations" has had a greater influence on civilization than any other book ever writ--save none; and the average scotchman knows his carlyle a deal better than the average american knows his emerson: in fact, four times as many of carlyle's books have been printed. when carlyle took time to bring the ponderous machinery of his intellect to bear on a theme, he saw it through and through. the vividness of his imagination gives us a true insight into times long since gone by; it shows virtue her own feature, vice her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. in history he goes beyond the political and conventional--showing us the thought, the hope, the fear, the passion of the soul. his was the masculine mind. the divination and subtle intuitions which are to be found scattered through his pages, like violets growing among the rank swale of the prairies--all these sweet, odorous things came from his wife. she gave him of her best thought, and he greedily absorbed it and unconsciously wrote it down as his own. there are those who blame and berate; volumes have been written to show the inconsiderateness of this man toward the gentle lady who was his intellectual comrade. but they know not life who do this thing. it is a fact that carlyle never rushed to pick up jeannie's handkerchief. i admit that he could not bow gracefully; that he could not sing tenor, nor waltz, nor tell funny stories, nor play the mandolin; and if i had been his neighbor i would not have attempted to teach him any of these accomplishments. once he took his wife to the theater; and after the performance he accidentally became separated from her in the crowd and trudged off home alone and went to bed forgetting all about her---but even for this i do not indict him. mrs. carlyle never upbraided him for this forgetfulness, neither did she relate the incident to any one, and for these things i to her now reverently lift my hat. jeannie welsh carlyle had capacity for pain, as it seems all great souls have. she suffered--but then suffering is not all suffering and pain is not all pain. life is often dark, but then there are rifts in the clouds when we behold the glorious deep blue of the sky. not a day passes but that the birds sing in the branches, and the tree-tops poise backward and forward in restful, rhythmic harmony, and never an hour goes by but that hope bears us up on her wings as the eagle does her young. and ever just before the year dies and the frost comes, the leaves take on a gorgeous hue and the color of the flowers then puts to shame for brilliancy all the plainer petals of springtime. and i know mr. and mrs. carlyle were happy, so happy, at times, that they laughed and cried for joy. jeannie gave all, and she saw her best thought used--carried further, written out and given to the world as that of another--but she uttered no protest. xantippe lives in history only because she sought to worry a great philosopher; we remember the daughter of herodias because she demanded the head (not the heart) of a good man; goneril and regan because they trod upon the withered soul of their sire; lady macbeth because she lured her liege to murder; charlotte corday for her dagger-thrust; lucrezia borgia for her poison; sapphira for her untruth; jael because she pierced the brain of sisera with a rusty nail (instead of an idea); delilah for the reason that she deprived samson of his source of strength; and in the "westminster review" for may, eighteen hundred ninety-four, ouida makes the flat statement that for every man of genius who has been helped by a woman, ten have been dragged down. but jeannie welsh carlyle lives in the hearts of all who reverence the sweet, the gentle, the patient, the earnest, the loving spirit of the womanly woman: lives because she ministered to the needs of a great man. she was ever a frail body. several long illnesses kept her to her bed for weeks, but she recovered from these, even in spite of the doctors, who thoroughly impressed both herself and her husband with the thought of her frailty. on april the twenty-first, eighteen hundred sixty-six, she called her carriage, as was her custom, and directed the driver to go through the park. she carried a book in her hands, and smiled a greeting to a friend as the brougham moved away from the little street where they lived. the driver drove slowly--drove for an hour--two. he got down from his box to receive the orders of his mistress, touched his hat as he opened the carriage-door, but no kindly eyes looked into his. she sat back in the corner as if resting; the shapely head a little thrown forward, the book held gently in the delicate hands, but the fingers were cold and stiff--jeannie welsh was dead--and thomas carlyle was alone. * * * * * along the thames, at chelsea, opposite the rows of quiet and well-kept houses of cheyne walk, is the "embankment." a parkway it is of narrow green, with graveled walks, bushes and trees, that here and there grow lush and lusty as if to hide the unsightly river from the good people who live across the street. following this pleasant bit of breathing space, with its walks that wind in and out among the bushes, one comes unexpectedly upon a bronze statue. you need not read the inscription: a glance at that shaggy head, the grave, sober, earnest look, and you exclaim under your breath, "carlyle!" in this statue the artist has caught with rare skill the look of reverie and repose. one can imagine that on a certain night, as the mists and shadows of evening were gathering along the dark river, the gaunt form, wrapped in its accustomed cloak, came stalking down the little street to the park, just as he did thousands of times, and taking his seat in the big chair fell asleep. in the morning the children that came to play along the river found the form in cold, enduring bronze. at the play we have seen the marble transformed by love into beauteous life. how much easier the reverse--here where souls stay only a day! cheyne row is a little, alley-like street, running only a block, with fifteen houses on one side, and twelve on the other. these houses are all brick and built right up to the sidewalk. on the north side they are all in one block, and one at first sees no touch of individuality in any of them. they are old, and solid, and plain--built for revenue only. on closer view i thought one or two had been painted, and on one there was a cornice that set it off from the rest. as i stood on the opposite side and looked at this row of houses, i observed that number five was the dingiest and plainest of them all. for there were dark shutters instead of blinds, and these shutters were closed, all save one rebel that swung and creaked in the breeze. over the doorway, sparrows had made their nests and were fighting and scolding. swallows hovered above the chimney; dust, cobwebs, neglect were all about. and as i looked there came to me the words of ursa thomas: "brief, brawling day, with its noisy phantoms, its paper crowns, tinsel-gilt, is gone; and divine, everlasting night, with her star diadems, with her silences and her verities, is come." here walked thomas and jeannie one fair may morning in eighteen hundred thirty-four. thomas was thirty-nine, tall and swarthy, strong; with set mouth and three wrinkles on his forehead that told of care and dyspepsia. jeannie was younger; her face winsome, just a trifle anxious, with luminous, gentle eyes, suggestive of patience, truth and loyalty. they looked like country folks, did these two. they examined the surroundings, consulted together--sixty pounds rent a year seemed very high! but they took the house, and t. carlyle, son of james carlyle, stone-mason, paid rent for it every month for half a century, lacking three years. i walked across the street and read the inscription on the marble tablet inserted in the front of the house above the lower windows. it informs the stranger that thomas carlyle lived here from eighteen hundred thirty-four to eighteen hundred eighty-one, and that the tablet was erected by the carlyle society of london. i ascended the stone steps and scraped my boots on the well-worn scraper, made long, long ago by a blacksmith who is now dust, and who must have been a very awkward mechanic, for i saw where he had made a misstroke with his hammer, probably as he discussed theology with a caller. then i rang the bell and plied the knocker and waited there on the steps for jeannie welsh to come bid me welcome, just as she did emerson when he, too, used the scraper and plied the knocker and stood where i did then. and my knock was answered--answered by a very sour and peevish woman next door, who thrust her head out of the window, and exclaimed in a shrill voice: "look 'ere, sir, you might as well go rap on the curb-stone, don't you know; there's nobody livin' there, sir, don't you know!" "yes, madam, that is why i knocked!" "beggin' your pardon, sir, if you use your heyes you'll see there's nobody livin' there, don't you know!" "i knocked lest offense be given. how can i get in?" "you might go in through the keyhole, sir, or down the chimney. you seem to be a little daft, sir, don't you know! but if you must get in, perhaps it would be as well to go over to mrs. brown's and brang the key," and she slammed down the window. across the street mrs. brown's sign smiled at me. mrs. brown keeps a little grocery and bakeshop and was very willing to show me the house. she fumbled in a black bag for the keys, all the time telling me of three americans who came last week to see carlyle's house, and "as how" they each gave her a shilling. i took the hint. "only americans care now for mr. carlyle," plaintively added the old lady as she fished out the keys; "soon we will all be forgot." we walked across the street and after several ineffectual attempts the rusty lock was made to turn. i entered. cold, bare and bleak was the sight of those empty rooms. the old lady had a touch of rheumatism, so she waited for me on the doorstep as i climbed the stairs to the third floor. the noise-proof back room where "the french revolution" was writ, twice over, was so dark that i had to grope my way across to the window. the sash stuck and seemed to have a will of its own, like him who so often had raised it. but at last it gave way and i flung wide the shutter and looked down at the little arbor where teufelsdrockh sat so often and wooed wisdom with the weed brought from virginia. then i stood before the fireplace, where he of the eternities had so often sat and watched the flickering embers. here he lived in his loneliness and cursed curses that were prayers, and here for near five decades he read and thought and dreamed and wrote. here the spirits of cromwell and frederick hovered; here that pitiful and pitiable long line of ghostly partakers in the revolution answered to his roll-call. the wind whistled down the chimney gruesomely as my footfalls echoed through the silent chambers, and i thought i heard a sepulchral voice say: "thy future life! thy fate is it, indeed! whilst thou makest that thy chief question, thy life to me and to thyself and to thy god is worthless. what is incredible to thee thou shalt not, at thy soul's peril, pretend to believe. elsewhither for a refuge! away! go to perdition if thou wilt, but not with a lie in thy mouth--by the eternal maker, no!!" i was startled at first, but stood still listening; then i thought i saw a faint blue cloud of mist curling up in the fireplace. watching this smoke and sitting before it in gloomy abstraction was the form of an old man. i swept my hand through the apparition, but still it stayed. my lips moved in spite of myself and i said: "hail! hard-headed man of granite outcrop and heather, of fen and crag, of moor and mountain, and of bleak east wind, hail! eighty-six years didst thou live. one hundred years lacking fourteen didst thou suffer, enjoy, weep, dream, groan, pray and strike thy rugged breast! and yet methinks that in those years there was much quiet peace and sweet content; for constant pain benumbs, and worry destroys, and vain unrest summons the grim messenger of death. but thou didst live and work and love; howbeit, thy touch was not always gentle, nor thy voice low; but on thy lips was no lie, in thy thought no concealment, in thy heart no pollution. but mark! thou didst come out of poverty and obscurity: on thy battered shield there was no crest and thou didst leave all to follow truth. and verily she did lead thee a merry chase! "thou hadst no past, but thou hast a future. thou didst say: 'bury me in westminster, never! where the mob surges, cursed with idle curiosity to see the graves of kings and nobodies? no! take me back to rugged scotland and lay my tired form to rest by the side of an honest man--my father.' "thou didst refuse the knighthood offered thee by royalty, saying, 'i am not the founder of the house of carlyle and i have no sons to be pauperized by a title,' true, thou didst leave no sons after the flesh to mourn thy loss, nor fair daughters to bedeck thy grave with garlands, but thou didst reproduce thyself in thought, and on the minds of men thou didst leave thy impress. and thy ten thousand sons will keep thy memory green so long as men shall work, and toil, and strive, and hope." the wind still howled. i looked out and saw watery clouds scudding athwart the face of the murky sky. the shutters banged, and shut me in the dark. i made haste to find the door, reached the stairway--slid down the banisters to where mrs. brown was waiting for me at the threshold. we locked the door. she went across to her little bakeshop and i stopped a passing policeman to ask the way to westminster. he told me. "did you visit carlyle's 'ouse?" he asked. "yes." "with old mrs. brown?" "yes, she waited for me in the doorway--she had the rheumatism so she could not climb the stairs." "rheumatism? huh!--you couldn't 'ire 'er to go inside. why, don't you know? they say the 'ouse is 'aunted!" john ruskin put roses in their hair, put precious stones on their breasts; see that they are clothed in purple and scarlet, with other delights; that they also learn to read the gilded heraldry of the sky; and upon the earth be taught not only the labors of it but the loveliness. --_deucalion_ [illustration: john ruskin] at windermere, a good friend, told me that i must abandon all hope of seeing mr. ruskin; for i had no special business with him, no letters of introduction, and then the fact that i am an american made it final. americans in england are supposed to pick flowers in private gardens, cut their names on trees, laugh boisterously at trifles, and often to make invidious comparisons. very properly, mr. ruskin does not admire these things. then mr. ruskin is a very busy man. occasionally he issues a printed manifesto to his friends requesting them to give him peace. a copy of one such circular was shown to me. it runs, "mr. j. ruskin is about to begin a work of great importance, and therefore begs that in reference to calls and correspondence you will consider him dead for the next two months." a similar notice is reproduced in "arrows of the chace," and this one thing, i think, illustrates as forcibly as anything in mr. ruskin's work the self-contained characteristics of the man himself. surely if a man is pleased to be considered "dead" occasionally, even to his kinsmen and friends, he should not be expected to receive with open arms an enemy to steal away his time. this is assuming, of course, that all individuals who pick flowers in other folks' gardens, cut their names on trees, and laugh boisterously at trifles, are enemies. i therefore decided that i would simply walk over to brantwood, view it from a distance, tramp over its hills, row across the lake, and at nightfall take a swim in its waters. then i would rest at the inn for a space and go my way. lake coniston is ten miles from grasmere, and even alone the walk is not long. if, however, you are delightfully attended by "king's daughters" with whom you sit and commune now and then on the bankside, the distance will seem to be much less. then there is a pleasant little break in the journey at hawkshead. here one may see the quaint old schoolhouse where wordsworth when a boy dangled his feet from a bench and proved his humanity by carving his initials on the seat. the inn at the head of coniston water appeared very inviting and restful when i saw it that afternoon. built in sections from generation to generation, half-covered with ivy and embowered in climbing roses, it is an institution entirely different from the "grand palace hotel" at oshkosh. in america we have gongs that are fiercely beaten at stated times by gentlemen of color, just as they are supposed to do in their native congo jungles. this din proclaims to the "guests" and to the public at large that it is time to come in and be fed. but this refinement of civilization is not yet in coniston, and the inn is quiet and homelike. you may go to bed when you are tired, get up when you choose, and eat when you are hungry. there were no visitors about when i arrived, and i thought i would have the coffeeroom all to myself at luncheon-time; but presently there came in a pleasant-faced old gentleman in knickerbockers. he bowed to me and then took a place at the table. he said that it was a fine day and i agreed with him, adding that the mountains were very beautiful. he assented, putting in a codicil to the effect that the lake was very pretty. then the waiter came for our orders. "together, i s'pose?" remarked thomas, inquiringly, as he halted at the door and balanced the tray on his finger-tips. "yes, serve lunch for us together," said the ruddy old gentleman as he looked at me and smiled; "to eat alone is bad for the digestion." i nodded assent. "can you tell me how far it is to brantwood?" i asked. "oh, not far--just across the lake." he arose and flung the shutter open so i could see the old, yellow house about a mile across the water, nestling in its wealth of green on the hillside. soon the waiter brought our lunch, and while we discussed the chops and new potatoes we talked ruskiniana. the old gentleman knew a deal more of "stones of venice" and "modern painters" than i; but i told him how thoreau introduced ruskin to america and how concord was the first place in the new world to recognize this star in the east. and upon my saying this, the old gentleman brought his knife-handle down on the table, declaring that thoreau and whitman were the only two men of genius that america had produced. i begged him to make it three and include emerson, which he finally consented to do. by and by the waiter cleared the table preparatory to bringing in the coffee. the old gentleman pushed his chair back, took the napkin from under his double chin, brushed the crumbs from his goodly front, and remarked: "i'm going over to brantwood this afternoon to call on mr. ruskin--just to pay my respects to him, as i always do when i come here. can't you go with me?" i think this was about the most pleasing question i ever had asked me. i was going to request him to "come again" just for the joy of hearing the words, but i pulled my dignity together, straightened up, swallowed my coffee red-hot, pushed my chair back, flourished my napkin, and said, "i shall be very pleased to go." so we went--we two--he in his knickerbockers and i in my checks and outing-shirt. i congratulated myself on looking no worse than he, and as for him, he never seemed to think that our costumes were not exactly what they should be; and after all it matters little how you dress when you call on one of nature's noblemen--they demand no livery. we walked around the northern end of coniston water, along the eastern edge, past tent house, where tennyson once lived (and found it "outrageous quiet"), and a mile farther on we came to brantwood. the road curves in to the back of the house--which, by the way, is the front--and the driveway is lined with great trees that form a complete archway. there is no lodge-keeper, no flowerbeds laid out with square and compass, no trees trimmed to appear like elephants, no cast-iron dogs, nor terra-cotta deer, and, strangest of all, no sign of the lawn-mower. there is nothing, in fact, to give forth a sign that the great apostle of beauty lives in this very old-fashioned spot. big boulders are to be seen here and there where nature left them, tangles of vines running over old stumps, part of the meadow cut close with a scythe, and part growing up as if the owner knew the price of hay. then there are flowerbeds, where grow clusters of poppies and hollyhocks (purple, and scarlet, and white), prosaic gooseberry-bushes, plain yankee pieplant (from which the english make tarts), rue and sweet marjoram, with patches of fennel, sage, thyme and catnip, all lined off with boxwood, making me think of my grandmother's garden at roxbury. on the hillside above the garden we saw the entrance to the cave that mr. ruskin once filled with ice, just to show the world how to keep its head cool at small expense. he even wrote a letter to the papers giving the bright idea to humanity--that the way to utilize caves was to fill them with ice. then he forgot all about the matter. but the following june, when the cook, wishing to make some ice-cream as a glad surprise for the sunday dinner, opened the natural ice-chest, she found only a pool of muddy water, and exclaimed, "botheration!" then they had custard instead of ice-cream. we walked up the steps, and my friend let the brass knocker drop just once, for only americans give a rat-a-tat-tat, and the door was opened by a white-whiskered butler, who took our cards and ushered us into the library. my heart beat a trifle fast as i took inventory of the room; for i never before had called on a man who was believed to have refused the poet-laureateship. a dimly lighted room was this library--walls painted brown, running up to mellow yellow at the ceiling, high bookshelves, with a stepladder, and only five pictures on the walls, and of these three were etchings, and two water-colors of a very simple sort; leather-covered chairs; a long table in the center, on which were strewn sundry magazines and papers, also several photographs; and at one end of the room a big fireplace, where a yew log smoldered. here my inventory was cut short by a cheery voice behind: "ah! now, gentlemen, i am glad to see you." there was no time nor necessity for a formal introduction. the great man took my hand as if he had always known me, as perhaps he thought he had. then he greeted my friend in the same way, stirred up the fire, for it was a north of england summer day, and took a seat by the table. we were all silent for a space--a silence without embarrassment. "you are looking at the etching over the fireplace--it was sent to me by a young lady in america," said mr. ruskin, "and i placed it there to get acquainted with it. i like it more and more. do you know the scene?" i knew the scene and explained somewhat about it. mr. ruskin has the faculty of making his interviewer do most of the talking. he is a rare listener, and leans forward, putting a hand behind his right ear to get each word you say. he was particularly interested in the industrial conditions of america, and i soon found myself "occupying the time," while an occasional word of interrogation from mr. ruskin gave me no chance to stop. i came to hear him, not to defend our "republican experiment," as he was pleased to call the united states of america. yet mr. ruskin was so gentle and respectful in his manner, and so complimentary in his attitude of listener, that my impatience at his want of sympathy for our "experiment" only caused me to feel a little heated. "the fact of women being elected to mayoralties in kansas makes me think of certain african tribes that exalt their women into warriors--you want your women to fight your political battles!" "you evidently hold the same opinion on the subject of equal rights that you expressed some years ago," interposed my companion. "what did i say--really i have forgotten?" "you replied to a correspondent, saying: 'you are certainly right as to my views respecting the female franchise. so far from wishing to give votes to women, i would fain take them away from most men.'" "surely that was a sensible answer. my respect for woman is too great to force on her increased responsibilities. then as for restricting the franchise with men, i am of the firm conviction that no man should be allowed to vote who does not own property, or who can not do considerably more than read and write. the voter makes the laws, and why should the laws regulating the holding of property be made by a man who has no interest in property beyond a covetous desire; or why should he legislate on education when he possesses none! then again, women do not bear arms to protect the state." "but what do you say to mrs. carlock, who answers that inasmuch as men do not bear children, they have no right to vote: going to war possibly being necessary and possibly not, but the perpetuity of the state demanding that some one bear children?" "the lady's argument is ingenious, but lacks force when we consider that the bearing of arms is a matter relating to statecraft, while the baby question is dame nature's own, and is not to be regulated even by the sovereign." then mr. ruskin talked for nearly fifteen minutes on the duty of the state to the individual--talked very deliberately, but with the clearness and force of a man who believes what he says and says what he believes. thus, my friend, by a gentle thrust under the fifth rib of mr. ruskin's logic, caused him to come to the rescue of his previously expressed opinions, and we had the satisfaction of hearing him discourse earnestly and eloquently. maiden ladies usually have an opinion ready on the subject of masculine methods, and, conversely, much of the world's logic on the "woman question" has come from the bachelor brain. mr. ruskin went quite out of his way on several occasions in times past to attack john stuart mill for heresy "in opening up careers for women other than that of wife and mother." when mill did not answer mr. ruskin's newspaper letters, the author of "sesame and lilies" called him a "cretinous wretch" and referred to him as "the man of no imagination." mr. mill may have been a cretinous wretch (i do not exactly understand the phrase), but the preface to "on liberty" is at once the tenderest, highest and most sincere compliment paid to a woman, of which i know. the life of mr. and mrs. john stuart mill shows that perfect mating is possible; yet mr. ruskin has only scorn for the opinions of mr. mill on a subject which mill came as near personally solving in a matrimonial "experiment" as any other public man of modern times, not excepting even robert browning. therefore we might suppose mr. mill entitled to speak on the woman question, and i intimated as much to mr. ruskin. "he might know all about one woman, and if he should regard her as a sample of all womankind, would he not make a great mistake?" i was silenced. in "fors clavigera," letter lix, the author says: "i never wrote a letter in my life which all the world is not welcome to read." from this one might imagine that mr. ruskin never loved--no pressed flowers in books; no passages of poetry double-marked and scored; no bundles of letters faded and yellow, sacred for his own eye, tied with white or dainty blue ribbon; no little nothings hidden away in the bottom of a trunk. and yet mr. ruskin has his ideas on the woman question, and very positive ideas they are too--often sweetly sympathetic and wisely helpful. i see that one of the encyclopedias mentions ruskin as a bachelor, which is giving rather an extended meaning to the word, for although mr. ruskin married, he was not mated. according to collingwood's account, this marriage was a quiet arrangement between parents. anyway, the genius is like the profligate in this: when he marries he generally makes a woman miserable. and misery is reactionary as well as infectious. ruskin is a genius. genius is unique. no satisfactory analysis of it has yet been given. we know a few of its indications--that's all. first among these is ability to concentrate. no seed can sow genius; no soil can grow it: its quality is inborn and defies both cultivation and extermination. to be surpassed is never pleasant; to feel your inferiority is to feel a pang. seldom is there a person great enough to find satisfaction in the success of a friend. the pleasure that excellence gives is oft tainted by resentment; and so the woman who marries a genius is usually unhappy. genius is excess: it is obstructive to little plans. it is difficult to warm yourself at a conflagration; the tempest may blow you away; the sun dazzles; lightning seldom strikes gently; the nile overflows. genius has its times of straying off into the infinite--and then what is the good wife to do for companionship? does she protest, and find fault? it could not be otherwise, for genius is dictatorial without knowing it, obstructive without wishing to be, intolerant unawares, and unsocial because it can not help it. the wife of a genius sometimes takes his fits of abstraction for stupidity, and having the man's interests at heart she endeavors to arouse him from his lethargy by chiding him. occasionally he arouses enough to chide back; and so it has become an axiom that genius is not domestic. a short period of mismated life told the wife of ruskin their mistake, and she told him. but mrs. grundy was at the keyhole, ready to tell the world, and so mr. and mrs. ruskin sought to deceive society by pretending to live together. they kept up this appearance for six sorrowful years, and then the lady simplified the situation by packing her trunks and deliberately leaving her genius to his chimeras; her soul doubtless softened by the knowledge that she was bestowing a benefit on him by going away. the lady afterwards became the happy wife and helpmeet of a great artist. ruskin's father was a prosperous importer of wines. he left his son a fortune equal to a little more than one million dollars. but that vast fortune has gone---principal and interest--gone in bequests, gifts and experiments; and today mr. ruskin has no income save that derived from the sale of his books. talk about "distribution of wealth"! here we have it. the bread-and-butter question has never troubled john ruskin except in his ever-ardent desire that others should be fed. his days have been given to study and writing from his very boyhood; he has made money, but he has had no time to save it. he has expressed himself on every theme that interests mankind, except perhaps "housemaid's knee." he has written more letters to the newspapers than "old subscriber," "fiat justitia," "indignant reader" and "veritas" combined. his opinions have carried much weight and directed attention into necessary lines; but perhaps his success as an inspirer of thought lies in the fact that his sense of humor exists only as a trace, as the chemist might say. men who perceive the ridiculous would never have voiced many of the things which he has said. surely those sioux indians who stretched a hay lariat across the union pacific railroad in order to stop the running of trains had small sense of the ridiculous. but it looks as if they were apostles of ruskin, every one. some one has said that no man can appreciate the beautiful who has not a keen sense of humor. for the beautiful is the harmonious, and the laughable is the absence of fit adjustment. mr. ruskin disproves the maxim. but let no hasty soul imagine that john ruskin's opinions on practical themes are not useful. he brings to bear an energy on every subject he touches (and what subject has he not touched?) that is sure to make the sparks of thought fly. his independent and fearless attitude awakens from slumber a deal of dozing intellect, and out of this strife of opinion comes truth. on account of mr. ruskin's refusing at times to see visitors, reports have gone abroad that his mind was giving way. not so, for although he is seventy-four he is as serenely stubborn as he ever was. his opposition to new inventions in machinery has not relaxed a single pulley's turn. you grant his premises and in his conclusions you will find that his belt never slips, and that his logic never jumps a cog. his life is as regular and exact as the trains on the great western, and his days are more peaceful than ever before. he has regular hours for writing, study, walking, reading, eating, and working out of doors, superintending the cultivation of his hundred acres. he told me that he had not varied a half-hour in two years from a certain time of going to bed or getting up in the morning. although his form is bowed, this regularity of life has borne fruit in the rich russet of his complexion, the mild, clear eye, and the pleasure in living in spite of occasional pain, which you know the man feels. his hair is thick and nearly white; the beard is now worn quite long and gives a patriarchal appearance to the fine face. when we arose to take our leave, mr. ruskin took a white felt hat from the elk-antlers in the hallway and a stout stick from the corner, and offered to show us a nearer way back to the village. we walked down a footpath through the tall grass to the lake, where he called our attention to various varieties of ferns that he had transplanted there. we shook hands with the old gentleman and thanked him for the pleasure he had given us. he was still examining the ferns when we lifted our hats and bade him good-day. he evidently did not hear us, for i heard him mutter: "i verily believe those miserable cook's tourists that were down here yesterday picked some of my ferns." william e. gladstone as the aloe is said to flower only once in a hundred years, so it seems to be but once in a thousand years that nature blossoms into this unrivaled product and produces such a man as we have here. --_gladstone, "lecture on homer_" [illustration: william e. gladstone] american travelers in england are said to accumulate sometimes large and unique assortments of lisps, drawls and other very peculiar things. of the value of these acquirements as regards their use and beauty, i have not room here to speak. but there is one adjunct which england has that we positively need, and that is "boots." it may be that boots is indigenous to england's soil, and that when transplanted he withers and dies; perhaps there is a quality in our atmosphere that kills him. anyway, we have no boots. when trouble, adversity or bewilderment comes to the homesick traveler in an american hotel, to whom can he turn for consolation? alas, the porter is afraid of the "guest," and all guests are afraid of the clerk, and the proprietor is never seen, and the afro-americans in the dining-room are stupid, and the chambermaid does not answer the ring, and at last the weary wanderer hies him to the barroom and soon discovers that the worthy "barkeep" has nothing to recommend him but his diamond-pin. how different, yes, how different, this would all be if boots were only here! at the quaint old city of chester i was met at the "sti-shun" by the boots of that excellent though modest hotel which stands only a block away. boots picked out my baggage without my looking for it, took me across to the inn, and showed me to the daintiest, most homelike little room i had seen for weeks. on the table was a tastefully decorated "jug," evidently just placed there in anticipation of my arrival, and in this jug was a large bunch of gorgeous roses, the morning dew still on them. when boots had brought me hot water for shaving he disappeared and did not come back until, by the use of telepathy (for boots is always psychic), i had sent him a message that he was needed. in the afternoon he went with me to get a draft cashed, then he identified me at the post-office, and introduced me to a dignitary at the cathedral whose courtesy added greatly to my enjoyment of the visit. the next morning after breakfast, when i returned to my room, everything was put to rights and a fresh bouquet of cut flowers was on the mantel. a good breakfast adds much to one's inward peace: i sat down before the open window and looked out at the great oaks dotting the green meadows that stretched away to the north, and listened to the drowsy tinkle of sheep-bells as the sound came floating in on the perfumed breeze. i was thinking how good it was to be here, when the step of boots was heard in the doorway. i turned and saw that mine own familiar friend had lost a little of his calm self-reliance--in fact, he was a bit agitated, but he soon recovered his breath. "mr. gladstone and 'is lady 'ave just arrived, sir--they will be 'ere for an hour before taking the train for lunnon, sir. i told 'is clark there was a party of americans 'ere that were very anxious to meet 'im, and he will receive you in the parlor in fifteen minutes, sir." then it was my turn to be agitated. but boots reassured me by explaining that the grand old man was just the plainest, most unpretentious gentleman one could imagine; that it was not at all necessary that i should change my suit; that i should pronounce it gladstun, not glad-stone, and that it was harden, not ha-war-den. then he stood me up, looked me over, and declared that i was all right. on going downstairs i found that boots had gotten together five americans who happened to be in the hotel. he introduced us to a bright little man who seemed to be the companion or secretary of the prime minister; he, in turn, took us into the parlor where mr. gladstone sat reading the morning paper, and presented us one by one to the great man. we were each greeted with a pleasant word and a firm grasp of the hand, and then the old gentleman turned and with a courtly flourish said, "gentlemen, allow me to present you to mrs. gladstone." mr. gladstone was wise: he remained standing; this was sure to shorten the interview. a clergyman in our party who had an impressive cough and bushy whiskers, acted as spokesman, and said several pleasant things, closing his little speech by informing mr. gladstone that americans held him in great esteem, and that we only regretted that fate had not decreed that he should have been born in the united states. mr. gladstone replied, "fate is often unkind." then he asked if we were going to london. on being told that we were, he spoke for five minutes about the things we should see in the metropolis. his style was not conversational, but after the manner of a man who was much used to speaking in public or to receiving delegations. the sentences were stately, the voice rather loud and declamatory. his closing words were: "yes, gentlemen, the way to see london is from the top of a 'bus--from the top of a 'bus, gentlemen." then there was an almost imperceptible wave of the hand, and we knew that the interview was ended. in a moment we were outside and the door was closed. the five americans who made up our little company had never met before, but now we were as brothers; we adjourned to a side-room to talk it over and tell of the things we intended to say but didn't. we all talked and talked at once, just as people do who have recently preserved an enforced silence. "how ill-fitting was that gray suit!" "yes, the sleeves too long." "did you notice the absence of the forefinger of his left hand--shot off in eighteen hundred forty-five while hunting, they say." "but how strong his voice is!" "he looks like a farmer." "eighty-five years of age! think of it, and how vigorous!" then the preacher spoke and his voice was sorrowful: "oh, but i made a botch of it--was it sarcasm or was it not?" "was what sarcasm?" "when mr. gladstone said that fate was unkind in not having him born in the united states!" and we were all silent. then boots came in, and we put the question to boots, who decided it was not sarcasm. the next day, when we went away, we rewarded boots bountifully. * * * * * william gladstone is england's glory. yet there is no english blood in his veins; his parents were scotch. aside from lord brougham, he is the only scotchman who has ever taken a prominent part in british statecraft. the name as we first find it is gled-stane, "gled" being a hawk--literally, a hawk that lives among the stones. surely the hawk is fully as respectable a bird as the eagle, and a goodly amount of granite in the clay that is used to make a man is no disadvantage. the name fits. there are deep-rooted theories in the minds of many men (and still more women) that bad boys make good men, and that a dash of the pirate, even in a prelate, does not disqualify. but i wish to come to the defense of the sunday-school story-books and show that their very prominent moral is right after all: it pays to be "good." william ewart gladstone was sent to eton when twelve years of age. from the first, his conduct was a model of propriety. he attended every chapel service, and said his prayers in the morning and before going to bed at night; he could repeat the catechism backwards or forwards, and recite more verses of scripture than any other boy in school. he always spoke the truth. he never played "hookey"; nor, as he grew older, would he tell stories of doubtful flavor, or allow others to relate such in his presence. his influence was for good, and cardinal manning has said that there was less wine drunk at oxford during the forties than would have been the case if gladstone had not been there in the thirties. he graduated from christchurch with the highest possible honors the college could bestow, and at twenty-two he seemed like one who had sprung into life full-armed. at that time he had magnificent health, a fine form, vast and varied knowledge, and a command of language so great that he was a master of forensics. his speeches were fully equal to his later splendid efforts. in feature he was handsome: the face bold and masculine; eyes of piercing luster; and hair, which he tossed when in debate, like a lion's mane. he could speak five languages, sing tenor, dance gracefully, and was on more than speaking terms with many of the best and greatest men in england. besides all this he was rich in british gold. now, here is a combination of good things that would send most young men straight to perdition--not so gladstone. he took the best care of his health, systematized his time as a miser might, listened not to the flatterers, and used his money only for good purposes. his intention was to enter the church, but his father said, "not yet," and half-forced him into politics. so, at this early age of twenty-two, he ran for parliament, was elected, and has practically never been out of the shadow of westminster palace during these sixty-odd years. at thirty-three, he was a member of the cabinet. at thirty-six, his absolute honesty compelled him for conscience' sake to resign from the ministry. his opponents then said, "gladstone is an extinct volcano," and they have said this again and again; but somehow the volcano always breaks out in a new place, stronger and brighter than ever. it is difficult to subdue a volcano. when twenty-nine, he married catherine glynne, sister and heir of sir stephen glynne, baronet. the marriage was most fortunate in every way. for over fifty years this most excellent woman has been his comrade, counselor, consolation, friend--his wife. "how can any adversity come to him who hath a wife?" said chaucer. if this splendid woman had died, then his opponents might truthfully have said, "gladstone is an extinct volcano"; but she is still with him, and a short time ago, when he had to undergo an operation for cataract, this woman of eighty was his only nurse. the influence of gladstone has been of untold value to england. his ideals for national action have been high. to the material prosperity of the country he has added millions upon millions; he has made education popular, and schooling easy; his policy in the main has been such as to command the admiration of the good and great. but there are spots on the sun. on reading mr. gladstone's books i find he has vigorously defended certain measures that seem unworthy of his genius. he has palliated human slavery as a "necessary evil"; has maintained the visibility and divine authority of the church; has asserted the mathematical certainty of the historic episcopate, the mystical efficacy of the sacraments; and has vindicated the church of england as the god-appointed guardian of truth. he has fought bitterly any attempt to improve the divorce-laws of england. much has been done in this line, even in spite of his earnest opposition, but we now owe it to mr. gladstone that there is on england's law-books a statute providing that if a wife leaves her husband he can invoke a magistrate, whose duty it will then be to issue a writ and give it to an officer, who will bring her back. more than this, when the officer has returned the woman, the loving husband has the legal right to "reprove" her. just what reprove means the courts have not yet determined; for, in a recent decision, when a costermonger admitted having given his lady "a taste of the cat," the prisoner was discharged on the ground that it was only needed reproof. i would not complain of this law if it worked both ways; but no wife can demand that the state shall return her "man" willy-nilly. and if she administers reproof to her mate, she does it without the sanction of the sovereign. however, in justice to englishmen, it should be stated that while this unique law still stands on the statute-books, it is very seldom that a man in recent years has stooped to invoke it. on all the questions i have named, from slavery to divorce, mr. gladstone has used the "bible argument." but as the years have gone by, his mind has become liberalized, and on many points where he was before zealous he is now silent. in eighteen hundred forty-one, he argued with much skill and ingenuity that jews were not entitled to full rights of citizenship, but in eighteen hundred forty-seven, acknowledging his error, he took the other side. during the war of secession the sympathies of england's chancellor of the exchequer were with the south. speaking at newcastle on october ninth, eighteen hundred sixty-two, he said, "jefferson davis has undoubtedly founded a new nation." but five years passed, and he publicly confessed that he was wrong. here is a man who, if he should err deeply, is yet so great that, like cotton mather, he might not hesitate to stand uncovered on the street-corners and ask the forgiveness of mankind. such men are saved by their enemies. their own good and the good of humanity require that their balance of power shall not be too great. had the north gone down, gladstone might never have seen his mistake. in this instance and in many others, he has not been the leader of progress, but its echo: truth has been forced upon him. his passionate earnestness, his intense volition, his insensibility to moral perspective, his blindness to the sense of proportion, might have led him into dangerous excess and frightful fanatical error, if it were not for the fact that such men create an opposition that is their salvation. to analyze a character so complex as mr. gladstone's requires the grasp of genius. we speak of "the duality of the human mind," but here are half a dozen spirits in one. they rule in turn, and occasionally several of them struggle for the mastery. when the fisk jubilee singers visited england, we find gladstone dropping the affairs of state to hear their music. he invited them to hawarden, where he sang with them. so impressed was he with the negro melodies that he anticipated that idea which has since been materialized: the founding of a national school of music that would seek to perfect in a scientific way these soul-stirring strains. he might have made a poet of no mean order; for his devotion to spiritual and physical beauty has made him a lifelong admirer of homer and dante. those who have met him when the mood was upon him have heard him recite by the hour from the "iliad" in the original. and yet the theology of homer belongs to the realm of natural religion with which mr. gladstone has little patience. a prominent member of the house of commons once said, "the only two things that the prime minister really cares for are religion and finance." the statement comes near truth; for the chief element in mr. gladstone's character is his devotion to religion; and his signal successes have been in the line of economics. he believes in free trade as the gospel of social salvation. he revels in figures; he has price, value, consumption, distribution, import, export, fluctuation, all at his tongue's end, ready to hurl at any one who ventures on a hasty generalization. and it is a significant fact that in his strong appeal for the disestablishment of the irish church, the stress of his argument was put on the point that the irish church was not in the line of the apostolic succession. mr. gladstone is grave, sober, earnest, proud, passionate, and at times romantic to a rare degree. he rebukes, refutes, contradicts, defies, and has a magnificent capacity for indignation. he will roar you like a lion, his eyes will flash, and his clenched fist will shake as he denounces that which he believes to be error. and yet among inferiors he will consult, defer, inquire, and show a humility, a forced suavity, that has given the caricaturist excuse. in his home he is gentle, amiable, always kind, social and hospitable. he loves deeply, and his friends revere him to a point that is but little this side of idolatry. and surely their affection is not misplaced. some day a plutarch without a plutarch's prejudice will arise, and with malice toward none, but with charity for all, he will write the life of the statesman, gladstone. over against this he will write the life of an american statesman. the name he will choose will be that of one born in a log hut in the forest; who was rocked by the foot of a mother whose hands meanwhile were busy at her wheel; who had no schooling, no wise and influential friends; who had few books and little time to read; who knew no formal religion; who never traveled out of his own country; who had no helpmeet, but who walked solitary--alone, a man of sorrows; down whose homely, furrowed face the tears of pity often ran, and yet whose name, strange paradox! stands in many minds as a symbol of mirth. and when the master comes, who has the power to portray with absolute fidelity the greatness of these two men, will it be to the disadvantage of the american? * * * * * the village of hawarden is in flintshire, north wales. it is seven miles from chester. i walked the distance one fine june morning--out across the battlefield where cromwell's army crushed that of charles; and on past old stone walls and stately elms. there had been a shower the night before, but the morning sun came out bright and warm and made the raindrops glisten like beads as they clung to each leaf and flower. larks sang and soared, and great flocks of crows called and cawed as they flew lazily across the sky. it was a time for silent peace, and quiet joy, and serene thankfulness for life and health. i walked leisurely, and in a little over two hours reached hawarden--a cluster of plain stone houses with climbing vines and flowers and gardens, which told of homely thrift and simple tastes. i went straight to the old stone church, which is always open, and rested for half an hour, listening to the organ on which a young girl was practising, instructed by a white-haired old gentleman. the church is dingy and stained inside and out by time. the pews are irregular, some curiously carved, and all stiff and uncomfortable. i walked around and read the inscriptions on the walls, and all the time the young girl played and the old gentleman beat time, and neither noticed my presence. one brass tablet i saw was to a woman "who for long years was a faithful servant at hawarden castle--erected in gratitude by w.e.g." near this was a memorial to w.h. gladstone, son of the premier, who died in eighteen hundred ninety-one. then there were inscriptions to various glynnes and several others whose names appear in english history. i stood at the reading-desk, where the great man has so often read, and marked the spot where william ewart gladstone and catherine glynne knelt when they were married here in july, eighteen hundred thirty-nine. a short distance from the church is the entrance to hawarden park. this fine property was the inheritance of mrs. gladstone; the park itself seems to belong to the public. if mr. gladstone were a plain citizen, people, of course, would not come by hundreds and picnic on his preserve, but serving the state, he and his possessions belong to the people, and this democratic familiarity is rather pleasing than otherwise. so great has been the throng in times past, that an iron fence had to be placed about the ivy-covered ruins of the ancient castle, to protect it from those who threatened to carry it away by the pocketful. a wall has also been put around the present "castle" (more properly, house). this was done some years ago, i was told by the butler, after a torchlight procession of a thousand enthusiastic admirers had come down from liverpool and trampled mrs. gladstone's flowers into "smithereens." the park contains many hundred acres, and is as beautiful as an english park can be, and this is praise superlative. flocks of sheep wander over the soft, green turf, and beneath the spreading trees are sleek cows which seem used to visitors, and with big, open eyes come up to be petted. occasional signs are seen: "please spare the trees." some people suppose that this is an injunction which mr. gladstone himself has never observed. but when in his tree-cutting days, no monarch of the forest was ever felled without its case being fully tried by the entire household. ruskin, once, visiting at hawarden, sat as judge, and after listening to the evidence gave sentence against several trees that were rotten at the core or overshadowing their betters. then the prime minister shouldered his faithful "snickersnee" and went forth as executioner. i looked in vain for stumps, and on inquiry was told that they were all dug out, and the ground leveled so no trace was left of the offender. the "lady of the house" at hawarden is the second daughter of mr. and mrs. gladstone. all accounts agree that she is a most capable and excellent woman. she is her father's "home secretary" and confidante, and in his absence takes full charge of the mail and looks after important business affairs. her husband, the reverend harry drew, is rector of hawarden church. i had the pleasure of meeting mr. drew and found him very cordial and perfectly willing to talk about the great man who is grandfather to his baby. we also talked of america, and i soon surmised that mr. drew's ideas of "the states" were largely derived from a visit to the wild west show. so i put the question to him direct: "did you see buffalo bill?" "oh, yes." "and did mr. gladstone go?" "not only once, but three times, and he cheered as loudly as any boy." the gladstone residence is a great, rambling, stone structure to which additions have been made from one generation to another. the towers and battlements are merely architectural appendiculã¦, but the effect of the whole, when viewed from a distance, rising out of its wealth of green and backed by the forest, is very imposing. i entered only the spacious front hallway and one room--the library. bookshelves and books and more books were everywhere; several desks of different designs (one an american roll-top), as if the owner transacted business at one, translated homer at another, and wrote social letters from a third. then there were several large japanese vases, a tiger-skin, beautiful rugs, a few large paintings, and in a rack a full dozen axes and twice as many "sticks." the whole place has an air of easy luxury that speaks of peace and plenty, of quiet and rest, of gentle thoughts and calm desires. as i walked across toward the village, the church-bell slowly pealed the hour; over the distant valley, night hovered; a streak of white mist, trailing like a thin veil, marked the passage of the murmuring brook. i thought of the grand old man over whose domain i was now treading, and my wonder was, not that one should live so long and still be vigorous, but that a man should live in such an idyllic spot, with love and books to keep him company, and yet grow old. j.m.w. turner i believe that these works of turner's are at their first appearing as perfect as those of phidias or leonardo, that is to say, incapable of any improvement conceivable by human mind. --_john ruskin_ [illustration: j.m.w. turner] the beauty of the upper thames with its fairy house-boats and green banks has been sung by poets, but rash is the minstrel who tunes his lyre to sound the praises of this muddy stream in the vicinity of chelsea. as yellow as the tiber and thick as the missouri after a flood, it comes twice a day bearing upon its tossing tide a unique assortment of uncanny sights and sickening smells from the swarming city of men below. chelsea was once a country village six miles from london bridge. now the far-reaching arms of the metropolis have taken it as her own. chelsea may be likened to some rare spinster, grown old with years and good works, and now having a safe home with a rich and powerful benefactress. yet chelsea is not handsome in her old age, and chelsea was not pretty in youth, nor fair to view in middle life; but chelsea has been the foster-mother of several of the rarest and fairest souls who have ever made the earth pilgrimage. and the greatness of genius still rests upon chelsea. as we walk slowly through its winding ways, by the edge of its troubled waters, among dark and crooked turns, through curious courts, by old gateways and piles of steepled stone, where flocks of pigeons wheel, and bells chime, and organs peal, and winds sigh, we know that all has been sanctified by their presence. and their spirits abide with us, and the splendid beauty of their visions is about us. for the stones beneath our feet have been hallowed by their tread, and the walls have borne their shadows; so all mean things are transfigured and over all these plain and narrow streets their glory gleams. and it is the great men and they alone that can render a place sacred. chelsea is now to the lovers of the beautiful a sacred name, a sacred soil; a place of pilgrimage where certain gods of art once lived, and loved, and worked, and died. sir thomas more lived here and had for a frequent guest erasmus. hans sloane began in chelsea the collection of curiosities which has now developed into the british museum. bishop atterbury (who claimed that dryden was a greater poet than shakespeare), dean swift and doctor arbuthnot, all lived in church street; richard steele just around the corner and leigh hunt in cheyne row; but it was from another name that the little street was to be immortalized. if france constantly has forty immortals in the flesh, surely it is a modest claim to say that chelsea has three for all time: thomas carlyle, george eliot and joseph mallord william turner. turner's father was a barber. his youth was passed in poverty and his advantages for education were very slight. and all this in the crowded city of london, where merit may knock long and still not be heard, and in a country where wealth and title count for much. when a boy, barefoot and ragged, he would wander away alone on the banks of the river and dream dreams about wonderful palaces and beautiful scenes; and then he would trace with a stick in the sands, endeavoring, with mud, to make plain to the eye the things that his soul saw. his mother was quite sure that no good could come from this vagabondish nature, and she did not spare the rod, for she feared that the desire to scrawl and daub would spoil the child. but he was a stubborn lad, with a pug-nose and big, dreamy, wondering eyes, and a heavy jaw; and when parents see that they have such a son, they had better hang up the rod behind the kitchen-door and lay aside force and cease scolding. for love is better than a cat-o'-nine-tails, and sympathy saves more souls than threats. the elder turner considered that the proper use of a brush was to lather chins. but the boy thought differently, and once surreptitiously took one of his father's brushes to paint a picture; the brush on being returned to its cup was used the next day upon a worthy haberdasher, whose cheeks were shortly colored a vermilion that matched his nose. this lost the barber a customer and secured the boy a thrashing. young turner did not always wash his father's shop-windows well, nor sweep off the sidewalk properly. like all boys he would rather work for some one else than for "his folks." he used to run errands for an engraver by the name of smith--john raphael smith. once, when smith sent the barber's boy with a letter to a certain art-gallery with orders to "get the answer and hurry back, mind you!" the boy forgot to get the answer and to hurry back. then another boy was dispatched after the first, and boy number two found boy number one sitting, with staring eyes and open mouth, in the art-gallery before a painting of claude lorraine's. when boy number one was at last forcibly dragged away, and reached the shop of his master, he got his ears well cuffed for his forgetfulness. but from that day forth he was not the same being that he had been before his eyes fell on that claude lorraine. he was transformed, as much so as was lazarus after he was called from beyond the portals of death and had come back to earth, bearing in his heart the secrets of the grave. from that time turner thought of claude lorraine during the day and dreamed of him at night, and he stole his way into every exhibition where a claude was to be seen. and now i wish that claude lorraine was the subject of this sketch, as well as turner, for his life is a picture full of sweetest poetry, framed in a world of dullest prose. the eyes of this boy, whom they had thought dreamy, dull and listless, now shone with a different light. he thirsted to achieve, to do, to become--yes, to become a greater painter than claude lorraine. his employer saw the change and smiled at it, but he allowed the lad to put in backgrounds and add the skies to cheap prints, just because the youngster teased to do it. then one day a certain patron of the shop came and looked over the shoulder of the turner boy, and he said, "he has skill--perhaps talent." and i think the recording angel should give this man a separate page in the book of remembrance and write his name in illuminated colors, for he gave young turner access to his own collection and to his library, and he never cuffed him nor kicked him nor called him dunce--whereat the boy was much surprised. but he encouraged the youth to sketch a picture in water-colors and then he bought the picture and paid him ten shillings for it; and the name of this man was doctor munro. the next year, when young turner was fourteen, doctor munro had him admitted to the royal academy as a student, and in seventeen hundred ninety he exhibited a water-color of the archbishop's palace at lambeth. the picture took no prize, and doubtless was not worthy of one, but from now on joseph m.w. turner was an artist, and other hands had to sweep the barber-shop. but he sold few pictures--they were not popular. other artists scorned him, possibly intuitively fearing him, for mediocrity always fears when the ghost of genius does not down at its bidding. then turner was accounted unsociable; besides, he was ragged, uncouth, independent, and did not conform to the ways of society; so the select circle cast him out--more properly speaking, did not let him in. still he worked on, and exhibited at every academy exhibition, yet he was often hungry, and the london fog crept cold and damp through his threadbare clothes. but he toiled on, for claude lorraine was ever before him. in eighteen hundred two, when twenty-seven years of age, he visited france and made a tour through switzerland, tramping over many long miles with his painting-kit on his back, and he brought back rich treasures in way of sketches and quickened imagination. in the years following he took many such trips, and came to know venice, rome, florence and paris as perfectly as his own london. when thirty-three years of age he was still worshiping at the shrine of claude lorraine. his pictures painted at this time are evidence of his ideal, and his book, "liber studiorum," issued in eighteen hundred eight, is modeled after the "liber veritatis." but the book surpasses claude's, and turner knew it, and this may have led him to burst his shackles and cast loose from his idol. for, in eighteen hundred fifteen, we find him working according to his own ideas, showing an originality and audacity in conception and execution that made him the butt of the critics, and caused consternation to rage through the studios of competitors. gradually, it dawned upon a few scattered collectors that things so strongly condemned must have merit, for why should the pack bay so loudly if there were no quarry! so to have a turner was at least something for your friends to discuss. then carriages began to stop before the dingy building at forty-seven queen anne street, and broadcloth and satin mounted the creaking stairs to the studio. it happened about this time that turner's prices began to increase. like the sibyl of old, if a customer said, "i do not want it," the painter put an extra ten pounds on the price. for "dido building carthage," turner's original price was five hundred pounds. people came to see the picture and they said, "the price is too high." next day turner's price for the "carthage" was one thousand pounds. finally, sir robert peel offered the painter five thousand pounds for the picture, but turner said he had decided to keep it for himself, and he did. in the forepart of his career he sold few pictures--for the simple reason that no one wanted them. and he sold few pictures during the latter years of his life, for the reason that his prices were so high that none but the very rich could buy. first, the public scorned turner. next, turner scorned the public. in the beginning it would not buy his pictures, and later it could not. a frivolous public and a shallow press, from his first exhibition, when fifteen years of age, to his last, when seventy, made sport of his originalities. but for merit there is a recompense in sneers, and a benefit in sarcasms, and a compensation in hate; for when these things get too pronounced a champion appears. and so it was with turner. next to having a boswell write one's life, what is better than a ruskin to uphold one's cause! success came slowly; his wants were few, but his ambition never slackened, and finally the dreams of his youth became the realities of his manhood. at twenty, turner loved a beautiful girl--they became engaged. he went away on a tramp sketching-tour and wrote his ladylove just one short letter each month. he believed that "absence only makes the heart grow fonder," not knowing that this statement is only the vagary of a poet. when he returned the lady was betrothed to another. he gave the pair his blessing, and remained a bachelor--a very confirmed bachelor. perhaps, however, the reason his fiancee proved untrue was not through lack of the epistles he wrote her, but on account of them. in the british museum i examined several letters written by turner. they appeared very much like copy for a josh billings almanac. such originality in spelling, punctuation and use of capitals! it was admirable in its uniqueness. turner did not think in words--he could only think in paint. but the young lady did not know this, and when a letter came from her homely little lover she was shocked, then she laughed, then she showed these letters to a nice young man who was clerk to a fishmonger and he laughed, then they both laughed. then this nice young man and this beautiful young lady became engaged, and they were married at saint andrew's on a lovely may morning. and they lived happily ever afterward. turner was small, and in appearance plain. yet he was big enough to paint a big picture, and he was not so homely as to frighten away all beautiful women. but philip gilbert hamerton tells us, "fortunate in many things, turner was lamentably unfortunate in this: that throughout his whole life he never came under the ennobling and refining influence of a good woman." like plato, michelangelo, sir isaac newton and his own claude lorraine, he was wedded to his art. but at sixty-five his genius suddenly burst forth afresh, and his work, mr. ruskin says, at that time exceeded in daring brilliancy and in the rich flowering of imagination, anything that he had previously done. mr. ruskin could give no reason, but rumor says, "a woman." the one weakness of our hero, that hung to him for life, was the idea that he could write poetry. the tragedian always thinks he can succeed in comedy; the comedian spends hours in his garret rehearsing tragedy; most preachers have an idea that they could have made a quick fortune in business, and many businessmen are very sure that if they had taken to the pulpit there would now be fewer empty pews. so the greatest landscape-painter of recent times imagined himself a poet. hamerton says that for remarkable specimens of grammar, spelling and construction turner's verse would serve well to be given to little boys to correct. one spot in turner's life over which i like to linger is his friendship with sir walter scott. they collaborated in the production of "provincial antiquities," and spent many happy hours together tramping over scottish moors and mountains. sir walter lived out his days in happy ignorance concerning the art of painting, and although he liked the society of turner, he confessed that it was quite beyond his ken why people bought his pictures. "and as for your books," said turner, "the covers of some are certainly very pretty." yet these men took a satisfaction in each other's society, such as brothers might enjoy, but without either man appreciating the greatness of the other. turner's temperament was audacious, self-centered, self-reliant, eager for success and fame, yet at the same time scorning public opinion--a paradox often found in the artistic mind of the first class; silent always--with a bitter silence, disdaining to tell his meaning when the critics could not perceive it. he was above all things always the artist, never the realist. the realist pictures the things he sees; the artist expresses that which he feels. children, and all simple folk who use pen, pencil or brush, describe the things they behold. as intellect develops and goes more in partnership with hand, imagination soars, and things are outlined that no man can see except he be able to perceive the invisible. to appreciate a work of art you must feel as the artist felt. now, it is very plain that the vast majority of people are not capable of this high sense of sublimity which the creative artist feels; and therefore they do not understand, and not understanding, they wax merry, or cynical, or sarcastic, or wrathful, or envious; or they pass by unmoved. and i maintain that those who pass by unmoved are more righteous than they who scoff. if i should attempt to explain to my little girl the awe i feel when i contemplate the miracle of maternity, she would probably change the subject by prattling to me about a kitten she saw lapping milk from a blue saucer. if i should attempt to explain to some men what i feel when i contemplate the miracle of maternity, they would smile and turn it all into an unspeakable jest. is not the child nearer to god than the man? we thus see why to many browning is only a joke, whitman an eccentric, dante insane and turner a pretender. these have all sought to express things which the many can not feel, and consequently they have been, and are, the butt of jokes and jibes innumerable. "except ye become as little children," etc.--and yet the scoffers are often people of worth. nothing so shows the limitation of humanity as this: genius often does not appreciate genius. the inspired, strangely enough, are like the fools, they do not recognize inspiration. an englishman called on voltaire and found him in bed reading shakespeare. "what are you reading?" asked the visitor. "your shakespeare!" said the philosopher; and as he answered he flung the book across the room. "he's not my shakespeare," said the englishman. greene, rymer, dryden, warburton and doctor johnson used collectively or individually the following expressions in describing the work of the author of "hamlet": conceit, overreach, word-play, extravagance, overdone, absurdity, obscurity, puerility, bombast, idiocy, untruth, improbability, drivel. byron wrote from florence to murray: "i know nothing of painting, and i abhor and spit upon all saints and so-called spiritual subjects that i see portrayed in these churches." but the past is so crowded with vituperation that it is difficult to select--besides that, we do not wish to--but let us take a sample of arrogance from yesterday to prove our point, and then drop the theme for something pleasanter. pew and pulpit have fallen over each other for the privilege of hitting darwin; a bishop warns his congregation that emerson is "dangerous"; spurgeon calls shelley a sensualist; doctor buckley speaks of susan b. anthony as the leader of "the short-haired"; talmage cracks jokes about evolution, referring feelingly to "monkey ancestry"; and a prominent divine of england writes the world's congress of religions down as "pious waxworks." these things being true, and all the sentiments quoted coming from "good" but blindly zealous men, is it a wonder that the artist is not understood? a brilliant picture, called "cologne--evening," attracted much attention at the academy exhibition of eighteen hundred twenty-six. one day the people who so often collected around turner's work were shocked to see that the beautiful canvas had lost its brilliancy, and evidently had been tampered with by some miscreant. a friend ran to inform turner of the bad news. "don't say anything. i only smirched it with lampblack. it was spoiling the effect of laurence's picture that hung next to it. the black will all wash off after the exhibition." and his tender treatment of his aged father shows the gentle side of his nature. the old barber, whose trembling hand could no longer hold a razor, wished to remain under his son's roof in guise of a servant; but the son said, "no; we fought the world together, and now that it seeks to do me honor, you shall share all the benefits." and turner never smiled when the little, wizened, old man would whisper to some visitor, "yes, yes; joseph is the greatest artist in england, and i am his father." turner had a way of sending ten-pound notes in blank envelopes to artists in distress, and he did this so frequently that the news got out finally, but never through turner's telling, and then he had to adopt other methods of doing good by stealth. i do not contend that turner's character was immaculate, but still it is very probable that worldlings do not appreciate what a small part of this great genius touched the mire. to prove the sordidness of the man, one critic tells, with visage awfully solemn, how turner once gave an engraving to a friend and then, after a year, sent demanding it back. but to a person with a groat's worth of wit the matter is plain: the dreamy, abstracted artist, who bumped into his next-door neighbors on the street and never knew them, forgot he had given the picture and believed he had only loaned it. this is made still more apparent by the fact that, when he sent for the engraving in question, he administered a rebuke to the man for keeping it so long. the poor dullard who received the note flew into a rage--returned the picture--sent his compliments and begged the great artist to "take your picture and go to the devil." then certain scribblers, who through mental disease had lost the capacity for mirth, dipped their pen in aqua fortis and wrote of the "innate meanness," the "malice prepense" and the "old adam" which dwelt in the heart of turner. no one laughed except a few irishmen, and an american or two, who chanced to hear of the story. of turner's many pictures i will mention in detail but two, both of which are to be seen on the walls of the national gallery. first, "the old temeraire." this warship had been sold out of service and was being towed away to be broken up. the scene was photographed on turner's brain, and he immortalized it on canvas. we can not do better than borrow the words of mr. ruskin: "of all pictures not visibly involving human pain, this is the most pathetic ever painted. "the utmost pensiveness which can ordinarily be given to a landscape depends on adjuncts of ruin, but no ruin was ever so affecting as the gliding of this ship to her grave. this particular ship, crowned in the trafalgar hour of trial with chief victory--surely, if ever anything without a soul deserved honor or affection we owe them here. surely, some sacred care might have been left in our thoughts for her; some quiet space amid the lapse of english waters! nay, not so. we have stern keepers to trust her glory to--the fire and the worm. nevermore shall sunset lay golden robe upon her, nor starlight tremble on the waves that part at her gliding. perhaps where the low gate opens to some cottage garden, the tired traveler may ask, idly, why the moss grows so green on the rugged wood; and even the sailor's child may not know that the night dew lies deep in the warrents of the old temeraire." "the burial of sir david wilkie at sea" has brought tears to many eyes. yet there is no burial. the ship is far away in the gloom of the offing; you can not distinguish a single figure on her decks; but you behold her great sails standing out against the leaden blackness of the night and you feel that out there a certain scene is being enacted. and if you listen closely you can hear the solemn voice of the captain as he reads the burial service. then there is a pause--a swift, sliding sound--a splash, and all is over. turner left to the british nation by his will nineteen thousand pencil and water-color sketches and one hundred large canvases. these pictures are now to be seen in the national gallery in rooms set apart and sacred to turner's work. for fear it may be thought that the number of sketches mentioned above is a misprint, let us say that if he had produced one picture a day for fifty years it would not equal the number of pieces bestowed by his will on the nation. this of course takes no account of the pictures sold during his lifetime, and, as he left a fortune of one hundred forty-four thousand pounds (seven hundred twenty thousand dollars), we may infer that not all his pictures were given away. at chelsea i stood in the little room where he breathed his last, that bleak day in eighteen-hundred fifty-one. the unlettered but motherly old woman who took care of him in those last days never guessed his greatness; none in the house or the neighborhood knew. to them he was only mr. booth, an eccentric old man of moderate means, who liked to muse, read, and play with children. he had no callers, no friends; he went to the city every day and came back at night. he talked but little, he was absent-minded, he smoked and thought and smiled and muttered to himself. he never went to church; but once one of the lodgers asked him what he thought of god. "god, god--what do i know of god, what does any one! he is our life--he is the all, but we need not fear him--all we can do is to speak the truth and do our work. tomorrow we go--where? i know not, but i am not afraid." of art, to these strangers he would never speak. once they urged him to go with them to an exhibition at kensington, but he smiled feebly as he lit his pipe and said, "an art exhibition? no, no; a man can show on a canvas so little of what he feels, it is not worth the while." at last he died--passed peacefully away--and his attorney came and took charge of his remains. many are the hard words that have been flung off by heedless tongues about turner's taking an assumed name and living in obscurity, but "what you call fault i call accent." surely, if a great man and world-famous desires to escape the flatterers and the silken mesh of so-called society and live the life of simplicity, he has a right to do so. again, turner was a very rich man in his old age; he did much for struggling artists and assisted aspiring merit in many ways. so it came about that his mail was burdened with begging letters, and his life made miserable by appeals from impecunious persons, good and bad, and from churches, societies and associations without number. he decided to flee them all; and he did. the "carthage" already mentioned is one of his finest works, and he esteemed it so highly that he requested that when death came, his body should be buried, wrapped in its magnificent folds. but the wish was disregarded. his remains rest in the crypt of saint paul's, beside the dust of reynolds. his statue, in marble, adorns a niche in the great cathedral, and his name is secure high on the roll of honor. and if for no other reason, the name and fame of chelsea should be deathless as the home of turner. jonathan swift they are but few and meanspirited that live in peace with all men. --_tale of a tub_ [illustration: jonathan swift] birrell, the great english essayist, remarks that, "of writing books about dean swift there is no end." the reason is plain: of no other prominent writer who has lived during the past two hundred years do we know so much. his life lies open to us in many books. boswell did not write his biography, but johnson did. then followed whole schools of little fishes, some of whom wrote like whales. but among the works of genuine worth and merit, with swift for a subject, we have sir walter scott's nineteen volumes, and lives by craik, mitford, forster, collins and leslie stephen. the positive elements in swift's character make him a most interesting subject to men and women who are yet on earth, for he was essentially of the earth, earthy. and until we are shown that the earth is wholly bad, we shall find much to amuse, much to instruct, much to admire--aye, much to pity--in the life of jonathan swift. his father married at twenty. his income matched his years--it was just twenty pounds per annum. his wife was a young girl, bright, animated, intelligent. in a few short months this girl carried in her arms a baby. this baby was wrapped in a tattered shawl and cried piteously from hunger, for the mother had not enough to eat. she was cold, and sick, and in disgrace. her husband, too, was ill, and sorely in debt. it was midwinter. when spring came, and the flowers blossomed, and the birds mated, and warm breezes came whispering softly from the south, and all the earth was glad, the husband of this child-wife was in his grave, and she was alone. alone? no; she carried in her tired arms the hungry babe, and beneath her heart she felt the faint flutter of another life. but to be in trouble and in ireland is not so bad after all, for the irish people have great and tender hearts; and even if they have not much to bestow in a material way, they can give sympathy, and they do. so the girl was cared for by kind kindred, and on november thirtieth, sixteen hundred sixty-seven, at number seven, hoey's court, dublin, the second baby was born. only a little way from hoey's court is saint patrick's cathedral. on that november day, as the tones from the clanging chimes fell on the weary senses of the young mother, there in her darkened room, little did she think that the puny bantling she held to her breast would yet be the dean of the great church whose bells she heard; and how could she anticipate a whisper coming to her from the far-off future: "of writing books about your babe there is no end!" * * * * * the man-child was given to an old woman to care for, and he had the ability, even then, it seems, to win affection. the foster-mother loved him and she stole him away, carrying him off to england. charity ministered to his needs; charity gave him his education. when swift was twenty-one years old he went to see his mother. her means were scanty to the point of hardship, but so buoyant was her mind that she used to declare that she was both rich and happy--and being happy she was certainly rich. she was a rare woman. her spirit was independent, her mind cultivated, her manner gentle and refined, and she was endowed with a keen sense of humor. from her, the son derived those qualities which have made him famous. no man is greater than his mother; but the sons of brave women do not always make brave men. in one quality swift was lamentably inferior to his mother--he did not have her capacity for happiness. he had wit; she had humor. we have seen how swift's father sickened and died. the world was too severe for him, its buffets too abrupt, its burden too heavy, and he gave up the fight before the battle had really begun. this lack of courage and extreme sensitiveness are seen in the son. but so peculiar, complex and wonderful is this web of life, that our very blunders, weaknesses and mistakes are woven in and make the fabric stronger. if swift had possessed only his mother's merits, without his father's faults, he would never have shaken the world with laughter, and we should never have heard of him. in her lowliness and simplicity the mother of swift was content. she did her work in her own little way. she smiled at folly, and each day she thanked heaven that her lot was no worse. not so her son. he brooded in sullen silence; he cursed fate for making him a dependent, and even in his youth he scorned those who benefited him. this was a very human proceeding. many hate, but few have a fine capacity for scorn. their hate is so vehement that when hurled it falls short. swift's scorn was a beautifully winged arrow, with a poisoned tip. some who were struck did not at the time know it. his misanthropy defeated his purpose, thwarted his ambition, ruined his aims, and--made his name illustrious. swift wished for churchly preferment, but he had not the patience to wait. he imagined that others were standing in his way, and of course they were; for under the calm exterior of things ecclesiastic, there is often a strife, a jealousy and a competition more rabid than in commerce. to succeed in winning a bishopric requires a sagacity as keen as that required to become a senator of massachusetts or the governor of new york. the man bides his time, makes himself popular, secures advocates, lubricates the way, pulls the wires, and slides noiselessly into place. swift lacked diplomacy. when matters did not seem to progress he grew wrathful, seized his pen and stabbed with it. but as he wrote, the ludicrousness of the whole situation came over him and, instead of cursing plain curses, he held his adversary up to ridicule! and this ridicule is so active, the scorn so mixed with wit, the shafts so finely feathered with truth, that it is the admiration of mankind. vitriol mixed with ink is volatile. then what? we just run swift through a coarse sieve to take out the lumps of seventeenth century refuse, and then we give him to children to make them laugh. surely no better use can be made of pessimists. verily, the author of gulliver wrote for one purpose, and we use his work for another. he wished for office, he got contempt; he tried to subdue his enemies, they subdued him; he worked for the present, and he won immortality. said heinrich heine, prone on his bed in paris: "the wittiest sarcasms of mortals are only an attempt at jesting when compared with those of the great author of the universe--the aristophanes of heaven!" wise men over and over have wasted good ink and paper in bewailing swift's malice and coarseness. but without these very elements which the wise men bemoan, swift would be for us a cipher. yet love is life and hate is death, so how can spite benefit? the answer is that, in certain forms of germination, frost is as necessary as sunshine: so some men have qualities that lie dormant until the coldness of hate bursts the coarse husk of indifference. but while hate may animate, only love inspires. swift might have stood at the head of the church of england; but even so, he would be only a unit in a long list of names, and as it is, there is only one swift. mr. talmage averred that not ten men in america knew the name of the archbishop of canterbury until his son wrote a certain book entitled "dodo." in putting out this volume, young benson not only gave us the strongest possible argument favoring the celibacy of the clergy, but at the same time, if talmage's statement is correct, he made known his father's name. in all swift's work, save "the journal to stella," the animating motive seems to have been to confound his enemies; and according to the well-known line in that hymn sung wherever the union jack flies, we must believe this to be a perfectly justifiable ambition. but occasionally on his pages we find gentle words of wisdom that were meant evidently for love's eyes alone. there is much that is pure boyish frolic, and again and again there are clever strokes directed at folly. he has shot certain superstitions through with doubt, and in his manner of dealing with error he has proved to us a thing it were well not to forget: that pleasantry is more efficacious than vehemence. let me name one incident by way of proof--the well-known one of partridge, the almanac-maker. this worthy cobbler was an astrologer of no mean repute. he foretold events with much discretion. the ignorant bought his almanacs, and many believed in them as a bible--in fact, astrology was enjoying a "boom." swift came to london and found that partridge's predictions were the theme at the coffeehouses. he saw men argue and wax wroth, grow red in the face as they talked loud and long about nothing--just nothing. the whole thing struck swift as being very funny; and he wrote an announcement of his intention to publish a rival almanac. he explained that he, too, was an astrologer, but an honest one, while partridge was an impostor and a cheat; in fact, partridge foretold only things which every one knew would come true. as for himself, he could discern the future with absolute certainty, and to prove to the world his power he would now make a prophecy. in substance, it was as follows: "my first prediction is but a trifle; it relates to partridge, the almanac-maker. i have consulted the star of his nativity, and find that he will die on the twenty-ninth day of march, next." this was signed, "isaac bickerstaff," and duly issued in pamphlet form. it had such an air of sincerity that both the believers and the scoffers read it with interest. the thirtieth of march came, and another pamphlet from "isaac bickerstaff" appeared, announcing the fulfilment of the prophecy. it related how toward the end of march partridge began to languish; how he grew ill and at last took to his bed, and, his conscience then smiting him, he confessed to the world that he was a fraud and a rogue, that all his prophecies were impositions; he then passed away. partridge was wild with rage, and immediately replied in a manifesto declaring that he was alive and well, and moreover was alive on march twenty-ninth. to this "bickerstaff" replied in a pamphlet more seriously humorous than ever, reaffirming that partridge was dead, and closing with the statement that, "if an uninformed carcass still walks about calling itself partridge, i do not in any way consider myself responsible for that." the joke set all london on a grin. wherever partridge went he was met with smiles and jeers, and astrology became only a jest to a vast number of people who had formerly believed in it seriously. when benjamin franklin started his "poor richard's almanac," twenty-five years later, in the first issue he prophesied the death of one dart who set the pace at that time as almanac-maker in america. the man was to expire on the afternoon of october seventeenth, seventeen hundred thirty-eight, at three twenty-nine o'clock. dart, being somewhat of a joker himself, came out with an announcement that he, too, had consulted the oracle, and found he would live until october twenty-sixth, and possibly longer. on october eighteenth, franklin announced dart's death, and explained that it occurred promptly on time, all as prophesied. yet dart lived to publish many almanacs; but poor richard got his advertisement, and many staid, broad-brimmed philadelphians smiled who had never smiled before--not only smiled but subscribed. benjamin franklin was a great and good man, as any man must be who fathers another's jokes, introducing these orphaned children to the world as his own. perhaps no one who has written of swift knew him so well as delany. and this writer, who seems to have possessed a judicial quality far beyond most men, has told us that swift was moral in conduct to the point of asceticism. his deportment was grave and dignified, and his duties as a priest were always performed with exemplary diligence. he visited the sick, regularly administered the sacraments, and was never known to absent himself from morning prayers. when harley was lord treasurer, swift seems to have been on the topmost crest of the wave of popularity. invitations from nobility flowed in upon him, beautiful women deigned to go in search of his society, royalty recognized him. and yet all this time he was only a country priest with a liking for literature. collins tells us that the reason for his popularity is plain: "swift was one of the kings of the earth. like pope innocent the third, like chatham, he was one to whom the world involuntarily pays tribute." his will was a will of adamant; his intellect so keen that it impressed every one who approached him; his temper singularly stern, dauntless and haughty. but his wit was never filled with gaiety: he was never known to laugh. amid the wildest uproar that his sallies caused, he would sit with face austere--unmoved. personally, swift was a gentleman. when he was scurrilous, abusive, ribald, malicious, it was anonymously. is this to his credit? i should not say so, but if a man is indecent and he hides behind a "nom de plume," it is at least presumptive proof that he is not dead to shame. leslie stephen tells us that swift was a churchman to the backbone. no man who is a "churchman to the backbone" is ever very pious: the spirit maketh alive, but the letter killeth. one looks in vain for traces of spirituality in the dean. his sermons are models of churchly commonplace and full of the stock phrases of a formal religion. he never bursts into flame. yet he most thoroughly and sincerely believed in religion. "i believe in religion, it keeps the masses in check. and then i uphold christianity because if it is abolished the stability of the church might be endangered," he said. philip asked the eunuch a needless question when he inquired, "understandest thou what thou readest?" no one so poorly sexed as swift can comprehend spiritual truth: spirituality and sexuality are elements that are never separated. swift was as incapable of spirituality as he was of the "grand passion." the dean had affection; he was a warm friend; he was capable even of a degree of love, but his sexual and spiritual nature was so cold and calculating that he did not hesitate to sacrifice love to churchly ambition. he argued that the celibacy of the catholic clergy is a wise expediency. the bachelor physician and the unmarried priest have an influence among gentle womankind, young or old, married or single, that a benedict can never hope for. why this is so might be difficult to explain, but discerning men know the fact. in truth, when a priest marries he should at once take a new charge, for if he remains with his old flock a goodly number of his "lady parishioners," in ages varying from seventeen to seventy, will with fierce indignation rend his reputation. swift was as wise as a serpent, but not always as harmless as a dove. he was making every effort to secure his miter and crosier: he had many women friends in london and elsewhere who had influence. rather than run the risk of losing this influence he never acknowledged stella as his wife. choosing fame rather than love, he withered at the heart, then died at the top. the life of every man is a seamless garment--its woof his thoughts, its warp his deeds. when for him the roaring loom of time stops and the thread is broken, foolish people sometimes point to certain spots in the robe and say, "oh, why did he not leave that out!" not knowing that every action of man is a sequence from off fate's spindle. let us accept the work of genius as we find it; not bemoaning because it is not better, but giving thanks because it is so good. * * * * * well-fed, rollicking priest is father o'toole of dublin, with a big, round face, a double chin, and a brogue that you can cut with a knife. my letter of introduction from monseigneur satolli caused him at once to bring in a large, suspicious, black bottle and two glasses. then we talked--talked of ireland's wrongs and woman's rights, and of all the irishmen in america whom i was supposed to know. we spoke of the illustrious irishmen who had passed on, and i mentioned a name that caused the holy father to spring from his chair in indignation. "shwift is it! shwift! no, me lad, don't go near him! he was the divil's own, the very worsht that ever followed the swish of a petticoat. no, no; if ye go to his grave it'll bring ye bad luck for a year. it's tom moore ye want--tom was the bye. arrah! now, and it's meself phat'll go wid ye." and so the reverend father put on a long, black coat and his saint patrick's day hat, and we started. we were met at the gate by a delegation of "shpalpeens" that had located me on the inside of the house and were lying in wait. all american travelers in ireland are supposed to be millionaires, and this may possibly explain the lavish attention that is often tendered them. at any rate, various members of the delegation wished "long life to the iligant 'merican gintleman," and hinted in terms unmistakable that pence would be acceptable. the holy father applied his cane vigorously to the ragged rears of the more presumptuous, and bade them begone, but still they followed and pressed close about. "here, i'll show you how to get rid of the dirty gang," said his holiness. "have ye a penny, i don't know?" i produced a handful of small change, which the father immediately took and tossed into the street. instantly there was a heterogeneous mass of young hibernians piled up in the dirt in a grand struggle for spoils. it reminded me of football incidents i had seen at fair harvard. in the meantime, we escaped down a convenient alley and crossed the river liffey to old dublin; inside the walls of the old city, through crooked lanes and winding streets that here and there showed signs of departed gentility, where now was only squalor, want and vice, until we came to number twelve angier street, a quaint, three-story brick building now used as a "public." in the wall above the door is a marble slab with this inscription: "here was born thomas moore, on the twenty-eighth day of may, seventeen hundred seventy-eight." above this in a niche is a bust of the poet. tom's father was a worthy greengrocer who, according to the author of "lalla rookh," always gave good measure and full count. it was ever a cause of regret to the elder moore that his son did not show sufficient capacity to be trusted safely with the business. the upper rooms of the house were shown to us by an obliging landlady. father o'toole had been here before, and led the way to a snug little chamber and explained that in this room the future poet of ireland was found under one of his father's cabbage-leaves. we descended to the neat little barroom with its sanded floor and polished glassware and shining brass. the holy father ordered 'arf-and-'arf at my expense and recited one of moore's ballads. the landlady then gave us byron's "here's a health to thee, tom moore." a neighbor came in. then we had more ballads, more 'arf-and-'arf, a selection from "lalla rookh," and various tales of the poet's early life, which possibly would be hard to verify. and as the tumult raged, the smoke of battle gave me opportunity to slip away. i crossed the street, turned down one block, and entered saint patrick's cathedral. great, roomy, gloomy, solemn temple, where the rumble of city traffic is deadened to a faint hum: "without, the world's unceasing noises rise, turmoil, disquietude and busy fears; within, there are the sounds of other years, thoughts full of prayer and solemn harmonies which imitate on earth the peaceful skies." other worshipers were there. standing beside a great stone pillar i could make them out kneeling on the tiled floor. gradually, my eyes became accustomed to the subdued light, and right at my feet i saw a large brass plate set in the floor and on it only this: swift died oct. 19, 1745 aged 78 on the wall near is a bronze tablet, the inscription of which, in latin, was dictated by swift himself: "here lies the body of jonathan swift, dean of this cathedral, where fierce indignation can no longer rend his heart. go! wayfarer, and imitate, if thou canst, one who, as far as in him lay, was an earnest champion of liberty----" above this is a fine bust of the dean, and to the right is another tablet: "underneath lie interred the mortal remains of mrs. hester johnson, better known to the world as 'stella,' under which she is celebrated in the writings of doctor jonathan swift, dean of this cathedral. she was a person of extraordinary endowments and accomplishments, in body, mind and behavior; justly admired and respected by all who knew her, on account of her eminent virtues as well as for her great natural and acquired perfections." these were suffering souls and great. would they have been so great had they not suffered? who can tell? were the waters troubled in order that they might heal the people? did swift misuse this excellent woman, is a question that has been asked and answered again and again. a great author has written: "a woman, a tender, noble, excellent woman, has a dog's heart. she licks the hand that strikes her. and wrong nor cruelty nor injustice nor disloyalty can cause her to turn." death in pity took stella first; took her in the loyalty of love and the fulness of faith from a world which for love has little recompense, and for faith small fulfilment. stella was buried by torchlight, at midnight, on the thirtieth day of january, seventeen hundred twenty-eight. swift was sick at the time, and wrote in his journal: "this is the night of her funeral, and i am removed to another apartment that i may not see the light in the church which is just over against my window." but in his imagination he saw the gleaming torches as their dull light shone through the colored windows, and he said, "they will soon do as much for me." but seventeen years came crawling by before the torches flared, smoked and gleamed as the mourners chanted a requiem, and the clods fell on the coffin, and their echoes intermingled with the solemn voice of the priest as he said, "dust to dust, ashes to ashes." in eighteen hundred thirty-five, the graves were opened and casts taken of the skulls. the top of swift's skull had been sawed off at the autopsy, and a bottle in which was a parchment setting forth the facts was inserted in the head that had conceived "gulliver's travels." i examined the casts. the woman's head is square and shapely. swift's head is a refutation of phrenology, being small, sloping and ordinary. the bones of swift and stella were placed in one coffin, and now rest under three feet of concrete, beneath the floor of saint patrick's. so sleep the lovers joined in death. walt whitman all seems beautiful to me. i can repeat over to men and women, you have done such good to me i would do the same to you, i will recruit for myself and you as i go. i will scatter myself among men and women as i go, i will toss a new gladness and roughness among them. --_song of the open road_ [illustration: walt whitman] max nordau wrote a book--wrote it with his tongue in his cheek, a dash of vitriol in the ink, and with a pen that scratched. and the first critic who seemed to place a just estimate on the work was mr. zangwill (he who has no christian name). mr. zangwill made an attempt to swear out a "writ de lunatico inquirendo" against his jewish brother, on the ground that the first symptom of insanity is often the delusion that others are insane; and this being so, doctor nordau was not a safe subject to be at large. but the assize of public opinion denied the petition, and the dear people bought the book at from three to five dollars a copy. printed in several languages, its sales have mounted to a hundred thousand volumes, and the author's net profit is full forty thousand dollars. no wonder is it that, with pockets full to bursting, doctor nordau goes out behind the house and laughs uproariously whenever he thinks of how he has worked the world! if doctor talmage is the barnum of theology, surely we may call doctor nordau the barnum of science. his agility in manipulating facts is equal to hermann's now-you-see-it and now-you-don't, with pocket-handkerchiefs. yet hermann's exhibition is worth the admittance fee, and nordau's book (seemingly written in collaboration with jules verne and mark twain) would be cheap for a dollar. but what i object to is professor hermann's disciples posing as sure-enough materializing mediums, and professor lombroso's followers calling themselves scientists, when each goes forth without scrip or purse with no other purpose than to supply themselves with both. yet it was barnum himself who said that the public delights in being humbugged, and strange it is that we will not allow ourselves to be thimblerigged without paying for the privilege. nordau's success hinged on his audacious assumption that the public knew nothing of the law of antithesis. yet plato explained that the opposites of things look alike, and sometimes are alike--and that was quite a while ago. the multitude answered, "thou hast a devil." many of them said, "he hath a devil and is mad." festus said with a loud voice, "paul, thou art beside thyself." and nordau shouts in a voice more heady than that of pilate, more throaty than that of festus, "mad--whitman was--mad beyond the cavil of a doubt!" in eighteen hundred sixty-two, lincoln, looking out of a window (before lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed) on one of the streets of washington, saw a workingman in shirt-sleeves go by. turning to a friend, the president said, "there goes a man!" the exclamation sounds singularly like that of napoleon on meeting goethe. but the corsican's remark was intended for the poet's ear, while lincoln did not know who his man was, although he came to know him afterward. lincoln in his early days was a workingman and an athlete, and he never quite got the idea out of his head (and i am glad) that he was still a hewer of wood. he once told george william curtis that he more than half expected yet to go back to the farm and earn his daily bread by the work that his hands found to do; he dreamed of it nights, and whenever he saw a splendid toiler, he felt like hailing the man as brother and striking hands with him. when lincoln saw whitman strolling majestically past, he took him for a stevedore or possibly the foreman of a construction gang. whitman was fifty-one years old then. his long, flowing beard was snow-white, and the shock that covered his jove-like head was iron-gray. his form was that of an apollo who had arrived at years of discretion. he weighed an even two hundred pounds and was just six feet high. his plain, check, cotton shirt was open at the throat to the breast; and he had an independence, a self-sufficiency, and withal a cleanliness, a sweetness and a gentleness, that told that, although he had a giant's strength, he did not use it like a giant. whitman used no tobacco, neither did he apply hot and rebellious liquors to his blood and with unblushing forehead woo the means of debility and disease. up to his fifty-third year he had never known a sick day, although at thirty his hair had begun to whiten. he had the look of age in his youth and the look of youth in his age that often marks the exceptional man. but at fifty-three his splendid health was crowded to the breaking strain. how? through caring for wounded, sick and dying men, hour after hour, day after day, through the long, silent watches of the night. from eighteen hundred sixty-four to the day of his death in eighteen hundred ninety-two, he was, physically, a man in ruins. but he did not wither at the top. through it all he held the healthy optimism of boyhood, carrying with him the perfume of the morning and the lavish heart of youth. doctor bucke, who was superintendent of a hospital for the insane for fifteen years, and the intimate friend of whitman all the time, has said: "his build, his stature, his exceptional health of mind and body, the size and form of his features, his cleanliness of mind and body, the grace of his movements and gestures, the grandeur, and especially the magnetism, of his presence; the charm of his voice, his genial, kindly humor; the simplicity of his habits and tastes, his freedom from convention, the largeness and the beauty of his manner; his calmness and majesty; his charity and forbearance--his entire unresentfulness under whatever provocation; his liberality, his universal sympathy with humanity in all ages and lands, his broad tolerance, his catholic friendliness, and his unexampled faculty of attracting affection, all prove his perfectly proportioned manliness." but whitman differed from the disciple of lombroso in two notable particulars: he had no quarrel with the world, and he did not wax rich. "one thing thou lackest, o walt whitman!" we might have said to the poet; "you are not a financier." he died poor. but this is no proof of degeneracy, save on 'change. when the children of count tolstoy endeavored to have him adjudged insane, the court denied the application and voiced the wisest decision that ever came out of russia: a man who gives away his money is not necessarily more foolish than he who saves it. and with horace l. traubel i assert that whitman was the sanest man i ever saw. * * * * * some men make themselves homes; and others there be who rent rooms. walt whitman was essentially a citizen of the world: the world was his home and mankind were his friends. there was a quality in the man peculiarly universal: a strong, virile poise that asked for nothing, but took what it needed. he loved men as brothers, yet his brothers after the flesh understood him not; he loved children--they turned to him instinctively--but he had no children of his own; he loved women, and yet this strongly sexed and manly man never loved a woman. and i might here say as philip gilbert hamerton said of turner, "he was lamentably unfortunate in this: throughout his whole life he never came under the ennobling and refining influence of a good woman." it requires two to make a home. the first home was made when a woman, cradling in her loving arms a baby, crooned a lullaby. all the tender sentimentality we throw around a place is the result of the sacred thought that we live there with some one else. it is "our" home. the home is a tryst--the place where we retire and shut the world out. lovers make a home, just as birds make a nest, and unless a man knows the spell of the divine passion i hardly see how he can have a home at all. he only rents a room. camden is separated from the city of philadelphia by the delaware river. camden lies low and flat--a great, sandy, monotonous waste of straggling buildings. here and there are straight rows of cheap houses, evidently erected by staid, broad-brimmed speculators from across the river, with eyes on the main chance. but they reckoned ill, for the town did not boom. some of these houses have marble steps and white, barn-like shutters, that might withstand a siege. when a funeral takes place in one of these houses, the shutters are tied with strips of mournful, black alpaca for a year and a day. engineers, dockmen, express-drivers and mechanics largely make up the citizens of camden. of course, camden has its smug corner where prosperous merchants most do congregate: where they play croquet in the front yards, and have window-boxes, and a piano and veranda-chairs and terra-cotta statuary; but for the most part the houses of camden are rented, and rented cheap. many of the domiciles are frame and have the happy tumbledown look of the back streets in charleston or richmond--those streets where the white trash merges off into prosperous colored aristocracy. old hats do duty in keeping out the fresh air where providence has interfered and broken out a pane; blinds hang by a single hinge; bricks on the chimney-tops threaten the passersby; stringers and posts mark the place where proud picket fences once stood--the pickets having gone for kindling long ago. in the warm, summer evenings, men in shirt-sleeves sit on the front steps and stolidly smoke, while children pile up sand in the streets and play in the gutters. parallel with mickle street, a block away, are railway-tracks. there noisy switch-engines that never keep sabbath, puff back and forth, day and night, sending showers of soot and smoke when the wind is right (and it usually is) straight over number 328, where, according to john addington symonds and william michael rossetti, lived the mightiest seer of the century--the man whom they rank with socrates, epictetus, saint paul, michelangelo and dante. it was in august of eighteen hundred eighty-three that i first walked up that little street--a hot, sultry summer evening. there had been a shower that turned the dust of the unpaved roadway to mud. the air was close and muggy. the houses, built right up to the sidewalks, over which, in little gutters, the steaming sewage ran, seemed to have discharged their occupants into the street to enjoy the cool of the day. barefooted children by the score paddled in the mud. all the steps were filled with loungers; some of the men had discarded not only coats but shirts as well, and now sat in flaming red underwear, holding babies. they say that "woman's work is never done," but to the women of mickle street this does not apply--but stay! perhaps their work is never done. anyway, i remember that women sat on the curbs in calico dresses or leaned out of the windows, and all seemed supremely free from care. "can you tell me where mr. whitman lives?" i asked a portly dame who was resting her elbows on a windowsill. "who?" "mr. whitman!" "you mean walt whitman?" "yes." "show the gentleman, molly; he'll give you a nickel, i'm sure!" i had not seen molly. she stood behind me, but as her mother spoke she seized tight hold of one of my fingers, claiming me as her lawful prey, and all the other children looked on with envious eyes as little molly threw at them glances of scorn and marched me off. molly was five, going on six, she told me. she had bright-red hair, a grimy face and little chapped feet that made not a sound as we walked. she got her nickel and carried it in her mouth, and this made conversation difficult. after going one block she suddenly stopped, squared me around and pointing said, "them is he!" and disappeared. in a wheeled rattan chair, in the hallway, a little back from the door of a plain, weather-beaten house, sat the coatless philosopher, his face and head wreathed in a tumult of snow-white hair. i had a little speech, all prepared weeks before and committed to memory, that i intended to repeat, telling him how i had read his poems and admired them. and further i had stored away in my mind a few blades from "leaves of grass" that i purposed to bring out at the right time as a sort of certificate of character. but when that little girl jerked me right-about-face and heartlessly deserted me, i stared dumbly at the man whom i had come a hundred miles to see. i began angling for my little speech, but could not fetch it. "hello!" called the philosopher, out of the white aureole. "hello! come here, boy!" he held out his hand and as i took it there was a grasp with meaning in it. "don't go yet, joe," he said to a man seated on the step smoking a cob-pipe. "the old woman's calling me," said the swarthy joe. joe evidently held truth lightly. "so long, walt!" "good-by, joe. sit down, lad; sit down!" i sat in the doorway at his feet. "now isn't it queer--that fellow is a regular philosopher and works out some great problems, but he's ashamed to express 'em. he could no more give you his best than he could fly. ashamed, i s'pose, ashamed of the best that is in him. we are all a little that way--all but me--i try to write my best, regardless of whether the thing sounds ridiculous or not--regardless of what others think or say or have said. ashamed of our holiest, truest and best! is it not too bad? "you are twenty-five now? well, boy, you may grow until you are thirty and then you will be as wise as you ever will be. haven't you noticed that men of sixty have no clearer vision than men of forty? one reason is that we have been taught that we know all about life and death and the mysteries of the grave. but the main reason is that we are ashamed to shove out and be ourselves. jesus expressed his own individuality perhaps more than any other man we know of, and so he wields a wider influence than any other. and this though we only have a record of just twenty-seven days of his life. now that fellow that just left is an engineer, and he dreams some beautiful dreams; but he never expresses them to any one--only hints them to me, and this only at twilight. he is like a weasel or a mink or a whippoorwill--he comes out only at night. "'if the weather was like this all the time, people would never learn to read and write,' said joe to me just as you arrived. and isn't that so? here we can count a hundred people up and down this street, and not one is reading, not one but that is just lolling about, except the children--and they are happy only when playing in the dirt. why, if this tropical weather should continue we would all slip back into south sea islanders! you can raise good men only in a little strip around the north temperate zone--when you get out of the track of a glacier, a tender-hearted, sympathetic man of brains is an accident." then the old man suddenly ceased and i imagined that he was following the thought out in his own mind. we sat silent for a space. the twilight fell, and a lamplighter lit the street lamp on the corner. he stopped an instant to salute the poet cheerily as he passed. the man sitting on the doorstep, across the street, smoking, knocked the ashes out of his pipe on his boot-heel and went indoors. women called their children, who did not respond, but still played on. then the creepers were carried in, to be fed their bread-and-milk and put to bed; and, shortly, shrill feminine voices ordered the other children indoors, and some obeyed. the night crept slowly on. i heard old walt chuckle behind me, talking incoherently to himself, and then he said, "you are wondering why i live in such a place as this?" "yes; that is exactly what i was thinking of!" "you think i belong in the country, in some quiet, shady place. but all i have to do is to shut my eyes and go there. no man loves the woods more than i--i was born within sound of the sea--down on long island, and i know all the songs that the seashell sings. but this babble and babel of voices pleases me better, especially since my legs went on a strike, for although i can't walk, you see i can still mix with the throng, so i suffer no loss. "in the woods, a man must be all hands and feet. i like the folks, the plain, ignorant, unpretentious folks; and the youngsters that come and slide on my cellar-door do not disturb me a bit. i'm different from carlyle--you know he had a noise-proof room where he locked himself in. now, when a huckster goes by, crying his wares, i open the blinds, and often wrangle with the fellow over the price of things. but the rogues have got into a way lately of leaving truck for me and refusing pay. today an irishman passed in three quarts of berries and walked off pretending to be mad because i offered to pay. when he was gone, i beckoned to the babies over the way--they came over and we had a feast. "yes, i like the folks around here; i like the women, and i like the men, and i like the babies, and i like the youngsters that play in the alley and make mud pies on my steps. i expect to stay here until i die." "you speak of death as a matter of course--you are not afraid to die?" "oh, no, my boy; death is as natural as life, and a deal kinder. but it is all good--i accept it all and give thanks--you have not forgotten my chant to death?" "not i!" i repeated a few lines from "drum-taps." he followed me, rapping gently with his cane on the floor, and with little interjectory remarks of "that's so!" "very true!" "good, good!" and when i faltered and lost the lines he picked them up where "the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird." in a strong, clear voice, but a voice full of sublime feeling, he repeated those immortal lines, beginning, "come, lovely and soothing death." "come, lovely and soothing death, undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, in the day, in the night, to all, to each, sooner or later, delicate death. praised be the fathomless universe for life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, and for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise for the sure enwinding arms of cool, enfolding death. dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet, have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? then i chant for thee, i glorify thee above all, i bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. approach, strong deliveress, when it is so, when thou hast taken them i joyously sing the death, lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, laved in the flood of thy bliss, o death. from me to thee glad serenades, dances for thee i propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, and the sights of the open landscape and the high spread sky are fitting, and life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. the night in silence under many a star, the ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice i know, and the soul turning to thee, o vast and well-veil'd death, and the body gratefully nestling close to thee. over the tree-tops i float thee a song, over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, over the dense-packed cities all, and the teeming wharves, and ways, i float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, o death." the last playing youngster had silently disappeared from the streets. the doorsteps were deserted--save where across the way a young man and maiden sat in the gloaming, conversing in low monotone. the clouds had drifted away. a great, yellow star shone out above the chimney-tops in the east. i arose to go. "i wish you'd come oftener--i see you so seldom, lad," said the old man, half-plaintively. i did not explain that we had never met before--that i had come from new york purposely to see him. he thought he knew me. and so he did--as much as i could impart. the rest was irrelevant. as to my occupation or name, what booted it!--he had no curiosity concerning me. i grasped his outstretched hand in both of my own. he said not a word; neither did i. i turned and made my way to the ferry--past the whispering lovers on the doorsteps, and over the railway-tracks where the noisy engines puffed. as i walked on board the boat, the wind blew up cool and fresh from the west. the star in the east grew brighter, and other stars came out, reflecting themselves like gems in the dark blue of the delaware. there was a soft sublimity in the sound of the bells that came echoing over the waters. my heart was very full, for i had felt the thrill of being in the presence of a great and loving soul. it was the first time and the last that i ever saw walt whitman. * * * * * a good many writers bear no message: they carry no torch. sometimes they excite wonder, or they amuse and divert--divert us from our work. to be diverted to a certain degree may be well, but there is a point where earth ends and cloud-land begins, and even great poets occasionally befog the things they would reveal. homer was seemingly blind to much simple truth; vergil carries you away from earth; horace was undone without his mã¦cenas; dante makes you an exile; shakespeare was singularly silent concerning the doubts, difficulties and common lives of common people; byron's corsair life does not help you in your toil, and in his fight with english bards and scotch reviewers we crave neutrality; to be caught in the meshes of pope's "dunciad" is not pleasant; and lowell's "fable for critics" is only another "dunciad." but above all other poets who have ever lived, the author of "leaves of grass" was the poet of humanity. milton knew all about heaven, and dante conducts us through hell, but it was left for whitman to show us earth. his voice never goes so high that it breaks into an impotent falsetto, neither does it growl and snarl at things it does not understand and not understanding does not like. he was so great that he had no envy, and his insight was so sure that he had no prejudice. he never boasted that he was higher, nor claimed to be less than any of the other sons of men. he met all on terms of absolute equality, mixing with the poor, the lowly, the fallen, the oppressed, the cultured, the rich--simply as brother with brother. and when he said to an outcast, "not till the sun excludes you will i exclude you," he voiced a sentiment worthy of a god. he was brother to the elements, the mountains, the seas, the clouds, the sky. he loved them all and partook of them all in his large, free, unselfish, untrammeled nature. his heart knew no limits, and feeling his feet mortised in granite and his footsteps tenoned in infinity he knew the amplitude of time. only the great are generous; only the strong are forgiving. like lot's wife, most poets look back over their shoulders; and those who are not looking backward insist that we shall look into the future, and the vast majority of the whole scribbling rabble accept the precept, "man never is, but always to be blest." we grieve for childhood's happy days, and long for sweet rest in heaven and sigh for mansions in the skies. and the people about us seem so indifferent, and our friends so lukewarm; and really no one understands us, and our environment queers our budding spirituality, and the frost of jealousy nips our aspirations: "o paradise, o paradise, the world is growing old; who would not be at rest and free where love is never cold." so sing the fearsome dyspeptics of the stylus. o anemic he, you bloodless she, nipping at crackers, sipping at tea, why not consider that, although evolutionists tell us where we came from, and theologians inform us where we are going to, yet the only thing we are really sure of is that we are here! the present is the perpetually moving spot where history ends and prophecy begins. it is our only possession: the past we reach through lapsing memory, halting recollection, hearsay and belief; we pierce the future by wistful faith or anxious hope; but the present is beneath our feet. whitman sings the beauty and the glory of the present. he rebukes our groans and sighs--bids us look about on every side at the wonders of creation, and at the miracles within our grasp. he lifts us up, restores us to our own, introduces us to man and to nature, and thus infuses into us courage, manly pride, self-reliance, and the strong faith that comes when we feel our kinship with god. he was so mixed with the universe that his voice took on the sway of elemental integrity and candor. absolutely honest, this man was unafraid and unashamed, for nature has neither apprehension, shame nor vainglory. in "leaves of grass" whitman speaks as all men have ever spoken who believe in god and in themselves--oracular, without apology or abasement--fearlessly. he tells of the powers and mysteries that pervade and guide all life, all death, all purpose. his work is masculine, as the sun is masculine; for the prophetic voice is as surely masculine as the lullaby and lyric cry are feminine. whitman brings the warmth of the sun to the buds of the heart, so that they open and bring forth form, color, perfume. he becomes for them aliment and dew; so these buds become blossoms, fruits, tall branches and stately trees that cast refreshing shadows. there are men who are to other men as the shadow of a mighty rock in a weary land--such is walt whitman. victor hugo man is neither master of his life nor of his fate. he can but offer to his fellowmen his efforts to diminish human suffering; he can but offer to god his indomitable faith in the growth of liberty. --_victor hugo_ [illustration: victor hugo] the father of victor hugo was a general in the army of napoleon, his mother a woman of rare grace and brave good sense. victor was the third of three sons. six weeks before the birth of her youngest boy, the mother wrote to a very dear friend of her husband, this letter: "to general victor lahorie, "citizen-general: "soon to become the mother of a third child, it would be very agreeable to me if you would act as its godfather. its name shall be yours--one which you have not belied and one which you have so well honored: victor or victorine. your consent will be a testimonial of your friendship for us. "please accept, citizen-general, the assurance of our sincere attachment. "femme hugo." victorine was expected, victor came. general lahorie acted as sponsor for the infant. a soldier's family lives here or there, everywhere or anywhere. in eighteen hundred eight, general hugo was with joseph bonaparte in spain. victor was then six years old. his mother had taken as a residence a quaint house in the impasse of the feullantines, paris. it was one of those peculiar old places occasionally seen in france. the environs of london have a few; america none of which i know. this house, roomy, comfortable and antiquated, was surrounded with trees and a tangle of shrubbery, vines and flowers; above it all was a high stone wall, and in front a picket iron gate. it was a mosaic--a sample of the sixteenth century inlaid in this; solitary as the woods; quiet as a convent; sacred as a forest; a place for dreams, and reverie, and rest. at the back of the house was a dilapidated little chapel. here an aged priest counted his beads, said daily mass, and endeavored to keep moth, rust and ruin from the house of prayer. this priest was a scholar, a man of learning: he taught the children of madame hugo. another man lived in this chapel. he never went outside the gate and used to take exercise at night. he had a cot-bed in the shelter of the altar; beneath his pillow were a pair of pistols and a copy of tacitus. this man lived there summer and winter, although there was no warmth save the scanty sunshine that stole in through the shattered windows. he, too, taught the children and gave them little lectures on history. he loved the youngest boy and would carry him on his shoulder and tell him stories of deeds of valor. one day a file of soldiers came. they took this man and manacled him. the mother sought to keep her children inside the house so that they should not witness the scene, but she did not succeed. the boys fought their mother and the servants in a mad frenzy trying to rescue the old man. the soldiers formed in columns of four and marched their prisoner away. not long after, madame hugo was passing the church of saint jacques du haut pas: her youngest boy's hand was in hers. she saw a large placard posted in front of the church. she paused and pointing to it said, "victor, read that!" the boy read. it was a notice that general lahorie had been shot that day on the plains of grenville by order of a court martial. general lahorie was a gentleman of brittany. he was a republican, and five years before had grievously offended the emperor. a charge of conspiracy being proved against him, a price was placed upon his head, and he found a temporary refuge with the mother of his godson. that tragic incident of the arrest, and the placard announcing general lahorie's death, burned deep into the soul of the manling, and who shall say to what extent it colored his future life? when napoleon met his downfall, it was also a waterloo for general hugo. his property was confiscated, and penury took the place of plenty. when victor was nineteen, his mother having died, the family life was broken up. in "les miserables" the early struggles of marius are described; and this, the author has told us, may be considered autobiography. he has related how the young man lived in a garret; how he would sweep this barren room; how he would buy a pennyworth of cheese, waiting until dusk to get a loaf of bread, and slink home as furtively as if he had stolen it; how carrying his book under his arm he would enter the butcher's shop, and after being elbowed by jeering servants till he felt the cold sweat standing out on his forehead, he would take off his hat to the astonished butcher and ask for a single mutton-chop. this he would carry to his garret, and cooking it himself it would be made to last for three days. in this way he managed to live on less than two hundred dollars a year, derived from the proceeds of poems, pamphlets and essays. at this time he was already an "academy laureate," having received honorable mention for a poem submitted in a competition. in his twentieth year, fortune came to him in triple form: he brought out a book of poems that netted him seven hundred francs; soon after the publication of this book, louis the eighteenth, who knew the value of having friends who were ready writers, bestowed on him a pension of one thousand francs a year; then these two pieces of good fortune made possible a third--his marriage. early marriages are like late ones: they may be wise and they may not. victor hugo's marriage with adele foucher was a most happy event. a man with a mind as independent as victor hugo's is sure to make enemies. the "classics" were positive that he was defiling the well of classic french, and they sought to write him down. but by writing a man up you can not write him down; the only thing that can smother a literary aspirant is silence. victor hugo coined the word when he could not find it, transposed phrases, inverted sentences, and never called a spade an agricultural implement. not content with this, he put the spade on exhibition and this often at unnecessary times, and occasionally prefaced the word with an adjective. had he been let alone he would not have done this. the censors told him he must not use the name of deity, nor should he refer so often to kings. at once, he doubled his topseys and put on his stage three uncle toms when one might have answered. like shakespeare, he used idioms and slang with profusion--anything to express the idea. will this convey the thought? if so, it was written down, and, once written, beelzebub and all his hosts could not make him change it. but in the interest of truth let me note one exception: "i do not like that word," said mademoiselle mars to victor hugo at a rehearsal of "hernani"; "can i not change it?" "i wrote it so and it must stand," was the answer. mademoiselle mars used another expression instead of the author's, and he promptly asked her to resign her part. she wept, and upon agreeing to adhere to the text was reinstated in favor. rehearsal after rehearsal occurred, and the words were repeated as written. the night of the performance came. superb was the stage-setting, splendid the audience. the play went forward amid loud applause. the scene was reached where came the objectionable word. did mademoiselle mars use it? of course not; she used the word she chose--she was a woman. fifty-three times she played the part, and not once did she use the author's pet phrase; and he was wise enough not to note the fact. the moral of this is that not even a strong man can cope with a small woman who weeps at the right time. the censorship forbade the placing of "marion delorme" on the stage until a certain historical episode in it had been changed. would the author be so kind as to change it? not he. "then it shall not be played," said m. de martignac. the author hastened to interview the minister in person. he got a north pole reception. in fact, m. de martignac said that it was his busy day, and that playwriting was foolish business anyway; but if a man were bound to write, he should write to amuse, not to instruct. and young hugo was bowed out. when he found himself well outside the door he was furious. he would see the king himself. and he did see the king. his majesty was gracious and very patient. he listened to the young author's plea, talked book-lore, recited poetry, showed that he knew hugo's verses, asked after the author's wife, then the baby, and--said that the play could not go on. hugo turned to go. charles the tenth called him back, and said that he was glad the author had called--in fact, he was about to send for him. his pension thereafter should be six thousand francs a year. victor hugo declined to receive it. of course, the papers were full of the subject. all cafedom took sides: paris had a topic for gesticulation, and paris improved the opportunity. conservatism having stopped this play, there was only one thing to do: write another; for a play of victor hugo's must be put upon the stage. all his friends said so; his honor was at stake. in three weeks another play was ready. the censors read it and gave their report. they said that "hernani" was whimsical in conception, defective in execution, a tissue of extravagances, generally trivial and often coarse. but they advised that it be put upon the stage, just to show the public to what extent of folly an author could go. in order to preserve the dignity of their office, they drew up a list of six places where the text should be changed. both sides were afraid, so each was willing to give in a point. the text was changed, and the important day for the presentation was drawing nigh. the romanticists were, of course, anxious that the play should be a great success; the classics were quite willing that it should be otherwise; in fact, they had bought up the claque and were making arrangements to hiss it down. but the author's friends were numerous; they were young and lusty; they held meetings behind locked doors, and swore terrible oaths that the play should go. on the day of the initial performance, five hours before the curtain rose, they were on hand, having taken the best seats in the house. they also took the worst, wherever a hisser might hide. these advocates of liberal art wore coats of green or red or blue, costumes like bullfighters, trousers and hats to match or not to match--anything to defy tradition. all during the performance there was an uproar. theophile gautier has described the event in most entertaining style, and in "l'historie de romanticisme" the record of it is found in detail. several american writers have touched upon this particular theme, and all who have seen fit to write of it seem to have stood under umbrellas when god rained humor. one writer calls it "the outburst of a tremendous revolution in literature." he speaks of "smoldering flames," "the hordes that furiously fought entrenched behind prestige, age, caste, wealth and tradition," "suppression and extermination of heresy," "those who sought to stop the onward march of civilization," etc. let us be sensible. a "cane-rush" is not a revolution, and "bloody monday" at harvard is not "a decisive battle in the onward and upward march." if "hernani" had been hissed down, victor hugo would have lived just as long and might have written better. civilization is not held in place by noisy youths in flaming waistcoats; and even if every cabbage had hit its mark, and every egg bespattered its target, the morning stars would still sing together. "the hunchback of notre dame" was next turned out--written in five months--and was a great success. publishers besieged the author for another story, but he preferred poetry. it was thirty years before his next novel, "les miserables," appeared. but all the time he wrote--plays, verses, essays, pamphlets. everything that he penned was widely read. amid storms of opposition and cries of bravo, continually making friends, he moved steadily forward. men like victor hugo can be killed or they may be banished, but they can not be bought; neither can they be intimidated into silence. he resigned his pension and boldly expressed himself in his own way. he knew history by heart and toyed with it; politics was his delight. but it is a mistake to call him a statesman. he was bold to rashness, impulsive, impatient and vehement. because a man is great is no reason why he should be proclaimed perfect. such men as victor hugo need no veneer--the truth will answer: he would explode a keg of powder to kill a fly. he was an agitator. but these zealous souls are needed--not to govern or to be blindly followed, but rather to make other men think for themselves. yet to do this in a monarchy is not safe. the years passed, and the time came for either hugo or royalty to go; france was not large enough for both. it proved to be hugo; a bounty of twenty-five thousand francs was offered for his body, dead or alive. through a woman's devotion he escaped to brussels. he was driven from there to jersey, then to guernsey. it was nineteen years before he returned to paris--years of banishment, but years of glory. exiled by fate that he might do his work! * * * * * each day a steamer starts from southampton for guernsey, alderney and jersey. these are names known to countless farmers' boys the wide world over. you can not mistake the channel island boats--they smell like a county fair, and though you be blind and deaf it is impossible to board the wrong craft. every time one of these staunch little steamers lands in england, crates containing mild-eyed, lusty calves are slid down the gangplank, marked for maine, iowa, california, or some uttermost part of the earth. there his vealship (worth his weight in gold) is going to found a kingdom. i stood on the dock watching the bovine passengers disembark, and furtively listened the while to an animated argument between two rather rough-looking, red-faced men, clothed in corduroys and carrying long, stout staffs. mixed up in their conversation i caught the names of royalty, then of celebrities great, and artists famous--warriors, orators, philanthropists and musicians. could it be possible that these rustics were poets? it must be so. and there came to me thoughts of thoreau, walt whitman, joaquin miller, and all that sublime company of singers in shirt-sleeves. suddenly the wind veered and the veil fell; all the sacred names so freely bandied about were those of "families" with mighty milk-records. when we went on board and the good ship was slipping down the solent, i made the acquaintance of these men and was regaled with more cow-talk than i had heard since i left texas. we saw the island of portsea, where dickens was born, and got a glimpse of the spires of portsmouth as we passed; then came the isle of wight and the quaint town of cowes. i made a bright joke on the latter place as it was pointed out to me by my jersey friend, but it went for naught. a pleasant sail of eight hours and the towering cliffs of guernsey came in sight. foam-dashed and spray-covered they rise right out of the sea at the south, to the height of two hundred seventy feet. about them great flocks of sea-fowl hover, swirl and soar. wild, rugged and romantic is the scene. the isle of guernsey is nine miles long and six wide. its principal town is saint peter port, a place of about sixteen thousand inhabitants, where a full dozen hotel porters meet the incoming steamer and struggle for your baggage. hotels and boarding-houses here are numerous and good. guernsey is a favorite resort for invalids and those who desire to flee the busy world for a space. in fact, the author of "les miserables" has made exile popular. emerging from my hotel at saint peter port i was accosted by a small edition of gavroche, all in tatters, who proposed showing me the way to hauteville house for a penny. i already knew the route, but accepted the offer on gavroche's promise to reveal to me a secret about the place. the secret is this: the house is haunted, and when the wind is east, and the setting moon shows only a narrow rim above the rocks, ghosts come and dance a solemn minuet on the glass roof above the study. had gavroche ever seen them? no, but he knew a boy who had. years and years--ever so many years ago--long before there were any steamboats, and when only a schooner came to guernsey once a week, a woman was murdered in hauteville house. her ghost came back with other ghosts and drove the folks away. so the big house remained vacant--save for the spooks, who paid no rent. then after a great, long time victor hugo came and lived in the house. the ghosts did not bother him. faith! they had been keeping the place just a' purpose for him. he rented the house first, and liked it so well that he bought it--got it at half-price on account of the ghosts. here, every christmas, victor hugo gave a big dinner in the great oak hall to all the children in guernsey: hundreds of them--all the way from babies that could barely creep, to "boys" with whiskers. they were all fed on turkey, tarts, apples, oranges and figs; and when they went away, each was given a bag of candy to take home. climbing a narrow, crooked street we came to the great, dark, gloomy edifice situated at the top of a cliff. the house was painted black by some strange whim of a former occupant. "we will leave it so," said victor hugo; "liberty is dead, and we are in mourning for her." but the gloom of hauteville house is only on the outside. within all is warm and homelike. the furnishings are almost as the poet left them, and the marks of his individuality are on every side. in the outer hall stands an elegant column of carved oak, its panels showing scenes from "the hunchback." in the dining-room there is fantastic wainscoting with plaques and porcelain tiles inlaid here and there. many of these ornaments were presents, sent by unknown admirers in all parts of the world. in "les miserables" there is a chance line revealing the author's love for the beautiful as shown in the grain of woods. the result was an influx of polished panels, slabs, chips, hewings, carvings, and in one instance a log sent "collect." samples of redwood, ebony, calamander, hamamelis, suradanni, tamarind, satinwood, mahogany, walnut, maples of many kinds and oaks without limit--all are there. a mammoth ax-helve i noticed on the wall was labeled, "shagbark-hickory from missouri." these specimens of wood were sometimes made up into hatracks, chairs, canes, or panels for doors, and are seen in odd corners of these rambling rooms. charles hugo once facetiously wrote to a friend: "we have bought no kindling for three years." at another time he writes: "father still is sure he can sketch and positive he can carve. he has several jackknives, and whittles names, dates and emblems on sticks and furniture--we tremble for the piano." in the dining-room, i noticed a huge oaken chair fastened to the wall with a chain. on the mantel was a statuette of the virgin; on the pedestal victor hugo had engraved lines speaking of her as "freedom's goddess." this dining-room affords a sunny view out into the garden; on this floor are also a reception-room, library and a smoking-room. on the next floor are various sleeping-apartments, and two cozy parlors, known respectively as the red room and the blue. both are rich in curious draperies, a little more pronounced in color than some folks admire. the next floor contains the "oak gallery": a ballroom we should call it. five large windows furnish a flood of light. in the center of this fine room is an enormous candelabrum with many branches, at the top a statue of wood, the whole carved by victor hugo's own hands. the oak gallery is a regular museum of curiosities of every sort--books, paintings, carvings, busts, firearms, musical instruments. a long glass case contains a large number of autograph-letters from the world's celebrities, written to hugo in exile. at the top of the house and built on its flat roof is the most interesting apartment of hauteville house--the study and workroom of victor hugo. three of its sides and the roof are of glass. the floor, too, is one immense slab of sea-green glass. sliding curtains worked by pulleys cut off the light as desired. "more light, more light," said the great man again and again. he gloried and reveled in the sunshine. here, in the winter, with no warmth but the sun's rays, his eyes shaded by his felt hat, he wrote, always standing at a shelf fixed in the wall. on this shelf were written all "the toilers," "the man who laughs," "shakespeare" and much of "les miserables." the leaves of manuscript were numbered and fell on the floor, to remain perhaps for days before being gathered up. when victor hugo went to guernsey he went to liberty, not to banishment. he arrived at hauteville house poor in purse and broken in health. here the fire of his youth came back, and his pen retrieved the fortune that royalty had confiscated. the forenoons were given to earnest work. the daughter composed music; the sons translated shakespeare and acted as their father's faithful helpers; madame hugo collected the notes of her husband's life and cheerfully looked after her household affairs. several hours of each afternoon were given to romp and play; the evenings were sacred to music, reading and conversation. horace greeley was once a prisoner in paris. from his cell he wrote, "the saint peter who holds the keys of this place has kindly locked the world out; and for once, thank heaven, i am free from intrusion." lovers of truth must thank exile for some of our richest and ripest literature. exile is not all exile. imagination can not be imprisoned. amid the winding bastions of the brain, thought roams free and untrammeled. liberty is only a comparative term, and victor hugo at guernsey enjoyed a thousand times more freedom than ever ruling monarch knew. standing at the shelf-desk where this "gentleman of france" stood for so many happy hours, i inscribed my name in the "visitors' book." i thanked the good woman who had shown me the place, and told me so much of interest--thanked her in words that seemed but a feeble echo of all that my heart would say. i went down the stairs--out at the great carved doorway--and descended the well-worn steps. perched on a crag waiting for me was little gavroche, his rags fluttering in the breeze. he offered to show me the great stone chair where gilliatt sat when the tide came up and carried him away. and did i want to buy a bull calf? gavroche knew where there was a fine one that could be bought cheap. gavroche would show me both the calf and the stone chair for threepence. i accepted the offer, and we went down the stony street toward the sea, hand in hand. * * * * * on the twenty-eighth day of june, eighteen hundred ninety-four, i took my place in the long line and passed slowly through the pantheon at paris and viewed the body of president carnot. the same look of proud dignity that i had seen in life was there--calm, composed, serene. the inanimate clay was clothed in the simple black of a citizen of the republic; the only mark of office being the red silken sash that covered the spot in the breast where the stiletto-stroke of hate had gone home. amid bursts of applause, surrounded by loving friends and loyal adherents, he was stricken down and passed out into the unknown. happy fate! to die before the fickle populace had taken up a new idol; to step in an instant beyond the reach of malice--to leave behind the self-seekers that pursue, the hungry horde that follows, the zealots who defame; to escape the dagger-thrust of calumny and receive only the glittering steel that at the same time wrote his name indelibly on the roll of honor. carnot, thrice happy thou! thy name is secure on history's page, and thy dust now resting beneath the dome of the pantheon is bedewed with the tears of thy countrymen. saint genevieve, the patron saint of paris, died in five hundred twelve. she was buried on a hilltop, the highest point in paris, on the left bank of the seine. over the grave was erected a chapel which for many years was a shrine for the faithful. this chapel with its additions remained until seventeen hundred fifty, when a church was designed which in beauty of style and solidity of structure has rarely been equaled. the object of the architect was to make the most enduring edifice possible, and still not sacrifice proportion. louis the fifteenth laid the cornerstone of this church in seventeen hundred sixty-four, and in seventeen hundred ninety the edifice was dedicated by the roman catholics with great pomp. but the spirit of revolution was at work; and in one year after, a mob sacked this beautiful building, burned its pews, destroyed its altar, and wrought havoc with its ecclesiastical furniture. the convention converted the structure into a memorial temple, inscribing on its front the words, "aux grandes hommes la patrie reconnaisante," and they named the building the pantheon. in eighteen hundred six, the catholics had gotten such influence with the government that the building was restored to them. after the revolution of eighteen hundred thirty, the church of saint genevieve was again taken from the priests. it was held until eighteen hundred fifty-one, when the romanists in the assembly succeeded in having it again reconsecrated. in the meantime, many of the great men of france had been buried there. the first interment in the pantheon was mirabeau. next came marat--stabbed while in the bath by charlotte corday. both bodies were removed by order of the convention when the church was given back to rome. in the pantheon, the visitor now sees the elaborate tombs of voltaire and rousseau. in the dim twilight he reads the glowing inscriptions, and from the tomb of rousseau he sees the hand thrust forth bearing a torch--but the bones of these men are not here. while robed priests chanted the litany, as the great organ pealed, and swinging censers gave off their perfume, visitors came, bringing children, and they stopped at the arches where rousseau and voltaire slept side by side, and they said, "it is here." and so the dust of infidel greatness seemed to interfere with the rites. a change was made. let victor hugo tell: "one night in may, eighteen hundred fourteen, about two o'clock in the morning, a cab stopped near the city gate of la gare at an opening in a board fence. this fence surrounded a large, vacant piece of ground belonging to the city of paris. the cab had come from the pantheon, and the coachman had been ordered to take the most deserted streets. three men alighted from the cab and crawled into the enclosure. two carried a sack between them. other men, some in cassocks, awaited them. they proceeded towards a hole dug in the middle of the field. at the bottom of the hole was quicklime. these men said nothing, they had no lanterns. the wan daybreak gave a ghastly light; the sack was opened. it was full of bones. these were the bones of jean jacques and of voltaire, which had been withdrawn from the pantheon. "the mouth of the sack was brought close to the hole, and the bones rattled down into that black pit. the two skulls struck against each other; a spark, not likely to be seen by those standing near, was doubtless exchanged between the head that made 'the philosophical dictionary' and the head that made 'the social contract,' when that was done, when the sack was shaken, when voltaire and rousseau had been emptied into that hole, a digger seized a spade, threw into the opening the heap of earth, and filled up the grave. the others stamped with their feet upon the ground, so as to remove from it the appearance of having been freshly disturbed. one of the assistants took for his trouble the sack--as the hangman takes the clothing of his victim--they left the enclosure, got into the cab without saying a word, and, hastily, before the sun had risen, these men got away." the ashes of the man who wrote these vivid words now rest next to the empty tombs of voltaire and rousseau. but a step away is the grave of sadi-carnot. when the visitor is conducted to the crypt of the pantheon, he is first taken to the tomb of victor hugo. the sarcophagus on each side is draped with the red, white and blue of france and the stars and stripes of america. with uncovered heads, we behold the mass of flowers and wreaths, and our minds go back to eighteen hundred eighty-five, when the body of the chief citizen of paris lay in state at the pantheon and five hundred thousand people passed by and laid the tribute of silence or of tears on his bier. the pantheon is now given over as a memorial to the men of france who have enriched the world with their lives. over the portals of this beautiful temple are the words, "liberte, egalite, fraternite." across its floors of rarest mosaic echo only the feet of pilgrims and those of the courteous and kindly old soldiers who have the place in charge. on the walls color revels in beautiful paintings, and in the niches and on the pedestals is marble that speaks of greatness which lives in lives made better. the history of the pantheon is one of strife. as late as eighteen hundred seventy the commune made it a stronghold, and the streets on every side were called upon to contribute their paving-stones for a barricade. yet it seems meet that victor hugo's dust should lie here amid the scenes he loved and knew, and where he struggled, worked, toiled, achieved; from whence he was banished, and to which he returned in triumph, to receive at last the complete approbation so long withheld. certainly not in the quiet of a mossy graveyard, nor in a church where priests mumble unmeaning words at fixed times, nor yet alone on the mountain-side--for he chafed at solitude--but he should have been buried at sea. in the midst of storm and driving sleet, at midnight, the sails should have been lowered, the great engines stopped, and with no requiem but the sobbing of the night-wind and the sighing of the breeze through the shrouds, and the moaning of the waves as they surged about the great, black ship, the plank should have been run out, and the body wrapped in the red, white and blue of the republic: the sea, the infinite mother of all, beloved and sung by him, should have taken his tired form to her arms, and there he would rest. if not this, then the pantheon. wm. wordsworth even such a shell the universe itself is to the ear of faith; and there are times, i doubt not, when to you it doth impart authentic tidings of invisible things; of ebb and flow and ever-during power; and central peace subsisting at the heart of endless agitation. here you stand, adore and worship, when you know it not; pious beyond the intention of your thought; devout above the meaning of your will. --_wordsworth_ [illustration: william wordsworth] some one has told us that heaven is not a place but a condition of mind, and it is possible that he is right. but if heaven is a place, surely it is not unlike grasmere. such loveliness of landscape--such sylvan stretches of crystal water--peace and quiet and rest! great, green hills lift their heads to the skies, and all the old stone walls and hedgerows are covered with trailing vines and blooming flowers. the air is rich with song of birds, sweet with perfume, and the blossoms gaily shower their petals on the passer-by. overhead, white, billowy clouds float lazily over their background of ethereal blue. cool june breezes fan the cheek. distant knolls are dotted with flocks of sheep whose bells tinkle dreamily; and drowsy hum of beetle makes the bass, while lark song forms the air of the sweet symphony that nature plays. such was grasmere as i first saw it. to love the plain, homely, common, simple things of earth, of these to sing; to make the familiar beautiful and the commonplace enchanting; to cause each bush to burn with the actual presence of the living god: this is the poet's office. and if the poet lives near grasmere, his task does not seem difficult. from seventeen hundred ninety-nine to eighteen hundred eight, wordsworth lived at dove cottage. thanks to a few earnest souls, the place is now secured to the people of england and the lovers of poetry wherever they may be. a good old woman has charge of the cottage, and for a slight fee shows you the house and garden and little orchard and objects of interest, all the while talking: and you are glad, for, although unlettered, she is reverent and honest. she was born here, and all she knows is wordsworth and the people and the things he loved. is not this enough? here wordsworth lived before anything he wrote was published in book form: here his best work was done, and here dorothy--splendid, sympathetic dorothy---was inspiration, critic, friend. but who inspired dorothy? coleridge perhaps more than all others, and we know somewhat of their relationship as told in dorothy's diary. there is a little wordsworth library in dove cottage, and i sat at the window of "de quincey's room" and read for an hour. says dorothy: "sat until four o'clock reading dear coleridge's letters." "we paced the garden until moonrise at one o'clock--we three, brother, coleridge and i." "i read spenser to him aloud and then we had a midnight tea." here in this little, terraced garden, behind the stone cottage with its low ceilings and wide window-seats and little, diamond panes, she in her misery wrote: "oh, the pity of it all! yet there is recompense; every sight reminds me of coleridge, dear, dear fellow; of our walks and talks by day and night; of all the bright and witty, and sad sweet things of which we spoke and read. i was melancholy and could not talk, and at last i eased my heart by weeping." alas, too often there is competition between brother and sister, then follow misunderstandings; but here the brotherly and sisterly love stands out clear and strong after these hundred years have passed, and we contemplate it with delight. was ever woman more honestly and better praised than dorothy? "the blessings of my later years were with me when i was a boy. she gave me eyes, she gave me ears, and humble cares and gentle fears, a heart! the fountain of sweet tears, and love and thought and joy. and she hath smiles to earth unknown, smiles that with motion of their own do spread and sink and rise; that come and go with endless play, and ever as they pass away are hidden in her eyes." and so in a dozen or more poems, we see dorothy reflected. she was the steel on which he tried his flint. everything he wrote was read to her, then she read it alone, balancing the sentences in the delicate scales of her womanly judgment. "heart of my heart, is this well done?" when she said, "this will do," it was no matter who said otherwise. back of the house on the rising hillside is the little garden. hewn out of the solid rock is "dorothy's seat." there i rested while mrs. dixon discoursed of poet lore, and told me of how, many times, coleridge and dorothy had sat in the same seat and watched the stars. then i drank from "the well," which is more properly a spring; the stones that curb it were placed in their present position by the hand that wrote "the prelude." above the garden is the orchard, where the green linnet still sings, for the birds never grow old. there, too, are the circling swallows; and in a snug little alcove of the cottage you can read "the butterfly" from a first edition; and then you can go sit in the orchard, white with blossoms, and see the butterflies that suggested the poem. and if your eye is good you can discover down by the lakeside the daffodils, and listen the while to the cuckoo call. then in the orchard you can see not only "the daisy," but many of them, and, if you wish, mrs. dixon will let you dig a bunch of the daisies to take back to america; and if you do, i hope that yours will prosper as have mine, and that wordsworth's flowers, like wordsworth's verse, will gladden your heart when the blue sky of your life threatens to be o'ercast with gray. here southey came, and "thalaber" was read aloud in this little garden. here, too, came clarkson, the man with a fine feminine carelessness, as dorothy said. charles lloyd sat here and discoursed with william calvert. sir george beaumont forgot his title and rapped often at the quaint, hinged door. an artist was beaumont, but his best picture they say is not equal to the lines that wordsworth wrote about it. sir george was not only a gentleman according to law, but one in heart, for he was a friend, kind, gentle and generous. with such a friend wordsworth was rich indeed. but perhaps the friends we have are only our other selves, and we get what we deserve. we must not forget the kindly face of humphry davy, whose gracious playfulness was ever a charm to the wordsworths. the safety-lamp was then only an unspoken word, and perhaps few foresaw the sweetness and light that these two men would yet give to earth. walter scott and his wife came to dove cottage in eighteen hundred five. he did not bring his title, for it, like humphry davy's, was as yet unpacked down in london town. they slept in the little cubby-hole of a room in the upper southwest corner. one can imagine dorothy taking sir walter's shaving-water up to him in the morning; and the savory smell of breakfast as mistress mary poured the tea, while england's future laureate served the toast and eggs: mr. scott eating everything in sight and talking a torrent the while about art and philosophy as he passed his cup back, to the consternation of the hostess, whose frugal ways were not used to such ravages of appetite. of course she did not know that a combined novelist and rhymster ate twice as much as a simple poet. afterwards mrs. scott tucked up her dress, putting on one of dorothy's aprons, and helped do the dishes. then coleridge came over and they all climbed to the summit of helm crag. shy little de quincey had read some of wordsworth's poems, and knew from their flavor that the man who penned them was a noble soul. he came to grasmere to call on him: he walked past dove cottage twice, but his heart failed him and he went away unannounced. later, he returned and found the occupants as simple folks as himself. happiness was there and good society; few books, but fine culture; plain living and high thinking. wordsworth lived at rydal mount for thirty-three years, yet the sweetest flowers of his life blossomed at dove cottage. for difficulty, toil, struggle, obscurity, poverty, mixed with aspiration and ambition---all these were here. success came later, but this is naught; for the achievement is more than the public acknowledgment of the deed. after wordsworth moved away, de quincey rented dove cottage and lived in it for twenty-seven years. he acquired a library of more than five thousand volumes, making bookshelves on four sides of the little rooms from floor to ceiling. some of these shelves still remain. here he turned night into day and dreamed the dreams of "the opium-eater." and all these are some of the things that mrs. dixon told me on that bright summer day. what if i had heard them before! no difference. dear old lady, i salute you and at your feet i lay my gratitude for a day of rare and quiet joy. "farewell, thou little nook of mountain ground, thou rocky corner in the lowest stair of that magnificent temple which does bound one side of our whole vale with gardens rare, sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, the loveliest spot that man has ever found, farewell! we leave thee to heaven's peaceful care, thee, and the cottage which thou dost surround." * * * * * at places of pleasure and entertainment in the far west, are often found functionaries known as "bouncers." it is the duty of the bouncer to give hints to objectionable visitors that their presence is not desired. and inasmuch as there are many men who can never take a hint without a kick, the bouncer is a person selected on account of his peculiar fitness--psychic and otherwise--for the place. we all have special talents, and these faculties should be used in a manner that will help our fellowmen on their way. my acquaintanceship with the bouncer has been only general, not particular. yet i have admired him from a distance, and the skill and eclat that he sometimes shows in a professional way has often excited my admiration. in social usages, america borrows constantly from the mother country. but like all borrowing it seems to be one-sided, for seldom, very, very seldom, in point of etiquette and manners does england borrow from us. yet there are exceptions. it is a beautiful highway that skirts lake windermere and follows up through ambleside. we get a glimpse of the old home of harriet martineau, and "fox howe," the home of matthew arnold. just before rydal water is reached comes rydal road, running straight up the hillside, off from the turnpike. rydal mount is the third house up on the left-hand side, i knew the location, for i had read of it many times, and in my pocketbook i carried a picture taken from an old "frank leslie's," showing the house. my heart beat fast as i climbed the hill. to visit the old home of one who was poet laureate of england is no small event in the life of a book-lover. i was full of poetry and murmured lines from "the excursion" as i walked. soon rare old rydal mount came in sight among the wealth of green. i stopped and sighed. yes, yes, wordsworth lived here for thirty-three years, and here he died; the spot whereon i then stood had been pressed many times by his feet. i walked slowly, with uncovered head, and approached the gate. it was locked. i fumbled at the latch; and just as there came a prospect of its opening, a loud, deep, guttural voice dashed over me like a wave: "there--you! now, wot you want?" the owner of this voice was not ten feet away, but he was standing up close to the wall and i had not seen him. i was somewhat startled at first. the man did not move. i stepped to one side to get a better view of my interlocutor, and saw him to be a large, red man of perhaps fifty. a handkerchief was knotted around his thick neck, and he held a heavy hoe in his hand. a genuine beefeater he was, only he ate too much beef and the ale he drank was evidently extra xxx. his scowl was so needlessly severe and his manner so belligerent that i--thrice armed, knowing my cause was just--could not restrain a smile. i touched my hat and said, "ah, excuse me, mr. falstaff, you are the bouncer?" "never mind wot i am, sir--'oo are you?" "i am a great admirer of wordsworth----" "that's the way they all begins. cawn't ye hadmire 'im on that side of the wall as well as this?" there is no use of wasting argument with a man of this stamp; besides that, his question was to the point. but there are several ways of overcoming one's adversary: i began feeling in my pocket for pence. my enemy ceased glaring, stepped up to the locked gate as though he half-wished to be friendly, and there was sorrow in his voice: "don't tempt me, sir; don't do ut! the missus is peekin' out of the shutters at us now." "and do you never admit visitors, even to the grounds?" "no, sir, never, god 'elp me! and there's many an honest bob i could turn by ut, and no one 'urt. but i've lost my place twic't by ut. they took me back though. the guv'ner 'ud never forgive me again. 'it's three times and out, mister 'opkins,' says 'ee, only last whitsuntide." "but visitors do come?" "yes, sir; but they never gets in. mostly 'mer'cans; they don't know no better, sir. they picks all the ivy orf the outside of the wall, and you sees yourself there's no leaves on the lower branches of that tree. then they carries away so many pebbles from out there that i've to dump in a fresh weelbarrel full o' gravel every week, sir, don't you know." he thrust a pudgy, freckled hand through the bars of the gate to show that he bore me no ill-will, and also, i suppose, to mollify my disappointment. for although i had come too late to see the great poet himself and had even failed to see the inside of his house, yet i had at least been greeted at the gate by his proxy. i pressed the hand firmly, pocketed a handful of gravel as a memento, then turned and went my way. and all there is to tell about my visit to rydal mount is this interview with the bouncer. * * * * * wordsworth lived eighty years. his habitation, except for short periods, was never more than a few miles from his birthplace. his education was not extensive, his learning not profound. he lacked humor and passion; in his character there was little personal magnetism, and in his work there is small dramatic power. he traveled more or less and knew humanity, but he did not know man. his experience in so-called practical things was slight, his judgment not accurate. so he lived--quietly, modestly, dreamily. his dust rests in a country churchyard, the grave marked by a simple slab. a gnarled, old yew-tree stands guard above the grass-grown mound. the nearest railroad is fifteen miles away. as a poet, wordsworth stands in the front rank of the second class. shelley, browning, mrs. browning, tennyson, far surpass him; and the sweet singer of michigan, even in uninspired moments, never "threw off" anything worse than this: "and he is lean and he is sick: his body, dwindled and awry, rests upon ankles swollen and thick; his legs are thin and dry. one prop he has, and only one, his wife, an aged woman, lives with him near the waterfall, upon the village common." jove may nod, but when he makes a move it counts. yet the influence of wordsworth upon the thought and feeling of the world has been very great. he himself said, "the young will read my poems and be better for their truth." many of his lines pass as current coin: "the child is father of the man," "the light that never was on land nor sea," "not too bright and good for human nature's daily food," "thoughts that do lie too deep for tears," "the mighty stream of tendency," and many others. "plain living and high thinking" is generally given to emerson, but he discovered it in wordsworth, and recognizing it as his own he took it. in a certain book of quotations, "the still sad music of humanity" is given to shakespeare; but to equalize matters we sometimes attribute to wordsworth "the old oaken bucket." the men who win are those who correct an abuse. wordsworth's work was a protest--mild yet firm--against the bombastic and artificial school of the eighteenth century. before his day the "timber" used by poets consisted of angels, devils, ghosts, gods; onslaught, tourneys, jousts, tempests of hate and torrents of wrath, always of course with a very beautiful and very susceptible young lady just around the corner. the women in those days were always young and ever beautiful, but seldom wise and not often good. the men were saints or else "bad," generally bad. like the cats of kilkenny, they fought on slight cause. our young man at hawkshead school saw this: it pleased him not, and he made a list of the things on which he would write poems. this list includes: sunset, moonrise, starlight, mist, brooks, shells, stones, butterflies, moths, swallows, linnets, thrushes, wagoners, babies, bark of trees, leaves, nests, fishes, rushes, leeches, cobwebs, clouds, deer, music, shade, swans, crags and snow. he kept his vow and "went it one better," for among his verses i find the following titles: "lines left upon a seat in a yew-tree," "lines composed a few miles above tintern abbey," "to a wounded butterfly," "to dora's portrait," "to the cuckoo," "on seeing a needlebook made in the shape of a harp," etc. wordsworth's service to humanity consists in the fact that he has shown us old truth in a new light, and has made plain the close relationship that exists between physical nature and the soul of man. is this much or little? i think it is much. when we realize that we are a part of all that we see, or hear, or feel, we are not lonely. but to feel a sense of separation is to feel the chill of death. wordsworth taught that the earth is the universal mother and that the life of the flower has its source in the same universal life from whence ours is derived. to know this truth is to feel a tenderness, a kindliness, a spirit of fraternalism, toward every manifestation of this universal life. no attempt was made to say the last word, only a wish to express the truth that the spirit of god is manifest on every hand. now this is a very simple philosophy. no far-reaching, syllogistic logic is required to prove it; no miracle, nor special dispensation is needed; you just feel that it is so, that's all, and it gives you peace. children, foolish folks, old men, whose sands of life are nearly run, comprehend it. but heaven bless you! you can't prove any such foolishness. jeffrey saw the ridiculousness of these assumptions and so he declared, "this will never do," and for twenty years "the edinburgh review" never ceased to fling off fleers and jeers--and to criticize and scoff. that a great periodical, rich and influential, in the city which was the very center of learning, should go so much out of its way to attack a quiet countryman living in a four-roomed cottage, away off in the hills of cumberland, seems a little queer. then, this countryman did not seek to found a kingdom, nor to revolutionize society, nor did he force upon the world his pattypan rhymes about linnets, and larks, and daffodils. far from it: he was very modest--diffident, in fact--and his song was quite in the minor key, but still the chain-shot and bombs of literary warfare were sent hissing in his direction. there is a little story about a certain general who figured as division-commander in the war of secession: this warrior had his headquarters, for a time, in a typical southern home in the tennessee mountains. the house had a large fireplace and chimney; in this chimney, swallows had nests. one day, as the great man was busy at his maps, working out a plan of campaign against the enemy, the swallows made quite an uproar. perhaps some of the eggs were hatching; anyway, the birds were needlessly noisy in their domestic affairs, and it disturbed the great man--he grew nervous. he called his adjutant. "sir," said the mighty warrior, "dislodge those damn pests in the chimney, without delay." two soldiers were ordered to climb the roof and dislodge the enemy. yet the swallows were not dislodged, for the soldiers could not reach them. so jeffrey's tirades were unavailing, and wordsworth was not dislodged. "he might as well try to crush skiddaw," said southey. william m. thackeray to mr. brookfield september 16, 1849 have you read dickens? oh, it is charming! brave dickens! "david copperfield" has some of his prettiest touches, and the reading of the book has done another author a great deal of good. --w.m.t. [illustration: w.m. thackeray] there are certain good old ladies in every community who wear perennial mourning. they attend every funeral, carrying black-bordered handkerchiefs, and weep gently at the right time. i have made it a point to hunt out these ancient dames at their homes, and, over the teacups, i have discovered that invariably they enjoy a sweet peace--a happiness with contentment--that is a great gain. they seem to be civilization's rudimentary relic of the irish keeners and the paid mourners of the orient. and there is just a little of this tendency to mourn with those who mourn in all mankind. it is not difficult to bear another's woe--and then there is always a grain of mitigation, even in the sorrow of the afflicted, that makes their tribulation bearable. burke affirms, in "on the sublime," that all men take a certain satisfaction in the disasters of others. just as frenchmen lift their hats when a funeral passes and thank god that they are not in the hearse, so do we in the presence of calamity thank heaven that it is not ours. perhaps this is why i get a strange delight from walking through a graveyard by night. all about are the white monuments that glisten in the ghostly starlight, the night-wind sighs softly among the grassy mounds--all else is silent--still. this is the city of the dead, and of all the hundreds or thousands who have traveled to this spot over long and weary miles, i, only i, have the power to leave at will. their ears are stopped, their eyes are closed, their hands are folded--but i am alive. one of the first places i visited on reaching london was kensal green cemetery. i quickly made the acquaintance of the first gravedigger, a rare wit, over whose gray head have passed full seventy pleasant summers. i presented him a copy of "the shroud," the organ of the american undertakers' association, published at syracuse, new york. i subscribe for "the shroud" because it has a bright wit-and-humor column, and also for the sweet satisfaction of knowing that there is still virtue left in syracuse. the first gravedigger greeted me courteously, and when i explained briefly my posthumous predilections we grasped hands across an open grave (that he had just digged) and were fast friends. "do you believe in cremation, sir?" he asked. "no, never; it's pagan." "aye, you are a gentleman--and about burying folks in churches?" "never! a grave should be out under the open sky, where the sun by day and the moon and stars----" "right you are. how shakespeare can ever stand it to have his grave walked over by a boy choir is more than i can understand. if i had him here i could look after him right. come, i'll show you the company i keep!" not twenty feet from where we stood was a fine but plain granite block to the memory of the second wife of james russell lowell. "just mr. lowell and one friend stood by the grave when we lowered the coffin--just two men and no one else but the young clergyman who belongs here. mr. lowell shook hands with me when he went away. he gave me a guinea and wrote me two letters afterward from america; the last was sent only a week before he died. i'll show 'em to you when we go to the office. say, did you know him?" he pointed to a slab, on which i read the name of sydney smith. then we went to the graves of mulready, the painter; kemble, the actor; sir charles eastlake, the artist. next came the resting-place of buckle--immortal for writing a preface--dead at thirty-seven, with his history unwrit; leigh hunt sleeps near, and above his dust a column that explains how it was erected by friends. in life he asked for bread; when dead they gave him a costly pile of stone. here are also the graves of madame tietjens; of charles mathews, the actor; and of admiral sir john ross, the arctic explorer. "and just down the hill aways another big man is buried. i knew him well; he used to come and visit us often. the last time i saw him i said as he was going away, 'come again, sir; you are always welcome!' "'thank you, mr. first gravedigger,' says he; 'i will come again before long, and make you an extended visit.' in less than a year the hearse brought him. that's his grave--push that ivy away and you can read the inscription. did you ever hear of him?" it was a plain, heavy slab placed horizontally, and the ivy had so run over it that the white of the marble was nearly obscured. but i made out this inscription: william makepeace thackeray born july 18, 1811 died dec. 24, 1863 anne carmichael smyth died dec. 18, 1864, aged 72--his mother by her first marriage the unpoetic exactness of that pedigree gave me a slight chill. but here they sleep--mother and son in one grave. she who gave him his first caress also gave him his last; and when he was found dead in his bed, his mother, who lived under the same roof, was the first one called. he was the child of her girlhood--she was scarcely twenty when she bore him. in life they were never separated, and in death they are not divided. it is as both desired. thackeray was born in india, and was brought to england on the death of his father, when he was six years of age. on the way from calcutta the ship touched at the island of saint helena. a servant took the lad ashore and they walked up the rocky heights to longwood, and there, pacing back and forth in a garden, they saw a short, stout man. "lookee, lad, lookee quick--that's him! he eats three sheep every day and all the children he can get!" "and that's all i had to do with the battle of waterloo," said "old thack," forty years after. but you will never believe it after reading those masterly touches concerning the battle, in "vanity fair." young thackeray was sent to the charterhouse school, where he was considered rather a dull boy. he was big and good-natured, and read novels when he should have studied arithmetic. this tendency to "play off" stuck to him at cambridge--where he did not remain long enough to get a degree, but to the relief of his tutors went off on a tour through europe. travel as a means of education is a very seductive bit of sophistry. invalids whom the doctors can not cure, and scholars whom teachers can not teach, are often advised to take "a change." still there is reason in it. in england thackeray was intent on law; at paris he received a strong bent toward art; but when he reached weimar and was introduced at the court of letters and came into the living presence of goethe, he caught the infection and made a plan for translating schiller. schiller dead was considered in germany a greater man than goethe living, as if it were an offense to live and a virtue to die. and young william makepeace wrote home to his mother that schiller was the greatest man that ever lived and that he was going to translate his books and give them to england. no doubt there are certain people born with a tendency to infectiousness in regard to certain diseases; so there are those who catch the literary mania on slight exposure. "i've got it," said thackeray, and so he had. he went back to england and made groggy efforts at blackstone, and somebody's digest, and what's-his-name's compendium, but all the time he scribbled and sketched. the young man had come into possession of a goodly fortune from his father's estate--enough to yield him an income of over two thousand dollars a year. but bad investments and signing security for friends took the money the way that money usually goes when held by a man who has not earned it. "talk about riches having wings," said thackeray; "my fortune had pinions like a condor, and flew like a carrier-pigeon." when thackeray was thirty he was eking out a meager income writing poems, reviews, criticisms and editorials. his wife was a confirmed invalid, a victim of mental darkness, and his sorrows and anxieties were many. he was known as a bright writer, yet london is full of clever, unsuccessful men. but in thackeray's thirty-eighth year "vanity fair" came out, and it was a success from the first. in "yesterdays with authors," mr. fields says: "i once made a pilgrimage with thackeray to the various houses where his books had been written; and i remember when we came to young street, kensington, he said, with mock gravity, 'down on your knees, you rogue, for here "vanity fair" was penned; and i will go down with you, for i have a high opinion of that little production myself.'" young street is only a block from the kensington metropolitan railway-station. it is a little street running off kensington road. at number sixteen (formerly number thirteen), i saw a card in the window, "rooms to rent to single gentlemen." i rang the bell, and was shown a room that the landlady offered me for twelve shillings a week if i paid in advance; or if i would take another room one flight up with a "gent who was studying hart" it would be only eight and six. i suggested that we go up and see the "gent." we did so, and i found the young man very courteous and polite. he told me that he had never heard thackeray's name in connection with the house. the landlady protested that "no man by the name o' thack'ry has had rooms here since i rented the place; leastwise, if he has been here he called hisself by sumpthink else, which was like o'nuff the case, as most ev'rybody is crooked now'days--but surely no decent person can blame me for that!" i assured her that she was in no wise to blame. from this house in young street the author of "vanity fair" moved to number thirty-six onslow square, where he wrote "the virginians." on the south side of the square there is a row of three-storied brick houses. thackeray lived in one of these houses for nine years. they were the years when honors and wealth were being heaped upon him; and he was worldling enough to let his wants keep pace with his ability to gratify them. he was made of the same sort of clay as other men, for his standard of life conformed to his pocketbook and he always felt poor. from this fine house on onslow square he moved to a veritable palace, which he built to suit his own taste, at number two palace green, kensington. but mansions on earth are seldom for long--he died here on christmas eve, eighteen hundred sixty-three. and charles dickens, mark lemon, millais, trollope, robert browning, cruikshank, tom taylor, louis blanc, charles mathews and shirley brooks were among the friends who carried him to his rest. * * * * * to take one's self too seriously is a great mistake. complacency is the unpardonable sin, and the man who says, "now i'm sure of it," has at that moment lost it. villagers who have lived in one little place until they think themselves great, having lost the sense of proportion through lack of comparison, are generally "in dead earnest." surely they are often intellectually dead, and i do not dispute the fact that they are in earnest. all those excellent gentlemen in the days gone by who could not contemplate a celestial bliss that did not involve the damnation of those who disagreed with them were in dead earnest. cotton mather once saw a black cat perched on the shoulder of an innocent, chattering old gran'ma. the next day a neighbor had a convulsion; and cotton mather went forth and exorcised tabby with a hymn-book, and hanged gran'ma by the neck, high on gallows hill, until she was dead. had the reverend mr. mather possessed but a mere modicum of humor he might have exorcised the cat, but i am sure he would never have troubled old gran'ma. but alas, cotton mather's conversation was limited to yea, yea, and nay, nay--generally, nay, nay--and he was in dead earnest. in the boston public library is a book written in sixteen hundred eighty-five by cotton mather, entitled, "wonders of the invisible world." this book received the endorsement of the governor of the province and also of the president of harvard college. the author cites many cases of persons who were bewitched; and also makes the interesting statement that the devil knows greek, latin and hebrew, but speaks english with an accent. these facts were long used at harvard as an argument in favor of the classics. and when greek was at last made optional, the devil was supposed to have filed a protest with the dean of the faculty. the reverend francis gastrell, who razed new place, and cut down the poet's mulberry-tree to escape the importunities of visitors, was in dead earnest. attila, and herod, and john calvin were in dead earnest. and were it not for the fact that luther had lucid intervals when he went about with his tongue in his cheek he surely would have worked grievous wrong. recent discoveries in egyptian archeology show that in his lifetime moses was esteemed more as a wit than as a lawmaker. his jokes were posted upon the walls and explained to the populace, who it seems were a bit slow. job was a humorist of a high order, and when he said to the wise men, "no doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom shall die with you," he struck twelve. when the sons of jacob went down into egypt and joseph put up the price of corn, took their money, and then secretly replaced the coin in the sacks, he showed his artless love of a quiet joke. shakespeare's fools were the wisest and kindliest men at court. when the master decked a character in cap and bells, it was as though he had given bonds for the man's humanity. touchstone followed his master into exile; and when all seemed to have forsaken king lear the fool bared himself to the storm and covered the shaking old man with his own cloak. and if costard, trinculo, touchstone, jaques and mercutio had lived in salem in sixteen hundred ninety-two, there would have been not only a flashing of merry jests, but a flashing of rapiers as well, and every gray hair of every old dame's head would have been safe so long as there was a striped leg on which to stand. lincoln, liberator of men, loved the motley. in fact, the individual who is incapable of viewing the world from a jocular basis is unsafe, and can be trusted only when the opposition is strong enough to laugh him into line. in the realm of english letters, thackeray is prince of humorists. he could see right through a brick wall, and never mistook a hawk for a hernshaw. he had a just estimate of values, and the temperament that can laugh at all trivial misfits. and he had, too, that dread capacity for pain which every true humorist possesses, for the true essence of humor is sensibility. in all literature that lives there is mingled like pollen an indefinable element of the author's personality. in thackeray's "lectures on english humorists" this subtle quality is particularly apparent. elusive, delicate, alluring--it is the actinic ray that imparts vitality. when wit plays skittles with dulness, dulness gets revenge by taking wit at his word. vast numbers of people taking thackeray at his word consider him a bitter pessimist. he even disconcerted bright little charlotte bronte, who went down to london to see him, and then wrote back to haworth that "the great man talked steadily with never a smile. i could not tell when to laugh and when to cry, for i did not know what was fun and what fact." but finally the author of "jane eyre" found the combination, and she saw that beneath the brusk exterior of that bulky form there was a woman's tender sympathy. thackeray has told us what he thought of the author of "jane eyre," and the author of "jane eyre" has told us what she thought of the author of "vanity fair." one was big and whimsical, the other was little and sincere, but both were alike in this: their hearts were wrung at the sight of suffering, and both had tears for the erring, the groping, and the oppressed. a frenchman can not comprehend a joke that is not accompanied by grimace and gesticulation; and so m. taine chases thackeray through sixty solid pages, berating him for what he is pleased to term "bottled hate." taine is a cynic who charges thackeray with cynicism, all in the choicest of biting phrase. it is a beautiful example of sinners calling the righteous to repentance--a thing that is often done, but seldom with artistic finish. the fun is too deep for monsieur, or mayhap the brand is not the yellow label to which his palate is accustomed, so he spews it all. yet taine's criticism is charming reading, although he is only hot after an aniseed trail of his own dragging. but the chase is a deal more exciting than most men would lead, were there real live game to capture. if pushed, i might suggest several points in this man's make-up where god could have bettered his work. but accepting thackeray as we find him, we see a singer whose cage fate had overhung with black until he had caught the tune. the "ballad of boullabaisse" shows a tender side of his spirit that he often sought to conceal. his heart vibrated to all finer thrills of mercy; and his love for all created things was so delicately strung that he would, in childish shame, sometimes issue a growl to drown its rising, tearful tones. in the character of becky sharp, he has marshaled some of his own weak points and then lashed them with scorn. he looked into the mirror and seeing a potential snob he straightway inveighed against snobbery. the punishment does not always fit the crime--it is excess. but i still contest that where his ridicule is most severe, it is thackeray's own back that is bared to the knout. the primal recipe for roguery in art is, "know thyself." when a writer portrays a villain and does it well--make no mistake, he poses for the character himself. said gentle ralph waldo emerson, "i have capacity in me for every crime." the man of imagination knows those mystic spores of possibility that lie dormant, and like the magicians of the east who grow mango-trees in an hour, he develops the "inward potential" at will. the mere artisan in letters goes forth and finds a villain and then describes him, but the artist knows a better way: "i am that man." one of the very sweetest, gentlest characters in literature is colonel newcome. the stepfather of thackeray, major carmichael smyth, was made to stand for the portrait of the lovable colonel; and when that all-round athlete, f. hopkinson smith, gave us that other lovable old colonel he paid high tribute to "the newcomes." thackeray was a poet, and as such was often caught in the toils of doubt--the crux of the inquiring spirit. he aspired for better things, and at times his imperfections stood out before him in monstrous shape, and he sought to hiss them down. in the heart of the artist-poet there is an inmost self that sits over against the acting, breathing man and passes judgment on his every deed. to satisfy the world is little; to please the populace is naught; fame is vapor; gold is dross; and every love that has not the sanction of that inmost self is a viper's sting. to satisfy the demands of the god within is the poet's prayer. what doubts beset, what taunting fears surround, what crouching sorrows lie in wait, what dead hopes drag, what hot desires pursue, and what kindly lights do beckon on--ah! "'tis we musicians know." thackeray came to america to get a pot of money, and was in a fair way of securing it, when he chanced to pick up a paper in which a steamer was announced to sail that evening for england. a wave of homesickness swept over the big boy--he could not stand it. he hastily packed up his effects and without saying good-by to any one, and forgetting all his engagements, he hastened to the dock, leaving this note for the kindest of kind friends: "good-by, fields; good-by, mrs. fields--god bless everybody, says w.m.t." charles dickens i hope for the enlargement of my mind, and for the improvement of my understanding. if i have done but little good, i trust i have done less harm, and that none of my adventures will be other than a source of amusing and pleasant recollection. god bless you all! --_pickwick_ [illustration: charles dickens] the path of progress in certain problems seems barred as by a flaming sword. more than a thousand years before christ, an arab chief asked, "if a man die shall he live again?" every man who ever lived has asked the same question, but we know no more today about the subject than did job. there are one hundred five boy babies born to every one hundred girls. the law holds in every land where vital statistics have been kept; and sairey gamp knew just as much about the cause why as brown-sequard, pasteur, agnew or austin flint. there is still a third question that every parent, since adam and eve, has sought to solve: "how can i educate this child so that he will attain eminence?" and even in spite of shelves that groan beneath tomes and tomes, and advice from a million preachers, the answer is: nobody knows. "there is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will." moses was sent adrift, but the tide carried him into power. the brethren of joseph "deposited him into a cavity," but you can not dispose of genius that way! demosthenes was weighted (or blessed) with every disadvantage; shakespeare got into difficulty with a woman eight years his senior, stole deer, ran away, and--became the very first among english poets; erasmus was a foundling. once there was a woman by the name of nancy hanks; she was thin-breasted, gaunt, yellow and sad. at last, living in poverty, overworked, she was stricken by death. she called her son--homely as herself--and pointing to the lad's sister said, "be good to her, abe," and died--died, having no expectation for her boy beyond the hope that he might prosper in worldly affairs so as to care for himself and his sister. the boy became a man who wielded wisely a power mightier than that ever given to any other american. seven college-bred men composed his cabinet; and proctor knott once said that "if a teeter were evenly balanced, and the members of the cabinet were all placed on one end, and the president on the other, he would send the seven wise men flying into space." on the other hand, marcus aurelius wrote his "meditations" for a son who did not read them, and whose name is a symbol of profligacy; charles kingsley penned "greek heroes" for offspring who have never shown their father's heroism; and charles dickens wrote "a child's history of england" for his children--none of whom has proven his proficiency in historiology. charles dickens himself received his education at the university of hard knocks. very early in life he was cast upon the rocks and suckled by the she-wolf. yet he became the most popular author the world has ever known, and up to the present time no writer of books has approached him in point of number of readers and of financial returns. these are facts--facts so hard and true that they would be the delight of mr. gradgrind. at twelve years of age, charles dickens was pasting labels on blacking-boxes; his father was in prison. at sixteen, he was spending odd hours in the reading-room of the british museum. at nineteen, he was parliamentary reporter; at twenty-one, a writer of sketches; at twenty-three, he was getting a salary of thirty-five dollars a week, and the next year his pay was doubled. when twenty-five, he wrote a play that ran for seventy nights at drury lane theater. about the same time he received seven hundred dollars for a series of sketches written in two weeks. at twenty-six, publishers were at his feet. when dickens was at the flood-tide of prosperity, thackeray, one year his senior, waited on his doorstep with pictures to illustrate "pickwick." he worked steadily, and made from eight to twenty-five thousand dollars a year. his fame increased, and the "new york ledger" paid him ten thousand dollars for one story which he wrote in a fortnight. his collected works fill forty volumes. there are more of dickens' books sold every year now than in any year in which he lived. there were more of dickens' books sold last year than any previous year. "i am glad that the public buy his books," said macready; "for if they did not he would take to the stage and eclipse us all." "not so bad as we seem," by bulwer-lytton, was played at devonshire house in the presence of the queen, dickens taking the principal part. he gave theatrical performances in london, liverpool and manchester, for the benefit of leigh hunt, sheridan knowles and various other needy authors and actors. he wrote a dozen plays, and twice as many more have been constructed from his plots. he gave public readings through england, scotland and ireland, where the people fought for seats. the average receipts for these entertainments were eight hundred dollars per night. in eighteen hundred sixty-three, he made a six months' tour of the united states, giving a series of readings. the prices of admission were placed at extravagant figures, but the box-office was always besieged until the ticket-seller put out his lights and hung out a sign: "the standing-room is all taken." the gross receipts of these readings were two hundred twenty-nine thousand dollars; the expenses thirty-nine thousand dollars; net profit, one hundred ninety thousand dollars. charles dickens died of brain-rupture in eighteen hundred seventy, aged fifty-eight. his dust rests in westminster abbey. * * * * * "to know the london of dickens is a liberal education," once said james t. fields, who was affectionately referred to by charles dickens as "massachusetts jemmy." and i am aware of no better way to become acquainted with the greatest city in the world than to follow the winding footsteps of the author of "david copperfield." beginning his london life when ten years of age, he shifted from one lodging to another, zigzag, tacking back and forth from place to place, but all the time making head, and finally dwelling in palaces of which nobility might be proud. it took him forty-eight years to travel from the squalor of camden town to poet's corner in westminster abbey. he lodged first in bayham street. "a washerwoman lived next door, and a bow street officer over the way." it was a shabby district, chosen by the elder dickens because the rent was low. as he neglected to pay the rent, one wonders why he did not take quarters in piccadilly. i looked in vain for a sign reading, "washin dun heer," but i found a bow street orf'cer who told me that bayham street had long since disappeared. yet there is always a recompense in prowling about london, because if you do not find the thing you are looking for, you find something else equally interesting. my bow street friend proved to be a regular magazine of rare and useful information--historical, archeological and biographical. a lunnun bobby has his clothes cut after a pattern a hundred years old, and he always carries his gloves in his hand--never wearing them--because this was a habit of william the conqueror. but never mind; he is intelligent, courteous and obliging, and i am perfectly willing that he should wear skirts like a ballet-dancer and a helmet too small, if it is his humor. my perliceman knew an older orf'cer who was acquainted with mr. dickens. mr. dickens 'ad a full perliceman's suit 'imself, issued to 'im on an order from scotland yard, and he used to do patrol duty at night, carrying 'is bloomin' gloves in 'is 'and and 'is chinstrap in place. this was told me by my new-found friend, who volunteered to show me the way to north gower street. it's only gower street now and the houses have been renumbered, so number four is a matter of conjecture; but my guide showed me a door where were the marks of a full-grown plate that evidently had long since disappeared. some days afterward i found this identical brass plate at an old bookshop in cheapside. the plate read: "mrs. dickens' establishment." the man who kept the place advertised himself as a "bibliopole." he offered to sell me the plate for one pun ten; but i did not purchase, for i knew where i could get its mate with a deal more verdigris--all for six and eight. dickens has recorded that he can not recollect of any pupils coming to the establishment. but he remembers when his father was taken, like mr. dorrit, to the debtors' prison. he was lodged in the top story but one, in the very same room where his son afterwards put the dorrits. it's a queer thing to know that a book-writer can imprison folks without a warrant and even kill them and yet go unpunished--which thought was suggested to me by my philosophic guide. from this house in gower street, charles used to go daily to the marshalsea to visit micawber, who not so many years later was to act as the proud amanuensis of his son. the next morning after i first met bobby he was off duty. i met him by appointment at the three jolly beggars (a place pernicious snug). he was dressed in a fashionable, light-colored suit, the coat a trifle short, and a high silk hat. his large, red neckscarf--set off by his bright, brick-dust complexion--caused me to mistake him at first for a friend of mine who drives a holborn bus. mr. 'awkins (for it was he) greeted me cordially, pulled gently at his neck-whiskers, and, when he addressed me as me lud, the barmaid served us with much alacrity and things. we went first to the church of saint george; then we found angel court leading to bermondsey, also marshalsea place. here is the site of the prison, where the crowded ghosts of misery still hover; but small trace could we find of the prison itself, neither did we see the ghosts. we, however, saw a very pretty barmaid at the public in angel court. i think she is still prettier than the one to whom bobby introduced me at the sign of the meat-axe, which is saying a good deal. angel court is rightly named. the blacking-warehouse at old hungerford stairs, strand, in which charles dickens was shown by bob fagin how to tie up the pots of paste, has rotted down and been carted away. the coal-barges in the muddy river are still there, just as they were when charles, poll green and bob fagin played on them during the dinner-hour. i saw bob and several other boys, grimy with blacking, chasing each other across the flatboats, but dickens was not there. down the river aways there is a crazy, old warehouse with a rotten wharf of its own, abutting on the water when the tide is in, and on the mud when the tide is out--the whole place literally overrun with rats that scuffle and squeal on the moldy stairs. i asked bobby if it could not be that this was the blacking-factory; but he said, no, for this one allus wuz. dickens found lodgings in lant street while his father was awaiting in the marshalsea for something to turn up. bob sawyer afterward had the same quarters. when sawyer invited mr. pickwick "and the other chaps" to dine with him, he failed to give his number, so we can not locate the house. but i found the street and saw a big, wooden pickwick on wheels standing as a sign for a tobacco-shop. the old gentleman who runs the place, and runs the sign in every night, assured me that bob sawyer's room was the first floor back. i looked in at it, but seeing no one there whom i knew, i bought tuppence worth of pigtail in lieu of fee, and came away. if a man wished to abstract himself from the world, to remove himself from temptation, to place himself beyond the possibility of desire to look out of the window, he should live in lant street, said a great novelist. david copperfield lodged here when he ordered that glass of genuine stunning ale at the red lion and excited the sympathy of the landlord, winning a motherly kiss from his wife. the red lion still crouches (under another name) at the corner of derby and parliament streets, westminster. i daydreamed there for an hour one morning, pretending the while to read a newspaper. i can not, however, recommend their ale as particularly stunning. as there are authors of one book, so are there readers of one author--more than we wist. children want the same bear story over and over, preferring it to a new one; so "grown-ups" often prefer the dog-eared book to uncut leaves. mr. hawkins preferred the dog-eared, and at the station-house, where many times he had long hours to wait in anticipation of a hurry-up call, he whiled away the time by browsing in his dickens. he knew no other author, neither did he wish to. his epidermis was soaked with dickensology, and when inspired by gin and bitters he emitted information at every pore. to him all these bodiless beings of dickens' brain were living creatures. an anachronism was nothing to hawkins. charley bates was still at large, quilp was just around the corner, and gaffer hexam's boat was moored in the muddy river below. dickens used to haunt the publics, those curious resting-places where all sorts and conditions of thirsty philosophers meet to discuss all sorts of themes. my guide took me to many of these inns which the great novelist frequented, and we always had one legend with every drink. after we had called at three or four different snuggeries, hawkins would begin to shake out the facts. now, it is not generally known that the so-called stories of dickens are simply records of historic events, like what-do-you-call-um's plays! f'r instance, dombey and son was a well-known firm, who carried over into a joint stock company only a few years ago. the concern is now known as the dombey trading company; they occupy the same quarters that were used by their illustrious predecessors. i signified a desire to see the counting-house so minutely described by dickens, and mr. hawkins agreed to pilot me thither on our way to tavistock square. we twisted down to the first turning, then up three, then straight ahead to the first right-hand turn, where we cut to the left until we came to a stuffed dog, which is the sign of a glover. just beyond this my guide plucked me by the sleeve; we halted, and he silently and solemnly pointed across the street. sure enough! there it was, the warehouse with a great stretch of dirty windows in front, through which we could see dozens of clerks bending over ledgers, just as though mr. dombey were momentarily expected. over the door was a gilt sign, "the bombay trading co." bobby explained that it was all the same. i did not care to go in; but at my request hawkins entered and asked for mister carker, the junior, but no one knew him. then we dropped in at the silver shark, a little inn about the size of a large dustbin of two compartments and a sifter. here we rested a bit, as we had walked a long way. the barmaid who waited upon us was in curl-papers, but she was even then as pretty if not prettier than the barmaid at the public in angel court, and that is saying a good deal. she was about as tall as trilby or as ellen terry, which is a very nice height, i think. as we rested, mr. hawkins told the barmaid and me how rogue riderhood came to this very public, through that same doorway, just after he had his alfred david took down by the governors both. he was a slouching dog, was the rogue. he wore an old, sodden fur cap, winter and summer, formless and mangy; it looked like a drowned cat. his hands were always in his pockets up to his elbows, when they were not reaching for something, and when he was out after game his walk was a half-shuffle and run. hawkins saw him starting off this way one night and followed him--knowing there was mischief on hand--followed him for two hours through the fog and rain. it was midnight and the last stroke of the bells that tolled the hour had ceased, and their echo was dying away, when all at once---but the story is too long to relate here. it is so long that when mr. hawkins had finished it was too late to reach tavistock square before dark. mr. hawkins explained that as bats and owls and rats come out only when the sun has disappeared, so there are other things that can be seen best by night. and as he did not go on until the next day at one, he proposed that we should go down to the cheshire cheese and get a bite of summat and then sally forth. so we hailed a bus and climbed to the top. "she rolls like a scow in the wake of a liner," said bobby, as we tumbled into seats. when the bus man came up the little winding ladder and jingled his punch, hawkins paid our fares with a heavy wink, and the guard said, "thank you, sir," and passed on. we got off at the cheese and settled ourselves comfortably in a corner. the same seats are there, running along the wall, where doctor johnson, "goldy" and boswell so often sat and waked the echoes with their laughter. we had chops and tomato-sauce in recollection of jingle and trotter. the chops were of that delicious kind unknown outside of england. i supplied the legend this time, for my messmate had never heard of boswell. hawkins introduced me to "the cove in the white apron" who waited upon us, and then explained that i was the man who wrote "martin chuzzlewit." he kissed his hand to the elderly woman who presided behind the nickel-plated american cash-register. the only thing that rang false about the place was that register, perked up there spick-span new. hawkins insisted that it was a typewriter, and as we passed out he took a handful of matches (thinking them toothpicks) and asked the cashier to play a tune on the thingumabob, but she declined. we made our way to london bridge as the night was settling down. no stars came out, but flickering, fluttering gaslights appeared, and around each post was a great, gray, fluffy aureole of mist. just at the entrance to the bridge we saw nancy dogged by noah claypole. they turned down towards billingsgate fish-market, and as the fog swallowed them, hawkins answered my question as to the language used at billingsgate. "it's not so bloomin' bad, you know; why, i'll take you to a market in islington where they talk twice as vile." he started to go into technicalities, but i excused him. then he leaned over the parapet and spat down at a rowboat that was passing below. as the boat moved out into the glimmering light we made out lizzie hexam at the oars, while gaffer sat in the stern on the lookout. the marchioness went by as we stood there, a bit of tattered shawl over her frowsy head, one stocking down around her shoetop. she had a penny loaf under her arm, and was breaking off bits, eating as she went. soon came snagsby, then mr. vincent crummels, mr. sleary, the horseback-rider, followed by chops, the dwarf, and pickleson, the giant. hawkins said there were two picklesons, but i saw only one. just below was the stone pier and there stood mrs. gamp, and i heard her ask: "and which of all them smoking monsters is the anxworks boat, i wonder? goodness me!" "which boat do you want?" asked ruth. "the anxworks package--i will not deceive you, sweet; why should i?" "why, that is the antwerp packet, in the middle," said ruth. "and i wish it was in jonidge's belly, i do," cried mrs. gamp. we came down from the bridge, moved over toward billingsgate, past the custom-house, where curious old sea-captains wait for ships that never come. captain cuttle lifted his hook to the brim of his glazed hat as we passed. we returned the salute and moved on toward the tower. "it's a rum place; let's not stop," said hawkins. thoughts of the ghosts of raleigh, of mary queen of scots and of lady jane grey seemed to steady his gait and to hasten his footsteps. in a few moments we saw just ahead of us david copperfield and mr. peggotty following a woman whom we could make out walking excitedly a block ahead. it was martha, intent on suicide. "we'll get to the dock first and 'ead 'er orf," said 'awkins. we ran down a side street. but a bright light in a little brick cottage caught our attention--men can't run arm in arm anyway. we forgot our errand of mercy and stood still with open mouths looking in at the window at little jenny wren hard at work dressing her dolls and stopping now and then to stab the air with her needle. bradley headstone and charlie and lizzie hexam came in, and we then passed on, not wishing to attract attention. there was an old smoke-stained tree on the corner which i felt sorry for, as i do for every city tree. just beyond was a blacksmith's forge and a timber-yard behind, where a dealer in old iron had a shop, in front of which was a rusty boiler and a gigantic flywheel half buried in the sand. there were no crowds to be seen now, but we walked on and on--generally in the middle of the narrow streets, turning up or down or across, through arches where tramps slept, by doorways where children crouched; passing drunken men, and women with shawls over their heads. now and again the screech of a fiddle could be heard or the lazy music of an accordion, coming from some "sailors' home." steps of dancing with rattle of iron-shod boot-heels clicking over sanded floors, the hoarse shout of the "caller-off," and now and again angry tones with cracked feminine falsettos broke on the air; and all the time the soft rain fell and the steam seemed to rise from the sewage-laden streets. we were in stepney, that curious parish so minutely described by walter besant in "all sorts and conditions of men"--the parish where all children born at sea were considered to belong. we saw brig place, where walter gay visited captain cuttle. then we went with pip in search of mrs. wimple's house, at mill-pond bank, chink's basin, old green copper rope walk; where lived old bill barley and his daughter clara, and where magwitch was hidden. it was the dingiest collection of shabby buildings ever squeezed together in a dark corner as a club for tomcats. then, standing out in the gloom, we saw limehouse church, where john rokesmith prowled about on a 'tective scent; and where john harmon waited for the third mate radfoot, intending to murder him. next we reached limehouse hole, where rogue riderhood took the plunge down the steps of leaving shop. hawkins thought he saw the artful dodger ahead of us on the dock. he went over and looked up and down and under an old upturned rowboat, then peered over the dock and swore a harmless oath that if we could catch him we would run him in without a warrant. yes, we'd clap the nippers on 'im and march 'im orf. "not if i can help it," i said; "i like the fellow too well." fortunately hawkins failed to find him. here it was that the uncommercial traveler did patrol duty on many sleepless nights. here it was that esther summerson and mr. bucket came. and by the light of a match held under my hat we read a handbill on the brick wall: "found drowned!" the heading stood out in big, fat letters, but the print below was too damp to read, yet there is no doubt it is the same bill that gaffer hexam, eugene wrayburn and mortimer lightwood read, for mr. hawkins said so. as we stood there we heard the gentle gurgle of the tide running under the pier, then a dip of oars coming from out the murky darkness of the muddy river: a challenge from the shore with orders to row in, a hoarse, defiant answer and a watchman's rattle. a policeman passed us running and called back, "i say, hawkins, is that you? there's murder broke loose in whitechapel again! the reserves have been ordered out!" hawkins stopped and seemed to pull himself together--his height increased three inches. a moment before i thought he was a candidate for fatty degeneration of the cerebrum, but now his sturdy frame was all atremble with life. "another murder! i knew it. bill sykes has killed nancy at last. there 's fifty pun for the man who puts the irons on 'im--i must make for the nearest stishun." he gave my hand a twist, shot down a narrow courtway--and i was left to fight the fog, and mayhap this bill sykes and all the other wild phantoms of dickens' brain, alone. * * * * * a certain great general once said that the only good indian is a dead indian. just why the maxim should be limited to aborigines i know not, for when one reads obituaries he is discouraged at the thoughts of competing in virtue with those who have gone hence. let us extend the remark--plagiarize a bit--and say that the only perfect men are those whom we find in books. the receipt for making them is simple, yet well worth pasting in your scrapbook. take the virtues of all the best men you ever knew or heard of, leave out the faults, then mix. in the hands of "the lady novelist" this composition, well molded, makes a scarecrow, in the hair of which the birds of the air come and build their nests. but manipulated by an expert a figure may appear that starts and moves and seems to feel the thrill of life. it may even take its place on a pedestal and be exhibited with other waxworks and thus become confounded with the historic and though these things make the unskilful laugh, yet the judicious say, "dickens made it, therefore let it pass for a man." dear old m. taine, ever glad to score a point against the british, and willing to take dickens at his word, says, "we have no such men in france as scrooge and squeers!" but, god bless you, m. taine, england has no such men either. the novelist takes the men and women he has known, and from life, plus imagination, he creates. if he sticks too close to nature he describes, not depicts: this is "veritism." if imagination's wing is too strong, it lifts the luckless writer off from earth and carries him to an unknown land. you may then fall down and worship his characters, and there is no violation of the first commandment. nothing can be imagined that has not been seen; but imagination can assort, omit, sift, select, construct. given a horse, an eagle, an elephant, and the "creative artist" can make an animal that is neither a horse, an eagle, nor an elephant, yet resembles each. this animal may have eight legs (or forty) with hoofs, claws and toes alternating; a beak, a trunk, a mane; and the whole can be feathered and given the power of rapid flight and also the ability to run like the east wind. it can neigh, roar or scream by turn, or can do all in concert, with a vibratory force multiplied by one thousand. the novelist must have lived, and the novelist must have imagination. but this is not enough. he must have power to analyze and separate, and then he should have the good taste to select and group, forming his parts into a harmonious whole. yet he must build large. life-size will not do: the statue must be heroic, and the artist's genius must breathe into its nostrils the breath of life. the men who live in history are those whose lives have been skilfully written. "plutarch is the most charming writer of fiction the world has ever known," said emerson. dickens' characters are personifications of traits, not men and women. yet they are a deal funnier--they are as funny as a box of monkeys, as entertaining as a punch-and-judy show, as interesting as a "fifteen puzzle," and sometimes as pretty as chromos. quilp munching the eggs, shells and all, to scare his wife, makes one shiver as though a jack-in-the-box had been popped out at him. mr. mould, the undertaker, and jaggers, the lawyer, are as amusing as humpty-dumpty and pantaloon. i am sure that no live lawyer ever gave me half the enjoyment that jaggers has, and doctor slammers' talk is better medicine than the pills of any living m.d. because the burnt-cork minstrel pleases me more than a real "nigger" is no reason why i should find fault! dickens takes the horse, the eagle and the elephant and makes an animal of his own. he rubs up the feathers, places the tail at a fierce angle, makes the glass eyes glare, and you are ready to swear that the thing is alive. by rummaging over the commercial world you can collect the harshness, greed, avarice, selfishness and vanity from a thousand men. with these sins you can, if you are very skilful, construct a ralph nickleby, a scrooge, a jonas chuzzlewit, an alderman cute, a mr. murdstone, a bounderby or a gradgrind at will. a little more pride, a trifle less hypocrisy, a molecule extra of untruth, and flavor with this fault or that, and your man is ready to place up against the fence to dry. then you can make a collection of all the ridiculous traits--the whims, silly pride, foibles, hopes founded on nothing and dreams touched with moonshine--and you make a micawber. put in a dash of assurance and a good thimbleful of hypocrisy, and pecksniff is the product. leave out the assurance, replacing it with cowardice, and the result is doctor chillip or uriah heap. muddle the whole with stupidity, and bumble comes forth. then, for the good people, collect the virtues and season to suit the taste and we have the cheeryble brothers, paul dombey or little nell. they have no development, therefore no history--the circumstances under which you meet them vary, that's all. they are people the like of whom are never seen on land or sea. little nell is good all day long, while live children are good for only five minutes at a time. the recurrence with which these five-minute periods return determines whether the child is "good" or "bad." in the intervals the restless little feet stray into flowerbeds; stand on chairs so that grimy, dimpled hands may reach forbidden jam; run and romp in pure joyous innocence, or kick spitefully at authority. then the little fellow may go to sleep, smile in his dreams so that mamma says angels are talking to him (nurse says wind on the stomach); when he awakens the five-minute good spell returns. men are only grown-up children. they are cheerful after breakfast, cross at night. houses, lands, barns, railroads, churches, books, racetracks are the playthings with which they amuse themselves until they grow tired, and death, the kind old nurse, puts them to sleep. so a man on earth is good or bad as mood moves him; in color his acts are seldom pure white, neither are they wholly black, but generally of a steel-gray. caprice, temper, accident, all act upon him. the north wind of hate, the simoon of jealousy, the cyclone of passion beat and buffet him. pilots strong and pilots cowardly stand at the helm by turn. but sometimes the south wind softly blows, the sun comes out by day, the stars at night: friendship holds the rudder firm, and love makes all secure. such is the life of man--a voyage on life's unresting sea; but dickens knows it not. esther is always good, fagin is always bad, bumble is always pompous, and scrooge is always--scrooge. at no dickens' party do you ever mistake cheeryble for carker; yet in real life carker is carker one day and cheeryble the next--yes, carker in the morning and cheeryble after dinner. there is no doubt that a dummy so ridiculous as pecksniff has reduced the number of hypocrites; and the domineering and unjust are not quite so popular since dickens painted their picture with a broom. from the yeasty deep of his imagination he conjured forth his strutting spirits; and the names he gave to each are as fitting and as funny as the absurd smallclothes and fluttering ribbons which they wear. shakespeare has his gobbo, touchstone, simpcox, sly, grumio, mopsa, pinch, nym, simple, quickly, overdone, elbow, froth, dogberry, puck, peablossom, taurus, bottom, bushy, hotspur, scroop, wall, flute, snout, starveling, moonshine, mouldy, shallow, wart, bullcalf, feeble, quince, snag, dull, mustardseed, fang, snare, rumor, tearsheet, cobweb, costard and moth; but in names as well as in plot "the father of pickwick" has distanced the master. in fact, to give all the odd and whimsical names invented by dickens would be to publish a book, for he compiled an indexed volume of names from which he drew at will. he used, however, but a fraction of his list. the rest are wisely kept from the public, else, forsooth, the fledgling writers of penny-shockers would seize upon them for raw stock. dickens has a watch that starts and stops in a way of its own--never mind the sun. he lets you see the wheels go round, but he never tells you why the wheels go round. he knows little of psychology--that curious, unseen thing that stands behind every act. he knows not the highest love, therefore he never depicts the highest joy. nowhere does he show the gradual awakening in man of godlike passion--nowhere does he show the evolution of a soul; very, very seldom does he touch the sublime. but he has given the athenians a day of pleasure, and for this let us all reverently give thanks. oliver goldsmith jarvis: a few of our usual cards of compliments--that's all. this bill from your tailor; this from your mercer; and this from the little broker in crooked lane. he says he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. honeydew: but i am sure we were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. jarvis: he has lost all patience. honeydew: then he has lost a good thing. jarvis: there's that ten guineas you were sending to the poor man and his children in the fleet. i believe that would stop his mouth for a while. honeydew: ay, jarvis; but what will fill their mouths in the meantime? --_goldsmith, "the good-natured man"_ [illustration: oliver goldsmith] the isle of erin has the same number of square miles as the state of indiana; it also has more kindness to the acre than any other country on earth. ireland has five million inhabitants; once it had eight. three millions have gone away, and when one thinks of landlordism he wonders why the five millions did not go, too. but the irish are a poetic people and love the land of their fathers with a childlike love, and their hearts are all bound up in sweet memories, rooted by song and legend into nooks and curious corners, so the tendrils of affection hold them fast. ireland is very beautiful. its pasture-lands and meadow-lands, blossom-decked and water-fed, crossed and recrossed by never-ending hedgerows, that stretch away and lose themselves in misty nothingness, are fair as a poet's dream. birds carol in the white hawthorn and the yellow furze all day long, and the fragrant summer winds that blow lazily across the fields are laden with the perfume of fairest flowers. it is like crossing the dark river called death, to many, to think of leaving ireland--besides that, even if they wanted to go they haven't money to buy a steerage ticket. from across the dark river called death come no remittances; but from america many dollars are sent back to ireland. this often supplies the obolus that secures the necessary bit of cunard passport. whenever an irishman embarks at queenstown, part of the five million inhabitants go down to the waterside to see him off. not long ago i stood with the crowd and watched two fine lads go up the gangplank, each carrying a red handkerchief containing his worldly goods. as the good ship moved away we lifted a wild wail of woe that drowned the sobbing of the waves. everybody cried--i wept, too--and as the great, black ship became but a speck on the western horizon we embraced each other in frenzied grief. there is beauty in ireland--physical beauty of so rare and radiant a type that it makes the heart of an artist ache to think that it can not endure. on country roads, at fair time, the traveler will see barefoot girls who are women, and just suspecting it, who have cheeks like ripe pippins; laughing eyes with long, dark, wicked lashes; teeth like ivory; necks of perfect poise; and waists that, never having known a corset, are pure greek. of course, these girls are aware that we admire them--how could they help it? they carry big baskets on either shapely arm, bundles balanced on their heads, and we, suddenly grown tired, sit on the bankside as they pass by, and feign indifference to their charms. once safely past, we admiringly examine their tracks in the soft mud (for there has been a shower during the night), and we vow that such footprints were never before left upon the sands of time. the typical young woman in ireland is juno before she was married; the old woman is sycorax after caliban was weaned. wrinkled, toothless, yellow old hags are seen sitting by the roadside, rocking back and forth, crooning a song that is mate to the chant of the witches in "macbeth" when they brew the hellbroth. see that wizened, scarred and cruel old face--how it speaks of a seared and bitter heart! so dull yet so alert, so changeful yet so impassive, so immobile yet so cunning--a paradox in wrinkles, where half-stifled desperation has clawed at the soul until it has fled, and only dead indifference or greedy expectation is left to tell the tragic tale. "in the name of god, charity, kind gentlemen, charity!" and the old crone stretches forth a long, bony claw. should you pass on she calls down curses on your head. if you are wise, you go back and fling her a copper to stop the cold streaks that are shooting up your spine. and these old women were the most trying sights i saw in ireland. "pshaw!" said a friend of mine when i told him this; "these old creatures are actors, and if you would sit down and talk to them, as i have done, they will laugh and joke, and tell you of sons in america who are policemen, and then they will fill black 'dhudeens' out of your tobacco and ask if you know mike mcguire who lives in she-ka-gy." the last trace of comeliness has long left the faces of these repulsive beggars, but there is a type of feminine beauty that comes with years. it is found only where intellect and affection keep step with spiritual desire; and in ireland, where it is often a crime to think, where superstition stalks, and avarice rules, and hunger crouches, it is very, very rare. but i met one woman in the emerald isle whose hair was snow-white, and whose face seemed to beam a benediction. it was a countenance refined by sorrow, purified by aspiration, made peaceful by right intellectual employment, strong through self-reliance, and gentle by an earnest faith in things unseen. it proved the possible. when the nations are disarmed, ireland will take first place, for in fistiana she is supreme. james russell lowell once said that where the "code duello" exists, men lift their hats to ladies, and say "excuse me" and "if you please." and if lowell was so bold as to say a good word for the gentlemen who hold themselves "personally responsible," i may venture the remark that men who strike from the shoulder are almost universally polite to strangers. a woman can do ireland afoot and alone with perfect safety. everywhere one finds courtesy, kindness and bubbling good-cheer. nineteen-twentieths of all lawlessness in ireland during the past two hundred years has been directed against the landlord's agent. this is a very irish-like proceeding--to punish the agent for the sins of the principal. when the landlord himself comes over from england he affects a fatherly interest in "his people." he gives out presents and cheap favors, and the people treat him with humble deference. when the landlord's agent goes to america he gets a place as first mate on a mississippi river steamboat; and before the war he was in demand in the south as overseer. he it is who has taught the "byes" the villainy that they execute; and it sometimes goes hard, for they better the instruction. but there is one other character that the boys occasionally look after in ireland, and that is the "squire." he is a merry wight in tight breeches, red coat, and a number-six hat. he has yellow side-whiskers and 'unts to 'ounds, riding over the wheatfields of honest men. the genuine landlord lives in london; the squire would like to but can not afford it. of course, there are squires and squires, but the kind i have in mind is an irishman who tries to pass for an englishman. he is that curious thing--a man without a country. there is a theory to the effect that the universal mother in giving out happiness bestows on each and all an equal portion--that the beggar trudging along the stony road is as happy as the king who rides by in his carriage. this is a very old belief, and it has been held by many learned men. from the time i first heard it, it appealed to me as truth. yet recently my faith has been shaken; for not long ago in new york i climbed the marble steps of a splendid mansion and was admitted by a servant in livery who carried my card on a silver tray to his master. this master had a son in the "keeley institute," a daughter in her grave, and a wife who shrank from his presence. his heart was as lonely as a winter night at sea. fate had sent him a coachman, a butler, a gardener and a footman, but she took his happiness and passed it through a hole in the thatch of a mud-plastered cottage in ireland, where, each night, six rosy children soundly slept in one straw bed. in that cottage i stayed two days. there was a stone floor and bare, whitewashed walls; but there was a rosebush climbing over the door, and within health and sunny temper that made mirth with a meal of herbs, and a tenderness that touched to poetry the prose of daily duties. but it is well to bear in mind that an irishman in america and an irishman in ireland are not necessarily the same thing. often the first effect of a higher civilization is degeneration. just as the chinaman quickly learns big swear-words, and the indian takes to drink, and certain young men on first reading emerson's essay on "self-reliance" go about with a chip on their shoulders, so sometimes does the first full breath of freedom's air develop the worst in paddy instead of the best. as one tramps through ireland and makes the acquaintance of a blue-eyed "broth of a bye," who weighs one hundred and ninety, and measures forty-four inches around the chest, he catches glimpses of noble traits and hints of mystic possibilities. there are actions that look like rudiments of greatness gone, and you think of the days when olympian games were played, and finger meanwhile the silver in your pocket and inwardly place it on this twenty-year-old, pink-faced, six-foot "boy" that stands before you. in ireland there are no forests, but in the peat-bogs are found remains of mighty trees that once lifted their outstretched branches to the sun. are these remains of stately forests symbols of a race of men that, too, have passed away? in any wayside village of leinster you can pick you a model for an apollo. he is in rags, is this giant, and can not read, but he can dance and sing and fight. he has an eye for color, an ear for music, a taste for rhyme, a love of novelty and a thirst for fun. and withal he has blundering sympathy and a pity whose tears are near the surface. now, will this fine savage be a victim of arrested development, and sink gradually through weight of years into mere animal stupidity and sodden superstition? the chances are that this is just what he will do, and that at twenty he will be in his intellectual zenith. summer does not fulfil the promise of spring. but as occasionally there is one of those beautiful, glowing irish girls who leaves footsteps that endure (in bettered lives), instead of merely transient tracks in mud, so there has been a burke, a wellington, an o'connell, a sheridan, a tom moore and an oliver goldsmith. * * * * * while goldsmith was an irishman, swift was an englishman who chanced to be born of irish parents in dublin. in comparing these men thackeray says: "i think i would rather have had a cold potato and a friendly word from goldsmith than to have been beholden to the dean for a guinea and a dinner. no; the dean was not an irishman, for no irishman ever gave but with a kind word and a kind heart." charles goldsmith was a clergyman, passing rich on forty pounds a year. he had a nice little family of eight children, and what became of the seven who went not astray i do not know. but the smallest and homeliest one of the brood became the best-loved man in london. these sickly boys who have been educated only because they were too weak to work--what a record their lives make! little oliver had a pug-nose and bandy legs, and fists not big enough to fight, but he had a large head, and because he was absent-minded, lots of folks thought him dull and stupid, and others were sure he was very bad. in fact, let us admit it, he did steal apples and rifle birds' nests, and on "the straggling fence that skirts the way," he drew pictures of paddy byrne, the schoolmaster, who amazed the rustics by the amount of knowledge he carried in one small head. but paddy byrne did not love art for art's sake, so he applied the ferule vigorously to little goldsmith's anatomy, with a hope of diverting the lad's inclinations from art to arithmetic. i do not think the plan was very successful, for the pockmarked youngster was often adorned with the dunce-cap. "and, sir," said doctor johnson, many years after, "it must have been very becoming." it seems that paddy byrne "boarded round," and part of the time was under the roof of the rectory. now we all know that schoolmasters are dual creatures, and that once away from the schoolyard, and having laid aside the robe of office, are often good, honest, simple folks. in his official capacity paddy byrne made things very uncomfortable for the pug-nosed little boy, but, like the true irishman that he was, when he got away from the schoolhouse he was sorry for it. whether dignity is the mask we wear to hide ignorance, i am not sure, yet when paddy byrne was the schoolmaster he was a man severe and stern to view; but when he was plain paddy byrne he was a first-rate good fellow. evenings he would hold little oliver on his knee, and instead of helping him in his lessons would tell him tales of robbers, pirates, smugglers--everything and anything in fact that boys like: stories of fairies, goblins, ghosts; lion-hunts and tiger-killing in which the redoubtable paddy was supposed to have taken a chief part. the schoolmaster had been a soldier and a sailor. he had been in many lands, and when he related his adventures, no doubt he often mistook imagination for memory. but the stories had the effect of choking the desire in oliver for useful knowledge, and gave instead a thirst for wandering and adventure. byrne also had a taste for poetry, and taught the lad to scribble rhymes. very proud was the boy's mother, and very carefully did she preserve these foolish lines. all this was in the village of lissoy, county westmeath; yet if you look on the map you will look in vain for lissoy. but six miles northeast from athlone and three miles from ballymahon is the village of auburn. when goldsmith was a boy lissoy was: "sweet auburn! loveliest village of the plain, where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, where smiling spring the earliest visits paid, and parting summer's lingering blooms delayed- dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, seats of my youth, when every sport could please- how often have i loitered o'er thy green, where humble happiness endeared each scene; how often have i paused on every charm, the sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, the never-failing brook, the busy mill, the decent church, that topped the neighboring hill, the hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade for talking age and whispering lovers made: how often have i blessed the coming day, when toil remitting lent its turn to play, and all the village train from labor free, led up their sports beneath the spreading tree- while many a pastime circled in the shade, the young contending as the old surveyed; and many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, and sleights of art and feats of strength went round." in america, when a "city" is to be started, the first thing is to divide up the land into town-lots and then sell these lots to whoever will buy. this is a very modern scheme. but in ireland whole villages belong to one man, and every one in the place pays tribute. then villages are passed down from generation to generation, and sometimes sold outright, but there is no wish to dispose of corner lots. for when a man lives in your house and you can put him out at any time, he is, of course, much more likely to be civil than if he owns the place. but it has happened many times that the inhabitants of irish villages have all packed up and deserted the place, leaving no one but the village squire and that nice man, the landlord's agent. the cottages then are turned into sheep-pens or hay-barns. they may be pulled down, or, if they are left standing, the weather looks after that. and these are common sights to the tourist. now the landlord, who owned every rood of the village of lissoy, lived in london. he lived well. he gambled a little, and as the cards did not run his way he got into debt. so he wrote to his agent in lissoy to raise the rents. he did so, threatened, applied the screws, and--the inhabitants packed up and let the landlord have his village all to himself. let goldsmith tell: "sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn: amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, and desolation saddens all thy green; one only master grasps the whole domain, and half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. no more thy glassy brook reflects the day, but choked with sedges, works its weedy way; along thy glades, a solitary guest, the hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, and tires their echoes with unvaried cries. sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, and the long grass overtops the moldering wall; and, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, far, far away, thy children leave the land." a titled gentleman by the name of napier was the owner of the estate at that time, and as his tenantry had left, he in wrath pulled down their rows of pretty white cottages, demolished the schoolhouse, blew up the mill, and took all the material and built a splendid mansion on the hillside. the cards had evidently turned in his direction, but anyway, he owned several other villages, so although he toiled not neither did he spin, yet he was well clothed and always fed. but my lord napier was not immortal, for he died, and was buried; and over his grave they erected a monument, and on it are these words: "he was the friend of the oppressed." the records of literature, so far as i know, show no such moving force in a simple poem as the re-birth of the village of auburn. no man can live in a village and illuminate it by his genius. his fellow townsmen and neighbors are not to be influenced by his eloquence except in a very limited way. his presence creates an opposition, for the "personal touch" repels as well as attracts. dying, seven cities may contend for the honor of his birthplace; or after his departure, knowledge of his fame may travel back across the scenes that he has known, and move to better things. the years went by and the napier estate got into a bad way and was sold. captain hogan became the owner of the site of the village of lissoy. now, captain hogan was a poet in feeling, and he set about to replace the village that goldsmith had loved and immortalized. he adopted the name that goldsmith supplied, and auburn it is even unto this day. in the village-green is the original spreading hawthorn-tree, all enclosed in a stone wall to preserve it. and on the wall is a sign requesting you not to break off branches. around the trees are seats. i sat there one evening with "talking age" and "whispering lovers." the mirth that night was of a quiet sort, and i listened to an old man who recited all "the deserted village" to the little group that was present. it cost me sixpence, but was cheap for the money, for the brogue was very choice. i was the only stranger present, and quickly guessed that the entertainment was for my sole benefit, as i saw that i was being furtively watched to see how i took my medicine. a young fellow sitting near me offered a little goldsmith information, then a woman on the other side did the same, and the old man who had recited suggested that we go over and see the alehouse "where the justly celebhrated docther goldsmith so often played his harp so feelin'ly." so we adjourned to the three jolly pigeons--a dozen of us, including the lovers, whom i personally invited. "and did oliver goldsmith really play his harp in this very room?" i asked. "aye, indade he did, yer honor, an' ef ye don't belave it, ye kin sit in the same chair that was his." so they led me to the big chair that stood on a little raised platform, and i sat in the great oaken seat which was surely made before goldsmith was born. then we all took ale (at my expense). the lovers sat in one corner, drinking from one glass, and very particular to drink from the same side, and giggling to themselves. the old man wanted to again recite "the deserted village," but was forcibly restrained. and instead, by invitation of himself, the landlord sang a song composed by goldsmith, but which i have failed to find in goldsmith's works, entitled, "when ireland is free." there were thirteen stanzas in this song, and a chorus and refrain in which the words of the title are repeated. after each stanza we all came in strong on the chorus, keeping time by tapping our glasses on the tables. then we all drank perdition to english landlords, had our glasses refilled, and i was called on for a speech. i responded in a few words that were loudly cheered, and the very good health of "the 'merican nobleman" was drunk with much fervor. the three jolly pigeons is arranged exactly to the letter: "the whitewashed walls, the nicely sanded floor, the varnished clock that clicked behind the door; the chest contrived a doubly debt to pay, a bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; the pictures placed for ornament and use, the twelve good rules, the royal game of goose." and behold, there on the wall behind the big oak chair are "the twelve good rules." the next morning i saw the modest mansion of the village preacher "whose house was known to all the vagrant train," then the little stone church, and beyond i came to the blossoming furze, unprofitably gay, where the village master taught his little school. a bright young woman teaches there now, and it is certain that she can write and cipher too, for i saw "sums" on the blackboard, and i also saw where she had written some very pretty mottoes on the wall with colored chalk, a thing i am sure that paddy byrne never thought to do. below the schoolhouse is a pretty little stream that dances over pebbles and untiringly turns the wheel in the old mill; and not far away i saw the round top of knockrue hill, where goldsmith said he would rather sit with a book in hand than mingle with the throng at the court of royalty. goldsmith's verse is all clean, sweet and wholesome, and i do not wonder that he was everywhere a favorite with women. this was true in his very babyhood. for he was the pet of several good old dames, one of whom taught him to count by using cards as object-lessons he proudly said that when he was three years of age he could pick out the "ten-spot." this love of pasteboard was not exactly an advantage, for when he was sixteen he went to dublin to attend college, and carried fifty pounds and a deck of cards in his pocket. the first day in dublin he met a man who thought he knew more about cards than oliver did--and the man did: in three days oliver arrived back in sweet auburn penniless, but wonderfully glad to get home and everybody glad to see him. "it seemed as if i 'd been away a year," he said. but in a few weeks he started out with no baggage but a harp, and he played in the villages and the inns, and sometimes at the homes of the rich. and his melodies won all hearts. the author of "vanity fair" says: "you come hot and tired from the day's battle, and this sweet minstrel sings to you. who could harm the kind vagrant harper? whom did he ever hurt? he carries no weapon--only the harp on which he plays to you; and with which he delights great and humble, young and old, the captains in the tent or the soldiers round the fire, or the women and children in the villages at whose porches he stops and sings his simple songs of love and beauty." * * * * * when goldsmith arrived in london in seventeen hundred fifty-six, he was ragged, penniless, friendless and forlorn. in the country he could always make his way, but the city to him was new and strange. for several days he begged a crust here and there, sleeping in the doorways at night and dreaming of the flowery wealth of gentle lissoy, where even the poorest had enough to eat and a warm place to huddle when the sun went down. he at length found work as clerk or porter in a chemist's shop, where he remained until he got money enough to buy a velvet coat and a ruffled shirt, and then he moved to the bankside and hung out a surgeon's sign. the neighbors thought the little doctor funny, and the women would call to him out of the second-story window that it was a fine day, but when they were ill they sent for some one else to attend them. goldsmith was twenty-eight, and the thought that he could make a living with his pen had never come to him. yet he loved books, and he would loiter about bookshops, pricing first editions, and talking poetry to the patrons. he chanced in this way to meet samuel richardson, who, because he wrote the first english romance, has earned the title of father of lies. in order to get a very necessary loaf of bread, doctor goldsmith asked richardson to let him read proof. so richardson gave him employment, and in correcting proof the discovery was made that the irish doctor could turn a sentence, too. he became affected with literary eczema, and wrote a tragedy which he read to richardson and a few assembled friends. they voted it "vile, demnition vile." but one man thought it wasn't so bad as it might be, and this man found a market for some of the little doctor's book reviews, but the tragedy was fed to the fireplace. with the money for his book reviews the doctor bought goose quills and ink, and inspiration in bottles. grub street dropped in, shabby, seedy, empty of pocket but full of hope, and little suppers were given in dingy coffeehouses where success to english letters was drunk. then we find goldsmith making a bold stand for reform. he hired out to write magazine articles by the day; going to work in the morning when the bell rang, an hour off at noon, and then at it again until nightfall. mr. griffiths, publisher of the "monthly review," was his employer. and in order to hold his newly captured prize, the publisher boarded the pockmarked irishman in his own house. mrs. griffiths looked after him closely, spurring him on when he lagged, correcting his copy, striking out such portions as showed too much genius and inserting a word here and there in order to make a purely neutral decoction, which it seems is what magazine readers have always desired. occasionally these articles were duly fathered by great men, as this gave them the required specific gravity. it is said that even in our day there are editors who employ convict labor in this way. but i am sure that this is not so, for we live in an age of competition, and it is just as cheap to hire the great men to supply twaddle direct as it is to employ foreign paupers to turn it out with the extra expense of elderly women to revise. after working in the griffith literary mill for five months, goldsmith scaled the barricade one dark night, leaving behind, pasted on the wall, a ballad not only to mrs. griffiths' eyebrow, but to her wig as well. soon after this, when goldsmith was thirty years of age, his first book, "enquiry into the present state of polite learning in europe," was published. it brought him a little money and tuppence worth of fame, so he took better lodgings, in green arbor court, proposing to do great things. half a century after the death of goldsmith, irving visited green arbor court: "at length we came upon fleet market, and traversing it, turned up a narrow street to the bottom of a long, steep flight of stone steps called breakneck stairs. these led to green arbor court, and down them goldsmith many a time risked his neck. when we entered the court, i could not but smile to think in what out of the way corners genius produces her bantlings. the court i found to be a small square surrounded by tall, miserable houses, with old garments and frippery fluttering from every window. it appeared to be a region of washerwomen, and lines were stretched about the square on which clothes were dangling to dry. poor goldsmith! what a time he must have had of it, with his quiet disposition and nervous habits, penned up in this den of noise and vulgarity." one can imagine goldsmith running the whole gamut of possible jokes on breakneck stairs, and green arbor court, which, by the way, was never green and where there was no arbor. "i've been admitted to court, gentlemen!" said goldsmith proudly, one day at the mitre tavern. "ah, yes, doctor, we know--green arbor court! and any man who has climbed breakneck stairs has surely achieved," said tom davies. in seventeen hundred sixty, goldsmith moved to number six wine-office court, where he wrote the "vicar of wakefield." boswell reports doctor johnson's account of visiting him there: "i received, one morning, a message from poor goldsmith that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that i would come to him as soon as possible. i sent him a guinea and promised to come to him directly. i accordingly went to him as soon as i was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. i perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had half a bottle of madeira and a glass before him. i put the cork in the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extricated. he then told me he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced for me. i looked into it and saw its merits; told the landlady i would soon return, and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. i brought goldsmith the money, and he discharged the rent, not without rating his landlady for having used him so ill." for the play of "the good-natured man" goldsmith received five hundred pounds. and he immediately expended four hundred in mahogany furniture, easy chairs, lace curtains and wilton carpets. then he called in his friends. this was at number two brick court, middle temple. blackstone had chambers just below, and was working as hard over his commentaries as many a lawyer's clerk has done since. he complained of the abominable noise and racket of "those fellows upstairs," but was asked to come in and listen to wit while he had the chance. i believe the bailiffs eventually captured the mahogany furniture, but goldsmith held the quarters. they are today in good repair, and the people who occupy the house are very courteous, and obligingly show the rooms to the curious. no attempt at a museum is made, but there are to be seen various articles which belonged to goldsmith and a collection of portraits that are interesting. when "the traveler" was published goldsmith's fame was made secure. as long as he wrote plays, reviews, history and criticism he was working for hire. people said it was "clever," "brilliant," and all that, but their hearts were not won until the poet had poured out his soul to his brother in that gentlest of all sweet rhymes. i pity the man who can read the opening lines of "the traveler" without a misty something coming over his vision: "where'er i roam, whatever realms i see, my heart untraveled fondly turns to thee; still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, and drags at each remove a lengthening chain." this is the earliest english poem which i can recall that makes use of our american indian names: "where wild oswego spreads her swamps around, and niagara stuns with thundering sound." indeed, we came near having goldsmith for an adopted citizen. according to his own report he once secured passage to boston, and after carrying his baggage aboard the ship he went back to town to say a last hurried word of farewell to a fair lady, and when he got back to the dock the ship had sailed away with his luggage. his earnest wish was to spend his last days in sweet auburn. "in all my wand'rings round this world of care, in all my griefs--and god has given my share- i still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, amidst those humble bowers to lay me down; to husband out life's taper at its close, and keep the flame from wasting by repose. i still had hopes--for pride attends us still- amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, around my fire an evening group to draw, and tell of all i felt and all i saw. and as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, pants to the place from whence at first she flew, i still had hopes, my long vexations past, here to return--and die at home at last." but he never saw ireland after he left it in seventeen hundred fifty-four. he died in london in seventeen hundred seventy-four, aged forty-six. on the plain little monument in temple church where he was buried are only these words: here lies oliver goldsmith. hawkins once called on the earl of northumberland and found goldsmith waiting in an outer room, having come in response to an invitation from the nobleman. hawkins, having finished his business, waited until goldsmith came out, as he had a curiosity to know why the earl had sent for him. "well," said hawkins, "what did he say to you?" "his lordship told me that he had read 'the traveler,' and that he was pleased with it, and that inasmuch as he was soon to be lord-lieutenant of ireland, and knowing i was an irishman, asked what he could do for me!" "and what did you tell him?" inquired the eager hawkins. "why, there was nothing for me to say, but that i was glad he liked my poem, and--that i had a brother in ireland, a clergyman, who stood in need of help----" "enough!" cried hawkins, and left him. to hawkins himself are we indebted for the incident, and after relating it hawkins adds: "and thus did this idiot in the affairs of the world trifle with his fortunes!" let him who wishes preach a sermon on this story. but there you have it! "a brother in ireland who needs help----" the brother in london, the brother in america, the brother in ireland who needs help! all men were his brothers, and those who needed help were first in his mind. dear little doctor goldsmith, you were not a hustler, but when i get to the spirit world, i'll surely hunt you up! william shakespeare it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness. --_as you like it_ [illustration: william shakespeare] i have on several occasions been to the shakespeare country, approaching it from different directions, but each time i am set down at leamington. perhaps this is by some act of parliament--i really do not know; anyway, i have ceased to kick against the pricks and now meekly accept my fate. leamington seems largely under subjection to that triumvirate of despots--the butler, the coachman and the gardener. you hear the jingle of keys, the flick of the whip and the rattle of the lawnmower; and a cold, secret fear takes possession of you--a sort of half-frenzied impulse to flee, before smug modernity takes you captive and whisks you off to play tiddledywinks or to dance the racquet. but the tram is at the door--the outside fare is a penny, inside it's two--and we are soon safe, for we have reached the point where the leam and the avon meet. warwick is worth our while. for here we see scenes such as shakespeare saw, and our delight is in the things that his eyes beheld. at the foot of mill street are the ruins of the old gothic bridge that leads off to banbury. oft have i ridden to banbury cross on my mother's foot, and when i saw that sign and pointing finger i felt like leaving all and flying thence. just beyond the bridge, settled snugly in a forest of waving branches, we see storied old warwick castle, with cã¦sar's tower lifting itself from the mass of green. all about are quaint old houses and shops, with red-tiled roofs, and little windows, with diamond panes, hung on hinges, where maidens fair have looked down on brave men in coats of mail. these narrow, stony streets have rung with the clang and echo of hurrying hoofs; the tramp of royalist and parliamentarian, horse and foot, drum and banner; the stir of princely visits, of mail-coach, market, assize and kingly court. colbrand, armed with giant club; sir guy; richard neville, kingmaker, and his barbaric train, all trod these streets, watered their horses in this river, camped on yonder bank, or huddled in this castle yard. and again they came back when will shakespeare, a youth from stratford, eight miles away, came here and waved his magic wand. warwick castle is probably in better condition now than it was in the sixteenth century. but practically it is the same. it is the only castle in england where the portcullis is lowered at ten o'clock every night and raised in the morning (if the coast happens to be clear) to tap of drum. it costs a shilling to visit the castle. a fine old soldier in spotless uniform, with waxed white moustache and dangling sword, conducts the visitors. he imparts full two shillings' worth of facts as we go, all with a fierce roll of r's, as becomes a man of war. the long line of battlements, the massive buttresses, the angular entrance cut through solid rock, crooked, abrupt, with places where fighting men can lie in ambush, all is as shakespeare knew it. there are the cedars of lebanon, brought by crusaders from the east, and the screaming peacocks in the paved courtway: and in the great hall are to be seen the sword and accouterments of the fabled guy, the mace of the "kingmaker," the helmet of cromwell, and the armor of lord brooke, killed at litchfield. and that shakespeare saw these things there is no doubt. but he saw them as a countryman who came on certain fete-days, and stared with open mouth. we know this, because he has covered all with the glamour of his rich, boyish imagination that failed to perceive the cruel mockery of such selfish pageantry. had his view been from the inside he would not have made his kings noble nor his princes generous; for the stress of strife would have stilled his laughter, and from his brain the dazzling pictures would have fled. yet his fancies serve us better than the facts. shakespeare shows us many castles, but they are always different views of warwick or kenilworth. when he pictures macbeth's castle he has warwick in his inward eye: "this castle hath a pleasant seat: the air nimbly and sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses. this guest of summer, the temple-haunting martlet, does approve, by his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle; where they most breed and haunt, i have observed, the air is delicate." five miles from warwick (ten, if you believe the cab-drivers) are the ruins of kenilworth castle. in fifteen hundred seventy-five, when shakespeare was eleven years of age, queen elizabeth came to kenilworth. whether her ticket was by way of leamington i do not know. but she remained from july ninth to july twenty-seventh, and there were great doings 'most every day, to which the yeomanry were oft invited. john shakespeare was a worthy citizen of warwickshire, and it is very probable that he received an invitation, and that he drove over with mary arden, his wife, sitting on the front seat holding the baby, and all the other seven children sitting on the straw behind. and we may be sure that the eldest boy in that brood never forgot the day. in fact, in "midsummer night's dream" he has called on his memory for certain features of the show. elizabeth was forty-one years old then, but apparently very attractive and glib of tongue. no doubt kenilworth was stupendous in its magnificence, and it will pay you to take down from its shelf sir walter's novel and read about it. but today it is all a crumbling heap; ivy, rooks and daws hold the place in fee, each pushing hard for sole possession. it is eight miles from warwick to stratford by the direct road, but ten by the river. i have walked both routes and consider the latter the shorter. two miles down the river is barford, and a mile farther is wasperton, with its quaint old stone church. it is a good place to rest: for nothing is so soothing as a cool church where the dim light streams through colored windows, and out of sight somewhere an organ softly plays. soon after leaving the church a rustic swain hailed me and asked for a match. the pipe and the virginia weed--they mean amity the world over. if i had questions to ask, now was the time! so i asked, and rusticus informed me that hampton lucy was only a mile beyond and that shakespeare never stole deer at all; so i hope we shall hear no more of that libelous accusation. "but did shakespeare run away?" i demanded. "ave coorse he deed, sir; 'most all good men 'ave roon away sometime!" and come to think of it rusticus is right. most great men have at some time departed hastily without leaving orders where to forward their mail. indeed, it seems necessary that a man should have "run away" at least once, in order afterward to attain eminence. moses, lot, tarquin, pericles, demosthenes, saint paul, shakespeare, rousseau, voltaire, goldsmith, hugo--but the list is too long to give. but just suppose that shakespeare had not run away! and to whom do we owe it that he did leave--justice shallow or ann hathaway, or both? i should say to ann first and his honor second. i think if shakespeare could write an article for "the ladies' home journal" on "women who have helped me," and tell the whole truth (as no man ever will in print), he would put ann hathaway first. he signed a bond when eighteen years old agreeing to marry her; she was twenty-six. no record is found of the marriage. but we should think of her gratefully, for no doubt it was she who started the lad off for london. that's the way i expressed it to my new-found friend, and he agreed with me, so we shook hands and parted. charlcote is as fair as a dream of paradise. the winding avon, full to its banks, strays lazily through rich fields and across green meadows, past the bright red-brick pile of charlcote mansion. the river-bank is lined with rushes, and in one place i saw the prongs of antlers shaking the elders. i sent a shrill whistle and a stick that way, and out ran four fine deer that loped gracefully across the turf. the sight brought my poacher instincts to the surface, but i bottled them, and trudged on until i came to the little church that stands at the entrance to the park. all mansions, castles and prisons in england have chapels or churches attached. and this is well, for in the good old days it seemed wise to keep in close communication with the other world. for often, on short notice, the proud scion of royalty was compelled hastily to pack a ghostly valise and his him hence with his battered soul; or if he did not go himself he compelled others to do so, and who but a brute would kill a man without benefit of the clergy! so each estate hired its priests by the year, just as men with a taste for litigation hold attorneys in constant retainer. in charlcote church is a memorial to sir thomas lucy; and there is a glowing epitaph that quite upsets any of those taunting and defaming allusions in "the merry wives." at the foot of the monument is a line to the effect that the inscription thereon was written by the only one in possession of the facts, sir thomas himself. several epitaphs in the churchyard are worthy of space in your commonplace book, but the lines on the slab to john gibbs and wife struck me as having the true ring: "farewell, proud, vain, false, treacherous world, we have seen enough of thee: we value not what thou canst say of we." when the charlcote mansion was built, there was a housewarming, and good queen bess (who was not so awful good) came in great state; so we see that she had various calling acquaintances in these parts. but we have no proof that she ever knew that any such person as w. shakespeare lived. however, she came to charlcote and dined on venison, and what a pity it is that she and shakespeare did not meet in london afterward and talk it over! some hasty individual has put forth a statement to the effect that poets can only be bred in a mountainous country, where they could lift up their eyes to the hills. rock and ravine, beetling crag, singing cascade, and the heights where the lightning plays and the mists hover are certainly good timber for poetry--after you have caught your poet--but nature eludes all formula. again, it is the human interest that adds vitality to art--they reckon ill to leave man out. drayton before shakespeare's time called warwick "the heart of england," and the heart of england it is today--rich, luxuriant, slow. the great colonies of rabbits that i saw at charlcote seemed too fat to frolic, save more than to play a trick or two on the hounds that blinked in the sun. down toward stratford there are flat islands covered with sedge, long rows of weeping-willows, low hazel, hawthorn, and places where "green grow the rushes, o." then, if the farmer leaves a spot untilled, the dogrose pre-empts the place and showers its petals on the vagrant winds. meadowsweet, forget-me-nots and wild geranium snuggle themselves below the boughs of the sturdy yews. the first glimpse we get of stratford is the spire of holy trinity; then comes the tower of the new memorial theater, which, by the way, is exactly like the city hall at dead horse, colorado. stratford is just another village of niagara falls. the same shops, the same guides, the same hackmen--all are there, save poor lo, with his beadwork and sassafras. in fact, a "cabby" just outside of new place offered to take me to the whirlpool and the canada side for a dollar. at least, this is what i thought he said. of course, it is barely possible that i was daydreaming, but i think the facts are that it was he who dozed, and waking suddenly as i passed gave me the wrong cue. there is a macbeth livery-stable, a falstaff bakery, and all the shops and stores keep othello this and hamlet that. i saw briarwood pipes with shakespeare's face carved on the bowl, all for one-and-six; feather fans with advice to the players printed across the folds; the "seven ages" on handkerchiefs; and souvenir-spoons galore, all warranted gorham's best. the visitor at the birthplace is given a cheerful little lecture on the various relics and curiosities as they are shown. the young ladies who perform this office are clever women with pleasant voices and big, starched, white aprons. i was at stratford four days and went just four times to the old curiosity-shop. each day the same bright british damsel conducted me through, and told her tale, but it was always with animation, and a certain sweet satisfaction in her mission and starched apron that was very charming. no man can tell the same story over and over without soon reaching a point where he betrays his weariness, and then he flavors the whole with a dash of contempt; but a good woman, heaven bless her! is ever eager to please. each time when we came to that document certified to by her "judith x shakespeare," mark i was told that it was very probable that judith could write, but that she affixed her name thus in merry jest. john shakespeare could not write, we have no reason to suppose that ann hathaway could, and this little explanation about the daughter is so very good that it deserves to rank with that other pleasant subterfuge, "the age of miracles is past"; or that bit of jolly claptrap concerning the sacred baboons that are seen about certain temples in india: "they can talk," explain the priests, "but being wise they never do." judith married thomas quiney. the only letter addressed to shakespeare that can be found is one from the happy father of thomas, mr. richard quiney, wherein he asks for a loan of thirty pounds. whether he was accommodated we can not say; and if he was, did he pay it back, is a question that has caused much hot debate. but it is worthy of note that, although considerable doubt as to authenticity has smooched the other shakespearian relics, yet the fact of the poet having been "struck" for a loan by richard quiney stands out in a solemn way as the one undisputed thing in the master's career. little did mr. quiney think, when he wrote that letter, that he was writing for the ages. philanthropists have won all by giving money, but who save quiney has reaped immortality by asking for it! the inscription over shakespeare's grave is an offer of reward if you do, and a threat of punishment if you don't, all in choice doggerel. why did he not learn at the feet of sir thomas lucy and write his own epitaph? but i rather guess i know why his grave was not marked with his name. he was a play-actor, and the church people would have been outraged at the thought of burying a "strolling player" in that sacred chancel. but his son-in-law, doctor john hall, honored the great man and was bound he should have a worthy resting-place; so at midnight, with the help of a few trusted friends, he dug the grave and lowered the dust of england's greatest son. then they hastily replaced the stones, and over the grave they placed the slab that they had brought: "good friend, for jesus' sake forbear, to dig the dust enclosed here, blest be the man who spares these stones, and cursed be he who moves my bones." a threat from a ghost! ah, no one dare molest that grave--besides they didn't know who was buried there--neither are we quite sure. long years after the interment, some one set a bust of the poet, and a tablet, on the wall over against the grave. under certain circumstances, if occasion demands, i might muster a sublime conceit; but considering the fact that ten thousand americans visit stratford every year, and all write descriptions of the place, i dare not in the face of baedeker do it. further than that, in every library there are washington irving, hawthorne, and william winter's three lacrimose but charming volumes. and i am glad to remember that the columbus who discovered stratford and gave it to the people was an american: i am proud to think that americans have written so charmingly of shakespeare: i am proud to know that at stratford no man besides the master is as honored as irving, and while i can not restrain a blush for our english cousins, i am proud that over half the visitors at the birthplace are americans, and prouder still am i to remember that they all write letters to the newspapers at home about stratford-on-avon. * * * * * in england poets are relegated to a "corner." the earth and the fulness thereof belongs to the men who can kill; on this rock have the english state and church been built. as the tourist approaches the city of london for the first time, there are four monuments that probably will attract his attention. they lift themselves out of the fog and smoke and soot, and seem to struggle toward the blue. one of these monuments is to commemorate a calamity--the conflagration of sixteen hundred sixty-six--and the others are in honor of deeds of war. the finest memorial in saint paul's is to a certain eminent irishman, arthur wellesley. the mines and quarries of earth have been called on for their richest contributions; and talent and skill have given their all to produce this enduring work of beauty, that tells posterity of the mighty acts of this mighty man. the rare richness and lavish beauty of the wellington mausoleum are only surpassed by a certain tomb in france. as an exploiter, the corsican overdid the thing a bit--so the world arose and put him down; but safely dead, his shade can boast a grave so sumptuous that englishmen in paris refuse to look upon it. but england need not be ashamed. her land is spiked with glistening monuments to greatness gone. and on these monuments one often gets the epitomized life of the man whose dust lies below. on the carved marble to lord cornwallis i read that, "he defeated the americans with great slaughter." and so, wherever in england i see a beautiful monument, i know that probably the inscription will tell how "he defeated" somebody. and one grows to the belief that, while woman's glory is her hair, man's glory is to defeat some one. and if he can "defeat with great slaughter" his monument is twice as high as if he had only visited on his brother man a plain undoing. in truth, i am told by a friend who has a bias for statistics, that all monuments above fifty feet high in england are to the honor of men who have defeated other men "with great slaughter." the only exceptions to this rule are the albert memorial--which is a tribute of wifely affection rather than a public testimonial, so therefore need not be considered here--and a monument to a worthy brewer who died and left three hundred thousand pounds to charity. i mentioned this fact to my friend, but he unhorsed me by declaring that modesty forbade carving truth on monuments, yet it was a fact that the brewer, too, had brought defeat to vast numbers and had, like saul, slaughtered his thousands. when i visited the site of the globe theater and found thereon a brewery, whose shares are warranted to make the owner rich beyond the dream of avarice, i was depressed. in my boyhood i had supposed that if ever i should reach this spot where shakespeare's plays were first produced, i should see a beautiful park and a splendid monument; while some white-haired old patriarch would greet me, and give a little lecture to the assembled pilgrims on the great man whose footsteps had made sacred the soil beneath our feet. but there is no park, and no monument, and no white-haired old poet to give you welcome--only a brewery. "ay, mon, but ain't ut a big un?" protested an englishman who heard my murmurs. yes, yes, i must be truthful--it is a big brewery, and there are four big bulldogs in the courtway; and there are big vats, and big workmen in big aprons. and each of these workmen is allowed to drink six quarts of beer each day, without charge, which proves that kindliness is not dead. then there are big horses that draw the big wagons, and on the corner there is a big taproom where the thirsty are served with big glasses. the founder of this brewery became rich; and if my statistical friend is right, the owners of these mighty vats have defeated mankind with "great slaughter." we have seen that, although napoleon, the defeated, has a more gorgeous tomb than wellington, who defeated him, yet there is consolation in the thought that although england has no monument to shakespeare he now has the freedom of elysium; while the present address of the british worthies who have battened and fattened on poor humanity's thirst for strong drink, since samuel johnson was executor of thrale's estate, is unknown. we have this on the authority of a solid englishman, who says: "the virtues essential and peculiar to the exalted station of british worthy debar the unfortunate possessor from entering paradise. there is not a lord chancellor, or lord mayor, or lord of the chamber, or master of the hounds, or beefeater in ordinary, or any sort of british bigwig, out of the whole of british beadledom, upon which the sun never sets, in elysium. this is the only dignity beyond their reach." the writer quoted is an honorable man, and i am sure he would not make this assertion if he did not have proof of the fact. so, for the present, i will allow him to go on his own recognizance, believing that he will adduce his documents at the proper time. but still, should not england have a fitting monument to shakespeare? he is her one universal citizen. his name is honored in every school or college of earth where books are prized. there is no scholar in any clime who is not his debtor. he was born in england; he never was out of england; his ashes rest in england. but england's budget has never been ballasted with a single pound to help preserve inviolate the memory of her one son to whom the world uncovers. victor hugo has said something on this subject which runs about like this: why a monument to shakespeare? he is his own monument and england is its pedestal. shakespeare has no need of a pyramid; he has his work. what can bronze or marble do for him? malachite and alabaster are of no avail; jasper, serpentine, basalt, porphyry, granite: stones from paros and marble from carrara--they are all a waste of pains: genius can do without them. what is as indestructible as these: "the tempest," "the winter's tale," "julius cã¦sar," "coriolanus"? what monument sublimer than "lear," sterner than "the merchant of venice," more dazzling than "romeo and juliet," more amazing than "richard iii"? what moon could shed about the pile a light more mystic than that of "a midsummer night's dream"? what capital, were it even in london, could rumble around it as tumultuously as macbeth's perturbed soul? what framework of cedar or oak will last as long as "othello"? what bronze can equal the bronze of "hamlet"? no construction of lime, or rock, of iron and of cement is worth the deep breath of genius, which is the respiration of god through man. what edifice can equal thought? babel is less lofty than isaiah; cheops is smaller than homer; the colosseum is inferior to juvenal; the giralda of seville is dwarfish by the side of cervantes; saint peter's of rome does not reach to the ankle of dante. what architect has the skill to build a tower so high as the name of shakespeare? add anything if you can to mind! then why a monument to shakespeare? i answer, not for the glory of shakespeare, but for the honor of england! thomas a. edison the mind can not conceive what man will do in the twentieth century with his chained lightning. --_thomas a. edison_ [illustration: thomas a. edison _photogravure from drawing by gaspard_] some years ago, a law was passed out in ohio, making any man ineligible to act as a magistrate who had not studied law and been duly admitted to the bar. men who had not studied law were deemed lacking in the sense of justice. this law was designed purely for one man--samuel m. jones of toledo. was ever a jones so honored before? in athens, of old, a law was once passed declaring that every man, either of whose parents was an alien, was not a citizen and therefore ineligible to hold office. this law was aimed at the head of one man--themistocles. "and so you are an alien?" was the taunting remark flung at the mother of themistocles. and the greek matron proudly answered, "yes, i am an alien--but my son is themistocles." down at lilly dale the other day, a woman told me that she had talked with the mother of edison, and the spirit-voice had said: "it is true i was a canadian schoolteacher, and this at a time when very few women taught, but i am the mother of him you call thomas a. edison. i studied and read and wrote and in degree i educated myself. i had great ambition--i thirsted to know, to do, to become. but i was hampered and chained in an uncongenial atmosphere. my body struggled with its bonds, so that i grew weak, worried, sick, and died, leaving my boy to struggle his way alone. my only regret at death was the thought that i was leaving my boy. i thought that through my marriage i had killed my career--sacrificed myself. but my boy became heir to all my hunger for knowledge, and he has accomplished what i dimly dreamed. he has made plain what i only guessed. from my position here i have whispered secrets to him that only the freed spirits knew. i once thought my life was a failure, but now i know that the word 'failure' is a term used only by foolish mortals. in the universal sense there is no such thing as failure." just here it seems to me that some one once said that we get no mind without brain. but we had here the brain of the medium, otherwise this alleged message from the spirit realm would not be ours. so we will not now tarry to discuss psychic phenomena, but go on to other things. but the woman from lilly dale said something, just the same. * * * * * edison was born at the little village of milan, ohio, which lies six miles from norwalk on the road between cleveland and toledo. on the breaking out of the civil war the boy was fourteen years old. his parents had moved to sarnia, canada, and then across to port huron. young edison used to ride up and down from detroit on the passenger-boats and sell newspapers. his standing with the detroit "free press," backed up by his good-cheer and readiness to help the passengers with their babies and bundles, gave him free passage on all railroads and steamboat-lines. there was a public library at detroit where any one could read, but books could not be taken away. all edison's spare time was spent at the library, which to him was a gold-mine. all his mother's books had been sold, stolen or given away. and ahoy there, all you folks who have books! do you not know what books are to a child hungry for truth, that has no books? of course you do not! books to a boy like young edison are treasures-trove, in which is stored the learning of all great and good and wise who have ever lived. and the boy has to read, and read for a decade, in order to find that books are not much after all. when edison saw the inside of that library and was told he could read any or all of the books, he said, "if you please, mister, i'll begin here." and he tackled the first shelf, mentally deciding that he would go through the books ten feet at a time. a little later he bought at an auction fifty volumes of the "north american review," and moving the books up to his home at port huron proceeded to read them. the war was on--papers sold for ten cents each and business was good. edison was making money--and saving it. he only plunged on books. over at mount clemens, at the springs, folks congregated, and there young edison took weekly trips selling papers. on one such visit he rescued the little son of the station-agent from in front of a moving train. in gratitude, the man took the boy to his house and told him he must make it his home while in mount clemens; and then after supper the youngster went down to the station; and what was more, the station-agent took him in behind the ticket-window, where the telegraph-instrument clicked off dots and dashes on a long strip of paper. edison looked on with open mouth. "would you like to become a telegraph-operator?" asked the agent. "sure!" was the reply. already the boy had read up on the subject in his library of the "north american review," and he really knew the history of the thing better than did the agent. edison was now a newsboy on the grand trunk, and he arranged his route so as to spend every other night at mount clemens. in a few months he could handle the key about as well as the station-agent. about this time the ice had carried out the telegraph-line between port huron and sarnia. the telegraph people were in sore straits. edison happened along and said to the local operator, "come out here, bill, on this switch-engine and we'll fix things!" by short snorts of the whistle for dots and long ones for dashes, they soon caught the ear of the operator on the other side. he answered back, "what t'ell is the matter with you fellows?" and edison and the other operator roared with laughter, so that the engineer thought their think-boxes needed re-babbitting. and that scheme of telegraphy with a steam-whistle was edison's first invention. * * * * * instead of going to college edison started a newspaper--a kind of amateur affair, in which he himself wrote editorials, news-items and advertisements--this when he was seventeen years old. the best way to become a skilled writer is to write; and if there is a better way to learn than by doing, the world has not yet discovered it. also, if there is a finer advantage for a youth who would be a financier than to have a shiftless father, it has not been recorded. when nineteen, edison had two thousand dollars in cash--more money than his father had ever seen at any one time. the grand trunk folks found that their ex-trainboy could operate, and so they called on him to help them out, up and down the line. then the western union wanted extra good men, and young edison was given double pay to go to new orleans, where there was a pitiful dearth of operators, the southern operators being mostly dead, and northern men not caring to live in the south. so edison traveled north and south and east and west, gathering gear. he had studied the science of telegraphy closely enough to see that it could be improved upon. one message at a time for one wire was absurd--why not two, or four, and why not send messages both ways at once! it was the general idea then that electricity traveled: edison knew better--electricity merely rendered the wire sensitive. edison was getting a reputation among his associates. he had read everything, and when his key was not busy, there was in his hand a copy of gibbon's "decline and fall." he wrote a hand like copperplate and could "take" as fast as the best could send. and when it came to "sending," he had made the pride of chicago cry quits. the western union had need of a specially good man at albany while the legislature was in session, and edison was sent there. he took the key and never looked at the clock--he cleaned up the stuff. he sat glued to his chair for ten hours, straight. at one time, the line suddenly became blocked between albany and new york. the manager was in distress, and after exhausting all known expedients went to edison. the lanky youth called up a friend of his in pittsburgh and ordered that new york give the pittsburgh man the albany wire. "feel your way up the river until you find me," were the orders. edison started feeling his way down the river. in twenty minutes he called to the manager, "the break is two miles below poughkeepsie--i've ordered the section-boss at poughkeepsie to take a repairer on his handcar and go and fix it!" of course, this plain telegraph-operator had no right to order out a section-boss; but nevertheless he did it. he shouldered responsibility like tom potter of the c., b. & q. not long after the albany experience, edison was in new york, not looking for work as some say, but nosing around wall street investigating the "laws automatic ticker." the machine he was looking at suddenly stopped, and this blocked all the tickers on the line. an expert was sent for, but he could not start it. "i'll fix it," said a tall, awkward volunteer, the same which was edison. history is not yet clear as to whether edison had not originally "fixed" it, and edison so far has not confessed. and there being no one else to start the machine, edison was given a chance, and soon the tickers were going again. this gave him an introduction to the stock-ticker folks, and the western union people he already knew. this was in eighteen hundred seventy, and edison was then twenty-three years old. he studied out how stock-reporting could be bettered and invented a plan which he duly patented, and then laid his scheme before the western union managers. a stock company was formed, and young edison, aged twenty-four, was paid exactly forty thousand dollars for his patent, and retained by the company as electrical adviser at three hundred dollars a month. in eighteen hundred seventy-four, when he was twenty-seven, he had perfected his duplex telegraph apparatus and had a factory turning out telegraph-instruments and appliances at newark, new jersey, where three hundred men were employed. in eighteen hundred seventy-six, the year of the centennial exposition, edison told the exposition managers that if they would wait a year or so he would light their show with electricity. he moved to the then secluded spot of menlo park to devote himself to experiments, spending an even hundred thousand dollars in equipment as a starter. results followed fast, and soon we had the incandescent lamp, trolley-car, electric pen and many other inventions. it was on the night of october the twenty-third, eighteen hundred seventy-nine, that edison first turned the current through an incandescent burner and got the perfect light. he sat and looked at the soft, mild, beautiful light and laughed a joyous peal of laughter that was heard in the adjoining rooms. "we've got it, boys!" he cried, and the boys, a dozen of them, came tumbling in. arguments started as to how long it would last. one said an hour. "twenty-four hours," said edison. they all vowed they would watch it without sleep until the carbon film was destroyed and the light went out. it lasted just forty hours. around edison grew up a group of great workers--proud to be called "edison men"--and some of these went out and made for themselves names and fortunes. edison was born in eighteen hundred forty-seven. consequently, at this writing he is sixty-three years old. he is big and looks awkward, because his dusty-gray clothes do not fit, and he walks with a slight stoop. when he wants clothes he telephones for them. his necktie is worn by the right oblique, his iron-gray hair is combed by the wind. on his cherubic face usually sits a half-quizzical, pleased smile, that fades into a look plaintive and very gentle. the face is that of a man who has borne burdens and known sorrow, of one who has overcome only after mighty effort. i was going to say that edison looks like a roman emperor, but i recall that no roman emperor deserves to rank with him--not even julius cã¦sar! the face is that of napoleon at saint helena, unsubdued. the predominant characteristics of the man are his faith, hope, good-cheer and courage. but at all times his humor is apt to be near the surface. had edison been as keen a businessman as rockefeller, and kept his own in his own hands, he would today be as rich as rockefeller. but edison is worth, oh, say, two million dollars, and that is all any man should be worth--it is all he needs. yet there are at least a hundred men in the world today, far richer than edison, who have made their fortunes wholly and solely by appropriating his ideas. edison has trusted people, and some of them have taken advantage of his great, big, generous, boyish spirit to do him grievous wrong. but the nearest i ever heard him come to making a complaint was when he said to me, "fra elbertus, you never wrote but one really true thing!" "well, what was that, mr. edison?" "you said, 'there is one thing worse than to be deceived by men, and that is to distrust them.' now people say i have been successful, and so i have, in degree, and it has been through trusting men. there are a few fellows who always know just what i am doing--i confide in them--i explain things to them just to straighten the matter out in my own mind." but of the men who have used edison's money and ideas, who have made it a life business to study his patents and then use them, evading the law, not a word! from eighteen hundred seventy to eighteen hundred ninety, edison secured over nine hundred patents, or at the rate of one patent every ten days. very few indeed of these patents ever brought him any direct return, and now his plan is to invent and keep the matter a secret in his "family." "the value of an idea lies in the using of it," he said to me. "you patent a thing and the other fellow starts even with you. keep it to yourself and you have the machinery going before the other fellow is awake. patents may protect some things, and still others they only advertise. up in buffalo you have a great lawyer who says he can drive a coach and four through any will that was ever made--and i guess he can. all good lawyers know how to break wills and contracts, and there are now specialists who secure goodly fees for busting patents. if you have an idea, go ahead and invent a way to use it and keep your process secret." * * * * * the edison factories at west orange cover a space of about thirty acres, all fenced in with high pickets and barb-wire. over two thousand people are employed inside that fence. there are guards at the gates, and the would-be visitor is challenged as if he were an enemy. if you want to see any particular person, you do not go in and see him--he comes to you and you sit in a place like the visitors' dock at sing-sing. with me it was different: i had a note that made the gates swing wide. however, one gatekeeper scrutinized the note and scrutinized me, and then went back into a maze of buildings for advice. when he came back, the general manager was with him and was reproving him. in a voice full of defense the county down watchman said: "ah, now, and how did i know but that it was a forgery? and anyhow, i'd never let in a man what looks like that, even if he had an order from bill taft." the edison factories, all enclosed in the high fence and under guard, include four separate and distinct corporations, each with its own set of offices. edison himself owns a controlling interest in each corporation, and the rest of the stock is owned by the managers or "family." with his few trusted helpers he is most liberal. not only do they draw goodly salaries, but they have an interest in the profits that is no small matter. the secrets of the place are protected by having each workman stick right to one thing and work in one room. no running around is allowed--each employee goes to a certain place and remains there all day. to be found elsewhere is a misdemeanor, and while spies at the edison factory are not shot, they have been known to disappear into space with great velocity. to make amends for the close restrictions on workers, an extra wage is paid and the eight-hour day prevails, so help is never wanting. ninety-nine workers out of a hundred want their wages, and nothing else. promotion, advancement and education are things that never occur to them. but for the few that have the stuff in them, edison is always on the lookout. his place is really a college, for to know the man is an education. he radiates good-cheer and his animation is catching. to a woman who wanted him to write a motto for her son, edison wrote, "never look at the clock!" the argument is plain--get the thing done. and around the edison laboratory there is no use of looking at the clock, for none of them runs. that is the classic joke of the place. years ago edison expressed his contempt for the man who watched the clock, and now every christmas his office family take up a collection and buy him a clock, and present it with great ceremony. he replies in a speech on the nebular hypothesis and all are very happy. one year the present assumed the form of an ingersoll dollar watch, which the wizard showed to me with great pride. in the stockade is a beautiful library building and here you see clocks galore, some of which must have cost a thousand dollars a piece, all silent. one clock had a neatly printed card attached, "don't look at this clock--it has stopped." and another, "you may look at this clock, for you can't stop it!" it was already stopped. one very elegant clock had a solid block of wood where the works should have been, but the face and golden hands were all complete. however, one clock was running, with a tick needlessly loud, but this clock had no hands. the edison library is a gigantic affair, with two balconies and bookstacks limitless. the intent was to have a scientific library right at hand that would compass the knowledge of the world. the laboratory is quite as complete, for in it is every chemical substance known to man, all labeled, classified and indexed. seemingly, edison is the most careless, indifferent and slipshod of men, but the real fact is that such a thorough business general the world has seldom seen. if he wants, say, the "electrical review" for march, eighteen hundred ninety-one, he hands a boy a slip of paper and the book is in his hands in five minutes. edison of all men understands that knowledge consists in having a clerk who can quickly find the thing. in his hands the card-index has reached perfection. edison has no private office, and his desk in the great library has not had a letter written on it since eighteen hundred ninety-five. "i hate to disturb the mice," he said as he pointed it out indifferently. he arrives at the stockade early--often by seven o'clock, and makes his way direct to the laboratory, which stands in the center of the campus. all around are high factory buildings, vibrating with the suppressed roar and hum of industry. in the laboratory, edison works, secure and free from interruption unless he invites it. much of his time is spent in the chemical building, a low, one-story structure, lighted from the top. it has a cement floor and very simple furniture, the shelves and tables being mostly of iron. "we are always prepared for fires and explosions here," said edison in half-apology for the barrenness of the rooms. the place is a maze of retorts, kettles, tubes, siphons and tiny brass machinery. in the midst of the mess stood two old-fashioned armchairs--both sacred to edison. one he sits in, and the other is for his feet, his books, pads and paper. here he sits and thinks, reads or muses or tells stories or shuffles about with his hands in his pockets. edison is a man of infinite leisure. he has the faculty of throwing details upon others. at his elbow, shod in sneakers silent, is always a stenographer. then there is a bookkeeper who does nothing but record the result of every experiment, and these experiments are going on constantly, attended to by half a dozen quiet and alert men, who work like automatons. "i have tried a million schemes that will not work--i know everything that is no good. i work by elimination," says edison. when hot on the trail of an idea he may work here for three days and nights without going home, and his wife is good enough and great enough to leave him absolutely to himself. in a little room in the corner of the laboratory is a little iron cot and three gray army blankets. he can sleep at any time, and half an hour's rest will enable him to go on. when he can't quite catch the idea, he closes up his brain-cells for ten minutes and sleeps, then up and after it again. mrs. edison occasionally sends meals down for the wizard when he is on the trail of a thought and does not want to take time to go home. one day the dinner arrived when edison was just putting salt on the tail of an idea. there was no time to eat, but it occurred to the inventor that if he would just quit thinking for ten minutes and sleep, he could awaken with enough brain-power to throw the lariat successfully. so he just leaned back, put his feet in the other chair and went to sleep. the general manager came in and saw the dinner on the table and edison sleeping, so he just sat down and began to eat the dinner. he ate it all, and tiptoed out. edison slept twenty minutes, awoke, looked at the empty dishes, pulled down his vest, took out his regular after-dinner cigar, lighted it and smoked away in sweet satisfaction, fully believing that he had had his dinner; and even after the general manager had come in and offered to bet him a dollar he hadn't, he was still of the same mind. this spirit of sly joking fills the place, set afloat by the master himself. edison dearly loves a joke, and will quit work any time to hear one. it is the five minutes' sleep and the good laugh that keep his brain from becoming a hotbox--he gets his rest! "when do you take your vacation, mr. edison?" a lady asked him. "election night every november," was the reply. and this is literally true, for on that night there is a special wire run into the orange clubhouse, and edison takes the key and sits there until daylight taking the returns, writing them out carefully in that copperplate western union hand. he is as careful about his handwriting now as if he were writing out train-orders. "if i wanted to live a hundred years i would use neither tobacco nor coffee," said edison as we sat at lunch. "but you see i'd rather get a little really good work done than live long and do nothing to speak of. and so i spur what i am pleased to call my mind, at times with coffee and a good cigar--just pass the matches, thank you! some day some fellow will invent a way of concentrating and storing up sunshine to use instead of this old, absurd prometheus scheme of fire. i'll do the trick myself if some one else doesn't get at it. why, that is all there is about my work in electricity--you know, i never claimed to have invented electricity--that is a campaign lie--nail it!" "sunshine is spread out thin and so is electricity. perhaps they are the same, but we will take that up later. now the trick was, you see, to concentrate the juice and liberate it as you needed it. the old-fashioned way inaugurated by jove, of letting it off in a clap of thunder, is dangerous, disconcerting and wasteful. it doesn't fetch up anywhere. my task was to subdivide the current and use it in a great number of little lights, and to do this i had to store it. and we haven't really found out how to store it yet and let it off real easy-like and cheap. why, we have just begun to commence to get ready to find out about electricity. this scheme of combustion to get power makes me sick to think of--it is so wasteful. it is just the old, foolish prometheus idea, and the father of prometheus was a baboon." "when we learn how to store electricity, we will cease being apes ourselves; until then we are tailless orangutans. you see, we should utilize natural forces and thus get all of our power. sunshine is a form of energy, and the winds and the tides are manifestations of energy." "do we use them? oh, no! we burn up wood and coal, as renters burn up the front fence for fuel. we live like squatters, not as if we owned the property. "there must surely come a time when heat and power will be stored in unlimited quantities in every community, all gathered by natural forces. electricity ought to be as cheap as oxygen, for it can not be destroyed. "now, i am not sure but that my new storage-battery is the thing. i'd tell you about that, but i don't want to bore you. of course, i know that nothing is more interesting to the public than a good lie. you see, i have been a newspaperman myself--used to run a newspaper--in fact, veritas and old subscriber once took exception to one of my editorials and threw me into the detroit river--that is where i got my little deafness--what's that? no, i did not say my deftness--i got that in another way. but about lies, you have heard that one about my smoking big, black cigars! well, the story is that the boys in the office used to steal my cigars, and so i got a cigarmaker to make me up a box that looked just like my favorite brand, only i had 'em filled with hemp, horsehair and a touch of asafetida. then i just left the box where the boys would be sure to dip into it; but it seems the cigarman put them on, and so they just put that box into my own private stock and i smoked the fumigators and never knew the difference. "that whole story is a pernicious malrepresentation invented by the enemy of mankind in order to throw obloquy over a virtuous old telegraph-operator--brand it!" witness, therefore, that i have branded it, forevermore! * * * * * once upon a day i wrote an article on alexander humboldt. and in that article among other things i said, "this world of ours, round like an orange and slightly flattened at the poles, has produced but five educated men." and ironical ladies and gents from all parts of the united states wrote me on postal cards, begging that i should name the other four. let us leave the cynics to their little pleasantries, and make our appeal to people who think. education means evolution, development, growth. education is comparative, for there is no fixed standard--all men know more than some men, and some men know more than some other men. "every man i meet is my master in some particular," said emerson. but there are five men in history who had minds so developed, and evolved beyond the rest of mankind so far, that they form a class by themselves, and deserve to be called educated men. the men i have in mind were the following: pericles, builder of athens. aristotle, tutor of alexander, and the world's first naturalist. leonardo, the all-round man--the man who could do more things, and do them well, than any other man who every lived. sir isaac newton, the mathematician, who analyzed light and discovered the law of gravitation. alexander von humboldt, explorer and naturalist, who compassed the entire scientific knowledge of the world, issued his books in deluxe limited editions at his own expense, and sold them for three thousand dollars a set. newton and humboldt each wore a seven and three-fourths hat. leonardo and aristotle went untaped, but pericles had a head so high and so big that he looked like a caricature, and aristophanes, a nice man who lived at the same time, said that the head of pericles looked like a pumpkin that had been sat upon. all the busts of pericles represent him wearing a helmet--this to avoid what the artists thought an abnormality, the average greek having a round, smooth chucklehead like that of a bowery bartender. america has produced two men who stand out so far beyond the rest of mankind that they form a class by themselves: benjamin franklin and thomas a. edison. franklin wore a seven and a half hat; edison wears a seven and three-fourths. the difference in men is the difference in brain-power. and while size does not always token quality, yet size and surface are necessary to get power, and there is no record of a man with a six and a half head ever making a ripple on the intellectual sea. without the cells you get no mind, and if mind exists without the cells, it has not yet been proven. the brain is a storage-battery made up of millions of minute cells. the weight of an average man's brain is forty-nine ounces. now, humboldt's brain weighed fifty-six ounces, and newton's and franklin's weighed fifty-seven. let us hope the autopsist will not have a chance to weigh edison's brain for many years, but when he does the mark will register fifty-seven ounces. an orang-utan weighs about the same as a man, but its brain weighs only a pound, against three pounds for a man. give a gorilla a brain weighing fifty ounces, and he would be a methodist presiding elder. give him a brain the same size of edison's, say fifty-seven ounces, and instead of spending life in hunting for snakes and heaving cocoanuts at monkeys as respectable gorillas are wont, he would be weighing the world in scales of his own invention and making, and measuring the distances of the stars. pericles was taught by the gentle anaxagoras, who gave all his money to the state in order that he might be free. the state reciprocated by cutting off his head, for republics are always ungrateful. aristotle was a pupil of plato and worked his way through college, sifting ashes, washing windows and sweeping sidewalks. leonardo was self-taught and gathered knowledge as a bee gathers honey, although honey isn't honey until the bee digests it. sir isaac newton was a cambridge man. he held the office of master of the mint, and to relieve himself of the charge of atheism he anticipated the enemy and wrote a book on the hebrew prophets, which gave the scientists the laugh on him, but made his position with the state secure. newton is the only man herein mentioned who knew anything about theology, all the others being "infidels" in their day, devoting themselves strictly to this world. humboldt was taught by the "natural method," and never took a college degree. franklin was a graduate of the university of hard knocks, and edison's alma mater is the same. there is one special characteristic manifested by the seven educated men i have named--good-cheer, a great welling sense of happiness! they were all good animals: they gloried in life; they loved the men and women who were still on earth; they feasted on the good things in life; breathed deeply; slept soundly and did not bother about the future. their working motto was, "one world at a time." they were all able to laugh. genius is a great fund of joyousness. each and all of these men influenced the world profoundly. we are different people because they lived. every house, school, library and workshop in christendom is touched by their presence. all are dead but edison, yet their influence can never die. and no one in the list has influenced civilization so profoundly as edison. you can not look out of a window in any city in europe or america without beholding the influence of his thought. you may say that the science of electricity has gone past him, but all the sons of jove have built on him. he gave us the electric light and the electric car and pointed the way to the telephone--three things that have revolutionized society. as athens at her height was the age of pericles, so will our time be known as the age of edison. so here endeth "little journeys to the homes of good men and great," being volume one of the series, as written by elbert hubbard: edited and arranged by fred bann; borders and initials by roycroft artists and produced by the roycrofters, at their shops, which are in east aurora, erie county, new york, mcmxxii poems by victor hugo 1888 [transcription note: one poem uses an a with a macron over it, this has been rendered as ä, which is not used in this text for any other purpose.] contents. memoir of victor marie hugo early poems. moses on the nile--_dublin university magazine_ envy and avarice--_american keepsake_ odes.--1818-28. king louis xvii--_dublin university magazine_ the feast of freedom--_"father prout" (f.s. mahony)_ genius--_mrs. torre hulme_ the girl of otaheite--_clement scott_ nero's incendiary song--_h.j. williams_ regret--_fraser's magazine_ the morning of life beloved name--_caroline bowles (mrs. southey)_ the portrait of a child--_dublin university magazine_ ballades.--1823-28. the grandmother--_"father prout" (f.s. mahony)_ the giant in glee--_foreign quart. rev. (adapted)_ the cymbaleer's bride--_"father prout" (f.s. mahony)_ battle of the norsemen and the gaels madelaine the fay and the peri--_asiatic journal_ les orientales.--1829 the scourge of heaven--_i.n. fazakerley_ pirates' song the turkish captive--_w.d., tait's edisiburgh mag._ moonlight on the bosphorus--_john l. o'sullivan_ the veil--_"father prout" (f.s. mahony)_ the favorite sultana the pasha and the dervish the lost battle--_w.d., bentley's miscel_., 1839 the greek boy zara, the bather--_john l. o'sullivan_ expectation--_john l. o'sullivan _ the lover's wish--_v., eton observer_ the sacking of the city--_john l. o'sullivan_ noormahal the fair the djinns--_john l. o'sullivan_ the obdurate beauty--_john l. o'sullivan_ don rodrigo cornflowers--_h.l. williams_ mazeppa--_h.l. williams_ the danube in wrath--_fraser's magazine_ old ocean--_r.c. ellwood_ my napoleon--_h.l. williams_ les feuilles d'automne.--1831. the patience of the people--_g.w.m. reynolds_ dictated before the rhone glacier--_author of "critical essays"_ the poet's love for liveliness--_fraser's magazine_ infantile influence--_henry highton, m.a._ the watching angel--_foreign quarterly review_ sunset--_toru dutt_ the universal prayer--_henry highton, m.a._ the universal prayer--_c., tait's magazine_ les chants du crépuscule.--1849. prelude to "the songs of twilight"--_g.w.m. reynolds_ the land of fable--_g.w.m. rrynolds_ the three glorious days--_elizabeth collins_ tribute to the vanquished--_fraser's magazine_ angel or demon--_fraser's magazine_ the eruption of vesuvius--_fraser's magazine_ marriage and feasts--_g.w.m. reynolds_ the morrow of grandeur--_fraser's magazine_ the eaglet mourned--_fraser's magazine_ invocation--_g.w.m. reynolds_ outside the ball-room--_g.w.m. reynolds_ prayer for france--_j.s. macrae_ to canaris, the greek patriot--_g.w.m. reynolds_ poland--_g.w.m. reynolds_ insult not the fallen--_w.c.k. wilde_ morning--_w.m. hardinge_ song of love--_toru dutt_ sweet charmer--_h.b. farnie_ more strong than time--_a. lang_ roses and butterflies--_w.c. westbrook_ a simile--_fanny kemble-butler_ the poet to his wife les voix intérieures.--1840. the blinded bourbons--_fraser's magazine_ to albert dürer--_mrs. newton crosland_ to his muse--_fraser's magazine_ the cow--_toru dutt_ mothers--_dublin university magazine_ to some birds flown away--_mrs. newton crosland_ my thoughts of ye--_dublin university magazine_ the beacon in the storm love's treacherous pool the rose and the grave--_a. lang_ les rayons et les ombres.--1840. holyrood palace--_fraser's magazine_ the humble home--_author of "critical essays"_ the eighteenth century--_author of "critical essays"_ still be a child--_dublin university magazine_ the pool and the soul--_r.f. hodgson_ ye mariners who spread your sails--_author of "critical essays"_ on a flemish window-pane--_fraser's magazine_ the preceptor--_e.e. frewer_ gastibelza--_h.l. williams_ guitar song--_evelyn jerrold_ come when i sleep--_wm. w. tomlinson_ early love revisited--_author of "critical essays"_ sweet memory of love--_author of "critical essays"_ the marble faun--_william young_ a love for winged things baby's seaside grave les châtiments.--1853. indignation! imperial revels--_h.l.w._ poor little children apostrophe to nature napoleon "the little" fact or fable--_h.l.w._ a lament--_edwin arnold, c.s.i._ no assassination the despatch of the doom the seaman's song the retreat from moscow--_toru dutt_ the ocean's song--_toru dutt_ the trumpets of the mind--_toru dutt_ after the coup d'état--_toru dutt_ patria the universal republic les contemplations.--1830-56. the vale to you, to me the heights--_h.l.w_ childhood--_nelson r. tyerman_ satire on the earth how butterflies are born--_a. lang_ have you nothing to say for yourself?--_c.h. kenny_ inscription for a crucifix death, in life the dying child to its mother--_bp. alexander_ epitaph--_nelson r. tyerman_ st. john--_nelson r. tyerman_ the poet's simple faith--_prof. e. dowden_ i am content la légende des siècles. cain--_dublin university magazine_ boaz asleep--_bp. alexander_ song of the german lanzknecht--_h.l.w._ king canute--_r. garnett_ king canute--_dublin university magazine_ the boy-king's prayer--_dublin university magazine_ eviradnus--_mrs. newton crosland_ the soudan, the sphinxes, the cup, the lamp--_bp. alexander_ a queen five summers old--_bp. alexander_ sea adventurers' song the swiss mercenaries--_bp. alexander_ the cup on the battle-field--_toru dutt_ how good are the poor--_bp. alexander_ la voix de guernesey. mentana--_edwin arnold, c.s.i._ les chansons des rues et des bois. love of the woodland shooting stars l'année terrible. to little jeanne--_marwaod tucker_ to a sick child during the siege of paris--_lucy h. hooper_ the carrier pigeon toys and tragedy mourning--_marwood tucker_ the lesson of the patriot dead--_h.l.w._ the boy on the barricade--_h.l.w._ to his orphan grandchildren--_marwood tucker_ to the cannon "victor hugo" l'art d'être grandpère. the children of the poor--_dublin university magazine_ the epic of the lion--_edwin arnold, c.s.i._ les quatre vents de l'esprit. on hearing the princess royal sing--_nelson r. tyerman_ my happiest dream an old-time lay jersey then, most, i smile the exile's desire the refugee's haven various pieces. to the napoleon column--_author of "critical essays"_ charity--_dublin university magazine_ sweet sister--_mrs. b. somers_ the pity of the angels the sower--_toru dutt_ oh, why not be happy?--_leopold wray_ freedom and the world serenade--_henry f. chorley_ an autumnal simile to cruel ocean esmeralda in prison lover's song--_ernest oswald coe_ a fleeting glimpse of a village--_fraser's magazine_ lord rochester's song the beggar's quatrain--_h.l.c., london society_ the quiet rural church a storm simile dramatic pieces. the father's curse--_fredk. l. slous_ paternal love--_fanny kemble-butler_ the degenerate gallants--_lord f. leveson gower_ the old and the young bridegroom--_charles sherry_ the spanish lady's love--_c. moir_ the lover's sacrifice--_lord f. leveson gower_ the old man's love--_c. moir_ the roll of the de silva race--_lord f. leveson gower_ the lover's colloquy--_lord f. leveson gower_ cromwell and the crown--_leitch ritchie_ milton's appeal to cromwell first love--_fanny kemble-butler_ the first black flag--_democratic review_ the son in old age--_foreign quarterly review_ the emperor's return--_athenaum_ victor in poesy, victor in romance, cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears, french of the french, and lord of human tears; child-lover; bard whose fame-lit laurels glance darkening the wreaths of all that would advance, beyond our strait, their claim to be thy peers; weird titan by thy winter weight of years as yet unbroken, stormy voice of france! tennyson. memoir of victor marie hugo. towards the close of the first french revolution, joseph leopold sigisbert hugo, son of a joiner at nancy, and an officer risen from the ranks in the republican army, married sophie trébuchet, daughter of a nantes fitter-out of privateers, a vendean royalist and devotee. victor marie hugo, their second son, was born on the 26th of february, 1802, at besançon, france. though a weakling, he was carried, with his boy-brothers, in the train of their father through the south of france, in pursuit of fra diavolo, the italian brigand, and finally into spain. colonel hugo had become general, and there, besides being governor over three provinces, was lord high steward at king joseph's court, where his eldest son abel was installed as page. the other two were educated for similar posts among hostile young spaniards under stern priestly tutors in the nobles' college at madrid, a palace become a monastery. upon the english advance to free spain of the invaders, the general and abel remained at bay, whilst the mother and children hastened to paris. again, in a house once a convent, victor and his brother eugène were taught by priests until, by the accident of their roof sheltering a comrade of their father's, a change of tutor was afforded them. this was general lahorie, a man of superior education, main supporter of malet in his daring plot to take the government into the republicans' hands during the absence of napoleon i. in russia. lahorie read old french and latin with victor till the police scented him out and led him to execution, october, 1812. school claimed the young hugos after this tragical episode, where they were oddities among the humdrum tradesmen's sons. victor, thoughtful and taciturn, rhymed profusely in tragedies, "printing" in his books, "châteaubriand or nothing!" and engaging his more animated brother to flourish the cid's sword and roar the tyrant's speeches. in 1814, both suffered a sympathetic anxiety as their father held out at thionville against the allies, finally repulsing them by a sortie. this was pure loyalty to the fallen bonaparte, for hugo had lost his all in spain, his very savings having been sunk in real estate, through king joseph's insistence on his adherents investing to prove they had "come to stay." the bourbons enthroned anew, general hugo received, less for his neutrality than thanks to his wife's piety and loyalty, confirmation of his title and rank, and, moreover, a fieldmarshalship. abel was accepted as a page, too, but there was no money awarded the ex-bonapartist--money being what the eaglet at reichstadt most required for an attempt at his father's throne--and the poor officer was left in seclusion to write consolingly about his campaigns and "defences of fortified towns." decidedly the pen had superseded the sword, for victor and eugène were scribbling away in ephemeral political sheets as apprenticeship to founding a periodical of their own. victor's poetry became remarkable in _la muse française_ and _le conservateur littéraire_, the odes being permeated with legitimist and anti-revolutionary sentiments delightful to the taste of madam hugo, member as she was of the courtly order of the royal lily. in 1817, the french academy honorably mentioned victor's "odes on the advantages of study," with a misgiving that some elder hand was masked under the line ascribing "scant fifteen years" to the author. at the toulouse floral games he won prizes two years successively. his critical judgment was sound as well, for he had divined the powers of lamartine. his "odes," collected in a volume, gave his ever-active mother her opportunity at court. louis xviii. granted the boy-poet a pension of 1,500 francs. it was the windfall for which the youth had been waiting to enable him to gratify his first love. in his childhood, his father and one m. foucher, head of a war office department, had jokingly betrothed a son of the one to a daughter of the other. abel had loftier views than alliance with a civil servant's child; eugène was in love elsewhere; but victor had fallen enamored with adèle foucher. it is true, when poverty beclouded the hugos, the fouchers had shrunk into their mantle of dignity, and the girl had been strictly forbidden to correspond with her child-sweetheart. he, finding letters barred out, wrote a love story ("hans of iceland") in two weeks, where were recited his hopes, fears, and constancy, and this book she could read. it pleased the public no less, and its sale, together with that of the "odes" and a west indian romance, "buck jargal," together with a royal pension, emboldened the poet to renew his love-suit. to refuse the recipient of court funds was not possible to a public functionary. m. foucher consented to the betrothal in the summer of 1821. so encloistered had mdlle. adèle been, her reading "hans" the exceptional intrusion, that she only learnt on meeting her affianced that he was mourning his mother. in october, 1822, they were wed, the bride nineteen, the bridegroom but one year the elder. the dinner was marred by the sinister disaster of eugène hugo going mad. (he died in an asylum five years later.) the author terminated his wedding year with the "ode to louis xviii.," read to a society after the president of the academy had introduced him as "the most promising of our young lyrists." in spite of new poems revealing a napoleonic bias, victor was invited to see charles x. consecrated at rheims, 29th of may, 1825, and was entered on the roll of the legion of honor repaying the favors with the verses expected. but though a son was born to him he was not restored to conservatism; with his mother's death all that had vanished. his tragedy of "cromwell" broke lances upon royalists and upholders of the still reigning style of tragedy. the second collection of "odes" preluding it, showed the spirit of the son of napoleon's general, rather than of the bourbonist field-marshal. on the occasion, too, of the duke of tarento being announced at the austrian ambassador's ball, february, 1827, as plain "marshal macdonald," victor became the mouthpiece of indignant bonapartists in his "ode to the napoleon column" in the place vendôme. his "orientales," though written in a parisian suburb by one who had not travelled, appealed for grecian liberty, and depicted sultans and pashas as tyrants, many a line being deemed applicable to personages nearer the seine than stamboul. "cromwell" was not actable, and "amy robsart," in collaboration with his brother-in-law, foucher, miserably failed, notwithstanding a finale "superior to scott's 'kenilworth.'" in one twelvemonth, there was this failure to record, the death of his father from apoplexy at his eldest son's marriage, and the birth of a second son to victor towards the close. still imprudent, the young father again irritated the court with satire in "marion delorme" and "hernani," two plays immediately suppressed by the censure, all the more active as the revolution of july, 1830, was surely seething up to the edge of the crater. (at this juncture, the poet châteaubriand, fading star to our rising sun, yielded up to him formally "his place at the poets' table.") in the summer of 1831, a civil ceremony was performed over the insurgents killed in the previous year, and hugo was constituted poet-laureate of the revolution by having his hymn sung in the pantheon over the biers. under louis philippe, "marion delorme" could be played, but livelier attention was turned to "nôtre dame de paris," the historical romance in which hugo vied with sir walter. it was to have been followed by others, but the publisher unfortunately secured a contract to monopolize all the new novelist's prose fictions for a term of years, and the author revenged himself by publishing poems and plays alone. hence "nôtre dame" long stood unique: it was translated in all languages, and plays and operas were founded on it. heine professed to see in the prominence of the hunchback a personal appeal of the author, who was slightly deformed by one shoulder being a trifle higher than the other; this malicious suggestion reposed also on the fact that the _quasi_-hero of "le roi s'amuse" (1832, a tragedy suppressed after one representation, for its reflections on royalty), was also a contorted piece of humanity. this play was followed by "lucrezia borgia," "marie tudor," and "angelo," written in a singular poetic prose. spite of bald translations, their action was sufficiently dramatic to make them successes, and even still enduring on our stage. they have all been arranged as operas, whilst hugo himself, to oblige the father of louise bertin, a magazine publisher of note, wrote "esmeralda" for her music in 1835. thus, at 1837, when he was promoted to an officership in the legion of honor, it was acknowledged his due as a laborious worker in all fields of literature, however contestable the merits and tendencies of his essays. in 1839, the academy, having rejected him several times, elected him among the forty immortals. in the previous year had been successfully acted "ruy blas," for which play he had gone to spanish sources; with and after the then imperative rhine tour, came an unendurable "trilogy," the "burgraves," played one long, long night in 1843. a real tragedy was to mark that year: his daughter léopoldine being drowned in the seine with her husband, who would not save himself when he found that her death-grasp on the sinking boat was not to be loosed. for distraction, hugo plunged into politics. a peer in 1845, he sat between marshal soult and pontécoulant, the regicide-judge of louis xvi. his maiden speech bore upon artistic copyright; but he rapidly became a power in much graver matters. as fate would have it, his speech on the bonapartes induced king louis philippe to allow prince louis napoleon bonaparte to return, and, there being no gratitude in politics, the emancipated outlaw rose as a rival candidate for the presidency, for which hugo had nominated himself in his newspaper the _evènement_. the story of the _coup d'état_ is well known; for the republican's side, read hugo's own "history of a crime." hugo, proscribed, betook himself to brussels, london, and the channel islands, waiting to "return with right when the usurper should be expelled." meanwhile, he satirized the third napoleon and his congeners with ceaseless shafts, the principal being the famous "napoleon the little," based on the analogical reasoning that as the earth has moons, the lion the jackal, man himself his simian double, a minor napoleon was inevitable as a standard of estimation, the grain by which a pyramid is measured. these flings were collected in "les châtiments," a volume preceded by "les contemplations" (mostly written in the '40's), and followed by "les chansons des rues et des bois." the baffled publisher's close-time having expired, or, at least, his heirs being satisfied, three novels appeared, long heralded: in 1862, "les misérables" (ye wretched), wherein the author figures as marius and his father as the bonapartist officer: in 1866, "les travailleurs de la mer" (toilers of the sea), its scene among the channel islands; and, in 1868, "l'homme qui rit" (the man who grins), unfortunately laid in a fanciful england evolved from recondite reading through foreign spectacles. whilst writing the final chapters, hugo's wife died; and, as he had refused the amnesty, he could only escort her remains to the belgian frontier, august, 1868. all this while, in his paris daily newspaper, _le rappei_ (adorned with cuts of a revolutionary drummer beating "to arms!"), he and his sons and son-in-law's family were reiterating blows at the throne. when it came down in 1870, and the republic was proclaimed, hugo hastened to paris. his poems, written during the war and siege, collected under the title of "l'année terrible" (the terrible year, 1870-71), betray the long-tried exile, "almost alone in his gloom," after the death of his son charles and his child. fleeing to brussels after the commune, he nevertheless was so aggressive in sheltering and aiding its fugitives, that he was banished the kingdom, lest there should be a renewal of an assault on his house by the mob, supposed by his adherents to be, not "the honest belgians," but the refugee bonapartists and royalists, who had not cared to fight for france in france endangered. resting in luxemburg, he prepared "l'année terrible" for the press, and thence returned to paris, vainly to plead with president thiers for the captured communists' lives, and vainly, too, proposing himself for election to the new house. in 1872, his novel of "'93" pleased the general public here, mainly by the adventures of three charming little children during the prevalence of an internecine war. these phases of a bounteously paternal mood reappeared in "l'art d'être grandpère," published in 1877, when he had become a life-senator. "hernani" was in the regular "stock" of the théâtre français, "rigoletto" (le roi s'amuse) always at the italian opera-house, while the same subject, under the title of "the fool's revenge," held, as it still holds, a high position on the anglo-american stage. finally, the poetic romance of "torquemada," for over thirty years promised, came forth in 1882, to prove that the wizard-wand had not lost its cunning. after dolor, fêtes were come: on one birthday they crown his bust in the chief theatre; on another, all notable paris parades under his window, where he sits with his grandchildren at his knee, in the shadow of the triumphal arch of napoleon's star. it is given to few men thus to see their own apotheosis. whilst he was dying, in may, 1885, paris was but the first mourner for all france; and the magnificent funeral pageant which conducted the pauper's coffin, antithetically enshrining the remains considered worthy of the highest possible reverence and honors, from the champs elysées to the pantheon, was the more memorable from all that was foremost in french art and letters having marched in the train, and laid a leaf or flower in the tomb of the protégé of châteaubriand, the brother-in-arms of dumas, the inspirer of mars, dorval, le-maître, rachel, and bernhardt, and, above all, the nemesis of the third empire. early poems. moses on the nile. _("mes soeurs, l'onde est plus fraiche.")_ [to the floral games, toulouse, feb. 10, 1820.] "sisters! the wave is freshest in the ray of the young morning; the reapers are asleep; the river bank is lonely: come away! the early murmurs of old memphis creep faint on my ear; and here unseen we stray,- deep in the covert of the grove withdrawn, save by the dewy eye-glance of the dawn. "within my father's palace, fair to see, shine all the arts, but oh! this river side, pranked with gay flowers, is dearer far to me than gold and porphyry vases bright and wide; how glad in heaven the song-bird carols free! sweeter these zephyrs float than all the showers of costly odors in our royal bowers. "the sky is pure, the sparkling stream is clear: unloose your zones, my maidens! and fling down to float awhile upon these bushes near your blue transparent robes: take off my crown, and take away my jealous veil; for here to-day we shall be joyous while we lave our limbs amid the murmur of the wave. "hasten; but through the fleecy mists of morn, what do i see? look ye along the stream! nay, timid maidens--we must not return! coursing along the current, it would seem an ancient palm-tree to the deep sea borne, that from the distant wilderness proceeds, downwards, to view our wondrous pyramids. "but stay! if i may surely trust mine eye,- it is the bark of hermes, or the shell of iris, wafted gently to the sighs of the light breeze along the rippling swell; but no: it is a skiff where sweetly lies an infant slumbering, and his peaceful rest looks as if pillowed on his mother's breast. "he sleeps--oh, see! his little floating bed swims on the mighty river's fickle flow, a white dove's nest; and there at hazard led by the faint winds, and wandering to and fro, the cot comes down; beneath his quiet head the gulfs are moving, and each threatening wave appears to rock the child upon a grave. "he wakes--ah, maids of memphis! haste, oh, haste! he cries! alas!--what mother could confide her offspring to the wild and watery waste? he stretches out his arms, the rippling tide murmurs around him, where all rudely placed, he rests but with a few frail reeds beneath, between such helpless innocence and death. "oh! take him up! perchance he is of those dark sons of israel whom my sire proscribes; ah! cruel was the mandate that arose against most guiltless of the stranger tribes! poor child! my heart is yearning for his woes, i would i were his mother; but i'll give if not his birth, at least the claim to live." thus iphis spoke; the royal hope and pride of a great monarch; while her damsels nigh, wandered along the nile's meandering side; and these diminished beauties, standing by the trembling mother; watching with eyes wide their graceful mistress, admired her as stood, more lovely than the genius of the flood! the waters broken by her delicate feet receive the eager wader, as alone by gentlest pity led, she strives to meet the wakened babe; and, see, the prize is won! she holds the weeping burden with a sweet and virgin glow of pride upon her brow, that knew no flush save modesty's till now. opening with cautious hands the reedy couch, she brought the rescued infant slowly out beyond the humid sands; at her approach her curious maidens hurried round about to kiss the new-born brow with gentlest touch; greeting the child with smiles, and bending nigh their faces o'er his large, astonished eye! haste thou who, from afar, in doubt and fear, dost watch, with straining eyes, the fated boy- the loved of heaven! come like a stranger near, and clasp young moses with maternal joy; nor fear the speechless transport and the tear will e'er betray thy fond and hidden claim, for iphis knows not yet a mother's name! with a glad heart, and a triumphal face, the princess to the haughty pharaoh led the humble infant of a hated race, bathed with the bitter tears a parent shed; while loudly pealing round the holy place of heaven's white throne, the voice of angel choirs intoned the theme of their undying lyres! "no longer mourn thy pilgrimage below- o jacob! let thy tears no longer swell the torrent of the egyptian river: lo! soon on the jordan's banks thy tents shall dwell; and goshen shall behold thy people go despite the power of egypt's law and brand, from their sad thrall to canaan's promised land. "the king of plagues, the chosen of sinai, is he that, o'er the rushing waters driven, a vigorous hand hath rescued for the sky; ye whose proud hearts disown the ways of heaven! attend, be humble! for its power is nigh israel! a cradle shall redeem thy worth- a cradle yet shall save the widespread earth!" _dublin university magazine, 1839_ envy and avarice. _("l'avarice et l'envie.")_ [le conservateur litéraire, 1820.] envy and avarice, one summer day, sauntering abroad in quest of the abode of some poor wretch or fool who lived that way- you--or myself, perhaps--i cannot say- along the road, scarce heeding where it tended, their way in sullen, sulky silence wended; for, though twin sisters, these two charming creatures, rivals in hideousness of form and features, wasted no love between them as they went. pale avarice, with gloating eyes, and back and shoulders almost double bent, was hugging close that fatal box for which she's ever on the watch some glance to catch suspiciously directed to its locks; and envy, too, no doubt with silent winking at her green, greedy orbs, no single minute withdrawn from it, was hard a-thinking of all the shining dollars in it. the only words that avarice could utter, her constant doom, in a low, frightened mutter, "there's not enough, enough, yet in my store!" while envy, as she scanned the glittering sight, groaned as she gnashed her yellow teeth with spite, "she's more than me, more, still forever more!" thus, each in her own fashion, as they wandered, upon the coffer's precious contents pondered, when suddenly, to their surprise, the god desire stood before their eyes. desire, that courteous deity who grants all wishes, prayers, and wants; said he to the two sisters: "beauteous ladies, as i'm a gentleman, my task and trade is to be the slave of your behest- choose therefore at your own sweet will and pleasure, honors or treasure! or in one word, whatever you'd like best. but, let us understand each other--she who speaks the first, her prayer shall certainly receive--the other, the same boon _redoubled!_" imagine how our amiable pair, at this proposal, all so frank and fair, were mutually troubled! misers and enviers, of our human race, say, what would you have done in such a case? each of the sisters murmured, sad and low "what boots it, oh, desire, to me to have crowns, treasures, all the goods that heart can crave, or power divine bestow, since still another must have always more?" so each, lest she should speak before the other, hesitating slow and long till the god lost all patience, held her tongue. he was enraged, in such a way, to be kept waiting there all day, with two such beauties in the public road; scarce able to be civil even, he wished them both--well, not in heaven. envy at last the silence broke, and smiling, with malignant sneer, upon her sister dear, who stood in expectation by, ever implacable and cruel, spoke "i would be blinded of _one_ eye!" _american keepsake_ odes.--1818-28. king louis xvii. _("en ce temps-là du ciel les portes.")_ [bk. i. v., december, 1822.] the golden gates were opened wide that day, all through the unveiled heaven there seemed to play out of the holiest of holy, light; and the elect beheld, crowd immortal, a young soul, led up by young angels bright, stand in the starry portal. a fair child fleeing from the world's fierce hate, in his blue eye the shade of sorrow sate, his golden hair hung all dishevelled down, on wasted cheeks that told a mournful story, and angels twined him with the innocent's crown, the martyr's palm of glory. the virgin souls that to the lamb are near, called through the clouds with voices heavenly clear, god hath prepared a glory for thy brow, rest in his arms, and all ye hosts that sing his praises ever on untired string, chant, for a mortal comes among ye now; do homage--"'tis a king." and the pale shadow saith to god in heaven: "i am an orphan and no king at all; i was a weary prisoner yestereven, my father's murderers fed my soul with gall. not me, o lord, the regal name beseems. last night i fell asleep in dungeon drear, but then i saw my mother in my dreams, say, shall i find her here?" the angels said: "thy saviour bids thee come, out of an impure world he calls thee home, from the mad earth, where horrid murder waves over the broken cross her impure wings, and regicides go down among the graves, scenting the blood of kings." he cries: "then have i finished my long life? are all its evils over, all its strife, and will no cruel jailer evermore wake me to pain, this blissful vision o'er? is it no dream that nothing else remains of all my torments but this answered cry, and have i had, o god, amid my chains, the happiness to die? "for none can tell what cause i had to pine, what pangs, what miseries, each day were mine; and when i wept there was no mother near to soothe my cries, and smile away my tear. poor victim of a punishment unending, torn like a sapling from its mother earth, so young, i could not tell what crime impending had stained me from my birth. "yet far off in dim memory it seems, with all its horror mingled happy dreams, strange cries of glory rocked my sleeping head, and a glad people watched beside my bed. one day into mysterious darkness thrown, i saw the promise of my future close; i was a little child, left all alone, alas! and i had foes. "they cast me living in a dreary tomb, never mine eyes saw sunlight pierce the gloom, only ye, brother angels, used to sweep down from your heaven, and visit me in sleep. 'neath blood-red hands my young life withered there. dear lord, the bad are miserable all, be not thou deaf, like them, unto my prayer, it is for them i call." the angels sang: "see heaven's high arch unfold, come, we will crown thee with the stars above, will give thee cherub-wings of blue and gold, and thou shalt learn our ministry of love, shalt rock the cradle where some mother's tears are dropping o'er her restless little one, or, with thy luminous breath, in distant spheres, shalt kindle some cold sun." ceased the full choir, all heaven was hushed to hear, bowed the fair face, still wet with many a tear, in depths of space, the rolling worlds were stayed, whilst the eternal in the infinite said: "o king, i kept thee far from human state, who hadst a dungeon only for thy throne, o son, rejoice, and bless thy bitter fate, the slavery of kings thou hast not known, what if thy wasted arms are bleeding yet, and wounded with the fetter's cruel trace, no earthly diadem has ever set a stain upon thy face. "child, life and hope were with thee at thy birth, but life soon bowed thy tender form to earth, and hope forsook thee in thy hour of need. come, for thy saviour had his pains divine; come, for his brow was crowned with thorns like thine, his sceptre was a reed." _dublin university magazine._ the feast of freedom. _("lorsqu'à l'antique olympe immolant l'evangile.")_ [bk. ii. v., 1823.] [there was in rome one antique usage as follows: on the eve of the execution day, the sufferers were given a public banquet--at the prison gate--known as the "free festival."--chateaubriand's "martyrs."] to ye kings. when the christians were doomed to the lions of old by the priest and the praetor, combined to uphold an idolatrous cause, forth they came while the vast colosseum throughout gathered thousands looked on, and they fell 'mid the shout of "the people's" applause. on the eve of that day of their evenings the last! at the gates of their dungeon a gorgeous repast, rich, unstinted, unpriced, that the doomed might (forsooth) gather strength ere they bled, with an ignorant pity the jailers would spread for the martyrs of christ. oh, 'twas strange for a pupil of paul to recline on voluptuous couch, while falernian wine fill'd his cup to the brim! dulcet music of greece, asiatic repose, spicy fragrance of araby, italian rose, all united for him! every luxury known through the earth's wide expanse, in profusion procured was put forth to enhance the repast that they gave; and no sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight, such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night the elect of the grave. and the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain, loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain the bloodthirsty arena; whilst the women of rome, who applauded those deeds and who hailed the forthcoming enjoyment, must needs shame the restless hyena. they who figured as guests on that ultimate eve, in their turn on the morrow were destined to give to the lions their food; for, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board, where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford, death administering stood. such, o monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power, but the tocsin has burst on your festival hour- 'tis your knell that it rings! to the popular tiger a prey is decreed, and the maw of republican hunger will feed on _a banquet of kings!_ "father prout" (frank mahony) genius. (dedicated to chateaubriand.) [bk. iv. vi., july, 1822.] woe unto him! the child of this sad earth, who, in a troubled world, unjust and blind, bears genius--treasure of celestial birth, within his solitary soul enshrined. woe unto him! for envy's pangs impure, like the undying vultures', will be driven into his noble heart, that must endure pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven, suffer prometheus' doom, who ravished fire from heaven. still though his destiny on earth may be grief and injustice; who would not endure with joyful calm, each proffered agony; could he the prize of genius thus ensure? what mortal feeling kindled in his soul that clear celestial flame, so pure and high, o'er which nor time nor death can have control, would in inglorious pleasures basely fly from sufferings whose reward is immortality? no! though the clamors of the envious crowd pursue the son of genius, he will rise from the dull clod, borne by an effort proud beyond the reach of vulgar enmities. 'tis thus the eagle, with his pinions spread, reposing o'er the tempest, from that height sees the clouds reel and roll above our head, while he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight, more upward soars sublime in heaven's eternal light. mrs. torre hulme the girl of otaheite. _("o! dis-moi, tu veux fuir?")_ [bk. iv, vii., jan. 31, 1821.] forget? can i forget the scented breath of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear; the strange awaking from a dream of death, the sudden thrill to find thee coming near? our huts were desolate, and far away i heard thee calling me throughout the day, no one had seen thee pass, trembling i came. alas! can i forget? once i was beautiful; my maiden charms died with the grief that from my bosom fell. ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms! let there be no regrets and no farewell! here of thy mother sweet, where waters flow, here of thy fatherland we whispered low; here, music, praise, and prayer filled the glad summer air. can i forget? forget? my dear old home must i forget? and wander forth and hear my people weep, far from the woods where, when the sun has set, fearless but weary to thy arms i creep; far from lush flow'rets and the palm-tree's moan i could not live. here let me rest alone! go! i must follow nigh, with thee i'm doomed to die, never forget! clement scott nero's incendiary song. _("amis! ennui nous tue.")_ [bk. iv. xv., march, 1825.] aweary unto death, my friends, a mood by wise abhorred, come to the novel feast i spread, thrice-consul, nero, lord, the caesar, master of the world, and eke of harmony, who plays the harp of many strings, a chief of minstrelsy. my joyful call should instantly bring all who love me most,- for ne'er were seen such arch delights from greek or roman host; nor at the free, control-less jousts, where, spite of cynic vaunts, austere but lenient seneca no "ercles" bumper daunts; nor where upon the tiber floats aglae in galley gay, 'neath asian tent of brilliant stripes, in gorgeous array; nor when to lutes and tambourines the wealthy prefect flings a score of slaves, their fetters wreathed, to feed grim, greedy things. i vow to show ye rome aflame, the whole town in a mass; upon this tower we'll take our stand to watch the 'wildered pass; how paltry fights of men and beasts! here be my combatants,- the seven hills my circus form, and fiends shall lead the dance. this is more meet for him who rules to drive away his stress- he, being god, should lightnings hurl and make a wilderness- but, haste! for night is darkling--soon, the festival it brings; already see the hydra show its tongues and sombre wings, and mark upon a shrinking prey the rush of kindling breaths; they tap and sap the threatened walls, and bear uncounted deaths; and 'neath caresses scorching hot the palaces decay- oh, that i, too, could thus caress, and burn, and blight, and slay! hark to the hubbub! scent the fumes! are those real men or ghosts? the stillness spreads of death abroad--down come the temple posts, their molten bronze is coursing fast and joins with silver waves to leap with hiss of thousand snakes where tiber writhes and raves. all's lost! in jasper, marble, gold, the statues totter--crash! spite of the names divine engraved, they are but dust and ash. the victor-scourge sweeps swollen on, whilst north winds sound the horn to goad the flies of fire yet beyond the flight forlorn. proud capital! farewell for e'er! these flames nought can subdue- the aqueduct of sylla gleams, a bridge o'er hellish brew. 'tis nero's whim! how good to see rome brought the lowest down; yet, queen of all the earth, give thanks for such a splendrous crown! when i was young, the sybils pledged eternal rule to thee; that time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent knee. ha! ha! how brief indeed the space ere this "immortal star" shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanished--oh, how far! how lovely conflagrations look when night is utter dark! the youth who fired ephesus' fane falls low beneath my mark. the pangs of people--when i sport, what matters?--see them whirl about, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl. take from my brow this poor rose-crown--the flames have made it pine; if blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with cretan wine! i like not overmuch that red--good taste says "gild a crime?" "to stifle shrieks by drinking-songs" is--thanks! a hint sublime! i punish rome, i am avenged; did she not offer prayers erst unto jove, late unto christ?--to e'en a jew, she dares! now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them all; alone i rest--except this pile, i leave no single hall. yet i destroy to build anew, and rome shall fairer shine- but out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought me not divine. the stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all complete- and, slaves, bring in fresh roses--what odor is more sweet? h.l. williams regret. _("oui, le bonheur bien vite a passé.")_ [bk. v. ii., february, 1821.] yes, happiness hath left me soon behind! alas! we all pursue its steps! and when we've sunk to rest within its arms entwined, like the phoenician virgin, wake, and find ourselves alone again. then, through the distant future's boundless space, we seek the lost companion of our days: "return, return!" we cry, and lo, apace pleasure appears! but not to fill the place of that we mourn always. i, should unhallowed pleasure woo me now, will to the wanton sorc'ress say, "begone! respect the cypress on my mournful brow, lost happiness hath left regret--but _thou_ leavest remorse, alone." yet, haply lest i check the mounting fire, o friends, that in your revelry appears! with you i'll breathe the air which ye respire, and, smiling, hide my melancholy lyre when it is wet with tears. each in his secret heart perchance doth own some fond regret 'neath passing smiles concealed;- sufferers alike together and alone are we; with many a grief to others known, how many unrevealed! alas! for natural tears and simple pains, for tender recollections, cherished long, for guileless griefs, which no compunction stains, we blush; as if we wore these earthly chains only for sport and song! yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace: in vain i strove their parting to delay; brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space, like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face lightens, and fades away. _fraser's magazine_ the morning of life. _("le voile du matin.")_ [bk. v. viii., april, 1822.] the mist of the morning is torn by the peaks, old towers gleam white in the ray, and already the glory so joyously seeks the lark that's saluting the day. then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair, though, were you swept hence in the night, from your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare at the sun rising newly as bright. but out of earth's trammels your soul would have flown where glitters eternity's stream, and you shall have waked 'midst pure glories unknown, as sunshine disperses a dream. beloved name. _("le parfum d'un lis.")_ [bk. v. xiii.] the lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light, the latest murmur of departing day, fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight, the mystic farewell of each hour at flight, the kiss which beauty grants with coy delay,- the sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow as trophy to the proud, triumphant sun; the thrilling accent of a voice we know, the love-enthralled maiden's secret vow, an infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run,- the chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh, which erst inspired the fabled memnon's frame,- the melodies that, hummed, so trembling die,- the sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie, have naught of sweetness that can match her name! low be its utterance, like a prayer divine, yet in each warbled song be heard the sound; be it the light in darksome fanes to shine, the sacred word which at some hidden shrine, the selfsame voice forever makes resound! o friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame, my muse, bewildered in her circlings wide, with names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim, shall dare to blend the _one_, the purer name, which love a treasure in my breast doth hide,- must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing, be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear; to solemn harmonies attuned the string, as, music show'ring from his viewless wing, on heavenly airs some angel hovered near. caroline bowles (mrs. southey) the portrait of a child. _("oui, ce front, ce sourire.")_ [bk. v. xxii., november, 1825.] that brow, that smile, that cheek so fair, beseem my child, who weeps and plays: a heavenly spirit guards her ways, from whom she stole that mixture rare. through all her features shining mild, the poet sees an angel there, the father sees a child. and by their flame so pure and bright, we see how lately those sweet eyes have wandered down from paradise, and still are lingering in its light. all earthly things are but a shade through which she looks at things above, and sees the holy mother-maid, athwart her mother's glance of love. she seems celestial songs to hear, and virgin souls are whispering near. till by her radiant smile deceived, i say, "young angel, lately given, when was thy martyrdom achieved? and what name lost thou bear in heaven?" _dublin university magazine_. ballades.--1823-28. the grandmother _("dors-tu? mère de notre mère.")_ [iii., 1823.] "to die--to sleep."--shakespeare. still asleep! we have been since the noon thus alone. oh, the hours we have ceased to number! wake, grandmother!--speechless say why thou art grown. then, thy lips are so cold!--the madonna of stone is like thee in thy holy slumber. we have watched thee in sleep, we have watched thee at prayer, but what can now betide thee? like thy hours of repose all thy orisons were, and thy lips would still murmur a blessing whene'er thy children stood beside thee. now thine eye is unclosed, and thy forehead is bent o'er the hearth, where ashes smoulder; and behold, the watch-lamp will be speedily spent. art thou vexed? have we done aught amiss? oh, relent! but--parent, thy hands grow colder! say, with ours wilt thou let us rekindle in thine the glow that has departed? wilt thou sing us some song of the days of lang syne? wilt thou tell us some tale, from those volumes divine, of the brave and noble-hearted? of the dragon who, crouching in forest green glen, lies in wait for the unwary- of the maid who was freed by her knight from the den of the ogre, whose club was uplifted, but then turned aside by the wand of a fairy? wilt thou teach us spell-words that protect from all harm, and thoughts of evil banish? what goblins the sign of the cross may disarm? what saint it is good to invoke? and what charm can make the demon vanish? or unfold to our gaze thy most wonderful book, so feared by hell and satan; at its hermits and martyrs in gold let us look, at the virgins, and bishops with pastoral crook, and the hymns and the prayers in latin. oft with legends of angels, who watch o'er the young, thy voice was wont to gladden; have thy lips yet no language--no wisdom thy tongue? oh, see! the light wavers, and sinking, bath flung on the wall forms that sadden. wake! awake! evil spirits perhaps may presume to haunt thy holy dwelling; pale ghosts are, perhaps, stealing into the room- oh, would that the lamp were relit! with the gloom these fearful thoughts dispelling. thou hast told us our parents lie sleeping beneath the grass, in a churchyard lonely: now, thine eyes have no motion, thy mouth has no breath, and thy limbs are all rigid! oh, say, _is this death_, or thy prayer or thy slumber only? envoy. sad vigil they kept by that grandmother's chair, kind angels hovered o'er them- and the dead-bell was tolled in the hamlet--and there, on the following eve, knelt that innocent pair, with the missal-book before them. "father prout" (frank s. mahony). the giant in glee. _("ho, guerriers! je suis né dans le pays des gaules.")_ [v., march 11, 1825.] ho, warriors! i was reared in the land of the gauls; o'er the rhine my ancestors came bounding like balls of the snow at the pole, where, a babe, i was bathed ere in bear and in walrus-skin i was enswathed. then my father was strong, whom the years lowly bow,- a bison could wallow in the grooves of his brow. he is weak, very old--he can scarcely uptear a young pine-tree for staff since his legs cease to bear; but here's to replace him!--i can toy with his axe; as i sit on the hill my feet swing in the flax, and my knee caps the boulders and troubles the trees. how they shiver, yea, quake if i happen to sneeze! i was still but a springald when, cleaving the alps, i brushed snowy periwigs off granitic scalps, and my head, o'er the pinnacles, stopped the fleet clouds, where i captured the eagles and caged them by crowds. there were tempests! i blew them back into their source! and put out their lightnings! more than once in a course, through the ocean i went wading after the whale, and stirred up the bottom as did never a gale. fond of rambling, i hunted the shark 'long the beach, and no osprey in ether soared out of my reach; and the bear that i pinched 'twixt my finger and thumb, like the lynx and the wolf, perished harmless and dumb. but these pleasures of childhood have lost all their zest; it is warfare and carnage that now i love best: the sounds that i wish to awaken and hear are the cheers raised by courage, the shrieks due to fear; when the riot of flames, ruin, smoke, steel and blood, announces an army rolls along as a flood, which i follow, to harry the clamorous ranks, sharp-goading the laggards and pressing the flanks, till, a thresher 'mid ripest of corn, up i stand with an oak for a flail in my unflagging hand. rise the groans! rise the screams! on my feet fall vain tears as the roar of my laughter redoubles their fears. i am naked. at armor of steel i should joke- true, i'm helmed--a brass pot you could draw with ten yoke. i look for no ladder to invade the king's hall- i stride o'er the ramparts, and down the walls fall, till choked are the ditches with the stones, dead and quick, whilst the flagstaff i use 'midst my teeth as a pick. oh, when cometh my turn to succumb like my prey, may brave men my body snatch away from th' array of the crows--may they heap on the rocks till they loom like a mountain, befitting a colossus' tomb! _foreign quarterly review (adapted)_ the cymbaleer's bride. _("monseigneur le duc de bretagne.")_ [vi., october, 1825.] my lord the duke of brittany has summoned his barons bold- their names make a fearful litany! among them you will not meet any but men of giant mould. proud earls, who dwell in donjon keep, and steel-clad knight and peer, whose forts are girt with a moat cut deep- but none excel in soldiership my own loved cymbaleer. clashing his cymbals, forth he went, with a bold and gallant bearing; sure for a captain he was meant, to judge his pride with courage blent, and the cloth of gold he's wearing. but in my soul since then i feel a fear in secret creeping; and to my patron saint i kneel, that she may recommend his weal to his guardian-angel's keeping. i've begged our abbot bernardine his prayers not to relax; and to procure him aid divine i've burnt upon saint gilda's shrine three pounds of virgin wax. our lady of loretto knows the pilgrimage i've vowed: "to wear the scallop i propose, if health and safety from the foes my lover be allowed." no letter (fond affection's gage!) from him could i require, the pain of absence to assuage- a vassal-maid can have no page, a liegeman has no squire. this day will witness, with the duke's, my cymbaleer's return: gladness and pride beam in my looks, delay my heart impatient brooks, all meaner thoughts i spurn. back from the battlefield elate his banner brings each peer; come, let us see, at the ancient gate, the martial triumph pass in state- with the princes my cymbaleer. we'll have from the rampart walls a glance of the air his steed assumes; his proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance, and on his head unceasing dance, in a gorgeous tuft, red plumes! be quick, my sisters! dress in haste! come, see him bear the bell, with laurels decked, with true love graced, while in his bold hands, fitly placed, the bounding cymbals swell! mark well the mantle that he'll wear, embroidered by his bride! admire his burnished helmet's glare, o'ershadowed by the dark horsehair that waves in jet folds wide! the gypsy (spiteful wench!) foretold, with a voice like a viper hissing. (though i had crossed her palm with gold), that from the ranks a spirit bold would be to-day found missing. but i have prayed so much, i trust her words may prove untrue; though in a tomb the hag accurst muttered: "prepare thee for the worst!" whilst the lamp burnt ghastly blue. my joy her spells shall not prevent. hark! i can hear the drums! and ladies fair from silken tent peep forth, and every eye is bent on the cavalcade that comes! pikemen, dividing on both flanks, open the pageantry; loud, as they tread, their armor clanks, and silk-robed barons lead the ranks- the pink of gallantry! in scarfs of gold the priests admire; the heralds on white steeds; armorial pride decks their attire, worn in remembrance of some sire famed for heroic deeds. feared by the paynim's dark divan, the templars next advance; then the tall halberds of lausanne, foremost to stand in battle van against the foes of france. now hail the duke, with radiant brow, girt with his cavaliers; round his triumphant banner bow those of his foe. look, sisters, now! here come the cymbaleers! she spoke--with searching eye surveyed their ranks--then, pale, aghast, sunk in the crowd! death came in aid- 'twas mercy to that loving maid- _the cymbaleers had passed!_ "father prout" (frank s. mahony) battle of the norsemen and the gaels. _("accourez tous, oiseaux de proie!")_ [vii., september, 1825.] ho! hither flock, ye fowls of prey! ye wolves of war, make no delay! for foemen 'neath our blades shall fall ere night may veil with purple pall. the evening psalms are nearly o'er, and priests who follow in our train have promised us the final gain, and filled with faith our valiant corps. let orphans weep, and widows brood! to-morrow we shall wash the blood off saw-gapped sword and lances bent, so, close the ranks and fire the tent! and chill yon coward cavalcade with brazen bugles blaring loud, e'en though our chargers' neighing proud already has the host dismayed. spur, horsemen, spur! the charge resounds! on gaelic spear the northman bounds! through helmet plumes the arrows flit, and plated breasts the pikeheads split. the double-axe fells human oaks, and like the thistles in the field see bristling up (where none must yield!) the points hewn off by sweeping strokes! we, heroes all, our wounds disdain; dismounted now, our horses slain, yet we advance--more courage show, though stricken, seek to overthrow the victor-knights who tread in mud the writhing slaves who bite the heel, while on caparisons of steel the maces thunder--cudgels thud! should daggers fail hide-coats to shred, seize each your man and hug him dead! who falls unslain will only make a mouthful to the wolves who slake their month-whet thirst. no captives, none! we die or win! but should we die, the lopped-off hand will wave on high the broken brand to hail the sun! madelaine. _("ecoute-moi, madeline.")_ [ix., september, 1825.] list to me, o madelaine! now the snows have left the plain, which they warmly cloaked. come into the forest groves, where the notes that echo loves are from horns evoked. come! where springtide, madelaine, brings a sultry breath from spain, giving buds their hue; and, last night, to glad your eye, laid the floral marquetry, red and gold and blue. would i were, o madelaine, as the lamb whose wool you train through your tender hands. would i were the bird that whirls round, and comes to peck your curls, happy in such bands. were i e'en, o madelaine, hermit whom the herd disdain in his pious cell, when your purest lips unfold sins which might to all be told, as to him you tell. would i were, o madelaine, moth that murmurs 'gainst your pane, peering at your rest, as, so like its woolly wing, ceasing scarce its fluttering, heaves and sinks your breast. if you seek it, madelaine, you may wish, and not in vain, for a serving host, and your splendid hall of state shall be envied by the great, o'er the jew-king's boast. if you name it, madelaine, round your head no more you'll train simple marguerites, no! the coronet of peers, whom the queen herself oft fears, and the monarch greets. if you wish, o madelaine! where you gaze you long shall reign- for i'm ruler here! i'm the lord who asks your hand if you do not bid me stand loving shepherd here! the fay and the peri. _("où vas-tu donc, jeune âme.")_ [xv.] the peri. beautiful spirit, come with me over the blue enchanted sea: morn and evening thou canst play in my garden, where the breeze warbles through the fruity trees; no shadow falls upon the day: there thy mother's arms await her cherished infant at the gate. of peris i the loveliest far- my sisters, near the morning star, in ever youthful bloom abide; but pale their lustre by my side- a silken turban wreathes my head, rubies on my arms are spread, while sailing slowly through the sky, by the uplooker's dazzled eye are seen my wings of purple hue, glittering with elysian dew. whiter than a far-off sail my form of beauty glows, fair as on a summer night dawns the sleep star's gentle light; and fragrant as the early rose that scents the green arabian vale, soothing the pilgrim as he goes. the fay. beautiful infant (said the fay), in the region of the sun i dwell, where in a rich array the clouds encircle the king of day, his radiant journey done. my wings, pure golden, of radiant sheen (painted as amorous poet's strain), glimmer at night, when meadows green sparkle with the perfumed rain while the sun's gone to come again. and clear my hand, as stream that flows; and sweet my breath as air of may; and o'er my ivory shoulders stray locks of sunshine;--tunes still play from my odorous lips of rose. follow, follow! i have caves of pearl beneath the azure waves, and tents all woven pleasantly in verdant glades of faëry. come, belovèd child, with me, and i will bear thee to the bowers where clouds are painted o'er like flowers, and pour into thy charmed ear songs a mortal may not hear; harmonies so sweet and ripe as no inspired shepherd's pipe e'er breathed into arcadian glen, far from the busy haunts of men. the peri. my home is afar in the bright orient, where the sun, like a king, in his orange tent, reigneth for ever in gorgeous pride- and wafting thee, princess of rich countree, to the soft flute's lush melody, my golden vessel will gently glide, kindling the water 'long the side. vast cities are mine of power and delight, lahore laid in lilies, golconda, cashmere; and ispahan, dear to the pilgrim's sight, and bagdad, whose towers to heaven uprear; alep, that pours on the startled ear, from its restless masts the gathering roar, as of ocean hamm'ring at night on the shore. mysore is a queen on her stately throne, thy white domes, medina, gleam on the eye,- thy radiant kiosques with their arrowy spires, shooting afar their golden fires into the flashing sky,- like a forest of spears that startle the gaze of the enemy with the vivid blaze. come there, beautiful child, with me, come to the arcades of araby, to the land of the date and the purple vine, where pleasure her rosy wreaths doth twine, and gladness shall be alway thine; singing at sunset next thy bed, strewing flowers under thy head. beneath a verdant roof of leaves, arching a flow'ry carpet o'er, thou mayst list to lutes on summer eves their lays of rustic freshness pour, while upon the grassy floor light footsteps, in the hour of calm, ruffle the shadow of the palm. the fay. come to the radiant homes of the blest, where meadows like fountain in light are drest, and the grottoes of verdure never decay, and the glow of the august dies not away. come where the autumn winds never can sweep, and the streams of the woodland steep thee in sleep, like a fond sister charming the eyes of a brother, or a little lass lulled on the breast of her mother. beautiful! beautiful! hasten to me! colored with crimson thy wings shall be; flowers that fade not thy forehead shall twine, over thee sunlight that sets not shall shine. the infant listened to the strain, now here, now there, its thoughts were driven- but the fay and the peri waited in vain, the soul soared above such a sensual gain- the child rose to heaven. _asiatic journal_ les orientales.--1829. the scourge of heaven. _("là, voyez-vous passer, la nuée.")_ [i., november, 1828.] i. hast seen it pass, that cloud of darkest rim? now red and glorious, and now gray and dim, now sad as summer, barren in its heat? one seems to see at once rush through the night the smoke and turmoil from a burning site of some great town in fiery grasp complete. whence comes it? from the sea, the hills, the sky? is it the flaming chariot from on high which demons to some planet seem to bring? oh, horror! from its wondrous centre, lo! a furious stream of lightning seems to flow like a long snake uncoiling its fell ring. ii. the sea! naught but the sea! waves on all sides! vainly the sea-bird would outstrip these tides! naught but an endless ebb and flow! wave upon wave advancing, then controlled beneath the depths a stream the eyes behold rolling in the involved abyss below! whilst here and there great fishes in the spray their silvery fins beneath the sun display, or their blue tails lash up from out the surge, like to a flock the sea its fleece doth fling; the horizon's edge bound by a brazen ring; waters and sky in mutual azure merge. "am i to dry these seas?" exclaimed the cloud. "no!" it went onward 'neath the breath of god. iii. green hills, which round a limpid bay reflected, bask in the clear wave! the javelin and its buffalo prey, the laughter and the joyous stave! the tent, the manger! these describe a hunting and a fishing tribe free as the air--their arrows fly swifter than lightning through the sky! by them is breathed the purest air, where'er their wanderings may chance! children and maidens young and fair, and warriors circling in the dance! upon the beach, around the fire, now quenched by wind, now burning higher, like spirits which our dreams inspire to hover o'er our trance. virgins, with skins of ebony, beauteous as evening skies, laughed as their forms they dimly see in metal mirrors rise; others, as joyously as they, were drawing for their food by day, with jet-black hands, white camels' whey, camels with docile eyes. both men and women, bare, plunged in the briny bay. who knows them? whence they were? where passed they yesterday? shrill sounds were hovering o'er, mixed with the ocean's roar, of cymbals from the shore, and whinnying courser's neigh. "is't there?" one moment asked the cloudy mass; "is't there?" an unknown utterance answered: "pass!" iv. whitened with grain see egypt's lengthened plains, far as the eyesight farthest space contains, like a rich carpet spread their varied hues. the cold sea north, southwards the burying sand dispute o'er egypt--while the smiling land still mockingly their empire does refuse. three marble triangles seem to pierce the sky, and hide their basements from the curious eye. mountains--with waves of ashes covered o'er! in graduated blocks of six feet square from golden base to top, from earth to air their ever heightening monstrous steps they bore. no scorching blast could daunt the sleepless ken of roseate sphinx, and god of marble green, which stood as guardians o'er the sacred ground. for a great port steered vessels huge and fleet, a giant city bathed her marble feet in the bright waters round. one heard the dread simoom in distance roar, whilst the crushed shell upon the pebbly shore crackled beneath the crocodile's huge coil. westwards, like tiger's skin, each separate isle spotted the surface of the yellow nile; gray obelisks shot upwards from the soil. the star-king set. the sea, it seemed to hold in the calm mirror this live globe of gold, this world, the soul and torchbearer of our own. in the red sky, and in the purple streak, like friendly kings who would each other seek, two meeting suns were shown. "shall i not stop?" exclaimed the impatient cloud. "seek!" trembling tabor heard the voice of god. v. sand, sand, and still more sand! the desert! fearful land! teeming with monsters dread and plagues on every hand! here in an endless flow, sandhills of golden glow, where'er the tempests blow, like a great flood are spread. sometimes the sacred spot hears human sounds profane, when as from ophir or from memphre stretches the caravan. from far the eyes, its trail along the burning shale bending its wavering tail, like a mottled serpent scan. these deserts are of god! his are the bounds alone, here, where no feet have trod, to him its centre known! and from this smoking sea veiled in obscurity, the foam one seems to see in fiery ashes thrown. "shall desert change to lake?" cried out the cloud. "still further!" from heaven's depths sounded that voice aloud. vi. like tumbled waves, which a huge rock surround; like heaps of ruined towers which strew the ground, see babel now deserted and dismayed! huge witness to the folly of mankind; four distant mountains when the moonlight shined seem covered with its shade. o'er miles and miles the shattered ruins spread beneath its base, from captive tempests bred, the air seemed filled with harmony strange and dire; while swarmed around the entire human race a future babel, on the world's whole space fixed its eternal spire. up to the zenith rose its lengthening stair, while each great granite mountain lent a share to form a stepping base; height upon height repeated seemed to rise, for pyramid on pyramid the strainèd eyes saw take their ceaseless place. through yawning walls huge elephants stalked by; under dark pillars rose a forestry, pillars by madness multiplied; as round some giant hive, all day and night, huge vultures, and red eagles' wheeling flight was through each porch descried. "must i complete it?" said the angered cloud. "on still!" "lord, whither?" groaned it, deep not loud. vii. two cities, strange, unknown in history's page, up to the clouds seemed scaling, stage by stage, noiseless their streets; their sleeping inmates lie, their gods, their chariots, in obscurity! like sisters sleeping 'neath the same moonlight, o'er their twin towers crept the shades of night, whilst scarce distinguished in the black profound, stairs, aqueducts, great pillars, gleamed around, and ruined capitals: then was seen a group of granite elephants 'neath a dome to stoop, shapeless, giant forms to view arise, monsters around, the spawn of hideous ties! then hanging gardens, with flowers and galleries: o'er vast fountains bending grew ebon-trees; temples, where seated on their rich tiled thrones, bull-headed idols shone in jasper stones; vast halls, spanned by one block, where watch and stare each upon each, with straight and moveless glare, colossal heads in circles; the eye sees great gods of bronze, their hands upon their knees. sight seemed confounded, and to have lost its powers, 'midst bridges, aqueducts, arches, and round towers, whilst unknown shapes fill up the devious views formed by these palaces and avenues. like capes, the lengthening shadows seem to rise of these dark buildings, pointed to the skies, immense entanglement in shroud of gloom! the stars which gleamed in the empyrean dome, under the thousand arches in heaven's space shone as through meshes of the blackest lace. cities of hell, with foul desires demented, and monstrous pleasures, hour by hour invented! each roof and home some monstrous mystery bore! which through the world spread like a twofold sore! yet all things slept, and scarce some pale late light flitted along the streets through the still night, lamps of debauch, forgotten and alone, the feast's lost fires left there to flicker on; the walls' large angles clove the light-lengthening shades 'neath the white moon, or on some pool's face played. perchance one heard, faint in the plain beneath, the kiss suppressed, the mingling of the breath; and the two sister cities, tired of heat, in love's embrace lay down in murmurs sweet! whilst sighing winds the scent of sycamore from sodom to gomorrah softly bore! then over all spread out the blackened cloud, "'tis here!" the voice on high exclaimed aloud. viii. from a cavern wide in the rent cloud's side, in sulphurous showers the red flame pours. the palaces fall in the lurid light, which casts a red pall o'er their facades white! oh, sodom! gomorrah! what a dome of horror rests now on your walls! on you the cloud falls, nation perverse! on your fated heads, from its fell jaws, a curse its lightning fierce spreads! the people awaken which godlessly slept; their palaces shaken, their offences unwept! their rolling cars all meet and crash in the street; and the crowds, for a pall, find flames round their feet! numberless dead, round these high towers spread, still sleep in the shade by their rugged heights made; colossi of rocks in ill-steadied blocks! so hang on a wall black ants, like a pall! to escape is in vain from this horrible rain! alas! all things die; in the lightning's red flash the bridges all crash; 'neath the tiles the flame creeps; from the fire-struck steeps falls on the pavements below, all lurid in glow, rolling down from on high! beneath every spark, the red, tyrannous fire mounts up in the dark ever redder and higher; more swiftly than steed uncontrolled, see it pass! horrid idols all twist, by the crumbling flame kissed in their infamous dread, shrivelled members of brass! it grows angry, flows on, silver towers fall down unforeseen, like a dream in its green and red stream, which lights up the walls ere one crashes and falls, like the changeable scale of a lizard's bright mail. agate, porphyry, cracks and is melted to wax! bend low to their doom these stones of the tomb! e'en the great marble giant called nabo, sways pliant like a tree; whilst the flare seemed each column to scorch as it blazed like a torch round and round in the air. the magi, in vain, from the heights to the plain their gods' images carry in white tunic: they quake- no idol can make the blue sulphur tarry; the temple e'en where they meet, swept under their feet in the folds of its sheet! turns a palace to coal! whence the straitened cries roll from its terrified flock; with incendiary grips it loosens a block, which smokes and then slips from its place by the shock; to the surface first sheers, then melts, disappears, like the glacier, the rock! the high priest, full of years, on the burnt site appears, whence the others have fled. lo! his tiara's caught fire as the furnace burns higher, and pale, full of dread, see, the hand he would raise to tear his crown from the blaze is flaming instead! men, women, in crowds hurry on--the fire shrouds and blinds all their eyes as, besieging each gate of these cities of fate to the conscience-struck crowd, in each fiery cloud, hell appears in the skies! ix. men say that _then_, to see his foe's sad fall as some old prisoner clings to his prison wall, babel, accomplice of their guilt, was seen o'er the far hills to gaze with vision keen! and as was worked this dispensation strange, a wondrous noise filled the world's startled range; reached the dull hearing that deep, direful sound of their sad tribe who live below the ground. x. 'gainst this pitiless flame who condemned could prevail? who these walls, burnt and calcined, could venture to scale? yet their vile hands they sought to uplift, yet they cared still to ask from what god, by what law? in their last sad embrace, 'midst their honor and awe, of this mighty volcano the drift. 'neath great slabs of marble they hid them in vain, 'gainst this everliving fire, god's own flaming rain! 'tis the rash whom god seeks out the first; they call on their gods, who were deaf to their cries, for the punishing flame caused their cold granite eyes in tears of hot lava to burst! thus away in the whirlwind did everything pass, the man and the city, the soil and its grass! god burnt this sad, sterile champaign; naught living was left of this people destroyed, and the unknown wind which blew over the void, each mountain changed into a plain. xi. the palm-tree that grows on the rock to this day, feels its leaf growing yellow, its slight stem decay, in the blasting and ponderous air; these towns are no more! but to mirror their past, o'er their embers a cold lake spread far and spread fast, with smoke like a furnace, lies there! j.n. fazakerley pirates' song. _("nous emmenions en esclavage.")_ [viii., march, 1828.] we're bearing fivescore christian dogs to serve the cruel drivers: some are fair beauties gently born, and some rough coral-divers. we hardy skimmers of the sea are lucky in each sally, and, eighty strong, we send along the dreaded pirate galley. a nunnery was spied ashore, we lowered away the cutter, and, landing, seized the youngest nun ere she a cry could utter; beside the creek, deaf to our oars, she slumbered in green alley, as, eighty strong, we sent along the dreaded pirate galley. "be silent, darling, you must come- the wind is off shore blowing; you only change your prison dull for one that's splendid, glowing! his highness doats on milky cheeks, so do not make us dally"- we, eighty strong, who send along the dreaded pirate galley. she sought to flee back to her cell, and called us each a devil! we dare do aught becomes old scratch, but like a treatment civil, so, spite of buffet, prayers, and calls- too late her friends to rally- we, eighty strong, bore her along unto the pirate galley. the fairer for her tears profuse, as dews refresh the flower, she is well worth three purses full, and will adorn the bower- for vain her vow to pine and die thus torn from her dear valley: she reigns, and we still row along the dreaded pirate galley. the turkish captive. _("si je n'était captive.")_ [ix., july, 1828.] oh! were i not a captive, i should love this fair countree; those fields with maize abounding, this ever-plaintive sea: i'd love those stars unnumbered, if, passing in the shade, beneath our walls i saw not the spahi's sparkling blade. i am no tartar maiden that a blackamoor of price should tune my lute and hold to me my glass of sherbet-ice. far from these haunts of vices, in my dear countree, we with sweethearts in the even may chat and wander free. but still i love this climate, where never wintry breeze invades, with chilly murmur, these open lattices; where rain is warm in summer, and the insect glossy green, most like a living emerald, shines 'mid the leafy screen. with her chapelles fair smyrna- a gay princess is she! still, at her summons, round her unfading spring ye see. and, as in beauteous vases, bright groups of flowers repose, so, in her gulfs are lying her archipelagoes. i love these tall red turrets; these standards brave unrolled; and, like an infant's playthings, these houses decked with gold. i love forsooth these reveries, though sandstorms make me pant, voluptuously swaying upon an elephant. here in this fairy palace, full of such melodies, methinks i hear deep murmurs that in the deserts rise; soft mingling with the music the genii's voices pour, amid the air, unceasing, around us evermore. i love the burning odors this glowing region gives; and, round each gilded lattice, the trembling, wreathing leaves; and, 'neath the bending palm-tree, the gayly gushing spring; and on the snow-white minaret, the stork with snowier wing. i love on mossy couch to sing a spanish roundelay, and see my sweet companions around commingling gay,- a roving band, light-hearted, in frolicsome array,- who 'neath the screening parasols dance down the merry day. but more than all enchanting at night, it is to me, to sit, where winds are sighing, lone, musing by the sea; and, on its surface gazing, to mark the moon so fair, her silver fan outspreading, in trembling radiance there. w.d., _tait's edin. magazine_ moonlight on the bosphorus. _("la lune était sereine.")_ [x., september, 1828.] bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave; at the cool casement, to the evening breeze flung wide, leans the sultana, and delights to watch the tide, with surge of silvery sheen, yon sleeping islets lave. from her hand, as it falls, vibrates the light guitar. she listens--hark! that sound that echoes dull and low. is it the beat upon the archipelago of some long galley's oar, from scio bound afar? is it the cormorants, whose black wings, one by one, cut the blue wave that o'er them breaks in liquid pearls? is it some hovering sprite with whistling scream that hurls down to the deep from yon old tower a loosened stone? who thus disturbs the tide near the seraglio? 'tis no dark cormorants that on the ripple float, 'tis no dull plume of stone--no oars of turkish boat, with measured beat along the water creeping slow. 'tis heavy sacks, borne each by voiceless dusky slaves; and could you dare to sound the depths of yon dark tide, something like human form would stir within its side. bright shone the merry moonbeams dancing o'er the wave. john l. o'sullivan. the veil. _("qu'avez-vous, mes frères?")_ [xi., september, 18288.] "have you prayed tonight, desdemona?" the sister what has happened, my brothers? your spirit to-day some secret sorrow damps there's a cloud on your brow. what has happened? oh, say, for your eyeballs glare out with a sinister ray like the light of funeral lamps. and the blades of your poniards are half unsheathed in your belt--and ye frown on me! there's a woe untold, there's a pang unbreathed in your bosom, my brothers three! eldest brother. gulnara, make answer! hast thou, since the dawn, to the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn? the sister. as i came, oh, my brother! at noon--from the bath- as i came--it was noon, my lords- and your sister had then, as she constantly hath, drawn her veil close around her, aware that the path is beset by these foreign hordes. but the weight of the noonday's sultry hour near the mosque was so oppressive that--forgetting a moment the eye of the giaour- i yielded to th' heat excessive. second brother. gulnara, make answer! whom, then, hast thou seen, in a turban of white and a caftan of green? the sister. nay, _he_ might have been there; but i muflled me so, he could scarcely have seen my figure.- but why to your sister thus dark do you grow? what words to yourselves do you mutter thus low, of "blood" and "an intriguer"? oh! ye cannot of murder bring down the red guilt on your souls, my brothers, surely! though i fear--from the hands that are chafing the hilt, and the hints you give obscurely. third brother. gulnara, this evening when sank the red sun, didst thou mark how like blood in descending it shone? the sister. mercy! allah! have pity! oh, spare! see! i cling to your knees repenting! kind brothers, forgive me! for mercy, forbear! be appeased at the cry of a sister's despair, for our mother's sake relenting. o god! must i die? they are deaf to my cries! their sister's life-blood shedding; they have stabbed me each one--i faint--o'er my eyes a _veil of death_ is spreading! the brothers. gulnara, farewell! take _that_ veil; 'tis the gift of thy brothers--a veil thou wilt never lift! "father prout" (frank s. mahony). the favorite sultana. _("n'ai-je pas pour toi, belle juive.")_ [xii., oct. 27, 1828.] to please you, jewess, jewel! i have thinned my harem out! must every flirting of your fan presage a dying shout? grace for the damsels tender who have fear to hear your laugh, for seldom gladness gilds your lips but blood you mean to quaff. in jealousy so zealous, never was there woman worse; you'd have no roses but those grown above some buried corse. am i not pinioned firmly? why be angered if the door repulses fifty suing maids who vainly there implore? let them live on--to envy my own empress of the world, to whom all stamboul like a dog lies at the slippers curled. to you my heroes lower those scarred ensigns none have cowed; to you their turbans are depressed that elsewhere march so proud. to you bassora offers her respect, and trebizonde her carpets richly wrought, and spice and gems, of which you're fond. to you the cyprus temples dare not bar or close the doors; for you the mighty danube sends the choicest of its stores. fear you the grecian maidens, pallid lilies of the isles? or the scorching-eyed sand-rover from baalbec's massy piles? compared with yours, oh, daughter of king solomon the grand, what are round ebon bosoms, high brows from hellas' strand? you're neither blanched nor blackened, for your tint of olive's clear; yours are lips of ripest cherry, you are straight as arab spear. hence, launch no longer lightning on these paltry slaves of ours. why should your flow of tears be matched by their mean life-blood showers? think only of our banquets brought and served by charming girls, for beauties sultans must adorn as dagger-hilts the pearls. the pasha and the dervish. _("un jour ali passait.")_ [xiii, nov. 8, 1828.] ali came riding by--the highest head bent to the dust, o'ercharged with dread, whilst "god be praised!" all cried; but through the throng one dervish pressed, aged and bent, who dared arrest the pasha in his pride. "ali tepelini, light of all light, who hold'st the divan's upper seat by right, whose fame fame's trump hath burst- thou art the master of unnumbered hosts, shade of the sultan--yet he only boasts in thee a dog accurst! "an unseen tomb-torch flickers on thy path, whilst, as from vial full, thy spare-naught wrath splashes this trembling race: these are thy grass as thou their trenchant scythes cleaving their neck as 'twere a willow withe- their blood none can efface. "but ends thy tether! for janina makes a grave for thee where every turret quakes, and thou shalt drop below to where the spirits, to a tree enchained, will clutch thee, there to be 'mid them retained for all to-come in woe! "or if, by happy chance, thy soul might flee thy victims, after, thou shouldst surely see and hear thy crimes relate; streaked with the guileless gore drained from their veins, greater in number than the reigns on reigns thou hopedst for thy state. "this so will be! and neither fleet nor fort can stay or aid thee as the deathly port receives thy harried frame! though, like the cunning hebrew knave of old, to cheat the angel black, thou didst enfold in altered guise thy name." ali deemed anchorite or saint a pawn- the crater of his blunderbuss did yawn, sword, dagger hung at ease: but he had let the holy man revile, though clouds o'erswept his brow; then, with a smile, he tossed him his pelisse. the lost battle. _("allah! qui me rendra-")_ [xvi., may, 1828.] oh, allah! who will give me back my terrible array? my emirs and my cavalry that shook the earth to-day; my tent, my wide-extending camp, all dazzling to the sight, whose watchfires, kindled numberless beneath the brow of night, seemed oft unto the sentinel that watched the midnight hours, as heaven along the sombre hill had rained its stars in showers? where are my beys so gorgeous, in their light pelisses gay, and where my fierce timariot bands, so fearless in the fray; my dauntless khans, my spahis brave, swift thunderbolts of war; my sunburnt bedouins, trooping from the pyramids afar, who laughed to see the laboring hind stand terrified at gaze, and urged their desert horses on amid the ripening maize? these horses with their fiery eyes, their slight untiring feet, that flew along the fields of corn like grasshoppers so fleet- what! to behold again no more, loud charging o'er the plain, their squadrons, in the hostile shot diminished all in vain, burst grandly on the heavy squares, like clouds that bear the storms, enveloping in lightning fires the dark resisting swarms! oh! they are dead! their housings bright are trailed amid their gore; dark blood is on their manes and sides, all deeply clotted o'er; all vainly now the spur would strike these cold and rounded flanks, to wake them to their wonted speed amid the rapid ranks: here the bold riders red and stark upon the sands lie down, who in their friendly shadows slept throughout the halt at noon. oh, allah! who will give me back my terrible array? see where it straggles 'long the fields for leagues on leagues away, like riches from a spendthrift's hand flung prodigal to earth. lo! steed and rider;--tartar chiefs or of arabian birth, their turbans and their cruel course, their banners and their cries, seem now as if a troubled dream had passed before mine eyes- my valiant warriors and their steeds, thus doomed to fall and bleed! their voices rouse no echo now, their footsteps have no speed; they sleep, and have forgot at last the sabre and the bit- yon vale, with all the corpses heaped, seems one wide charnel-pit. long shall the evil omen rest upon this plain of dread- to-night, the taint of solemn blood; to-morrow, of the dead. alas! 'tis but a shadow now, that noble armament! how terribly they strove, and struck from morn to eve unspent, amid the fatal fiery ring, enamoured of the fight! now o'er the dim horizon sinks the peaceful pall of night: the brave have nobly done their work, and calmly sleep at last. the crows begin, and o'er the dead are gathering dark and fast; already through their feathers black they pass their eager beaks. forth from the forest's distant depth, from bald and barren peaks, they congregate in hungry flocks and rend their gory prey. woe to that flaunting army's pride, so vaunting yesterday! that formidable host, alas! is coldly nerveless now to drive the vulture from his gorge, or scare the carrion crow. were now that host again mine own, with banner broad unfurled, with it i would advance and win the empire of the world. monarchs to it should yield their realms and veil their haughty brows; my sister it should ever be, my lady and my spouse. oh! what will unrestoring death, that jealous tyrant lord, do with the brave departed souls that cannot swing a sword? why turned the balls aside from me? why struck no hostile hand my head within its turban green upon the ruddy sand? i stood all potent yesterday; my bravest captains three, all stirless in their tigered selle, magnificent to see, hailed as before my gilded tent rose flowing to the gales, shorn from the tameless desert steeds, three dark and tossing tails. but yesterday a hundred drums were heard when i went by; full forty agas turned their looks respectful on mine eye, and trembled with contracted brows within their hall of state. instead of heavy catapults, of slow unwieldy weight, i had bright cannons rolling on oak wheels in threatening tiers, and calm and steady by their sides marched english cannoniers. but yesterday, and i had towns, and castles strong and high, and greeks in thousands, for the base and merciless to buy. but yesterday, and arsenals and harems were my own; while now, defeated and proscribed, deserted and alone, i flee away, a fugitive, and of my former power, allah! i have not now at least one battlemented tower. and must he fly--the grand vizier! the pasha of three tails! o'er the horizon's bounding hills, where distant vision fails, all stealthily, with eyes on earth, and shrinking from the sight, as a nocturnal robber holds his dark and breathless flight, and thinks he sees the gibbet spread its arms in solemn wrath, in every tree that dimly throws its shadow on his path! thus, after his defeat, pale reschid speaks. among the dead we mourned a thousand greeks. lone from the field the pasha fled afar, and, musing, wiped his reeking scimitar; his two dead steeds upon the sands were flung, and on their sides their empty stirrups hung. w.d., _bentley's miscellany_, 1839. the greek boy. _("les turcs ont passés là.")_ [xviii., june 10, 1828.] all is a ruin where rage knew no bounds: chio is levelled, and loathed by the hounds, for shivered yest'reen was her lance; sulphurous vapors envenom the place where her true beauties of beauty's true race were lately linked close in the dance. dark is the desert, with one single soul; cerulean eyes! whence the burning tears roll in anguish of uttermost shame, under the shadow of one shrub of may, splashed still with ruddy drops, bent in decay where fiercely the hand of lust came. "soft and sweet urchin, still red with the lash of rein and of scabbard of wild kuzzilbash, what lack you for changing your sob- if not unto laughter beseeming a child- to utterance milder, though they have defiled the graves which they shrank not to rob? "would'st thou a trinket, a flower, or scarf, would'st thou have silver? i'm ready with half these sequins a-shine in the sun! still more have i money--if you'll but speak!" he spoke: and furious the cry of the greek, "oh, give me your dagger and gun!" zara, the bather _("sara, belle d'indolence.")_ [xix., august, 1828.] in a swinging hammock lying, lightly flying, zara, lovely indolent, o'er a fountain's crystal wave there to lave her young beauty--see her bent. as she leans, so sweet and soft, flitting oft, o'er the mirror to and fro, seems that airy floating bat, like a feather from some sea-gull's wing of snow. every time the frail boat laden with the maiden skims the water in its flight, starting from its trembling sheen, swift are seen a white foot and neck so white. as that lithe foot's timid tips quick she dips, passing, in the rippling pool, (blush, oh! snowiest ivory!) frolic, she laughs to feel the pleasant cool. here displayed, but half concealed- half revealed, each bright charm shall you behold, in her innocence emerging, as a-verging on the wave her hands grow cold. for no star howe'er divine has the shine of a maid's pure loveliness, frightened if a leaf but quivers as she shivers, veiled with naught but dripping trees. by the happy breezes fanned see her stand,- blushing like a living rose, on her bosom swelling high if a fly dare to seek a sweet repose. in those eyes which maiden pride fain would hide, mark how passion's lightnings sleep! and their glance is brighter far than the star brightest in heaven's bluest deep. o'er her limbs the glittering current in soft torrent rains adown the gentle girl, as if, drop by drop, should fall, one and all from her necklace every pearl. lengthening still the reckless pleasure at her leisure, care-free zara ever slow as the hammock floats and swings smiles and sings, to herself, so sweet and low. "oh, were i a capitana, or sultana, amber should be always mixt in my bath of jewelled stone, near my throne, griffins twain of gold betwixt. "then my hammock should be silk, white as milk; and, more soft than down of dove, velvet cushions where i sit should emit perfumes that inspire love. "then should i, no danger near, free from fear, revel in my garden's stream; nor amid the shadows deep dread the peep, of two dark eyes' kindling gleam. "he who thus would play the spy, on the die for such sight his head must throw; in his blood the sabre naked would be slakèd, of my slaves of ebon brow. "then my rich robes trailing show as i go, none to chide should be so bold; and upon my sandals fine how should shine rubies worked in cloth-of-gold!" fancying herself a queen, all unseen, thus vibrating in delight; in her indolent coquetting quite forgetting how the hours wing their flight. as she lists the showery tinkling of the sprinkling by her wanton curvets made; never pauses she to think of the brink where her wrapper white is laid. to the harvest-fields the while, in long file, speed her sisters' lively band, like a flock of birds in flight streaming light, dancing onward hand in hand. and they're singing, every one, as they run this the burden of their lay: "fie upon such idleness! not to dress earlier on harvest-day!" john l. o'sullivan. expectation. _("moune, écureuil.")_ [xx.] squirrel, mount yon oak so high, to its twig that next the sky bends and trembles as a flower! strain, o stork, thy pinion well,- from thy nest 'neath old church-bell, mount to yon tall citadel, and its tallest donjon tower! to your mountain, eagle old, mount, whose brow so white and cold, kisses the last ray of even! and, o thou that lov'st to mark morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark, mount, o mount, thou joyous lark- joyous lark, o mount to heaven! and now say, from topmost bough, towering shaft, and peak of snow, and heaven's arch--o, can you see one white plume that like a star, streams along the plain afar, and a steed that from the war bears my lover back to me? john l. o'sullivan. the lover's wish. _("si j'étais la feuille.")_ [xxii., september, 1828.] oh! were i the leaf that the wind of the west, his course through the forest uncaring; to sleep on the gale or the wave's placid breast in a pendulous cradle is bearing. all fresh with the morn's balmy kiss would i haste, as the dewdrops upon me were glancing; when aurora sets out on the roseate waste, and round her the breezes are dancing. on the pinions of air i would fly, i would rush thro' the glens and the valleys to quiver; past the mountain ravine, past the grove's dreamy hush, and the murmuring fall of the river. by the darkening hollow and bramble-bush lane, to catch the sweet breath of the roses; past the land would i speed, where the sand-driven plain 'neath the heat of the noonday reposes. past the rocks that uprear their tall forms to the sky, whence the storm-fiend his anger is pouring; past lakes that lie dead, tho' the tempest roll nigh, and the turbulent whirlwind be roaring. on, on would i fly, till a charm stopped my way, a charm that would lead to the bower; where the daughter of araby sings to the day, at the dawn and the vesper hour. then hovering down on her brow would i light, 'midst her golden tresses entwining; that gleam like the corn when the fields are bright, and the sunbeams upon it shining. a single frail gem on her beautiful head, i should sit in the golden glory; and prouder i'd be than the diadem spread round the brow of kings famous in story. v., _eton observer_. the sacking of the city. _("la flamme par ton ordre, o roi!")_ [xxiii., november, 1825.] thy will, o king, is done! lighting but to consume, the roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks; reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom, seemed they in joyous flight to dance about their wrecks. slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high, fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel; prostrate, the palaces, huge tombs of fire, lie, while gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel! died the pale mothers, and the virgins, from their arms, o caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight; with stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms, at our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight. lo! where the city lies mantled in pall of death; lo! where thy mighty hand hath passed, all things must bend! priests prayed, the sword estopped blaspheming breath, vainly their cheating book for shield did they extend. some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of christian-kind, to kiss thy sandall'd foot, o king, thy people kneel, and golden circlets to thy victor-ankle bind. john l. o'sullivan. noormahal the fair.[1] _("entre deux rocs d'un noir d'ébène.")_ [xxvii., november, 1828.] between two ebon rocks behold yon sombre den, where brambles bristle like the locks of wool between the horns of scapegoat banned by men! remote in ruddy fog still hear the tiger growl at the lion and stripèd dog that prowl with rusty throats to taunt and roar and howl; whilst other monsters fast the hissing basilisk; the hippopotamus so vast, and the boa with waking appetite made brisk! the orfrey showing tongue, the fly in stinging mood, the elephant that crushes strong and elastic bamboos an the scorpion's brood; and the men of the trees with their families fierce, till there is not one scorching breeze but brings here its venom--its horror to pierce- yet, rather there be lone, 'mid all those horrors there, than hear the sickly honeyed tone and see the swimming eyes of noormahal the fair! [footnote 1: noormahal (arabic) the light of the house; some of the orientals deem fair hair and complexion a beauty.] the djinns. _("murs, ville et port.")_ [xxviii., aug. 28, 1828.] town, tower, shore, deep, where lower cliff's steep; waves gray, where play winds gay, all sleep. hark! a sound, far and slight, breathes around on the night high and higher, nigh and nigher, like a fire, roaring, bright. now, on 'tis sweeping with rattling beat, like dwarf imp leaping in gallop fleet he flies, he prances, in frolic fancies, on wave-crest dances with pattering feet. hark, the rising swell, with each new burst! like the tolling bell of a convent curst; like the billowy roar on a storm-lashed shore,- now hushed, but once more maddening to its worst. o god! the deadly sound of the djinn's fearful cry! quick, 'neath the spiral round of the deep staircase fly! see, see our lamplight fade! and of the balustrade mounts, mounts the circling shade up to the ceiling high! 'tis the djinns' wild streaming swarm whistling in their tempest flight; snap the tall yews 'neath the storm, like a pine flame crackling bright. swift though heavy, lo! their crowd through the heavens rushing loud like a livid thunder-cloud with its bolt of fiery might! ho! they are on us, close without! shut tight the shelter where we lie! with hideous din the monster rout, dragon and vampire, fill the sky! the loosened rafter overhead trembles and bends like quivering reed; shakes the old door with shuddering dread, as from its rusty hinge 'twould fly! wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek! the horrid troop before the tempest tossed- o heaven!--descends my lowly roof to seek: bends the strong wall beneath the furious host. totters the house as though, like dry leaf shorn from autumn bough and on the mad blast borne, up from its deep foundations it were torn to join the stormy whirl. ah! all is lost! o prophet! if thy hand but now save from these hellish things, a pilgrim at thy shrine i'll bow, laden with pious offerings. bid their hot breath its fiery rain stream on the faithful's door in vain; vainly upon my blackened pane grate the fierce claws of their dark wings! they have passed!--and their wild legion cease to thunder at my door; fleeting through night's rayless region, hither they return no more. clanking chains and sounds of woe fill the forests as they go; and the tall oaks cower low, bent their flaming light before. on! on! the storm of wings bears far the fiery fear, till scarce the breeze now brings dim murmurings to the ear; like locusts' humming hail, or thrash of tiny flail plied by the fitful gale on some old roof-tree sere. fainter now are borne feeble mutterings still; as when arab horn swells its magic peal, shoreward o'er the deep fairy voices sweep, and the infant's sleep golden visions fill. each deadly djinn, dark child of fright, of death and sin, speeds in wild flight. hark, the dull moan, like the deep tone of ocean's groan, afar, by night! more and more fades it slow, as on shore ripples flow,- as the plaint far and faint of a saint murmured low. hark! hist! around, i list! the bounds of space all trace efface of sound. john l. o'sullivan. the obdurate beauty. _("a juana la grenadine!")_ [xxix., october, 1843.] to juana ever gay, sultan achmet spoke one day "lo, the realms that kneel to own homage to my sword and crown all i'd freely cast away, maiden dear, for thee alone." "be a christian, noble king! for it were a grievous thing: love to seek and find too well in the arms of infidel. spain with cry of shame would ring, if from honor faithful fell." "by these pearls whose spotless chain, oh, my gentle sovereign, clasps thy neck of ivory, aught thou askest i will be, if that necklace pure of stain thou wilt give for rosary." john l. o'sullivan. don rodrigo. a moorish ballad. _("don roderique est à la chasse.")_ [xxx., may, 1828.] unto the chase rodrigo's gone, with neither lance nor buckler; a baleful light his eyes outshone- to pity he's no truckler. he follows not the royal stag, but, full of fiery hating, beside the way one sees him lag, impatient at the waiting. he longs his nephew's blood to spill, who 'scaped (the young mudarra) that trap he made and laid to kill the seven sons of lara. along the road--at last, no balk- a youth looms on a jennet; he rises like a sparrow-hawk about to seize a linnet. "what ho!" "who calls?" "art christian knight, or basely born and boorish, or yet that thing i still more slight- the spawn of some dog moorish? "i seek the by-born spawn of one i e'er renounce as brother- who chose to make his latest son caress a moor as mother. "i've sought that cub in every hole, 'midland, and coast, and islet, for he's the thief who came and stole our sheathless jewelled stilet." "if you well know the poniard worn without edge-dulling cover- look on it now--here, plain, upborne! and further be no rover. "tis i--as sure as you're abhorred rodrigo--cruel slayer, 'tis i am vengeance, and your lord, who bids you crouch in prayer! "i shall not grant the least delay- use what you have, defending, i'll send you on that darksome way your victims late were wending. "and if i wore this, with its crest- our seal with gems enwreathing- in open air--'twas in your breast to seek its fated sheathing!" cornflowers. _("tandis que l'étoile inodore.")_ [xxxii.] while bright but scentless azure stars be-gem the golden corn, and spangle with their skyey tint the furrows not yet shorn; while still the pure white tufts of may ape each a snowy ball,- away, ye merry maids, and haste to gather ere they fall! nowhere the sun of spain outshines upon a fairer town than peñafiel, or endows more richly farming clown; nowhere a broader square reflects such brilliant mansions, tall,- away, ye merry maids, etc. nowhere a statelier abbey rears dome huger o'er a shrine, though seek ye from old rome itself to even seville fine. here countless pilgrims come to pray and promenade the mall,- away, ye merry maids, etc. where glide the girls more joyfully than ours who dance at dusk, with roses white upon their brows, with waists that scorn the busk? mantillas elsewhere hide dull eyes- compared with these, how small! away, ye merry maids, etc. a blossom in a city lane, alizia was our pride, and oft the blundering bee, deceived, came buzzing to her side- but, oh! for one that felt the sting, and found, 'neath honey, gall- away, ye merry maids, etc. young, haughty, from still hotter lands, a stranger hither came- was he a moor or african, or murcian known to fame? none knew--least, she--or false or true, the name by which to call. away, ye merry maids, etc. alizia asked not his degree, she saw him but as love, and through xarama's vale they strayed, and tarried in the grove,- oh! curses on that fatal eve, and on that leafy hall! away, ye merry maids, etc. the darkened city breathed no more; the moon was mantled long, till towers thrust the cloudy cloak upon the steeples' throng; the crossway christ, in ivy draped, shrank, grieving, 'neath the pall,- away, ye merry maids, etc. but while, alone, they kept the shade, the other dark-eyed dears were murmuring on the stifling air their jealous threats and fears; alizia was so blamed, that time, unheeded rang the call: away, ye merry maids, etc. although, above, the hawk describes the circle round the lark, it sleeps, unconscious, and our lass had eyes but for her spark- a spark?--a sun! 'twas juan, king! who wears our coronal,- away, ye merry maids, etc. a love so far above one's state ends sadly. came a black and guarded palanquin to bear the girl that ne'er comes back; by royal writ, some nunnery still shields her from us all away, ye merry maids, and haste to gather ere they fall! h. l. williams mazeppa. _("ainsi, lorsqu'un mortel!")_ [xxxiv., may, 1828.] as when a mortal--genius' prize, alack! is, living, bound upon thy fatal back, thou reinless racing steed! in vain he writhes, mere cloud upon a star, thou bearest him as went mazeppa, far out of the flow'ry mead,- so--though thou speed'st implacable, (like him, spent, pallid, torn, bruised, weary, sore and dim, as if each stride the nearer bring him to the grave)--when comes _the time_, after the fall, he rises--king! h.l. williams the danube in wrath. _("quoi! ne pouvez-vous vivre ensemble?")_ [xxxv., june, 1828.] the river deity upbraids his daughters, the contributary streams:- ye daughters mine! will naught abate your fierce interminable hate? still am i doomed to rue the fate that such unfriendly neighbors made? the while ye might, in peaceful cheer, mirror upon your waters clear, semlin! thy gothic steeples dear, and thy bright minarets, belgrade! _fraser's magazine_ old ocean. _("j'étais seul près des flots.")_ [xxxvii., september 5, 1828.] i stood by the waves, while the stars soared in sight, not a cloud specked the sky, not a sail shimmered bright; scenes beyond this dim world were revealed to mine eye; and the woods, and the hills, and all nature around, seem'd to question with moody, mysterious sound, the waves, and the pure stars on high. and the clear constellations, that infinite throng, while thousand rich harmonies swelled in their song, replying, bowed meekly their diamond-blaze- and the blue waves, which nothing may bind or arrest, chorus'd forth, as they stooped the white foam of their crest "creator! we bless thee and praise!" r.c. ellwood my napoleon. _("toujours lui! lui partout!")_ [xl., december, 1828.] above all others, everywhere i see his image cold or burning! my brain it thrills, and oftentime sets free the thoughts within me yearning. my quivering lips pour forth the words that cluster in his name of glory- the star gigantic with its rays of swords whose gleams irradiate all modern story. i see his finger pointing where the shell should fall to slay most rabble, and save foul regicides; or strike the knell of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble. a consul then, o'er young but proud, with midnight poring thinned, and sallow, but dreams of empire pierce the transient cloud, and round pale face and lank locks form the halo. and soon the caesar, with an eye a-flame whole nations' contact urging to gain his soldiers gold and fame oh, sun on high emerging, whose dazzling lustre fired the hells embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, arose to change five hundred thousand base-born tells, into his host of half-a-million heroes! what! next a captive? yea, and caged apart. no weight of arms enfolded can crush the turmoil in that seething heart which nature--not her journeymen--self-moulded. let sordid jailers vex their prize; but only bends that brow to lightning, as gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs cleave through the storm and haste where france looms bright'ning. alone, but greater! broke the sceptre, true! yet lingers still some power- in tears of woe man's metal may renew the temper of high hour; for, bating breath, e'er list the kings the pinions clipped may grow! the eagle may burst, in frantic thirst for home, the rings and rend the bulldog, fox, and bear, and beagle! and, lastly, grandest! 'tween dark sea and here eternal brightness coming! the eye so weary's freshened with a tear as rises distant drumming, and wailing cheer--they pass the pale his army mourns though still's the end hid; and from his war-stained cloak, he answers "hail!" and spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye-splendid! h.l. williams. les feuilles d'automne.--1831. the patience of the people. _("il s'est dit tant de fois.")_ [iii., may, 1830.] how often have the people said: "what's power?" who reigns soon is dethroned? each fleeting hour has onward borne, as in a fevered dream, such quick reverses, like a judge supreme- austere but just, they contemplate the end to which the current of events must tend. self-confidence has taught them to forbear, and in the vastness of their strength, they spare. armed with impunity, for _one in vain_ resists a _nation_, they let others reign. g.w.m. reynolds. dictated before the rhone glacier. _("souvent quand mon esprit riche.")_ [vii., may 18, 1828.] when my mind, on the ocean of poesy hurled, floats on in repose round this wonderful world, oft the sacred fire from heaven- mysterious sun, that gives light to the soul- strikes mine with its ray, and above the pole its upward course is driven, like a wandering cloud, then, my eager thought capriciously flies, to no guidance brought, with every quarter's wind; it regards from those radiant vaults on high, earth's cities below, and again doth fly, and leaves but its shadow behind. in the glistening gold of the morning bright, it shines, detaching some lance of light, or, as warrior's armor rings; it forages forests that ferment around, or bathed in the sun-red gleams is found, where the west its radiance flings. or, on mountain peak, that rears its head where snow-clad alps around are spread, by furious gale 'tis thrown. from the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away, and the glacier appears, with its multiform ray, the giant mountain's crown! like parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled, in its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed; on its side the rainbow plays, and at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below, the last slanting ray on its crest of snow makes its cap like a crater to blaze. in the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of light, the chamois with fear flashes on in its flight, the eagle afar is driven; the deluge but roars in despair to its feet, and scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet, so near doth it rise to heaven. alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear, forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near; on the starry vault to gaze, and nearer, to gaze on those glories of night, on th' horizon high heaving, like arches of light, till again the sun shall blaze. for then will the glacier with glory be graced, on its prisms will light streaked with darkness be placed, the morn its echoes greet; like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life, like chaos unformed, with the sea-stormy strife, when waters on waters meet. as the spirit of poesy touches my thought, it is thus my ideas in a circle are brought, from earth, with the waters of pain. as under a sunbeam a cloud ascends, these fly to the heavens--their course never ends, but descend to the ocean again. _author of "critical essays."_ the poet's love for liveliness. _("moi, quelque soit le monde.")_ [xv., may 11, 1830.] for me, whate'er my life and lot may show, years blank with gloom or cheered by mem'ry's glow, turmoil or peace; never be it mine, i pray, to be a dweller of the peopled earth, save 'neath a roof alive with children's mirth loud through the livelong day. so, if my hap it be to see once more those scenes my footsteps tottered in before, an infant follower in napoleon's train: rodrigo's holds, valencia and leon, and both castiles, and mated aragon; ne'er be it mine, o spain! to pass thy plains with cities scant between, thy stately arches flung o'er deep ravine, thy palaces, of moor's or roman's time; or the swift makings of thy guadalquiver, save in those gilded cars, where bells forever ring their melodious chime. _fraser's magazine_ infantile influence. _("lorsque l'enfant parait.")_ [xix., may 11, 1830.] the child comes toddling in, and young and old with smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold, and artless, babyish joy; a playful welcome greets it through the room, the saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom, to greet the happy boy. if june with flowers has spangled all the ground, or winter bleak the flickering hearth around draws close the circling seat; the child still sheds a never-failing light; we call; mamma with mingled joy and fright watches its tottering feet. perhaps at eve as round the fire we draw, we speak of heaven, or poetry, or law, or politics, or prayer; the child comes in, 'tis now all smiles and play, farewell to grave discourse and poet's lay, philosophy and care. when fancy wakes, but sense in heaviest sleep lies steeped, and like the sobs of them that weep the dark stream sinks and swells, the dawn, like pharos gleaming o'er the sea, bursts forth, and sudden wakes the minstrelsy of birds and chiming bells; thou art my dawn; my soul is as the field, where sweetest flowers their balmy perfumes yield when breathed upon by thee, of forest, where thy voice like zephyr plays, and morn pours out its flood of golden rays, when thy sweet smile i see. oh, sweetest eyes, like founts of liquid blue; and little hands that evil never knew, pure as the new-formed snow; thy feet are still unstained by this world's mire, thy golden locks like aureole of fire circle thy cherub brow! dove of our ark, thine angel spirit flies on azure wings forth from thy beaming eyes. though weak thine infant feet, what strange amaze this new and strange world gives to thy sweet virgin soul, that spotless lives in virgin body sweet. oh, gentle face, radiant with happy smile, and eager prattling tongue that knows no guile, quick changing tears and bliss; thy soul expands to catch this new world's light, thy mazed eyes to drink each wondrous sight, thy lips to taste the kiss. oh, god! bless me and mine, and these i love, and e'en my foes that still triumphant prove victors by force or guile; a flowerless summer may we never see, or nest of bird bereft, or hive of bee, or home of infant's smile. henry highton, m.a. the watching angel. _("dans l'alcôve sombre.")_ [xx., november, 1831.] in the dusky nook, near the altar laid, sleeps the child in shadow of his mother's bed: softly he reposes, and his lid of roses, closed to earth, uncloses on the heaven o'erhead. many a dream is with him, fresh from fairyland, spangled o'er with diamonds seems the ocean sand; suns are flaming there, troops of ladies fair souls of infants bear in each charming hand. oh, enchanting vision! lo, a rill upsprings, and from out its bosom comes a voice that sings lovelier there appear sire and sisters dear, while his mother near plumes her new-born wings. but a brighter vision yet his eyes behold; roses pied and lilies every path enfold; lakes delicious sleeping, silver fishes leaping, through the wavelets creeping up to reeds of gold. slumber on, sweet infant, slumber peacefully thy young soul yet knows not what thy lot may be. like dead weeds that sweep o'er the dol'rous deep, thou art borne in sleep. what is all to thee? thou canst slumber by the way; thou hast learnt to borrow naught from study, naught from care; the cold hand of sorrow on thy brow unwrinkled yet, where young truth and candor sit, ne'er with rugged nail hath writ that sad word, "to-morrow!" innocent! thou sleepest- see the angelic band, who foreknow the trials that for man are planned; seeing him unarmed, unfearing, unalarmed, with their tears have warmed this unconscious hand. still they, hovering o'er him, kiss him where he lies, hark, he sees them weeping, "gabriel!" he cries; "hush!" the angel says, on his lip he lays one finger, one displays his native skies. _foreign quarterly review_ sunset. _("le soleil s'est couché")_ [xxxv. vi., april, 1829.] the sun set this evening in masses of cloud, the storm comes to-morrow, then calm be the night, then the dawn in her chariot refulgent and proud, then more nights, and still days, steps of time in his flight. the days shall pass rapid as swifts on the wing. o'er the face of the hills, o'er the face of the seas, o'er streamlets of silver, and forests that ring with a dirge for the dead, chanted low by the breeze; the face of the waters, the brow of the mounts deep scarred but not shrivelled, and woods tufted green, their youth shall renew; and the rocks to the founts shall yield what these yielded to ocean their queen. but day by day bending still lower my head, still chilled in the sunlight, soon i shall have cast, at height of the banquet, my lot with the dead, unmissed by creation aye joyous and vast. toru dutt. the universal prayer. _("ma fille, va prier!")_ [xxxvii., june, 1830.] i. come, child, to prayer; the busy day is done, a golden star gleams through the dusk of night; the hills are trembling in the rising mist, the rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight; all things wend home to rest; the roadside trees shake off their dust, stirred by the evening breeze. the sparkling stars gush forth in sudden blaze, as twilight open flings the doors of night; the fringe of carmine narrows in the west, the rippling waves are tipped with silver light; the bush, the path--all blend in one dull gray; the doubtful traveller gropes his anxious way. oh, day! with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife; oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet, the sad winds moaning through the ruined tower, the age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat- all nature groans opprest with toil and care, and wearied craves for rest, and love, and prayer. at eve the babes with angels converse hold, while we to our strange pleasures wend our way, each with its little face upraised to heaven, with folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray, at selfsame hour with selfsame words they call on god, the common father of them all. and then they sleep, and golden dreams anon, born as the busy day's last murmurs die, in swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom their breathing lips and golden locks descry. and as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam, around their curtained cradles clustering come. oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent; oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure, and light; oh, happy worship! ever gay with smiles, meet prelude to the harmonies of night; as birds beneath the wing enfold their head, nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed. henry highton, m.a. ii. to prayer, my child! and o, be thy first prayer for her who, many nights, with anxious care, rocked thy first cradle; who took thy infant soul from heaven and gave it to the world; then rife with love, still drank herself the gall of life, and left for thy young lips the honeyed bowl. and then--i need it more--then pray for me! for she is gentle, artless, true like thee;- she has a guileless heart, brow placid still; pity she has for all, envy for none; gentle and wise, she patiently lives on; and she endures, nor knows who does the ill. in culling flowers, her novice hand has ne'er touched e'en the outer rind of vice; no snare with smiling show has lured her steps aside: on her the past has left no staining mark; nor knows she aught of those bad thoughts which, dark like shade on waters, o'er the spirit glide. she knows not--nor mayest thou--the miseries in which our spirits mingle: vanities, remorse, soul-gnawing cares, pleasure's false show: passions which float upon the heart like foam, bitter remembrances which o'er us come, and shame's red spot spread sudden o'er the brow. i know life better! when thou'rt older grown i'll tell thee--it is needful to be known- of the pursuit of wealth--art, power; the cost. that it is folly, nothingness: that shame for glory is oft thrown us in the game of fortune; chances where the soul is lost. the soul will change. although of everything the cause and end be clear, yet wildering we roam through life (of vice and error full). we wander as we go; we feel the load of doubt; and to the briars upon the road man leaves his virtue, as the sheep its wool. then go, go pray for me! and as the prayer gushes in words, be this the form they bear:- "lord, lord, our father! god, my prayer attend; pardon! thou art good! pardon--thou art great!" let them go freely forth, fear not their fate! where thy soul sends them, thitherward they tend. there's nothing here below which does not find its tendency. o'er plains the rivers wind, and reach the sea; the bee, by instinct driven, finds out the honeyed flowers; the eagle flies to seek the sun; the vulture where death lies; the swallow to the spring; the prayer to heaven! and when thy voice is raised to god for me, i'm like the slave whom in the vale we see seated to rest, his heavy load laid by; i feel refreshed--the load of faults and woe which, groaning, i drag with me as i go, thy wingèd prayer bears off rejoicingly! pray for thy father! that his dreams be bright with visitings of angel forms of light, and his soul burn as incense flaming wide, let thy pure breath all his dark sins efface, so that his heart be like that holy place, an altar pavement each eve purified! c., _tait's magazine_ les chants du crépuscule.--1849. prelude to "the songs of twilight." _("de quel non te nommer?")_ [prelude, a, oct. 20, 1835.] how shall i note thee, line of troubled years, which mark existence in our little span? one constant twilight in the heaven appears- one constant twilight in the mind of man! creed, hope, anticipation and despair, are but a mingling, as of day and night; the globe, surrounded by deceptive air, is all enveloped in the same half-light. and voice is deadened by the evening breeze, the shepherd's song, or maiden's in her bower, mix with the rustling of the neighboring trees, within whose foliage is lulled the power. yet all unites! the winding path that leads thro' fields where verdure meets the trav'ller's eye. the river's margin, blurred with wavy reeds, the muffled anthem, echoing to the sky! the ivy smothering the armèd tower; the dying wind that mocks the pilot's ear; the lordly equipage at midnight hour, draws into danger in a fog the peer; the votaries of satan or of jove; the wretched mendicant absorbed in woe; the din of multitudes that onward move; the voice of conscience in the heart below; the waves, which thou, o lord, alone canst still; th' elastic air; the streamlet on its way; and all that man projects, or sovereigns will; or things inanimate might seem to say; the strain of gondolier slow streaming by; the lively barks that o'er the waters bound; the trees that shake their foliage to the sky; the wailing voice that fills the cots around; and man, who studies with an aching heart- for now, when smiles are rarely deemed sincere, in vain the sceptic bids his doubts depart- those doubts at length will arguments appear! hence, reader, know the subject of my song- a mystic age, resembling twilight gloom, wherein we smile at birth, or bear along, with noiseless steps, a victim to the tomb! g.w.m. reynolds the land of fable. _("l'orient! qu'y voyez-vous, poëtes?")_ [prelude, b.] now, vot'ries of the muses, turn your eyes, unto the east, and say what there appears! "alas!" the voice of poesy replies, "mystic's that light between the hemispheres!" "yes, dread's the mystic light in yonder heaven- dull is the gleam behind the distant hill; like feeble flashes in the welkin driven, when the far thunder seems as it were still! "but who can tell if that uncertain glare be phoebus' self, adorned with glowing vest; or, if illusions, pregnant in the air, have drawn our glances to the radiant west? "haply the sunset has deceived the sight- perchance 'tis evening, while we look for morning; bewildered in the mazes of twilight, that lucid sunset may _appear_ a dawning!" g.w.m. reynolds the three glorious days. _("frères, vous avez vos journées.")_ [i., july, 1830.] youth of france, sons of the bold, your oak-leaf victor-wreaths behold! our civic-laurels--honored dead! so bright your triumphs in life's morn, your maiden-standards hacked and torn, on austerlitz might lustre shed. all that your fathers did re-done- a people's rights all nobly won- ye tore them living from the shroud! three glorious days bright july's gift, the bastiles off our hearts ye lift! oh! of such deeds be ever proud! of patriot sires ye lineage claim, their souls shone in your eye of flame; commencing the great work was theirs; on you the task to finish laid your fruitful mother, france, who bade flow in one day a hundred years. e'en chilly albion admires, the grand example europe fires; america shall clap her hands, when swiftly o'er the atlantic wave, fame sounds the news of how the brave, in three bright days, have burst their bands! with tyrant dead your fathers traced a circle wide, with battles graced; victorious garland, red and vast! which blooming out from home did go to cadiz, cairo, rome, moscow, from jemappes to montmirail passed! of warlike lyceums[1] ye are the favored sons; there, deeds of war formed e'en your plays, while o'er you shook the battle-flags in air aloft! passing your lines, napoleon oft electrified you with a look! eagle of france! whose vivid wing did in a hundred places fling a bloody feather, till one night the arrow whelmed thee 'neath the wave! look up--rejoice--for now thy brave and worthy eaglets dare the light. elizabeth collins. [footnote 1: the pupils of the polytechnic military school distinguished themselves by their patriotic zeal and military skill, through all the troubles.] tribute to the vanquished. _("laissez-moi pleurer sur cette race.")_ [i. v.] oh! let me weep that race whose day is past, by exile given, by exile claimed once more, thrice swept away upon that fatal blast. whate'er its blame, escort we to our shore these relics of the monarchy of yore; and to th' outmarching oriflamme be paid war's honors by the flag on fleurus' field displayed! _fraser's magazine_ angel or demon. _("tu domines notre âge; ange ou démon, qu'importe!")_ [i. vii.] angel or demon! thou,--whether of light the minister, or darkness--still dost sway this age of ours; thine eagle's soaring flight bears us, all breathless, after it away. the eye that from thy presence fain would stray, shuns thee in vain; thy mighty shadow thrown rests on all pictures of the living day, and on the threshold of our time alone, dazzling, yet sombre, stands thy form, napoleon! thus, when the admiring stranger's steps explore the subject-lands that 'neath vesuvius be, whether he wind along the enchanting shore to portici from fair parthenope, or, lingering long in dreamy reverie, o'er loveliest ischia's od'rous isle he stray, wooed by whose breath the soft and am'rous sea seems like some languishing sultana's lay, a voice for very sweets that scarce can win its way. him, whether paestum's solemn fane detain, shrouding his soul with meditation's power; or at pozzuoli, to the sprightly strain of tarantella danced 'neath tuscan tower, listening, he while away the evening hour; or wake the echoes, mournful, lone and deep, of that sad city, in its dreaming bower by the volcano seized, where mansions keep the likeness which they wore at that last fatal sleep; or be his bark at posillippo laid, while as the swarthy boatman at his side chants tasso's lays to virgil's pleased shade, ever he sees, throughout that circuit wide, from shaded nook or sunny lawn espied, from rocky headland viewed, or flow'ry shore, from sea, and spreading mead alike descried, _the giant mount_, tow'ring all objects o'er, and black'ning with its breath th' horizon evermore! _fraser's magazine_ the eruption of vesuvius. _("quand longtemps a grondé la bouche du vésuve.")_ [i. vii.] when huge vesuvius in its torment long, threatening has growled its cavernous jaws among, when its hot lava, like the bubbling wine, foaming doth all its monstrous edge incarnadine, then is alarm in naples. with dismay, wanton and wild her weeping thousands pour, convulsive grasp the ground, its rage to stay, implore the angry mount--in vain implore! for lo! a column tow'ring more and more, of smoke and ashes from the burning crest shoots like a vulture's neck reared from its airy nest. sudden a flash, and from th' enormous den th' eruption's lurid mass bursts forth amain, bounding in frantic ecstasy. ah! then farewell to grecian fount and tuscan fane! sails in the bay imbibe the purpling stain, the while the lava in profusion wide flings o'er the mountain's neck its showery locks untied. it comes--it comes! that lava deep and rich, that dower which fertilizes fields and fills new moles upon the waters, bay and beach. broad sea and clustered isles, one terror thrills as roll the red inexorable rills; while naples trembles in her palaces, more helpless than the leaves when tempests shake the trees. prodigious chaos, streets in ashes lost, dwellings devoured and vomited again. roof against neighbor-roof, bewildered, tossed. the waters boiling and the burning plain; while clang the giant steeples as they reel, unprompted, their own tocsin peal. yet 'mid the wreck of cities, and the pride of the green valleys and the isles laid low, the crash of walls, the tumult waste and wide, o'er sea and land; 'mid all this work of woe, vesuvius still, though close its crater-glow, forgetful spares--heaven wills that it should spare, the lonely cell where kneels an aged priest in prayer. _fraser's magazine_. marriage and feasts. _("la salle est magnifique.")_ [iv. aug. 23, 1839.] the hall is gay with limpid lustre bright- the feast to pampered palate gives delight- the sated guests pick at the spicy food, and drink profusely, for the cheer is good; and at that table--where the wise are few- both sexes and all ages meet the view; the sturdy warrior with a thoughtful face- the am'rous youth, the maid replete with grace, the prattling infant, and the hoary hair of second childhood's proselytes--are there;- and the most gaudy in that spacious hall, are e'er the young, or oldest of them all helmet and banner, ornament and crest, the lion rampant, and the jewelled vest, the silver star that glitters fair and white, the arms that tell of many a nation's might- heraldic blazonry, ancestral pride, and all mankind invents for pomp beside, the wingèd leopard, and the eagle wild- all these encircle woman, chief and child; shine on the carpet burying their feet, adorn the dishes that contain their meat; and hang upon the drapery, which around falls from the lofty ceiling to the ground, till on the floor its waving fringe is spread, as the bird's wing may sweep the roses' bed.- thus is the banquet ruled by noise and light, since light and noise are foremost on the site. the chamber echoes to the joy of them who throng around, each with his diadem- each seated on proud throne--but, lesson vain! each sceptre holds its master with a chain! thus hope of flight were futile from that hall, where chiefest guest was most enslaved of all! the godlike-making draught that fires the soul the love--sweet poison-honey--past control, (formed of the sexual breath--an idle name, offspring of fancy and a nervous frame)- pleasure, mad daughter of the darksome night, whose languid eye flames when is fading light- the gallant chases where a man is borne by stalwart charger, to the sounding horn- the sheeny silk, the bed of leaves of rose, made more to soothe the sight than court repose; the mighty palaces that raise the sneer of jealous mendicants and wretches near- the spacious parks, from which horizon blue arches o'er alabaster statues new; where superstition still her walk will take, unto soft music stealing o'er the lake- the innocent modesty by gems undone- the qualms of judges by small brib'ry won- the dread of children, trembling while they play- the bliss of monarchs, potent in their sway- the note of war struck by the culverin, that snakes its brazen neck through battle din- the military millipede that tramples out the guilty seed- the capital all pleasure and delight- and all that like a town or army chokes the gazer with foul dust or sulphur smokes. the budget, prize for which ten thousand bait a subtle hook, that ever, as they wait catches a weed, and drags them to their fate, while gleamingly its golden scales still spread- such were the meats by which these guests were fed. a hundred slaves for lazy master cared, and served each one with what was e'er prepared by him, who in a sombre vault below, peppered the royal pig with peoples' woe, and grimly glad went laboring till late- the morose alchemist we know as fate! that ev'ry guest might learn to suit his taste, behind had conscience, real or mock'ry, placed; conscience a guide who every evil spies, but royal nurses early pluck out both his eyes! oh! at the table there be all the great, whose lives are bubbles that best joys inflate! superb, magnificent of revels--doubt that sagest lose their heads in such a rout! in the long laughter, ceaseless roaming round, joy, mirth and glee give out a maelström's sound; and the astonished gazer casts his care, where ev'ry eyeball glistens in the flare. but oh! while yet the singing hebes pour forgetfulness of those without the door- at very hour when all are most in joy, and the hid orchestra annuls annoy, woe--woe! with jollity a-top the heights, with further tapers adding to the lights, and gleaming 'tween the curtains on the street, where poor folks stare--hark to the heavy feet! some one smites roundly on the gilded grate, some one below will be admitted straight, some one, though not invited, who'll not wait! close not the door! your orders are vain breath- that stranger enters to be known as death- or merely exile--clothed in alien guise- death drags away--with _his_ prey exile flies! death is that sight. he promenades the hall, and casts a gloomy shadow on them all, 'neath which they bend like willows soft, ere seizing one--the dumbest monarch oft, and bears him to eternal heat and drouth, while still the toothsome morsel's in his mouth. g.w.m. reynolds. the morrow of grandeur. _("non, l'avenir n'est à personne!")_ [v. ii., august, 1832.] sire, beware, the future's range is of god alone the power, naught below but augurs change, e'en with ev'ry passing hour. future! mighty mystery! all the earthly goods that be, fortune, glory, war's renown, king or kaiser's sparkling crown, victory! with her burning wings, proud ambition's covetings,- these may our grasp no more detain than the free bird who doth alight upon our roof, and takes its flight high into air again. nor smile, nor tear, nor haughtiest lord's command, avails t' unclasp the cold and closèd hand. thy voice to disenthrall, dumb phantom, shadow ever at our side! veiled spectre, journeying with us stride for stride, whom men "to-morrow" call. oh, to-morrow! who may dare its realities to scan? god to-morrow brings to bear what to-day is sown by man. 'tis the lightning in its shroud, 'tis the star-concealing cloud, traitor, 'tis his purpose showing, engine, lofty tow'rs o'erthrowing, wand'ring star, its region changing, "lady of kingdoms," ever ranging. to-morrow! 'tis the rude display of the throne's framework, blank and cold, that, rich with velvet, bright with gold, dazzles the eye to-day. to-morrow! 'tis the foaming war-horse falling; to-morrow! thy victorious march appalling, 'tis the red fires from moscow's tow'rs that wave; 'tis thine old guard strewing the belgian plain; 'tis the lone island in th' atlantic main: to-morrow! 'tis the grave! into capitals subdued thou mayst ride with gallant rein, cut the knots of civil feud with the trenchant steel in twain; with thine edicts barricade haughty thames' o'er-freighted trade; fickle victory's self enthrall, captive to thy trumpet call; burst the stoutest gates asunder; leave the names of brightest wonder, pale and dim, behind thee far; and to exhaustless armies yield thy glancing spur,--o'er europe's field a glory-guiding star. god guards duration, if lends space to thee, thou mayst o'er-range mundane immensity, rise high as human head can rise sublime, snatch europe from the stamp of charlemagne, asia from mahomet; but never gain power o'er the morrow from the lord of time! _fraser's magazine._ the eaglet mourned. _("encore si ce banni n'eût rien aimé sur terre.")_ [v, iv., august, 1832.] too hard napoleon's fate! if, lone, no being he had loved, no single one, less dark that doom had been. but with the heart of might doth ever dwell the heart of love! and in his island cell two things there were--i ween. two things--a portrait and a map there were- here hung the pictured world, an infant there: that framed his genius, this enshrined his love. and as at eve he glanced round th' alcove, where jailers watched his very thoughts to spy, what mused he _then_--what dream of years gone by stirred 'neath that discrowned brow, and fired that glistening eye? 'twas not the steps of that heroic tale that from arcola marched to montmirail on glory's red degrees; nor cairo-pashas' steel-devouring steeds, nor the tall shadows of the pyramids- ah! twas not always these; 'twas not the bursting shell, the iron sleet, the whirlwind rush of battle 'neath his feet, through twice ten years ago, when at his beck, upon that sea of steel were launched the rustling banners--there to reel like masts when tempests blow. 'twas not madrid, nor kremlin of the czar, nor pharos on old egypt's coast afar, nor shrill _réveillé's_ camp-awakening sound, nor bivouac couch'd its starry fires around, crested dragoons, grim, veteran grenadiers, nor the red lancers 'mid their wood of spears blazing like baleful poppies 'mong the golden ears. no--'twas an infant's image, fresh and fair, with rosy mouth half oped, as slumbering there. it lay beneath the smile, of her whose breast, soft-bending o'er its sleep, lingering upon that little lip doth keep one pendent drop the while. then, his sad head upon his hands inclined, he wept; that father-heart all unconfined, outpoured in love alone. my blessing on thy clay-cold head, poor child. sole being for whose sake his thoughts, beguiled, forgot the world's lost throne. _fraser's magazine_ invocation. [v, vi., august, 1832.] say, lord! for thou alone canst tell where lurks the good invisible amid the depths of discord's sea- that seem, alas! so dark to me! oppressive to a mighty state, contentions, feuds, the people's hate- but who dare question that which fate has ordered to have been? haply the earthquake may unfold the resting-place of purest gold, and haply surges up have rolled the pearls that were unseen! g.w.m. reynolds. outside the ball-room. _("ainsi l'hôtel de ville illumine.")_ [vi., may, 1833.] behold the ball-room flashing on the sight, from step to cornice one grand glare of light; the noise of mirth and revelry resounds, like fairy melody on haunted grounds. but who demands this profuse, wanton glee, these shouts prolonged and wild festivity- not sure our city--web, more woe than bliss, in any hour, requiring aught but this! deaf is the ear of all that jewelled crowd to sorrow's sob, although its call be loud. better than waste long nights in idle show, to help the indigent and raise the low- to train the wicked to forsake his way, and find th' industrious work from day to day! better to charity those hours afford, which now are wasted at the festal board! and ye, o high-born beauties! in whose soul virtue resides, and vice has no control; ye whom prosperity forbids to sin, so fair without--so chaste, so pure within- whose honor want ne'er threatened to betray, whose eyes are joyous, and whose heart is gay; around whose modesty a hundred arms, aided by pride, protect a thousand charms; for you this ball is pregnant with delight; as glitt'ring planets cheer the gloomy night:- but, o, ye wist not, while your souls are glad, how millions wander, homeless, sick and sad! hazard has placed you in a happy sphere, and like your own to you all lots appear; for blinded by the sun of bliss your eyes can see no dark horizon to the skies. such is the chance of life! each gallant thane, prince, peer, and noble, follow in your train;- they praise your loveliness, and in your ear they whisper pleasing things, but insincere; thus, as the moths enamoured of the light, ye seek these realms of revelry each night. but as ye travel thither, did ye know what wretches walk the streets through which you go. sisters, whose gewgaws glitter in the glare of your great lustre, all expectant there, watching the passing crowd with avid eye, till one their love, or lust, or shame may buy; or, with commingling jealousy and rage, they mark the progress of your equipage; and their deceitful life essays the while to mask their woe beneath a sickly smile! g.w.m. reynolds. prayer for france. _("o dieu, si vous avez la france.")_ [vii., august, 1832.] o god! if france be still thy guardian care, oh! spare these mercenary combats, spare! the thrones that now are reared but to be broke; the rights we render, and anon revoke; the muddy stream of laws, ideas, needs, flooding our social life as it proceeds; opposing tribunes, even when seeming one- soft, yielding plaster put in place of stone; wave chasing wave in endless ebb and flow; war, darker still and deeper in its woe; one party fall'n, successor scarce preludes, than, straight, new views their furious feuds; the great man's pressure on the poor for gold, rumors uncertain, conflicts, crimes untold; dark systems hatched in secret and in fear, telling of hate and strife to every ear, that even to midnight sleep no peace is given, for murd'rous cannon through our streets are driven. j.s. macrae. to canaris, the greek patriot. _("canaris! nous t'avons oublié.")_ [viii., october, 1832.] o canaris! o canaris! the poet's song has blameful left untold thy deeds too long! but when the tragic actor's part is done, when clamor ceases, and the fights are won, when heroes realize what fate decreed, when chieftains mark no more which thousands bleed; when they have shone, as clouded or as bright, as fitful meteor in the heaven at night, and when the sycophant no more proclaims to gaping crowds the glory of their names,- 'tis then the mem'ries of warriors die, and fall--alas!--into obscurity, until the poet, in whose verse alone exists a world--can make their actions known, and in eternal epic measures, show they are not yet forgotten here below. and yet by us neglected! glory gloomed, thy name seems sealed apart, entombed, although our shouts to pigmies rise--no cries to mark thy presence echo to the skies; farewell to grecian heroes--silent is the lute, and sets your sun without one memnon bruit? there was a time men gave no peace to cheers for athens, bozzaris, leonidas, and greece! and canaris' more-worshipped name was found on ev'ry lip, in ev'ry heart around. but now is changed the scene! on hist'ry's page are writ o'er thine deeds of another age, and thine are not remembered.--greece, farewell! the world no more thine heroes' deeds will tell. not that this matters to a man like thee! to whom is left the dark blue open sea, thy gallant bark, that o'er the water flies, and the bright planet guiding in clear skies; all these remain, with accident and strife, hope, and the pleasures of a roving life, boon nature's fairest prospects--land and main- the noisy starting, glad return again; the pride of freeman on a bounding deck which mocks at dangers and despises wreck, and e'en if lightning-pinions cleave the sea, 'tis all replete with joyousness to thee! yes, these remain! blue sky and ocean blue, thine eagles with one sweep beyond the view- the sun in golden beauty ever pure, the distance where rich warmth doth aye endure- thy language so mellifluously bland, mixed with sweet idioms from italia's strand, as baya's streams to samos' waters glide and with them mingle in one placid tide. yes, these remain, and, canaris! thy arms- the sculptured sabre, faithful in alarms- the broidered garb, the yataghan, the vest expressive of thy rank, to thee still rest! and when thy vessel o'er the foaming sound is proud past storied coasts to blithely bound, at once the point of beauty may restore smiles to thy lip, and smoothe thy brow once more. g.w.m. reynolds. poland. _("seule au pied de la tour.")_ [ix., september, 1833.] alone, beneath the tower whence thunder forth the mandates of the tyrant of the north, poland's sad genius kneels, absorbed in tears, bound, vanquished, pallid with her fears- alas! the crucifix is all that's left to her, of freedom and her sons bereft; and on her royal robe foul marks are seen where russian hectors' scornful feet have been. anon she hears the clank of murd'rous arms,- the swordsmen come once more to spread alarms! and while she weeps against the prison walls, and waves her bleeding arm until it falls, to france she hopeless turns her glazing eyes, and sues her sister's succor ere she dies. g.w.m. reynolds. insult not the fallen. _("oh! n'insultez jamais une femme qui tombe.")_ [xiv., sept. 6, 1835.] i tell you, hush! no word of sneering scorn- true, fallen; but god knows how deep her sorrow. poor girl! too many like her only born to love one day--to sin--and die the morrow. what know you of her struggles or her grief? or what wild storms of want and woe and pain tore down her soul from honor? as a leaf from autumn branches, or a drop of rain that hung in frailest splendor from a bough- bright, glistening in the sunlight of god's day- so had she clung to virtue once. but now- see heaven's clear pearl polluted with earth's clay! the sin is yours--with your accursed gold- man's wealth is master--woman's soul the slave! some purest water still the mire may hold. is there no hope for her--no power to save? yea, once again to draw up from the clay the fallen raindrop, till it shine above, or save a fallen soul, needs but one ray of heaven's sunshine, or of human love. w.c.k. wilde. morning. _("l'aurore s'allume.")_ [xx. a, december, 1834.] morning glances hither, now the shade is past; dream and fog fly thither where night goes at last; open eyes and roses as the darkness closes; and the sound that grows is nature walking fast. murmuring all and singing, hark! the news is stirred, roof and creepers clinging, smoke and nest of bird; winds to oak-trees bear it, streams and fountains hear it, every breath and spirit as a voice is heard. all takes up its story, child resumes his play, hearth its ruddy glory, lute its lifted lay. wild or out of senses, through the world immense is sound as each commences schemes of yesterday. w.m. hardinge. song of love. _("s'il est un charmant gazon.")_ [xxii, feb. 18, 1834.] if there be a velvet sward by dewdrops pearly drest, where through all seasons fairies guard flowers by bees carest, where one may gather, day and night, roses, honeysuckle, lily white, i fain would make of it a site for thy foot to rest. if there be a loving heart where honor rules the breast, loyal and true in every part, that changes ne'er molest, eager to run its noble race, intent to do some work of grace, i fain would make of it a place for thy brow to rest. and if there be of love a dream rose-scented as the west, which shows, each time it comes, a gleam,- a something sweet and blest,- a dream of which heaven is the pole, a dream that mingles soul and soul, i fain of it would make the goal where thy mind should rest. toru dutt. sweet charmer.[1] _("l'aube naît et ta porte est close.")_ [xxiii., february, 18--.] though heaven's gate of light uncloses, thou stirr'st not--thou'rt laid to rest, waking are thy sister roses, one only dreamest on thy breast. hear me, sweet dreamer! tell me all thy fears, trembling in song, but to break in tears. lo! to greet thee, spirits pressing, soft music brings the gentle dove, and fair light falleth like a blessing, while my poor heart can bring thee only love. worship thee, angels love thee, sweet woman? yes; for that love perfects my soul. none the less of heaven that my heart is human, blent in one exquisite, harmonious whole. h.b. farnie. [footnote 1: set to music by sir arthur sullivan.] more strong than time. _("puisque j'ai mis ma lèvre à ta coupe.")_ [xxv., jan. 1, 1835.] since i have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, since i my pallid face between your hands have laid, since i have known your soul, and all the bloom of it, and all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade; since it was given to me to hear one happy while, the words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, since i have seen you weep, and since i have seen you smile, your lips upon my lips, and your gaze upon my eyes; since i have known upon my forehead glance and gleam, a ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always, since i have felt the fall upon my lifetime's stream, of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days; i now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours, pass--pass upon your way, for i grow never old. flee to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers, one rose that none may pluck, within my heart i hold. your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill the cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet. my heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill, my soul more love than you can make my love forget. a. lang. roses and butterflies. _("roses et papillons.")_ [xxvii., dec. 7, 1834.] the grave receives us all: ye butterflies and roses gay and sweet why do ye linger, say? will ye not dwell together as is meet? somewhere high in the air would thy wing seek a home 'mid sunny skies, in mead or mossy dell- if there thy odors longest, sweetest rise. have where ye will your dwelling, or breath or tint whose praise we sing; butterfly shining bright, full-blown or bursting rosebud, flow'r or wing. dwell together ye fair, 'tis a boon to the loveliest given; perchance ye then may choose your home on the earth or in heaven. w.c. westbrook a simile. _("soyez comme l'oiseau.")_ [xxxiii. vi.] thou art like the bird that alights and sings though the frail spray bends- for he knows he has wings. fanny kemble (butler) the poet to his wife. _("à toi, toujours à toi.")_ [xxxix., 1823] to thee, all time to thee, my lyre a voice shall be! above all earthly fashion, above mere mundane rage, your mind made it my passion to write for noblest stage. whoe'er you be, send blessings to her--she was sister of my soul immortal, free! my pride, my hope, my shelter, my resource, when green hoped not to gray to run its course; she was enthronèd virtue under heaven's dome, my idol in the shrine of curtained home. les voix intérieures.--1840. the blinded bourbons. _("qui leur eût dit l'austère destineé?")_ [ii. v., november, 1836.] who _then_, to them[1] had told the future's story? or said that france, low bowed before their glory, one day would mindful be of them and of their mournful fate no more, than of the wrecks its waters have swept o'er the unremembering sea? that their old tuileries should see the fall of blazons from its high heraldic hall, dismantled, crumbling, prone;[2] or that, o'er yon dark louvre's architrave[3] a corsican, as yet unborn, should grave an eagle, then unknown? that gay st. cloud another lord awaited, or that in scenes le nôtre's art created for princely sport and ease, crimean steeds, trampling the velvet glade, should browse the bark beneath the stately shade of the great louis' trees? _fraser's magazine._ [footnote 1: the young princes, afterwards louis xviii. and charles x.] [footnote 2: the tuileries, several times stormed by mobs, was so irreparably injured by the communists that, in 1882, the paris town council decided that the ruins should be cleared away.] [footnote 3: after the eagle and the bee superseded the lily-flowers, the third napoleon's initial "n" flourished for two decades, but has been excised or plastered over, the words "national property" or "liberty, equality, fraternity" being cut in the stone profusely.] to albert dürer. _("dans les vieilles forêts.")_ [x., april 20, 1837.] through ancient forests--where like flowing tide the rising sap shoots vigor far and wide, mounting the column of the alder dark and silv'ring o'er the birch's shining bark- hast thou not often, albert dürer, strayed pond'ring, awe-stricken--through the half-lit glade, pallid and trembling--glancing not behind from mystic fear that did thy senses bind, yet made thee hasten with unsteady pace? oh, master grave! whose musings lone we trace throughout thy works we look on reverently. amidst the gloomy umbrage thy mind's eye saw clearly, 'mong the shadows soft yet deep, the web-toed faun, and pan the green-eyed peep, who deck'd with flowers the cave where thou might'st rest, leaf-laden dryads, too, in verdure drest. a strange weird world such forest was to thee, where mingled truth and dreams in mystery; there leaned old ruminating pines, and there the giant elms, whose boughs deformed and bare a hundred rough and crooked elbows made; and in this sombre group the wind had swayed, nor life--nor death--but life in death seemed found. the cresses drink--the water flows--and round upon the slopes the mountain rowans meet, and 'neath the brushwood plant their gnarled feet, intwining slowly where the creepers twine. there, too, the lakes as mirrors brightly shine, and show the swan-necked flowers, each line by line. chimeras roused take stranger shapes for thee, the glittering scales of mailèd throat we see, and claws tight pressed on huge old knotted tree; while from a cavern dim the bright eyes glare. oh, vegetation! spirit! do we dare question of matter, and of forces found 'neath a rude skin-in living verdure bound. oh, master--i, like thee, have wandered oft where mighty trees made arches high aloft, but ever with a consciousness of strife, a surging struggle of the inner life. ever the trembling of the grass i say, and the boughs rocking as the breezes play, have stirred deep thoughts in a bewild'ring way. oh, god! alone great witness of all deeds, of thoughts and acts, and all our human needs, god only knows how often in such scenes of savage beauty under leafy screens, i've felt the mighty oaks had spirit dower- like me knew mirth and sorrow--sentient power, and whisp'ring each to each in twilight dim, had hearts that beat--and owned a soul from him! mrs. newton crosland to his muse. _("puisqu'ici-bas tout âme.")_ [xl, may 19, 1836.] since everything below, doth, in this mortal state, its tone, its fragrance, or its glow communicate; since all that lives and moves upon the earth, bestows on what it seeks and what it loves its thorn or rose; since april to the trees gives a bewitching sound, and sombre night to grief gives ease, and peace profound; since day-spring on the flower a fresh'ning drop confers, and the fresh air on branch and bower its choristers; since the dark wave bestows a soft caress, imprest on the green bank to which it goes seeking its rest; i give thee at this hour, thus fondly bent o'er thee, the best of all the things in dow'r that in me be. receive,-poor gift, 'tis true, which grief, not joy, endears,- my thoughts, that like a shower of dew, reach thee in tears. my vows untold receive, all pure before thee laid; receive of all the days i live the light or shade! my hours with rapture fill'd, which no suspicion wrongs; and all the blandishments distill'd from all my songs. my spirit, whose essay flies fearless, wild, and free, and hath, and seeks, to guide its way no star but thee. no pensive, dreamy muse, who, though all else should smile, oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose, to weep the while. oh, sweetest mine! this gift receive;--'tis throe alone;- my heart, of which there's nothing left when love is gone! _fraser's magazine._ the cow. _("devant la blanche ferme.")_ [xv., may, 1837.] before the farm where, o'er the porch, festoon wild creepers red, and gaffer sits at noon, whilst strutting fowl display their varied crests, and the old watchdog slumberously rests, they half-attentive to the clarion of their king, resplendent in the sunshine op'ning wing- there stood a cow, with neck-bell jingling light, superb, enormous, dappled red and white- soft, gentle, patient as a hind unto its young, letting the children swarm until they hung around her, under--rustics with their teeth whiter than marble their ripe lips beneath, and bushy hair fresh and more brown than mossy walls at old gates of a town, calling to one another with loud cries for younger imps to be in at the prize; stealing without concern but tremulous with fear they glance around lest doll the maid appear;- their jolly lips--that haply cause some pain, and all those busy fingers, pressing now and 'gain, the teeming udders whose small, thousand pores gush out the nectar 'mid their laughing roars, while she, good mother, gives and gives in heaps, and never moves. anon there creeps a vague soft shiver o'er the hide unmarred, as sharp they pull, she seems of stone most hard. dreamy of large eye, seeks she no release, and shrinks not while there's one still to appease. thus nature--refuge 'gainst the slings of fate! mother of all, indulgent as she's great! lets us, the hungered of each age and rank, shadow and milk seek in the eternal flank; mystic and carnal, foolish, wise, repair, the souls retiring and those that dare, sages with halos, poets laurel-crowned, all creep beneath or cluster close around, and with unending greed and joyous cries, from sources full, draw need's supplies, quench hearty thirst, obtain what must eftsoon form blood and mind, in freest boon, respire at length thy sacred flaming light, from all that greets our ears, touch, scent or sight- brown leaves, blue mountains, yellow gleams, green sod- thou undistracted still dost dream of god. toru dutt. mothers. _("regardez: les enfants.")_ [xx., june, 1884.] see all the children gathered there, their mother near; so young, so fair, an eider sister she might be, and yet she hears, amid their games, the shaking of their unknown names in the dark urn of destiny. she wakes their smiles, she soothes their cares, on that pure heart so like to theirs, her spirit with such life is rife that in its golden rays we see, touched into graceful poesy, the dull cold commonplace of life. still following, watching, whether burn the christmas log in winter stern, while merry plays go round; or streamlets laugh to breeze of may that shakes the leaf to break away- a shadow falling to the ground. if some poor man with hungry eyes her baby's coral bauble spies, she marks his look with famine wild, for christ's dear sake she makes with joy an alms-gift of the silver toy- a smiling angel of the child. _dublin university magazine_ to some birds flown away. _("enfants! oh! revenez!")_ [xxii, april, 1837] children, come back--come back, i say- you whom my folly chased away a moment since, from this my room, with bristling wrath and words of doom! what had you done, you bandits small, with lips as red as roses all? what crime?--what wild and hapless deed? what porcelain vase by you was split to thousand pieces? did you need for pastime, as you handled it, some gothic missal to enrich with your designs fantastical? or did your tearing fingers fall on some old picture? which, oh, which your dreadful fault? not one of these; only when left yourselves to please this morning but a moment here 'mid papers tinted by my mind you took some embryo verses near- half formed, but fully well designed to open out. your hearts desire was but to throw them on the fire, then watch the tinder, for the sight of shining sparks that twinkle bright as little boats that sail at night, or like the window lights that spring from out the dark at evening. 'twas all, and you were well content. fine loss was this for anger's vent- a strophe ill made midst your play, sweet sound that chased the words away in stormy flight. an ode quite new, with rhymes inflated--stanzas, too, that panted, moving lazily, and heavy alexandrine lines that seemed to jostle bodily, like children full of play designs that spring at once from schoolroom's form. instead of all this angry storm, another might have thanked you well for saving prey from that grim cell, that hollowed den 'neath journals great, where editors who poets flout with their demoniac laughter shout. and i have scolded you! what fate for charming dwarfs who never meant to anger hercules! and i have frightened you!--my chair i sent back to the wall, and then let fly a shower of words the envious use- "get out," i said, with hard abuse, "leave me alone--alone i say." poor man alone! ah, well-a-day, what fine result--what triumph rare! as one turns from the coffin'd dead so left you me:--i could but stare upon the door through which you fled- i proud and grave--but punished quite. and what care you for this my plight!- you have recovered liberty, fresh air and lovely scenery, the spacious park and wished-for grass; the running stream, where you can throw a blade to watch what comes to pass; blue sky, and all the spring can show; nature, serenely fair to see; the book of birds and spirits free, god's poem, worth much more than mine, where flowers for perfect stanzas shine- flowers that a child may pluck in play, no harsh voice frightening it away. and i'm alone--all pleasure o'er- alone with pedant called "ennui," for since the morning at my door ennui has waited patiently. that docto-r-london born, you mark, one sunday in december dark, poor little ones--he loved you not, and waited till the chance he got to enter as you passed away, and in the very corner where you played with frolic laughter gay, he sighs and yawns with weary air. what can i do? shall i read books, or write more verse--or turn fond looks upon enamels blue, sea-green, and white--on insects rare as seen upon my dresden china ware? or shall i touch the globe, and care to make the heavens turn upon its axis? no, not one--not one of all these things care i to do; all wearies me--i think of you. in truth with you my sunshine fled, and gayety with your light tread- glad noise that set me dreaming still. 'twas my delight to watch your will, and mark you point with finger-tips to help your spelling out a word; to see the pearls between your lips when i your joyous laughter heard; your honest brows that looked so true, and said "oh, yes!" to each intent; your great bright eyes, that loved to view with admiration innocent my fine old sèvres; the eager thought that every kind of knowledge sought; the elbow push with "come and see!" oh, certes! spirits, sylphs, there be, and fays the wind blows often here; the gnomes that squat the ceiling near, in corners made by old books dim; the long-backed dwarfs, those goblins grim that seem at home 'mong vases rare, and chat to them with friendly air- oh, how the joyous demon throng must all have laughed with laughter long to see you on my rough drafts fall, my bald hexameters, and all the mournful, miserable band, and drag them with relentless hand from out their box, with true delight to set them each and all a-light, and then with clapping hands to lean above the stove and watch the scene, how to the mass deformed there came a soul that showed itself in flame! bright tricksy children--oh, i pray come back and sing and dance away, and chatter too--sometimes you may, a giddy group, a big book seize- or sometimes, if it so you please, with nimble step you'll run to me and push the arm that holds the pen, till on my finished verse will be a stroke that's like a steeple when seen suddenly upon a plain. my soul longs for your breath again to warm it. oh, return--come here with laugh and babble--and no fear when with your shadow you obscure the book i read, for i am sure, oh, madcaps terrible and dear, that you were right and i was wrong. but who has ne'er with scolding tongue blamed out of season. pardon me! you must forgive--for sad are we. the young should not be hard and cold and unforgiving to the old. children each morn your souls ope out like windows to the shining day, oh, miracle that comes about, the miracle that children gay have happiness and goodness too, caressed by destiny are you, charming you are, if you but play. but we with living overwrought, and full of grave and sombre thought, are snappish oft: dear little men, we have ill-tempered days, and then, are quite unjust and full of care; it rained this morning and the air was chill; but clouds that dimm'd the sky have passed. things spited me, and why? but now my heart repents. behold what 'twas that made me cross, and scold! all by-and-by you'll understand, when brows are mark'd by time's stern hand; then you will comprehend, be sure, when older--that's to say, less pure. the fault i freely own was mine. but oh, for pardon now i pine! enough my punishment to meet, you must forgive, i do entreat with clasped hands praying--oh, come back, make peace, and you shall nothing lack. see now my pencils--paper--here, and pointless compasses, and dear old lacquer-work; and stoneware clear through glass protecting; all man's toys so coveted by girls and boys. great china monsters--bodies much like cucumbers--you all shall touch. i yield up all! my picture rare found beneath antique rubbish heap, my great and tapestried oak chair i will from you no longer keep. you shall about my table climb, and dance, or drag, without a cry from me as if it were a crime. even i'll look on patiently if you your jagged toys all throw upon my carved bench, till it show the wood is torn; and freely too, i'll leave in your own hands to view, my pictured bible--oft desired- but which to touch your fear inspired- with god in emperor's robes attired. then if to see my verses burn, should seem to you a pleasant turn, take them to freely tear away or burn. but, oh! not so i'd say, if this were méry's room to-day. that noble poet! happy town, marseilles the greek, that him doth own! daughter of homer, fair to see, of virgil's son the mother she. to you i'd say, hold, children all, let but your eyes on his work fall; these papers are the sacred nest in which his crooning fancies rest; to-morrow winged to heaven they'll soar, for new-born verse imprisoned still in manuscript may suffer sore at your small hands and childish will, without a thought of bad intent, of cruelty quite innocent. you wound their feet, and bruise their wings, and make them suffer those ill things that children's play to young birds brings. but mine! no matter what you do, my poetry is all in you; you are my inspiration bright that gives my verse its purest light. children whose life is made of hope, whose joy, within its mystic scope, owes all to ignorance of ill, you have not suffered, and you still know not what gloomy thoughts weigh down the poet-writer weary grown. what warmth is shed by your sweet smile! how much he needs to gaze awhile upon your shining placid brow, when his own brow its ache doth know; with what delight he loves to hear your frolic play 'neath tree that's near, your joyous voices mixing well with his own song's all-mournful swell! come back then, children! come to me, if you wish not that i should be as lonely now that you're afar as fisherman of etrétat, who listless on his elbow leans through all the weary winter scenes, as tired of thought--as on time flies- and watching only rainy skies! mrs. newton crosland. my thoughts of ye. _("à quoi je songe?")_ [xxiii., july, 1836.] what do i dream of? far from the low roof, where now ye are, children, i dream of you; of your young heads that are the hope and crown of my full summer, ripening to its fall. branches whose shadow grows along my wall, sweet souls scarce open to the breath of day, still dazzled with the brightness of your dawn. i dream of those two little ones at play, making the threshold vocal with their cries, half tears, half laughter, mingled sport and strife, like two flowers knocked together by the wind. or of the elder two--more anxious thought- breasting already broader waves of life, a conscious innocence on either face, my pensive daughter and my curious boy. thus do i dream, while the light sailors sing, at even moored beneath some steepy shore, while the waves opening all their nostrils breathe a thousand sea-scents to the wandering wind, and the whole air is full of wondrous sounds, from sea to strand, from land to sea, given back alone and sad, thus do i dream of you. children, and house and home, the table set, the glowing hearth, and all the pious care of tender mother, and of grandsire kind; and while before me, spotted with white sails, the limpid ocean mirrors all the stars, and while the pilot, from the infinite main, looks with calm eye into the infinite heaven, i dreaming of you only, seek to scan and fathom all my soul's deep love for you- love sweet, and powerful, and everlasting- and find that the great sea is small beside it. _dublin university magazine._ the beacon in the storm. _("quels sont ces bruits sourds?")_ [xxiv., july 17, 1836.] hark to that solemn sound! it steals towards the strand.- whose is that voice profound which mourns the swallowed land, with moans, or groans, new threats of ruin close at hand? it is triton--the storm to scorn who doth wind his sonorous horn. how thick the rain to-night! and all along the coast the sky shows naught of light is it a storm, my host? too soon the boon of pleasant weather will be lost yes, 'tis triton, etc. are seamen on that speck afar in deepening dark? is that a splitting deck of some ill-fated bark? fend harm! send calm! o venus! show thy starry spark! though 'tis triton, etc. the thousand-toothèd gale,- adventurers too bold!- rips up your toughest sail and tears your anchor-hold. you forge through surge, to be in rending breakers rolled. while old triton, etc. do sailors stare this way, cramped on the needle's sheaf, to hail the sudden ray which promises relief? then, bright; shine, light! of hope upon the beacon reef! though 'tis triton, etc. love's treacherous pool _("jeune fille, l'amour c'est un miroir.")_ [xxvi., february, 1835.] young maiden, true love is a pool all mirroring clear, where coquettish girls come to linger in long delight, for it banishes afar from the face all the clouds that besmear the soul truly bright; but tempts you to ruffle its surface; drawing your foot to subtilest sinking! and farther and farther the brink that vainly you snatch--for repentance, 'tis weed without root,- and struggling, you sink! the rose and the grave. _("la tombe dit à la rose.")_ [xxxi., june 3, 1837] the grave said to the rose "what of the dews of dawn, love's flower, what end is theirs?" "and what of spirits flown, the souls whereon doth close the tomb's mouth unawares?" the rose said to the grave. the rose said: "in the shade from the dawn's tears is made a perfume faint and strange, amber and honey sweet." "and all the spirits fleet do suffer a sky-change, more strangely than the dew, to god's own angels new," the grave said to the rose. a. lang. les rayons et les ombres.--1840. holyrood palace. _("o palais, sois bénié.")_ [ii., june, 1839.] palace and ruin, bless thee evermore! grateful we bow thy gloomy tow'rs before; for the old king of france[1] hath found in thee that melancholy hospitality which in their royal fortune's evil day, stuarts and bourbons to each other pay. _fraser's magazine._ [footnote 1: king charles x.] the humble home. _("l'église est vaste et haute.")_ [iv., june 29, 1839.] the church[1] is vast; its towering pride, its steeples loom on high; the bristling stones with leaf and flower are sculptured wondrously; the portal glows resplendent with its "rose," and 'neath the vault immense at evening swarm figures of angel, saint, or demon's form, as oft a fearful world our dreams disclose. but not the huge cathedral's height, nor yet its vault sublime, nor porch, nor glass, nor streaks of light, nor shadows deep with time; nor massy towers, that fascinate mine eyes; no, 'tis that spot--the mind's tranquillity- chamber wherefrom the song mounts cheerily, placed like a joyful nest well nigh the skies. yea! glorious is the church, i ween, but meekness dwelleth here; less do i love the lofty oak than mossy nest it bear; more dear is meadow breath than stormy wind: and when my mind for meditation's meant, the seaweed is preferred to the shore's extent,- the swallow to the main it leaves behind. _author of "critical essays."_ [footnote 1: the cathedral nôtre dame of paris, which is the scene of the author's romance, "nôtre dame."] the eighteenth century. _("o dix-huitième siècle!")_ [iv. vi] o eighteenth century! by heaven chastised! godless thou livedst, by god thy doom was fixed. thou in one ruin sword and sceptre mixed, then outraged love, and pity's claim despised. thy life a banquet--but its board a scaffold at the close, where far from christ's beatic reign, satanic deeds arose! thy writers, like thyself, by good men scorned- yet, from thy crimes, renown has decked thy name, as the smoke emplumes the furnace flame, a revolution's deeds have thine adorned! _author of "critical essays."_ still be a child. _("o vous que votre âge défende")_ [ix., february, 1840.] in youthful spirits wild, smile, for all beams on thee; sport, sing, be still the child, the flower, the honey-bee. bring not the future near, for joy too soon declines- what is man's mission here? toil, where no sunlight shines! our lot is hard, we know; from eyes so gayly beaming, whence rays of beauty flow, salt tears most oft are streaming. free from emotions past, all joy and hope possessing, with mind in pureness cast, sweet ignorance confessing. plant, safe from winds and showers, heart with soft visions glowing, in childhood's happy hours a mother's rapture showing. loved by each anxious friend, no carking care within- when summer gambols end, my winter sports begin. sweet poesy from heaven around thy form is placed, a mother's beauty given, by father's thought is graced! seize, then, each blissful second, live, for joy _sinks in night_, and those whose tale is reckoned, have had their days of light. then, oh! before we part, the poet's blessing take, ere bleeds that aged heart, or child the woman make. _dublin university magazine_. the pool and the soul. _("comme dans les étangs.")_ [x., may, 1839.] as in some stagnant pool by forest-side, in human souls two things are oft descried; the sky,--which tints the surface of the pool with all its rays, and all its shadows cool; the basin next,--where gloomy, dark and deep, through slime and mud black reptiles vaguely creep. r.f. hodgson ye mariners who spread your sails. _("matelôts, vous déploirez les voiles.")_ [xvi., may 5, 1839.] ye mariners! ye mariners! each sail to the breeze unfurled, in joy or sorrow still pursue your course around the world; and when the stars next sunset shine, ye anxiously will gaze upon the shore, a friend or foe, as the windy quarter lays. ye envious souls, with spiteful tooth, the statue's base will bite; ye birds will sing, ye bending boughs with verdure glad the sight; the ivy root in the stone entwined, will cause old gates to fall; the church-bell sound to work or rest the villagers will call. ye glorious oaks will still increase in solitude profound, where the far west in distance lies as evening veils around; ye willows, to the earth your arms in mournful trail will bend, and back again your mirror'd forms the water's surface send. ye nests will oscillate beneath the youthful progeny; embraced in furrows of the earth the germing grain will lie; ye lightning-torches still your streams will cast into the air, which like a troubled spirit's course float wildly here and there. ye thunder-peals will god proclaim, as doth the ocean wave; ye violets will nourish still the flower that april gave; upon your ambient tides will be man's sternest shadow cast; your waters ever will roll on when man himself is past. all things that are, or being have, or those that mutely lie, have each its course to follow out, or object to descry; contributing its little share to that stupendous whole, where with man's teeming race combined creation's wonders roll. the poet, too, will contemplate th' almighty father's love, who to our restless minds, with light and darkness from above, hath given the heavens that glorious urn of tranquil majesty, whence in unceasing stores we draw calm and serenity. _author of "critical essays."_ on a flemish window-pane. _("j'aime le carillon dans tes cités antiques.")_ [xviii., august, 1837.] within thy cities of the olden time dearly i love to list the ringing chime, thou faithful guardian of domestic worth, noble old flanders! where the rigid north a flush of rich meridian glow doth feel, caught from reflected suns of bright castile. the chime, the clinking chime! to fancy's eye- prompt her affections to personify- it is the fresh and frolic hour, arrayed in guise of andalusian dancing maid, appealing by a crevice fine and rare, as of a door oped in "th' incorporal air." she comes! o'er drowsy roofs, inert and dull, shaking her lap, of silv'ry music full, rousing without remorse the drones abed, tripping like joyous bird with tiniest tread, quiv'ring like dart that trembles in the targe, by a frail crystal stair, whose viewless marge bears her slight footfall, tim'rous half, yet free, in innocent extravagance of glee the graceful elf alights from out the spheres, while the quick spirit--thing of eyes and ears- as now she goes, now comes, mounts, and anon descends, those delicate degrees upon, hears her melodious spirit from step to step run on. _fraser's magazine_ the preceptor. _("homme chauve et noir.")_ [xix., may, 1839.] a gruesome man, bald, clad in black, who kept us youthful drudges in the track, thinking it good for them to leave home care, and for a while a harsher yoke to bear; surrender all the careless ease of home, and be forbid from schoolyard bounds to roam; for this with blandest smiles he softly asks that they with him will prosecute their tasks; receives them in his solemn chilly lair, the rigid lot of discipline to share. at dingy desks they toil by day; at night to gloomy chambers go uncheered by light, where pillars rudely grayed by rusty nail of heavy hours reveal the weary tale; where spiteful ushers grin, all pleased to make long scribbled lines the price of each mistake. by four unpitying walls environed there the homesick students pace the pavements bare. e.e. frewer gastibelza. _("gastibelza, l'homme à la carabine.")_ [xxii., march, 1837.] gastibelza, with gun the measure beating, would often sing: "has one o' ye with sweet sabine been meeting, as, gay, ye bring your songs and steps which, by the music, are reconciled- oh! this chill wind across the mountain rushing will drive me wild! "you stare as though you hardly knew my lady- sabine's her name! her dam inhabits yonder cavern shady, a witch of shame, who shrieks o' nights upon the haunted tower, with horrors piled- oh! this chill wind, etc. "sing on and leap--enjoying all the favors good heaven sends; she, too, was young--her lips had peachy savors with honey blends; give to that hag--not always old--a penny, though crime-defiled- oh! this chill wind, etc. "the queen beside her looked a wench uncomely, when, near to-night, she proudly stalked a-past the maids so homely, in bodice tight and collar old as reign of wicked julian, by fiend beguiled- oh! this chill wind, etc. "the king himself proclaimed her peerless beauty before the court, and held it were to win a kiss his duty to give a fort, or, more, to sign away all bright dorado, tho' gold-plate tiled- oh! this chill wind, etc. "love her? at least, i know i am most lonely without her nigh; i'm but a hound to follow her, and only at her feet die. i'd gayly spend of toilsome years a dozen- a felon styled- oh! this chill wind, etc. "one summer day when long--so long? i'd missed her, she came anew, to play i' the fount alone but for her sister, and bared to view the finest, rosiest, most tempting ankle, like that of child- oh! this chill wind, etc. "when i beheld her, i--a lowly shepherd- grew in my mind till i was caesar--she that crownèd leopard he crouched behind, no roman stern, but in her silken leashes a captive mild- oh! this chill wind, etc. "yet dance and sing, tho' night be thickly falling;- in selfsame time poor sabine heard in ecstasy the calling, in winning rhyme, of saldane's earl so noble, ay, and wealthy, name e'er reviled- oh! this chill wind, etc. "(let me upon this bench be shortly resting, so weary, i!) that noble bore her smiling, unresisting, by yonder high and ragged road that snakes towards the summit where crags are piled- oh! this chill wind, etc. "i saw her pass beside my lofty station- a glance--'twas all! and yet i loathe my daily honest ration, the air's turned gall! my soul's in chase, my body chafes to wander- my dagger's filed- oh! this chill wind may change, and o'er the mountain may drive me wild!" henry l. williams. guitar song. _("comment, disaient-ils.")_ [xxiii., july 18, 1838.] how shall we flee sorrow--flee sorrow? said he. how, how! how shall we flee sorrow--flee sorrow? said he. how--how--how? answered she. how shall we see pleasure--see pleasure? said he. how, how! how shall we see pleasure--see pleasure? said he. dream--dream--dream! answered she. how shall we be happy--be happy? said he. how, how! how shall we be happy--be happy? said he. love--love--love! whispered she. evelyn jerrold come when i sleep. _("oh, quand je dors.")_ [xxvii.] oh! when i sleep, come near my resting-place, as laura came to bless her poet's heart, and let thy breath in passing touch my face- at once a space my lips will part. and on my brow where too long weighed supreme a vision--haply spent now--black as night, let thy look as a star arise and beam- at once my dream will seem of light. then press my lips, where plays a flame of bliss- a pure and holy love-light--and forsake the angel for the woman in a kiss- at once, i wis, my soul will wake! wm. w. tomlinson. early love revisited. _("o douleur! j'ai voulu savoir.")_ [xxxiv. i., october, 183-.] i have wished in the grief of my heart to know if the vase yet treasured that nectar so clear, and to see what this beautiful valley could show of all that was once to my soul most dear. in how short a span doth all nature change, how quickly she smoothes with her hand serene- and how rarely she snaps, in her ceaseless range, the links that bound our hearts to the scene. our beautiful bowers are all laid waste; the fir is felled that our names once bore; our rows of roses, by urchins' haste, are destroyed where they leap the barrier o'er. the fount is walled in where, at noonday pride, she so gayly drank, from the wood descending; in her fairy hand was transformed the tide, and it turned to pearls through her fingers wending the wild, rugged path is paved with spars, where erst in the sand her footsteps were traced, when so small were the prints that the surface mars, that they seemed _to smile_ ere by mine effaced. the bank on the side of the road, day by day, where of old she awaited my loved approach, is now become the traveller's way to avoid the track of the thundering coach. here the forest contracts, there the mead extends, of all that was ours, there is little left- like the ashes that wildly are whisked by winds, of all souvenirs is the place bereft. do we live no more--is our hour then gone? will it give back naught to our hungry cry? the breeze answers my call with a mocking tone, the house that was mine makes no reply. true! others shall pass, as we have passed, as we have come, so others shall meet, and the dream that our mind had sketched in haste, shall others continue, but never complete. for none upon earth can achieve his scheme, the best as the worst are futile here: we awake at the selfsame point cf the dream- all is here begun, and finished elsewhere. yes! others shall come in the bloom of the heart, to enjoy in this pure and happy retreat, all that nature to timid love can impart of solemn repose and communion sweet. in _our_ fields, in _our_ paths, shall strangers stray, in _thy_ wood, my dearest, new lovers go lost, and other fair forms in the stream shall play which of old thy delicate feet have crossed. _author of "critical essays."_ sweet memory of love. _("toutes les passions s'éloignent avec l'âge.")_ [xxxiv. ii., october, 183-.] as life wanes on, the passions slow depart, one with his grinning mask, one with his steel; like to a strolling troupe of thespian art, whose pace decreases, winding past the hill. but naught can love's all charming power efface, that light, our misty tracks suspended o'er, in joy thou'rt ours, more dear thy tearful grace, the young may curse thee, but the old adore. but when the weight of years bow down the head, and man feels all his energies decline, his projects gone, himself tomb'd with the dead, where virtues lie, nor more illusions shine, when all our lofty thoughts dispersed and o'er, we count within our hearts so near congealed, each grief that's past, each dream, exhausted ore! as counting dead upon the battle-field. as one who walks by the lamp's flickering blaze, far from the hum of men, the joys of earth- our mind arrives at last by tortuous ways, at that drear gulf where but despair has birth. e'en there, amid the darkness of that night, when all seems closing round in empty air, is seen through thickening gloom one trembling light! 'tis love's sweet memory that lingers there! _author of "critical essays."_ the marble faun. _("il semblait grelotter.")_ [xxxvi., december, 1837.] he seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen. 'twas a poor statue underneath a mass of leafless branches, with a blackened back and a green foot--an isolated faun in old deserted park, who, bending forward, half-merged himself in the entangled boughs, half in his marble settings. he was there, pensive, and bound to earth; and, as all things devoid of movement, he was there--forgotten. trees were around him, whipped by icy blasts- gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird, and, like himself, grown old in that same place. through the dark network of their undergrowth, pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown. starless and moonless, a rough winter's night was letting down her lappets o'er the mist. this--nothing more: old faun, dull sky, dark wood. poor, helpless marble, how i've pitied it! less often man--the harder of the two. so, then, without a word that might offend his ear deformed--for well the marble hears the voice of thought--i said to him: "you hail from the gay amorous age. o faun, what saw you when you were happy? were you of the court? "speak to me, comely faun, as you would speak to tree, or zephyr, or untrodden grass. have you, o greek, o mocker of old days, have you not sometimes with that oblique eye winked at the farnese hercules?--alone, have you, o faun, considerately turned from side to side when counsel-seekers came, and now advised as shepherd, now as satyr?- have you sometimes, upon this very bench, seen, at mid-day, vincent de paul instilling grace into gondi?--have you ever thrown that searching glance on louis with fontange, on anne with buckingham; and did they not start, with flushed cheeks, to hear your laugh ring forth from corner of the wood?--was your advice as to the thyrsis or the ivy asked, when, in grand ballet of fantastic form, god phoebus, or god pan, and all his court, turned the fair head of the proud montespan, calling her amaryllis?--la fontaine, flying the courtiers' ears of stone, came he, tears on his eyelids, to reveal to you the sorrows of his nymphs of vaux?--what said boileau to you--to you--o lettered faun, who once with virgil, in the eclogue, held that charming dialogue?--say, have you seen young beauties sporting on the sward?--have you been honored with a sight of molière in dreamy mood?--has he perchance, at eve, when here the thinker homeward went, has he, who--seeing souls all naked--could not fear your nudity, in his inquiring mind, confronted you with man?" under the thickly-tangled branches, thus did i speak to him; he no answer gave. i shook my head, and moved myself away; then, from the copses, and from secret caves hid in the wood, methought a ghostly voice came forth and woke an echo in my souls as in the hollow of an amphora. "imprudent poet," thus it seemed to say, "what dost thou here? leave the forsaken fauns in peace beneath their trees! dost thou not know, poet, that ever it is impious deemed, in desert spots where drowsy shades repose- though love itself might prompt thee--to shake down the moss that hangs from ruined centuries, and, with the vain noise of throe ill-timed words, to mar the recollections of the dead?" then to the gardens all enwrapped in mist i hurried, dreaming of the vanished days, and still behind me--hieroglyph obscure of antique alphabet--the lonely faun held to his laughter, through the falling night. i went my way; but yet--in saddened spirit pondering on all that had my vision crossed, leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time- through all, at distance, would my fancy see, in the woods, statues; shadows in the past! william young a love for winged things. [xxxvii., april 12, 1840.] my love flowed e'er for things with wings. when boy i sought for forest fowl, and caged them in rude rushes' mesh, and fed them with my breakfast roll; so that, though fragile were the door, they rarely fled, and even then would flutter back at faintest call! man-grown, i charm for men. baby's seaside grave. _("vieux lierre, frais gazon.")_ [xxxviii., 1840.] brown ivy old, green herbage new; soft seaweed stealing up the shingle; an ancient chapel where a crew, ere sailing, in the prayer commingle. a far-off forest's darkling frown, which makes the prudent start and tremble, whilst rotten nuts are rattling down, and clouds in demon hordes assemble. land birds which twit the mews that scream round walls where lolls the languid lizard; brine-bubbling brooks where fishes stream past caves fit for an ocean wizard. alow, aloft, no lull--all life, but far aside its whirls are keeping, as wishfully to let its strife spare still the mother vainly weeping o'er baby, lost not long, a-sleeping. les châtiments.--1853. indignation! _("toi qu'aimais juvénal.")_ [nox (prelude) ix., jersey, november, 1852.] thou who loved juvenal, and filed his style so sharp to scar imperial brows, and lent the lustre lightening the gloom in dante's murky verse that flows- muse indignation! haste, and help my building up before this roseate realm, and its so fruitless victories, whence transient shame right's prophets overwhelm, so many pillories, deserved! that eyes to come will pry without avail, upon the wood impenetrant, and spy no glimmer of its tarnished tale. imperial revels. _("courtisans! attablés dans le splendide orgie.")_ [bk. i. x., jersey, december, 1852.] cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread- the board that groans with shame and plate, still fawning to the sham-crowned head that hopes front brazen turneth fate! drink till the comer last is full, and never hear in revels' lull, grim vengeance forging arrows fleet, whilst i gnaw at the crust of exile in the dust- but _honor_ makes it sweet! ye cheaters in the tricksters' fane, who dupe yourself and trickster-chief, in blazing _cafés_ spend the gain, but draw the blind, lest at _his_ thief some fresh-made beggar gives a glance and interrupts with steel the dance! but let him toilsomely tramp by, as i myself afar follow no gilded car in ways of _honesty_. ye troopers who shot mothers down, and marshals whose brave cannonade broke infant arms and split the stone where slumbered age and guileless maid- though blood is in the cup you fill, pretend it "rosy" wine, and still hail cannon "king!" and steel the "queen!" but i prefer to sup from philip sidney's cup- true soldier's draught serene. oh, workmen, seen by me sublime, when from the tyrant wrenched ye peace, can you be dazed by tinselled crime, and spy no wolf beneath the fleece? build palaces where fortunes feast, and bear your loads like well-trained beast, though once such masters you made flee! but then, like me, you ate food of a blessed _fête_- the bread of _liberty_! h.l.w. poor little children. _("la femelle! elle est morte.")_ [bk. i. xiii., jersey, february, 1853.] mother birdie stiff and cold, puss has hushed the other's singing; winds go whistling o'er the wold,- empty nest in sport a-flinging. poor little birdies! faithless shepherd strayed afar, playful dog the gadflies catching; wolves bound boldly o'er the bar, not a friend the fold is watching- poor little lambkins! father into prison fell, mother begging through the parish; baby's cot they, too, will sell,- who will now feed, clothe and cherish? poor little children! apostrophe to nature. _("o soleil!")_ [bk. ii. iv., anniversary of the coup d'état, 1852.] o sun! thou countenance divine! wild flowers of the glen, caves swoll'n with shadow, where sunshine has pierced not, far from men; ye sacred hills and antique rocks, ye oaks that worsted time, ye limpid lakes which snow-slide shocks hurl up in storms sublime; and sky above, unruflfed blue, chaste rills that alway ran from stainless source a course still true, what think ye of this man? napoleon "the little." _("ah! tu finiras bien par hurler!")_ [bk. iii. ii., jersey, august, 1852.] how well i knew this stealthy wolf would howl, when in the eagle talons ta'en in air! aglow, i snatched thee from thy prey--thou fowl- i held thee, abject conqueror, just where all see the stigma of a fitting name as deeply red as deeply black thy shame! and though thy matchless impudence may frame some mask of seeming courage--spite thy sneer, and thou assurest sloth and skunk: "it does not smart!" thou feel'st it burning, in and in,--and fear none will forget it till shall fall the deadly dart! fact or fable? (bismarck and napoleon iii.) _("un jour, sentant un royal appétit.")_ [bk. iii. iii., jersey, september, 1852.] one fasting day, itched by his appetite, a monkey took a fallen tiger's hide, and, where the wearer had been savage, tried to overpass his model. scratch and bite gave place, however, to mere gnash of teeth and screams, but, as he prowled, he made his hearers fly with crying often: "see the terror of your dreams!" till, for too long, none ventured thither nigh. left undisturbed to snatch, and clog his brambled den, with sleepers' bones and plumes of daunted doves, and other spoil of beasts as timid as the men, who shrank when he mock-roared, from glens and groves- he begged his fellows view the crannies crammed with pelf sordid and tawdry, stained and tinselled things, as ample proof he was the royal tiger's self! year in, year out, thus still he purrs and sings till tramps a butcher by--he risks his head- in darts the hand and crushes out the yell, and plucks the hide--as from a nut the shell- he holds him nude, and sneers: "an ape you dread!" h.l.w. a lament. _("sentiers où l'herbe se balance.")_ [bk. iii. xi., july, 1853.] o paths whereon wild grasses wave! o valleys! hillsides! forests hoar! why are ye silent as the grave? for one, who came, and comes no more! why is thy window closed of late? and why thy garden in its sear? o house! where doth thy master wait? i only know he is not here. good dog! thou watchest; yet no hand will feed thee. in the house is none. whom weepest thou? child! my father. and o wife! whom weepest thou? the gone. where is he gone? into the dark.- o sad, and ever-plaining surge! whence art thou? from the convict-bark. and why thy mournful voice? a dirge. edwin arnold, c.s.i. no assassination. _("laissons le glaive à rome.")_ [bk. iii. xvi., october, 1852.] pray rome put up her poniard! and sparta sheathe the sword; be none too prompt to punish, and cast indignant word! bear back your spectral brutus from robber bonaparte; time rarely will refute us who doom the hateful heart. ye shall be o'ercontented, my banished mates from home, but be no rashness vented ere time for joy shall come. no crime can outspeed justice, who, resting, seems delayed- full faith accord the angel who points the patient blade. the traitor still may nestle in balmy bed of state, but mark the warder, watching his guardsman at his gate. he wears the crown, a monarch- of knaves and stony hearts; but though they're blessed by senates, none can escape the darts! though shored by spear and crozier, all know the arrant cheat, and shun the square of pavement uncertain at his feet! yea, spare the wretch, each brooding and secret-leaguers' chief, and make no pistol-target of stars upon the thief. the knell of god strikes seldom but in the aptest hour; and when the life is sweetest, the worm will feel his power! the despatch of the doom. _("pendant que dans l'auberge.")_ [bk. iv. xiii., jersey, november, 1852.] while in the jolly tavern, the bandits gayly drink, upon the haunted highway, sharp hoof-beats loudly clink? yea; past scant-buried victims, hard-spurring sturdy steed, a mute and grisly rider is trampling grass and weed, and by the black-sealed warrant which in his grasp shines clear, i known it is _the future_--god's justicer is here! the seaman's song. _("adieu, patrie.")_ [bk. v. ix., aug. 1, 1852.] farewell the strand, the sails expand above! farewell the land we love! farewell, old home where apples swing! farewell, gay song-birds on the wing! farewell, riff-raff of customs' clerks who laugh and shout: "farewell!" we'll quaff one bout to thee, young lass, with kisses sweet! farewell, my dear--the ship flies fleet! the fog shuts out the last fond peep, as 'neath the prow the cast drops weep. farewell, old home, young lass, the bird! the whistling wind alone is heard: farewell! farewell! the retreat from moscow. _("il neigeait.")_ [bk. v. xiii., nov. 25-30, 1852.] it snowed. a defeat was our conquest red! for once the eagle was hanging its head. sad days! the emperor turned slowly his back on smoking moscow, blent orange and black. the winter burst, avalanche-like, to reign over the endless blanched sheet of the plain. nor chief nor banner in order could keep, the wolves of warfare were 'wildered like sheep. the wings from centre could hardly be known through snow o'er horses and carts o'erthrown, where froze the wounded. in the bivouacs forlorn strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn: mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad. the shells and bullets came down with the snow as though the heavens hated these poor troops below. surprised at trembling, though it was with cold, who ne'er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold marched stern; to grizzled moustache hoarfrost clung 'neath banners that in leaden masses hung. it snowed, went snowing still. and chill the breeze whistled upon the glassy endless seas, where naked feet on, on for ever went, with naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent. they were not living troops as seen in war, but merely phantoms of a dream, afar in darkness wandering, amid the vapor dim,- a mystery; of shadows a procession grim, nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim. frightful, since boundless, solitude behold where only nemesis wove, mute and cold, a net all snowy with its soft meshes dense, a shroud of magnitude for host immense; till every one felt as if left alone in a wide wilderness where no light shone, to die, with pity none, and none to see that from this mournful realm none should get free. their foes the frozen north and czar--that, worst. cannon were broken up in haste accurst to burn the frames and make the pale fire high, where those lay down who never woke or woke to die. sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread. 'neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised o'er regiments. and history, amazed, could not record the ruin of this retreat, unlike a downfall known before or the defeat of hannibal--reversed and wrapped in gloom! of attila, when nations met their doom! perished an army--fled french glory then, though there the emperor! he stood and gazed at the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed in woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw- he, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe. chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. but still warm love kept those that rose all dastard fear above, as on his tent they saw his shadow pass- backwards and forwards, for they credited, alas! his fortune's star! it could not, could not be that he had not his work to do--a destiny? to hurl him headlong from his high estate, would be high treason in his bondman, fate. but all the while he felt himself alone, stunned with disasters few have ever known. sudden, a fear came o'er his troubled soul, what more was written on the future's scroll? was this an expiation? it must be, yea! he turned to god for one enlightening ray. "is this the vengeance, lord of hosts?" he sighed, but the first murmur on his parched lips died. "is this the vengeance? must my glory set?" a pause: his name was called; of flame a jet sprang in the darkness;--a voice answered; "no! not yet." outside still fell the smothering snow. was it a voice indeed? or but a dream? it was the vulture's, but how like the _sea-bird's scream._ toru dutt. the ocean's song. _("nous nous promenions à rozel-tower.")_ [bk. vi. iv., october, 1852.] we walked amongst the ruins famed in story of rozel-tower, and saw the boundless waters stretch in glory and heave in power. o ocean vast! we heard thy song with wonder, whilst waves marked time. "appeal, o truth!" thou sang'st with tone of thunder, "and shine sublime! "the world's enslaved and hunted down by beagles,- to despots sold, souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles, the right uphold. "be born; arise; o'er earth and wild waves bounding peoples and suns! let darkness vanish;--tocsins be resounding, and flash, ye guns! "and you,--who love no pomps of fog, or glamour, who fear no shocks, brave foam and lightning, hurricane and clamor, exiles--the rocks!" toru dutt the trumpets of the mind. _("sonnez, clairons de la pensée!")_ [bk. vii. i., march 19, 1853.] sound, sound for ever, clarions of thought! when joshua 'gainst the high-walled city fought, he marched around it with his banner high, his troops in serried order following nigh, but not a sword was drawn, no shaft outsprang, only the trumpets the shrill onset rang. at the first blast, smiled scornfully the king, and at the second sneered, half wondering: "hop'st thou with noise my stronghold to break down?" at the third round, the ark of old renown swept forward, still the trumpets sounding loud, and then the troops with ensigns waving proud. stepped out upon the old walls children dark with horns to mock the notes and hoot the ark. at the fourth turn, braving the israelites, women appeared upon the crenelated heights- those battlements embrowned with age and rust- and hurled upon the hebrews stones and dust, and spun and sang when weary of the game. at the fifth circuit came the blind and lame, and with wild uproar clamorous and high railed at the clarion ringing to the sky. at the sixth time, upon a tower's tall crest, so high that there the eagle built his nest, so hard that on it lightning lit in vain, appeared in merriment the king again: "these hebrew jews musicians are, meseems!" he scoffed, loud laughing, "but they live on dreams." the princes laughed submissive to the king, laughed all the courtiers in their glittering ring, and thence the laughter spread through all the town. at the seventh blast--the city walls fell down. toru dutt. after the coup d'êtat. _("devant les trahisons.")_ [bk. vii, xvi., jersey, dec. 2, 1852.] before foul treachery and heads hung down, i'll fold my arms, indignant but serene. oh! faith in fallen things--be thou my crown, my force, my joy, my prop on which i lean: yes, whilst _he's_ there, or struggle some or fall, o france, dear france, for whom i weep in vain. tomb of my sires, nest of my loves--my all, i ne'er shall see thee with these eyes again. i shall not see thy sad, sad sounding shore, france, save my duty, i shall all forget; amongst the true and tried, i'll tug my oar, and rest proscribed to brand the fawning set. o bitter exile, hard, without a term, thee i accept, nor seek nor care to know who have down-truckled 'mid the men deemed firm, and who have fled that should have fought the foe. if true a thousand stand, with them i stand; a hundred? 'tis enough: we'll sylla brave; ten? put my name down foremost in the band; one?--well, alone--until i find my grave. toru dutt. patria.[1] _("là-haut, qui sourit.")_ [bk. vii. vii., september, 1853.] who smiles there? is it a stray spirit, or woman fair? sombre yet soft the brow! bow, nations, bow; o soul in air, speak--what art thou? in grief the fair face seems- what means those sudden gleams? our antique pride from dreams starts up, and beams its conquering glance,- to make our sad hearts dance, and wake in woods hushed long the wild bird's song. angel of day! our hope, love, stay, thy countenance lights land and sea eternally, thy name is france or verity. fair angel in thy glass when vile things move or pass, clouds in the skies amass; terrible, alas! thy stern commands are then: "form your battalions, men, the flag display!" and all obey. angel of might sent kings to smite, the words in dark skies glance, "mené, mené," hiss bolts that never miss! thy name is france, or nemesis. as halcyons in may, o nations, in his ray float and bask for aye, nor know decay! one arm upraised to heaven seals the past forgiven; one holds a sword to quell hell's horde, angel of god! thy wings stretch broad as heaven's expanse! to shield and free humanity! thy name is france, or liberty! [footnote 1: written to music by beethoven.] the universal republic. _("temps futurs.")_ [part "lux," jersey, dec. 16-20, 1853.] o vision of the coming time! when man has 'scaped the trackless slime and reached the desert spring; when sands are crossed, the sward invites the worn to rest 'mid rare delights and gratefully to sing. e'en now the eye that's levelled high, though dimly, can the hope espy so solid soon, one day; for every chain must then be broke, and hatred none will dare evoke, and june shall scatter may. e'en now amid our misery the germ of union many see, and through the hedge of thorn, like to a bee that dawn awakes, on, progress strides o'er shattered stakes, with solemn, scathing scorn. behold the blackness shrink, and flee! behold the world rise up so free of coroneted things! whilst o'er the distant youthful states, like amazonian bosom-plates, spread freedom's shielding wings. ye, liberated lands, we hail! your sails are whole despite the gale! your masts are firm, and will not fail- the triumph follows pain! hear forges roar! the hammer clanks- it beats the time to nations' thanks- at last, a _peaceful_ strain! 'tis rust, not gore, that gnaws the guns, and shattered shells are but the runs where warring insects cope; and all the headsman's racks and blades and pincers, tools of tyrants' aids, are buried with the rope. upon the sky-line glows i' the dark the sun that now is but a spark; but soon will be unfurled- the glorious banner of us all, the flag that rises ne'er to fall, republic of the world! les contemplations.--1830-56. the vale to you, to me the heights. a fable. [bk. iii. vi., october, 1846.] a lion camped beside a spring, where came the bird of jove to drink: when, haply, sought two kings, without their courtier herd, the moistened brink, beneath the palm--_they_ always tempt pugnacious hands- both travel-sore; but quickly, on the recognition, out flew brands straight to each core; as dying breaths commingle, o'er them rose the call of eagle shrill: "yon crownèd couple, who supposed the world too small, now one grave fill! chiefs blinded by your rage! each bleachèd sapless bone becomes a pipe through which siroccos whistle, trodden 'mong the stone by quail and snipe. folly's liege-men, what boots such murd'rous raid, and mortal feud? i, eagle, dwell as friend with leo--none afraid- in solitude: at the same pool we bathe and quaff in placid mood. kings, he and i; for i to him leave prairie, desert sands and wood, and he to me the sky." h.l.w. childhood. _("l'enfant chantait.")_ [bk. i. xxiii., paris, january, 1835.] the small child sang; the mother, outstretched on the low bed, with anguish moaned,--fair form pain should possess not long; for, ever nigher, death hovered around her head: i hearkened there this moan, and heard even there that song. the child was but five years, and, close to the lattice, aye made a sweet noise with games and with his laughter bright; and the wan mother, aside this being the livelong day carolling joyously, coughed hoarsely all the night. the mother went to sleep 'mong them that sleep alway; and the blithe little lad began anew to sing... sorrow is like a fruit: god doth not therewith weigh earthward the branch strong yet but for the blossoming. nelson r. tyerman. satire on the earth. _("une terre au flanc maigre.")_ [bk. iii. xi., october, 1840.] a clod with rugged, meagre, rust-stained, weather-worried face, where care-filled creatures tug and delve to keep a worthless race; and glean, begrudgedly, by all their unremitting toil, sour, scanty bread and fevered water from the ungrateful soil; made harder by their gloom than flints that gash their harried hands, and harder in the things they call their hearts than wolfish bands, perpetuating faults, inventing crimes for paltry ends, and yet, perversest beings! hating death, their best of friends! pride in the powerful no more, no less than in the poor; hatred in both their bosoms; love in one, or, wondrous! two! fog in the valleys; on the mountains snowfields, ever new, that only melt to send down waters for the liquid hell, in which, their strongest sons and fairest daughters vilely fell! no marvel, justice, modesty dwell far apart and high, where they can feebly hear, and, rarer, answer victims' cry. at both extremes, unflinching frost, the centre scorching hot; land storms that strip the orchards nude, leave beaten grain to rot; oceans that rise with sudden force to wash the bloody land, where war, amid sob-drowning cheers, claps weapons in each hand. and this to those who, luckily, abide afar- this is, ha! ha! _a star_! how butterflies are born. _("comme le matin rit sur les roses.")_ [bk. i. xii.] the dawn is smiling on the dew that covers the tearful roses--lo, the little lovers- that kiss the buds and all the flutterings in jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings that go and come, and fly, and peep, and hide with muffled music, murmured far and wide! ah, springtime, when we think of all the lays that dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays, of the proud hearts within a billet bound, of all the soft silk paper that men wound, the messages of love that mortals write, filled with intoxication of delight, written in april, and before the maytime shredded and flown, playthings for the winds' playtime. we dream that all white butterflies above, who seek through clouds or waters souls to love, and leave their lady mistress to despair, to flirt with flowers, as tender and more fair, are but torn love-letters, that through the skies flutter, and float, and change to butterflies. a. lang. have you nothing to say for yourself? _("si vous n'avez rien à me dire.")_ [bk. ii. iv., may, 18--.] speak, if you love me, gentle maiden! or haunt no more my lone retreat. if not for me thy heart be laden, why trouble mine with smiles so sweet? ah! tell me why so mute, fair maiden, whene'er as thus so oft we meet? if not for me thy heart be, aideen, why trouble mine with smiles so sweet? why, when my hand unconscious pressing, still keep untold the maiden dream? in fancy thou art thus caressing the while we wander by the stream. if thou art pained when i am near thee, why in my path so often stray? for in my heart i love yet fear thee, and fain would fly, yet fondly stay. c.h. kenny. inscription for a crucifix.[1] _("vous qui pleurez, venez à ce dieu.")_ [bk. iii. iv., march, 1842.] ye weepers, the mourner o'er mourners behold! ye wounded, come hither--the healer enfold! ye gloomy ones, brighten 'neath smiles quelling care- or pass--for _this_ comfort is found ev'rywhere. [footnote 1: music by gounod.] death, in life. _("ceux-ci partent.")_ [bk. iii. v., february, 1843.] we pass--these sleep beneath the shade where deep-leaved boughs bend o'er the furrows the great reaper ploughs, and gentle summer winds in many sweep whirl in eddying waves the dead leaves o'er the graves. and the living sigh: forgotten ones, so soon your memories die. ye never more may list the wild bird's song, or mingle in the crowded city-throng. ye must ever dwell in gloom, 'mid the silence of the tomb. and the dead reply: god giveth us his life. ye die, your barren lives are tilled with tears, for glory, ye are clad with fears. oh, living ones! oh, earthly shades! we live; your beauty clouds and fades. the dying child to its mother. _("oh! vous aurez trop dit.")_ [bk. iii. xiv., april, 1843.] ah, you said too often to your angel there are other angels in the sky- there, where nothing changes, nothing suffers, sweet it were to enter in on high. to that dome on marvellous pilasters, to that tent roofed o'er with colored bars, that blue garden full of stars like lilies, and of lilies beautiful as stars. and you said it was a place most joyous, all our poor imaginings above, with the wingèd cherubim for playmates, and the good god evermore to love. sweet it were to dwell there in all seasons, like a taper burning day and night, near to the child jesus and the virgin, in that home so beautiful and bright. but you should have told him, hapless mother, told your child so frail and gentle too, that you were all his in life's beginning, but that also he belonged to you. for the mother watches o'er the infant, he must rise up in her latter days, she will need the man that was her baby to stand by her when her strength decays. ah, you did not tell enough your darling that god made us in this lower life, woman for the man, and man for woman, in our pains, our pleasures and our strife. so that one sad day, o loss, o sorrow! the sweet creature left you all alone; 'twas your own hand hung the cage door open, mother, and your pretty bird is flown. bp. alexander. epitaph. _("il vivait, il jouait.")_ [bk. iii. xv., may, 1843.] he lived and ever played, the tender smiling thing. what need, o earth, to have plucked this flower from blossoming? hadst thou not then the birds with rainbow-colors bright, the stars and the great woods, the wan wave, the blue sky? what need to have rapt this child from her thou hadst placed him by- beneath those other flowers to have hid this flower from sight? because of this one child thou hast no more of might, o star-girt earth, his death yields thee not higher delight! but, ah! the mother's heart with woe for ever wild, this heart whose sovran bliss brought forth so bitter birth- this world as vast as thou, even _thou_, o sorrowless earth, is desolate and void because of this one child! nelson k. tyerman. st. john. _("un jour, le morne esprit.")_ [bk. vi. vii., jersey, september, 1855.] one day, the sombre soul, the prophet most sublime at patmos who aye dreamed, and tremblingly perused, without the vast of time, words that with hell-fire gleamed, said to his eagle: "bird, spread wings for loftiest flight- needs must i see his face!" the eagle soared. at length, far beyond day and night, lo! the all-sacred place! and john beheld the way whereof no angel knows the name, nor there hath trod; and, lo! the place fulfilled with shadow that aye glows because of very god. nelson r. tyerman. the poet's simple faith. you say, "where goest thou?" i cannot tell, and still go on. if but the way be straight, it cannot go amiss! before me lies dawn and the day; the night behind me; that suffices me; i break the bounds; i _see_, and nothing more; _believe_, and nothing less. my future is not one of my concerns. prof. e. dowden. i am content. _("j'habite l'ombre.")_ [1855.] true; i dwell lone, upon sea-beaten cape, mere raft of stone; whence all escape save one who shrinks not from the gloom, and will not take the coward's leap i' the tomb. my bedroom rocks with breezes; quakes in storms, when dangling locks of seaweed mock the forms of straggling clouds that trail o'erhead like tresses from disrupted coffin-lead. upon the sky crape palls are often nailed with stars. mine eye has scared the gull that sailed to blacker depths with shrillest scream, still fainter, till like voices in a dream. my days become more plaintive, wan, and pale, while o'er the foam i see, borne by the gale, infinity! in kindness sent- to find me ever saying: "i'm content!" la légende des siècles. cain. _("lorsque avec ses enfants cain se fût enfui.")_ [bk. ii] then, with his children, clothed in skins of brutes, dishevelled, livid, rushing through the storm, cain fled before jehovah. as night fell the dark man reached a mount in a great plain, and his tired wife and his sons, out of breath, said: "let us lie down on the earth and sleep." cain, sleeping not, dreamed at the mountain foot. raising his head, in that funereal heaven he saw an eye, a great eye, in the night open, and staring at him in the gloom. "i am too near," he said, and tremblingly woke up his sleeping sons again, and his tired wife, and fled through space and darkness. thirty days he went, and thirty nights, nor looked behind; pale, silent, watchful, shaking at each sound; no rest, no sleep, till he attained the strand where the sea washes that which since was asshur. "here pause," he said, "for this place is secure; here may we rest, for this is the world's end." and he sat down; when, lo! in the sad sky, the selfsame eye on the horizon's verge, and the wretch shook as in an ague fit. "hide me!" he cried; and all his watchful sons, their finger on their lip, stared at their sire. cain said to jabal (father of them that dwell in tents): "spread here the curtain of thy tent," and they spread wide the floating canvas roof, and made it fast and fixed it down with lead. "you see naught now," said zillah then, fair child the daughter of his eldest, sweet as day. but cain replied, "that eye--i see it still." and jubal cried (the father of all those that handle harp and organ): "i will build a sanctuary;" and he made a wall of bronze, and set his sire behind it. but cain moaned, "that eye is glaring at me ever." henoch cried: "then must we make a circle vast of towers, so terrible that nothing dare draw near; build we a city with a citadel; build we a city high and close it fast." then tubal cain (instructor of all them that work in brass and iron) built a tower- enormous, superhuman. while he wrought, his fiery brothers from the plain around hunted the sons of enoch and of seth; they plucked the eyes out of whoever passed, and hurled at even arrows to the stars. they set strong granite for the canvas wall, and every block was clamped with iron chains. it seemed a city made for hell. its towers, with their huge masses made night in the land. the walls were thick as mountains. on the door they graved: "let not god enter here." this done, and having finished to cement and build in a stone tower, they set him in the midst. to him, still dark and haggard, "oh, my sire, is the eye gone?" quoth zillah tremblingly. but cain replied: "nay, it is even there." then added: "i will live beneath the earth, as a lone man within his sepulchre. i will see nothing; will be seen of none." they digged a trench, and cain said: "'tis enow," as he went down alone into the vault; but when he sat, so ghost-like, in his chair, and they had closed the dungeon o'er his head, the eye was in the tomb and fixed on cain. _dublin university magazine_ boaz asleep. _("booz s'était couché.")_ [bk. ii. vi.] at work within his barn since very early, fairly tired out with toiling all the day, upon the small bed where he always lay boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley. barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well, though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood that turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud and in his smithy blazed no fire of hell. his beard was silver, as in april all a stream may be; he did not grudge a stook. when the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look, quoth he, "of purpose let some handfuls fall." he walked his way of life straight on and plain, with justice clothed, like linen white and clean, and ever rustling towards the poor, i ween, like public fountains ran his sacks of grain. good master, faithful friend, in his estate frugal yet generous, beyond the youth he won regard of woman, for in sooth the young man may be fair--the old man's great. life's primal source, unchangeable and bright, the old man entereth, the day eterne; and in the young man's eye a flame may burn, but in the old man's eye one seeth light. as jacob slept, or judith, so full deep slept boaz 'neath the leaves. now it betided, heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided a fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep. and in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad, right from his loins an oak tree grew amain. his race ran up it far, like a long chain; below it sung a king, above it died a god. whereupon boaz murmured in his heart, "the number of my years is past fourscore: how may this be? i have not any more, or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part. "in this my couch, o lord! is now in thine; and she, half living, i half dead within, our beings still commingle and are twin, it cannot be that i should found a line! "youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound from night, as from a victory. but such a trembling as the birch-tree's to the touch of winter is an eld, and evening closes round. "i bow myself to death, as lone to meet the water bow their fronts athirst." he said. the cedar feeleth not the rose's head, nor he the woman's presence at his feet! for while he slept, the moabitess ruth lay at his feet, expectant of his waking. he knowing not what sweet guile she was making; she knowing not what god would have in sooth. asphodel scents did gilgal's breezes bring- through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast the angels sped, for momently there passed a something blue which seemed to be a wing. silent was all in jezreel and ur- the stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows. far west among those flowers of the shadows. the thin clear crescent lustrous over her, made ruth raise question, looking through the bars of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what god, what comer unto the harvest of the eternal summer, had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars. bp. alexander. song of the german lanzknecht _("sonnex, clarions!")_ [bk. vi. vii.] flourish the trumpet! and rattle the drum! the _reiters_ are mounted! the reiters will come! when our bullets cease singing and long swords cease ringing on backplates of fearsomest foes in full flight, we'll dig up their dollars to string for girls' collars- they'll jingle around them before it is night! when flourish the trumpets, etc. we're the emperor's winners of right royal dinners, where cities are served up and flanked by estates, while we wallow in claret, knowing not how to spare it, though beer is less likely to muddle our pates- while flourish the trumpets, etc. gods of battle! red-handed! wise it was to have banded such arms as are these for embracing of gain! hearken to each war-vulture crying, "down with all culture of land or religion!" _hoch_! to our refrain of flourish the trumpets, etc. give us "bones of the devil" to exchange in our revel the ingot, the gem, and yellow doubloon; coronets are but playthings- we reck not who say things when the reiters have ridden to death! none too soon!- to flourish of trumpet and rattle of drum, the reiters will finish as firm as they come! h.l.w. king canute. _("un jour, kanut mourut.")_ [bk. x. i.] king canute died.[1] encoffined he was laid. of aarhuus came the bishop prayers to say, and sang a hymn upon his tomb, and held that canute was a saint--canute the great, that from his memory breathed celestial perfume, and that they saw him, they the priests, in glory, seated at god's right hand, a prophet crowned. i. evening came, and hushed the organ in the holy place, and the priests, issuing from the temple doors, left the dead king in peace. then he arose, opened his gloomy eyes, and grasped his sword, and went forth loftily. the massy walls yielded before the phantom, like a mist. there is a sea where aarhuus, altona, and elsinore's vast domes and shadowy towers glass in deep waters. over this he went dark, and still darkness listened for his foot inaudible, itself being but a dream. straight to mount savo went he, gnawed by time, and thus, "o mountain buffeted of storms, give me of thy huge mantle of deep snow to frame a winding-sheet." the mountain knew him, nor dared refuse, and with his sword canute cut from his flank white snow, enough to make the garment he desired, and then he cried, "old mountain! death is dumb, but tell me thou the way to god." more deep each dread ravine and hideous hollow yawned, and sadly thus answered that hoar associate of the clouds: "spectre, i know not, i am always here." canute departed, and with head erect, all white and ghastly in his robe of snow, went forth into great silence and great night by iceland and norway. after him gloom swallowed up the universe. he stood a sovran kingdomless, a lonely ghost confronted with immensity. he saw the awful infinite, at whose portal pale lightning sinks dying; darkness, skeleton whose joints are nights, and utter formlessness moving confusedly in the horrible dark inscrutable and blind. no star was there, yet something like a haggard gleam; no sound but the dull tide of darkness, and her dumb and fearful shudder. "'tis the tomb," he said, "god is beyond!" three steps he took, then cried: 'twas deathly as the grave, and not a voice responded, nor came any breath to sway the snowy mantle, with unsullied white emboldening the spectral wanderer. sudden he marked how, like a gloomy star, a spot grew broad upon his livid robe; slowly it widened, raying darkness forth; and canute proved it with his spectral hands it was a drop of blood. _r. garnett._ ii. but he saw nothing; space was black--no sound. "forward," said canute, raising his proud head. there fell a second stain beside the first, then it grew larger, and the cimbrian chief stared at the thick vague darkness, and saw naught. still as a bloodhound follows on his track, sad he went on. 'there fell a third red stain on the white winding-sheet. he had never fled; howbeit canute forward went no more, but turned on that side where the sword arm hangs. a drop of blood, as if athwart a dream, fell on the shroud, and reddened his right hand. then, as in reading one turns back a page, a second time he changed his course, and turned to the dim left. there fell a drop of blood. canute drew back, trembling to be alone, and wished he had not left his burial couch. but, when a blood-drop fell again, he stopped, stooped his pale head, and tried to make a prayer. then fell a drop, and the prayer died away in savage terror. darkly he moved on, a hideous spectre hesitating, white, and ever as he went, a drop of blood implacably from the darkness broke away and stained that awful whiteness. he beheld shaking, as doth a poplar in the wind, those stains grow darker and more numerous: another, and another, and another. they seem to light up that funereal gloom, and mingling in the folds of that white sheet, made it a cloud of blood. he went, and went, and still from that unfathomable vault the red blood dropped upon him drop by drop, always, for ever--without noise, as though from the black feet of some night-gibbeted corpse. alas! who wept those formidable tears? the infinite!--toward heaven, of the good attainable, through the wild sea of night, that hath not ebb nor flow, canute went on, and ever walking, came to a closed door, that from beneath showed a mysterious light. then he looked down upon his winding-sheet, for that was the great place, the sacred place, that was a portion of the light of god, and from behind that door hosannas rang. the winding-sheet was red, and canute stopped. this is why canute from the light of day draws ever back, and hath not dared appear before the judge whose face is as the sun. this is why still remaineth the dark king out in the night, and never having power to bring his robe back to its first pure state, but feeling at each step a blood-drop fall, wanders eternally 'neath the vast black heaven. _dublin university magazine_ [footnote 1: king canute slew his old father, sweno, to obtain the crown.] the boy-king's prayer. _("le cheval galopait toujours.")_ [bk. xv. ii. 10.] the good steed flew o'er river and o'er plain, till far away,--no need of spur or rein. the child, half rapture, half solicitude, looks back anon, in fear to be pursued; shakes lest some raging brother of his sire leap from those rocks that o'er the path aspire. on the rough granite bridge, at evening's fall, the white horse paused by compostella's wall, ('twas good st. james that reared those arches tall,) through the dim mist stood out each belfry dome, and the boy hailed the paradise of home. close to the bridge, set on high stage, they meet a christ of stone, the virgin at his feet. a taper lighted that dear pardoning face, more tender in the shade that wrapped the place, and the child stayed his horse, and in the shine of the wax taper knelt down at the shrine. "o, my good god! o, mother maiden sweet!" he said, "i was the worm beneath men's feet; my father's brethren held me in their thrall, but thou didst send the paladin of gaul, o lord! and show'dst what different spirits move the good men and the evil; those who love and those who love not. i had been as they, but thou, o god! hast saved both life and soul to-day. i saw thee in that noble knight; i saw pure light, true faith, and honor's sacred law, my father,--and i learnt that monarchs must compassionate the weak, and unto all be just. o lady mother! o dear jesus! thus bowed at the cross where thou didst bleed for us, i swear to hold the truth that now i learn, leal to the loyal, to the traitor stern, and ever just and nobly mild to be, meet scholar of that prince of chivalry; and here thy shrine bear witness, lord, for me." the horse of roland, hearing the boy tell his vow, looked round and spoke: "o king, 'tis well!" then on the charger mounted the child-king, and rode into the town, while all the bells 'gan ring. _dublin university magazine_ eviradnus. the knight errant. _("qu'est-ce que sigismond et ladislas ont dit.")_ [bk. xv. iii. 1.] i. the adventurer sets out. what was it sigismond and ladisläus said? i know not if the rock, or tree o'erhead, had heard their speech;--but when the two spoke low, among the trees, a shudder seemed to go through all their branches, just as if that way a beast had passed to trouble and dismay. more dark the shadow of the rock was seen, and then a morsel of the shade, between the sombre trees, took shape as it would seem like spectre walking in the sunset's gleam. it is not monster rising from its lair, nor phantom of the foliage and the air, it is not morsel of the granite's shade that walks in deepest hollows of the glade. 'tis not a vampire nor a spectre pale but living man in rugged coat of mail. it is alsatia's noble chevalier, eviradnus the brave, that now is here. the men who spoke he recognized the while he rested in the thicket; words of guile most horrible were theirs as they passed on, and to the ears of eviradnus one- one word had come which roused him. well he knew the land which lately he had journeyed through. he down the valley went into the inn where he had left his horse and page, gasclin. the horse had wanted drink, and lost a shoe; and now, "be quick!" he said, "with what you do, for business calls me, i must not delay." he strides the saddle and he rides away. ii. eviradnus. eviradnus was growing old apace, the weight of years had left its hoary trace, but still of knights the most renowned was he, model of bravery and purity. his blood he spared not; ready day or night to punish crime, his dauntless sword shone bright in his unblemished hand; holy and white and loyal all his noble life had been, a christian samson coming on the scene. with fist alone the gate he battered down of sickingen in flames, and saved the town. 'twas he, indignant at the honor paid to crime, who with his heel an onslaught made upon duke lupus' shameful monument, tore down, the statue he to fragments rent; then column of the strasburg monster bore to bridge of wasselonne, and threw it o'er into the waters deep. the people round blazon the noble deeds that so abound from altorf unto chaux-de-fonds, and say, when he rests musing in a dreamy way, "behold, 'tis charlemagne!" tawny to see and hairy, and seven feet high was he, like john of bourbon. roaming hill or wood he looked a wolf was striving to do good. bound up in duty, he of naught complained, the cry for help his aid at once obtained. only he mourned the baseness of mankind, and--that the beds too short he still doth find. when people suffer under cruel kings, with pity moved, he to them succor brings. 'twas he defended alix from her foes as sword of urraca--he ever shows his strength is for the feeble and oppressed; father of orphans he, and all distressed! kings of the rhine in strongholds were by him boldly attacked, and tyrant barons grim. he freed the towns--confronting in his lair hugo the eagle; boldly did he dare to break the collar of saverne, the ring of colmar, and the iron torture thing of schlestadt, and the chain that haguenau bore. such eviradnus was a wrong before, good but most terrible. in the dread scale which princes weighted with their horrid tale of craft and violence, and blood and ill, and fire and shocking deeds, his sword was still god's counterpoise displayed. ever alert more evil from the wretched to avert, those hapless ones who 'neath heaven's vault at night raise suppliant hands. his lance loved not the plight of mouldering in the rack, of no avail, his battle-axe slipped from supporting nail quite easily; 'twas ill for action base to come so near that he the thing could trace. the steel-clad champion death drops all around as glaciers water. hero ever found eviradnus is kinsman of the race of amadys of gaul, and knights of thrace, he smiles at age. for he who never asked for quarter from mankind--shall he be tasked to beg of time for mercy? rather he would girdle up his loins, like baldwin be. aged he is, but of a lineage rare; the least intrepid of the birds that dare is not the eagle barbed. what matters age, the years but fire him with a holy rage. though late from palestine, he is not spent,- with age he wrestles, firm in his intent. iii. in the forest. if in the woodland traveller there had been that eve, who lost himself, strange sight he'd seen. quite in the forest's heart a lighted space arose to view; in that deserted place a lone, abandoned hall with light aglow the long neglect of centuries did show. the castle-towers of corbus in decay were girt by weeds and growths that had their way. couch-grass and ivy, and wild eglantine in subtle scaling warfare all combine. subject to such attacks three hundred years, the donjon yields, and ruin now appears, e'en as by leprosy the wild boars die, in moat the crumbled battlements now lie; around the snake-like bramble twists its rings; freebooter sparrows come on daring wings to perch upon the swivel-gun, nor heed its murmuring growl when pecking in their greed the mulberries ripe. with insolence the thorn thrives on the desolation so forlorn. but winter brings revenges; then the keep wakes all vindictive from its seeming sleep, hurls down the heavy rain, night after night, thanking the season's all-resistless might; and, when the gutters choke, its gargoyles four from granite mouths in anger spit and pour upon the hated ivy hour by hour. as to the sword rust is, so lichens are to towering citadel with which they war. alas! for corbus--dreary, desolate, and yet its woes the winters mitigate. it rears itself among convulsive throes that shake its ruins when the tempest blows. winter, the savage warrior, pleases well, with its storm clouds, the mighty citadel,- restoring it to life. the lightning flash strikes like a thief and flies; the winds that crash sound like a clarion, for the tempest bluff is battle's sister. and when wild and rough, the north wind blows, the tower exultant cries "behold me!" when hail-hurling gales arise of blustering equinox, to fan the strife, it stands erect, with martial ardor rife, a joyous soldier! when like yelping hound pursued by wolves, november comes to bound in joy from rock to rock, like answering cheer to howling january now so near- "come on!" the donjon cries to blasts o'erhead- it has seen attila, and knows not dread. oh, dismal nights of contest in the rain and mist, that furious would the battle gain, 'the tower braves all, though angry skies pour fast the flowing torrents, river-like and vast. from their eight pinnacles the gorgons bay, and scattered monsters, in their stony way, are growling heard; the rampart lions gnaw the misty air and slush with granite maw, the sleet upon the griffins spits, and all the saurian monsters, answering to the squall, flap wings; while through the broken ceiling fall torrents of rain upon the forms beneath, dragons and snak'd medusas gnashing teeth in the dismantled rooms. like armored knight the granite castle fights with all its might, resisting through the winter. all in vain, the heaven's bluster, january's rain, and those dread elemental powers we call the infinite--the whirlwinds that appall- thunder and waterspouts; and winds that shake as 'twere a tree its ripened fruit to take. the winds grow wearied, warring with the tower, the noisy north is out of breath, nor power has any blast old corbus to defeat, it still has strength their onslaughts worst to meet. thus, spite of briers and thistles, the old tower remains triumphant through the darkest hour; superb as pontiff, in the forest shown, its rows of battlements make triple crown; at eve, its silhouette is finely traced immense and black--showing the keep is placed on rocky throne, sublime and high; east, west, and north and south, at corners four, there rest four mounts; aptar, where flourishes the pine, and toxis, where the elms grow green and fine; crobius and bleyda, giants in their might, against the stormy winds to stand and fight, and these above its diadem uphold night's living canopy of clouds unrolled. the herdsman fears, and thinks its shadow creeps to follow him; and superstition keeps such hold that corbus as a terror reigns; folks say the fort a target still remains for the black archer--and that it contains the cave where the great sleeper still sleeps sound. the country people all the castle round are frightened easily, for legends grow and mix with phantoms of the mind; we know the hearth is cradle of such fantasies, and in the smoke the cotter sees arise from low-thatched but he traces cause of dread. thus rendering thanks that he is lowly bred, because from such none look for valorous deeds. the peasant flies the tower, although it leads a noble knight to seek adventure there, and, from his point of honor, dangers dare. thus very rarely passer-by is seen; but--it might be with twenty years between, or haply less--at unfixed interval there would a semblance be of festival. a seneschal and usher would appear, and troops of servants many baskets bear. then were, in mystery, preparations made, and they departed--for till night none stayed. but 'twixt the branches gazers could descry the blackened hall lit up most brilliantly. none dared approach--and this the reason why. iv. the custom of lusace. when died a noble marquis of lusace 'twas custom for the heir who filled his place before assuming princely pomp and power to sup one night in corbus' olden tower. from this weird meal he passed to the degree of prince and margrave; nor could ever he be thought brave knight, or she--if woman claim the rank--be reckoned of unblemished fame till they had breathed the air of ages gone, the funeral odors, in the nest alone of its dead masters. ancient was the race; to trace the upward stem of proud lusace gives one a vertigo; descended they from ancestor of attila, men say; their race to him--through pagans--they hark back; becoming christians, race they thought to track through lechus, plato, otho to combine with ursus, stephen, in a lordly line. of all those masters of the country round that were on northern europe's boundary found- at first were waves and then the dykes were reared- corbus in double majesty appeared, castle on hill and town upon the plain; and one who mounted on the tower could gain a view beyond the pines and rocks, of spires that pierce the shade the distant scene acquires; a walled town is it, but 'tis not ally of the old citadel's proud majesty; unto itself belonging this remained. often a castle was thus self-sustained and equalled towns; witness in lombardy crama, and plato too in tuscany, and in apulia barletta;--each one was powerful as a town, and dreaded none. corbus ranked thus; its precincts seemed to hold the reflex of its mighty kings of old; their great events had witness in these walls, their marriages were here and funerals, and mostly here it was that they were born; and here crowned barons ruled with pride and scorn; cradle of scythian majesty this place. now each new master of this ancient race a duty owed to ancestors which he was bound to carry on. the law's decree it was that he should pass alone the night which made him king, as in their solemn sight. just at the forest's edge a clerk was met with wine in sacred cup and purpose set, a wine mysterious, which the heir must drink to cause deep slumber till next day's soft brink. then to the castle tower he wends his way, and finds a supper laid with rich display. he sups and sleeps: then to his slumbering eyes the shades of kings from bela all arise. none dare the tower to enter on this night, but when the morning dawns, crowds are in sight the dreamer to deliver,--whom half dazed, and with the visions of the night amazed, they to the old church take, where rests the dust of borivorus; then the bishop must, with fervent blessings on his eyes and mouth, put in his hands the stony hatchets both, with which--even like death impartially- struck attila, with one arm dexterously the south, and with the other arm the north. this day the town the threatening flag set forth of marquis swantibore, the monster he who in the wood tied up his wife, to be devoured by wolves, together with the bull of which with jealousy his heart was full. even when woman took the place of heir the tower of corbus claimed the supper there; 'twas law--the woman trembled, but must dare. v. the marchioness mahaud. niece of the marquis--john the striker named- mahaud to-day the marquisate has claimed. a noble dame--the crown is hers by right: as woman she has graces that delight. a queen devoid of beauty is not queen, she needs the royalty of beauty's mien; god in his harmony has equal ends for cedar that resists, and reed that bends, and good it is a woman sometimes rules, holds in her hand the power, and manners schools, and laws and mind;--succeeding master proud, with gentle voice and smile she leads the crowd, the sombre human troop. but sweet mahaud on evil days had fallen; gentle, good, alas! she held the sceptre like a flower; timid yet gay, imprudent for the hour, and careless too. with europe all in throes, though twenty years she now already knows, she has refused to marry, although oft entreated. it is time an arm less soft than hers--a manly arm--supported her; like to the rainbow she, one might aver, shining on high between the cloud and rain, or like the ewe that gambols on the plain between the bear and tiger; innocent, she has two neighbors of most foul intent: for foes the beauty has, in life's pure spring, the german emp'ror and the polish king. vi. the two neighbors. the difference this betwixt the evil pair, faithless to god--for laws without a care- one was the claw, the other one the will controlling. yet to mass they both went still, and on the rosary told their beads each day. but none the less the world believed that they unto the powers of hell their souls had sold. even in whispers men each other told the details of the pact which they had signed with that dark power, the foe of human kind; in whispers, for the crowd had mortal dread of them so high, and woes that they had spread. one might be vengeance and the other hate, yet lived they side by side, in powerful state and close alliance. all the people near from red horizon dwelt in abject fear, mastered by them; their figures darkly grand had ruddy reflex from the wasted land, and fires, and towns they sacked. besides the one, like david, poet was, the other shone as fine musician--rumor spread their fame, declaring them divine, until each name in italy's fine sonnets met with praise. the ancient hierarch in those old days had custom strange, a now forgotten thing, it was a european plan that king of france was marquis, and th' imperial head of germany was duke; there was no need to class the other kings, but barons they, obedient vassals unto rome, their stay. the king of poland was but simple knight, yet now, for once, had strange unwonted right, and, as exception to the common state, this one sarmatian king was held as great as german emperor; and each knew how his evil part to play, nor mercy show. the german had one aim, it was to take all land he could, and it his own to make. the pole already having baltic shore, seized celtic ports, still needing more and more. on all the northern sea his crafts roused fear: iceland beheld his demon navy near. antwerp the german burnt; and prussias twain bowed to the yoke. the polish king was fain to help the russian spotocus--his aid was like the help that in their common trade a sturdy butcher gives a weaker one. the king it is who seizes, and this done, the emp'ror pillages, usurping right in war teutonic, settled but by might. the king in jutland cynic footing gains, the weak coerced, the while with cunning pains the strong are duped. but 'tis a law they make that their accord themselves should never break. from arctic seas to cities transalpine, their hideous talons, curved for sure rapine, scrape o'er and o'er the mournful continent, their plans succeed, and each is well content. thus under satan's all paternal care they brothers are, this royal bandit pair. oh, noxious conquerors! with transient rule chimera heads--ambition can but fool. their misty minds but harbor rottenness loathsome and fetid, and all barrenness- their deeds to ashes turn, and, hydra-bred, the mystic skeleton is theirs to dread. the daring german and the cunning pole noted to-day a woman had control of lands, and watched mahaud like evil spies; and from the emp'ror's cruel mouth--with dyes of wrath empurpled--came these words of late: "the empire wearies of the wallet weight hung at its back--this high and low lusace, whose hateful load grows heavier apace, that now a woman holds its ruler's place." threatening, and blood suggesting, every word; the watchful pole was silent--but he heard. two monstrous dangers; but the heedless one babbles and smiles, and bids all care begone- likes lively speech--while all the poor she makes to love her, and the taxes off she takes. a life of dance and pleasure she has known- a woman always; in her jewelled crown it is the pearl she loves--not cutting gems, for these can wound, and mark men's diadems. she pays the hire of homer's copyists, and in the courts of love presiding, lists. quite recently unto her court have come two men--unknown their names or native home, their rank or race; but one plays well the lute, the other is a troubadour; both suit the taste of mahaud, when on summer eve, 'neath opened windows, they obtain her leave to sing upon the terrace, and relate the charming tales that do with music mate. in august the moravians have their fête, but it is radiant june in which lusace must consecrate her noble margrave race. thus in the weird and old ancestral tower for mahaud now has come the fateful hour, the lonely supper which her state decrees. what matters this to flowers, and birds, and trees, and clouds and fountains? that the people may still bear their yoke--have kings to rule alway? the water flows, the wind in passing by in murmuring tones takes up the questioning cry. vii. the banquet hall. the old stupendous hall has but one door, and in the dusk it seems that more and more the walls recede in space unlimited. at the far end there is a table spread that in the dreary void with splendor shines; for ceiling we behold but rafter lines. the table is arranged for one sole guest, a solitary chair doth near it rest, throne-like, 'neath canopy that droopeth down from the black beams; upon the walls are shown the painted histories of the olden might, the king of the wends thassilo's stern fight on land with nimrod, and on ocean wide with neptune. rivers too personified appear--the rhine as by the meuse betrayed, and fading groups of odin in the shade, and the wolf fenrir and the asgard snake. one might the place for dragons' stable take. the only lights that in the shed appear spring from the table's giant chandelier with seven iron branches--brought from hell by attila archangel, people tell, when he had conquered mammon--and they say that seven souls were the first flames that day. this banquet hall looks an abyss outlined with shadowy vagueness, though indeed we find in the far depth upon the table spread a sudden, strong, and glaring light is shed, striking upon the goldsmith's burnished works, and on the pheasants killed by traitor hawks. loaded the table is with viands cold, ewers and flagons, all enough of old to make a love feast. all the napery was friesland's famous make; and fair to see the dishes, silver-gilt and bordered round with flowers; for fruit, here strawberries were found and citrons, apples too, and nectarines. the wooden bowls were carved in cunning lines by peasants of the murg, whose skilful hands with patient toil reclaim the barren lands and make their gardens flourish on a rock, or mountain where we see the hunters flock. gold fountain-cup, with handles florentine, shows acteons horned, though armed and booted fine, who fight with sword in hand against the hounds. roses and gladioles make up bright mounds of flowers, with juniper and aniseed; while sage, all newly cut for this great need, covers the persian carpet that is spread beneath the table, and so helps to shed around a perfume of the balmy spring. beyond is desolation withering. one hears within the hollow dreary space across the grove, made fresh by summer's grace, the wind that ever is with mystic might a spirit ripple of the infinite. the glass restored to frames to creak is made by blustering wind that comes from neighboring glade. strange in this dream-like place, so drear and lone, the guest expected should be living one! the seven lights from seven arms make glow almost with life the staring eyes that show on the dim frescoes--and along the walls is here and there a stool, or the light falls o'er some long chest, with likeness to a tomb. yet was displayed amid the mournful gloom some copper vessels, and some crockery ware. the door--as if it must, yet scarcely dare- had opened widely to the night's fresh air. no voice is heard, for man has fled the place; but terror crouches in the corners' space, and waits the coming guest. this banquet hall of titans is so high, that he who shall with wandering eye look up from beam to beam of the confused wild roof will haply seem to wonder that the stars he sees not there. giants the spiders are, that weave with care their hideous webs, which float the joists amid, joists whose dark ends in griffins' jaws are hid. the light is lurid, and the air like death, and dark and foul. even night holds its breath awhile. one might suppose the door had fear to move its double leaves--their noise to hear. viii. what more was to be seen. but the great hall of generations dead has something more sepulchral and more dread than lurid glare from seven-branched chandelier or table lone with stately daïs near- two rows of arches o'er a colonnade with knights on horseback all in mail arrayed, each one disposed with pillar at his back and to another vis-à-vis. nor lack the fittings all complete; in each right hand a lance is seen; the armored horses stand with chamfrons laced, and harness buckled sure; the cuissarts' studs are by their clamps secure; the dirks stand out upon the saddle-bow; even unto the horses' feet do flow caparisons,--the leather all well clasped, the gorget and the spurs with bronze tongues hasped, the shining long sword from the saddle hung, the battle-axe across the back was flung. under the arm a trusty dagger rests, each spiked knee-piece its murderous power attests. feet press the stirrups--hands on bridle shown proclaim all ready, with the visors down, and yet they stir not, nor is audible a sound to make the sight less terrible. each monstrous horse a frontal horn doth bear, if e'er the prince of darkness herdsman were, these cattle black were his by surest right, like things but seen in horrid dreams of night. the steeds are swathed in trappings manifold, the armed knights are grave, and stern, and cold, terrific too; the clench'd fists seem to hold some frightful missive, which the phantom hands would show, if opened out at hell's commands. the dusk exaggerates their giant size, the shade is awed--the pillars coldly rise. oh, night! why are these awful warriors here? horses and horsemen that make gazers fear are only empty armor. but erect and haughty mien they all affect and threatening air--though shades of iron still. are they strange larvae--these their statues ill? no. they are dreams of horror clothed in brass, which from profoundest depths of evil pass with futile aim to dare the infinite! souls tremble at the silent spectre sight, as if in this mysterious cavalcade they saw the weird and mystic halt was made of them who at the coming dawn of day would fade, and from their vision pass away. a stranger looking in, these masks to see, might deem from death some mandate there might be at times to burst the tombs--the dead to wear a human shape, and mustering ranks appear of phantoms, each confronting other shade. grave-clothes are not more grim and sombre made than are these helms; the deaf and sealed-up graves are not more icy than these arms; the staves of hideous biers have not their joints more strong than are the joinings of these legs; the long scaled gauntlet fingers look like worms that shine, and battle robes to shroud-like folds incline. the heads are skull-like, and the stony feet seem for the charnel house but only meet. the pikes have death's-heads carved, and seem to be too heavy; but the shapes defiantly sit proudly in the saddle--and perforce the rider looks united to the horse! the network of their mail doth clearly cross. the marquis' mortar beams near ducal wreath, and on the helm and gleaming shield beneath alternate triple pearls with leaves displayed of parsley, and the royal robes are made so large that with the knightly harness they seem to o'ermaster palfreys every way. to rome the oldest armor might be traced, and men and horses' armor interlaced blent horribly; the man and steed we feel made but one hydra with its scales of steel. yet is there history here. each coat of mail is representant of some stirring tale. each delta-shaped escutcheon shines to show a vision of the chief by it we know. here are the blood-stained dukes' and marquis' line, barbaric lords, who amid war's rapine bore gilded saints upon their banners still painted on fishes' skin with cunning skill. here geth, who to the slaves cried "onward go," and mundiaque and ottocar--plato and ladisläus kunne; and welf who bore these words upon his shield his foes before; "nothing there is i fear." otho blear-eyed, zultan and nazamustus, and beside the later spignus, e'en to spartibor of triple vision, and yet more and more as if a pause at every age were made, and antaeus' fearful dynasty portrayed. what do they here so rigid and erect? what wait they for--and what do they expect? blindness fills up the helm 'neath iron brows; like sapless tree no soul the hero knows. darkness is now where eyes with flame were fraught, and thrice-bored visor serves for mask of naught. of empty void is spectral giant made, and each of these all-powerful knights displayed is only rind of pride and murderous sin; themselves are held the icy grave within. rust eats the casques enamoured once so much of death and daring--which knew kiss-like touch of banner--mistress so august and dear- but not an arm can stir its hinges here; behold how mute are they whose threats were heard like savage roar--whose gnashing teeth and word deadened the clarion's tones; the helmets dread have not a sound, and all the armor spread, the hauberks, that strong breathing seemed to sway, are stranded now in helplessness alway to see the shadows, still prolonged, that seem to take at night the image of a dream. these two great files reach from the door afar to where the table and the daïs are, leaving between their fronts a narrow lane. on the left side the marquises maintain their place, but the right side the dukes retain, and till the roof, embattled by spignus, but worn by time that even that subdues, shall fall upon their heads, these forms will stand the grades confronting--one on either hand. while in advance beyond, with haughty head- as if commander of this squadron dread- all waiting signal of the judgment day, in stone was seen in olden sculptors' way charlemagne the king, who on the earth had found only twelve knights to grace his table round. the crests were an assembly of strange things, of horrors such as nightmare only brings. asps, and spread eagles without beak or feet, sirens and mermaids here and dragons meet, and antlered stags and fabled unicorn, and fearful things of monstrous fancy born. upon the rigid form of morion's sheen winged lions and the cerberus are seen, and serpents winged and finned; things made to fright the timid foe, alone by sense of sight. some leaning forward and the others back, they looked a growing forest that did lack no form of terror; but these things of dread that once on barons' helms the battle led beneath the giant banners, now are still, as if they gaped and found the time but ill, wearied the ages passed so slowly by, and that the gory dead no more did lie beneath their feet--pined for the battle-cry, the trumpet's clash, the carnage and the strife, yawning to taste again their dreadful life. like tears upon the palfreys' muzzles were the hard reflections of the metal there; from out these spectres, ages past exhumed, and as their shadows on the roof-beams loomed, cast by the trembling light, each figure wan seemed growing, and a monstrous shape to don, so that the double range of horrors made the darkened zenith clouds of blackest shade, that shaped themselves to profiles terrible. all motionless the coursers horrible, that formed a legion lured by death to war, these men and horses masked, how dread they are! absorbed in shadows of the eternal shore, among the living all their tasks are o'er. silent, they seem all mystery to brave, these sphinxes whom no beacon light can save upon the threshold of the gulf so near, as if they faced the great enigma here; ready with hoofs, between the pillars blue to strike out sparks, and combats to renew, choosing for battle-field the shades below, which they provoked by deeds we cannot know, in that dark realm thought dares not to expound false masks from heaven lowered to depths profound. ix. a noise on the floor. this is the scene on which now enters in eviradnus; and follows page gasclin. the outer walls were almost all decayed, the door, for ancient marquises once made- raised many steps above the courtyard near- commanded view of the horizon clear. the forest looked a great gulf all around, and on the rock of corbus there were found secret and blood-stained precipices tall. duke plato built the tower and banquet hall over great pits,--so was it rumor said. the flooring sounds 'neath eviradnus' tread above abysses many. "page," said he, "come here, your eyes than mine can better see, for sight is woman-like and shuns the old; ah! he can see enough, when years are told, who backwards looks. but, boy, turn towards the glade and tell me what you see." the boy obeyed, and leaned across the threshold, while the bright, full moon shed o'er the glade its white, pure light. "i see a horse and woman on it now," said gasclin, "and companions also show." "who are they?" asked the seeker of sublime adventures. "sir, i now can hear like chime the sound of voices, and men's voices too, laughter and talk; two men there are in view, across the road the shadows clear i mark of horses three." "enough. now, gasclin, hark!" exclaimed the knight, "you must at once return by other path than that which you discern, so that you be not seen. at break of day bring back our horses fresh, and every way caparisoned; now leave me, boy, i say." the page looked at his master like a son, and said, "oh! if i might stay on, for they are two." "go--i suffice alone!" x. eviradnus motionless. and lone the hero is within the hall, and nears the table where the glasses all show in profusion; all the vessels there, goblets and glasses gilt, or painted fair, are ranged for different wines with practised care. he thirsts; the flagons tempt; but there must stay one drop in emptied glass, and 'twould betray the fact that some one living had been here. straight to the horses goes he, pauses near that which is next the table shining bright, seizes the rider--plucks the phantom knight to pieces--all in vain its panoply and pallid shining to his practised eye; then he conveys the severed iron remains to corner of the hall where darkness reigns; against the wall he lays the armor low in dust and gloom like hero vanquished now- but keeping pond'rous lance and shield so old, mounts to the empty saddle, and behold! a statue eviradnus has become, like to the others in their frigid home. with visor down scarce breathing seemed maintained throughout the hall a death-like silence reigned. xi. a little music. listen! like hum froth unseen nests we hear a mirthful buzz of voices coming near, of footsteps--laughter--from the trembling trees. and now the thick-set forest all receives a flood of moonlight--and there gently floats the sound of a guitar of inspruck; notes which blend with chimes--vibrating to the hand- of tiny bell--where sounds a grain of sand. a man's voice mixes with the melody, and vaguely melts to song in harmony. "if you like we'll dream a dream. let us mount on palfreys two; birds are singing,--let it seem you lure me--and i take you. "let us start--'tis eve, you see, i'm thy master and thy prey. my bright steed shall pleasure be; yours, it shall be love, i say. "journeying leisurely we go, we will make our steeds touch heads, kiss for fodder,--and we so satisfy our horses' needs. "come! the two delusive things stamp impatiently it seems, yours has heavenward soaring wings, mine is of the land of dreams. "what's our baggage? only vows, happiness, and all our care, and the flower that sweetly shows nestling lightly in your hair. "come, the oaks all dark appear, twilight now will soon depart, railing sparrows laugh to hear chains thou puttest round my heart. "not my fault 'twill surely be if the hills should vocal prove, and the trees when us they see, all should murmur--let us love! "oh, be gentle!--i am dazed, see the dew is on the grass, wakened butterflies amazed follow thee as on we pass. "envious night-birds open wide their round eyes to gaze awhile, nymphs that lean their urns beside from their grottoes softly smile, "and exclaim, by fancy stirred, 'hero and leander they; we in listening for a word let our water fall away.' "let us journey austrian way, with the daybreak on our brow; i be great, and you i say rich, because we love shall know. "let us over countries rove, on our charming steeds content, in the azure light of love, and its sweet bewilderment. "for the charges at our inn, you with maiden smiles shall pay; i the landlord's heart will win in a scholar's pleasant way. "you, great lady--and i, count- come, my heart has opened quite, we this tale will still recount, to the stars that shine at night." the melody went on some moments more among the trees the calm moon glistened o'er, then trembled and was hushed; the voice's thrill stopped like alighting birds, and all was still. xii. great joss and little zeno. quite suddenly there showed across the door, three heads which all a festive aspect wore. two men were there; and, dressed in cloth of gold, a woman. of the men one might have told some thirty years, the other younger seemed, was tall and fair, and from his shoulder gleamed a gay guitar with ivy leaves enlaced. the other man was dark, but pallid-faced and small. at the first glance they seemed to be but made of perfume and frivolity. handsome they were, but through their comely mien a grinning demon might be clearly seen. april has flowers where lurk the slugs between. "big joss and little zeno, pray come here; look now--how dreadful! can i help but fear!" madame mahaud was speaker. moonlight there caressingly enhanced her beauty rare, making it shine and tremble, as if she so soft and gentle were of things that be of air created, and are brought and ta'en by heavenly flashes. now, she spoke again "certes, 'tis heavy purchase of a throne, to pass the night here utterly alone. had you not slyly come to guard me now, i should have died of fright outright i know." the moonbeams through the open door did fall, and shine upon the figure next the wall. said zeno, "if i played the marquis part, i'd send this rubbish to the auction mart; out of the heap should come the finest wine, pleasure and gala-fêtes, were it all mine." and then with scornful hand he touched the thing, and made the metal like a soul's cry ring. he laughed--the gauntlet trembled at his stroke. "let rest my ancestors"--'twas mahaud spoke; then murmuring added she, "for you are much too small their noble armor here to touch." and zeno paled, but joss with laugh exclaimed, "why, all these good black men so grandly named are only nests for mice. by jove, although they lifelike look and terrible, we know what is within; just listen, and you'll hear the vermins' gnawing teeth, yet 'twould appear these figures once were proudly named otho, and ottocar, and bela, and plato. alas! the end's not pleasant--puts one out; to have been kings and dukes--made mighty rout- colossal heroes filling tombs with slain, and, madame, this to only now remain; a peaceful nibbling rat to calmly pierce a prince's noble armor proud and fierce." "sing, if you will--but do not speak so loud; besides, such things as these," said fair mahaud, "in your condition are not understood." "well said," made answer zeno, "'tis a place of wonders--i see serpents, and can trace vampires, and monsters swarming, that arise in mist, through chinks, to meet the gazer's eyes." then mahaud shuddered, and she said: "the wine the abbé made me drink as task of mine, will soon enwrap me in the soundest sleep- swear not to leave me--that you here will keep." "i swear," cried joss, and zeno, "i also; but now at once to supper let us go." xiii. they sup. with laugh and song they to the table went. said mahaud gayly: "it is my intent to make joss chamberlain. zeno shall be a constable supreme of high degree." all three were joyous, and were fair to see. joss ate--and zeno drank; on stools the pair, with mahaud musing in the regal chair. the sound of separate leaf we do not note- and so their babble seemed to idly float, and leave no thought behind. now and again joss his guitar made trill with plaintive strain or tyrolean air; and lively tales they told mingled with mirth all free, and frank, and bold. said mahaud: "do you know how fortunate you are?" "yes, we are young at any rate- lovers half crazy--this is truth at least." "and more, for you know latin like a priest, and joss sings well." "ah, yes, our master true, yields us these gifts beyond the measure due." "your master!--who is he?" mahaud exclaimed. "satan, we say--but sin you'd think him named," said zeno, veiling words in raillery. "do not laugh thus," she said with dignity; "peace, zeno. joss, you speak, my chamberlain." "madame, viridis, countess of milan, was deemed superb; diana on the mount dazzled the shepherd boy; ever we count the isabel of saxony so fair, and cleopatra's beauty all so rare- aspasia's, too, that must with theirs compare- that praise of them no fitting language hath. divine was rhodope--and venus' wrath was such at erylesis' perfect throat, she dragged her to the forge where vulcan smote her beauty on his anvil. well, as much as star transcends a sequin, and just such as temple is to rubbish-heap, i say, you do eclipse their beauty every way. those airy sprites that from the azure smile, peris and elfs the while they men beguile, have brows less youthful pure than yours; besides dishevelled they whose shaded beauty hides in clouds." "flatt'rer," said mahaud, "you but sing too well." then joss more homage sought to bring; "if i were angel under heav'n," said he, "or girl or demon, i would seek to be by you instructed in all art and grace, and as in school but take a scholar's place. highness, you are a fairy bright, whose hand for sceptre vile gave up your proper wand." fair mahaud mused--then said, "be silent now; you seem to watch me; little 'tis i know, only that from bohemia joss doth come, and that in poland zeno hath his home. but you amuse me; i am rich, you poor- what boon shall i confer and make secure? what gift? ask of me, poets, what you will and i will grant it--promise to fulfil." "a kiss," said joss. "a kiss!" and anger fraught amazed at minstrel having such a thought- while flush of indignation warmed her cheek. "you do forget to whom it is you speak," she cried. "had i not known your high degree, should i have asked this royal boon," said he, "obtained or given, a kiss must ever be. no gift like king's--no kiss like that of queen!" queen! and on mahaud's face a smile was seen. xiv. after supper. but now the potion proved its subtle power, and mahaud's heavy eyelids 'gan to lower. zeno, with finger on his lip, looked on- her head next drooped, and consciousness was gone. smiling she slept, serene and very fair, he took her hand, which fell all unaware. "she sleeps," said zeno, "now let chance or fate decide for us which has the marquisate, and which the girl." upon their faces now a hungry tiger's look began to show. "my brother, let us speak like men of sense," said joss; "while mahaud dreams in innocence, we grasp all here--and hold the foolish thing- our friend below to us success will bring. he keeps his word; 'tis thanks to him i say, no awkward chance has marred our plans to-day. all has succeeded--now no human power can take from us this woman and her dower. let us conclude. to wrangle and to fight for just a yes or no, or to prove right the arian doctrines, all the time the pope laughs in his sleeve at you--or with the hope some blue-eyed damsel with a tender skin and milkwhite dainty hands by force to win- this might be well in days when men bore loss and fought for latin or byzantine cross; when jack and rudolf did like fools contend, and for a simple wench their valor spend- when pepin held a synod at leptine, and times than now were much less wise and fine. we do no longer heap up quarrels thus, but better know how projects to discuss. have you the needful dice?" "yes, here they wait for us." "who wins shall have the marquisate; loser, the girl." "agreed." "a noise i hear?" "only the wind that sounds like some one near- are you afraid?" said zeno. "naught i fear save fasting--and that solid earth should gape. let's throw and fate decide--ere time escape." then rolled the dice. "'tis four." 'twas joss to throw. "six!--and i neatly win, you see; and lo! at bottom of this box i've found lusace, and henceforth my orchestra will have place; to it they'll dance. taxes i'll raise, and they in dread of rope and forfeit well will pay; brass trumpet-calls shall be my flutes that lead, where gibbets rise the imposts grow and spread." said zeno, "i've the girl and so is best," "she's beautiful," said joss. "yes, 'tis confess'd." "what shall you do with her?" asked joss. "i know. make her a corpse," said zeno; "marked you how the jade insulted me just now! too small she called me--such the words her lips let fall. i say, that moment ere the dice i threw had yawning hell cried out, 'my son, for you the chance is open still: take in a heap the fair lusace's seven towns, and reap the corn, and wine, and oil of counties ten, with all their people diligent, and then bohemia with its silver mines, and now the lofty land whence mighty rivers flow and not a brook returns; add to these counts the tyrol with its lovely azure mounts and france with her historic fleurs-de-lis; come now, decide, what 'tis your choice must be?' i should have answered, 'vengeance! give to me rather than france, bohemia, or the fair blue tyrol, i my choice, o hell! declare for government of darkness and of death, of grave and worms.' brother, this woman hath as marchioness with absurdity set forth to rule o'er frontier bulwarks of the north. in any case to us a danger she, and having stupidly insulted me 'tis needful that she die. to blurt all out- i know that you desire her; without doubt the flame that rages in my heart warms yours; to carry out these subtle plans of ours, we have become as gypsies near this doll, you as her page--i dotard to control- pretended gallants changed to lovers now. so, brother, this being fact for us to know sooner or later, 'gainst our best intent about her we should quarrel. evident is it our compact would be broken through. there is one only thing for us to do, and that is, kill her." "logic very clear," said musing joss, "but what of blood shed here?" then zeno stooped and lifted from the ground an edge of carpet--groped until he found a ring, which, pulled, an opening did disclose, with deep abyss beneath; from it there rose the odor rank of crime. joss walked to see while zeno pointed to it silently. but eyes met eyes, and joss, well pleased, was fain by nod of head to make approval plain. xv. the oubliettes. if sulphurous light had shone from this vile well one might have said it was a mouth of hell, so large the trap that by some sudden blow a man might backward fall and sink below. who looked could see a harrow's threatening teeth, but lost in night was everything beneath. partitions blood-stained have a reddened smear, and terror unrelieved is master here. one feels the place has secret histories replete with dreadful murderous mysteries, and that this sepulchre, forgot to-day, is home of trailing ghosts that grope their way along the walls where spectre reptiles crawl. "our fathers fashioned for us after all some useful things," said joss; then zeno spoke: "i know what corbus hides beneath its cloak, i and the osprey know the castle old, and what in bygone times the justice bold." "and are you sure that mahaud will not wake?" "her eyes are closed as now my fist i make; she is in mystic and unearthly sleep; the potion still its power o'er her must keep." "but she will surely wake at break of day?" "in darkness." "what will all the courtiers say when in the place of her they find two men?" "to them we will declare ourselves--and then they at our feet will fall." "where leads this hole?" "to where the crow makes feast and torrents roll to desolation. let us end it now." these young and handsome men had seemed to grow deformed and hideous--so doth foul black heart disfigure man, till beauty all depart. so to the hell within the human face transparent is. they nearer move apace; and mahaud soundly sleeps as in a bed. "to work." joss seizes her and holds her head supporting her beneath her arms, in his; and then he dared to plant a monstrous kiss upon her rosy lips,--while zeno bent before the massive chair, and with intent her robe disordered as he raised her feet; her dainty ankles thus their gaze to meet. and while the mystic sleep was all profound, the pit gaped wide like grave in burial ground. xvi. what they attempt becomes difficult. bearing the sleeping mahaud they moved now silent and bent with heavy step and slow. zeno faced darkness--joss turned towards the light- so that the hall to joss was quite in sight. sudden he stopped--and zeno, "what now!" called, but joss replied not, though he seemed appalled, and made a sign to zeno, who with speed looked back. then seemed they changed to stone indeed. for both perceived that in the vaulted hall one of the grand old knights ranged by the wall descended from his horse. like phantom he moved with a horrible tranquillity. masked by his helm towards them he came; his tread made the floor tremble--and one might have said a spirit of th' abyss was here; between them and the pit he came--a barrier seen; then said, with sword in hand and visor down, in measured tones that had sepulchral grown as tolling bell, "stop, sigismond, and you, king ladisläus;" at those words, though few, they dropped the marchioness, and in such a way that at their feet like rigid corpse she lay. the deep voice speaking from the visor's grate proceeded--while the two in abject state cowered low. joss paled, by gloom and dread o'ercast, and zeno trembled like a yielding mast. "you two who listen now must recollect the compact all your fellow-men suspect. 'tis this: 'i, satan, god of darkened sphere, the king of gloom and winds that bring things drear, alliance make with my two brothers dear, the emperor sigismond and polish king named ladisläus. i to surely bring aid and protection to them both alway, and never to absent myself or say i'm weary. and yet more--i, being lord of sea and land, to sigismond award the earth; to ladisläus all the sea. with this condition that they yield to me when i the forfeit claim--the king his head, but shall the emperor give his soul instead.'" said joss, "is't he?--spectre with flashing eyes, and art thou satan come to us surprise?" "much less am i and yet much more. oh, kings of crimes and plots! your day is o'er, but i your lives will only take to-day; beneath the talons black your souls let stay to wrestle still." the pair looked stupefied and crushed. exchanging looks 'twas zeno cried, speaking to joss, "now who--who can it be?" joss stammered, "yes, no refuge can i see; the doom is on us. but oh, spectre! say who are you?" "i'm the judge." "then mercy, pray." the voice replied: "god guides his chosen hand to be th' avenger in your path to stand. your hour has sounded, nothing now indeed can change for you the destiny decreed, irrevocable quite. yes, i looked on. ah! little did you think that any one to this unwholesome gloom could knowledge bring that joss a kaiser was, and zeno king. you spoke just now--but why?--too late to plead. the forfeit's due and hope should all be dead. incurables! for you i am the grave. oh, miserable men! that naught can save. yes, sigismond a kaiser is, and you a king, o ladisläus!--it is true. you thought of god but as a wheel to roll your chariot on; you who have king's control o'er poland and its many towns so strong. you, milan's duke, to whom at once belong the gold and iron crowns. you, emperor made by rome, a son of hercules 'tis said; and you of spartibor. and your two crowns are shining lights; and yet your shadow frowns from every mountain land to trembling sea. you are at giddy heights twin powers to be a glory and a force for all that's great- but 'neath the purple canopy of state, th' expanding and triumphant arch you prize, 'neath royal power that sacred veils disguise, beneath your crowns of pearls and jewelled stars, beneath your exploits terrible and wars, you, sigismond, have but a monster been, and, ladisläus, you are scoundrel seen. oh, degradation of the sceptre's might and swords--when justice has a hand like night, foul and polluted; and before this thing, this hydra, do the temple's hinges swing- the throne becomes the haunt of all things base oh, age of infamy and foul disgrace! oh, starry heavens looking on the shame, no brow but reddens with resentful flame- and yet the silent people do not stir! oh, million arms! what things do you deter- poor sheep, whom vermin-majesties devour, have you not nails with strong desiring power to rend these royalties, that you so cower? but two are taken,--such as will amaze e'en hell itself, when it on them shall gaze. ah, sigismond and ladisläus, you were once triumphant, splendid to the view, stifling with your prosperity--but now the hour of retribution lays you low. ah, do the vulture and the crocodile shed tears! at such a sight i fain must smile. it seems to me 'tis very good sometimes that princes, conquerors stained with bandits' crimes, sparkling with splendor, wearing crowns of gold, should know the deadly sweat endured of old, that of jehoshaphat; should sob and fear, and after crime th' unclean be brought to bear. 'tis well--god rules--and thus it is that i these masters of the world can make to lie in ashes at my feet. and this was he who reigned--and this a caesar known to be! in truth, my old heart aches with very shame to see such cravens with such noble name. but let us finish--what has just passed here demands thick shrouding, and the time is near. th' accursed dice that rolled at calvary you rolled a woman's murder to decree it was a dark disastrous game to play; but not for me a moral to essay. this moment to the misty grave is due, and far too vile and little human you to see your evil ways. your fingers lack the human power your shocking deeds to track. what use in darkness mirror to uphold? what use your doings to be now retold? drink of the darkness--greedy of the ill to which from habit you're attracted still, not recognizing in the draught you take the stench that your atrocities must make. i only tell you that this burdened age tires of your highnesses, that soil its page, and of your villanies--and this is why you now must swell the stream that passes by of refuse filth. oh, horrid scene to show of these young men and that young girl just now! oh! can you really be of human kind breathing pure air of heaven? do we find that you are men? oh, no! for when you laid foul lips upon the mouth of sleeping maid, you seemed but ghouls that had come furtively from out the tombs; only a horrid lie your human shape; of some strange frightful beast you have the soul. to darkness i at least remit you now. oh, murderer sigismond and ladisläus pirate, both beyond release--two demons that have broken ban! therefore 'tis time their empire over man and converse with the living, should be o'er; tyrants, behold your tomb your eyes before; vampires and dogs, your sepulchre is here. enter." he pointed to the gulf so near. all terrified upon their knees they fell. "oh! take us not in your dread realm to dwell," said sigismond. "but, phantom! do us tell what thou wouldst have from us--we will obey. oh, mercy!--'tis for mercy now we pray." "behold us at your feet, oh, spectre dread!" and no old crone in feebler voice could plead than ladisläus did. but not a word said now the figure motionless, with sword in hand. this sovereign soul seemed to commune with self beneath his metal sheath; yet soon and suddenly, with tranquil voice said he, "princes, your craven spirit wearies me. no phantom--only man am i. arise! i like not to be dreaded otherwise than with the fear to which i'm used; know me, for it is eviradnus that you see!" xvii. the club. as from the mist a noble pine we tell grown old upon the heights of appenzel, when morning freshness breathes round all the wood, so eviradnus now before them stood, opening his visor, which at once revealed the snowy beard it had so well concealed. thin sigismond was still as dog at gaze, but ladisläus leaped, and howl did raise, and laughed and gnashed his teeth, till, like a cloud that sudden bursts, his rage was all avowed. "'tis but an old man after all!" he cried. then the great knight, who looked at both, replied, "oh, kings! an old man of my time can cope with two much younger ones of yours, i hope. to mortal combat i defy you both singly; or, if you will, i'm nothing loth with two together to contend; choose here from out the heap what weapon shall appear most fit. as you no cuirass wear, i see, i will take off my own, for all must be in order perfect--e'en your punishment." then eviradnus, true to his intent, stripped to his utrecht jerkin; but the while he calmly had disarmed--with dexterous guile had ladisläus seized a knife that lay upon the damask cloth, and slipped away his shoes; then barefoot, swiftly, silently he crept behind the knight, with arm held high. but eviradnus was of all aware, and turned upon the murderous weapon there, and twisted it away; then in a trice his strong colossal hand grasped like a vice the neck of ladisläus, who the blade now dropped; over his eyes a misty shade showed that the royal dwarf was near to death. "traitor!" said eviradnus in his wrath, "i rather should have hewn your limbs away, and left you crawling on your stumps, i say,- but now die fast." ghastly, with starting eyes, the king without a cry or struggle dies. one dead--but lo! the other stands bold-faced, defiant; for the knight, when he unlaced his cuirass, had his trusty sword laid down, and sigismond now grasps it as his own. the monster-youth laughed at the silv'ry beard, and, sword in hand, a murderer glad appeared. crossing his arms, he cried, "'tis my turn now!" and the black mounted knights in solemn row were judges of the strife. before them lay the sleeping mahaud--and not far away the fatal pit, near which the champion knight with evil emperor must contend for right, though weaponless he was. and yawned the pit expectant which should be engulfed in it. "now we shall see for whom this ready grave," said sigismond, "you dog, whom naught can save!" aware was eviradnus that if he turned for a blade unto the armory, he would be instant pierced--what can he do? the moment is for him supreme. but, lo! he glances now at ladisläus dead, and with a smile triumphant and yet dread, and air of lion caged to whom is shown some loophole of escape, he bends him down. "ha! ha! no other club than this i need!" he cried, as seizing in his hands with speed the dead king's heels, the body lifted high, then to the frightened emperor he came nigh, and made him shake with horror and with fear, the weapon all so ghastly did appear. the head became the stone to this strange sling, of which the body was the potent string; and while 'twas brandished in a deadly way, the dislocated arms made monstrous play with hideous gestures, as now upside down the bludgeon corpse a giant force had grown. "'tis well!" said eviradnus, and he cried, "arrange between yourselves, you two allied; if hell-fire were extinguished, surely it by such a contest might be all relit; from kindling spark struck out from dead king's brow, batt'ring to death a living emperor now." and sigismond, thus met and horrified, recoiled to near the unseen opening wide; the human club was raised, and struck again * * * and eviradnus did alone remain all empty-handed--but he heard the sound of spectres two falling to depths profound; then, stooping o'er the pit, he gazed below, and, as half-dreaming now, he murmured low, "tiger and jackal meet their portion here, 'tis well together they should disappear!" xviii. daybreak. then lifts he mahaud to the ducal chair, and shuts the trap with noiseless, gentle care; and puts in order everything around, so that, on waking, naught should her astound. "no drop of blood the thing has cost," mused he, "and that is best indeed." but suddenly some distant bells clang out. the mountains gray have scarlet tips, proclaiming dawning day; the hamlets are astir, and crowds come out- bearing fresh branches of the broom--about to seek their lady, who herself awakes rosy as morn, just when the morning breaks; half-dreaming still, she ponders, can it be some mystic change has passed, for her to see one old man in the place of two quite young! her wondering eyes search carefully and long. it may be she regrets the change: meanwhile, the valiant knight salutes her with a smile, and then approaching her with friendly mien, says, "madam, has your sleep all pleasant been?" mrs. newton crosland. the soudan, the sphinxes, the cup, the lamp. _("zim-zizimi, soudan d'égypte.")_ [bk. xvi. i.] zim zizimi--(of the soudan of burnt egypt, the commander of believers, a bashaw whose very robes were from asia's greatest stript, more powerful than any lion with resistless paw) a master weighed on by his immense splendor- once had a dream when he was at his evening feast, when the broad table smoked like a perfumed censer, and its grateful odors the appetite increased. the banquet was outspread in a hall, high as vast, with pillars painted, and with ceiling bright with gold, upreared by zim's ancestors in the days long past, and added to till now worth a sum untold. howe'er rich no rarity was absent, it seemed, fruit blushed upon the side-boards, groaning 'neath rich meats, with all the dainties palate ever dreamed in lavishness to waste--for dwellers in the streets of cities, whether troy, or tyre, or ispahan, consume, in point of cost, food at a single meal much less than what is spread before this crowned man-- who rules his couchant nation with a rod of steel, and whose servitors' chiefest arts it was to squeeze the world's full teats into his royal helpless mouth. each hard-sought dainty that never failed to please, all delicacies, wines, from east, west, north or south, are plenty here--for sultan zizimi drinks wine in its variety, trying to find what never sates. laughs at the holy writings and the text divine, o'er which the humble dervish prays and venerates. there is a common saying which holds often good: that cruel is he who is sparing in his cups. that they are such as are most thirsty of man's blood- yet he will see a slave beheaded whilst he sups. but be this as it all may, glory gilds his reign, he has overrun africa, the old and black; asia as well--holding them both beneath a rain of bloody drops from scaffold, pyre, the stake, or rack, to leave his empire's confines, one must run a race far past the river baxtile southward; in the north, to the rude, rocky, barren land of thrace, yet near enough to shudder when great zim is wroth. conquering in every field, he finds delight in battle-storms; his music is the shout of camps. on seeing him the eagle speeds away in fright, whilst hid 'mong rocks, the grisly wolf its victim champs. mysore's as well as agra's rajah is his kin; the great sheiks of the arid sands confess him lord; omar, who vaunting cried: "through me doth allah win!" was of his blood--a dreaded line of fire and sword. the waters of nagain, sands of sahara warm, the atlas and the caucasus, snow-capped and lone, mecca, marcatta, these were massed in part to form a portion of the giant shadow of zim's throne. before his might, to theirs, as hardest rock to dust, there have recoiled a horde of savage, warlike chiefs, who have been into afric's fiery furnace thrust- its scorching heat to his rage greatest of reliefs. there is no being but fears zim; to him bows down even the sainted llama in the holy place; and the wild kasburder chieftain at his dark power turns pale, and seeks a foeman of some lesser race. cities and states are bought and sold by soudan zim, whose simple word their thousand people hold as law. he ruins them at will, for what are men to him, more than to stabled cattle is the sheaf of straw? the soudan is not pleased, for he is e'er alone, for who may in his royal sports or joys be leagued. he must never speak to any one in equal tones, but be by his own dazzling weightiness fatigued. he has exhausted all the pastimes of the earth; in vain skilled men have fought with sword, the spear, or lance, the quips and cranks most laughed at have to him no mirth; he gives a regal yawn as fairest women dance; music has outpoured all its notes, the soft and loud, but dully on his wearied ear its accents roll, as dully as the praises of the servile crowd who falsely sing the purity of his black soul. he has had before his daïs from the prison brought two thieves, whose terror makes their chains to loudly ring, then gaping most unkingly, he dismissed his slaves, and tranquilly, half rising, looked around to seek in the weighty stillness--such as broods round graves- something within his royal scope to which to speak. the throne, on which at length his eyes came back to rest, is upheld by rose-crowned sphinxes, which lyres hold, all cut in whitest marble, with uncovered breast, while their eyes contain that enigma never told. each figure has its title carved upon its head: _health_, and _voluptuousness, greatness, joy_, and _play_, with _victory, beauty, happiness_, may be read, adorning brands they wear unblushing in the day. the soudan cried: "o, sphinxes, with the torch-like eye, i am the conqueror--my name is high-arrayed in characters like flame upon the vaulted sky, far from oblivion's reach or an effacing shade. upon a sheaf of thunderbolts i rest my arm, and gods might wish my exploits with them were their own. i live--i am not open to the points of harm, and e'en my throne will be with age an altar-stone. when the time comes for me to cast off earthly robe, and enter--being day--into the realms of light, the gods will say, we call zizimi from his globe that we may have our brother nearer to our sight! glory is but my menial, pride my own chained slave, humbly standing when zizimi is in his seat. i scorn base man, and have sent thousands to the grave. they are but as a rushen carpet to my feet. instead of human beings, eunuchs, blacks, or mutes, be yours, oh, sphinxes, with the glad names on your fronts! the task, with voice attuned to emulate the flute's, to charm the king, whose chase is man, and wars his hunts. "some portion of your splendor back on me reflect, sing out in praiseful chains of melodious links! oh, throne, which i with bloody spoils have so bedecked, speak to your lord! speak you, the first rose-crested sphinx!" soon on the summons, once again was stillness broke, for the ten figures, in a voice which all else drowned, parting their stony lips, alternatively spoke- spoke clearly, with a deeply penetrative sound. the first sphinx. so lofty as to brush the heavens' dome, upon the highest terrace of her tomb is queen nitrocis, thinking all alone, upon her line, long tenants of the throne, terrors, scourges of the greeks and hebrews, harsh and bloodthirsty, narrow in their views. against the pure scroll of the sky, a blot, stands out her sepulchre, a fatal spot that seems a baneful breath around to spread. the birds which chance to near it, drop down dead. the queen is now attended on by shades, which have replaced, in horrid guise, her maids. no life is here--the law says such as bore a corpse alone may enter through yon door. before, behind, around the queen, her sight encounters but the same blank void of night. above, the pilasters are like to bars, and, through their gaps, the dead look at the stars, while, till the dawn, around nitrocis' bones, spectres hold council, crouching on the stones. the second sphinx. howe'er great is pharaoh, the magi, king, encompassed by an idolizing ring, none is so high as tiglath pileser. who, like the god before whom pales the star, has temples, with a prophet for a priest, who serves up daily sacrilegious feast. his anger there are none who dare provoke, his very mildness is looked on as a yoke; and under his, more feared than other rules, he holds his people bound, like tamèd bulls. asia is banded with his paths of war; he is more of a scourge than attila. he triumphs glorious--but, day by day, the earth falls at his feet, piecemeal away; and the bricks for his tomb's wall, one by one, are being shaped--are baking in the sun. the third sphinx. equal to archangel, for one short while, was nimroud, builder of tall babel's pile. his sceptre reached across the space between the sites where sol to rise and set is seen. baal made him terrible to all alike, the greatest cow'ring when he rose to strike. unbelief had shown in ev'ry eye, had any dared to say: "nimroud will die!" he lived and ruled, but is--at this time, where? winds blow free o'er his realm--a desert bare! the fourth sphinx. there is a statue of king chrem of old, of unknown date and maker, but of gold. how many grandest rulers in his day chrem pluckèd down, there are now none can say. whether he ruled with gentle hand or rough, none know. he once was--no longer is--enough, crowned time, whose seat is on a ruined mass, holds, and aye turns, a strange sand in his glass, a sand scraped from the mould, brushed from the shroud of all passed things, mean, great, lowly, or proud. thus meting with the ashes of the dead how hours of the living have quickly fled. the sand runs, monarchs! the clepsydra weeps. wherefore? they see through future's gloomy deeps, through the church wall, into the catacomb, and mark the change when thrones do graves become. the fifth sphinx. to swerve the earth seemed from its wonted path when marched the four of asia in their wrath, and when they were bound slaves to cyrus' car, the rivers shrank back from their banks afar. "who can this be," was nineveh's appeal; "who dares to drag the gods at his car-wheel?" the ground is still there that these wheel-rims tore- the people and the armies are no more. the sixth sphinx. never again cambyses earth will tread. he slept, and rotted, for his ghost had fled. so long as sovereigns live, the subjects kneel, crouching like spaniels at their royal heel; but when their might flies, they are shunned by all, save worms, which--human-like--still to them crawl on troy or memphis, on pyrrhus the great, or on psammeticus, alike falls fate. those who in rightful purple are arrayed, the prideful vanquisher, like vanquished, fade. death grins as he the fallen man bestrides- and less of faults than of his glories hides. the seventh sphinx. the time is come for belus' tomb to fall, long has been ruined its high granite wall; and its cupola, sister of the cloud, has now to lowest mire its tall head bowed. the herdsman comes to it to choose the stones to build a hut, and overturns the bones, from which he has just scared a jackal pack, waiting to gnaw them when he turns his back. upon this scene the night is doubly night, and the lone passer vainly strains his sight, musing: was belus not buried near this spot? the royal resting-place is now forgot. the eighth sphinx. the inmates of the pyramids assume the hue of rhamesis, black with the gloom. a jailer who ne'er needs bolts, bars, or hasps, is death. with unawed hand a god he grasps, he thrusts, to stiffen, in a narrow case, or cell, where struggling air-blasts constant moan; walling them round with huge, damp, slimy stone; and (leaving mem'ry of bloodshed as drink, and thoughts of crime as food) he stops each chink. the ninth sphinx. who would see cleopatra on her bed? come in. the place is filled with fog like lead, which clammily has settled on the frame of her who was a burning, dazzling flame to all mankind--who durst not lift their gaze, and meet the brightness of her beauty's rays. her teeth were pearls, her breath a rare perfume. men died with love on entering her room. poised 'twixt the world and her--acme of joys! antony took her of the double choice. the ice-cold heart that passion seldom warms, would find heat torrid in that queen's soft arms. she won without a single woman's wile, illumining the earth with peerless smile. come in!--but muffle closely up your face, no grateful scents have ta'en sweet odors' place. the tenth sphinx. what did the greatest king that e'er earth bore, sennacherib? no matter--he's no more! what were the words sardanapalus said? who cares to hear--that ruler long is dead. the soudan, turning pale, stared at the ten aghast. "before to-morrow's night," he said, "in dust to rest, these walls with croaking images shall be downcast; i will not have fiends speak when angels are addressed." but while zim at the sphinxes clenched his hand and shook, the cup in which it seems the rich wine sweetly breathes, the cup with jewels sparkling, met his lowered look, dwelling on the rim which the rippling wine enwreathes. "ha! you!" zim cried, "have often cleared my heated head of heavy thoughts which your great lord have come to seek and torture with their pain and weight like molten lead. let us two--power, i--you, wine--together speak." the cup. "phur," spoke the cup, "o king, dwelt as day's god, ruled alexandria with sword and rod. he from his people drew force after force, leaving in ev'ry clime an army's corse. but what gained he by having, like the sea, flooded with human waves to enslave the free? where lies the good in having been the chief in conquering, to cause a nation's grief? darius, assar-addon, hamilcar; who have led men in legions out to war, or have o'er time's shade cast rays from their seat, or throngs in worship made their name repeat, these were, but all the cup of life have drank; rising 'midst clamor, they in stillness sank. death's dart beat down the sword--the kings high reared, were brought full low--judges, like culprits, feared. the body--when the soul had ceased its sway- was placed where earth upon it heavy lay, while seek the mouldering bones rare oils anoint claw of tree's root and tooth of rocky point. weeds thrive on them who made the world a mart of human flesh, plants force their joints apart. no deed of eminence the greatest saves, and of mausoleums make panthers caves." the cup, zim, in his fury, dashed upon the floor, crying aloud for lights. slaves, at his angry call, in to him hastily, a candelabra bore, and set it, branching o'er the table, in the hall, from whose wide bounds it hunted instantly the gloom. "ah, light!" exclaimed the soudan, "welcome light, all hail! dull witnesses were yonder sphinxes of this room; the cup was always drunk, in wit did ever fail; but you fling gleams forth brightly, dazzling as a torch; vainly to quell your power all night's attempts are spent; the murky, black-eyed clouds you eat away and scorch, making where'er you spring to life an orient. to charm your lord give voice, thou spark of paradise! speak forth against the sphinxes' enigmatic word, and 'gainst the wine-cup, with its sharp and biting spice!" the lamp. oh, crusher of countless cities, such as earth knew scarce once before him, ninus (who his brother slew), was borne within the walls which, in assyrian rite, were built to hide dead majesty from outer sight. if eye of man the gift uncommon could assume, and pierce the mass, thick, black as hearse's plume, to where lays on a horrifying bed what was king ninus, now hedged round with dread, 'twould see by what is shadow of the light, a line of feath'ry dust, bones marble-white. a shudder overtakes the pois'nous snakes when they glide near that powder, laid in flakes. death comes at times to him--_life_ comes no more! and sets a jug and loaf upon the floor. he then with bony foot the corpse o'erturns, and says: "it is i, ninus! 'tis death who spurns! i bring thee, hungry king, some bread and meat." "i have no hands," ninus replies. "yet, eat!" zim pierced to the very quick by these repeated stabs, sprang to his feet, while from him pealed a fearful shout, and, furious, flung down upon the marble slabs the richly carved and golden lamp, whose light went out- then glided in a form strange-shaped, in likeness of a woman, moulded in dense smoke, veiled in thick, ebon fog, in utter darkness draped, a glimpse of which, in short, one's inmost fears awoke. zim was alone with her, this goddess of the night. the massy walls of stone like vapor part and fade, zim, shuddering, tried to call guard or satellite, but as the figure grasped him firmly, "come!" she said. bp. alexander a queen five summers old. _("elle est toute petite.")_ [bk. xxvi.] she is so little--in her hands a rose: a stern duenna watches where she goes, what sees old spain's infanta--the clear shine of waters shadowed by the birch and pine. what lies before? a swan with silver wing, the wave that murmurs to the branch's swing, or the deep garden flowering below? fair as an angel frozen into snow, the royal child looks on, and hardly seems to know. as in a depth of glory far away, down in the green park, a lofty palace lay, there, drank the deer from many a crystal pond, and the starred peacock gemmed the shade beyond. around that child all nature shone more bright; her innocence was as an added light. rubies and diamonds strewed the grass she trode, and jets of sapphire from the dolphins flowed. still at the water's side she holds her place, her bodice bright is set with genoa lace; o'er her rich robe, through every satin fold, wanders an arabesque in threads of gold. from its green urn the rose unfolding grand, weighs down the exquisite smallness of her hand. and when the child bends to the red leafs tip, her laughing nostril, and her carmine lip, the royal flower purpureal, kissing there, hides more than half that young face bright and fair, so that the eye deceived can scarcely speak where shows the rose, or where the rose-red cheek. her eyes look bluer from their dark brown frame: sweet eyes, sweet form, and mary's sweeter name. all joy, enchantment, perfume, waits she there, heaven in her glance, her very name a prayer. yet 'neath the sky, and before life and fate, poor child, she feels herself so vaguely great. with stately grace she gives her presence high to dawn, to spring, to shadows flitting by, to the dark sunset glories of the heaven, and all the wild magnificence of even; on nature waits, eternal and serene, with all the graveness of a little queen. she never sees a man but on his knee, she duchess of brabant one day will be, or rule sardinia, or the flemish crowd she is the infanta, five years old, and proud. thus is it with kings' children, for they wear a shadowy circlet on their forehead fair; their tottering steps are towards a kingly chair. calmly she waits, and breathes her gathered flower till one shall cull for her imperial power. already her eye saith, "it is my right;" even love flows from her, mingled with affright. if some one seeing her so fragile stand, were it to save her, should put forth his hand, ere he had made a step, or breathed a vow, the scaffold's shadow were upon his brow. while the child laughs, beyond the bastion thick of that vast palace, roman catholic, whose every turret like a mitre shows, behind the lattice something dreadful goes. men shake to see a shadow from beneath passing from pane to pane, like vapory wreath, pale, black, and still it glides from room to room; in the same spot, like ghost upon a tomb; or glues its dark brown to the casement wan, dim shade that lengthens as the night draws on. its step funereal lingers like the swing of passing bell--'tis death, or else the king. 'tis he, the man by whom men live and die; but could one look beyond that phantom eye, as by the wall he leans a little space, and see what shadows fill his soul's dark place, not the fair child, the waters clear, the flowers golden with sunset--not the birds, the bowers- no; 'neath that eye, those fatal brows that keep the fathomless brain, like ocean, dark and deep, there, as in moving mirage, should one find a fleet of ships that go before the wind: on the foamed wave, and 'neath the starlight pale, the strain and rattle of a fleet in sail, and through the fog an isle on her white rock hearkening from far the thunder's coming shock. still by the water's edge doth silent stand the infanta with the rose-flower in her hand, caresses it with eyes as blue as heaven; sudden a breeze, such breeze as panting even from her full heart flings out to field and brake, ruffles the waters, bids the rushes shake, and makes through all their green recesses swell the massive myrtle and the asphodel. to the fair child it comes, and tears away on its strong wing the rose-flower from the spray. on the wild waters casts it bruised and torn, and the infanta only holds a thorn. frightened, perplexed, she follows with her eyes into the basin where her ruin lies, looks up to heaven, and questions of the breeze that had not feared her highness to displease; but all the pond is changed; anon so clear, now back it swells, as though with rage and fear; a mimic sea its small waves rise and fall, and the poor rose is broken by them all. its hundred leaves tossed wildly round and round beneath a thousand waves are whelmed and drowned; it was a foundering fleet you might have said; and the duenna with her face of shade,- "madam," for she had marked her ruffled mind, "all things belong to princes--but god's wind." bp. alexander sea-adventurers' song. _("en partant du golfe d'otrante.")_ [bk. xxviii.] we told thirty when we started from port so taut and fine, but soon our crew were parted, till now we number nine. tom robbins, english, tall and straight, left us at aetna light; he left us to investigate what made the mountain bright; "i mean to ask old nick himself, (and here his eye he rolls) if i can't bring newcastle pelf by selling him some coals!" in calabree, a lass and cup drove scowling spada wild: she only held her finger up, and there he drank and smiled; and over in gaëta bay, ascanio--ashore a fool!--must wed a widow gay who'd buried three or four. at naples, woe! poor ned they hanged- hemp neckcloth he disdained- and prettily we all were banged- and two more blades remained to serve the duke, and row in chains- thank saints! 'twas not my cast! we drank deliverance from pains- we who'd the ducats fast. at malta dick became a monk- (what vineyards have those priests!) and gobbo to quack-salver sunk, to leech vile murrained beasts; and lazy andré, blown off shore, was picked up by the turk, and in some harem, you be sure, is forced at last to work. next, three of us whom nothing daunts, marched off with prince eugene, to take genoa! oh, it vaunts girls fit--each one--for queen! had they but promised us the pick, perchance we had joined, all; but battering bastions built of brick- bah, give me wooden wall! by leghorn, twenty caravels came 'cross our lonely sail- spinoza's sea-invincibles! but, whew! our shots like hail made shortish work of galley long and chubby sailing craft- our making ready first to close sent them a-spinning aft. off marseilles, ne'er by sun forsook we friends fell-to as foes! for lucca diavolo mistook angelo's wife for rose, and hang me! soon the angel slid the devil in the sea, and would of lass likewise be rid- and so we fought it free! at palmas eight or so gave slip, pescara to pursue, and more, perchance, had left the ship, but algiers loomed in view; and here we cruised to intercept some lucky-laden rogues, whose gold-galleons but slowly crept, so that we trounced the dogs! and after making war out there, we made love at "the gib." we ten--no more! we took it fair, and kissed the gov'nor's "rib," and made the king of spain our take, believe or not, who cares? i tell ye that he begged till black i' the face to have his shares. we're rovers of the restless main, but we've some conscience, mark! and we know what it is to reign, and finally did heark- aye, masters of the narrow neck, we hearkened to our heart, and gave him freedom on our deck, his town, and gold--in part. my lucky mates for that were made grandees of old castile, and maids of honor went to wed, somewhere in sweet seville; not they for me were fair enough, and so his majesty declared his daughter--'tis no scoff! my beauteous bride should be. "a royal daughter!" think of that! but i would never one. i have a lass (i said it pat) who's not been bred like nun- but, merry maid with eagle eye, it's proud she smiles and bright, and sings upon the cliff, to spy my ship a-heave in sight! my faenzetta has my heart! in fiesoné she the fairest! nothing shall us part, saving, in sooth, the sea! and that not long! its rolling wave and such breeze holding now will send me along to her i love- and so i made my bow. we told thirty when we started from port so taut and fine, but thus our crew were parted, and now we number nine. the swiss mercenaries. _("lorsque le regiment des hallebardiers.")_ [bk. xxxi.] when the regiment of halberdiers is proudly marching by, the eagle of the mountain screams from out his stormy sky; who speaketh to the precipice, and to the chasm sheer; who hovers o'er the thrones of kings, and bids the caitiffs fear. king of the peak and glacier, king of the cold, white scalps- he lifts his head, at that close tread, the eagle of the alps. o shame! those men that march below- o ignominy dire! are the sons of my free mountains sold for imperial hire. ah! the vilest in the dungeon! ah! the slave upon the seas- is great, is pure, is glorious, is grand compared with these, who, born amid my holy rocks, in solemn places high, where the tall pines bend like rushes when the storm goes sweeping by; yet give the strength of foot they learned by perilous path and flood, and from their blue-eyed mothers won, the old, mysterious blood; the daring that the good south wind into their nostrils blew, and the proud swelling of the heart with each pure breath they drew; the graces of the mountain glens, with flowers in summer gay; and all the glories of the hills to earn a lackey's pay. their country free and joyous- she of the rugged sides- she of the rough peaks arrogant whereon the tempest rides: mother of the unconquered thought and of the savage form, who brings out of her sturdy heart the hero and the storm: who giveth freedom unto man, and life unto the beast; who hears her silver torrents ring like joy-bells at a feast; who hath her caves for palaces, and where her châlets stand- the proud, old archer of altorf, with his good bow in his hand. is she to suckle jailers? shall shame and glory rest, amid her lakes and glaciers, like twins upon her breast? shall the two-headed eagle, marked with her double blow, drink of her milk through all those hearts whose blood he bids to flow? say, was it pomp ye needed, and all the proud array of courtly joust and high parade upon a gala day? look up; have not my valleys their torrents white with foam- their lines of silver bullion on the blue hillocks of home? doth not sweet may embroider my rocks with pearls and flowers? her fingers trace a richer lace than yours in all my bowers. are not my old peaks gilded when the sun arises proud, and each one shakes a white mist plume out of the thunder-cloud? o, neighbor of the golden sky- sons of the mountain sod- why wear a base king's colors for the livery of god? o shame! despair! to see my alps their giant shadows fling into the very waiting-room of tyrant and of king! o thou deep heaven, unsullied yet, into thy gulfs sublime- up azure tracts of flaming light- let my free pinion climb; till from my sight, in that clear light, earth and her crimes be gone- the men who act the evil deeds- the caitiffs who look on. far, far into that space immense, beyond the vast white veil, where distant stars come out and shine, and the great sun grows pale. bp. alexander the cup on the battle-field. _("mon pére, ce héros au sourire.")_ [bk. xlix. iv.] my sire, the hero with the smile so soft, and a tall trooper, his companion oft, whom he loved greatly for his courage high and strength and stature, as the night drew nigh rode out together. the battle was done; the dead strewed the field; long sunk was the sun. it seemed in the darkness a sound they heard,- was it feeble moaning or uttered word? 'twas a spaniard left from the force in flight, who had crawled to the roadside after fight; shattered and livid, less live than dead, rattled his throat as hoarsely he said: "water, water to drink, for pity's sake! oh, a drop of water this thirst to slake!" my father, moved at his speech heart-wrung, handed the orderly, downward leapt, the flask of rum at the holster kept. "let him have some!" cried my father, as ran the trooper o'er to the wounded man,- a sort of moor, swart, bloody and grim; but just as the trooper was nearing him, he lifted a pistol, with eye of flame, and covered my father with murd'rous aim. the hurtling slug grazed the very head, and the helmet fell, pierced, streaked with red, and the steed reared up; but in steady tone: "give him the whole!" said my father, "and on!" toru dutt how good are the poor. _("il est nuit. la cabane est pauvre.")_ [bk. lii. iii.] 'tis night--within the close stout cabin door, the room is wrapped in shade save where there fall some twilight rays that creep along the floor, and show the fisher's nets upon the wall. in the dim corner, from the oaken chest, a few white dishes glimmer; through the shade stands a tall bed with dusky curtains dressed, and a rough mattress at its side is laid. five children on the long low mattress lie- a nest of little souls, it heaves with dreams; in the high chimney the last embers die, and redden the dark room with crimson gleams. the mother kneels and thinks, and pale with fear, she prays alone, hearing the billows shout: while to wild winds, to rocks, to midnight drear, the ominous old ocean sobs without. poor wives of fishers! ah! 'tis sad to say, our sons, our husbands, all that we love best, our hearts, our souls, are on those waves away, those ravening wolves that know not ruth, nor rest. think how they sport with these beloved forms; and how the clarion-blowing wind unties above their heads the tresses of the storms: perchance even now the child, the husband, dies. for we can never tell where they may be who, to make head against the tide and gale, between them and the starless, soulless sea have but one bit of plank, with one poor sail. terrible fear! we seek the pebbly shore, cry to the rising billows, "bring them home." alas! what answer gives their troubled roar, to the dark thought that haunts us as we roam. janet is sad: her husband is alone, wrapped in the black shroud of this bitter night: his children are so little, there is none to give him aid. "were they but old, they might." ah, mother! when they too are on the main, how wilt thou weep: "would they were young again!" she takes his lantern--'tis his hour at last she will go forth, and see if the day breaks, and if his signal-fire be at the mast; ah, no--not yet--no breath of morning wakes. no line of light o'er the dark water lies; it rains, it rains, how black is rain at morn: the day comes trembling, and the young dawn cries- cries like a baby fearing to be born. sudden her humane eyes that peer and watch through the deep shade, a mouldering dwelling find, no light within--the thin door shakes--the thatch o'er the green walls is twisted of the wind, yellow, and dirty, as a swollen rill, "ah, me," she saith, "here does that widow dwell; few days ago my good man left her ill: i will go in and see if all be well." she strikes the door, she listens, none replies, and janet shudders. "husbandless, alone, and with two children--they have scant supplies. good neighbor! she sleeps heavy as a stone." she calls again, she knocks, 'tis silence still; no sound--no answer--suddenly the door, as if the senseless creature felt some thrill of pity, turned--and open lay before. she entered, and her lantern lighted all the house so still, but for the rude waves' din. through the thin roof the plashing rain-drops fall, but something terrible is couched within. * * * * * "so, for the kisses that delight the flesh, for mother's worship, and for children's bloom, for song, for smile, for love so fair and fresh, for laugh, for dance, there is one goal--the tomb." and why does janet pass so fast away? what hath she done within that house of dread? what foldeth she beneath her mantle gray? and hurries home, and hides it in her bed: with half-averted face, and nervous tread, what hath she stolen from the awful dead? the dawn was whitening over the sea's verge as she sat pensive, touching broken chords of half-remorseful thought, while the hoarse surge howled a sad concert to her broken words. "ah, my poor husband! we had five before, already so much care, so much to find, for he must work for all. i give him more. what was that noise? his step! ah, no! the wind. "that i should be afraid of him i love! i have done ill. if he should beat me now, i would not blame him. did not the door move? not yet, poor man." she sits with careful brow wrapped in her inward grief; nor hears the roar of winds and waves that dash against his prow, nor the black cormorant shrieking on the shore. sudden the door flies open wide, and lets noisily in the dawn-light scarcely clear, and the good fisher, dragging his damp nets, stands on the threshold, with a joyous cheer. "'tis thou!" she cries, and, eager as a lover, leaps up and holds her husband to her breast; her greeting kisses all his vesture cover; "'tis i, good wife!" and his broad face expressed how gay his heart that janet's love made light. "what weather was it?" "hard." "your fishing?" "bad. the sea was like a nest of thieves to-night; but i embrace thee, and my heart is glad. "there was a devil in the wind that blew; i tore my net, caught nothing, broke my line, and once i thought the bark was broken too; what did you all the night long, janet mine?" she, trembling in the darkness, answered, "i! oh, naught--i sew'd, i watch'd, i was afraid, the waves were loud as thunders from the sky; but it is over." shyly then she said- "our neighbor died last night; it must have been when you were gone. she left two little ones, so small, so frail--william and madeline; the one just lisps, the other scarcely runs." the man looked grave, and in the corner cast his old fur bonnet, wet with rain and sea, muttered awhile, and scratched his head,--at last "we have five children, this makes seven," said he. "already in bad weather we must sleep sometimes without our supper. now! ah, well- 'tis not my fault. these accidents are deep; it was the good god's will. i cannot tell. "why did he take the mother from those scraps, no bigger than my fist. 'tis hard to read; a learned man might understand, perhaps- so little, they can neither work nor need. "go fetch them, wife; they will be frightened sore, if with the dead alone they waken thus. that was the mother knocking at our door, and we must take the children home to us. "brother and sister shall they be to ours, and they will learn to climb my knee at even; when he shall see these strangers in our bowers, more fish, more food, will give the god of heaven. "i will work harder; i will drink no wine- go fetch them. wherefore dost thou linger, dear? not thus were wont to move those feet of thine." she drew the curtain, saying, "they are here!" bp. alexander la voix de guernesey. mentana. [1] (victor hugo to garibaldi.) _("ces jeunes gens, combien étaient-ils.")_ [la voix de guernesey, december, 1868.] i. young soldiers of the noble latin blood, how many are ye--boys? four thousand odd. how many are there dead? six hundred: count! their limbs lie strewn about the fatal mount, blackened and torn, eyes gummed with blood, hearts rolled out from their ribs, to give the wolves of the wold a red feast; nothing of them left but these pierced relics, underneath the olive trees, show where the gin was sprung--the scoundrel-trap which brought those hero-lads their foul mishap. see how they fell in swathes--like barley-ears! their crime? to claim rome and her glories theirs; to fight for right and honor;--foolish names! come--mothers of the soil! italian dames! turn the dead over!--try your battle luck! (bearded or smooth, to her that gave him suck the man is always child)--stay, here's a brow split by the zouaves' bullets! this one, now, with the bright curly hair soaked so in blood, was yours, ma donna!--sweet and fair and good. the spirit sat upon his fearless face before they murdered it, in all the grace of manhood's dawn. sisters, here's yours! his lips, over whose bloom the bloody death-foam slips, lisped house-songs after you, and said your name in loving prattle once. that hand, the same which lies so cold over the eyelids shut, was once a small pink baby-fist, and wet with milk beads from thy yearning breasts. take thou thine eldest,--thou, thy youngest born. oh, flow of tears never to cease! oh, hope quite gone, dead like the dead!--yet could they live alone- without their tiber and their rome? and be young and italian--and not also free? they longed to see the ancient eagle try his lordly pinions in a modern sky. they bore--each on himself--the insults laid on the dear foster-land: of naught afraid, save of not finding foes enough to dare for italy. ah; gallant, free, and rare young martyrs of a sacred cause,--adieu! no more of life--no more of love--for you! no sweet long-straying in the star-lit glades at ave-mary, with the italian maids; no welcome home! ii. this garibaldi now, the italian boys go mad to hear him--take to dying--take to passion for "the pure and high";--god's sake! it's monstrous, horrible! one sees quite clear society--our charge--must shake with fear, and shriek for help, and call on us to act when there's a hero, taken in the fact. if light shines in the dark, there's guilt in that! what's viler than a lantern to a bat? iii. your garibaldi missed the mark! you see the end of life's to cheat, and not to be cheated: the knave is nobler than the fool! get all you can and keep it! life's a pool, the best luck wins; if virtue starves in rags, i laugh at virtue; here's my money-bags! here's righteous metal! we have kings, i say, to keep cash going, and the game at play; there's why a king wants money--he'd be missed without a fertilizing civil list. do but try the question with a steady moral eye! the colonel strives to be a brigadier, the marshal, constable. call the game fair, and pay your winners! show the trump, i say! a renegade's a rascal--till the day they make him pasha: is he rascal then? what with these sequins? bah! you speak to men, and men want money--power--luck--life's joy- those take who can: we could, and fobbed savoy; for those who live content with honest state, they're public pests; knock we 'em on the pate! they set a vile example! quick--arrest that fool, who ruled and failed to line his nest. just hit a bell, you'll see the clapper shake- meddle with priests, you'll find the barrack wake- ah! princes know the people's a tight boot, march 'em sometimes to be shot and to shoot, then they'll wear easier. so let them preach the righteousness of howitzers; and teach at the fag end of prayer: "now, slit their throats! my holy zouaves! my good yellow-coats!" we like to see the holy father send powder and steel and lead without an end, to feed death fat; and broken battles mend. so they! iv. but thou, our hero, baffled, foiled, the glorious chief who vainly bled and toiled. the trust of all the peoples--freedom's knight! the paladin unstained--the sword of right! what wilt thou do, whose land finds thee but jails! the banished claim the banished! deign to cheer the refuge of the homeless--enter here, and light upon our households dark will fall even as thou enterest. oh, brother, all, each one of us--hurt with thy sorrows' proof, will make a country for thee of his roof. come, sit with those who live as exiles learn: come! thou whom kings could conquer but not yet turn. we'll talk of "palermo"[2]--"the thousand" true, will tell the tears of blood of france to you; then by his own great sea we'll read, together, old homer in the quiet summer weather, and after, thou shalt go to thy desire while that faint star of justice grows to fire.[3] v. oh, italy! hail your deliverer, oh, nations! almost he gave rome to her! strong-arm and prophet-heart had all but come to win the city, and to make it "rome." calm, of the antique grandeur, ripe to be named with the noblest of her history. he would have romanized your rome--controlled her glory, lordships, gods, in a new mould. her spirits' fervor would have melted in the hundred cities with her; made a twin vesuvius and the capitol; and blended strong juvenal's with the soul, tender and splendid, of dante--smelted old with new alloy- stormed at the titans' road full of bold joy whereby men storm olympus. italy, weep!--this man could have made one rome of thee! vi. but the crime's wrought! who wrought it? honest man- priest pius? no! each does but what he can. yonder's the criminal! the warlike wight who hides behind the ranks of france to fight, greek sinon's blood crossed thick with judas-jew's, the traitor who with smile which true men woos, lip mouthing pledges--hand grasping the knife- waylaid french liberty, and took her life. kings, he is of you! fit companion! one whom day by day the lightning looks upon keen; while the sentenced man triples his guard and trembles; for his hour approaches hard. ye ask me "when?" i say _soon_! hear ye not yon muttering in the skies above the spot? mark ye no coming shadow, kings? the shroud of a great storm driving the thunder-cloud? hark! like the thief-catcher who pulls the pin, god's thunder asks to _speak to one within_! vii. and meanwhile this death-odor--this corpse-scent which makes the priestly incense redolent of rotting men, and the te deums stink- reeks through the forests--past the river's brink, o'er wood and plain and mountain, till it fouls fair paris in her pleasures; then it prowls, a deadly stench, to crete, to mexico, to poland--wheresoe'er kings' armies go: and earth one upas-tree of bitter sadness, opening vast blossoms of a bloody madness. throats cut by thousands--slain men by the ton! earth quite corpse-cumbered, though the half not done! they lie, stretched out, where the blood-puddles soak, their black lips gaping with the last cry spoke. "stretched;" nay! _sown broadcast_; yes, the word is "sown." the fallows liberty--the harsh wind blown over the furrows, fate: and these stark dead are grain sublime, from death's cold fingers shed to make the abyss conceive: the future bear more noble heroes! swell, oh, corpses dear! rot quick to the green blade of freedom! death! do thy kind will with them! they without breath, stripped, scattered, ragged, festering, slashed and blue, dangle towards god the arms french shot tore through and wait in meekness, death! for him and you! viii. oh, france! oh, people! sleeping unabashed! liest thou like a hound when it was lashed? thou liest! thine own blood fouling both thy hands, and on thy limbs the rust of iron bands, and round thy wrists the cut where cords went deep. say did they numb thy soul, that thou didst sleep? alas! sad france is grown a cave for sleeping, which a worse night than midnight holds in keeping, thou sleepest sottish--lost to life and fame- while the stars stare on thee, and pale for shame. stir! rouse thee! sit! if thou know'st not to rise; sit up, thou tortured sluggard! ope thine eyes! stretch thy brawn, giant! sleep is foul and vile! art fagged, art deaf, art dumb? art blind this while? they lie who say so! thou dost know and feel the things they do to thee and thine. the heel that scratched thy neck in passing--whose? canst say? yes, yes, 'twas _his_, and this is his _fête-day_. oh, thou that wert of humankind--couched so- a beast of burden on this dunghill! oh! bray to them, mule! oh, bullock! bellow then! since they have made thee blind, grope in thy den! do something, outcast one, that wast so grand! who knows if thou putt'st forth thy poor maimed hand, there may be venging weapon within reach! feel with both hands--with both huge arms go stretch along the black wall of thy cellar. nay, there _may_ be some odd thing hidden away? who knows--there _may_! those great hands might so come in course of ghastly fumble through the gloom, upon a sword--a _sword_! the hands once clasp its hilt, must wield it with a victor's grasp. edwin arnold, c.s.i. [footnote 1: the battle of mentana, so named from a village by rome, was fought between the allied french and papal armies and the volunteer forces of garibaldi, nov. 3, 1867.] [footnote 2: palermo was taken immediately after the garibaldian volunteers, 1000 strong, landed at marsala to inaugurate the rising which made italy free.] [footnote 3: both poet and his idol lived to see the french republic for the fourth time proclaimed. when hugo rose in the senate, on the first occasion after his return to paris after the expulsion of the napoleons, and his white head was seen above that of rouher, ex-prime minister of the empire, all the house shuddered, and in a nearly unanimous voice shouted: "the judgment of god! expiation!"] les chansons des rues et des bois. love of the woodland. _("orphée au bois du caystre.")_ [bk. i. ii.] orpheus, through the hellward wood hurried, ere the eve-star glowed, for the fauns' lugubrious hoots followed, hollow, from crookèd roots; aeschylus, where aetna smoked, gods of sicily evoked with the flute, till sulphur taint dulled and lulled the echoes faint; pliny, soon his style mislaid, dogged miletus' merry maid, as she showed eburnean limbs all-multiplied by brooklet brims; plautus, see! like plutus, hold bosomfuls of orchard-gold, learns he why that mystic core was sweet venus' meed of yore? dante dreamt (while spirits pass as in wizard's jetty glass) each black-bossed briarian trunk waved live arms like furies drunk; winsome will, 'neath windsor oak, eyed each elf that cracked a joke at poor panting grease-hart fast- obese, roguish jack harassed; at versailles, molière did court cues from pan (in heron port, half in ooze, half treeward raised), "words so witty, that boileau's 'mazed!" foliage! fondly you attract! dian's faith i keep intact, and declare that thy dryads dance still, and will, in thy green expanse! shooting stars. [for my little child only.] _("tas de feux tombants.")_ [bk. iii. vii.] see the scintillating shower! like a burst from golden mine- incandescent coals that pour from the incense-bowl divine, and around us dewdrops, shaken, mirror each a twinkling ray 'twixt the flowers that awaken in this glory great as day. mists and fogs all vanish fleetly; and the birds begin to sing, whilst the rain is murm'ring sweetly as if angels echoing. and, methinks, to show she's grateful for this seed from heaven come, earth is holding up a plateful of the birds and buds a-bloom! l'année terrible. to little jeanne. _("vous eûtes donc hier un an.")_ [september, 1870.] you've lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child, prattling thus happily! so fledglings wild, new-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough, chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow. your mouth's a rose, jeanne! in these volumes grand whose pictures please you--while i trembling stand to see their big leaves tattered by your hand- are noble lines; but nothing half your worth, when all your tiny frame rustles with mirth to welcome me. no work of author wise can match the thought half springing to your eyes, and your dim reveries, unfettered, strange, regarding man with all the boundless range of angel innocence. methinks, 'tis clear that god's not far, jeanne, when i see you here. ah! twelve months old: 'tis quite an age, and brings grave moments, though your soul to rapture clings, you're at that hour of life most like to heaven, when present joy no cares, no sorrows leaven when man no shadow feels: if fond caress round parent twines, children the world possess. your waking hopes, your dreams of mirth and love from charles to alice, father to mother, rove; no wider range of view your heart can take than what her nursing and his bright smiles make; they two alone on this your opening hour can gleams of tenderness and gladness pour: they two--none else, jeanne! yet 'tis just, and i, poor grandsire, dare but to stand humbly by. you come--i go: though gloom alone my right, blest be the destiny which gives you light. your fair-haired brother george and you beside me play--in watching you is all my pride; and all i ask--by countless sorrows tried- the grave; o'er which in shadowy form may show your cradles gilded by the morning's glow. pure new-born wonderer! your infant life strange welcome found, jeanne, in this time of strife. like wild-bee humming through the woods your play, and baby smiles have dared a world at bay: your tiny accents lisp their gentle charms to mighty paris clashing mighty arms. ah! when i see you, child, and when i hear you sing, or try, with low voice whispering near, and touch of fingers soft, my grief to cheer, i dream this darkness, where the tempests groan, trembles, and passes with half-uttered moan. for though these hundred towers of paris bend, though close as foundering ship her glory's end, though rocks the universe, which we defend; still to great cannon on our ramparts piled, god sends his blessing by a little child. marwood tucker. to a sick child during the siege of paris. _("si vous continuez toute pâle.")_ [november, 1870.] if you continue thus so wan and white; if i, one day, behold you pass from out our dull air to the light, you, infant--i, so old: if i the thread of our two lives must see thus blent to human view, i who would fain know death was near to me, and far away for you; if your small hands remain such fragile things; if, in your cradle stirred, you have the mien of waiting there for wings, like to some new-fledged bird; not rooted to our earth you seem to be. if still, beneath the skies, you turn, o jeanne, on our mystery soft, discontented eyes! if i behold you, gay and strong no more; if you mope sadly thus; if you behind you have not shut the door, through which you came to us; if you no more like some fair dame i see laugh, walk, be well and gay; if like a little soul you seem to me that fain would fly away- i'll deem that to this world, where oft are blent the pall and swaddling-band, you came but to depart--an angel sent to bear me from the land. lucy h. hooper. the carrier pigeon. _("oh! qu'est-ce que c'est donc que l'inconnu.")_ [january, 1871.] who then--oh, who, is like our god so great, who makes the seed expand beneath the mountain's weight; who for a swallow's nest leaves one old castle wall, who lets for famished beetles savory apples fall, who bids a pigmy win where titans fail, in yoke, and, in what we deem fruitless roar and smoke, makes etna, chimborazo, still his praises sing, and saves a city by a word lapped 'neath a pigeon's wing! toys and tragedy. _("enfants, on vous dira plus tard.")_ [january, 1871.] in later years, they'll tell you grandpapa adored his little darlings; for them did his utmost just to pleasure them and mar no moments with a frown or growl amid their rosy rompings; that he loved them so (though men have called him bitter, cold, and stern,) that in the famous winter when the snow covered poor paris, he went, old and worn, to buy them dolls, despite the falling shells, at which laughed punch, and they, and shook his bells. mourning. _("charle! ô mon fils!")_ [march, 1871.] charles, charles, my son! hast thou, then, quitted me? must all fade, naught endure? hast vanished in that radiance, clear for thee, but still for us obscure? my sunset lingers, boy, thy morn declines! sweet mutual love we've known; for man, alas! plans, dreams, and smiling twines with others' souls his own. he cries, "this has no end!" pursues his way: he soon is downward bound: he lives, he suffers; in his grasp one day mere dust and ashes found. i've wandered twenty years, in distant lands, with sore heart forced to stay: why fell the blow fate only understands! god took my home away. to-day one daughter and one son remain of all my goodly show: wellnigh in solitude my dark hours wane; god takes my children now. linger, ye two still left me! though decays our nest, our hearts remain; in gloom of death your mother silent prays, i in this life of pain. martyr of sion! holding thee in sight, i'll drain this cup of gall, and scale with step resolved that dangerous height, which rather seems a fall. truth is sufficient guide; no more man needs than end so nobly shown. mourning, but brave, i march; where duty leads, i seek the vast unknown. marwood tucker. the lesson of the patriot dead. _("o caresse sublime.")_ [april, 1871.] upon the grave's cold mouth there ever have caresses clung for those who died ideally good and grand and pure and young; under the scorn of all who clamor: "there is nothing just!" and bow to dread inquisitor and worship lords of dust; let sophists give the lie, hearts droop, and courtiers play the worm, our martyrs of democracy the truth sublime affirm! and when all seems inert upon this seething, troublous round, and when the rashest knows not best to flee ar stand his ground, when not a single war-cry from the sombre mass will rush, when o'er the universe is spread by doubting utter hush, then he who searches well within the walls that close immure our teachers, leaders, heroes slain because they lived too pure, may glue his ear upon the ground where few else came to grieve, and ask the austere shadows: "ho! and must one still believe? read yet the orders: 'forward, march!' and 'charge!'" then from the lime, which burnt the bones but left the soul (oh! tyrants' useless crime!) will rise reply: "yes!" "yes!" and "yes!" the thousand, thousandth time! h.l.w. the boy on the barricade. _("sur une barricade.")_ [june, 1871.] like casabianca on the devastated deck, in years yet younger, but the selfsame core. beside the battered barricado's restless wreck, a lad stood splashed with gouts of guilty gore, but gemmed with purest blood of patriot more. upon his fragile form the troopers' bloody grip was deeply dug, while sharply challenged they: "were you one of this currish crew?"--pride pursed his lip, as firm as bandog's, brought the bull to bay- while answered he: "i fought with others. yea!" "prepare then to be shot! go join that death-doomed row." as paced he pertly past, a volley rang- and as he fell in line, mock mercies once more flow of man's lead-lightning's sudden scathing pang, but to his home-turned thoughts the balls but sang. "here's half-a-franc i saved to buy my mother's bread!"- the captain started--who mourns not a dear, the dearest! mother!--"where is she, wolf-cub?" he said still gruffly. "there, d'ye see? not far from here." "haste! make it hers! then back to swell _their_ bier." he sprang aloof as springald from detested school, or ocean-rover from protected port. "the little rascal has the laugh on us! no fool to breast our bullets!"--but the scoff was short, for soon! the rogue is racing from his court; and with still fearless front he faces them and calls: "ready! but level low--_she's_ kissed these eyes!" from cooling hands of _men_ each rifle falls, and their gray officer, in grave surprise, life grants the lad whilst his last comrade dies. brave youth! i know not well what urged thy act, whether thou'lt pass in palace, or die rackt; but _then_, shone on the guns, a sublime soul.- a bayard-boy's, bound by his pure parole! honor redeemed though paid by parlous price, though lost be sunlit sports, wild boyhood's spice, the gates, the cheers of mates for bright device! greeks would, whilom, have choicely clasped and circled thee, set thee the first to shield some new thermopylae; thy deed had touched and tuned their true tyrtaeus tongue, and staged by aeschylus, grouped thee grand gods among. and thy lost name (now known no more) been gilt and graved on cloud-kissed column, by the sweet south ocean laved. from us no crown! no honors from the civic sheaf- purely this poet's tear-bejewelled, aye-green leaf! h.l.w. to his orphan grandchildren. _("o charles, je te sens près de moi.")_ [july, 1871.] i feel thy presence, charles. sweet martyr! down in earth, where men decay, i search, and see from cracks which rend thy tomb, burst out pale morning's ray. close linked are bier and cradle: here the dead, to charm us, live again: kneeling, i mourn, when on my threshold sounds two little children's strain. george, jeanne, sing on! george, jeanne, unconscious play! your father's form recall, now darkened by his sombre shade, now gilt by beams that wandering fall. oh, knowledge! what thy use? did we not know death holds no more the dead; but heaven, where, hand in hand, angel and star smile at the grave we dread? a heaven, which childhood represents on earth. orphans, may god be nigh! that god, who can your bright steps turn aside from darkness, where i sigh. all joy be yours, though sorrow bows me down! to each his fitting wage: children, i've passed life's span, and men are plagued by shadows at that stage. hath any done--nay, only half performed- the good he might for others? hath any conquered hatred, or had strength to treat his foes like brothers? e'en he, who's tried his best, hath evil wrought: pain springs from happiness: my heart has triumphed in defeat, my pulse ne'er quickened at success. i seemed the greater when i felt the blow: the prick gives sense of gain; since to make others bleed my courage fails, i'd rather bear the pain. to grow is sad, since evils grow no less; great height is mark for all: the more i have of branches, more of clustering boughs, the ghastlier shadows fall. thence comes my sadness, though i grant your charms: ye are the outbursting of the soul in bloom, steeped in the draughts of nature's boundless spring. george is the sapling, set in mournful soil; jeanne's folding petals shroud a mind which trembles at our uproar, yet half longs to speak aloud. give, then, my children--lowly, blushing plants, whom sorrow waits to seize- free course to instincts, whispering 'mid the flowers, like hum of murmuring bees. some day you'll find that chaos comes, alas! that angry lightning's hurled, when any cheer the people, atlas huge, grim bearer of the world! you'll see that, since our fate is ruled by chance, each man, unknowing, great, should frame life so, that at some future hour fact and his dreamings meet. i, too, when death is past, one day shall grasp that end i know not now; and over you will bend me down, all filled with dawn's mysterious glow. i'll learn what means this exile, what this shroud enveloping your prime; and why the truth and sweetness of one man seem to all others crime. i'll hear--though midst these dismal boughs you sang- how came it, that for me, who every pity feel for every woe, so vast a gloom could be. i'll know why night relentless holds me, why so great a pile of doom: why endless frost enfolds me, and methinks my nightly bed's a tomb: why all these battles, all these tears, regrets, and sorrows were my share; and why god's will of me a cypress made, when roses bright ye were. marwood tucker. to the cannon "victor hugo." [bought with the proceeds of readings of "les châtiments" during the siege of paris.] [1872.] thou deadly crater, moulded by my muse, cast thou thy bronze into my bowed and wounded heart, and let my soul its vengeance to thy bronze impart! l'art d'être grandpêre. the children of the poor. _("prenez garde à ce petit être.")_ [laus puer: poem v.] take heed of this small child of earth; he is great: in him is god most high. children before their fleshly birth are lights in the blue sky. in our brief bitter world of wrong they come; god gives us them awhile. his speech is in their stammering tongue, and his forgiveness in their smile. their sweet light rests upon our eyes: alas! their right to joy is plain. if they are hungry, paradise weeps, and if cold, heaven thrills with pain. the want that saps their sinless flower speaks judgment on sin's ministers. man holds an angel in his power. ah! deep in heaven what thunder stirs. when god seeks out these tender things, whom in the shadow where we keep, he sends them clothed about with wings, and finds them ragged babes that weep! _dublin university magazine._ the epic of the lion. _("un lion avait pris un enfant.")_ [xiii.] a lion in his jaws caught up a child- not harming it--and to the woodland, wild with secret streams and lairs, bore off his prey- the beast, as one might cull a bud in may. it was a rosy boy, a king's own pride, a ten-year lad, with bright eyes shining wide, and save this son his majesty beside had but one girl, two years of age, and so the monarch suffered, being old, much woe; his heir the monster's prey, while the whole land in dread both of the beast and king did stand; sore terrified were all. by came a knight that road, who halted, asking, "what's the fright?" they told him, and he spurred straight for the site! the beast was seen to smile ere joined they fight, the man and monster, in most desperate duel, like warring giants, angry, huge, and cruel. stout though the knight, the lion stronger was, and tore that brave breast under its cuirass, scrunching that hero, till he sprawled, alas! beneath his shield, all blood and mud and mess: whereat the lion feasted: then it went back to its rocky couch and slept content. sudden, loud cries and clamors! striking out qualm to the heart of the quiet, horn and shout causing the solemn wood to reel with rout. terrific was this noise that rolled before; it seemed a squadron; nay, 'twas something more- a whole battalion, sent by that sad king with force of arms his little prince to bring, together with the lion's bleeding hide. which here was right or wrong? who can decide? have beasts or men most claim to live? god wots! he is the unit, we the cipher-dots. ranged in the order a great hunt should have, they soon between the trunks espy the cave. "yes, that is it! the very mouth of the den!" the trees all round it muttered, warning men; still they kept step and neared it. look you now, company's pleasant, and there were a thou- good lord! all in a moment, there's its face! frightful! they saw the lion! not one pace further stirred any man; but bolt and dart made target of the beast. he, on his part, as calm as pelion in the rain or hail, bristled majestic from the teeth to tail, and shook full fifty missiles from his hide, but no heed took he; steadfastly he eyed, and roared a roar, hoarse, vibrant, vengeful, dread, a rolling, raging peal of wrath, which spread, making the half-awakened thunder cry, "who thunders there?" from its black bed of sky. this ended all! sheer horror cleared the coast; as fogs are driven by the wind, that valorous host melted, dispersed to all the quarters four, clean panic-stricken by that monstrous roar. then quoth the lion, "woods and mountains, see, a thousand men, enslaved, fear one beast free!" he followed towards the hill, climbed high above, lifted his voice, and, as the sowers sow the seed down wind, thus did that lion throw his message far enough the town to reach: "king! your behavior really passes speech! thus far no harm i've wrought to him your son; but now i give you notice--when night's done, i will make entry at your city-gate, bringing the prince alive; and those who wait to see him in my jaws--your lackey-crew- shall see me eat him in your palace, too!" next morning, this is what was viewed in town: dawn coming--people going--some adown praying, some crying; pallid cheeks, swift feet, and a huge lion stalking through the street. it seemed scarce short of rash impiety to cross its path as the fierce beast went by. so to the palace and its gilded dome with stately steps unchallenged did he roam; he enters it--within those walls he leapt! no man! for certes, though he raged and wept, his majesty, like all, close shelter kept, solicitous to live, holding his breath specially precious to the realm. now death is not thus viewed by honest beasts of prey; and when the lion found _him_ fled away, ashamed to be so grand, man being so base, he muttered to himself, "a wretched king! 'tis well; i'll eat his boy!" then, wandering, lordly he traversed courts and corridors, paced beneath vaults of gold on shining floors, glanced at the throne deserted, stalked from hall to hall--green, yellow, crimson--empty all! rich couches void, soft seats unoccupied! and as he walked he looked from side to side to find some pleasant nook for his repast, since appetite was come to munch at last the princely morsel!--ah! what sight astounds that grisly lounger? in the palace grounds an alcove on a garden gives, and there a tiny thing--forgot in the general fear, lulled in the flower-sweet dreams of infancy, bathed with soft sunlight falling brokenly through leaf and lattice--was at that moment waking; a little lovely maid, most dear and taking, the prince's sister--all alone, undressed- she sat up singing: children sing so best. charming this beauteous baby-maid; and so the beast caught sight of her and stopped- and then entered--the floor creaked as he stalked straight in. above the playthings by the little bed the lion put his shaggy, massive head, dreadful with savage might and lordly scorn, more dreadful with that princely prey so borne; which she, quick spying, "brother, brother!" cried, "oh, my own brother!" and, unterrified, she gazed upon that monster of the wood, whose yellow balls not typhon had withstood, and--well! who knows what thoughts these small heads hold? she rose up in her cot--full height, and bold, and shook her pink fist angrily at him. whereon--close to the little bed's white rim, all dainty silk and laces--this huge brute set down her brother gently at her foot, just as a mother might, and said to her, "don't be put out, now! there he is, dear, there!" edwin arnold, c.s.i. les quatre vents de l'esprit. on hearing the princess royal[1] sing. _("dans ta haute demeure.")_ [bk. iii. ix., 1881.] in thine abode so high where yet one scarce can breathe, dear child, most tenderly a soft song thou dost wreathe. thou singest, little girl- thy sire, the king is he: around thee glories whirl, but all things sigh in thee. thy thought may seek not wings of speech; dear love's forbidden; thy smiles, those heavenly things, being faintly born, are chidden. thou feel'st, poor little bride, a hand unknown and chill clasp thine from out the wide deep shade so deathly still. thy sad heart, wingless, weak, is sunk in this black shade so deep, thy small hands seek, vainly, the pulse god made. thou art yet but highness, thou that shaft be majesty: though still on thy fair brow some faint dawn-flush may be, child, unto armies dear, even now we mark heaven's light dimmed with the fume and fear and glory of battle-might. thy godfather is he, earth's pope,--he hails thee, child! passing, armed men you see like unarmed women, mild. as saint all worship thee; thyself even hast the strong thrill of divinity mingled with thy small song. each grand old warrior guards thee, submissive, proud; mute thunders at thy door sleep, that shall wake most loud. around thee foams the wild bright sea, the lot of kings. happier wert thou, my child, i' the woods a bird that sings! nelson r. tyerman. [footnote 1: marie, daughter of king louis philippe, afterwards princess of würtemburg.] my happiest dream. _("j'aime à me figure.")_ [bk. iii. vii. and viii.] i love to look, as evening fails, on vestals streaming in their veils, within the fane past altar rails, green palms in hand. my darkest moods will always clear when i can fancy children near, with rosy lips a-laughing--dear, light-dancing band! enchanting vision, too, displayed, that of a sweet and radiant maid, who knows not why she is afraid,- love's yet unseen! another--rarest 'mong the rare- to see the gaze of chosen fair return prolonged and wistful stare of eager een. but--dream o'er all to stir my soul, and shine the brightest on the roll, is when a land of tyrant's toll by sword is rid. i say not dagger--with the sword when right enchampions the horde, all in broad day--so that the bard may sing the victor with the starred bayard and cid! an old-time lay. _("jamais elle ne raille.")_ [bk. iii. xiii.] where your brood seven lie, float in calm heavenly, life passing evenly, waterfowl, waterfowl! often i dream for a rest like your nest, skirting the stream. shine the sun tearfully ere the clouds clear fully, still you skim cheerfully, swallow, oh! swallow swift! often i sigh for a home where you roam nearing the sky! guileless of pondering; swallow-eyes wandering; seeking no fonder ring than the rose-garland love gives thee apart! grant me soon- blessed boon! home in thy heart! jersey. _("jersey dort dans les flots.")_ [bk. iii. xiv., oct. 8, 1854.] dear jersey! jewel jubilant and green, 'midst surge that splits steel ships, but sings to thee! thou fav'rest frenchmen, though from england seen, oft tearful to that mistress "north countree"; returned the third time safely here to be, i bless my bold gibraltar of the free. yon lighthouse stands forth like a fervent friend, one who our tempest buffets back with zest, and with twin-steeple, eke our helmsman's end, forms arms that beckon us upon thy breast; rose-posied pillow, crystallized with spray, where pools pellucid mirror sunny ray. a frigate fretting yonder smoothest sky, like pauseless petrel poising o'er a wreck, strikes bright athwart the dearly dazzled eye, until it lessens to scarce certain speck, 'neath venus, sparkling on the agate-sprinkled beach, for fisher's sailing-signal, just and true, until aurora frights her from the view. in summer, steamer-smoke spreads as thy veil, and mists in winter sudden screen thy sight, when at thy feet the galley-breakers wail and toss their tops high o'er the lofty flight of horrid storm-worn steps with shark-like bite, that only ope to swallow up in spite. l'envoy. but penitent in calm, thou givest a balm, to many a man who's felt thy rage, and many a sea-bird--thanks be heard!- thou shieldest--sea-bird--exiled bard and sage. then, most, i smile. _("il est un peu tard.")_ [bk. iii. xxx., oct. 30, 1854.] late it is to look so proud, daisy queen! come is the gloom of the winter-burdened cloud!- "but, in winter, most i bloom!" star of even! sunk the sun! lost for e'er the ruddy line; and the earth is veiled in dun,- "nay, in darkness, best i shine!" o, my soul! art 'bove alarm, quaffing thus the cup of gall- canst thou face the grave with calm?- "yes, the christians smile at all." the exile's desire. _("si je pouvais voir, o patrie!")_ [bk. iii. xxxvii.] would i could see you, native land, where lilacs and the almond stand behind fields flowering to the strand- but no! can i--oh, father, mother, crave another final blessing save to rest my head upon your grave?- but no! in the one pit where ye repose, would i could tell of france's woes, my brethren, who fell facing foes- but no! would i had--oh, my dove of light, after whose flight came ceaseless night, one plume to clasp so purely white.- but no! far from ye all--oh, dead, bewailed! the fog-bell deafens me empaled upon this rock--i feel enjailed- though free. like one who watches at the gate lest some shall 'scape the doomèd strait. i watch! the tyrant, howe'er late, must fall! the refugee's haven. _("vous voilà dans la froide angleterre.")_ [bk. iii. xlvii., jersey, sept. 19, 1854.] you may doubt i find comfort in england but, there, 'tis a refuge from dangers! where a cromwell dictated to milton, republicans ne'er can be strangers! various pieces. to the napoleon column. [oct. 9, 1830.] when with gigantic hand he placed, for throne, on vassal europe based, that column's lofty height- pillar, in whose dread majesty, in double immortality, glory and bronze unite! aye, when he built it that, some day, discord or war their course might stay, or here might break their car; and in our streets to put to shame pigmies that bear the hero's name of greek and roman war. it was a glorious sight; the world his hosts had trod, with flags unfurled, in veteran array; kings fled before him, forced to yield, he, conqueror on each battlefield, their cannon bore away. then, with his victors back he came; all france with booty teemed, her name was writ on sculptured stone; and paris cried with joy, as when the parent bird comes home again to th' eaglets left alone. into the furnace flame, so fast, were heaps of war-won metal cast, the future monument! his thought had formed the giant mould, and piles of brass in the fire he rolled, from hostile cannon rent. when to the battlefield he came, he grasped the guns spite tongues of flame, and bore the spoil away. this bronze to france's rome he brought, and to the founder said, "is aught wanting for our array?" and when, beneath a radiant sun, that man, his noble purpose done, with calm and tranquil mien, disclosed to view this glorious fane, and did with peaceful hand contain the warlike eagle's sheen. round _thee_, when hundred thousands placed, as some great roman's triumph graced, the little romans all; we boys hung on the procession's flanks, seeking some father in thy ranks, and loud thy praise did call. who that surveyed thee, when that day thou deemed that future glory ray would here be ever bright; feared that, ere long, all france thy grave from pettifoggers vain would crave beneath that column's height? _author of "critical essays."_ charity. _("je suis la charité.")_ [february, 1837.] "lo! i am charity," she cries, "who waketh up before the day; while yet asleep all nature lies, god bids me rise and go my way." how fair her glorious features shine, whereon the hand of god hath set an angel's attributes divine, with all a woman's sweetness met. above the old man's couch of woe she bows her forehead, pure and even. there's nothing fairer here below, there's nothing grander up in heaven, than when caressingly she stands (the cold hearts wakening 'gain their beat), and holds within her holy hands the little children's naked feet. to every den of want and toil she goes, and leaves the poorest fed; leaves wine and bread, and genial oil, and hopes that blossom in her tread, and fire, too, beautiful bright fire, that mocks the glowing dawn begun, where, having set the blind old sire, he dreams he's sitting in the sun. then, over all the earth she runs, and seeks, in the cold mists of life, those poor forsaken little ones who droop and weary in the strife. ah, most her heart is stirred for them, whose foreheads, wrapped in mists obscure, still wear a triple diadem- the young, the innocent, the poor. and they are better far than we, and she bestows a worthier meed; for, with the loaf of charity, she gives the kiss that children need. she gives, and while they wondering eat the tear-steeped bread by love supplied, she stretches round them in the street her arm that passers push aside. if, with raised head and step alert, she sees the rich man stalking by, she touches his embroidered skirt, and gently shows them where they lie. she begs for them of careless crowd, of earnest brows and narrow hearts, that when it hears her cry aloud, turns like the ebb-tide and departs. o miserable he who sings some strain impure, whose numbers fall along the cruel wind that brings death to some child beneath his wall. o strange and sad and fatal thing, when, in the rich man's gorgeous hall, the huge fire on the hearth doth fling a light on some great festival, to see the drunkard smile in state, in purple wrapt, with myrtle crowned, while jesus lieth at the gate with only rags to wrap him round. _dublin university magazine_ sweet sister. _("vous qui ne savez pas combien l'enfance est belle.")_ sweet sister, if you knew, like me, the charms of guileless infancy, no more you'd envy riper years, or smiles, more bitter than your tears. but childhood passes in an hour, as perfume from a faded flower; the joyous voice of early glee flies, like the halcyon, o'er the sea. enjoy your morn of early spring; soon time maturer thoughts must bring; those hours, like flowers that interclimb, should not be withered ere their time. too soon you'll weep, as we do now, o'er faithless friend, or broken vow, and hopeless sorrows, which our pride in pleasure's whirl would vainly hide. laugh on! unconscious of thy doom, all innocence and opening bloom; laugh on! while yet thine azure eye mirrors the peace that reigns on high. mrs. b. somers. the pity of the angels. _("un ange vit un jour.")_ [la pitié supreme viii., 1881.] when an angel of kindness saw, doomed to the dark, men framed in his likeness, he sought for a spark- stray gem of god's glory that shines so serene- and, falling like lark, to brighten our story, pure pity was seen. the sower. sitting in a porchway cool, fades the ruddy sunlight fast, twilight hastens on to rule- working hours are wellnigh past shadows shoot across the lands; but one sower lingers still, old, in rags, he patient stands,- looking on, i feel a thrill. black and high his silhouette dominates the furrows deep! now to sow the task is set, soon shall come a time to reap. marches he along the plain, to and fro, and scatters wide from his hands the precious grain; moody, i, to see him stride. darkness deepens. gone the light. now his gestures to mine eyes are august; and strange--his height seems to touch the starry skies. toru dutt. oh, why not be happy?[1] _("a quoi bon entendre les oiseaux?")_ [ruy blas, act ii.] oh, why not be happy this bright summer day, 'mid perfume of roses and newly-mown hay? great nature is smiling--the birds in the air sing love-lays together, and all is most fair. then why not be happy this bright summer day, 'mid perfume of roses and newly-mown hay? the streamlets they wander through meadows so fleet, their music enticing fond lovers to meet; the violets are blooming and nestling their heads in richest profusion on moss-coated beds. then why not be happy this bright summer day, when nature is fairest and all is so gay? leopold wray. [footnote 1: music composed by elizabeth philip.] freedom and the world. [inscription under a statue of the virgin and child, at guernsey.--the poet sees in the emblem a modern atlas, i.e., freedom supporting the world.] _("le peuple est petit.")_ weak is the people--but will grow beyond all other- within thy holy arms, thou fruitful victor-mother! o liberty, whose conquering flag is never furled- thou bearest him in whom is centred all the world. serenade. _("quand tu chantes.")_ when the voice of thy lute at the eve charmeth the ear, in the hour of enchantment believe what i murmur near. that the tune can the age of gold with its magic restore. play on, play on, my fair one, play on for evermore. when thy laugh like the song of the dawn riseth so gay that the shadows of night are withdrawn and melt away, i remember my years of care and misgiving no more. laugh on, laugh on, my fair one, laugh on for evermore. when thy sleep like the moonlight above lulling the sea, doth enwind thee in visions of love, perchance, of me! i can watch so in dream that enthralled me, never before! sleep on, sleep on, my fair one! sleep on for evermore. henry f. chorley. an autumnal simile. _("les feuilles qui gisaient.")_ the leaves that in the lonely walks were spread, starting from off the ground beneath the tread, coursed o'er the garden-plain; thus, sometimes, 'mid the soul's deep sorrowings, our soul a moment mounts on wounded wings, then, swiftly, falls again. to cruel ocean. where are the hapless shipmen?--disappeared, gone down, where witness none, save night, hath been, ye deep, deep waves, of kneeling mothers feared, what dismal tales know ye of things unseen? tales that ye tell your whispering selves between the while in clouds to the flood-tide ye pour; and this it is that gives you, as i ween, those mournful voices, mournful evermore, when ye come in at eve to us who dwell on shore. esmeralda in prison. _("phoebus, n'est-il sur la terre?")_ [opera of "esmeralda," act iv., 1836.] phoebus, is there not this side the grave, power to save those who're loving? magic balm that will restore to me my former calm? is there nothing tearful eye can e'er dry, or hush the sigh? i pray heaven day and night, as i lay me down in fright, to retake my life, or give all again for which i'd live! phoebus, hasten from the shining sphere to me here! hither hasten, bring me death; then love may let our spirits rise, ever-linked, above! lover's song. _("mon âme à ton coeur s'est donnée.")_ [angelo, act ii., may, 1835.] my soul unto thy heart is given, in mystic fold do they entwine, so bound in one that, were they riven, apart my soul would life resign. thou art my song and i the lyre; thou art the breeze and i the brier; the altar i, and thou the fire; mine the deep love, the beauty thine! as fleets away the rapid hour while weeping--may my sorrowing lay touch thee, sweet flower. ernest oswald coe. a fleeting glimpse of a village. _("tout vit! et se pose avec grâce.")_ how graceful the picture! the life, the repose! the sunbeam that plays on the porchstone wide; and the shadow that fleets o'er the stream that flows, and the soft blue sky with the hill's green side. _fraser's magazine_. lord rochester's song. _("un soldat au dur visage.")_ [cromwell, act i.] "hold, little blue-eyed page!" so cried the watchers surly, stern to his pretty rage and golden hair so curly- "methinks your satin cloak masks something bulky under; i take this as no joke- oh, thief with stolen plunder!" "i am of high repute, and famed among the truthful: this silver-handled lute is meet for one still youthful who goes to keep a tryst with her who is his dearest. i charge you to desist; my cause is of the clearest." but guardsmen are so sharp, their eyes are as the lynx's: "that's neither lute nor harp- your mark is not the minxes. your loving we dispute- that string of steel so cruel for music does not suit- you go to fight a duel!" the beggar's quatrain. _("aveugle comme homère.")_ [improvised at the café de paris.] blind, as was homer; as belisarius, blind, but one weak child to guide his vision dim. the hand which dealt him bread, in pity kind- he'll never see; god sees it, though, for him. h.l.c., "_london society._" the quiet rural church. it was a humble church, with arches low, the church we entered there, where many a weary soul since long ago had past with plaint or prayer. mournful and still it was at day's decline, the day we entered there; as in a loveless heart, at the lone shrine, the fires extinguished were. scarcely was heard to float some gentlest sound, scarcely some low breathed word, as in a forest fallen asleep, is found just one belated bird. a storm simile. _("oh, regardez le ciel!")_ [june, 1828.] see, where on high the moving masses, piled by the wind, break in groups grotesque and wild, present strange shapes to view; oft flares a pallid flash from out their shrouds, as though some air-born giant 'mid the clouds sudden his falchion drew. dramatic pieces. the father's curse. _("vous, sire, écoutez-moi.")_ [le roi s'amuse, act i.] m. st. vallier (_an aged nobleman, from whom king francis i. decoyed his daughter, the famous beauty, diana of poitiers_). a king should listen when his subjects speak: 'tis true your mandate led me to the block, where pardon came upon me, like a dream; i blessed you then, unconscious as i was that a king's mercy, sharper far than death, to save a father doomed his child to shame; yes, without pity for the noble race of poitiers, spotless for a thousand years, you, francis of valois, without one spark of love or pity, honor or remorse, did on that night (thy couch her virtue's tomb), with cold embraces, foully bring to scorn my helpless daughter, dian of poitiers. to save her father's life a knight she sought, like bayard, fearless and without reproach. she found a heartless king, who sold the boon, making cold bargain for his child's dishonor. oh! monstrous traffic! foully hast thou done! my blood was thine, and justly, tho' it springs amongst the best and noblest names of france; but to pretend to spare these poor gray locks, and yet to trample on a weeping woman, was basely done; the father was thine own, but not the daughter!--thou hast overpassed the right of monarchs!--yet 'tis mercy deemed. and i perchance am called ungrateful still. oh, hadst thou come within my dungeon walls, i would have sued upon my knees for death, but mercy for my child, my name, my race, which, once polluted, is my race no more. rather than insult, death to them and me. i come not now to ask her back from thee; nay, let her love thee with insensate love; i take back naught that bears the brand of shame. keep her! yet, still, amidst thy festivals, until some father's, brother's, husband's hand ('twill come to pass!) shall rid us of thy yoke, my pallid face shall ever haunt thee there, to tell thee, francis, it was foully done!... triboulet _(the court jester), sneering._ the poor man raves. st. villier. accursed be ye both! oh sire! 'tis wrong upon the dying lion to loose thy dog! _(turns to triboulet)_ and thou, whoe'er thou art, that with a fiendish sneer and viper's tongue makest my tears a pastime and a sport, my curse upon thee!--sire, thy brow doth bear the gems of france!--on mine, old age doth sit; thine decked with jewels, mine with these gray hairs; we both are kings, yet bear a different crown; and should some impious hand upon thy head heap wrongs and insult, with thine own strong arm thou canst avenge them! _god avenges mine!_ fredk. l. slous. paternal love. _("ma fille! ô seul bonheur.")_ [le roi s'amuse, act ii] my child! oh, only blessing heaven allows me! others have parents, brothers, kinsmen, friends, a wife, a husband, vassals, followers, ancestors, and allies, or many children. i have but thee, thee only. some are rich; thou art my treasure, thou art all my riches. and some believe in angels; i believe in nothing but thy soul. others have youth, and woman's love, and pride, and grace, and health; others are beautiful; thou art my beauty, thou art my home, my country and my kin, my wife, my mother, sister, friend--my child! my bliss, my wealth, my worship, and my law, my universe! oh, by all other things my soul is tortured. if i should ever lose thee- horrible thought! i cannot utter it. smile, for thy smile is like thy mother's smiling. she, too, was fair; you have a trick like her, of passing oft your hand athwart your brow as though to clear it. innocence still loves a brow unclouded and an azure eye. to me thou seem'st clothed in a holy halo, my soul beholds thy soul through thy fair body; e'en when my eyes are shut, i see thee still; thou art my daylight, and sometimes i wish that heaven had made me blind that thou might'st be the sun that lighted up the world for me. fanny kemble-butler. the degenerate gallants. _("mes jeunes cavaliers.")_ [hernani, act i., march, 1830.] what business brings you here, young cavaliers? men like the cid, the knights of bygone years, rode out the battle of the weak to wage, protecting beauty and revering age. their armor sat on them, strong men as true, much lighter than your velvet rests on you. not in a lady's room by stealth they knelt; in church, by day, they spoke the love they felt. they kept their houses' honor bright from rust, they told no secret, and betrayed no trust; and if a wife they wanted, bold and gay, with lance, or axe, or falchion, and by day, bravely they won and wore her. as for those who slip through streets when honest men repose, with eyes turned to the ground, and in night's shade the rights of trusting husbands to invade; i say the cid would force such knaves as these to beg the city's pardon on their knees; and with the flat of his all-conquering blade their rank usurped and 'scutcheon would degrade. thus would the men of former times, i say, treat the degenerate minions of to-day. lord f. leveson gower (1st earl of ellesmere.) the old and the young bridegroom. _("l'homme auquel on vous destina.")_ [hernani, act i.] listen. the man for whom your youth is destined, your uncle, ruy de silva, is the duke of pastrana, count of castile and aragon. for lack of youth, he brings you, dearest girl, treasures of gold, jewels, and precious gems, with which your brow might outshine royalty; and for rank, pride, splendor, and opulence, might many a queen be envious of his duchess! here is one picture. i am poor; my youth i passed i' the woods, a barefoot fugitive. my shield, perchance, may bear some noble blazons spotted with blood, defaced though not dishonored. perchance i, too, have rights, now veiled in darkness,- rights, which the heavy drapery of the scaffold now hides beneath its black and ample folds; rights which, if my intent deceive me not, my sword shall one day rescue. to be brief:- i have received from churlish fortune nothing but air, light, water,--nature's general boon. choose, then, between us two, for you must choose;- say, will you wed the duke, or follow me? donna sol. i'll follow you. hern. what, 'mongst my rude companions, whose names are registered in the hangman's book? whose hearts are ever eager as their swords, edged by a personal impulse of revenge? will you become the queen, dear, of my band? will you become a hunted outlaw's bride? when all spain else pursued and banished me,- in her proud forests and air-piercing mountains, and rocks the lordly eagle only knew, old catalonia took me to her bosom. among her mountaineers, free, poor, and brave, i ripened into manhood, and, to-morrow, one blast upon my horn, among her hills, would draw three thousand of her sons around me. you shudder,--think upon it. will you tread the shores, woods, mountains, with me, among men like the dark spirits of your haunted dreams,- suspect all eyes, all voices, every footstep,- sleep on the grass, drink of the torrent, hear by night the sharp hiss of the musket-ball whistling too near your ear,--a fugitive proscribed, and doomed mayhap to follow me in the path leading to my father's scaffold? donna sol. i'll follow you. hern. this duke is rich, great, prosperous, no blot attaches to his ancient name. he is all-powerful. he offers you his treasures, titles, honors, with his hand. donna sol. we will depart to-morrow. do not blame what may appear a most unwomanly boldness. charles sherry. the spanish lady's love. donna sol _to_ hernani. _("nous partirons demain.")_ [hernani, act i.] to mount the hills or scaffold, we go to-morrow: hernani, blame me not for this my boldness. art thou mine evil genius or mine angel? i know not, but i am thy slave. now hear me: go where thou wilt, i follow thee. remain, and i remain. why do i thus? i know not. i feel that i must see thee--see thee still- see thee for ever. when thy footstep dies, it is as if my heart no more would beat; when thou art gone, i am absent from myself; but when the footstep which i love and long for strikes on mine ear again--then i remember i live, and feel my soul return to me. g. moir. the lover's sacrifice. _("fuyons ensemble.")_ [hernani, act ii.] donna sol. together let us fly! hernani. together? no! the hour is past for flight. dearest, when first thy beauty smote my sight, i offered, for the love that bade me live, wretch that i was, what misery had to give: my wood, my stream, my mountain. bolder grown, by thy compassion to an outlaw shown, the outlaw's meal beneath the forest shade, the outlaw's couch far in the greenwood glade, i offered. though to both that couch be free, i keep the scaffold block reserved for me. donna sol. and yet you promised? hernani _(falls on his knee.)_ angel! in this hour, pursued by vengeance and oppressed by power- even in this hour when death prepares to close in shame and pain a destiny of woes- yes, i, who from the world proscribed and cast, have nursed one dark remembrance of the past, e'en from my birth in sorrow's garment clad, have cause to smile and reason to be glad; for you have loved the outlaw and have shed your whispered blessings on his forfeit head. donna sol. let me go with you. hernani. no! i will not rend from its fair stem the flower as i descend. go--i have smelt its perfume. go--resume all that this grasp has brushed away of bloom. wed the old man,--believe that ne'er we met; i seek my shade--be happy, and forget! lord f. leveson gower (1st earl of ellesmere). the old man's love. _("dérision! que cet amour boiteux.")_ [hernani, act iii.] o mockery! that this halting love that fills the heart so full of flame and transport, forgets the body while it fires the soul! if but a youthful shepherd cross my path, he singing on the way--i sadly musing, he in his fields, i in my darksome alleys- then my heart murmurs: "o, ye mouldering towers! thou olden ducal dungeon! o how gladly would i exchange ye, and my fields and forests, mine ancient name, mine ancient rank, my ruins- my ancestors, with whom i soon shall lie, for _his_ thatched cottage and his youthful brow!" his hair is black--his eyes shine forth like _thine_. him thou might'st look upon, and say, fair youth, then turn to me, and think that i am old. and yet the light and giddy souls of cavaliers harbor no love so fervent as their words bespeak. let some poor maiden love them and believe them, then die for them--they smile. aye! these young birds, with gay and glittering wing and amorous song, can shed their love as lightly as their plumage. the old, whose voice and colors age has dimmed, flatter no more, and, though less fair, are faithful. when _we_ love, we love true. are our steps frail? our eyes dried up and withered? are our brows wrinkled? there are no wrinkles in the heart. ah! when the graybeard loves, he should be spared; the heart is young--_that_ bleeds unto the last. i love thee as a spouse,--and in a thousand other fashions,--as sire,--as we love the morn, the flowers, the overhanging heavens. ah me! when day by day i gaze upon thee, thy graceful step, thy purely-polished brow, thine eyes' calm fire,--i feel my heart leap up, and an eternal sunshine bathe my soul. and think, too! even the world admires, when age, expiring, for a moment totters upon the marble margin of a tomb, to see a wife--a pure and dove-like angel- watch over him, soothe him, and endure awhile the useless old man, only fit to die; a sacred task, and worthy of all honor, this latest effort of a faithful heart; which, in his parting hour, consoles the dying, and, without loving, wears the look of love. ah! thou wilt be to me this sheltering angel, to cheer the old man's heart--to share with him the burden of his evil years;--a daughter in thy respect, a sister in thy pity. donna sol. my fate may be more to precede than follow. my lord, it is no reason for long life that we are young! alas! i have seen too oft the old clamped firm to life, the young torn thence; and the lids close as sudden o'er their eyes as gravestones sealing up the sepulchre. g. moir. the roll of the de silva race. _("celui-ci, des silvas, c'est l'aîné.")_ [hernani, act iii.] in that reverend face behold the father of de silva's race, silvius; in rome he filled the consul's place three times (your patience for such honored names). this second was grand master of st. james and calatrava; his strong limbs sustained armor which ours would sink beneath. he gained thirty pitched battles, and took, as legends tell, three hundred standards from the infidel; and from the moorish king motril, in war, won antiquera, suez, and nijar; and then died poor. next to him juan stands, his son; his plighted hand was worth the hands of kings. next gaspar, of mendoza's line- few noble stems but chose to join with mine: sandoval sometimes fears, and sometimes woos our smiles; manriquez envies; lara sues; and alancastre hates. our rank we know: kings are but just above us, dukes below. vasquez, who kept for sixty years his vow- greater than he i pass. this reverend brow, this was my sire's--the greatest, though the last: the moors his friend had taken and made fast- alvar giron. what did my father then? he cut in stone an image of alvar, cunningly carved, and dragged it to the war; he vowed a vow to yield no inch of ground until that image of itself turned round; he reached alvar--he saved him--and his line was old de silva's, and his name was mine- ruy gomez. king carlos. drag me from his lurking-place the traitor! [don ruy _leads the_ king _to the portrait behind which_ hernani _is hiding_.] sire, your highness does me grace. this, the last portrait, bears my form and name, and you would write this motto on the frame! "this last, sprung from the noblest and the best, betrayed his plighted troth, and sold his guest!" lord f. leveson gower (1st earl of ellesmere) the lovers' colloquy. _("mon duc, rien qu'un moment.")_ [hernani, act v.] one little moment to indulge the sight with the rich beauty of the summer's night. the harp is hushed, and, see, the torch is dim,- night and ourselves together. to the brim the cup of our felicity is filled. each sound is mute, each harsh sensation stilled. dost thou not think that, e'en while nature sleeps, some power its amorous vigils o'er us keeps? no cloud in heaven; while all around repose, come taste with me the fragrance of the rose, which loads the night-air with its musky breath, while everything is still as nature's death. e'en as you spoke--and gentle words were those spoken by you,--the silver moon uprose; how that mysterious union of her ray, with your impassioned accents, made its way straight to my heart! i could have wished to die in that pale moonlight, and while thou wert by. hernani. thy words are music, and thy strain of love is borrowed from the choir of heaven above. donna sol. night is too silent, darkness too profound oh, for a star to shine, a voice to sound- to raise some sudden note of music now suited to night. hern. capricious girl! your vow was poured for silence, and to be released from the thronged tumult of the marriage feast. donna sol. yes; but one bird to carol in the field,- a nightingale, in mossy shade concealed,- a distant flute,--for music's stream can roll to soothe the heart, and harmonize the soul,- o! 'twould be bliss to listen. [_distant sound of a horn, the signal that_ hernani _must go to_ don ruy, _who, having saved his life, had him bound in a vow to yield it up._] lord f. leveson gower (1st earl of ellesmere). cromwell and the crown. _("ah! je le tiens enfin.")_ [cromwell, act ii., october, 1827.] thurlow _communicates the intention of parliament to offer_ cromwell _the crown_. cromwell. and is it mine? and have my feet at length attained the summit of the rock i' the sand? thurlow. and yet, my lord, you have long reigned. crom. nay, nay! power i have 'joyed, in sooth, but not the name. thou smilest, thurlow. ah, thou little know'st what hole it is ambition digs i' th' heart what end, most seeming empty, is the mark for which we fret and toil and dare! how hard with an unrounded fortune to sit down! then, what a lustre from most ancient times heaven has flung o'er the sacred head of kings! king--majesty--what names of power! no king, and yet the world's high arbiter! the thing without the word! no handle to the blade! away--the empire and the name are one! alack! thou little dream'st how grievous 'tis, emerging from the crowd, and at the top arrived, to feel that there is _something_ still above our heads; something, nothing! no matter- that word is everything. leitch ritchie. milton's appeal to cromwell. _("non! je n'y puis tenir.")_ [cromwell, act iii. sc. iv.] stay! i no longer can contain myself, but cry you: look on john, who bares his mind to oliver--to cromwell, milton speaks! despite a kindling eye and marvel deep a voice is lifted up without your leave; for i was never placed at council board to speak _my_ promptings. when awed strangers come who've seen fox-mazarin wince at the stings in my epistles--and bring admiring votes of learned colleges, they strain to see my figure in the glare--the usher utters, "behold and hearken! that's my lord protector's cousin--that, his son-in-law--that next"--who cares! some perfumed puppet! "milton?" "he in black- yon silent scribe who trims their eloquence!" still 'chronicling small-beer,'--such is my duty! yea, one whose thunder roared through martyr bones till pope and louis grand quaked on their thrones, and echoed "vengeance for the vaudois," where the sultan slumbers sick with scent of roses. he is but the mute in this seraglio- "pure" cromwell's council! but to be dumb and blind is overmuch! impatient issachar kicks at the load! yet diadems are burdens painfuller, and i would spare thee that sore imposition. dear brother noll, i plead against thyself! thou aim'st to be a king; and, in thine heart, what fool has said: "there is no king but thou?" for thee the multitude waged war and won- the end thou art of wrestlings and of prayer, of sleepless watch, long marches, hunger, tears and blood prolifically spilled, homes lordless, and homeless lords! the mass must always suffer that one should reign! the collar's but newly clamp'd, and nothing but the name thereon is changed- master? still masters! mark you not the red of shame unutterable in my sightless white? still hear me, cromwell, speaking for your sake! these fifteen years, we, to you whole-devoted, have sought for liberty--to give it thee? to make our interests your huckster gains? the king a lion slain that you may flay, and wear the robe--well, worthily--i say't, for i will not abase my brother! no! i would keep him in the realm serene, my own ideal of heroes! loved o'er israel, and higher placed by me than all the others! and such, for tinkling titles, hollow haloes like that around yon painted brow--thou! thou! apostle, hero, saint-dishonor thyself! and snip and trim the flag of naseby-field as scarf on which the maid-of-honor's dog will yelp, some summer afternoon! that sword shrink into a sceptre! brilliant bauble! thou, thrown on a lonely rock in storm of state, brain-turned by safety's miracle, thou risest upon the tott'ring stone whilst ocean ebbs, and, reeking of no storms to come to-morrow, or to-morrow--deem that a certain pedestal whereon thou'lt be adored for e'er--e'en while it shakes--o'ersets the rider! tremble, thou! for he who dazzles, makes men samson-blind, will see the pillars of his palace kiss e'en at the whelming ruin! then, what word of answer from your wreck when i demand account of cromwell! glory of the people smothered in ashes! through the dust thou'lt hear; "what didst thou with thy virtue?" will it respond: "when battered helm is doffed, how soft is purple on which to lay the head, lulled by the praise of thousand fluttering fans of flatterers! wearied of war-horse, gratefully one glides in gilded barge, or in crowned, velvet car, from gay whitehall to gloomy temple bar--" (where--had you slipt, that head were bleaching now! and that same rabble, splitting for a hedge, had joined their rows to cheer the active headsman; perchance, in mockery, they'd gird the skull with a hop-leaf crown! bitter the brewing, noll!) are crowns the end-all of ambition? remember charles stuart! and that they who make can break! this same whitehall may black its front with crape, and this broad window be the portal twice to lead upon a scaffold! frown! or laugh! laugh on as they did at cassandra's speech! but mark--the prophetess was right! still laugh, like the credulous ethiop in his faith in stars! but give one thought to stuart, two for yourself! in his appointed hour, all was forthcoming- judge, axe, and deathsman veiled! and my poor eyes descry--as would thou saw'st!--a figure veiled, uplooming there--afar, like sunrise, coming! with blade that ne'er spared judas 'midst free brethren! stretch not the hand of cromwell for the prize meant not for him, nor his! thou growest old, the people are ever young! like her i' the chase who drave a dart into her lover, embowered, piercing the incense-clouds, the popular shaft may slay thee in a random shot at tyranny! man, friend, remain a cromwell! in thy name, rule! and if thy son be worthy, he and his, so rule the rest for ages! be it grander thus to be a cromwell than a carolus. no lapdog combed by wantons, but the watch upon the freedom that we won! dismiss your flatterers--let no harpings, no gay songs prevent your calm dictation of good laws to guard, to fortify, and keep enlinked england and freedom! be thine old self alone! and make, above all else accorded me, my most desired claim on all posterity, that thou in milton's verse wert foremost of the free! first love. _("vous êtes singulier.")_ [marion delorme, act i., june, 1829, _played_ 1831.] marion _(smiling.)_ you're strange, and yet i love you thus. didier. you love me? beware, nor with light lips utter that word. you love me!--know you what it is to love with love that is the life-blood in one's veins, the vital air we breathe, a love long-smothered, smouldering in silence, kindling, burning, blazing, and purifying in its growth the soul. a love that from the heart eats every passion but its sole self; love without hope or limit, deep love that will outlast all happiness; speak, speak; is such the love you bear me? marion. truly. didier. ha! but you do not know how i love you! the day that first i saw you, the dark world grew shining, for your eyes lighted my gloom. since then, all things have changed; to me you are some brightest, unknown creature from the skies. this irksome life, 'gainst which my heart rebelled, seems almost fair and pleasant; for, alas! till i knew you wandering, alone, oppressed, i wept and struggled, i had never loved. fanny kemble-butler. the first black flag. _("avez-vous oui dire?")_ [les burgraves, part i., march, 1843.] job. hast thou ne'er heard men say that, in the black wood, 'twixt cologne and spire, upon a rock flanked by the towering mountains, a castle stands, renowned among all castles? and in this fort, on piles of lava built, a burgrave dwells, among all burgraves famed? hast heard of this wild man who laughs at laws- charged with a thousand crimes--for warlike deeds renowned--and placed under the empire's ban by the diet of frankfort; by the council of pisa banished from the holy church; reprobate, isolated, cursed--yet still unconquered 'mid his mountains and in will; the bitter foe of the count palatine and treves' proud archbishop; who has spurned for sixty years the ladder which the empire upreared to scale his walls? hast heard that he shelters the brave--the flaunting rich man strips- of master makes a slave? that here, above all dukes, aye, kings, eke emperors--in the eyes of germany to their fierce strife a prey, he rears upon his tower, in stern defiance, a signal of appeal to the crushed people, a banner vast, of sorrow's sable hue, snapped by the tempest in its whirlwind wrath, so that kings quiver as the jades at whips? hast heard, he touches now his hundredth year- and that, defying fate, in face of heaven, on his invincible peak, no force of war uprooting other holds--nor powerful cæsar- nor rome--nor age, that bows the pride of man- nor aught on earth--hath vanquished, or subdued, or bent this ancient titan of the rhine, the excommunicated job? _democratic review_. the son in old age. _("ma regina, cette noble figure.")_ [les burgraves, part ii.] thy noble face, regina, calls to mind my poor lost little one, my latest born. he was a gift from god--a sign of pardon- that child vouchsafed me in my eightieth year! i to his little cradle went, and went, and even while 'twas sleeping, talked to it. for when one's very old, one is a child! then took it up and placed it on my knees, and with both hands stroked down its soft, light hair- thou wert not born then--and he would stammer those pretty little sounds that make one smile! and though not twelve months old, he had a mind. he recognized me--nay, knew me right well, and in my face would laugh--and that child-laugh, oh, poor old man! 'twas sunlight to my heart. i meant him for a soldier, ay, a conqueror, and named him george. one day--oh, bitter thought! the child played in the fields. when thou art mother, ne'er let thy children out of sight to play! the gypsies took him from me--oh, for what? perhaps to kill him at a witch's rite. i weep!--now, after twenty years--i weep as if 'twere yesterday. i loved him so! i used to call him "my own little king!" i was intoxicated with my joy when o'er my white beard ran his rosy hands, thrilling me all through. _foreign quarterly review._ the emperor's return. _("un bouffon manquait à cette fête.")_ [les burgraves, part ii.] _the emperor frederick barbarossa, believed to be dead, appearing as a beggar among the rhenish nobility at a castle, suddenly reveals himself._ hatto. this goodly masque but lacked a fool! first gypsy; next a beggar;--good! thy name? barbarossa. frederick of swabia, emperor of almain. all. the red beard? barbarossa. aye, frederick, by my mountain birthright prince o' th' romans, chosen king, crowned emperor, heaven's sword-bearer, monarch of burgundy and arles--the tomb of karl i dared profane, but have repented me on bended knees in penance 'midst the desert twenty years; my drink the rain, the rocky herbs my food, myself a ghost the shepherds fled before, and the world named me as among the dead. but i have heard my country call--come forth, lifted the shroud--broken the sepulchre. this hour is one when dead men needs must rise. ye own me? ye mind me marching through these vales when golden spur was ringing at my heel? now know me what i am, your master, earls! brave knights you deem! you say, "the sons we are of puissant barons and great noblemen, whose honors we prolong." you _do_ prolong them? your sires were soldiers brave, not prowlers base, rogues, miscreants, felons, village-ravagers! they made great wars, they rode like heroes forth, and, worthy, won broad lands and towers and towns, so firmly won that thirty years of strife made of their followers dukes, their leaders kings! while you! like jackal and the bird of prey, who lurk in copses or 'mid muddy beds- crouching and hushed, with dagger ready drawn, hide in the noisome marsh that skirts the way, trembling lest passing hounds snuff out your lair! listen at eventide on lonesome path for traveller's footfall, or the mule-bell's chime, pouncing by hundreds on one helpless man, to cut him down, then back to your retreats- _you_ dare to vaunt your sires? i call your sires, bravest of brave and greatest 'mid the great, a line of warriors! you, a pack of thieves! _athenaeum_. juliette drouet's love-letters to victor hugo the new france, being a history from the accession of louis philippe in 1830 to the revolution of 1848, with appendices by alexandre dumas. translated into english, with an introduction and notes by r. s. garnett. _in two volumes, demy 8vo, cloth gilt, profusely illustrated with a rare portrait of dumas and other pictures after famous artists. 24/-net._ the map of europe is about to be altered. before long we shall be engaged in the marking out. this we can hardly follow with success unless we possess an intelligent knowledge of the history of our allies. it is a curious fact that the present generation is always ignorant of the history of that which preceded it. everyone or nearly everyone has read a history--carlyle's or some other--of the french revolution of 1789 to 1800; very few seem versed in what followed and culminated in the revolution of 1848, which was the continuation of the first. both revolutions resulted from an idea--the idea of _the people_. in 1789 the people destroyed servitude, ignorance, privilege, monarchical despotism; in 1848 they thrust aside representation by the few and a monarchy which served its own interests to the prejudice of the country. it is impossible to understand the french republic of to-day unless the struggle in 1848 be studied: for every profound revolution is an evolution. a man of genius, the author of the most essentially french book, both in its subject and treatment, that exists (its name is _the three musketeers_) took part in this second revolution, and having taken part in it, he wrote its history. only instead of calling his book what it was--a history of france for eighteen years--that is to say from the accession of louis philippe in 1830 to his abdication in 1848--he called it _the last king of the french_. an unfortunate title, truly, for while the book was yet a new one the "last king" was succeeded by a man who, having been elected president, made himself emperor. it will easily be understood that a book with such a title by a republican was not likely to be approved by the severe censorship of the second empire. and, in fact, no new edition of the book has appeared for sixty years, although its republican author was alexandre dumas. during the present war the germans have twice marched over his grave at villers cotterets, near soissons, where he sleeps with his brave father general alexandre dumas. the first march was en route for paris; the second was before the pursuit of our own and the french armies, and while these events were taking place the first translation of his long neglected book was being printed in london. _habent sua fata tibelli._ written when the fame of its brilliant author was at its height, this book will be found eminently characteristic of him. although a history composed with scrupulous fidelity to facts, it is as amusing as a romance. wittily written, and abounding in life and colour, the long narrative takes the reader into the battlefield, the court and the hôtel de ville with equal success. dumas, who in his early days occupied a desk in the prince's bureaux, but who resigned it when the duc d'orleans became king of the french, relates much which it is curious to read at the present time. to his text, as originally published, are added as appendices some papers from his pen relating to the history of the time, which are unknown in england. [illustration: _victor hugo and juliette drouet_] juliette drouet's love-letters to victor hugo edited with a biography of juliette drouet by louis guimbaud translated by lady theodora davidson with a photogravure frontispiece and 36 illustrations in half-tone london stanley paul & co 31 essex street, strand, w.c. _first published in 1915_ foreword a poet, a great poet, loves a princess of the theatre. he is jealous. he forces her to abandon the stage and the green-room, to relinquish the hollow flattery of society and the town; he cloisters her with one servant, two or three of his portraits, and as many books, in an apartment a few yards square. when she complains of having nothing to do but wait for him, he replies: "write to me. write me everything that comes into your head, everything that causes your heart to beat." such is the origin of the letters of juliette drouet to victor hugo. they are not ordinary missives confided to the post and intended to assure a lover of the tender feelings of his mistress: they are notes, mere "scribbles," as juliette herself calls them, thrown upon paper hour by hour, cast into a corner without being read over, and secured by the lover at each of his visits, as so many trophies of passion. when juliette drouet's executor, m. louis kock, died in paris on may 26th, 1912, he had in his possession about twenty thousand. he had added to them the letters of james pradier to our heroine, those of juliette to her daughter, claire pradier, and the answers of claire pradier to her mother. this collection of documents passed into the hands of a parisian publisher, monsieur a. blaizot, who has been so good as to allow us to examine them and compile from them a volume concerning victor hugo and his friend. at first sight the task presented grave difficulties--nay, it seemed almost impossible of execution. to begin with, it would have been futile to think of publishing the whole of the twenty thousand letters; in the second place, it might appear a work of supererogation to reconstruct from them in detail the story of a _liaison_ well known to have been uneventful, almost monotonous, and more suggestive of a litany or the beads of a rosary than of tragedy or a novel. we have attempted to surmount these objections in the following manner: in the first portion we present the biography of juliette drouet in the form of a series of synthetic tableaux, each tableau summarising several lustres of her life. we thus avoid the long-drawn-out narrative, year by year, of an existence devoid of incident or adventure. in the second, we publish those letters which strike us as peculiarly eloquent, witty, or lyrical. in the light shed upon them by the preliminary biography, they form, as one might say, its justification and natural sequel. at the outset of her _liaison_ with the poet juliette does not date her "scribbles"; she merely notes the time of day and the day of the week, until about 1840; we have therefore been obliged to content ourselves with the classification effected by her in the collection of her manuscripts, and preserved by her executor. from 1840 she dated every sheet. consequently our work simultaneously achieves more precision and certainty. when its difficulties have seemed insuperable, we have derived valuable encouragement from the sympathy of the literary students and friends who had urged us to undertake it, or were assisting us in its execution. we have pleasure in recording our thanks to the following: mm. louis barthou, beuve, a. blaizot, françois camailhac, eugène planès, escolier, etc. b we have often wondered what the charming woman whose ideals, tastes, and habits have, by degrees, become almost as familiar to us as her handwriting, would have thought of our efforts. as far as she herself is concerned there can be but little doubt. she would have made fun of the undertaking. by dint of moving in the society of men of high literary attainments she had acquired a very modest estimate of her own wit and talent. in 1877, when the architect roblin one day discovered her sorting out her "scribbles," he thought she was attempting to write a book and gravely asked her "when it was to be published." "what an idea!" she cried, and burst out laughing. such was not the opinion of victor hugo, however. that perfect artist attached the utmost importance to the writings of his friend. each time she wished to destroy them he commanded her to preserve them. whenever she proposed to bring them to a close, he insisted upon her continuing. we possess an unpublished letter from the poet in which he exclaims: "your letters, my juliette, constitute my treasure, my casket of jewels, my riches! in them our joint lives are recorded day by day, thought by thought. all that you dreamed lies there, all that you suffered. they are charming mirrors, each one of which reflects a fresh aspect of your lovely soul." surely such a phrase conveys approbation and sanction sufficient for both juliette drouet and her humble biographer. contents part i _biographical_ chapter i page julienne gauvain 1 chapter ii princesse négroni 14 chapter iii "la tristesse d'olympio" 33 chapter iv the shackles of love 45 chapter v claire pradier 69 chapter vi "on an island" 84 chapter vii "that which brings satisfaction to the heart" 104 part ii _letters_ 115 appendix i. list of those of victor hugo's poems which were inspired by juliette drouet 311 ii. books concerning juliette drouet 314 iii. works of art representing juliette drouet 314 index 317 list of illustrations victor hugo and juliette drouet _photogravure frontispiece_ facing page the château of fougères in 1831 1 claire pradier as a child 8 victor hugo as a young man 16 juliette drouet in the rôle of la princesse négroni 24 juliette drouet in the rôle of la princesse négroni 32 house in the village of les metz, in the parish of jouy-en-josas, seine-et-oise 32 church of bièvres, seine-et-oise 40 victor hugo about 1836 48 "le citoyen victor hugo jouant au congrès de la paix" 64 claire pradier at fifteen 72 claire pradier on her deathbed 80 juliette drouet in jersey 88 victor hugo in jersey 96 victor hugo, his family, and juliette drouet at hauteville house 104 juliette drouet in 1883 112 claire pradier 120 juliette drouet about 1830 128 a page of juliette drouet's note-book in 1834 136 autograph letter from juliette drouet to her daughter claire 144 victor hugo 160 caricature of mlle. george, by victor hugo 176 portrait of victor hugo by himself 176 autograph and drawing by juliette drouet 192 the bridge of marne 208 a dedication by victor hugo to juliette drouet 224 juliette drouet in 1846 232 victor hugo, républicain 240 drawing by victor hugo, signed "toto" 256 the flower and the butterfly 256 juliette drouet's hand 272 victor hugo, by rodin 288 juliette drouet about 1877 296 the deathbed of victor hugo 304 a dedication by victor hugo to juliette drouet 304 book-plate designed for juliette drouet by victor hugo 312 [illustration: the château of fougères in 1836. unpublished drawing by victor hugo.] juliette drouet's love-letters to victor hugo part i _biographical_ chapter i julienne gauvain an irregular outline, sombre colouring, a tangle of towers, steeples, high gables and ramparts, steep passages built in the form of steps: such was the town of fougères at the beginning of the nineteenth century. the principal features of its surroundings were a turbulent river waging unceasing conflict with numerous mills, uncultivated wastes, more footpaths than lanes, and more lanes than high-roads. this former hot-bed of _chouans_ was an appropriate birthplace for a heroine of romance--and there, on april 10th, 1806, was born julienne joséphine gauvain, subsequently known as mademoiselle juliette, and later still, as madame drouet.[1] her father was a humble tailor living in a suburb of the town, on the road between fougères and autrain; her mother kept the little home. madame drouet was somewhat proud of her humble origin; she wrote: "i am of the people," as others might boast "i am well born"; she wished thereby to explain and excuse her taste for independence, her fiery temper, and her impulsive nature. she might equally have attributed these to the neglect she suffered in early infancy. for she had no parents to guard or train her. her mother died on december 15th, 1806, before the infant could lisp her first words. on september 12th in the following year the father dragged himself to the public infirmary at fougères, and there breathed his last. the infirmary took over the charge of the orphan, and was about to place her with the foundlings--indeed, the necessary formalities had already been complied with--when a protector suddenly came forward, a certain worthy uncle. his name was rené henri drouet. he was thirty-two years old, a sub-lieutenant of artillery, had seen active service in eight campaigns under napoleon, and been wounded in the foot by the blow of an axe. the wound was such that some very quiet employment had to be provided for him. the ex-artilleryman was turned into a coast-guard, and dawdled out a bored existence in the little breton port where fate confined him henceforth. he claimed julienne, and she was handed over to his care. it would be foolish to pretend that this retired warrior was a suitable person to undertake the training of a little girl. he understood only how to spoil and caress her. never did child enjoy a wilder, more vagabond childhood. julienne never got to the village school, because on the way thither glimmered a large pond bordered by clumps of bushes. among the latter she would conceal her shoes and stockings, and, wading into the water, blue as the skies above, gather starry water-lilies. when she came out, more often than not she failed to find the hiding-place, and ran home bare-footed, with hair floating in the wind and a frock torn to ribbons. but she only laughed, and was forgiven because she made such a winsome picture in her tatters and her wreath of flowers. those were halcyon days--days filled with innocent joys and elemental sorrows: a fruit-tree robbed of its burden under the indulgent eye of the old coastguard in his green uniform, the death of a tame linnet. all her life julienne's memory would dwell pleasurably on those early delights. nothing could curb her natural wildness, not even the gate of a cloister or the rule of st. benedict. among rené henri drouet's female relations he counted a sister and a cousin, nuns in a great parisian convent, the bernardines-bénédictines of perpetual adoration. their house was situated in the rue du petit-picpus. when julienne was ten years old he easily managed to have her admitted to the school attached to the convent, and thenceforth the orphan's path in life seemed settled: she should first become a distinguished pupil, then a pious novice, and lastly a holy nun. but, as events turned out, julienne was only to carry out the first part of the programme. from the description left us by madame drouet and transcribed in full by, victor hugo in _les misérables_, the house in the petit-picpus was none too cheerful; its first welcome to the child was more sombre than any drama she was to figure in, later, as an actress. padlocked gates, dark corridors, bare rooms, a chapel where the priest himself was concealed behind a veil--such was the scene; black phantoms with shrouded features played the parts; the action was composed of interminable prayers and stringent mortifications. the bernardines-bénédictines slept on straw and wore hair shirts, which produced chronic irritation and jerky spasms; they knew not the taste of meat or the warmth of a fire; they took turns in making reparation, and no excuse for shirking was permitted. reparation consisted in prayers for all the sins and faults of omission and commission, all the crimes of the world. for twelve consecutive hours the petitioner had to kneel upon the stone steps in front of the blessed sacrament, with clasped hands and a rope round her neck; when the fatigue became unbearable, she prostrated herself on her face, with her arms outstretched in the form of a cross, and prayed more ardently than before for the sinners of the universe. victor hugo, who gathered these details from the lips of madame drouet, declared them sublime, while she who had personally witnessed their painful passion, retained a profound impression for life, coupled with a strong sense of catholicism, and the gift of prayer. outside of these austerities the pupils of the school conformed to nearly all the practices of the convent. like the nuns, they only saw their parents in the parlour, and were not allowed to embrace them. in the refectory they ate in silence under the eye of the nun on duty, who from time to time, if so much as a fly flew without permission, would snap a wooden book noisily. this sound, and the reading of the _lives of the saints_, were the sole seasoning of the meal. if a rebellious pupil dared to dislike the food and leave it on her plate, she was condemned to kneel and make the sign of the cross on the stone floor with her tongue. neither the licked cross nor the meagre fare ever succeeded in damping julienne's spirits. she preserved the beautiful spontaneity and love of fun of her early years. she was the spoilt child of the convent where her aunts, mother des anges and mother ste mechtilde, appear to have wielded a kindly authority. she soon became its _enfant terrible_. once, when she was about twelve years old, she threw herself into the arms of a nun and cried, devouring the outer walls with her eyes: "mother, mother, one of the big girls has just told me i have only got nine years and ten months more to stay here: what luck!" and another time she dropped on the pavement of the cloister a confession written on a sheet of paper so that she might not forget its items: "father, i accuse myself of being an adulteress. father, i accuse myself of having stared at gentlemen." one might well ask who were the gentlemen concerned, for in the convent of petit-picpus there were no male professors; only the most distinguished among the nuns assumed the duty of instructing the young boarders. judging from the eloquence which will be found later in madame drouet's letters, the bernardines-bénédictines must have accomplished their task with great thoroughness. julienne learned from them, if not orthography and cultivated style, at least sincerity, and the point that, before attempting to write, one should have something to say. she also studied accomplishments. mother ste mechtilde possessed a beautiful voice. she was consequently appointed mistress of ceremonies and of the choir, and used to train her niece and other pupils. her habit was to take seven children and make them sing standing in a row according to their ages, so that they looked like a set of girlish organ-pipes. history does not relate whether julienne sang better than the others, but a little later she began to nurse in secret the idea of utilising her gifts as a virtuoso. at petit-picpus she also learned to sketch and paint in water-colours. she owed this instruction to the favour of the pious nuns, who, as a special breach of their rule, authorised her to take lessons from a young master, redouté. it may not be too bold to declare that julienne imbibed at the convent those qualities of tact and restraint, and that air of distinction she exhibited later in the drawing-rooms of victor hugo. to the convent of the bernardines was attached a sort of house of retreat where aged ladies of rank could end their days, as also nuns of the various orders whose cloisters had been destroyed during the revolution. some of these preserved within their hearts a generous instinct of maternity, which julienne easily managed to waken. she fell into the habit of running across to break the rule of everlasting silence in that fairly cheerful environment, and, in defiance of the prohibition against intimacy, she turned the old ladies into personal friends. she listened attentively, and remembered much, and forty years later she could describe correctly the names, appearance, and habits of that picturesque group, somewhat archaic, but invariably courteous and witty. perhaps because of this slight lifting of the veil, julienne began already, at the age of sixteen, to fix her eager gaze beyond the cloister and the gate. perhaps also some instinct of dignity and self-respect urged her to learn something of the world before entering the novitiate to pronounce her vows. however this may be, it seems certain that, on the solemn occasion of her presentation to the archbishop of paris, monsignor quelen, as a postulant, she managed to convey that her vocation was of the frailest, and her desire for the world, deeply rooted. the prelate understood, and signified to the nuns that this particular lamb desired to wander. that very evening julienne left the convent. here follows a somewhat obscure interlude in the girl's life. we meet her next among the pupils of the sculptor pradier, in 1825. james pradier: to those of our generation this name recalls merely a number of groups and statues: statues more graceful than chaste, groups more elegant than virile; the work of a master who aimed at rivalling praxiteles, but only succeeded in treading in the footsteps of clodion. pradier, however, only needs a careful biographer to acquire another kind of celebrity: that of an artist, _grand viveur_, magnificent and vain, careless and weak, born too late to lead without scandal the frivolous life he loved, too early to acquire by industry the fortune needed for the indulgence of his tastes. twice a week his studio was transformed into a drawing-room, and his receptions were attended by a most varied company: painters and poets, models, actresses, dames of high degree, politicians and men of the sword--all society, in short, liked to be seen in the rue de l'abbaye. clad in high boots, cut low in front, in violet velvet trousers and a coat of the same material decorated with polish brandebergs, flanked by a scotch greyhound almost as big as himself, the master of the house received his visitors, listened to them, talked with them, without interrupting his work; he created fresh marvels with the chisel while the conversation flowed unrestrained, and thus his labours became simultaneously a gossip and a spectacle. in the novel excitement of surroundings so brilliant, so varied, and of morals so easy, julienne committed the imprudence which was to settle the fate of her whole life. thanks to her independent spirit, and still more to her beauty, she very soon established her position in pradier's house. she came there often, remained long, and consented to pose for him.[2] and when, one day, the sculptor desired for himself this flower, so superior in delicacy and aroma to those usually found in the studios, he had but to bend down and pluck it. [illustration: claire pradier as a child. from an unpublished drawing by pradier.] he made julienne his mistress in 1825. in 1826 she gave him a little daughter whom we shall meet again later. but now arose difficulties of a practical nature. james pradier, ex-prix de rome, chevalier de la légion d'honneur, membre de l'institut, professeur de l'école des beaux-arts, could not with propriety, according to his ideas, marry a model. he does not dream of it for an instant, but, as he wishes to do the girl some kindness, however unsuitable, he manages to insinuate her into the theatrical world, and to put her on the boards. having friends in brussels, he decrees that she shall go thither to study and make her first appearance; and, as she needs guidance, advice, and protection, he writes her almost every day long letters, in which platitudes alternate with vulgarity. the correspondence continues, wordy and trivial, interminable and foolish, a repulsive mixture of boasting and preaching. does julienne show distaste for vaudeville, pradier proclaims that form of acting to be the most charming in the world, and places it far above tragedy, which he pronounces tiresome and chilling. if julienne complains that she has but one dress, pradier tells her that only the leading lights of the stage possess more. if she ventures a timid request for money, he answers that he has none himself, and offers her a book of fairy-tales illustrated under his supervision. she had to keep herself alive somehow, and when the poor thing had pledged everything she possessed at the pawnbroker's, she wrote plaintively: "this is the only money my talents have earned for me so far." she might perhaps have been reduced to some desperate measure, had not chance placed her in the path of félix harel. although an incorrigible bonapartist, and consequently a conspirator by trade, harel seems to have been above all a man of the theatre: in the midst of his political preoccupations, one can always discern his predilection for things pertaining to the stage. he also had a very definite conviction that politics and the drama, statesmen and ballet-dancers, have always been closely linked together. so, whether he was for the moment pamphleteer, financier, or prefect, whether he was holding an appointment, or in full flight, he always had a finger in some theatrical pie, either as a director, a manager, or a private adviser. at the time he first met julienne, he was filling the latter capacity at the théâtre royal, in brussels. he presented the young woman. without further training than that which pradier had directed from afar, we know that she made her first appearance in brussels, at the beginning of the year 1829--to be exact, on february 17th. on that day she informs pradier that her début has been successful, and that the brussels press is favourable. he at once thanks providence and decides that she can henceforth support herself by her talent. he writes: "is not this a great pleasure to you? does it not lift a weight from your heart, you who have such a noble soul? how sweet is the bread one has earned so honourably! for my part, i feel that all your faults are condoned by the trouble you are taking. your perseverance will be rewarded, never doubt it. go on working! time can never hang heavy when one is labouring honestly; study carries more flowers than thorns." having spoken thus, the artist returned to his business and his pleasures, not without having exhorted julienne to remain in brussels as long as possible. he was not ignorant of the passionate desire of the young woman to see her babe once more, but he feared that, if she should not find an engagement in paris like the one she enjoyed in brussels, she would again be, morally at least, on his hands. therefore, redoubling his cautious advice and his counsels of prudence, he implored her not to relinquish a certainty for an uncertainty. however, nothing deterred her. julienne, as she used to say afterwards, would rather have trudged the distance that separated her from her child, on foot, than waited any longer. the events of 1829 spared her the trouble. owing to certain evidences of internal discontent, the government of charles x was developing liberal proclivities. among other political exiles, it allowed félix harel to return, and with him his illustrious mistress, mlle. georges. julienne shared their lot. she accompanied them, not only to paris, but to the theatre of the porte st. martin, which, under harel's influence, rapidly became the stronghold of romanticism, and on february 27th, 1830, she made her début on its boards in the part of emma, in _l'homme du monde_, by ancelot and saintine. then she migrated almost at once to the odéon, of which harel had just undertaken the management, without, however, resigning that of the porte st. martin. she played various parts there throughout the year 1831. we shall hear later on that she was beautiful, but for the present we must confine ourselves to the question of her talent and dramatic qualities. it has been hinted that she owed her success solely to her lovely face and graceful figure, and that she was one of those ephemeral favourites who reap popular applause in return for the exhibition of their charms. the truth seems to be that "la belle juliette," as she was already called, gave proofs of distinguished powers, although one is fain to admit that, at this distance of time, it is not easy to define her capacity with any exactitude. for one thing, it was never juliette's good fortune to play an important part which has since become a classic, and by which her true qualities could be gauged: in harel's troupe the first-class parts were already justly monopolised by mlle. georges and madame dorval. also, nearly all the plays in which juliette appeared are nowadays looked upon as antiquated and sometimes even absurd. in fact, it is difficult to conceive how they ever could have been given. it will be wiser, therefore, to rely mainly on pradier's letters to discover what were the natural gifts which could have inspired that artist to make of his mistress an actress, and even a tragedian. pradier, then, considered juliette well equipped by nature in respect of sentiment, intelligence, and voice production; but he criticised in her a certain timidity and lack of assurance, sufficient to mar her entrances and cover her exits with ridicule. he also thought fit to observe to her that, once she was on the scene, and had overcome her initial fright, she overacted her parts, and was not sufficiently natural; she forgot to address herself to the audience, and would speak into the wings, and neglect to vary her gestures, intonations, and pauses. to sum up, fire, intelligence, and an adequate vocal organ, but shyness, awkwardness, monotonous delivery, and hesitation in gesture and gait: such seem to have been the dramatic qualities and shortcomings of "la belle juliette." the testimony of pradier has been confirmed by that of _l'artiste_. if there is any need to say more, we can judge by an analysis of her engagements with harel. on february 7th, 1832, harel signs a contract with her for thirteen months, to begin from the march 1st following. he brings her back from the odéon to the porte st. martin, and promises her the modest salary of four thousand francs per annum, payable monthly. but he does not treat her as a "general utility" actress--on the contrary, he insists that she keep principally to the part of _jeune première_ in comedy, tragedy, and drama; that she learn daily at least forty lines or verses of the parts which shall be allotted to her; that she furnish at her own expense all the dresses necessary for her parts; that she be present at all rehearsals called by the administration of the theatre. on january 13th, 1833, the two agree that the engagement shall be prolonged on the same conditions until april 1st, 1834. between whiles, juliette continued to create parts. it must be confessed that she led the customary life of a theatrical star. from the boulevard st. denis, where she lived, to the boulevard du temple, which was then the hub of the social world and the centre of amusement, the distance was negligible. she was therefore present at every scene of this ceaseless round of entertainment. her wardrobe enjoyed a certain renown. her journeys, one of which was to italy towards the end of 1832, helped to keep her before the public. beautiful as a goddess, merrier than ever, her bearing unconcerned, her arm lightly placed within that of the chance companion of the moment, her eyes flashing fire, though her heart might be full to bursting, she sailed towards cytheræa without apparent regret, without thought of return. it was at this moment that victor hugo succeeded in bringing her back into port, and keeping her there for ever, the slave of one master, the woman of one love. chapter ii princesse négroni two portraits of victor hugo are extant: one by devéria executed in 1829, the other by léon noël in 1832.[3] what a change is visible in the short space of three years! the "monumental" brow which reminded théophile gautier of the "fronton de temple grec" is the same; but, whereas in 1829 it was instinct with lofty thought and pleasant fancies, in 1832 worry and suspicion have already scored it deeply with lines of care. in 1829 devéria recognised and rendered the characteristic expression of the poet: that bright, upward glance which ten years before had caused the author of the _odes_ to be compared to a stained-glass archangel. in 1832 léon noël saw a fixed, overshadowed gaze, whose severity is further accentuated by knitted brows. in 1829 fleshy, sinuous lips always half ready for a smile or a kiss, indicate both sensuality and humour. in 1832 they are tightly compressed, their outline exaggeratedly firm; they give the impression of having forgotten joy and learnt to express only will. even in the quality of the flesh-tints the artists disagree. according to devéria the pallor natural to the poet bears the impress of health and placidity, whereas léon noël's rendering reveals sickliness and a sense of doom. what, then, had happened between the dates of the two portraits? had the whole character of the poet changed? had he lost some precious article of faith or conviction, or was it that the mainspring of his enthusiasm had failed him? nay--his soul still cherished the same treasures of idealism. the former penitent of the abbé lammenais still preserved at thirty his ardent, perhaps even narrow catholicism, his cult of purity, his contempt for physical indulgence, his delight in the joys and duties of family life. eager for self-sacrifice, rich in the hopes and illusions he confided to his few intimate friends, he dreamed of sharing everything with the people, towards whom the trend of events inclined him to turn; just as he had once written _les lettres à la fiancée_ for a single reader, so he had now published for the crowd _les feuilles d'automne_, the curious preface to that collection, and in the collection itself the sublime _prière pour tous_. his was a soul profoundly religious, and a lofty mind which aspired to raise itself ever higher. but he did not live by thought alone. many of those who watched him working without intermission, with a method and a will that defied human weakness, who saw how numerous were his lectures, how varied his researches, and who witnessed the incessant travail of his imagination, thought that the author of _hernani_ and _dona sol_ must be lacking in human sensibility. he protests against this. in a letter to sainte-beuve he says: "i live only by my emotions; to love, or to crave for love and friendship, is the fundamental aim--happy or unhappy, public or private--of my life."[4] he might equally have added: "that is why for the last two years my brow is no longer placid, why my eyes seek the ground, why my lips are so bitterly compressed." the secret of the change in victor hugo's physiognomy lies in the treachery of his wife and his best friend. love and friendship failed him together. his moral distress was immense, his pain unfathomable. they inspired him with plaints so touching that, after hearing them, one asks oneself whether it can ever be possible for him to forget or recover. one despairs of the healing of the man who writes: "i have acquired the conviction that it is possible for the one who possesses all my love to cease to care for me. i am no longer happy."[5] calmness did return to him, however. it was thus: for the last ten years, that is, practically ever since her marriage, madame victor hugo had behaved in such a manner that when the day of the betrayal, in which she was the accomplice of his friend, dawned, the poet was able to consider her with contempt. although fairly gifted in appearance, she possessed neither taste nor cleverness in the matter of dress; she had always shown herself to him in careless attire and unfashionable gowns. absent-minded and limited in intelligence, she remained uncultured and oblivious of the genius of her husband, and of achievements of which she appreciated only the financial value. in addition, she had declined to share the noble ideal originally proposed to her by her twenty-year-old bridegroom: love considered as "the ardent and pure union of two souls, a union begun on earth to end not even in heaven."[6] the poet was thus authorised, and even forced, to seek happiness in the arms of some other woman. if victor hugo had wished to avoid that "other woman " he would have had to remain for ever concealed in his tower of ivory--which certainly did not happen. [illustration: victor hugo as a young man. in the possession of m. le d. f. jousseaume.] he emerged from it in the spring of 1832, on may 26th, and appeared at an artists' ball. there he saw juliette for the first time; but she was so beautiful and so captivating that he was afraid of her, and dared not address her. five years later he recorded this impression of admiring timidity in the book in which they had agreed to celebrate all their anniversaries, namely the _voix intérieures_.[7] for more than six months the poet lacked the courage to seek his vision again, but in the early days of 1833 he found juliette among the actresses harel suggested to him at the porte st. martin for his play, _lucrèce borgia_. he accepted her at once and gave her a small part, that of princesse négroni. then the rehearsals began. juliette admits in one of her letters that she showed herself very coquettish and mischievous. according to her, the poet made up his mind the first day and the first hour. but matters did not really proceed so easily. victor hugo, who, as stated above, cherished the highest and purest moral ideal, must have carried his principles with him into the wings and on the stage. he was not partial to actresses; he was suspicious of them, and made no secret of the feeling. one must picture him rather as on the defensive than bold and adventurous. his attire and appearance were not calculated to ensure his social success. we hear from juliette herself that he wore his hair _en broussaille_, and that his smile revealed "crocodile's teeth." allowing himself to be dressed by his tailor in the fashions of four or five years earlier, his trousers were firmly braced above the waist, tightly drawn over his boots, and fastened under the instep by a steel chain. to sum up, as a dandy who writes these details concludes, he was a worthy citizen desirous of being in the fashion, but unable to compass it. fortunately the said citizen could speak, and his words of gold were sufficient to gloss over any personal disadvantages. to men he discoursed of his hopes and plans, and even his forecasts for the future; to women of their beauty and the supremacy of such a gift. men found his arrogance intolerable, and complained that they must always either listen, or talk to him of himself. but women liked him for abasing his pride before them; they appreciated his good manners, his urbanity, and the incomparable art with which he cast his laurels at their feet. the god took on humanity for them; they were careful to pose as goddesses before him. juliette possessed everything needful to accomplish this end. she was about to enter her twenty-sixth year; very shortly afterwards, théophile gautier wrote this fulsome description of her, to please the master: "mademoiselle juliette's countenance is of a regular and delicate beauty; the nose chiselled and of handsome outline, the eyes limpid and diamond-bright, the mouth moistly crimson, and tiny even in her gayest fits of laughter. these features, charming in themselves, are set in an oval of the suavest and most harmonious form. a clear, serene forehead like the marble of a greek temple crowns this delicious face; abundant black hair, with wonderful reflections in it, brings out the diaphanous and lustrous purity of her complexion. her neck, shoulders, and arms, are of classic perfection; she would be a worthy inspiration to sculptors, and is well equipped to enter into competition with those beautiful young athenians who lowered their veils before the gaze of praxiteles conceiving his venus.[8] these elegant phrases probably represent very imperfectly the impression produced by juliette. we have had the privilege of perusing some of the proposals addressed to her, and we have read the cruel novel alphonse karr prided himself on having written about her.[9] everything conspires to show that she shone and dazzled especially by her all-conquering air of youth and ingenuousness. when she passed, spring was over. her age, condition, manner of life, had made of her a woman, while her smile and movements kept her still a girl. her gait was, in fact, so fairy-like that her admirers all make use, certainly without collusion, of the adjective, "aérien." her face presented a perfect image of calmness and purity. did she raise her eyes, a soft, velvety, sometimes mournful gaze was revealed--did she lower them, it was still the dawn, but a dawn concealing itself behind a veil. all beautiful countenances have a soul; upon juliette's could be read less contentment than unsatisfied ardour, more melancholy than serenity. neither luxury, nor pleasure, nor flattery, was able to satisfy the dearest desire of her heart from the age of sixteen, which was, to become the passionate companion of an honest man. she lent herself to her lovers, but her eyes made it plain that she still sought the perfect one to whom she would some day capitulate. according to herself--and we have no reason to doubt her--she selected victor hugo as soon as she made his acquaintance. she expended herself in advances and coquetries, and infused into the study and expression of her small part all the art of which she was capable. in the third act of the play, when maffio said to her: "_l'amitié ne remplit pas tout le c[oe]ur_," she had to query: "_mon dieu, qu'est-ce qui remplit tout le c[oe]ur?_" it seems that at rehearsals she did not wait for maffio's answer, but turned subtly towards the poet and sought him with her eyes. he, however, still hung back; a tradition attributed to frédérick lemaître, which we have carefully verified,[10] informs us that he surprised even the actors of the porte st. martin by the respectful tone he maintained towards his beautiful interpreter. far from addressing her in the familiar manner customary in theatrical circles, he called her mademoiselle juliette, kissed her hand, and bowed low before her. frédérick could not believe his eyes. at last the evening of the first performance arrived; the success of the piece was immediate. juliette had her share of it. she was so beautiful as the poisoner that, as théophile gautier says, the public forgot to pity her unhappy guests and thought them fortunate to die after kissing her hand.[11] after the third act she received congratulations even from mademoiselle georges, who folded her in her arms and covered her with kisses. as for the author, we do not know what he did in the first blush, but the next morning he wrote thus: "in _lucrèce borgia_, certain personages of secondary importance are represented at the porte st. martin by actors of the first order, who perform with grace, loyalty, and perfect taste, in the semi-obscurity of their parts. the author here thanks them. among these, the public particularly distinguished mademoiselle juliette. it can hardly be said that princesse négroni is a part: it is in some sense an apparition; a figure, beautiful, young, fatal, which floats by, raising one corner of the sombre veil that covers italy at the commencement of the sixteenth century. mademoiselle juliette threw into this figure an extraordinary virility. she had few words to say, but she filled them with meaning. this actress only requires opportunity, to reveal forcibly to the public a talent full of soulfulness, passion, and truth."[12] nothing could be better said or more openly declared, and the interpreter of the part was thus informed of the intentions of the author. he adopts her, makes her his own, is ready to share his own glory with the youthful renown of négroni. for her he will conceive marvellous parts; she will create them. juliette understood him perfectly. with the ardour of a twenty-five-year-old imagination excited by love, she began to dream of her poet, of their two lives henceforward united in a common success. while victor still wavered, still hesitated whether to seek this actress of whom thousands of alarming anecdotes were current, she made foolish projects, settled trivial details, savoured one by one those joys of the dawn of love which so many women prefer to the delights of possession. he came at last on february 27th, shrove sunday, towards the end of the afternoon. the weather had been beautiful, one of those soft spring days that enhance the beauty of parisian women and make the men pensive. the streets were littered with booths, noisy with fireworks, discordant with raucous voices. the boulevard du temple exploited a fair where, on that particular day, masks and songs added variety and movement. victor hugo, who lived in the place royale and never drove in a cab, had to cross this scene on foot. his thoughts were still confused; he, who was ordinarily so determined in his plans, still debated whether he should mount the actress's stairs. after all, this child seemed fond of him--but whom was she not fond of? who was there that did not figure on the list of her lovers? yesterday, alphonse karr, loutish, a babbler, a writer of romances, fairly honest, but so ponderous in his pretentious and everlasting coat of black velvet! to-day a russian prince who was said to have offered juliette a marvellous trousseau, copied from the wedding outfit of madame la duchesse d'orléans. he was also credited with the intention of installing her in a sumptuous apartment in the rue de l'échiquier.... what should a poet, a great poet conscious of his mission, want with such a girl? then a voice sang in the memory of victor hugo, a voice almost supernatural, like those with which he used to endow the good fairies in the days when he covered the margins of his lesson-books with fancies. "_mon dieu_," it wailed, "_qu'est-ce qui remplit tout le c[oe]ur?_" and at last the poet walked up to place the answer at the feet of his new friend. like all great hearts, victor and juliette fell head over ears in love, and thought of nothing else. the poet was no longer to be found in the place royale, or, if he was, he remained abstracted, a stranger at his own hearth. he, usually so precise, so punctual and methodical, now neglects his guests and is late for meals. when evening comes and his drawing-room is filled with voices, song, and discussion, and with women who smile upon him and men who render him homage, he forgets everything, even to be polite. his eye is on the clock, he longs for the blessed hour of the _rendezvous_ at 9, rue st. denis. sometimes he snatches up a stray sheet of paper and scribbles feverishly. verse or prose? more often it is verse, for it will be offered to juliette, and nothing flatters her so much as these poetical surprises created in the midst of the din and diversions of a social circle. neither did she give herself in niggardly fashion. from the very beginning she said to him: "i am good for nothing but to love you!" she threw herself thoroughly, magnificently, into the part. thus quoth she--and wrote likewise, for she, also, wrote from everywhere: from her room, from a friend's house, from her box at the theatre, from a chance café. for her tender "scribbles," as she calls them, any scrap of paper will serve, even an envelope or the margin of a newspaper; and for instrument a pencil, a blackened pin, even a steel pen, that novel invention of which every one is talking, but which she hardly knows how to use. of the form of her letters she takes little heed. no lexicon is needed to say that one loves. a woman in the throes of passion does not worry about grammar. juliette is of that opinion, and that is why her early letters are so full of charm. they exhale the perfume of love, and also its timidity. her letters were not merely a means of giving vent to her feelings: they seemed to her the only occupation fit for a sweetheart worthy of the name, when the lover is absent or delayed. on february 18th, 1833, victor hugo had left her early in the morning. she had rushed to the window to follow him with her eyes as long as he was in sight. at the corner of the rue st. denis, as he was about to turn into the rue st. martin, he looked back; they exchanged a volley of kisses. then she found herself lonely indeed, oblivious of her surroundings, like a somnambulist who walks and speaks and acts in a dream. around her was an immense void, in her heart one sole desire: to see the poet again, and never to part from him. it was to fill that void and beguile that desire that she took up the habit of writing to him. [illustration: juliette drouet in the rôle of la princesse négroni.] he, on his part, repaid letters and messages as much as possible with his own presence. any time he could snatch from his children and work and visits to publishers or theatre-managers, he gave to juliette. as _lucrèce borgia_ continued to reap a signal success--the greatest, from the financial point of view, that the porte st. martin had ever experienced--harel asked the author for a new play. victor hugo wrote _marie tudor_ in very few days, and the principal parts had just been allotted: to mademoiselle georges the queen, to juliette, jane. under pretext of rehearsing, we find our lovers lunching together almost every day. if there was really a rehearsal, they met again afterwards on the stage, and tasted the rare pleasure of sharing their work, as they shared their pleasure. when they did not rehearse, they hurried out of town. furtively yet boldly, timidly but merrily, they started on one of those strolls, partly parisian, and partly suburban, which, according to juliette, were the chief enchantment of their _liaison_. paris was not then the dusty conglomeration of eight-story-high houses it now is. instead of spreading over the surrounding country, it allowed the country to encroach upon itself. at the foot of montmartre (which juliette always calls a _mountain_), real windmills waved their long arms; along the butte aux cailles a genuine brook purled among the lilacs and syringa; on the summit of montparnasse, when there was dancing, artists and poets, dandies and grisettes, trod actual grass, to the sound of fiddles! juliette had always in her a strain of bohemianism. we may therefore picture her in short, striped, pleated skirt, tight at the waist but flowing out wide at the bottom over white stockings, a little silken cape covering her queenly young bosom, without concealing its fine lines, her head surmounted by a rose-trimmed bonnet with black ribbons, clasping the arm of her "friend" with sparkling eyes and cheeks as rosy as her headdress. happiness, as she used to say in after-days, is so light to carry, that her feet hardly touched the ground. her pride in her companion was such that her glance defied heaven. "when i hold your arm," she wrote to him, "i am as proud as if i had made you myself." she did _re_make him, to a certain extent, for it was she who insisted upon his becoming younger and smarter in appearance. he now trained his chestnut locks over his olympian brow, in careful but unromantic fashion; his black eyes, with their blue depths, resumed their upward glance, when they were not plunged in those of his mistress; his complexion, which had been so pale, now gained colour, and soon, when auguste de châtillon paints the poet's miniature for juliette's pleasure, he will be able to endow him with lips less eloquent than caressing, without straying from the truth. "the dear little fashionable," as his companion called him, compressed his sturdy figure into a really handsome blue coat opening over a shot waistcoat. his immaculate linen, and the scarlet ribbon of the order charles x had bestowed upon him in his youth, stood out in pleasant contrast to the sombre hue of his coat. his tiny feet, and hands as delicate as juliette's own, completed this somewhat incongruous exterior. and the two made expeditions together, wherever they knew of, or hoped to find, moss and trees, and an attractive shelter. they went to montmartre and montrouge, to maison blanche and st. james, to bicêtre and meudon, fontainebleau, gisors, st. germain-en-laye, and versailles. sometimes the poet pondered his work as he walked. silence was then the order of the day; so juliette was silent. but more often they talked, made plans for the future, babbled merry nonsense, and exchanged kisses. or else they discussed their past: victor told of his studious childhood spent poring over books, of his early works, laborious and chaste. juliette recalled her bare-footed school-girl pranks. both gloried in the radiant memories of their youth. but in the midst of those halcyon days of simple pleasures, fate began to show herself unkind. first came the failure of _marie tudor_, then juliette's disappointment at the comédie française, and, in addition, the persecution of her creditors and the consequent quarrels with victor hugo, with their subsequent scenes of tender reconciliation. the poor girl was, in fact, overwhelmed with debt. when victor hugo, desirous of setting her free for ever, asked her to draw up a detailed statement of her affairs, she nearly broke down under the task, for there were not only ordinary bills, such as 12,000 fr. to janisset the jeweller, 1,000 fr. to poivin the glove-maker, 600 fr. to the laundress, 260 fr. to georges the hair-dresser, 400 fr. to villain the purveyor of rouge, 620 fr. to madame ladon, dressmaker, 2,500 fr. to mesdames lebreton and gérard for dress materials, 1,700 fr. to jourdain the upholsterer--but also fictitious and usurious debts intended to disguise money loans, and all the more numerous because they were for the most part invented under the direction of an attorney who answered to the name of manière. she took good care not to reveal to victor hugo, whose own burdens, and practical, economical mind, she was well acquainted with, the amount of her expenditure and the magnitude of her liabilities. the moment came, however, when the creditors realised that they had to deal with a pretty woman inefficiently vouched for by a poet. they lost patience and threatened her, and it was then that juliette had recourse to money-lenders. the remedy was worse than the evil. stamped paper soon flooded her rooms. her furniture was seized, and also her salaries from the théâtre français and the porte st. martin. she tried to save a few clothes, and was had up for illegally making away with the creditors' property. her landlord threatened her with expulsion; she imagined herself homeless, and lost her head. instead of confiding in victor hugo, her natural protector, she had recourse to former friends. there were many such, from pradier, the sculptor, to séchan, the scene-painter of the opera and other theatres. pradier replied with advice; he was not without just pretext for refusal, for, since her intrigue with victor hugo, juliette no longer wrote to the father of her child except "_par accident et monosyllabes_" or else in a school-girl's handwriting, calculated to cover the pages in very few words. séchan and a few others were less stingy; they sent small but quite insufficient contributions. she was therefore forced to take the big step of revealing the whole truth to the beloved. the scene was stormy, although victor hugo did not hesitate for a moment before complying with an obligation that was also a satisfaction, since it secured his possession of juliette. fussy and meticulous though he was in the small circumstances of life, he knew how to be generous and even lavish in the great--but juliette's petty deceptions had infused doubts in his mind; moreover, he was in love and therefore jealous. towards the end of 1833 and in the early part of 1834, suspicion, anger, unjust recriminations and noisy quarrels became almost daily affairs. as invariably happens in these cases, friends, male and female, interfered. juliette was slandered by mademoiselle ida ferrier, her understudy in the rôle of jane at the porte st. martin--who would, if rumour may be trusted, have gladly understudied her also in the heart of victor hugo--also by mademoiselle georges, who was getting on in years[13] and could not forgive the lovers for not acknowledging her sovereignty in the green-room and drawing-room as they admitted it upon the stage. to aspersions and reproaches juliette opposed, not only indignation, but angry words, violent retorts, and sometimes even insulting epithets; or else she protested in innumerable letters and notes, rendered eloquent by their sincerity. she complained that she was "attacked without the means of defence, soiled without opportunity of cleansing herself, wounded without chance of healing"; she affirmed her intention of putting an end to the situation by suicide or final rupture. generally victor hugo arrived in time to calm her frenzy with a caress or a soothing word, and then juliette would try to resign herself and let hope spring uppermost once more. but victor hugo, under the influence of some new tittle-tattle, resumed his grand-inquisitorial manner, and the tone, words, reproaches and even threats appertaining to the part. the creditors continued to harry her without intermission; so in the end the couple passed from words to actions. as we have stated above, juliette's furniture had been seized, and she was about to be turned out of her apartment in the rue de l'échiquier. she had endeavoured vainly to interest her friends, past and present, in her difficulties. even victor hugo, disheartened probably by the difficulties of the task, had returned a refusal. the lovers therefore exchanged farewells which they thought final, and on august 3rd juliette started for st. renan, near brest, where her sister, madame kock, was living. happily she travelled by the rennes diligence, and there were many halts on the way. from the very first of these she sent an adoring letter to the poet. she wrote again from rennes, from brest once more, and lastly from st. renan. victor hugo responded with expressions of poignant regret and remorse, according to those who have read them. he promised to do his very best to find the few necessary banknotes to satisfy the biggest creditors. in the end, he set out for rennes himself, and rejoined his friend. the lovers returned to paris on august 10th. now commences the most singular period of the life of juliette, one which has been aptly entitled an "amorous redemption after the romantic manner."[14] for nearly two years victor hugo, taking his mistress as the subject of his experiment, put into practice the theories, in part religious, and in part philosophical, which he professed concerning courtesans, namely: the expiation of faults by faithful, passionate, disinterested love; love itself being considered as a species of _sesame_, capable of opening wide the doors of science, and throwing light upon all hidden things. the first condition of redemption was poverty, voluntarily, almost joyously, accepted. the furniture of the rue de l'échiquier must be sold and the beautiful rooms given up. a tiny apartment consisting of two rooms and a kitchen was taken for juliette at no. 4, rue du paradis au marais, at a yearly rental of 400 fr. there she shivered through the winter, and spent part of her days in bed to economise her fuel; but at least she proved that she loved truly and was deserving of love. no more dresses or jewels ... every evening victor hugo repeated to his mistress that dress adds nothing to the charms of a lovely woman, that it is waste of time to try to add to nature where nature herself is beautiful; and proudly, as if indeed she were clothed in the hair-shirt of her former mistresses at the convent, juliette wrote: "my poverty, my clumsy shoes, my faded curtains, my metal spoons, the absence of all ornament and pleasure apart from our love, testify at every hour and every minute, that i love you with all my heart." but there can be no true reformation or conversion without work. so juliette must work; she must study her parts, make her clothes and even some of victor hugo's, patch others, keep her little house in order, and spend what leisure she can snatch, in copying the works of the master, cutting out extracts from the newspapers, classifying and collecting his manuscripts and proofs. when he had completed this splendid programme, of which almost every part, as we shall presently see, was carried out to the letter, the poet experienced an overpowering need to find himself alone somewhere with the woman he had finally subjugated. his mind was still quite virgilian. he had not yet arrived at confusing duty with politics and happiness with popularity. his greatest enjoyment, next to love, was in rural pursuits, and for the indulgence of these he flattered himself he had discovered in juliette a companion worthy of himself. the lovers had barely settled in the rue du paradis au marais before they went off to the valley of bièvres. half mystics, half pagans, worshipping equally at the shrines of the forest divinities and those of the village churches, they entered upon the consummation of what they themselves called their "marriage of escaped birds." [illustration: juliette drouet in the rôle of la princesse négroni.] [illustration: house in the village of les metz, in the parish of jouy-en-josas, seine-et-oise, in which juliette drouet lived while victor hugo was staying at les roches. this is the house referred to in _la tristesse d'olympio_.] chapter iii "la tristesse d'olympio" in the neighbourhood of paris, about four miles from versailles, nestles a valley which the modern devotees of romance should deem worthy of a visit. not because it boasts of any special features, such as mighty torrents thundering from giddy heights into abysmal precipices below--on the contrary, its character is harmonious and serene, more like a french park decked with flowers by nature, and watered by chance--but because in these classic surroundings, about the year 1830, circumstances led the great men of the new school to seek temporary repose for their fretted souls. to us, these peaceful meadows, flanked by pensive willows weeping on the borders of the silent bièvres, must evermore be peopled by those troubled shades: by lammenais, the priestly keeper of consciences, montalembert, the angelic doctor, sainte-beuve, the purveyor of ideas, berlioz, the musician, and, lastly, by the poet, victor hugo, who followed meekly in the rear, while awaiting the glory of conducting the procession. they used to arrive in the summer, some for a couple of days, others for weeks together, to stay with monsieur bertin, editor of the _journal des débâts_ and owner of les roches,[15] a property situated midway between the villages of bièvres and jouy-en-josas. genial and lively, as ingres represents him in his celebrated portrait, monsieur bertin loved to divine, promote, and, where needful, encourage their vocations and plans. his housekeeping was on a modest scale, but his hospitality delightful--a mixture of go-as-you-please and kindly despotism; perfect freedom outwardly, but, in reality, careful ministrations skilfully disguised. louise bertin, the eldest daughter of the old man, and one of the muses of the period, willingly divided her time between the kitchen and the drawing-room, cookery-books and poems. as an ardent musician, tolerably familiar with the best literature, her mind was full of quaintness, while her heart was instinct with kindliness. when, perchance, she had surfeited her guests with sonatas and song, she would be seized with fear lest she should be interfering with their habits or inclinations, and would hastily substitute anarchy, by commanding each one to choose his own occupation, and pursue his meditation, walk, or game unhindered. of them all, victor hugo seems to have been the girl's favourite, and the one who made the largest use of this generous welcome and charming liberty. as soon as the periwinkles blossomed, he settled his wife and children at les roches, while he himself came and went between paris and bièvres. gradually he grew to associate the valley with his joys and sorrows; it became one of those familiar haunts to which one instinctively turns, with the comforting assurance of finding there the outward conditions suitable to one's moods. as a young father, he made it the fitting frame for family joys; when his love was flung back in his face and his friendship betrayed, he returned to seek, if not consolation, at least faith and hope for the future. a year later, again under the shelter of les roches, he thought he had found solace. the valley meant something more than an invitation to dawdle: it filled him with sensuous suggestion; he longed to place his ideal of an unquenchable love at the feet of a woman, and to pronounce the word "forever." with the connivance of madame victor hugo, who shut her eyes, and that of mademoiselle louise bertin, who smiled her toleration,[16] this happiness came to him at length; not indeed in the first year of his passion for juliette, but in the early part of the second. he brought his mistress to bièvres and to jouy on july 4th, 1834, a little before the tragic crisis that so nearly separated the lovers, as we have related in the foregoing chapter. juliette immediately fell in love with the scenes the poet had so often and so eloquently described to her. of their joint visit to the écu de france, the little inn at jouy-en-josas,[17] she drew up, in fun, one of those mock official reports in which she excelled. they decided to return and lunch, no matter where, or how, provided it was neither too near nor too far from les roches. then they set out in quest of rooms, which they eventually found in the hamlet of metz, on the summit of the hill above jouy on the northern side. they returned to paris after paying over to the proprietor, sieur labussière, the sum of 92 frs. for a year's rent. thither they came in september for a sojourn of six weeks, after the troubled interval described above. the little house does not seem to have been altered at all.[18] it was originally built for the game-keeper of the neighbouring château, which belonged to cambacérès. it still spreads its white frontage, pierced with green-shuttered windows, against the background of woods. it consists only of a ground-floor and an attic; a rambling vine covers its walls; around it are scattered a barn, some outhouses, and an orchard, whose steep sides slope downwards to a gate opening on to the jouy road. with the assistance of the landlady, mère labussière, as she calls her, juliette undertook to perform the lighter tasks of housekeeping in the mornings, and it was understood that victor hugo should visit her every afternoon unless some grave impediment prevented him. but the walk from les roches to les metz was long: not much under two miles, by rough roads. the lovers agreed therefore to meet half-way, by a path settled beforehand, and to abandon the labussière roof-tree for some leafy bower. thus began, as juliette writes, their "bird-life in the woods." victor hugo had a choice of three ways when he went to meet his lady. one led across the valley of bièvres; another, along the pavement,[19] as the high road from bièvres to versailles was called; and lastly there was the woodland path, which they both preferred. victor hugo started by the vauboyau road, plunged into the woods skirting the boundary of the château of les roches, then, turning to the left, walked straight on as far as the four cross-roads at l'homme mort, and bore to the right towards the cour roland. there, in the hollow of a hundred-year-old chestnut-tree, all bent and twisted, his lady-love would be awaiting him. clad in a dress of white jaconet striped with pink, such as she usually affected, her head covered with an italian straw hat, left over from the days of her former affluence, with swelling bosom, rosy cheeks, and smiling mouth, she resembled a flower springing from the rude calyx formed by the aged tree. a wide-awake flower, indeed, for, from the first sign of the approach of victor hugo, she would fly to him, and afford him one more opportunity of admiring the far-famed aerial gait, that fairy footstep, so light that it had been compared to the sound of a lyre. then followed kisses, caresses, a flood of soft words, more kisses, and a rapid rush into the cool green depths whither the twitter of birds invited them. when they issued forth again, silent now, juliette walked first, making it a point of honour to push aside the branches and thorns before her poet; and he was content, gazing upon the tiny traces left upon the moss or sand by the feet that looked almost absurd by reason of their minuteness. at the far end of a clearing a fountain burbled. juliette made a hollow of her little hands and collected a delicious draught for their burning lips. drops dribbled from between her fingers, and, seeing them, her lover knew that here was a fairy able to "transmute water into diamonds."[20] we must not imagine, however, that the treasure of their love expended itself entirely in this sportive fashion. if it be true that passion is the stronger for an admixture of intellect, it follows that only persons of distinguished parts are capable of extracting the full measure of delight from sentimental intercourse. victor hugo was far too wise to neglect the training of the sensibilities of his young mistress. like some block of rare marble, she submitted herself to this able sculptor in the charming simplicity of a nature somewhat uncultivated and rugged, as she herself owns, and he perceived in the formless material the growing suggestion of the finished statue he was soon to evolve. the forest was the studio whither he came every afternoon to cultivate, through novel sensations and delights, his own poetry and eloquence. the forest gave him colour for colour, music for music.... at other times victor hugo encouraged in juliette an inclination for prayer and tearful repentance. he retained, and she had always possessed, strong catholic sensibilities. the mere satisfaction of sensuality without the hallowing influence of absorbing love spelt defilement, from their point of view. hence followed painful remorse for a past which the lover liked to hear his mistress bewail, and which she despaired of ever redeeming. her _rôle_ was the abasement of magdalen; his, the somewhat strained attitude of an apostle or saviour. nothing could be more peaceful or uneventful than juliette's evenings. she devoured with the appetite of an ogress the frugal supper put before her by madame labussière, repaired the damage done to her clothes by the afternoon's ramble, or studied some of the parts in which she hoped to appear sooner or later at the théâtre français. at ten o'clock she went to bed. this was the much-prized moment of her solitude, when she retired, as she says, into the happy background of her heart to rehearse in spirit the simple events and delights of the day, to recall the face of her lover, see him, speak to him, and hang upon his answers; then, as drowsiness gradually gained the upper hand and clouds dimmed the dear outline, to surrender to slumber. it was at les metz that she coined the happy phrase: "i fall asleep in the thought of you." sometimes the wind moaning in the heights awoke her, and she resumed her sweet musing. the poet was in the habit of working at night; she would picture him in his room at les roches, bending over his writing-table. then she "blessed the gale that made her the companion of the dear little workman's vigil across the intervening space." as soon as dawn broke she was up again. she jumped out of bed, ran to the window, opened the shutters, and interrogated the heavens--not that she feared rain, any more than she minded "blisters on her feet or scratches on her hands"--but she had only two dresses, a woollen and a linen, and the condition of the weather controlled her choice of the two. her toilet was rapid, her breakfast simple. she spent the remaining time copying the manuscripts confided to her by victor hugo. then, lightly running, as she says, like a hare across the plain, she started for the rendezvous. as becomes a loving woman, she was always first at the trysting-tree. she scrutinised the intertwined initials she herself had carved upon its bark, or conned again from memory the verses she had found the day before in its hollow trunk. she "sings them in her heart," presses them to her bosom, and kisses the letters she has brought in answer. [illustration: church of bièvres, seine-et-oise.] for the chestnut-tree served them as a letter-box as well as a shelter. according to an arrangement between them, the first thing they did on arrival was to deposit within its friendly shade everything they had written in the course of the preceding day for, or about, one another. on juliette's part, especially, the letters became more and more numerous: two, four, sometimes six per day. she no longer wrote, as at first, to expatiate upon her passion or assure the poet that she loved him with real love, or to relieve boredom and make the hours of her solitude pass more quickly. she wrote because victor hugo, who had formerly been indifferent to her "scribbles," now exacted them as a daily tribute, and reproached her if they were too brief or not numerous enough. this jealous lover had discovered the advantages of a pretty woman's mania for writing. when thus occupied, he reflected, she is contented. he also found that her letters were full of enthusiasm, humour, feeling, fun, and poetry, and he therefore desired that they should be preserved; one day, when juliette had thrown a packet of them into the fire in a fit of temper, he made her write them all over again. juliette might protest prettily, entrench herself behind her ignorance, and allege her want of intelligence; but the more she pleaded that she knew not how to write, the more her lover insisted upon her doing so. no one has ever carried to greater lengths that form of affectation which consists in vilifying oneself in order to gain praise. having thus placed herself, as far as her style is concerned, in the kneeling position she prefers, juliette remains there. it is at les metz that her letters commenced to be a hymn of praise in honour of her divinity. adoration and excessive adulation are their basis; for form and imagery, juliette does not hesitate to borrow from the sacred writings she had studied at the convent of petit-picpus. sooth to say, this mixture of religiosity and passion presents an aspect both disproportionate and pathetic. when love raises itself--or degrades itself--to this almost mystical adoration, one cannot be surprised if it ends by believing in its own virtue. having adopted the forms of religion, it insensibly acquires its importance and dignity; it ennobles itself. we do not possess victor hugo's answers, but partly from the note-books in which his lady-love punctiliously copied and dated the poems addressed to her, and partly from the dates inscribed at the bottom of each page in the collected works of the poet, we know which of his verses were composed during his sojourn at les metz. it is not too much to say that the author of _feuilles d'automne_ was never more happily inspired. nowhere did he more closely approach the classical model he had chosen at that time, the gentle virgil. the lovers returned to les metz twice: once in october 1837 for a few days, and again, for a day, on september 26th, 1845. in 1837 it was victor hugo who directed the expedition and took the lead. he sought one by one the traces of their _amours_; his eccentric genius admired nature's grand indifference, which had failed to preserve them intact for his honour and pleasure, and, deploring this ingratitude concerning outward things, he composed that masterpiece, _la tristesse d'olympio_. he laid it at the feet of juliette, who accepted it, read and reread it, and learnt it by heart, without criticising it. in 1845, the pilgrimage was hers; she planned it and begged for it, writing on august 19th: "i have an inexpressible longing to see les metz again. we absolutely must go there."[21] they did. early in the month of september juliette arranged the little journey. which dress should she wear? the striped organdy one, or the blue tarlatan shot with white, she had worn a few months previously, at the reception of st. marc girardin at the académie française? she chose the former because her lover preferred it; the same reason determined her to wear a straw hat "trimmed with geraniums above and below the brim." thus decked, with cheeks rosier than usual, and eyes glowing, juliette climbed with her poet into the omnibus from paris to sceaux. victor hugo disliked omnibuses, and especially that one. he remembered his many drives in it with his friend sainte-beuve, at the time the latter was most assiduous in his visits to les roches, and in spite of himself he seemed to see the ghost of joseph delorme in the back seat, with his ecclesiastical appearance, and his mania for nestling cosily between two fat people. silently the poet dwelt upon these memories, while juliette volubly recalled others. she wondered whether they would find the beggar at the foot of the bièvres hill, into whose hands she had often emptied her purse, in order that alms should bring them luck, and whether the baker in the square still made those little tarts her lover used to be so fond of. at last the omnibus deposited them at bièvres in front of the chariot d'or. the striped organdy dress created a great sensation among the village children. juliette rushed off to the little church; nothing was changed--the same simplicity, the same silence, the same brooding peace as in the old days. the young woman fell on her knees, then, together, the lovers returned to the chariot d'or, breakfasted, and started to walk to les roches. there again, in juliette's opinion, everything was unchanged. to the left, behind tall grasses, the river flowed unseen and unheard. in deference to the needs of man and those of the valley, its course had been diverted, and it now spread itself through meadows and orchards. its presence could be divined from the abundance of flowers and reeds born of its moisture. when they reached les roches, juliette insisted upon abandoning the valley for the forest. they ascended through vauboyau to the wood of l'homme mort. she walked straight to a chestnut-tree which she said she recognised; then she found a mountain-ash upon whose bark she had once carved their interlaced initials; after that the spring, and the paths. she wished to revisit what she called "the chapels of their love," to pay at each one a tribute of devotion.[22] at length they reached les metz and the house of the labussière. delirious enchantment! everything was just as she remembered it: the gate, the bell, the kitchen-garden, the mile-stone upon which she used to sit to watch for her lover when the _rendezvous_ was at the cottage; the bed, with its curtains of printed cotton, the rustic wardrobe, the oak table.... "heaven," she cried, "has put a seal upon all the treasures of love we buried here! it has preserved them for us," and she longed to take possession of them all and carry them away with her.[23] how charming juliette is at this moment, and how superior to _olympio_! how preferable is her enthusiasm, with its power of bringing back to life the dead past, to the melancholy which disparages and kills! one sole interest animates her. her instinct is creative, for where the poet sees death she perceives life. the roses he thought faded and scattered, she admires in full bloom; she can still breathe their perfume. from the dust and ashes he has tasted and bewailed, she draws the savour of honey. in this instance, surely, her love does not merely aspire to sit on the heights with the poet's genius, as she claimed--it soars far beyond it. chapter iv the shackles of love victor hugo never succeeded in making juliette adopt his conception of love. he craved something calm, placid, regular as a time-table in its manifestations; but she was wont to object: "such a love would soon cease to exist. a fire that no longer blazes is quickly smothered in ashes. only a love that scorches and dazzles is worthy of the name. mine is like that." and indeed it would not be easy to name an object that this woman did not cast into the crucible of her passion between the years 1834 and 1851. everything was sacrificed--comfort, vanity, renown, talent, liberty. then she turned to her poet. she adopted his tastes, his ambitions, his dreams for the future; she shared his joys and sorrows; she exaggerated his qualities, and sometimes even his faults. she lived only in him and for him. we are about to witness a completeness of self-abnegation that raises juliette drouet almost to the level of the mystics of old; afterwards we shall scrutinise one by one the details of the cult she rendered to victor hugo. i after selling the bulk of her furniture and quitting the luxurious apartment she occupied at 35, rue de l'échiquier, juliette, it will be remembered, had settled down in a tiny lodging costing 400 frs. a year, at 4, rue de paradis au marais. she and victor hugo determined to live there together, poor in purse, but rich in love and poetry.[24] the said love and poetry must indeed have filled their horizon, for they have left no account whatsoever of that first nesting-place. on march 8th, 1836, juliette removed again to a somewhat more commodious apartment: 14, rue st. anastase, at 800 frs. a year. it comprised a drawing-room, dining-room, one bedroom, a kitchen, and an attic in which her servant slept. this district has fallen into decay, and is now dull and dreary. in those days it was chiefly occupied by the convent of the hospitaliers st. anastase, whence the street took its name, and a few houses more or less enclosed by gardens. the convent and gardens endowed it with a provincial tranquillity and an impenetrable silence which occasionally weighed upon juliette's spirits. her mode of life was not calculated to enliven her. a degree of poverty bordering on squalor simplified its details. little or no fire: juliette sometimes even lacks the logs she is by way of providing for herself. then she spends the morning in bed, reading, planning, day-dreaming. she keeps careful accounts of her receipts and expenditure--accounts which victor hugo afterwards audits most minutely. when she rises, the cold does not prevent her from writing cheerfully, "if you seek warmth in this room you will have to seek it at the bottom of my heart." all luxuries in the way of food were reserved, as in duty bound, for the suppers the master honoured with his presence after the theatre. the rest of the time juliette ate frugally, breakfasting on eggs and milk, dining on bread and cheese and an apple. when her daughter visited her she treated her to an orange cut into slices and sprinkled with a pennyworth of sugar and a pennyworth of brandy. the same simplicity reigned on high-days and holidays. juliette also denied herself useless fripperies and reduced to the strictest limits the expenses of her wardrobe. everything she was able to make or mend, she made and mended, and it gratified her to compute the money she saved thus in dressmakers. the rest she bought very cheaply or did without. in the month of august 1838, when she was about to start on a journey with victor hugo, she found herself in need of shoes, a dress, and a country hat. she bought the shoes, manufactured the dress, and had intended to borrow the hat from madame kraft; but this lady, who held some minor post at the comédie française, only wore feathered hats, so juliette curses the extravagance that places her in an awkward predicament. a little later, on may 7th, 1839, she wanted to furbish up her mantle with ribbon velvet at 5_d._ a yard; but she found that she could not do with less than eight yards and a half. she bemoans her extravagance, saying, "why, oh, why have i let myself in for this!" in studying juliette's financial position one wonders that so much privation should be necessary, for, from the very beginning, victor hugo allowed her 600 or 700 frs. a month. he afterwards increased this sum to 800, and finally to 1,000 frs. in 1838, when he began to get better terms from publishers and theatre-managers. surely such a sum should provide ordinary comforts--there should be no suggestion of squalid poverty? the fact is that, in 1834, victor hugo had only paid off the most pressing of juliette's debts; but the result of his doing so was to rouse the energies of the rest of the creditors, and juliette was overwhelmed by them. sometimes she managed to pacify them by quaint expedients. for instance, to zoé, her former maid, she offered, in place of wages, a box for _angélo_; to monsieur manière, her legal adviser, she promised that, if he would extend her credit, "monsieur victor hugo should read with interest" a certain plan of political organisation of which the said manière was the author, but which alas, does not yet figure in the archives of the french constitution! but more often she was forced to pay, and she had to save off food or dress. then it was that money was skimped from the butcher and grocer to satisfy the former milliner or livery-stable keeper. in the month of may 1835, out of 700 frs. received, the creditors obtained 316; in june they got another 347; in july 278. another cause for pecuniary embarrassment was the irregularity of pradier's contribution to the maintenance of his and juliette's child. very often, but for victor hugo's assistance, this item would have been added to the sum-total of her debts. but juliette bore everything with the blitheness of a bird. she, who had hated accounts and arithmetic, now devoted her attention to them every day, sometimes more than once a day; she, who loathed poverty, encountered the most sordid privations with a smile; she, who once throve upon debts and promises to pay, now exclaimed: "i would do anything rather than fall into debt. how hideous and degrading such a thing is, and how splendid and noble of you, my adored one, to love me in spite of my past!"[25] [illustration: victor hugo about 1836. from a picture by louis boulanger (victor hugo museum).] in these circumstances, it is not surprising that she began to seek in work, especially theatrical work, an addition to her private resources. she took her career as an artist very seriously, and it was a great disappointment to her that her lover failed to desire her as an interpreter of his parts. he certainly did not. he allowed his jealousy full play, and wished to keep juliette for himself alone. his tactics seem to have been to dangle promises ever before her, but to give her nothing; to procure dramatic engagements for her, and prevent her from fulfilling them. in february 1834 he introduced juliette to the comédie française, but a year later he declined to give her the smallest part in _angélo_, which was produced there. in the course of 1836, 1837, 1838, he allowed marie dorval to monopolise all the important _rôles_ in his former plays, and never once attempted to put juliette's name at the head, or even in the middle, of the bill. yet he gave her fine promises in plenty, encouraged her to learn long passages from _marion_ and _dona sol_, and vowed he would some day write a play for her alone. thus kept in the background, juliette passed through exhausting alternations of despair and confidence, gratitude and jealousy. for, as may easily be imagined, she was terribly jealous, and her suspicious mind exercised itself chiefly concerning actresses, whose lively manners and easy morals she knew, by professional experience. there was mlle. georges, already growing stout, no doubt, but ever ready to raise her banner and exercise her accustomed sovereignty. there was mlle. mars, who, though her looks were a thing of the past, still endeavoured to attract attention. above all, there was marie dorval. ah, how juliette envied dorval! how she studied her in order to arm herself against her fancied rivalry! how often she took her moral measure! she knew that she was of the people, that she tingled with vitality from head to foot, that, though her primary impulses were virtuous, nature was yet strong within her.... she was well acquainted with "the voice that quivered with tears and made its insinuating appeal to the heart."[26] could juliette fail to dread such a woman, one so versed by the practice of her profession in the wiles that attract men? could she refrain from warning her lover against her, day after day, like one draws attention to a danger, a scourge, or a tempest? far from it--she threatened to return to the theatre, to act in her lover's plays, to be present at every rehearsal, to vie with her rival in beauty and talent and ardour. she learnt parts, and whole scenes, and filled her solitude with the pleasing phantoms her lover had once created, and that she dreamed of restoring to life on the stage. months passed; delicate circumstances obliged her to relinquish her plan of appearing at the théâtre français.[27] she was on the verge of despair when, one evening in the spring of 1838, her lover brought her a new play he wished to read to her, according to his invariable custom. it was _ruy blas_. she at once claimed the part of marie de neubourg, and fell in love with the melancholy little queen who was hampered and hemmed in by the trammels of étiquette, as she herself was imprisoned within the limits of her icy apartment in the rue st. anastase. victor hugo asked for nothing better. he intended _ruy blas_ for the théâtre de la renaissance, which was under the management of his friend, anténor joly. he requested the worthy fellow to engage juliette, and the agreement was signed early in may. we can picture the delight with which juliette set about copying the play; nevertheless, she was assailed by melancholy fears: "i shall never play the queen," she wrote; "i am too unlucky. the thing i desire most on earth is not destined to be realised." and it is a fact that the part was taken from her almost as soon as it was given. after 1839 her longing to go back to the stage calmed down gradually. at the end of that year it had completely faded. her love's tranquillity was greatly increased thereby, while she was driven to immerse herself still more completely in her amorous solitude and the disadvantages pertaining thereto. for, in the same degree that he deprecated her being seen on the stage, victor hugo detested the thought of her going out alone, and he had managed to extract a promise from her that she would never make one step outside the house without him. she was, therefore, practically as much a prisoner as any châtelaine of the middle ages, or heroine of some of the sombre dramas she had formerly played. she had not even permission to go and see her daughter at school at st. mandé, and, rather than trust her by herself, the poet would escort her to the dressmaker and milliner, or on her visits to the uncle whose name she bore, and who lay dying at the invalides, to the money-lender's, and curiosity-shop, and even the ironmonger's! when victor hugo thus lent himself to her needs, all went well, and juliette, proud and happy, arm in arm with her "dear little man," chattered away blithely. but a time came when the lover, monopolised by other cares, perhaps by other intrigues, was no longer so assiduous. then the mistress protested and rebelled, with the fierce rage of a prisoned beast of the forest, bruising itself against the bars of its cage, in its agony for freedom. victor hugo met her remonstrances with gentle reasoning and persuasive exhortations. however far juliette went in her transports of anger, he was always able to pacify her. on september 27th, 1836, at the end of a long period during which the poet had not been able to give his friend even what she called the "joies du préau"--that is to say, a walk round the boulevards--juliette threatens to break out. for several weeks she has been attributing the sickness and headaches she constantly suffers from, to her sedentary life. losing all patience, she addresses an ultimatum to him, proposing an assignation in a cab on the boulevard du temple. he does not appear. for three hours she waits inside the vehicle, then, in the certainty that he has failed her, she writes a letter in pencil, dated from the cab, no. 556, stating her intention to fetch her daughter and go off somewhere, anywhere, alone with her. "thus," she writes, "i shall free myself for ever from a slavery which satisfies neither my heart nor my mind, and does not secure the repose of either of us." however, the next day she did not start. she did not go out at all. she had resumed her chains and her prison garb. her anger always evaporated thus, and turned to melancholy and resigned gentleness. in the end she came to feel that nothing existed for her, save a lover who sometimes came and sometimes stayed away. if he was present, she was alive; if absent, her mainspring was broken. but victor hugo continued to lead an ordinary life, while his mistress spent her days in the confinement of a cloister. it was probably about this time that juliette resolved to set up in that cloister an altar for the cult of her lover. finding herself impotent to attract and keep him by the sole charm of passion, she endeavoured to win him over by devotion, minute attentions, tender interest in everything he undertook, and by unbridled adoration of his person and work. ii according to juliette, who secured several stolen meetings in the poet's own house,[28] victor hugo suffered from a complete absence of the most ordinary comfort at home. his lamps smoked, as did his chimney on the rare occasions when a fire was lighted; he worked in a "horrible little ice-house," with insufficient light and a half-empty inkstand; his bed was wretched, the mattress stuffed with what he termed nail-heads; when he dressed he found his shirts button-less and his coats unbrushed--as for his shoes, juliette was ashamed of their condition. we learn from théophile gautier that the author of _hernani_ was a hearty eater, but that his meals were served up in confusion: cutlets with beans in oil, beef and tomato sauce with an omelette, ham with coffee, vinegar, mustard, and a piece of cheese. he made short work of this extraordinary mixture, and no doubt was often reminded of a line his mistress had once written to him on the subject: "when i think of what you are and what you do, and of the discomfort in which you live, i am filled with admiring pity." with the instinct of a loving woman and the resource of a clever one, juliette was quick to take advantage of the human side of her god, and to supply him with the personal care he needed. she trained herself to be a _cordon bleu_ and a sick nurse, a tailor and a cobbler. if victor hugo went to the theatre he found on his return to the rue st. anastase, a dainty repast of chicken, salad, and the milky puddings he liked, and all the year round a dessert of grapes, a fruit he had always been fond of. juliette served him "kneeling"--so at least she affirms. she took umbrage if he did not allow her to select for him the biggest asparagus and the thickest cream. he was happy, so was she. if he had an attack of that "cursed internal inflammation which sometimes affected his head and sometimes his eyes," his mistress would prepare liniments, tisanes, herb soups, which the romanticist meekly swallowed. she assumed a maternal manner, kissed him, coaxed him with soft words, tried to feed him with her own hands, and regretted that she could not give him her own health and take his indisposition upon herself. if he complained of the paucity and untidiness of his wardrobe, juliette mended his socks and linen, ironed his white waistcoats, removed grease-stains from his coat, made him a smoking-jacket out of an old theatre-cloak, and manufactured "a capital greatcoat lined with velvet, with collar and cuffs of the best silk velvet, out of another." thus she managed by degrees to collect nearly all the poet's clothes in her own room; his ordinary suits, as well as those he wore on great occasions, such as a reception at the académie, or a sitting of the house. on one occasion she writes, in gentle self-mockery: "i was sorry, after you went, that i had not made you put on your cashmere waistcoat to-night; it was mended and quite ready for you. this morning i have been tidying all your things. your coat occupies the place of honour in my wardrobe; your waistcoat and tie hang above my mantle, your little shoes and silk socks below. in default of yourself i cling to your duds, look after them, and clean them with delight." but juliette's great achievement, her triumph, was to create in her tiny apartment the right atmosphere for her poet to work in. his custom was to collect his thoughts during the day, and work them out at night. juliette made him a cosy corner in her bedroom, close to her bed. she fitted it up with a table, an arm-chair, a lamp, and an ink-pot. above the chair she hung portraits of his children, to make him feel at home. on the table, sheets of paper and freshly cut pens attested the presence and care of a devotee of genius. whenever he came in the evening the poet settled down in what he himself called his work-room. his methodical habits and strong will enabled him to abstract himself from his environment and devote himself strictly to his labours as an author. besides, he was under the impression that juliette was fast asleep; but in that he did her less than justice. sleep while he worked! juliette could never have brought herself to do so. she watched him, and admired him. sometimes she seized a pencil to scribble on any scrap of paper the expression of her veneration, and when the poet had finished he would find little notes such as the following: "i love to watch even your shadow on the page while you write."[29] that a poet should allow his person to be thus worshipped is nothing new; that he should desire to be admired in his works is still more natural. juliette guessed this, and acquired the habit of applauding the slightest achievement of the master with loving enthusiasm. part of the day she spent in copying his manuscripts, classifying them, making them as like as possible to printers' proofs; and it may easily be imagined that she occupied much time reading them over and over again. everything he wrote was equally sublime in her eyes. if she permitted herself to show preference for this or that work, it was only on condition that she should not be supposed to be depreciating some other. in 1846, victor hugo having arranged to make a speech in the house on the "consolidation and defence of the frontier," juliette read it no less than three times: once in _la presse_, again in _le messager_, and a third time in _la presse_ again. she made extracts from it and put it away among his archives; she then wrote gravely to the author, that he had never been more pathetic or more eloquent. in the same manner she hoarded all his most trivial sketches and poorest caricatures, and pasted them into albums which she carefully hid. she was envious of léopoldine, the poet's daughter, who was doing the same thing, and naturally had more opportunities than herself of adding to the collection. she was more greedy still of his theatrical output, for there her jealousy came into play. it is safe to affirm that for more than fifteen years, namely from 1834 to 1851, she interested herself in every single representation of the dramas of victor hugo. she was present at the théâtre français on the first night of _angélo_ on april 28th, 1835, and wished to go again on all the following nights, in spite of the bitter disappointment the play had caused her, through the frustration of her ambition to take part in it. she was there on february 20th, 1838, for the revival of _hernani_; and on march 8th following, it was she who applauded marie dorval loudest, at the revival of _marion delorme_. while _les burgraves_ was being written she demanded to know all about it from its earliest conception, and achieved her wish. when victor hugo read the play to her, she was very much moved and said: "i hardly know how to descend to earth again from the sublime altitude of your conception." she took part in the distribution of the _rôles_, and intrigued against mlle. maxime and madame fitzjames, whom she did not want for guanhumara.[30] she championed madame melingue, who, in consequence, obtained the part. at last the first night arrived. there was a cabal, a violent, aggressive cabal, a sign of the reaction of the new practical school against the romantic school. who sat in a prominent box and opposed the firmest front to the hissing crowd? juliette! who ventured to accuse beauvallet of murdering the part of the duke job? juliette again! "to applaud thus your beautiful verses," she wrote on march 13th, "and hurl myself into the fray in their defence is only another way of making love. ah, i wish i could be a man on the nights the play is given![31] i promise you the subscribers of the _nationale_ and the _constitutionel_ would see strange things!" the afternoons hung heavy in the lonely apartment of the rue st. anastase. sometimes the poet looked in for a moment to bathe his eyes, or claim some other domestic attention; but, as a rule, his visits were made in the evening, after the parties and the theatre. his mistress, therefore, begged, and obtained, permission to receive a few of her friends. they were insignificant, but warm-hearted folk: madame lanvin, the wife of one of pradier's employés, who acted as intermediary, partly honorary and partly paid, between the sculptor and the mother of claire pradier; madame kraft, an employée of the comédie française who affected literary culture; madame pierceau, a worthy matron, and, lastly, madame bezancenot, a tried ally. as a rule, victor hugo tolerated the presence of this little company; but, democratic though he might be in principle, it palled upon him before long, and he made some remonstrance. then juliette revealed to him that her need to talk about him had driven her to institute a regular course of "hugolatry" among the good ladies. they made a practice of reading his poems, declaiming his plays, and showering praise on the independence of his character and the dignity of his life. in the face of such delicate proofs of the affection she bore him, it is not surprising that the poet should have entrusted to juliette his most sacred hopes and ambitions. she was one of those in whom a lover may always confide, in the certainty of being ever sustained, encouraged, and approved. thus it came about that she was cognisant of every effort victor hugo made, every step he took, and even of the intrigues by which he climbed gradually to the académie française, then to the tuileries and the little court of neuilly, and finally to the chambre des pairs. iii not that juliette herself ever cherished special veneration for kings, princes, peers, or academicians. democratic and republican by the accident of birth, as she herself wrote, she likewise detested, on principle, everything that seemed likely to attract or keep victor hugo away from the rue st. anastase. her first inclination, therefore, was to criticise with acerbity academies, drawing-rooms, politics, and courts; but the poet's determination was not of the quality that is easily weakened by remonstrances. juliette knew this. as soon as she realised that the _habit vert_ was really the object of her idol's desire, and that he had set his whole heart upon obtaining it, she abandoned her opposition and only indulged in gentle mockery calculated to cover the retreat of the unsuccessful candidate, and deprive it as much as possible of bitterness. for victor hugo was, above all, an unfortunate candidate, at any rate of the académie. in february 1836 he was refused lainé's _fauteuil_, and it was given to a vaudevilliste of the period, called dupaty. at the end of november of the same year, mignet was preferred before him, for raynouard's vacancy. in december 1839, rather than select hugo, nobody was appointed in the place of michaud. in february 1840, precedence over him was given to the permanent secretary of the académie des sciences, monsieur flourens. it was not until january 7th, 1841, that he was elected to lemercier's _fauteuil_ by seventeen votes, against fifteen given to a dramatist called ancelot, whose name an ungrateful posterity no longer remembers. in all the peregrinations required by these five successive candidatures, victor hugo was invariably accompanied by juliette. on december 24th, 1835, she writes to him: "one point on which i will tolerate no nonsense, is your visits. i insist upon accompanying you, so that i may know how much time you spend with the wives and daughters of the academicians. i shall, by the same means, be able to gather up a few crumbs of your society for myself, which is no small consideration." the visits were begun between christmas and the new year, in cold, dry, sunny weather. clad in black according to prescribed custom, victor hugo fetched his friend every day from the rue st. anastase, got into a cab with her, and showed her the plan for the afternoon: at such and such a time they must lay siege to monsieur de lacretelle; after that, to monsieur royer-collard; then to monsieur campenon. monsieur de lacretelle was too diplomatic not to give plenty of promises and assurances; monsieur royer-collard too good a jansenist to fail in a blunt refusal to the author of _hernani_. as for monsieur campenon, he had the reputation of being an honest man and an excellent amateur gardener. his conversation bristled with graftings and buddings. how should he humour him about his favourite pursuit, victor hugo asked his friend. should he select roses or pears, myrtle or cypress? as the good creature was getting on in years, and counted more summers than literary successes, victor hugo unkindly inclined towards the last. juliette laughed merrily, and the poet would climb up numerous stairs, and return with a stock of entertaining anecdotes, which filled the cab with fun and colour and life. then followed calculations of his chances; if they seemed promising, juliette congratulated her "immortal," as she called him in anticipation; if not, she made fun of the académie once more. at the end of the year the whole performance began over again. as in 1835, juliette pretended not to attach much importance to the election of her lover, but this did not prevent her from hotly abusing the académie when, a month later, the society again closed its portals to the leader of the romantic school. it is the privilege of the académie française to be most courted by those who have oftenest sneered at it. no institution has ever been the cause of so much recantation. juliette herself was to eat her words. on thursday, january 7th, 1841, when victor hugo had at last triumphed over his brother candidate, it was no longer a mistress who wrote to him, but a general addressing a panegyric of victory to a hero: "with your seventeen friendly votes, and in spite of the fifteen groans of your adversaries, you are an academician! what happiness! you ought to bring your beautiful face to me to be kissed." victor hugo yielded to her gallant desire, as may be imagined, and forthwith began to prepare for his reception. the poet aimed at a magniloquent and comprehensive speech which should embrace all the great names and ideas of the past, present, and future; something as vast as the empire of charlemagne, and as noble as the genius of napoleon. juliette, on her side, dreamed of a dress of white tarlatan mounted in broad pleats and decorated with a rose-coloured scarf, like the one she had once admired on the shoulders of madame volnys, a hated rival at the comédie française. although the speech was only to be delivered in june, victor hugo had it ready by april 10th; he read it to his admiring friend the same night. the white tarlatan dress, alas, was longer on the way. several reasons conspired against its completion. first of all, juliette declared that she would concede to nobody the honour of presenting the new member with his lace ruffles: this involved an expenditure of about 23 frs., a heavy toll on the exchequer of the lovers. secondly, victor hugo's reception was to fall upon nearly the same date as the first communion of juliette's daughter, claire pradier, which was yet another cause of expense. the young woman bravely sacrificed her frock, and, having consoled herself by making a fair copy of the master's splendid speech, she awaited the great day. but at the very moment she hoped to see it dawn without further disappointment, malicious fate brought her, and consequently victor hugo and the académie, face to face with a fresh dilemma of the gravest importance, namely, the question of the pulpit for the momentous occasion. the time-honoured affair was a wooden erection of mean appearance, stained to represent mahogany. on ordinary days it was contemned and relegated to the lumber-room of the bibliothèque de l'institut; but, on the occasion of the reception of a new member, custom prescribed that it should be placed under the cupola, in front of the agitated neophyte. étiquette demanded that the latter should place upon it his gloves and the notes of his address; but the rickety thing had already borne so much eloquence in the past, that it tottered under the weight of its responsibilities. it stood weakly upon a crooked pedestal, in imminent danger of subsidence. instead of being a haughty pulpit, equal to any occasion, it seemed to offer humble apology for its absurd existence. such was the farcical object victor hugo had to interpose between himself and juliette, on the day of the great ceremonial. she lost her sleep over it; for a time, even the lace ruffles, and the speech, and the white tarlatan dress and rose-coloured scarf, retired into the background: "i am in a state of inexpressible agitation and worry over this wretched pulpit," she wrote. "i shall be just at the back of it. i am in perfect despair! truly, since this apprehension has taken possession of me, i have become the most wretched of women. i think if i cannot see your handsome, radiant face that day, nothing will keep me from bursting into sobs of rage and misery. the very thought fills my eyes with tears."[32] in spite of himself, victor hugo shared one characteristic with jean racine: he could not bear to see a pretty woman cry. he therefore took decisive measures, and managed to assuage his friend's grief. juliette was assured that, whatever happened, she should contemplate her "dear little orator" at her ease--that is to say, from head to foot. unfortunately, it was ordained that calmness should not inhabit this passionate soul for long together. the night preceding the reception, juliette felt frightfully nervous, and, while victor hugo sat up correcting the proofs of his discourse at the imprimerie royale, she retired, saying irritably: "i am like the savages who take to their beds when their wives give birth to children." at 4.30 a.m. she was already up, wrote several letters to her lover, dressed, and hurried to the palais nazarin, where she took up a position in the front row, before even the platoon of infantry detailed for guard had arrived. according to the testimony of victor hugo's enemies as well as of his friends, the reception surpassed in dignity and brilliancy anything the cupola had previously witnessed. the court was represented by the duc and duchesse d'orléans, the duchesse de nemours, and the princesse clémentine, in a tribune. fashionable society and the world of letters jostled each other on the benches. there were women everywhere, even beside the most ancient and prim of academicians. old monsieur jay was partially concealed under billows of laces, gauzes, silks, and satins, worn by his neighbours, madame louise colet and mlle. doze. monsieur étienne waggled his head between two monstrous hats so beflowered that, with one movement, he disturbed the _fleurs du pérou_ of madame thiers, and with the next, he ruffled the bunches of roses on madame anais segalas' head. [illustration: "le citoyen victor hugo jouant au congrès de la paix." political caricature, 1849.] juliette saw nothing of all this; neither did she heed the irrelevant babble of her neighbour on the right, monsieur desmousseaux of the comédie française, or of her guest on the left, madame pierceau. she was in a state of painful, yet delicious turmoil, and when victor hugo made his entry, she nearly fainted. fortunately, the poet gave her a smiling look before beginning his speech, which restored her to life; and she settled down to listen to his eloquent words, as if she had not already written them out until she knew them by heart. to-day they seemed invested with fresh beauties, and she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the moment. the magnificent imagery which decked victor hugo's first address at the académie, concealed calculation of the most worldly wise description. victor hugo aspired to the chambre des pairs as a stepping-stone to a power which would assist him to develop the moral and social mission he deemed to be the true function of a poet. to achieve this aim it was necessary that he should first belong to one of the societies from among which alone the king could legally select the members of that assembly. the académie was one of these, hence the successive candidatures of the poet, and the special tone of his discourse, in which all the political parties were blandished and caressed alike; hence, finally, the visits to court, which increased in frequency after 1841. just as juliette had practically burned in effigy almost all the academicians of her time before she had the opportunity of becoming acquainted with them and finding them charming, so she began by criticising and censuring louis philippe and his children with the greatest severity. were not these people going to wrest her poet from her? and for what? for the sake of empty honours and useless occupations! therefore we find juliette preaching to her lover the contempt of earthly greatness. she was fiercely jealous of the citizen-king. in order to calm her apprehensions, victor hugo had only to reveal to her his secret plans; from the first moment that he mentioned the pairie to her, she became complacent and orléaniste. whether the poet went to harangue the widow of the soldier-prince in the name of the académie, after the accident of 1842, or whether he paid her a private visit, juliette always insisted upon accompanying him to neuilly, and there she would wait, sitting in a cab outside, whilst her lover coined honeyed phrases inside the palace. the duchesse was german, simple, a good mother, and deeply religious. of victor hugo's works, the only one she was familiar with was no. xxxiii. of the _chants du crépuscule, dans l'église de...._ "c'était une humble église au cintre surbaissé, l'église où nous entrâmes, où depuis trois cents ans avaient déjà passé, et pleuré des âmes." the good lady probably thought these verses had been composed in a moment of deep fervour, in honour of a respected spouse. she congratulated the poet, quoted some of the lines to him, questioned him minutely about his children--and, while he enlarged on these domestic topics, the real heroine of the beautiful poetry so dear to the duchesse, sat waiting below in the cab ... dreaming of the future peer of france; she already saw him in imagination descending the great staircase of the luxembourg, with a demeanour full of dignity. for her part, she was more than ever content to remain at the foot of the steps, in a posture of humility, among the crowd of watchers.... when the poet issued at last from the ducal apartments, she would tell him her dream, and he would complacently acquiesce. the appointment of victor hugo to the pairie appeared in the _moniteur_ of april 15th, 1845. it must be left to politicians to determine in what degree the presence of "olympio" could profit the councils of the nation; but to juliette's biographer the entry of her lover into the luxembourg seems a felicitous event. from that moment, in fact, the young woman ceased to be cloistered. busier than ever, and perhaps less jealous, the poet permitted his mistress to accompany him to the luxembourg and to return alone to the marais. at first juliette hardly knew how to take this unfamiliar freedom. with her lover absent, she had grown accustomed to semi-obscurity. the blatant sunshine seemed to mock her loneliness. she writes: "nobody can feel sadder than i do, when i trudge through the streets alone. i have not done such a thing for twelve years, and i ask myself what it may portend. is it a mark of your confidence or of your indifference? perhaps both. in any case, i am far from content." gradually, however, she fell into the new ways. she used to walk back from the luxembourg by way of the pont-neuf and the quais. she amused herself by trying to trace the footsteps of victor hugo and fit her own little shoes into them. when she reached home, she immersed herself deeper than ever in the preoccupations of her lover. occasionally, fortunately, she had a reaction. she read little: the letters of madame de sévigné, perhaps, or those of mlle. de lespinasse. she tended her flowers; for victor hugo had made her remove from no. 14 to no. 12 rue st. anastase, where her ground-floor rooms opened on to a garden.[33] there, in a space of sixty square feet, she had four bushes of crimson roses, and a few dozen prolific strawberry-plants, destined to furnish the poet's favourite dessert, throughout the summer. she attended to all the most trivial details in person, making them all subservient to her love. in this wise--with the exception of a few bouts of jealousy of which we shall have occasion to speak later, juliette's days flowed almost happily. she no longer brooded over her past; redemption through love seemed to her an accomplished fact. when she turned to the future, it was with ideas borrowed from victor hugo certainly, but none the less consoling, since they authorised her to hope for the eternal reunion of souls beyond the confines of this earth. on december 31st, 1842, the poet had dedicated some delicate verses to her, which she learned by heart. they were part of a creed by which juliette hoped to fortify her soul against the arrows of fortune--hopes fallacious in the event. first death, then treachery, were about to rend her faithful heart as a child's toy is smashed. chapter v claire pradier about the year 1844, when victor hugo visited his friend on sundays and holidays, he used to find seated at his private table, in accordance with his own permission, a tall girl of eighteen, very fair, very pale, with very black eyes--two prunes, as he said, dropped in a saucer of milk. often she did not hear him enter. bending her willowy neck and undeveloped bust over her books, she was immersed in study, perhaps also in rêverie. sometimes he kissed her affectionately, at other times bowed formally. the lowly assistant-mistress of a suburban school, marvelling at the great man's condescension, would rise blushing, and submit her pale brow to his lips. she would then ask permission to return to her task: the examinations were near at hand, and, as she was going in for a diploma, she must work. sometimes victor hugo smilingly took up the books scattered on the table, weighed the value of each with a glance, then, pushing them all aside with the back of his hand, sat down, saying: "now then, claire, i will be your tutor to-day," and the lesson began, vivid, enthusiastic, brilliant as a poem. the reader would be justly disappointed if we failed to relate the story of the girl to whom this "magician of words" thus unveiled the beauties of the french language. besides, a deeper acquaintance with the daughter may lead to a better understanding of the mother; therefore, we append a short sketch of claire pradier. i she was born in paris in 1826. her father, the sculptor, undertook the care of her early childhood, while her mother, as we have learnt, was in germany and belgium. he put her out to nurse at vert, near mantes, with a married couple named dupuis, and sometimes combined a visit to her with a little sport, in the shooting season. he brought her back to paris on october 15th, 1828. from letters of his which have been preserved, we are justified in believing that he derived some satisfaction from his educational rôle. his pen is prolific in praise of the child with "the locks of pale gold," "the roguish brown eyes," "the apple-red cheeks," whose "nose ends in a pretty tilt" which reminds him agreeably of juliette's. he discovers in his daughter a fine nature, plenty of intelligence, and so much feeling, that he hesitates for a time whether he shall apply his efforts to checking its development, or to cultivating it--in the first case, he would turn claire into a semi-idiot in order not to let her passions become too strong for her happiness, and in the second, he might make of her an artist capable of the most splendid impulses and the noblest fulfilment. if pradier is to be believed, the child herself decided in favour of the latter. at the age of three, guided by paternal suggestion in the studio of the rue de l'abbaye, she chose for her favourite plaything a stuffed swan. from her games with this handsomely fashioned bird she imbibed a taste for pure lines and fine pose. she also listened to music given at pradier's house by sculptors and painters who aped the art of ingres. she derived so much delight from it that she could never afterwards meet any of these self-engrossed performers without begging for a kiss. finally, by his studies of dress, his clever manipulation of draperies, which he always preferred to the higher parts of his profession, pradier taught her to appreciate light and colour. she had a vivid appreciation of the latter, and, during her short life, a mere trifle such as the blue of the sky, or the tint of a rose, gave her the most exquisite pleasure. having thus cultivated the sensibilities of the flower committed to his charge, pradier was rewarded by the prestige attached to his rôle of master and guide; the father reaped in tenderness what the artist had expended in intelligence and effort. from her earliest infancy claire showed a marked preference for this man, so ardent, so gay, who taught her to breathe and live among works of art; all her life she felt for him an affection that neither his mistakes nor his carelessness, or even his injustice, could damp. meanwhile, ever prolific in good intentions, always ready with vows and promises, the artist was forming high hopes and ambitions for his daughter. "we must hope," he wrote to juliette on that october 15th, 1828, when he took the child away from her nurse, "that she will live to grow up, and that we shall make a distinguished personage of her." a little later, on september 28th, 1829, he writes: "dear friend, you are fortunate in the possession of a claire who will be a great solace to you in your old age." again, on july 4th, 1832: "who can love her better than i do, especially now that i see her rare intelligence developing so satisfactorily and encouragingly for our designs?" he planned for his little daughter the most singular and unexpected gifts: once it was to be the proceeds of his bust of chancellor pasquier, a commission he owed to juliette and her friendship with the subject; another time it was the price of a house he possessed at ville d'avray and wished to sell; again, he designed to settle upon claire the sum of 2,000 frs. he had lent to a cousin--fine words, as empty as the hollow mouldings that decorated the studio of the man. the cousin never returned the loan, the house at ville d'avray was sold, by order of the court, at a moment when the mortgage upon it far surpassed its value, and the bust of chancellor pasquier, though ordered, was never even rough-cast by pradier. juliette had determined to live with victor hugo in the conditions of poverty indicated in a former chapter. her natural delicacy prompted her to make the future of her child secure, and at the same time to release the poet from all anxiety on that score. in the latter part of the year 1833, therefore, she wrote to pradier asking him to acknowledge claire. the answer of the sculptor was as follows: "dear friend, "your letter did not displease me at all, as you seem to have feared that it would. its motive was too praiseworthy to cause me any sentiment contrary to your own. the only thing that vexes me is that i should be unable to do at once what you desire, and what i fully intend to do eventually, though in a manner carefully calculated not to interfere with the future or tranquillity of any other person. it grieves me that you do not realise what i feel towards you and claire! i believed that all your hopes were centred in me! i am so crushed with debt that i cannot think of executing my intentions at present. good-bye, get well and hope only in me. you have not lost me, either of you--far from it! good-bye, your very devoted friend, and much more, "j. pradier."[34] [illustration: claire pradier at fifteen. from an unpublished drawing by pradier.] it is easy to guess how annoyed juliette was at the receipt of such a letter. she expressed her disgust to victor hugo in various notes in which she abuses her former lover: "wretched driveller, stupid scoundrel, the vilest and most idiotic of men, a coward without faith"--such are the principal epithets she applies to him. it has been said that the author of _lucrèce borgia_ interfered and obtained from pradier the acknowledgment of claire.[35] this is absolutely incorrect. it is probable indeed that the poet made the attempt; it seems certain that with the assistance of manière, the attorney, he extracted from the sculptor the promise of an allowance; but there was no official recognition, and soon we shall find the father of claire more disposed to repudiate her than to allow her the protection of his name. for the moment he merely agreed that juliette should put the child to school at saumur with a madame watteville, whose paris representative was a certain monsieur de barthès. he would have liked victor hugo and his friend to undertake the sole responsibility of the arrangements, but they prudently declined to do so, though they lavished kindness, caressing letters, advice, and treats, upon the little exile. on may 28th, 1835, claire, having suffered some childish ailment, received from her mother a doll and the following letter: "good morning, my dear little claire. i hope you will be quite well again by the time you read this letter. now that you are convalescent i can discuss serious matters with you. this is what i wish to say: foreseeing that you may be in need of recreation, i send you from paris a charming little companion who is most amiably disposed to amuse you. but, as it would not be fair that the expenses of her maintenance should devolve upon you during the time of her stay with you, i also send you a big purse of money for her upkeep. spend it wisely, in accordance with your needs. "monsieur toto is no less anxious about her, than devoted to you. he therefore adds an enormous basket of provisions. i hope the little girl will not have eaten them all up on the way, and that there will still be something left for you. "this is not all. i have also been thinking of your clothes, dear little one, and i send you a shawl for your walks, a white frock with drawers to match, a figured foulard frock, a striped frock without drawers, and a sleeved pinafore. "good-bye, dear good child. you must tell me if my selection is to your taste. love me and enjoy yourself, so that i may find you tall and plump and pretty, when i come to see you again. "j. drouet." at other times, victor hugo himself wrote affectionately to his friend's child. it is necessary to read these letters, so full of thoughtful tenderness, to gain a better knowledge of the warmth of the poet's heart. much should be forgiven him in consideration of it. "we love you very much," he wrote to claire on may 23rd, 1833, "and you have a sweet mother who, though absent, thinks a great deal about you. you must get well quickly, and thank the good god in your prayers every night for giving you such a good little mother, as she on her part thanks him for her charming little daughter."[36] and a few days after, in a postscript to a letter to juliette: "monsieur toto sends love and kisses to his little friend, and wishes he could still have her to travel everywhere with him. but, above all, he would like to caress her and look after her as his own child."[37] _as his own child_--those words were indeed characteristic of victor hugo's feeling concerning the little girl thus thrown across his path by chance, and unhesitatingly adopted by him. at first, claire either did not realise, or was unwilling to return, his affection. she was jealous of the big gentleman who stole some of her mother's attention from her. she was reserved and disagreeable. juliette was indignant, but the poet did not relax his efforts to win her. with the authority of pradier, who was only too pleased to delegate it to him,[38] he placed claire, on april 15th, 1836, in a school at st. mandé, 35, avenue du bel-air, kept by a madame marre. from that moment, whether he paid her a surprise visit in the parlour on thursday afternoons, with a juliette beaming from the enjoyment of the trip, or whether she spent sundays with her mother, claire pradier insensibly grew to connect victor hugo with juliette in her affections, to give to them both equal respect, and to link them together in her prayers. exceedingly sensitive by nature, more eager for love than for learning, she fell into habits of day-dreaming in school, or out in the meadows, and only seemed to recover the brightness of cheeks and eyes when the lovers fetched her, and toasted her little cold, contracted fingers in their warm ones. then the apartment in the rue st. anastase resounded with her merry chatter, and she joined eagerly in the rites of which victor hugo was the god and juliette the priestess. in 1840, when she had attained her fifteenth year, claire's mother thought it right to confide to her the secret of her irregular birth. she told her also of pradier's neglect, and victor hugo's goodness. she exhorted her to be simple in her ideas, and not to set her ambitions too high. claire manifested much chagrin and vexation at first, but presently her natural piety awoke and juliette was able to write: "claire is for ever in church." victor hugo took upon himself to open the girl's eyes to the practical side of life, and to point out to her the necessity of preparing for a profession as early as possible.[39] in response to these appeals to her reason, claire soon accepted her lot with a brave heart. it was settled that at the age of eighteen, that is to say in 1844, she should be engaged as an assistant mistress in madame marre's school, in exchange for board and lodging, but without salary. she agreed also to study for a diploma, and she hoped, when once she had gained it, to find some honourable and paid employment, by victor hugo's help. claire fell to work with an ardour, a good-humour, and an intelligence, that drew from juliette the warmest commendation for her daughter and gratitude for victor hugo. ii one cannot but wonder whether claire pradier was really happy at heart, or whether that eighteen-year-old brow, pure and fair as juliette's own, perchance concealed a spirit weighed down by melancholy. she was good-looking certainly, and knew it. in her chestnut locks, her eyes, whose hue wavered between soft black and the blue of ocean, her rounded cheeks, often hectic with fever, the distinction of a tall figure and stately walk, she united- "à la madonne auguste d'italie la flamande qui rit à travers les houblons."[40] but beauty is no consolation to one who feels herself already touched by the icy finger of death, and who has, besides, no incentive to prolong the struggle for life. claire felt thus. already, in earliest childhood, she had shown a delicate temperament, uncertain health, more nerves than muscle, more sensitiveness than vitality. during the whole of 1837, her cough never left her. in the years that followed, her figure scarcely showed any of the curves of youth. when her looks were praised, she smiled faintly, and her voice, which was lovely and caressing enough to recall to victor hugo the softest cadences of _les feuillantines_, scarce dared pronounce the word "to-morrow." hence proceeded low spirits, which she was never able to shake off, though she usually managed to conceal them from her mother. presentiments also beset her. "i often dream of those i love," she wrote to her mother, "and when i wake up, i long to sleep on for ever." mobile as the chisel he manipulated so skilfully, volatile as the dust of the plaster which powdered him, pradier gave claire neither regular assistance nor moral support. he had married, and was the father of several legitimate children. unfortunate as was the celebrity of his wife and far-reaching the scandals provoked by her, he yet desired to preserve before his natural daughter a primly respectable attitude, and a modesty quite calvinistic. he was as careful to avoid the occasions of meeting her, as claire herself was eager to provoke them. the more she overwhelmed him with little presents, worked by her own fingers, tender evidences of an unconquerable affection, the more indifferent and discourteous he showed himself, forgetting to pay her monthly allowance, forgetting to give her new year's presents, forgetting even to keep his appointments with her, leaving her to wait patiently in the cold studio of rue de l'abbaye while he played the gallant on the boulevard. he had, nevertheless, permitted the girl to make the acquaintance of his legitimate children, and had gone so far as to put his youngest child, charlotte pradier, at the same school, when he sent his two sons to auteuil to a boarding-school. in the month of may, 1845, claire, with an impulse natural in a girl of nineteen, wished to give the two school-boys the pleasure of a sisterly letter; she got charlotte to write also. the sculptor heard of it and this is how he treated her trivial indiscretion: "my dear big claire, "i have seen the headmaster of ... who has informed me that you and charlotte have written to j....[41] pray write as seldom as possible. i do not think young girls should use their pens to reveal their sentiments. such a habit is too easily acquired; they should know how, yet not do it. besides, the children see each other every fortnight, and that is enough. please do not sign yourself _pradier_ to them any more. such a thing becomes known and might cause gossip. you do not need the name, to be loved and respected. be frank and fear nothing. your good time will come some day. you must be prudent in all respects. the children must accustom themselves to your position as it is; they will take more interest in you later. also, as i am on these subjects, pray use some other formulæ in your letters to me than 'adored father,' or 'beloved.' i am not accustomed to them. such epithets are only appropriate to a god. call me anything else that comes natural to you. it is unnecessary that i should prompt you; your feelings will be your best guide. please write more legibly, for i receive your letters at night; and, above all, write only when you have something special to say. you must not become a scribbler about nothing--i mean for the mere pleasure of using your pen."[42] how such a letter must have wounded the heart which once beat so tenderly for pradier! neither the caresses of juliette nor the soothing words of victor hugo were able to comfort claire.[43] one month after her father had thus disowned her, she went up for her examination, and, partly through grief, partly through timidity, failed utterly. it was the last stroke. not that her constitution showed any immediate sign of the shock it had sustained, or broke down at once. her physical appearance remained unchanged, but death entered her soul and lurked there henceforward, as sometimes it lies under the depths of waters which flow calmly to outward seeming. she made her will. from that moment claire pradier lived like those resigned invalids who, raising their gaze to the heaven above them, no longer heed the passing of the hours, while they await the supreme summons. she waited. her mother, seeing her still apparently healthy, failed to realise her condition, and took the beginning of this mute colloquy with death for a mere return of her daughter's former depression. nevertheless, an incident which happened in the month of february 1846 gave to juliette also one of those presentiments which cannot deceive. like claire, she waited. [illustration: claire pradier on her deathbed. drawing by pradier (victor hugo museum).] it was not for long. on march 21st, 1846, having gone to st. mandé to see the young assistant mistress, she took with her the design and material for a piece of work victor hugo had asked for. the idea was to embroider his family coat of arms on coarse canvas, in colours selected by himself. this complicated heraldic work was to adorn the backs of two gothic arm-chairs in his rooms in the place royale. contrary to her usual habit, claire showed very little interest in the poet's plans; she listened absently and spoke very little. a dry cough shook her frame from time to time, her cheeks burned with fever. juliette walked home by way of the avenue de bel-air, the barrière du trône, and the faubourg st. antoine. victor hugo, who was always anxious about her, was to meet her half-way. he did so; she was walking slowly, with bent head, and when he asked for news of his embroidery, she burst into tears. the poet understood in an instant. by his instructions, claire was removed to rue st. anastase the very next day; triger, her mother's doctor, was instructed to visit her daily. not venturing to pronounce at once the dread name of consumption, he spoke of a chill and chlorosis. claire scarcely heeded, and indicated by a feeble gesture that she was too spent to care. the head she tried to raise from the pillow, fell back as if too heavy for the frail neck. her large dark eyes gazed through space at some melancholy vision. her hands upon the white sheets hardly retained strength to clasp themselves in a caress or a prayer. she begged that pradier might be informed of her illness. he wrote first, and then came. he demonstrated his affection by theatrical gestures and well-chosen words. then he placed a villa, which he said he possessed at auteuil, at the disposal of the invalid and her mother. the so-called villa proved to be one floor in a tenement house, 57, rue de la fontaine. claire was taken there in the early part of may. her mother accompanied her. victor hugo visited them nearly every day, but neither the compliments of "monsieur toto" nor the roses he brought his ex-pupil, nor the exhortations of doctor louis, whom he brought with him one day, were successful in restoring colour to the countenance of one whose blood-spitting left her every day paler and more exhausted. claire hardly dared raise herself in bed; icy sweats drenched her, and she moaned continuously, in a manner terribly painful to those who were forced to stand by, helpless. on june 6th, she asked to see the vicar of st. mandé, her confessor. on the 16th, she received the last sacraments. on the 18th, delirium supervened, and she expired on the 21st. they buried the girl in the first place at auteuil, but when her will was read, in which she had written, "i desire to be buried in the cemetery of saint-mandé. i also beg that monsieur l'abbé chaussotte should celebrate my funeral mass, and that green grass should be grown on my grave," victor hugo and pradier agreed to have the coffin exhumed. the ceremony took place on july 11th. juliette, who was more dead than alive, was not present; but victor hugo and pradier walked together behind the funeral car, leading the white procession of claire's young pupils and companions. the sculptor, always full of intentions, plans, and chatter, discoursed in a low voice of the magnificent tomb he would raise with his own hands to the memory of his daughter. it should be, he said, "a sacred debt; i shall execute it with so much love that my chisel will never before have fashioned anything so chaste or so beautiful." after the long, slow journey through paris in the sunshine, they reached the cemetery of saint mandé. near the tomb of the poet's friend, armand carel, a freshly dug grave yawned, gloomy and covetous. there was some singing, some blessing, the turmoil of a congested crowd; then they separated, but not without a renewal of pradier's promise. eight years later he died himself, without having discharged his "sacred debt." one more resolve had fizzled out in empty words. victor hugo was then living precariously in exile, but as soon as he heard of the sculptor's end, he wrote off and ordered a decent headstone for claire, and directed that the grave should be sown with green grass. upon the tomb were carved four of the lines he had erstwhile written for juliette's consolation, and he set about composing others. thus it came about that, to the very last, claire pradier was protected by the father of léopoldine against two of the fears that had most alarmed her youthful imagination, "a neglected grave in some distant cemetery, and a faded memory in the hearts of men." chapter vi "on an island" i juliette relates that when she had occasion to admonish her maid, or find fault with a tradesman during her residence in jersey and guernsey, the answer she invariably received was: "it cannot be helped, madame; we are on an island...." the phrase tickled her fancy, and she adopted it and made use of it on many occasions. the reader of the following chapters must likewise accept the axiom that, "on an island," things are not quite the same as on the mainland; for, only by so doing, will he be enabled to peruse without undue astonishment the extraordinary narration of the life led in common by victor hugo, his wife, sons, friends, and mistress, between 1851 and 1872. its beginning dates from the poet's sojourn in belgium without madame victor hugo, at the beginning of his exile[44]; that is to say, in the last weeks of the year 1851 and the first half of 1852. not that his precarious circumstances and prudent, somewhat middle-class habits, permitted him to house juliette under his own roof: indeed, their _liaison_ was never more secret. but, at brussels, the problem of the relations henceforth to exist between the sons of victor hugo and she whom they already called "our friend, madame drouet," first came up for solution. it was at brussels also, that juliette set herself to simplify it, if not settle it, by her devotion, unselfishness, and unremitting attentions. at his first arrival on december 14th the poet had taken rooms at the hôtel de la porte verte in the narrow street of the same name. he remained there barely three weeks, and on january 5th, 1852, took a small room on the first floor of no. 27, grand' place. it was "furnished with a black horsehair couch, convertible into a bed, a round table, which served indifferently for work and for relaxation, and an old mirror, over the chimney which contained the pipe of the stove."[45] juliette never went there, but we learn from the poet's complaints to her, that the couch was too short for a man, the mattresses hard, and offensive to the olfactory nerve, and that sleep was difficult to obtain, on account of the noises in the street. but with the first streak of dawn outside the lofty window, the "great façade of the hôtel de ville entered the tiny chamber and took superb possession of it"[46]; the atmosphere became impregnated with art and history. the poet's fine imagination and ardour for work did the rest. hence the tone of his letters to his wife, who had remained behind in france, was almost joyous. it was full of masculine courage. hence, also, that air of "simple dignity and calm resignation," which characterised his bearing in exile, "adding to his inherent nobility and charm," and drawing from juliette the enthusiastic exclamation: "would that i were you, that i might praise you as you deserve!"[47] truth to tell, she merited a rich share of the praise herself. the little comfort victor hugo was able to enjoy, and the moral support he needed more than ever, came to him solely through her. she lodged almost next door, at no. 10, passage du prince,[48] with madame luthereau, a friend of her youth, married to a political pamphlet writer. for the modest sum of 150 frs. a month, of which 25 were paid to her servant, juliette obtained food, shelter, and sincere affection. but what she appreciated more than all these, was the liberty she enjoyed of superintending from afar the poet's domestic arrangements, and preparing under the shadow of the galleries the dishes and sweetmeats he partook of in the publicity of the grand' place. every morning at eight o'clock her maid, suzanne, conveyed to victor hugo a pot of chocolate made by juliette, linen freshly ironed and mended, and sometimes even the modicum of coal the great man either forgot, or did not trouble, to order. when suzanne had swept and cleaned the room which charras, hetzel, lamoricière, émile deschanel, dr. yvan, schoelcher and sometimes dumas _père_ daily enlivened with their wit and littered with the ashes from their pipes, she returned at about two o'clock. she found her mistress busy preparing the master's luncheon--a cutlet generally, which juliette took the trouble to select herself, in order to make certain that the butcher cut it near the loin! suzanne started off again bearing the cutlet, the bread, the plates and dishes, and even the cup of coffee! obedient to her mistress's injunction, she hurried through the street, for, at any cost, the luncheon must not be allowed to get cold. when charles hugo joined his father in february 1852, it might be supposed that juliette would relinquish her rôle of _cordon bleu_; but nothing was further from her intention. she merely proceeded to supplement the daily cutlet with a dish of scrambled eggs, in honour of the young man. hugo having opened the necessary credit, she continued the task she had undertaken, and prepared two luncheons instead of one. again, when on may 24th madame victor hugo came for the second time to visit her husband in brussels, it was juliette who undertook to cook a little feast for her. in the agitation caused by such a high honour, she forgot to add an extra fork. she worried for the rest of the day over the omission, and apologised in successive letters to the poet, in the terms a _dévote_ might employ to confess a mortal sin.[49] but these occupations did not prevent the afternoons from hanging heavy on her hands. victor hugo spent them in writing _napoléon le petit_; or he organised expeditions to malines, louvain, anvers, with friends; or he yielded to the material pleasures of flemish life, and accepted invitations to dine at some of those culinary institutes on which brussels so prides herself. but none of these resources were open to juliette. confined within the four walls of her narrow chamber, her only view was of roofs, and a dull wall, pierced by a single dirty window; she spent whole hours watching a canary in its cage, through the thick panes. she likened her condition to that of the tiny captive. at other times, she allowed her thoughts to roam among past events, and brooded over the packet of letters so cruelly sent to her the year before[50]; she dwelt upon the grief she had endured for many months, the choice the poet had finally made in her favour, and their joint excursion to fontainebleau to celebrate the reconciliation. under the depressing influence of the grey belgian sky, always partially obscured by thick smoke, she realised that her splendid vitality and her love for novelty had departed for ever. then she allowed jealousy to resume its sway over her, more powerfully than ever. in this mood, she once more resolved to set victor hugo free: "if you tell me to go," she wrote on january 25th, 1852, "i will do so without even turning my head to look at you." but again he bade her stay. gravely, then, without showing any symptom of her former coyness, she proposed to discontinue her letters. [illustration: juliette drouet in jersey.] fortunately, at this very juncture, the unwelcome attentions of the belgian police, who were nervous about the forthcoming publication of _napoléon le petit_, had decided victor hugo to leave brussels and go to jersey. juliette was to go also, either in the steamer with him, or in one starting a few hours later. naturally he urged her to go on writing, if only to bridge over the short separation. she admits that when she landed at st. helier, on august 6th, 1852, hope had once more gained the ascendant within her breast. for the first time in her life, she was about to enjoy the society of her "dear little exile," her "sublime outlaw," all by herself, far from the madding crowd. ii victor hugo resided at first in an hotel at st. helier, called la pomme d'or. later he settled on the sea-front at marine terrace, georgetown, in an enormous house which, owing to its square shape and skylights, resembled a prison. juliette had intended to put up at the auberge du commerce, but for twenty years she had never sat at a table d'hôte without the protection of the poet. the proximity of tradespeople and farmers proved insupportable to her. on august 11th she began a search for a suitable boarding-house, and presently concluded a bargain with the proprietress of nelson hall, hâvres-des-pas, for lodging at eight shillings a week, and board at two shillings a day. this made a monthly expenditure of about a hundred and fifteen francs, to which was added twenty-five francs, the wages of suzanne, her maid. like marine terrace, nelson hall's chief claim to maritime advantages was its name. at victor hugo's house there were no large windows overlooking the sea, and in juliette's ground-floor rooms, a high paling screened the topmost crest of the highest wave. our heroine tried to console herself by listening to the surge of the ocean, and copying the nearly completed manuscript of _l'histoire d'un crime_, or the poems the poet intended to add to the volume of _les châtiments_. at the end of september she moved upstairs to a large room on the first floor of the house, whence a wide view could be had of the barren scenery of hâvres-des-pas, from the battery of fort regent on the right, to the rocks of st. clément on the left; but juliette's peaceful contemplation was constantly disturbed by the violence of the proprietress, a drunkard, who was renowned all over the island for the vigour with which she beat her husband when in her cups. a further removal was therefore decided upon in january 1853, and carried out on february 6th. juliette went to live in furnished apartments next door, consisting, as in paris, of a bedroom, drawing-room, dining-room, and kitchen, on the first floor. they overlooked a vast stretch of sand and shingle, rocks and seaweed. at first victor hugo seldom went to his friend's house, but met her each day at the outset of his walk and took her with him along roads where the magic of summer glorified every blade of grass. from end to end of the island, dame nature had transformed herself into a garden, where all was perfumed, gay, and smiling. juliette, walking arm in arm with her lover, could feel the glad beating of his heart; her upraised eyes noted that his dear face seemed less worried. with the ingenuity of a twenty-year-old sweetheart, she entertained him of his own country, and invoked memories of the journeys they had made together in former days to the rhine, the alps, the pyrenees. the exile remembered, not the rain, nor the omnibuses, nor the thousand trifles recalled by juliette, but france ... his own beautiful france.... under the influence of that voice which had once made him free of the realm of love, his country was restored to him for a fleeting moment. the lovers were unpleasantly surprised by the week of tempests which ushered in the equinox, and was followed without a pause by the setting in of winter. "everything became sombre, grey, violent, terrible, stormy, severe." day and night rain fell, and "the drops chased each other down the window-panes like silver hairs."[51] amidst the uproar to which frenzied nature suddenly delivered herself, the daily tramps were perforce discontinued. fortunately for juliette, victor hugo found nelson house warmer than his house at marine terrace. his wife had recently joined him, but had brought with her neither comfort nor the serene atmosphere propitious for an author's labours. as in the old days of the rue st. anastase, therefore, he set up a writing-table near the fire in juliette's sitting-room, with a few volumes of michelet and quinet, and a novel or two by georges sand; and every day, after lunching with his own family, the poet came to work in his friend's room. juliette determined to "find the way back to his heart through his appetite,"[52] as she wrote to him, so she insisted upon his dining with her. she appealed to his greediness as well as to his hospitable instincts, assuring him that nowhere else could he so successfully entertain his new companions, the exiles, as at her abode. soon she gave two "exiles' dinners" a week, then three, then four; finally, she had one every day. with the assistance of his two sons, whom he had at length presented to juliette, victor hugo presided at these feasts with an affability born in part of a desire for popularity. juliette showed herself more reserved, more severe. accustomed to treat the poet as a divinity, she could not tolerate the familiarity of these petty folk. "a brotherly cobbler is not to my taste," she said harshly. "i cannot resign myself to this consorting of vulgar mediocrity with your genius." her sweetness to the two sons of the poet was as marked as the haughtiness of her manner towards the victims of the _coup d'état_. for twenty years she had longed to be friends with them. as far back as 1839, on the occasion of a distribution of prizes at which charles and françois victor were to cover themselves with honours, she wrote: "what a pity i cannot witness their triumph! i love them with all my heart, and would give my life for them; but that is not enough. i will avenge myself by praying that they may remain always as they are at present: charming and good." later we find her treasuring their portraits, anxious about their little childish ailments, pleading for them when they incurred punishment, and overwhelming them with little presents manufactured by her pen or needle, whenever she received the master's sanction to do so. what joy it must have given her to receive officially at her table these children grown to manhood! as soon as she became acquainted with them, she raised the young men to the level of victor hugo in the order of her preoccupations, and resolved to do nothing for the father, in the way of spoiling and cherishing, that she did not do also for the sons. if she copied _les contemplations_, she protested that she must also write out françois victor's translation of shakespeare. if she sent suzanne to marine terrace with a herb soup for the master, she bade her carry six lilac shirts for charles. even young adèle and madame victor hugo accepted her good offices without demur. for adèle, juliette picked the earliest strawberries and the first roses of the nelson hall garden; she embroidered handkerchiefs on which charles had designed the monogram, and bound together the serial stories of madame sand, cut from magazines. for madame victor hugo she prepared a certain soup made of goose, which, she said, was most succulent. she lent her suzanne, her own servant, for the whole time marine terrace was without a cook, and meanwhile went without a servant herself, and did her own cooking. she spoilt her skin and wore down her nails, but she took a pride in her devotion and self-abnegation, and resolved to carry them even further. she dreamt of entering victor hugo's household for good, to assume in all humility the position of an ex-mistress become housekeeper. however numerous may have been the wrongs victor hugo inflicted upon this woman, whose jealousy he never ceased to excite, one must admit that he felt and appreciated the greatness of her love. like a great many men, the artist in him recognised a moral worth that no longer satisfied his needs as a lover; he experienced generous revulsions, under the influence of which he paid her carefully studied attentions, which bore a semblance of impulse and spontaneity gratifying to her feelings. iii the young queen, victoria, having paid france, in the person of napoleon iii, the gracious compliment of a visit in august 1855, the exiles of jersey dared address an insolent letter to her, which was published by their quaintly-named journal, _l'homme_. true to his native chivalry, victor hugo declined to sign this manifesto[53]; but he was indignant when the authorities of jersey marked their disapproval by expelling its three authors. he protested vigorously against their punishment, and was in his turn driven from the island on august 31st. he went to guernsey, a neighbouring island, bleaker and less temperate in climate. he settled at first at no. 20, rue hauteville, st. pierre port. on may 16th, 1856, he bought a roomy, substantial house built on the shore at some former period by an english pirate. it only required restoration, to make it a suitable residence. it was called hauteville house. here again, juliette lived successively at the inn, and at a boarding-house kept by a frenchwoman, mademoiselle leboutellier. but when she found that victor hugo could no longer content himself with a temporary house, and intended to send for the furniture and art-collection he had stored at the rooms in paris,[54] she begged him to include her in his plans, and let her have her own things also. she was tired of so-called english comfort, with its hard beds, narrow sheets, straight-backed chairs, and tiny wardrobes. victor hugo gave a generous assent to her request. he took a little house for her, called la pallue, close to, and overlooking, hauteville house. the faithful suzanne was despatched to france to pack and send to guernsey all the hugo family's and juliette's possessions. she returned on august 9th. the furniture and art-collection arrived on the 20th of the same month. a busy time followed, for the lovers. they threw themselves feverishly into the excitements of removal, decoration, and treasure-hunting. victor hugo dropped spiritualism and photography, which had been his recreations in jersey, to become architect, cabinet-maker, and joiner. he undertook the supervision of juliette's arrangements as well as his own, bought antique norman furniture, which he turned to various uses, manufactured carpets and curtains out of juliette's old theatre frocks, designed panels and mantelpieces, and the many incongruous articles which now decorate the musée victor hugo, and which his friend aptly called "a poetical pot-pourri of art." in this wise, the fitting up of the two houses lasted over a considerable period. we learn from juliette that the poet was still busy with his dining-room on april 2nd, 1857, and on may 28th, 1858, he wrote to georges sand: "my house is still only a shell. the worthy guernseyites have taken possession of it, and, assuming that i am a rich man, are making the most of the french gentleman, and spinning out the work." juliette, whose dwelling was more modest, had the enjoyment of it sooner. she settled into la pallue at the beginning of november 1856, and had the happiness henceforth of seeing her friend many times a day. he had constructed on the roof of hauteville house a room that he somewhat pretentiously named his "crystal drawing-room," and that we should call a belvedere; it was roofed and covered in with glass on all sides. his bedroom opened out of it. every morning he sat and worked there, at a flap-table affixed to the wall, when the cold did not drive him to some warmer part of the house. beneath his gaze spread the low town, the port, the group of anglo-norman islands, and, in clear weather, the coast of cotentin. at his back, and slightly higher up, juliette, from her little house, kept watch and ward over him. from that moment it may be said that, though juliette's body was at la pallue, her heart and mind inhabited hauteville house. unfortunately, as winter progressed, the storms grew worse, and a darkness reigned that made reading and copying difficult. "like a great lake turned upside down," the sky hung lowering above the gloomy houses, and only allowed the pale rays of a leaden sun to pierce through it, at infrequent intervals. the rest of the time the atmosphere remained charged with rheumatic-dealing clamminess. [illustration: victor hugo in jersey.] juliette, just entering her fiftieth year, bore the rigours of the climate with difficulty. she would have died of it, she declared, had she not been upheld by the influence of love. she was a martyr to gout, and greatly dreaded being crippled by it. she brooded long and often upon death and the dead. whether under the influence of a priest, or in response to some inward prompting we cannot tell, but she reverted for a time to her former religious practices. iv in april 1863, when juliette was slowly recovering from another attack of gout, victor hugo realised the extreme humidity of la pallue. on the advice of his sons, who seem to have been of one mind with him on the subject, he decided that juju, as he called her, should move as quickly as possible, and that he should for the second time assume the functions of architect, upholsterer, and decorator of her new dwelling. juliette offered a prolonged and strenuous resistance to the plan, for the house chosen for her possessed the grave inconvenience of being at some distance from hauteville house. the idea that she would no longer be able to watch every movement of her lover, drew from our heroine lamentations and loving reproaches. but victor hugo was adamant, and on february 2nd, 1864, the anniversary of the first performance of _lucrèce borgia_, "princesse négroni" took up her abode in the new house, which she named hauteville féerie. there again the poet had arranged everything himself. remembering juliette's attachment for her rooms in rue st. anastase, he had endeavoured to reconstitute faithfully its curtain of crimson and gold, its peacocks embroidered on panels, its china, the porcelain dragons which adorned the dresser, and especially the numerous mirrors that reflected and multiplied the furniture, knick-knacks, and embroideries. when juliette was shown this "marvel," she said she had no words to express her admiration and gratitude. then, knowing how often madame victor hugo was away on the continent, and how uncomfortable the poet was at home, she offered to act in turn as hostess and housekeeper to him. in 1863 we find her assuming madame victor hugo's duties during the short absence of the latter, and at the end of 1864, during a further one which lasted until february 1867, she divided her time equally between hauteville house and hauteville féerie. but there is a difference in her methods of ruling the two establishments. at hauteville house she governs without obtruding herself, wisely, discreetly, somewhat mysteriously. she directs the servants, reproves them if necessary, superintends the accounts, and keeps down expenses. but she carries out her task from her place in the background. officially, the poet lives alone with his sons and his sister-in-law, madame julie chenay; when he entertains friends from paris, juliette's name is not mentioned. at hauteville féerie, on the contrary, our heroine is at home. it behoves her to comport herself as the mistress of the house, and expend her gifts of mind, as well as her talents as a manager. as she says, "she must be both lady and housekeeper." in this double rôle it might be supposed that she would be reluctant to receive the exiles presented to her by victor hugo, whose society is so distasteful to her. not so. once more juliette accepts, through duty and devotion, that which she never would have tolerated on her own account. the poet was bored, alas! though he was composing splendid poetry, his long dialogue with mother nature was beginning to pall upon him. his somewhat theatrical genius demanded more than a fine stage; it required a public. without it, the author of _les châtiments_ was but the shadow of the poet of _ruy blas_. no doubt the bronzing of his skin by the salt breath of the sea, and the virulence of his spite against napoleon iii, lent him a fictitious appearance of spring and vigour; but there were times when he flagged sadly, and when despondency and fatigue expressed themselves in the droop of his lips, the sagging of his ill-shaved cheeks, the wrinkles on his brow, and, especially, the heavy pockets beneath his eyes. his attire betrayed his complete neglect of himself. when he walked through the place de hauteville in his girondin hat all battered by the wind, his cashmere neckcloth carelessly knotted under an untidy collar, his open coat revealing a buttonless shirt in summer, and in winter, a faded scarlet waistcoat which robespierre himself would have despised, the little children he so loved ran from him as if he were accursed.[55] juliette grasped these mute warnings, and, as soon as she was established in the vast frame of hauteville féerie, she attempted to reconstitute the society she had once presided over at jersey. she even endeavoured to enlarge the circle and admit a few new-comers. juliette was able to maintain the simple dignity to which she attached so much importance, and from which she departed only in favour of her poet, in the most delicate circumstance of her life, namely, when madame victor hugo offered her her friendship. she did not decline it, but, where many might have erred by an excess of satisfaction and familiarity, she showed a discreet reserve highly creditable to her. since their exile, the relations of the two women had undergone a great change. on the one hand, madame victor hugo's perpetual pursuit of pleasure, her constant fatigue, her laziness, and her incapacity to manage a house, had gradually involved her in the network of attentions, civilities, and petting, juliette lavished upon her and hers. the reports brought to her by her sons and servants of the doings at hauteville féerie, had given her a good opinion of our heroine; her natural kindliness did the rest, and she showed herself disposed to treat in neighbourly, and even friendly, fashion one whom she might justly have hated as a rival. on the other hand, juliette no longer felt that jealousy of the mistress against the legitimate wife, that she had experienced at the beginning of her love-story. but actual friendship between madame victor hugo and juliette was hindered for a long time, by the fear of english criticism, and of those guernseyites of whom victor hugo wrote, that they made even the scenery of the island look prim. juliette dreaded the unkind tittle-tattle the exiles would not fail to retail to her, if she accepted the advances from hauteville house. therefore, during the first ten years at guernsey, she only set foot in her friend's house once, in 1858, to inspect the treasures the master had collected in it. madame victor hugo was absent that day. at the end of 1864, the wife of the poet became more urgent in her invitations. she was about to depart to the continent, to undergo treatment for her eyes; her absence might be, and indeed was, indefinitely prolonged. however careless she might be in housekeeping matters, she was probably loath to commit her husband to the tender mercies of her sister, madame julie chenay, who boasted of possessing neither aptitude for business nor a head for figures. she saw the use that might be made of the poet's friend, and opened negotiations by inviting her to dinner. but juliette declined. this policy of self-effacement was continued by her even during the long absence of madame victor hugo in 1865 and 1866. when victor hugo pressed her to dine with him, in secret if necessary, she wrote: "permit me to refuse the honour you offer me, for the sake of the thirty years of discretion and respect i have observed towards your house." in the end, however, madame victor hugo gained the day, and overcame this dignified reticence. on her return to guernsey on january 15th, 1867, she declared her intention of paying juliette a visit. the diplomatic abilities of the poet were taxed to the uttermost in the regulation of the details of this important event. the visit took place on january 22nd. it was impossible to avoid returning it. juliette did so on the 24th, and thenceforth, no longer hesitated to cross the threshold of hauteville house. she went there almost every day, to revise the manuscript and the copies of _les misérables_ with the help of madame chenay; in 1868, she spent the whole month of may under its roof, while her faithful suzanne was in france. similarly, she no longer minded being seen in public with victor hugo and his sons, and even his wife, during the journeys they made together. whereas in 1861, for instance, on a journey to waterloo and mont st. jean, we still find her dining apart, and seeming to ignore charles hugo, in 1867, she is constantly at the latter's house in brussels, attending the family dinners and enjoying the charm of what she calls "a delicate and discreet rehabilitation" by madame hugo and her daughter-in-law. she took her share in their joys as in their sorrows. it was at brussels that the three grandchildren of the poet were born, and there also that he lost successively, in april and august 1868, his eldest grandchild and his wife. he mourned the latter with the sorrow of a man from whom the memory of his early love has not faded. as for juliette, her regret was thoroughly sincere. she did not venture to attend the funeral, in deference to outside gossip; but when, a few days later, she went to the house and saw the empty arm-chair madame victor hugo's indulgent personality had been wont to occupy, she could not restrain her tears. victor hugo and his friend returned to guernsey on october 6th, 1868. they continued to inhabit separate houses, but dined together at one or the other. they also resumed their sea-side walks, and their long talks, of which the chief topic was the second son of charles hugo, an infant who had been left behind at brussels. the infirmities of increasing age occasionally prevented our heroine from following her indefatigable companion. she would then remain at her chimney corner, reading the _lives of the saints_ or some devotional book. she was more than ever prone to reflect upon death. she had been greatly shocked by the rapidity with which madame victor hugo had succumbed, and she felt that her turn, and that of the poet, must soon come. she prayed ardently that she might be permitted to go first. in august 1869 victor hugo took juliette with him, first to brussels, where charles hugo and paul meurice joined them, and then to the rhine, which held so many sweet memories for both. on their return to guernsey on november 6th, he proceeded to plan a journey to italy for the following winter. he also made arrangements for the revival of _lucrèce borgia_ at the porte st. martin. the journey to italy was never carried out, but on february 2nd, 1870, on the anniversary of its first performance, _lucrèce_ had a brilliant success. the old poet was enchanted. foreseeing the fall of the empire, and guessing that the french were sick of a régime which, during the last eighteen years, had confused government with spying, and politics with police, he redoubled the activity of his propaganda, and indited letter after letter, manifesto after manifesto. the more juliette confessed to the lassitude of age, the more he seemed to defy his years. chapter vii "that which brings satisfaction to the heart" i when victor hugo grasped the full extent of the national disaster in august 1870, he started immediately for belgium. on the proclamation of the republic, he proceeded to the frontier, where a few official friends awaited him. the scene that took place on his arrival was impressive, though somewhat theatrical. the "sublime outlaw" asked for the bread and wine of france. after he had eaten and drunk, he begged juliette to preserve a fragment of the bread, and buried his face in his hands with the gesture of one who is dazzled by too much light. juliette relates that big tears flowed through his clenched fingers. the bystanders stood in silence, awed by his emotion.... the poet and our heroine stayed with paul meurice at avenue frochot for a time, and then went to the hôtel du pavillon de rohan. finally they settled, he in a small furnished apartment at 66, rue de la rochefoucauld, and she close by, in a fairly spacious _entresol_ rented at fourteen hundred francs, at 55, rue pigalle. [illustration: victor hugo, his family, and juliette drouet at hauteville house.] but hardly had they resumed the peaceful tenor of their ways when they were forced to uproot again. on february 8th, 1871, victor hugo was elected a member of the assemblée nationale, and, as he could not bear to be parted any longer from his grandchildren, he removed his whole household to bordeaux, including his son charles, his mistress juliette, and the little heroes of _l'art d'être grandpère_. they started on february 13th, and the poet took his seat on the 15th. on march 8th he felt it his duty to resign, on account of the refusal of his colleagues to allow garibaldi to be naturalised a frenchman. he was about to leave, when a fresh sorrow struck him down: this was the sudden death of charles hugo, on march 13th. the body of the unfortunate and charming young man was taken back to paris, and the funeral took place on the 18th, in the sinister scenario of the rising insurrection. on the 21st, victor hugo went to belgium to make arrangements for his grandchildren's future. two months and a half later, he was expelled from brussels, for rewarding its hospitality by throwing his house open as a refuge to the political miscreants who had just fired paris and shed the blood of their compatriots. he was the object of a violently hostile demonstration on may 27th, 1871, and afterwards received the decree of expulsion. he went to vianden, in the grand duchy of luxembourg, and returned definitely to paris in september 1871. juliette had accompanied him everywhere. no sooner was the luggage unpacked, than she bravely undertook to amuse him, by forming a small circle of his friends and admirers, in her drawing-room at rue pigalle. but the undertaking was beyond her powers. her long sojourn in a solitary island and her complete absorption in one sole object, had resulted in the loss of what might be termed her social talent. in france, and especially in paris, everything was new to her, everything caused her agitation. the state of her health was not such as to restore her equanimity. she suffered from gout and heart-disease, was growing stout, walked with difficulty, slept badly, and was terribly weary: "i am so tired," she writes, "that i feel as if even eternity would fail to rest me." victor hugo, therefore, gave up the entertainments at rue pigalle; the boxes were repacked, and on august 14th, 1872, the party returned to that island where everything spoke to the exile of former joys, from the anemones he loved, to the cherry-tree he had planted himself. in the mornings, at half-past eleven, victor hugo used to make his joyous appearance at hauteville féerie, and escort his friend to hauteville house, where the luncheon-table was proudly attended by georges and jeanne. in the afternoon, a family drive was organised. the largest carriage on the island was hardly big enough to contain the dear beings by whom he loved to be surrounded. the hours drifted peacefully towards dusk. while our heroine lived on future hopes and past memories, victor hugo enjoyed the present more than ever. every one knows of his gallantry, and the bold front he offered to advancing age. amongst other comforting illusions, he chose to believe that women prefer old men, and he gloried in proving his theory. with more sense than she has been credited with, juliette sometimes managed to close her eyes and ears; at other times she gently rallied him, congratulating him on the success of his most recent exploit. but more often it must be admitted that her temper was not equal to the nobility of her nature. to jealousy was presently added the pain of humiliation and offended dignity, caused by a vulgar intrigue, conducted under her very eyes, at her own fireside. at last, at the end of the visit to guernsey, which had turned out so differently from her expectations, juliette came to a grave decision. she resolved to abandon the field to the frail beauties whom chance, desire, or self-interest, gathered around her poet, and to retire to live at brest with her sister, or at brussels with her friends the luthereau. having borrowed 200 frs. from some one, juliette actually started on september 23rd, 1873, without leaving the smallest note of farewell for victor hugo. but he lost no time in despatching a letter of recall, and he couched it in terms so eloquent, and so pathetic, that once more the poor woman was fain to overlook the past. she returned to rue pigalle on september 27th. she subsequently wrote to the kind hosts with whom she had taken refuge: "i have been very foolish, very cruel, very stupid; but i am rewarded. if one could hope for a second resurrection like this, one might be almost tempted to go through it all again." ii shortly after juliette's act of defiance, her friend imposed the fatigue of a new removal upon her. the author of _l'art d'être grandpère_ had just lost his son, françois victor. more than ever he turned to his little grandchildren for consolation, and at the end of 1873, he decided to join households with them and their mother. for a rental of 6,000 frs. a year, he took two apartments, one above the other, at 21, rue de clichy. on april 28th, 1874, juliette took possession of the third floor with her maid, while madame charles hugo, her children, and the poet, settled in the fourth. the receptions and dinners began again almost at once. at first they were weekly, then bi-weekly, and finally daily. the table was large and well attended. in addition to the five people forming the family party, including juliette, there were rarely fewer than seven guests. our heroine, in her capacity of chief steward, usually provided for twelve. she liked the fare to be simple and substantial: _sole normande_, _côtelettes soubise_, and _poulets au cresson_ were the chief items of the repast. housekeeping on this scale demanded a staff of competent servants. juliette had five, for whom she was responsible. she superintended their expenditure, their purchases, and the use to which they put the provisions; she commended good work and reproved faults, and in fact fulfilled the functions of a majordomo in a situation where the daily expenditure exceeded £4 for food, and approximated £2 for wines and spirits. she also had to supervise the department of the invitations, draw up lists, and sort the guests of each day, so as to temper the solemnity of a sch[oe]lcher or a renan, with the wit and froth of a flaubert or a monselet. juliette assumed this charge, submitted the names to victor hugo, wrote the letters, opened the answers, and classified them. if anybody failed at the last moment, she telegraphed to some one on the "subsidiary list," as she called it, and only ceased her efforts when she was assured of being able to offer to the gratified master a full table and a numerous and docile court. she was now at the head of that court, but it must not be supposed that it was by her own desire. on the contrary, she practised the most severe self-effacement. clad in black, wearing as her only jewel a cameo set in gold, representing madame victor hugo, and bequeathed to her in the latter's will, she usually sat at the chimney-corner in a large arm-chair. fatigued by her laborious preparations, it frequently happened that she fell asleep in the drawing-room, as madame victor hugo had been wont to do. this lapse of manners so covered her with confusion, that she made a vow either to bring her health up to the level of her devotion or else to disappear from view. she did, in fact, redouble her activities, to an extent astonishing in a septuagenarian. she undertook to follow the aged poet whenever he mingled with crowds. at quinet's and frédéric lemaître's funerals, she was present in the throng, an infirm old woman, watching from a distance, over a victor hugo, upright as a dart, and full of vitality. did he wish to make an ascent in a balloon, she was there; when he conducted a rehearsal, or read one of his early dramas to his modern interpreters, it was she who led the applause, declared that the voice of olympio had retained all its strength and beauty, and that he had never read better. in the period between 1874 and 1878 it must be conceded that victor hugo did his best to secure to his friend a greater degree of mental tranquillity than she had ever enjoyed before. he was careful to conceal his infidelities from her, and often succeeded in averting scenes and reproaches; or, if denial seemed impossible, he tried to palliate his fault and gain indulgence by addressing to her one of those poetical odes in which he excelled, and from which she derived such pride and joy. but these were only passing revivals of youthful emotions, in the poet as well as in his friend. they resemble those bonfires of dead leaves, lighted by labourers in autumn on the summit of bare hills--their flame can ill withstand the slightest puff of wind. such a puff blew upon the old couple in the course of the year 1878. juliette was greatly troubled about the state of her health. she wrote to the poet, on january 8th: "i feel that everything is going from me and crumbling in my grasp: my sight, my memory, my strength, my courage." on june 28th of the same year, at one of those copious banquets to which he still did full justice, and in the midst of an argument with louis blanc concerning voltaire and rousseau, victor hugo had a cerebral attack which alarmed his friends exceedingly. his speech faltered, he gesticulated feebly. two doctors summoned in haste failed to give reassurance, and prescribed absolute rest in the country. on july 4th, the poet was escorted to guernsey by a large retinue consisting of his grandchildren, the meurice family, juliette, monsieur and madame lockroy, richard lesclide, and another friend, pelleport. but no sooner had they reached the island, than victor hugo began to show symptoms of agitation. it could not be on account of his illness, for he was living quietly and comfortably, rejoicing at the amusement the season afforded his friends, and taking his own share of it. but, according to the testimony of one who has published a book concerning the master as witty as it is frank,[56] the reason was that he had left behind him in paris the heroines of several intrigues; amongst others, the young person whose behaviour had occasioned juliette's fit of anger and departure for brest,[57] and he was fearful lest the post should convey to guernsey the forlorn cooings of the deserted doves, and that some echo of them should reach juliette. our heroine was certainly informed of some of the circumstances, for on august 20th, 1878, while still at guernsey, she wrote the old man a letter which is a revelation of the changed character of their intercourse. victor hugo answered somewhat crossly and contemptuously, and nicknamed juliette "the schoolmistress." on his return to paris on november 10th, he consented to remove to the little house at avenue d'eylau where he ended his days, and which was then almost in the country. juliette took the first floor, and he occupied the second. but presently she arranged to spend the nights in a spare room next to his, so that she might be at hand to attend upon him if necessary. from that moment it may be said that her life declined into uninterrupted sadness and servitude. she was suffering from an internal cancer, and knew that she was condemned to die of slow starvation! nevertheless, she played her part of sick nurse with a devotion and a minute attention to detail to which all witnesses tender their homage. she it was who entered the poet's chamber each morning, and woke him with a kiss; she, who put a match to the fire ready laid on the hearth, and prepared the eggs for his breakfast; she, who waited on the old man while he ate, opened his letters, made extracts from them when necessary, and answered the most important. it was she, again, who undertook to keep her beloved friend company until midday, and to amuse him, and acquaint him with the current political and literary news. the task was heavy enough to weary a much younger brain. juliette found it almost beyond her strength. in 1880 she was so overwrought that she had become nervous, irritable, and restless. at night, when her offices of reader and sick nurse were over, it must not be supposed that she was able to sleep. from her bed in the adjoining room, with eyes fixed, and ear on the stretch, she watched the slumber of her dear neighbour, under the great renaissance baldachino, with its crimson damask curtains. did he cough, she rose hurriedly and administered a soothing drink; but if she coughed herself, and thus ran the risk of awaking him, she was furious, longed for a gag, and tried to suppress the labouring of her suffering breast. she cursed the years that had made her love a burden to its object, and chid her body for a bad servant no longer subservient to her will. severe as were the physical sufferings she bore so patiently under shadow of the night, juliette preferred them to the sadness she endured during the long, solitary afternoons, while her former companion was at the senate, at the académie, or elsewhere. [illustration: juliette drouet in 1883. from the picture by bastien lepage.] we must picture her at that period, not as théodore de banville represents her in his formal description, but as bastien lepage painted her with more truth, about the same time. disease has made cruel inroads on the grave, serene, once goddess-like features. her poor countenance is worn and wasted, covered with a fine network of wrinkles, each one of which tells its tale of suffering. her hair, whose sheen was formerly likened by poets to the satin petals of a lily, and which once fell naturally into crown-like waves, is roughened and harsh, and has assumed that yellowish tinge which so often presages death. her lips, no longer revived by kisses, are pale, her eyes heavy and anguished, her smile faded. seated by the fire in winter, and at the open window overlooking the avenue d'eylau in summer, she who was the "princesse négroni," now presents the woeful appearance of a grandmother without grandchildren. sometimes she tries to pray. she calls death to her aid, she complains of the slowness with which the bonds of the soul loose those of the body. in september 1882, she made a short journey with victor hugo to veules, to stay with paul meurice, and to villequier, to stay with auguste vacquerie. she took to her bed immediately on her return. by a great effort of will, she got up once more, to attend the revival of _le roi s'amuse_ on november 25th; then she finally returned to her chamber and never left it again. neither her body nor her mind was capable of assimilating nourishment. she waved happy memories aside. every afternoon the old poet paid her a visit. he disliked any mention of death, and could not bear the sight of suffering. if we are to believe juliette, he had made a rule that every one must forswear melancholy, and shake off sad thoughts, before appearing in his presence. docile as ever, the sick woman endeavoured to smile when he entered her room. she listened submissively to the arguments by which he sought to persuade her that she did not really suffer, that there is no such thing as suffering. up till may 11th, 1883, the very day of her death, there remained thus about one hour of the day during which she still had to play her part, restrain her moans, and look cheerful. she did it to the best of her power, and doubtless, in the triumph of that daily victory gained over torture by her indomitable spirit, she found at last the answer that the poet should have put into the mouth of maffio--she discovered that "that which brings satisfaction to the heart" is neither desire, nor caresses, nor even love: it is self-sacrifice.[58] part ii _letters_ _sunday, 8.30 p.m. (1833)._ before beginning to copy or count words,[59] i must write you one line of love, my dear little lunatic. i love you--do you understand, i love you! this is a profession of faith which comprises all my duty and integrity. i love you, _ergo_, i am faithful to you, i see only you, think only of you, speak only to you, touch only you, breathe you, desire you, dream of you; in a word, i love you! that means everything. do not therefore give way any more to melancholy; permit yourself to be loved and to be happy. fear nothing from me, never doubt me, and we shall be blissful beyond words. i am expecting you shortly, and am ready with warm and tender caresses which, i hope, will cheer you. your juju. (1833). since you left me i carry death in my heart. if you go to the ball to-night, it must be at the cost of a definite rupture between us. the pain i suffer at imagining you moving among that throng of fascinating, careless women, is too great for you to be able to inflict it without incurring guilt towards me. write to me "care of madame k...." if i do not hear from you before midnight, i shall understand that you care very little for me ... that all is over between us ... and for ever. j. _wednesday, 2.30 p.m. (1833)._ i cannot refrain, dearly beloved, from commenting upon the profound melancholy you were in this morning, and upon the doubt you manifest on every occasion as to the sincerity of my love. this unjustifiable suspicion on your part disheartens me beyond all expression. it intimidates me and makes me fear to confide to you the incidents my dubious position exposes me to. to-day, for instance, i concealed from you the visit of a creditor, who presented himself to the porter, but was not shown up. i paid him out of my own resources, without your knowledge, because you are always telling me _i do not love you_. this expression from you makes me feel that you hold a shameful opinion of me and my character, rendered possible perhaps by my situation, but none the less false, unjust, and cruel. i love you _because_ i love you, because it would be impossible for me not to love you. i love you without question, without calculation, without reason good or bad, faithfully, with all my heart and soul, and every faculty. believe it, for it is true. if you cannot believe, i being at your side, i will make a drastic effort to force you to do so. i shall have the mournful satisfaction of sacrificing myself utterly to a distrust as absurd as it is unfounded. meanwhile, i ask your pardon for the guilty thought that came to me this morning, and which may possibly recur, if you continue to see in my love only a mean-spirited compliance and an unworthy speculation. this letter is very lengthy, and very sad to write. i trust with all my soul, that i may never have to reiterate its sentiments. i love you. indeed i love you. believe in me. juliette. _wednesday, 8.15 p.m. (1833)._ here is a second letter. forgive my epistolary extravagance. honestly, i imagine you must soon tire, to put it as mildly as possible, of this superabundance of letters. the reason of my writing again is no novel one: it is merely to repeat that i love you every day and every instant more and more; that i feel convinced you are only too eager to return my sentiments, but that between your desire and your capacity there stands a wall a hundred feet high, entitled "suspicion." suspicion leads to contempt, and when that exists, no real love is possible. there is no answer to what i have just stated. i feel it, and am crushed by my sorrow. i know not what to do, where to go, what plans to make. i can only suffer, just as i can only love you. juliette. if ever this letter is found, it will be seen that my love was insufficient in your eyes to atone for my past. _2 a.m. (1833)._ my victor, i love you truly, and neither know, nor can conceive, any personality more deserving of devotion than yourself. i look up to you as a faithful, reliable friend, as the noblest and most estimable of men. it hurts me to feel that my past life must be an obstacle to your confidence. before i cared for you, i felt no shame for it, i made no attempt to conceal or alter it; but, since i have known you, this attitude of mind has changed in every respect. i blush for myself, and dread lest my love have not the strength to erase the stains of the past. i fear it even more, when you suspect me unjustly. my victor, it is for your love to sanctify me, for your esteem to renew in me all that once was good and pure. i care for you so much that all this is possible. i will become worthy of you, if you will only help me. farewell. you are my soul, my life, my religion; i love you. juliette. your appreciation of my letters is one of the best proofs of love you have yet given me. i will set to work to reconstruct them. nothing has happened since you left me yesterday, except that my love for you has increased. (1833.) before reading this letter, look upon me once more with affection. my poor friend, i am about to grieve and surprise you greatly. yet it has to be done. i no longer have the courage to bear up against your unjust and suspicious jealousy, and your continued mistrust of a sentiment as pure and true as that which one cherishes towards god. they wear me out and make me wretched to the last degree. i would rather leave you, than expose myself to fresh grief, which might end in destroying either my reason or my love. this resolve is dictated by the excess of my affection. even if you suffer, forgive me, and bless me before you leave me for ever. i love you. j. (1833.) since you insist upon a denial of offences which exist only in your imagination, i owe it to you to make it comprehensive and without restriction. it is not true that i have tried to offend you by reproaches unworthy of yourself and of me. it is not true that i have ever held any opinion of you, but this one, that i esteem you above all men. the real and irrevocable cause of our estrangement, is the certainty that your love for me is incomplete. i am more persuaded of it every day, and particularly to-day, when you have actually told me that you thought i had misled you as to the state of my affections. this is a grave offence towards a woman who has never deceived you on the subject of her heart, and whose only fault is to love you too much; for her very excess in this respect, has given her the sad courage to risk losing your esteem, in order to preserve your love one day longer. but i am unwilling to think you intended to hurt me by allowing me to see the canker in your heart. i prefer to believe that we are equally the victims of a calamity, under which our only resource, is to separate from one another. possibly our wounds will heal when they are no longer exposed to the continual friction of carping suspicion. good-bye. forgive me if i have offended you. i am loath to hurt you. j. i beg you not to attempt to see me again. this is the last sacrifice i will ask of you.[60] _(june 1833.)_ my dear victor, my beloved, do not be anxious! i am as well as a poor woman, who has lost her happiness and the sole joy of her existence, can expect to be. if i could let you know my place of refuge without exposing us both, but more particularly myself, to useless wretchedness, i would do so. confidence, the indispensable ingredient in a union such as ours, no longer exists in your mind. god is my witness that i have never once deceived you in matters of love, during the past four months. any concealment i have been guilty of, has only been with the intention of sparing us both unnecessary worry, in view of the attitude of mind we have been in lately. i may have been wrong; the purity of my intention must be my excuse. [illustration: claire pradier. from an unpublished drawing by pradier.] _9.45 p.m. saturday, august 13th (1833)._ while you are on your travels, dearest, my thoughts follow you in all love. though i still feel somewhat sore, i will strive to control myself, and speak only those gentle words you like to hear. it was dear of you to allow me to come to your house.[61] it was far more than a satisfaction to my curiosity, and i thank you for having admitted me to the spot where you live, love, and work. yet, to be entirely frank with you, my adored, i must tell you that the visit filled me with sadness and dejection. i realise more than ever, the depth of the chasm that gapes between your life and mine. it is no fault of yours, beloved, nor of mine; but so it is. it would be unreasonable of me to call you to account for more than you are responsible for, yet i may surely tell you, dearly beloved, that i am the most miserable of women. if you have any pity for me, dear love, you will assist me to rise superior to the lowly and humble position which tortures my spirit as well as my body. help me, my good angel, that i may believe in you and in the future. i beg and implore you. j. (1833.) it is not quite six o'clock in the evening. i have just finished copying the verses you gave me yesterday. i am not very familiar with the forms of compliment in usage in fashionable society. all i can tell you is that i wept and admired when i heard you read them, that i wept and admired when i read them to myself, and that once more i weep and admire in recalling them. i thank you from the bottom of my heart for having thought of me when you were writing them. thank you, my beloved, for the benign sentiments that inspired you. your beautiful lines have had the effect you anticipated, for they have acted both as a cordial and a sedative to my sick spirit. thank you! thank you! and again, thank you! you are not only sublime--you are kind, and, what is better still, you are indulgent, you who have so much right to be severe. i love you. my heart melts in admiration and adoration. there is more rapture of love in my poor bosom than it is capable of containing. come then, and receive the superabundance of my ecstasy. if you only knew how i long for you, and desire you! if you knew _more still_, you would come, i am very sure! come, come, i beg you, come! you shall have a kiss for every step, a recompense for every effort, more smiles, and more joy, than you will encounter fog and cold. juliette. i am writing this a little later because, before turning to business, i had to unburthen my heart. i came home yesterday, read your poetry, dined, did my accounts, and went to bed. i read the newspapers you sent, went to sleep, dreamed of you, and woke up this morning at 8 o'clock. i rose almost immediately, did some housework, and mended yesterday's frock. in the middle of breakfast lanvin arrived, bringing the newspapers and a letter from m. pradier and some of mademoiselle watteville's luggage. he asked whether we should want him to see us off. he left again at 1 p.m., taking claire's things with him and some of his wife's. when he had gone, i washed and did my hair, did the same for claire, and at 2.30 i sat down to copy, and now i am writing to you. this, colonel, is my report. are you satisfied? then, so is the corporal of the guard! after dinner i shall hear the children their lessons, and count the lines of _feuilles d'automne_. _after dinner._ i have heard the children's lessons, and been obliged to punish your _protégée_, claire, who is the laziest and idlest of all the pupils. i have just read your poem to madame lanvin; she was deeply moved. the poor thing understands you, therefore i need not explain that she loves you. good-night, until to-morrow, i hope. i suppose you did not come to-day because you had arrangements to make for our journey; that is why i am able to possess my soul in patience. j. _sunday, 4 p.m. (1833)._ i have just come in sad and depressed. i suffer, i weep, i wail aloud and moan under my breath, to god and to you. i long to die, that i might put an end once and for all, to this misery and disappointment and sorrow. it really seems as if my happiness had disappeared with the fine weather. it would be folly to expect to see either again. the season is too far advanced for fine weather or for happy days. you poor silly, who wonder that i should deplore so bitterly the loss of one day's happiness, it is easy to see that you had not to wait for the privilege of loving and being loved till you were twenty-six years old! you poet, who wrote _les feuilles d'automne_ in an atmosphere of love, laughter of children, eyes azure and black, locks brown and gold, happiness in full measure! you have had no cause to notice how one day of gloom and rain, like this, can make the greenest of leaves wither and fall to the ground. you cannot therefore know how twenty-four hours robbed of bliss can undermine one's self-confidence and strength for the future. it is evident that you do not, for you wonder when i weep; you are almost annoyed at my grief. you see, therefore, that you do not realise the measure of my devotion. surely i have good reason for regretting that i love you so ardently, when i see that love uncalled for and unwelcome! oh, yes, i love you, it is true! i love you in spite of myself, in spite of you, in spite of the whole world, in spite of god, in spite even of the devil, who mixes himself up in it. i love you, i love you, i love you, happy or unhappy, merry or sad. i love you! do with me what you will, i still shall love you. j. _monday, 1.50 a.m., 1833._ i have been standing at the window all this time, my soul stretched towards you, my ear attentive to every sound, fearing always lest your courage should fail you before the end of your weary walk. it is half an hour since you left; i have listened hard, but no sound has reached me that could make me apprehend you had not the strength to reach your own house. i trust that while i am penning these lines, you are already experiencing the relief that bed and repose will bring to your suffering. no words of mine can suffice to express to you my regret, my sorrow, my despair, for what happened to-night. i do not acquit you altogether of guilt, but i ask you to pardon your own, as well as mine. forgive me for having yielded to you after what had passed between us. i ought to have foreseen what would happen, and what did happen. god knows, i had resisted as long as i could, and had given way only upon the solemn promise you made me, never to refer to the stains of my former life, so long as my conduct towards you should remain honest and pure. the last seven months of my life have been absolutely honest and pure! yet, have you kept your word? if i were the only one to suffer i should be more resigned, but you are as unhappy as i; you are as ashamed of the insults you heap upon me, as i am, of receiving them. now that i perceive fully the canker that lies at the root of our position, it is my part to arrest the progress of the evil by cutting out my soul and my life, to preserve what can still be saved of yours and mine. listen, victor, i urge you not to refuse me your assistance in carrying out the plan i think indispensable for the honour of us both. if anything can give you courage it must be the knowledge that i have been faithful to you alone, these seven months. ah, truly i have never deceived you! truly! truly! yet in the course of these same months, how many mortifying scenes such as that of to-night have taken place! surely you can see that we must no longer hesitate! i will go away by the first saumur omnibus. the health of my little girl can serve as a pretext. when i am with her, i shall be able to reflect upon my position, and see what i can do in order to render it tolerable. if, as probably may be necessary, i were to leave the theatre, the furniture would cover my debt to jourdain, and if you were unwilling to be worried, i could request any man of business to sell it, up to the amount of my bill to jourdain, which is the only one for which you are responsible. i shall go abroad. such as i am, i am still capable of earning my living, which is all that is necessary. but all this is beside the question. the important point is that i ought to start as soon as possible, to-day even, in order to protect us both from ourselves. before going, i hope to see you once more, unless your condition should become worse--which is a horrifying thought when i consider that i am the cause of it. but whether i see you or not, whether you are the victim of my temper or not, i leave with you all my love and all my happiness. i do not reserve even hope; i give into your keeping my soul, my thoughts, my life. i take only with me my body, which you have no cause to regret. juliette. (_december 20th, 1833._) my beloved victor, i have been very unjust to you. you have had cause to call me ungrateful and unworthy. you will soon hate me--soon also, you will have forgotten me. i feel it. you see, there can be no thought or sentiment of yours that i do not understand and apprehend. at this moment, even while i am writing to you, you are blaming me for suffering. you are annoyed with me for idolising you with an extravagance which renders me mad and jealous. you are tired of my love. it cramps you, fatigues you. you meditate flying from me. my bad luck frightens you; you fear to share it longer. you dread the responsibility--say, rather, you love me less, perhaps not at all. oh, what suffering that fear gives me! my head is aching. i wish i could die. it must be my fault. i have been wrong to show you the hideous wound in my heart, the jealousy which lacerates and destroys it. yes, i ought to have concealed my sufferings from you. i ought never to fly into those rages that betray the depth of my love and grief. my victor, do not leave me! i beg you on my knees, not to be daunted before a public responsibility. who has the right to demand from you an account of the measure of the sacrifices you have made for me? what does it matter if you are denied the justice you deserve? what matter that you should be held responsible in part for my troubles? the point to be considered before all others, is your private relations with me. the responsibility you must accept is towards me only; it concerns only our two selves. if you repudiate it, it will kill me, for my whole life is wrapped up in you and your presence. i breathe only through your lips, see only with your eyes, live only in your heart. if you withdraw yourself from me, i must die. reflect! this is not a threat, to keep you near me. i am not exaggerating the extent to which you are necessary to my very existence--i am only telling you what i feel. it is the truth, but the truth under restriction, for i hardly dare acknowledge it in its entirety, even to myself. _i need you! only you! i cannot exist without you._ think of it. try to love me enough to accept the charge of my life, with all its attendant bad luck. juliette. _2 a.m., january 1st, 1834._ to thee, my victor! i dare not say anything. guess what i am feeling and do with me what you will! i love you ... the memory of what has gone before, and my fears for the future, prevent me from describing my emotions as freely as formerly. forget the past, take the future into your own hands, and i shall regain the faculty of saying "i love you," as earnestly as i mean it. i love you.... juliette. _saturday morning, 1834._ to monsieur victor hugo, in town. [illustration: juliette drouet about 1830. from champmartin's picture (victor hugo museum).] it is a quarter to one. i have been to your printing-works, numbers 16 and 19; you had not been seen. i went on to your house; you had not come in. i wrote you a line; i waited for you.... at last i came home hoping to find you; but you had not been here. my thanks to you for treating me like a vagrant dog. you had informed me that you were going to the printing-works, that you might go back to your house, that you would certainly go to mine. you forgot your promises at once, and you apparently hold my love very cheap. if you, indifferent though you may be, could see me in imagination, as i sit writing to you, you would be horrified at the condition your injustice and disdain have reduced me to. it is evident that you no longer love me, and that you are only bound to me by the fear of causing some great calamity if you desert me. it is indeed grievous that this should be the only sentiment which links you to me, and i am unwilling to accept a devotion so hollow and humiliating. i give you back your freedom. from this moment you have no responsibility towards me, although my heart is broken, although my soul is still fuller of love than it is able to contain, although my eyes, as i write, are drenched with bitter tears. i shall still have the courage necessary to bear my life as it will be, when bereft of happiness and laughter. you have been very cruel to me. i forgive you. forgive also my tempests of rage. i am ashamed of them, and thoroughly wretched. i swear to you by that which i hold most sacred in life, namely my child, that i am unable to explain how i can have been guilty yesterday of a thing i utterly disapprove of, and which seems to me the acme of effrontery. i swear i never saw those men. i am innocent of any crime. i can say no more. you have crushed me by referring again to my past life, and even while i am assuring you of my love and repentance, and while i still hope for a reconciliation, i tremble to feel that you can suspect me so unjustly. my heart shrinks from the sorrow still in store for it ... my pen fails me ... farewell! may you enjoy greater tranquillity and happiness than will fall to my lot. do not forget that, for a whole year, we were happy solely by means of our love. good-bye! i have indeed received my full meed of punishment for the imaginary crime of yesterday. farewell. think of me without bitterness. juliette. _monday, 2 a.m. (1834)._ i returned from the place royale about two hours ago. it was ten o'clock when i arrived there, and i left at about midnight. i had hoped to bring you back with me, or, failing to do so, to catch at least a glimpse of you. i waited patiently all that time, hoping that you would become aware of my presence, and reward me for it by one glance. but everything remained dark and gloomy for me, though it was easy to see the lights through the drawn blinds, and the shadows of many people moving about. it will not be the last time, in all probability, that i shall have the opportunity of seeing that, while i suffer and weep, you make merry. forgive me, my victor, forgive me for this comparison of our respective lots. it is the last time i shall make it, perhaps even the last time i shall write to you, for you have said that you will not read any more of my letters for a long time ... a long time signifies "for ever," for you will forget me and i shall die. your love was my whole life. to-night i feel as miserable as i should be if you no longer loved me. god, how sorely i need pity! i have just obeyed your wishes by putting all your works away carefully. as for my own relics of you, i have collected them in an english desk, under lock and key, and hidden them under my bolster, where they shall always remain. farewell, the performance of this duty has been a mournful satisfaction to me. _saturday, 6 p.m., 1834._ to thee, my beloved. you promised that as soon as your work was finished, you would devote all your time to me; you also said, when you were leaving me yesterday, that you would come early this morning. neither of these promises have you kept; yet i have never longed for your presence and your love more than at this moment, when anxiety seems to have taken up its abode with me. i have been so worried that i do not know whether i could endure another day like this. i am thankful to leave this house; it is so haunted by ill-luck and sadness, that to be quit of it will be a relief. my victor, what is going to become of us? what can we do to avert the misfortune that threatens us?[62] can you think of any way out of the trouble? do you love me? i love you so! in prosperity, and still more in adversity. oh, god be merciful to me! without your help i am done. juliette. i have no other refuge or i should not go to madame k. i cannot wander about alone, for that would make you anxious; yet i cannot stay here, i am too miserable. i will wait for you at madame k.'s house until nine o'clock. i hardly know what i am writing, or have written. my reason and will are in abeyance this morning. i write because i am wretched, because i must make moan to someone or something. i write because i shall soon be dead. these lines will be the cold remains of my soul and thoughts and love, as my body will be the corpse of my warm flesh and blood. i write to declare my faith, to obtain pardon of my sins, to weep, because my tears strangle me and will put an end to me. i shall be in the street to-night. i shall remain there as long as my strength holds out, without hope, but still, near you.... _midnight, saturday, august 2nd, 1834._ to victor. farewell for ever. you have decreed it thus. farewell then, and may you be as happy and admired as i shall be hapless and forlorn. farewell! this word comprises my whole life, and joy, and happiness. juliette. i am going away with my child. i am just going out to fetch her and take our places. the comédie française management has no claim on my services until it has assigned me my parts. my maid has orders to open my letters. if there should be one from the comédie française she would let me know at once and everything could be arranged. i need not, therefore, worry about it at present. (1834.) mademoiselle marie, c/o madame drouet, no. 4 bis, rue de paradis au marais, paris. enclosed is a letter for monsieur victor hugo. if he should not come to the house, try and manage to let him know that there is one awaiting him at no. 4, rue de paradis au marais, from madame kraftt. if he is still in paris i expect he will understand what you mean, and will either send for it or fetch it himself. in any case, write to me by every post and tell me about monsieur victor hugo: whether you have seen him, what he has said to you, whether he is still in paris, or whether he has left; in fact, tell me everything you can find out concerning him. i am writing from rennes, where i arrived very ill, with my child. i hope, however, to be able to leave to-morrow and go to my sister. write to me there and address thus: madame drouet, c/o m. louis kock, saint renan, by brest. please take good care of the house. j. drouet. (enclosure) rennes, _2.30 p.m., monday (1834)._ my dear victor, i am writing this letter on the chance of its reaching you, but with the sad premonition that you will never read it. my beloved, i love you more than ever. i cannot do without you. i would willingly die for you, but i cannot consent to accept a devotion which might endanger your health and your life. i was forced to fly from you. it cost me much to resist your supplications and your wrathful glances. i suffered frightfully; and now, alas, i know that, were you with me, i could no longer withstand either your gentle pleading or your terrible anger. i am very wretched. i love and bless you. be happy! juliette. one portion of your curse has already come to pass. my soul and body have suffered severely. in addition, i have been harried to death by the idiotic authorities, who are suspicious of every woman without a passport. i have been at rennes about half an hour. it is half-past two. i leave again for brest to-morrow morning at four o'clock; i expect to arrive on thursday at five in the evening. my victor, i love you. i could do anything for you. have pity upon me. i love you better than anything in life. _august 5th, 1834._ mademoiselle marie, care of madame drouet, no. 4 bis, rue de paradis au marais, paris. here is another letter for monsieur victor hugo. try to get it to him. if he is in the country near paris, let him know that there is something at my house in the name of madame kraftt that will interest him. i have spent a sad and sleepless night. i am afraid of falling really ill. answer this at once. j. drouet. (enclosure) rennes, _4 a.m., august 5th (1834)._ victor, i love you. victor, i shall die of this separation. i need you, to be able to live. since i told you everything, since the moment when my eyes could no longer rest upon yours, i have felt as if all my veins were being opened, and my life's blood slowly drained away. i feel myself dying, and i know that i love you the better for every pang. my victor, can you forgive me? do you still love me? is it really true that you hate me, that i am odious in your sight, that you despise me, that you would grind my face to the pavement if i pressed my lips to your feet, pleading for forgiveness? oh, if you still love me, if you still respect me, if you can forgive everything, only tell me so, and i will do all you wish! everything, i swear! will you take me back? i am very ill. j. _3 a.m. (1834)._ for my victor. while i was expecting to see you i could not sleep. now that the hope is dead i still cannot sleep because i am unhappy. i grieve not to have seen you; i grieve because i was cross and ill-tempered when you were gentle and charming. i rehearse in imagination all the incidents of the evening, and the pain at my heart grows unbearable. it is wicked of me to torment you, yet i cannot help myself. my offence goes by the name of "jealousy." much as i dread displeasing you, i yet cannot avoid giving way to that hideous passion. i make you miserable when i should like to saturate you with happiness. oh, it is horribly wrong of me! i am much to be pitied, for i am jealous, and of whom? the most beautiful, the most gentle, the most perfect of women ... your wife! heaven forgive me! my torment is surely sufficient expiation for my fault! god, how i love you! how i love my victor! all is contained in these words. you do forgive me, do you not? and you love me as much as ever? i hope so ... else, i should prefer to die. juliette. _sunday, 3 p.m. (1834)._ i have abandoned hope ... yet love remains. i no longer believe that any happiness is possible for me in the future, but _you_ i love more every day; better than the first day, better than yesterday, better than this morning, better than a moment ago; and still i am not happy. [illustration: a page of juliette drouet's note-book in 1834. the note-book belongs to m. louis barthou.] you remember what i used to say to you when _marie tudor_ was in rehearsal? "those wretches have robbed me of my self-confidence; i dare not, cannot rehearse any more; i feel paralysed." to-day, it is not a theatrical part that is in question--it is my life. now that calumny has crushed me, now that my mode of life has been condemned without my having a chance of self-defence, now that my health and reason have been expended in this struggle without profit or glory, now that i have been held up before the public as a woman without a future, i dare not, cannot live longer ... this is absolutely true ... i dare not live. this fear has brought me to the verge of suicide ... a peculiar suicide. i do not propose to kill myself like other people. i mean to sever myself from you, and, to me, such a severance signifies death. death certainly. i have already made one experiment of the kind, therefore i am sure. i am confirmed in this project by the reflection that you will thereby be restored to liberty; that you will be free to direct your life and your genius in the way best suited to your happiness; that i shall no longer be an obstacle in your path, but an object of pity and indulgence--pity for what i shall suffer, indulgence and forgiveness for such of my faults as have made you suffer. if the excess of my love and grief should bring me back to your side, do not notice me ... shut your eyes, stop your ears, remain in your own house ... thus you may learn to forget, while i ... i ... shall die. i shall not suffer long. i shall soon be at rest. it is raining hard at this moment, and i am in a raging fever. no matter, i shall go out. i do not know whether you propose coming to fetch me. if you do not, i cannot tell what time i shall return home. i don't care, i am mad! i am in torture such as i have never yet endured! yet i love you even more than i suffer. my love dominates my whole being. i love you! juliette. 5.30 (1834). you wish me to write to you in your absence. i am always unwilling to accede to this desire, for when we are separated, my thoughts are so sad and painful that i should prefer to hide them from you if possible. you see, my victor, this sedentary, solitary life is killing me. i wear my soul out with longing. my days are spent in a room twelve feet square. what i desire is not the world, not empty pleasures, but _liberty_--_liberty_ to act, liberty to employ my time and strength in household duties. what i want is a respite from suffering, for i endure a thousand deaths every moment. i ask for life--life like yours, like other people's. if you cannot understand this, and if i seem foolish or unjust in your eyes, leave me, do not worry about me any more. i hardly know what i am writing; my eyes are inflamed, my heart heavy. i want air, i am suffocating! oh, heaven, have pity upon me! what have i done to deserve such wretchedness? i love you, i adore you, my victor; have pity upon me. kill me with one blow, but do not let me suffer as many eternities as there are minutes in every one of your absences. what am i saying? i am delirious, feverish. oh god, have mercy on me! juliette. _november 4th, 8.30 p.m. (1834)._ yes, you are my support, the stable earth beneath my feet, my hope, my joy, my happiness, my all! i do not know how these halting words of mine can be expected to convey my thoughts to your mind, but this indeed is truly and sincerely meant: that you are to me the noblest, most sincere, most generous of men. i believe this, and have absolute confidence in your power to frustrate the evil fate which holds me in its grip. my dearly beloved, you were quite charming just now, and you are perfectly right when you say that there is an element of vanity in your nobility of conduct; for nothing could be more becoming than the elegant and dignified manner in which you raised me just now from my knees. you were really great. you were a king! my darling little toto, _chéri!_ i am going to bed now, because i am not certain that you will come early enough to take me out; and, after all, you are not the sort of man to be scandalised by finding a woman in bed, especially ... juliette. 1834. my dearly beloved, i am always wishing i were a great actress, because, if my soul and intellect were equal to yours, another link would be forged between us; but i wish it still more at such a time as this, for i should then be able to relieve you of the annoyance of being at the mercy of an old woman, whose conceit has made her aggressive.[63] i need not finish this letter, for here you are! 1835. it is long after 11 o'clock. i am no longer expecting you for a walk, but i still hope to see you this evening. i write you these few lines as an apology for the disappointment i feel each time you fail me. i am miserable, but not angry; i shed tears, but do not reproach you; i am often much to be pitied, but i never cease loving you to distraction. if only you would believe this, i think i could bear my invidious position with more resignation. i am afraid you misapprehend my love, and this anxiety often makes the days seem long and sad. but i must not forget that you are working and worn out, and that you have neither strength nor leisure to listen, that is to say, to read of my worries. 11.30 _p.m._ here you are! i am finishing this letter more untidily even than usual. luckily one's character, and, more important still, one's heart, are not exclusively interpreted by one's handwriting. juliette. _saturday, 3.15 p.m._ (1835). my poor, dear, beloved toto, when i see you so preoccupied with important business i am ashamed to add to your fatigues by the reiteration of my devotion, which you already know by heart. did i not fear that you would misunderstand my silence, i should put an end to these letters, which, after all, are only a cold skeleton, a dull narrative of the generous, tender, passionate feelings which fill my heart. i should stop them, i say, until after the production of your play, reserving to myself the privilege of taking my revenge afterwards by multiplying my words and caresses. this is what i should do if you felt only a quarter as much solicitude for your dear little person as i do. it is nearly three o'clock. i hope by this time everything has gone off well at rehearsal. it is high time, my admired, beloved, adored poet, you left that wretched den they call the théâtre français. you will leave it with full credit to yourself, notwithstanding the ill-will of that jealous old wretch, and the stupidity, hatred, and malice of the cabal against you. you will see, my splendid lion, whether those hideous crows will dare croak in face of your roaring. as for me, if anything could make me prouder and happier, it would be that i alone understand you. juliette. _saturday, 1.30 p.m., april 11th (1835)._ why were you so smart just now? it makes me dreadfully anxious, especially in conjunction with your early morning walks to the arsenal. toto ... toto ... you do not know what i am capable of; take care! i do not love you for nothing. if you deceived me the least bit in the world i should kill you. but no, seriously, i am jealous when i see you so fascinating. i do not feel as reassured as you would wish me to be. in fact, i insist upon attending these rehearsals. i do not choose to confide my dear lover to the discretion of nobody knows who. i wish to keep my lover to myself, in the face of the nation and of all french actresses. that is my politic and literary resolve: i shall put it into execution, from to-morrow. by the way, this is my birthday. you did not even know it--or, rather, i dare say you do not care whether i was ever born or not. is it true that you do not mind one little bit? that is all the importance you attach to my love! and yet one thing is very certain: that i was created and put into the world solely to love you, and god knows with what ardour i fulfil my mission. i love you--ah, yes, indeed, i love you--i love my victor! juliette. _saturday, 8 p.m. (1835)._ i am more than ever resolved to separate our lives one from the other. what you say about mlle. mars's increasing age and the impossibility of obtaining a double success through her, literary as well as financial, and about the necessity of securing the services of madame dorval or some equally handsome and celebrated actress, makes me determined to sever our connection as speedily as possible, no matter where i may have to go, or under what pecuniary conditions. your words to-night prove that you have had private intelligence about mlle. mars, madame dorval, and the theatre generally, that you have concealed from me, although it must completely revolutionise the plans made by you for the first play you were to give at this theatre. the secrecy you have maintained on the subject, contrary to all your promises to conceal nothing from me, grieves me more than the treachery of monsieur harel and mlle. george, more even than the wicked animosity of your enemies and the perfidy of your intimate friends against myself. this silence is proof positive that i am a hindrance to your interests; you dread my ambition and my jealousy; you had already seen the propriety of giving a part to madame dorval, but you did not dare tell me so, for fear of encountering resistance and tears from me at this new distribution. you have only partially averted these. i will not attempt to thwart you, on the contrary; as for my tears, they are not worth wiping away, nor even restraining.[64] from this very night we cease our communion of dramatic interests. i go back to the position i ought never to have left: that of a hack actress, who is given any part, and badly paid at that. you resume your liberty without any impediment. let us hope this new resolution will conduce to our greater happiness. juliette. _tuesday, april 28th, 1835. four hours before the production of "angélo."_ this is just to remind you of my love, and that it will only be purified and augmented by the ill-luck and perfidy to which you are more exposed than others, my noble poet, my king--king, indeed, of us all, though lover only of me: is that not so? i have nothing to fear from you, have i, my darling? you will take care of yourself and resist the advances of that shameless woman. promise me this. i would not allude to it to-day, only i feel so uneasy at the thought of your spending the whole evening in her society, that i would give my life to prevent it. if you understood the greatness and quality of my love, you would appreciate my alarm. think of poor me, sitting at the back of a box to-night, enduring all the anguish of jealousy and love. juliette. madame pierceau came at one o'clock, leaving monsieur verdier in a cab below. he was desperate at the loss of his stall, which, he hears, was taken from him by your orders. as i did not know what to say about it, i advised madame pierceau to send him to you. monsieur pasquier, as i anticipated, has not taken madame récamier's box. i wonder what you have done with it. did it reach you in time? _midnight, tuesday, april 28th, 1835. an hour after the triumph of "angélo."_ my cup is full. bravo! bravo!! bravo!!! bravo!!!! bravo!!!!! for the first time i have been able to applaud you as much as i wished, for you were not there to prevent it. thank you, my beloved! thank you for myself, whose happiness you increase with every second of my life, and thank you also for the crowd that was there, admiring, listening, and appreciating you. [illustration: autograph letter from juliette drouet to her daughter claire.] [illustration: autograph letter from juliette drouet to her daughter claire (_continued_).] i saw and heard everything, and will tell you all about it; although if the applause, enthusiasm, and delirium could be measured by sheer weight, my load would indeed be heavy. i will give you full details of the performance, to-morrow, for i dare not hope to see you to-night; it would be too much happiness for one day, and you do not want me to go mad with joy! till to-morrow, then. if you knew how conscientiously i clapped madame dorval, you would hesitate to say or do anything to add to the soreness i already feel at the thought that another than i has been selected to interpret your noble sentiments. there, now i am giving way to sadness again, because you are with that woman! good-night, my beloved. sleep well, my poet, if the sound of the great chorus of praise does not prevent it. to your laurels i add my tender caresses and thousands of kisses. juliette. _friday, 8 p.m. (1835)._ if i were a clever woman, my gorgeous bird, i could describe to you how you unite in yourself the beauties of form, plumage, and song! i would tell you that you are the greatest marvel of all ages, and i should only be speaking the simple truth. but to put all this into suitable words, my superb one, i should require a voice far more harmonious than that which is bestowed upon my species--for i am the humble owl that you mocked at only lately. therefore, it cannot be. i will not tell you to what degree you are dazzling and resplendent. i leave that to the birds of sweet song who, as you know, are none the less beautiful and appreciative. i am content to delegate to them the duty of watching, listening and admiring, while to myself i reserve the right of loving; this may be less attractive to the ear, but it is sweeter far to the heart. i love you, i love you, my victor; i cannot reiterate it too often; i can never express it as much as i feel it. i recognise _you_ in all the beauty that surrounds me--in form, in colour, in perfume, in harmonious sound: all of these mean _you_ to me. you are superior to them all. you are not only the solar spectrum with the seven luminous colours, but the sun himself, that illumines, warms, and revivifies the whole world! that is what you are, and i am the lowly woman who adores you. juliette. if you are coming to fetch me, as you led me to expect, i shall see you very soon now. i have never longed more ardently for you. lanvin has just come. i will tell you about it when i see you. _thursday, 7.30 p.m. (1835)._ to my dear absent one. i hardly saw you this morning. i have not seen you this evening, and god knows what time it will be before you come to take me to _angélo_--for i do not admit the possibility of a single performance taking place without my presence: besides, i am not sorry to know exactly how much time you spend with these actresses of the sixteenth century, and those of the nineteenth, who are no less dangerous. there, i am nearly as cross as i am sad. i had vowed i would not write at length to-day, just to teach you not to throw my letters aside without reading them. myself, my letters, forgotten! you certainly manage to be the most worshipped and the least attentive of lovers. oh, you do not care! never mind, i am sad. i am longing for you to-night, as the poor prisoner hungers for his pittance at the hour he is accustomed to receive it. but you are indifferent--you can calmly let my soul die of inanition--do you not love me, then? tell me! well, i love _you_. i love you my victor. i forgive you, because i hope it is not your fault, and also, because i cannot prevent myself from loving you. juliette. _tuesday, 8 p.m., 1835._ you hurt me a little bit just now, my toto. while i was sacrificing the happiness of being with you one moment longer, to your need of repose, you were worrying about trifles, and not giving me a thought or a farewell. in moments like these i am forced to realise that you do not care for me as i care for you, and i feel wretched in consequence. another thing i have observed is that you never allude to my letters. you neither notice the complaints i make nor the love i shower upon you with every word. you have turned my happiness and content into sadness. my toto, _you do not love me as i love you_. you have exhausted your faculty of loving. i tell myself that the enthusiastic and passionate devotion you once cherished for me has degenerated into mere partiality--then i mourn and mope, like a woman betrayed. if you knew how i love you, my toto, you would understand the anguish of my eagerness, you would pity me, and, instead of leaving my letters unanswered, you would fly to me the moment you have read them, to reassure and comfort me if my fears are unfounded. never mind, i give you a thousand kisses. how many will you waste? juliette. _tuesday, 12.30 p.m. (1835)._ my dear little toto, you have written me a very charming letter. i cannot send you one as fascinating; all i can do is to give you my whole heart and thoughts and life. you are quite right when you say that i shall soon give myself to you again, regardless of the sorrows that may follow. it is true, for i could sooner dispense with life than with your love. but let me tell you again the joy, surprise, and happiness, your letter caused me. you are better than i, and you are right when you think me an old idiot. i am in the seventh heaven this morning. you have never given me so much happiness, my dear little toto. i am so grateful! i cannot love you more in return, for that were impossible; but i can appreciate in a higher degree your worth and the depth of your affection for me. you are my dear little man, my lover, my god, my adored tyrant! i love you, adore you, think of you, desire you, call upon you! juliette. which do you like best, quality or quantity? _monday, 8.20 p.m. (1835)._ i adore your jealousy when it gives me the pleasure of seeing you at an unaccustomed hour; but when it simply consists in suspecting me without advantage to ourselves, oh, how i detest it! you were rather cross to-day, but you atoned so amply by coming as you did, that i would willingly see you a little bit unjust to me every day, if it entailed the pleasure of having you one minute longer in the evening. if you only knew how true it is that i love you, you could never be jealous, or admit the possibility of my being unfaithful to you; and again, if you knew how much i love you, you would come every moment of the day and of the night, to surprise me in that occupation, and you would ever be welcomed with transports of joy. yes, yes, i love you! i do not say so to force you to believe it, but because i crave to repeat it with every breath, with every word, in every tone. i adore you much more than you can ever wish. i love you above all things. juliette. you attach too little importance to my letters as a rule. you forget that fine unguents are contained in small boxes, great love in trivial words. _friday, 2 p.m. (1835)._ you want a huge long letter ... and yet another huge long letter ... you are not very modest in your requirements. what would you say if i asked as much?--you, who write to every one in the world except me. i have a great mind to treat you according to your deserts, and write only as much as you write, love you only as much as you love me. you would be nicely punished if i did this. but do not fear; i should never play you such a scurvy trick. i am too much in need of an outlet for the superabundance of my heart, to venture to close the issue. i am too anxious to tell you every day how much i adore you, to condemn myself to silence. i long too much to get near you, in thought at all events, to afford to cut off the way of communication. now that you know why i write so often, i will begin my letter. my dear little toto, although it is not long since i left you, i desire you with all the impatience and all the inclination that comes of a long separation. i should like to know where you are and what you are doing. i should like to be wherever you are, and, above all, i should like to be in your heart and thoughts, as you are in mine. i should like to be you and you me, in respect of love. the rest becomes you and you only. you are admired; i need to be loved. are you capable, i ask you, of loving me as much as i love you, or half as much? even that would be immeasurable. if you only knew the extent of my love, you would treasure me, only for that. i love you, love you, love you, love you, love you! this short little word, issuing from my heart, has impetus enough to mount right up to the heavens. i love you! juliette. i have received a letter from my daughter. this, combined with the horrible weather, makes me quite happy. _friday, 9 p.m. (1835)._ you gave me a delicious afternoon. how delightfully you talked! i am not alluding to your wit; a fly does not seek to raise an ingot of gold! neither do i speak of the happiness of leaning upon your arm, listening to your voice, gazing into your eyes, breathing your breath, measuring my steps by yours, feeling my heart beat in unison with yours. there can be no happiness greater than that i enjoyed this afternoon with you, clasped in your arms, your voice mingling with mine, your eyes in mine, your heart upon my heart, our very souls welded together. for me, there is no man on this earth but you. the others i perceive only through your love. i enjoy nothing without you. you are the prism through which the sunshine, the green landscape, and life itself, appear to me. that is why i am idle, dejected, and indifferent, when you are not by my side. i do not know how to employ either my body or my soul, away from you. i only come to life again in your presence. i need your kisses upon my lips, your love in my soul. juliette. _saturday, 11 a.m. (1835)._ good morning, my victor! let me first kiss you. of all the promises i made you yesterday, when we separated, only one has been broken. i promised to love you as i loved you at that moment--that is to say, more than all the world; but i do not know how it happened, i have come to love you much more! and i feel it will be so as long as i shall live. i beg you, my dear little toto, to make up your mind to this, as i have already done. do you know, my blessed toto, you are a second little tom thumb, far more marvellous than your prototype; for, not merely with pebbles or crumbs of bread do you mark the roads along which you travel, but actually with jewels and precious stones. i shall always recognise the spot where you dropped an enormous ruby as big as a flint, yesterday, with as much indifference as if it had been a piece of grit from fontainebleau. what do you suppose must happen to an insignificant creature like myself in the presence of so much wealth, in the midst of the enchantments of your mind? will she lose her reason? that is already done. as to her heart, you stole it from her very easily, and therefore nothing remains to the poor wight but what is already yours. her love, her admiration, her life, belong to you! my glances, words, caresses, kisses, all, are yours! juliette. (1835.) it seems to be always my turn to write to you now. in the old days your letters called forth my letters, your love mine--and it was meet that it should be so, for, as you have often said, the man should be the pursuer of the woman. it is always awkward when a change of _rôles_ occurs, and i am acutely conscious of it. i feel that a caress from you gives me far more happiness and security than thousands of those elicited by me. it is already half-past eleven and you have not arrived. perhaps you are not coming, and the prohibition you laid upon me yesterday against seeking you at the printing works redoubles my anxiety and jealousy. i fear lest some untoward thing may have befallen you, or, worse still, some agreeable invitation reached you. my heart is crushed as in a vice; i think there is no greater suffering in this world than that of loving yet fearing. we arrange our lives very badly. since you are not a free agent, and may be prevented from seeing me by thousands of circumstances we cannot foresee, you should at least allow me the opportunity of knowing what you are doing and where you are. it would satisfy me and keep me content. instead of this, i have to wait for you, a prey to fears that tear at my heartstrings. alas, i am to be pitied for loving you so intensely. it is a superabundance that will surely kill the body which bears it. if you love me only moderately, i pray god to deprive me of one of two things: either my life, or my love. juliette. nearly midnight. what a night i have before me! god pity me! at metz, _september 17th, thursday, 8.15 a.m., 1835._ good-morning, my toto, good morning. it is magnificently fine, and we are going to be enormously happy. we are about to resume our bird-life, our life of love and freedom in the woods. i am enchanted. if only you were here, i should kiss you with all my might and main, as a reminder. what sort of a night did you have? did you love me? have you been writing to me under the old chestnut-tree? i am sure you have not. you scamp, i am afraid i go on loving you in proportion to the decrease of your affection. i was not able to read last night. i went to bed at a quarter past ten, and had horrid dreams. i trust they will not come true, but i confess i should be glad to get news of my poor little girl, whom we neglect far too much. if two more days go by without a letter, i shall write to saumur, for i am really worried about her. my dear little toto, i am going to dress now, so as to get to you earlier. i love you, i love you with all my strength and all my soul. i kiss you! i adore you! till this afternoon. your juliette. at metz, _september 24th, thursday, 8.45 a.m._ good-morning, my darling victor. i love you and am happy, for we are going to be more absolutely together than was possible yesterday, or the day before, when an inconvenient third disturbed our privacy. also the weather is glorious, and i am madly in love with you; so everything around me glows radiant and beautiful. i stayed in bed until 8.30, although i woke up at seven o'clock; but i just rolled lazily about, thinking of you, and reading yesterday's newspapers. i reached home exactly at seven o'clock last night, undressed, tidied my things, dined, wrote to you, did my accounts, and read _claude gueux_ till half-past ten. then i put my hair into curl-papers, and got into bed at eleven o'clock. i went to you in spirit, and dreamt that i was kissing baby toto, and making big toto jealous. this is the complete history of my morning up to date; now i shall dress, breakfast, and go for a walk in the meadows with the maid. farewell, dearest, until this afternoon's happiness. always yours in love and longing. i love you with all my heart, i embrace you in spirit, i adore you with my whole soul, i admire you with every faculty of my mind. think of me, come to me, come to me as soon as possible. my arms, my cheek, my whole being, await you. j. at metz, _thursday, 8.45 p.m._ my dear, good toto, i should have got back without adventure, had i not met an enormous and horrific toad in the road, which sent me flying home, shrieking as if the devil was at my heels. i was here by ten minutes past seven, began my dinner at five minutes past eight, and am now sitting writing to you, to thank you for all the bliss you lavish upon me. this day, drenched with rain though it was, has been one of the most beautiful and happiest of my whole life. if there had been rainbows in the sky, they would be reflected in our hearts, linking our souls together in thought and emotion. i thank you for drawing my attention to so many lovely things i should never notice without your assistance and the touch of your dear white hand upon my brow; but there is one beauty greater and nobler than all the combined ones of heaven and earth, for the recognition of which i require no help--and that is yourself, my best beloved, your personality that i adore, your intellect that enchants and dazzles me. would that i possessed the pen of a poet, to describe all i think and feel! but, alas, i am only a poor woman in love, and such a condition is not conducive to brilliancy of expression! good-night, my adored one; good-night, my darling. sleep well. i send you a thousand kisses. j. metz, _monday, 11.5 a.m., september 24th, 1835._ great indeed was our misfortune yesterday! i agree with you in that, my victor, because i love you. for over a year i have suffered much; oftener than not, without complaint. i always trusted that my love and fidelity would engender in you feelings of esteem and confidence, but now that hope is for ever at an end; for, far from diminishing, your suspicion and contempt have grown to terrible dimensions. you love me, i know, and i worship you with all the strength of my being. _you are the only man i have ever loved, the only one to whom i have ever given this assurance._ yet i now implore you on my knees to let me go. i cannot urge this too strongly. you see, my dear, i am so wretched, so humiliated, and i suffer so acutely, that i shall have to leave you, even against your will; so it would be kinder of you to give your consent, that i may at least have the sad satisfaction, if i must forsake you, of knowing that i have not disobeyed you. farewell, my joy; farewell, my life; farewell, my soul! i leave you, for the very sake of our love--i offer this sacrifice on behalf of us both. later, you will understand. but before bidding you a last good-bye, i swear to you that, during the last year, i have not committed one single action i need blush for, nor harboured one guilty thought. i tell you this from the bottom of my heart. you may believe it. i shall go to my child, for i am anxious about her since she has been at saumur. perhaps i may bring her back with me. i think i was very wrong to send her away. i mean to repair my fault if there is yet time. the pretext of her health will be sufficient before the world. my heart shall be dumb upon all that concerns you. i will keep everything to myself. i must get work. if you can do anything to help me find some, it will be good of you. i mention this for the first and last time, for, if you were to forget me, you know very well that i should be the last to venture to recall myself to you. good-bye again, my friend; good-bye, for ever! i have been copying your little book, hoping you would be generous enough to leave it with me. good-bye! good-bye! do not suffer, do not weep, do not think, do not accuse yourself! i love and forgive you. juliette. metz, _saturday, 7.30 p.m. (october 1835)._ you were in a great hurry to leave me to-night, my best-beloved. if consideration for me was your motive, it was high-handed and blundering of you, for i never enjoyed myself more than this evening, and, until the moment you left me so abruptly, i had never so savoured the happiness of being with you in the highways and byways. i therefore returned home sadly and thoughtfully. i have begun my letter to-night with diminished joy and confidence in the future, for your hurry to leave me weighs upon me, and i cannot explain it satisfactorily to myself. i came in at a quarter past six, suffering greatly from indigestion. the maid told me some one had called for the dog--two gentlemen, who seemed much attached to it. poor brute, it was a wrong instinct that led it to follow us. i have no doubt it is expiating its offence in hunger and cold at this very moment. i am somehow unduly interested in the fate of the poor thing. i feel something beyond ordinary pity for it; it makes me think of the fate and future in store for a poor girl we both know. she also follows step by step a master who will have no scruple in casting her adrift when his duty to society proves as pressing and sacred as that which called him away to-night. i am depressed, my dear friend, and unwell. the oppression on my chest is increasing. i hope your sore throat will diminish in proportion to what i am enduring. providence is too just to allow such cumulation of suffering. good-night--sleep well and think of me if you can. as for loving me, that is another question; one's emotions cannot grow to order. i love you. j. _sunday, 8 p.m., 1835._ my dear darling, i cannot describe to you the rapture with which i listened to the two sublime poems you recited to me, one on the first revolution and the other on the two napoleons. but where can your equal be found on earth!... my dear little toto, do not laugh at me. i feel so many things i cannot express, much less write. i love and revere you, and when i reflect upon what you are, i marvel! since you left me, i have read again _napoleon the second_. i shall never tire of it. it is going to bed with me now. you told me to wait for you till 9.30; after that hour i shall go to bed. if you should happen to come later, i will open the door to you myself, as you have forgotten the key. i want to do so, that i may not lose one second of the happiness of having you with me. sleep well--good-night--do not suffer--do not work--sleep! juliette. _wednesday, 8.30 p.m., 1835._ i am half afraid of taking too literally your request for a daily letter. tell me seriously how i am to interpret it, so that i may not make myself ridiculous, by overwhelming you with letters you do not want. tell me the truth once for all, so that i may know where i am, and may give myself up without restraint to the pleasure of telling you, and writing to you, that i love you with all my heart, and that you alone constitute my sole joy, my sole happiness, and my sole future. if you can experience only one quarter of the bliss in reading, that i shall feel in inditing my scribble, you shall receive some of my prose every day, but in limited quantities, calculated not to wear out your patience. and, in order to demonstrate my powers of self-restraint, i will limit myself to six trillions of kisses for your beautiful mouth. besides, here you come! i love you. juliette. _wednesday, 8 p.m., december 2nd, 1835._ my beloved, when one is ill and feverish, everything tastes bitter to the lips and palate. i am in that position. i am abominably miserable, and all the sweet words you lavish upon me seem tainted. but i have enough sense left to realise that it is my condition that prevents me from relishing the full meed of happiness you are able to give me in one moment. forgive me for suffering, and for not having the strength or generosity to conceal it from you; it is only because i suffer too much, and love you too much, which is the same thing. i promise to be very cheerful to-night, and to disguise my feelings. i have read everything concerning you in the papers, and i cannot help suspecting that a passage about you and your work has been purposely cut out. if this is so, you had much better tell me, for i am quite equal to bearing the truth, and even to hearing lies; so i beg you to tell me what was in that newspaper, and thus spare me the trouble of procuring another copy. you must indeed be happy and proud on behalf of the person to whom you are supposed to have dedicated your sublime poem. [illustration: victor hugo.] the article by monsieur f. dugué seems singularly well-informed about your restoration to the _domestic hearth_. i am apparently not the only one who notices that for the last year you have been changing your habits and feelings, though i am probably the only one who will die of grief in consequence--but what matter, so long as the domestic hearth remains _cheerful_ and the _family_, _happy_. i hope you will do your best to come and see me to-morrow, during the intervals of the performance unless the salutations you have to make, and the compliments and admiration you must acknowledge should detain you against your will; in which case i hope i may be brave enough not to worry about such a trifle, and reasonable enough not to let the magnitude of my love depend upon so slight a pleasure. you see, my dear angel, i bow to the arguments you impress on me. i am no longer sad, neither do i suffer. i love you; that is the truest word of all. juliette. _tuesday, 8.45 p.m., december 15th, 1835._ of course, my darling, you did right to come back, whatever your reason might be; but the pleasure of your visit was quite spoilt by your inquiry as to how i spend my time, when it is self-evident that my conduct is irreproachable. it may surprise you that i should have borne the inquisition you habitually subject me to, with less equanimity to-day than usual. i own, my poor angel, that i do not know why it should be so. perhaps i am like the cripple, who feels pain in the leg which has been cut off, long after he has lost it. i often suffer over my past life, though the present is so widely different. i suffer, not from variations of temperature, but from the variations of your love, which seems to grow daily colder and more gloomy. if i am mistaken, forgive and pity me; but if, as i fear, i make no error, tell me so frankly, and i shall be grateful for your sincerity. you see, my poor friend, i cannot believe that your jealousy is other than an insulting mistrust of us both. i have watched you carefully for the last six months, and i can see quite well that, although your love is gradually waning, your supervision becomes ever more active and more fidgety. if i were absolutely sure of what i suspect, i should not say this to you--i should go away at once, and you would never hear of me again; but if by chance i were wrong, and you still care for me, such a course would entail frightful sorrow upon us both. therefore i remain, preferring to incur your hatred and contempt, rather than run the risk of grieving you. there, my poor angel, is the attitude of mind and heart in which you found me this evening; it will explain why i received your question so badly, although i was grateful for your presence. you see, my head and heart are weary. if you are not careful, some calamity, resulting from this condition, will overtake and crush you, at a moment when neither you nor i will be able to prevent it. i give you this warning in all sincerity, but with the intimate conviction that it will not affect you. as long as you feel i belong to you wholly and entirely, you are as indifferent to my sufferings as to my happiness. j. _wednesday, 8.30, february 3rd, 1836._ if i have grieved you, my beloved, i beg you to forgive me, for i know your position is awkward and demands much consideration, especially from me. besides, why should i complain of my mode of life more to-day, than yesterday? i accept my position without regret; therefore there is no reason for questioning an arrangement which only you can alter. i cannot help noticing that your love is not what it was. i may say i am sure of it, if i may judge by the impatient words you occasionally utter, half against your will, and by other signs it would take too long to commit to paper. i certainly possess a _devoted_ victor, but no longer the _lover_ victor of former days. if it is as i fear, it becomes your duty to leave me at once; for i have never wished to live with you otherwise than as an adored mistress--certainly not as a woman dependent upon a man whose passion is spent. i want no pension. i demand my place in your heart, apart from any feeling of duty or gratitude. that is what i desire, as earnestly as i long to be a faithful woman, submissive to your every whim, whether just or unjust. if i have hurt your feelings, my dearly beloved, i plead for pardon from the bottom of my heart. if you have to acknowledge a decrease in your love, be brave enough to do so frankly, and do not leave to me the frightful task of guessing it; but if you care for me as much as ever, say it again and again, for i doubt it, alas, and, in love, doubt is more painful a thousand times than the most heartbreaking certainty. farewell, i worship you. j. _wednesday, 8.15 p.m., february 17th, 1836._ you must think me either very cruel or very blind, my beloved. i think, perhaps, it would be best for you to accept the latter hypothesis. i love you, which means that i am jealous; but, as my jealousy is in proportion to my love, my doubts and frenzy are more vivid, more bitter, than those of ordinary women, who are only capable of an ordinary affection. very well--i am cruel! so be it! i detest every woman upon whom your glances rest. i feel capable of hating all women, young or old, plain or handsome, if i suspect that they have dared raise their eyes to your splendid and noble features. i am jealous of the very pavement upon which you tread, and the air you breathe. the stars and sun alone are beyond my jealousy, because their radiance can be eclipsed by one single flash from your eyes. i love you as the lioness loves her mate. i love you as a passionate woman, ready to yield up her life at your slightest gesture. i love you with the soul and intelligence god has lent his creatures to enable them to appreciate exceptional men like yourself. that is why, my glorious victor, at one and the same moment, i can rage, weep, crawl, or stand erect; i bow my head and venerate you! there are days when one can fix one's gaze upon the sun itself without being blinded: thus it is with me now. i see you, i am dazzled, entranced, and i grasp your beauty in all its splendour. juliette. _thursday, 8 p.m., august 15th, 1836._ since you leave me here all by myself, my beloved, i shall think only of you, and in proof of this, i will scribble all over this virgin sheet of white paper. it is barbarous of you to let me grow fatter than i already am, by leaving me to dawdle at my fireside, instead of taking me out to walk and get thin. i am in love with you, but you do not care a bit. i am very sad not to have you with me, doubly so, when i think that it is on account of a play in which i am to have no part, after all the time i have waited and endured. when i reflect seriously upon this, my despair makes me long to fly to the uttermost ends of the world. it is so necessary that i should think of my future. i have wasted so much time waiting, that it almost spells ruin to me that you should produce a piece in which i may not play. you see, my dearest, i am not as generous as you thought. i am afraid i can no longer disguise from you the injury it does me to be three years out of the theatrical world, while you are bringing out plays. forgive me, but i have a horror of poverty, and would do anything in reason to evade it. i love you. juliette. _friday, 8.30 p.m., march 11th, 1836._ dear little soul, you are quite happy, i hope, now that you possess the keys of paradise. i had a few more difficulties to encounter after you went away, but they were of no consequence. now that our little palace is nearly finished, my soul, i hope we shall celebrate the event in the usual way; but i must first rest a little, and nurse myself up, for i am really quite worn out with the dirt and litter. i am afraid to look at you or touch you in your beauty and purity and charm, while i am so ugly and untidy and exhausted that i hardly know myself as your juju. but it will not last. my foulness will fall from me, and reveal me dressed, as in the fairy-tale, in garments of blue, bordered with golden stars, and a prince will marry me after tasting of my cooking. splendid! but meanwhile you must graciously permit me to go on loving you, stains and all! shut your eyes to the common lamp that guards the flame. if you will wait, you shall see that when we reach the heaven above us, i shall be as resplendent as yourself. meanwhile, i drop a kiss upon your shoes, even if it entails your having them blacked again. j. _wednesday, 7.45 p.m., march 23rd, 1836._ no doubt, dear angel, i ought to disguise in your presence the sadness that overwhelms me when i have to wait too long for you; but the late hour at which you generally come, makes it difficult for me to forget the weary suspense i have already been through, and am to endure again shortly. i love you, my dear--indeed, i love you too much. we often say this lightly, but i assure you that this time i state it in full gravity and knowledge, for i feel it to the very marrow of my bones. i love you. i am jealous. i hate being poor and devoid of talent, for i fear that these deficiencies will cost me your love. still, i am conscious of something within me, greater than either wealth or intellect; but is it powerful enough to rivet you to me for ever? i ask myself this question night and day, and you are not at hand to soothe my unrest; hence the sadness that wounds you, the jealousy that amazes you, the mental torment you are incapable of understanding. but i love you all the same, and am happy in the midst of my pain. i smile through my tears, for i love you. juliette. _saturday, 8 a.m., march 26th, 1836._ good-morning, my little darling toto. i am up at cock-crow, though very tired; but i want to be ready to witness your new triumph--for, beloved toto of mine, you are the _great_ toto, the greatest man on earth. how i love you, my victor! i am jealous. even your success makes me uneasy with the dread that, amongst so much adulation, you may overlook the humble homage of your poor juju. i fear that these universal acclamations may drown my lowly cry of--_i love you!_ this apprehension becomes an obsession on such a day as this, when everything is at your feet, caresses, adoration, frenzy. ah, why are you not insignificant and unknown like myself! i should then have no need to fear that the torch of my love will be eclipsed by that immense illumination. try, beloved, to keep a little place in your heart for the love and admiration of your poor mistress, who has loved you from the day she first set eyes upon you, and who will worship you as long as the breath remains in her body. juliette. _saturday, 6.15 p.m., march 26th, 1836._ let me tell you once again that i love you, my victor. presently, thousands of voices will be raised in a chorus of _praise_. i alone say: i _love_ you. you are my joy, the light of my eyes, the treasure of my life, you are _you_. this evening, my adored one, whatever you say or do, i must be jealous and wretched. be merciful to me; do not let me suffer too cruelly. if you think of me when you are absent, i shall be conscious of it--if you love me, i shall feel it upon my heart like beneficent balm upon a raw wound. farewell, dear soul; _it is impossible to wish an increase of beauty to the man, or more glory to the genius; so, if you are happy, so am i_. farewell, then, dearest; i cannot refrain from sending a word of love to the lover, before going to applaud the poet. the heart must have its due share. good-bye till later. for ever, for life and until death, love, nothing but love! j. sunday, 7.45 p.m., march 27th, 1836. i hardly dare speak to you to-night of love. i feel humiliated by my devotion, for all those women seem to be rivals, preferred before me. i suffer, but i do not hold you responsible. i feel worse even than usual this evening. i did not venture to ask what you had written to madame dorval, for i was afraid to discover some fresh reason for bitterness and jealousy; so i remained silent. my dear treasure, you are very lucky not to be jealous: you have no competition to fear with any other celebrity, for there is none besides yourself, and _you_ know that i love you with my whole heart, whereas all _i_ can be sure of is, that i love you far too much to hope to be loved in proportion. in addition, i feel i shall never be capable of raising the heavy stone under which my intellect slumbers. forgive me, i am sad. i am worse than sad--i am ashamed, because i am jealous. i am an idiot, and consequently, i am in love! juliette. _thursday, 8.30 p.m., april 14th, 1836._ i love you, my dear victor, and you make me very unhappy when you seem to doubt it. it is still harder for me when you put your want of confidence into words, for i can only attribute it to the sacrifices you constantly make for me, and which probably cause you to think that an ignoble motive constrains me to remain under your protection. in addition to thus wounding me in the most sensitive part of my love, you exasperate me to a point i cannot describe, because it is true that i have not the wherewithal to live independently of you and your influence. therefore, my poor angel, when you show your suspicions of my sincerity, i read into them more than jealousy and ill-will: i imagine a reproach against my dependent position. i feel an overwhelming need to prove to you, by any means, that you are mistaken in the woman and her love. _remember your burnt letters!_ you know what a doubt on your part led me to do on one occasion. well, angel, i tell you honestly that when you question, not only my fidelity, but also my love, i long to fly to the other side of the world, there to exist as best i can, and never pronounce your name again for the rest of my life. this will be the last proof of love i can give you, and at least you will not be able to accuse me, then, of self-interest and self-love. you hurt me terribly to-night; you often do, and generally when i am most tender and demonstrative towards you. yet i love you. j. _tuesday, 8 p.m., april 19th, 1836._ beloved, i am perfectly certain you will not come to fetch me to see _lucrèce_, and i am already resigned. there is only one thing i shall never submit to, and that is, the loss of your love. i know you are devoted, that you lavish friendship upon me; but i feel that you have no more love to give me, and i cannot bear it. during the four months i have been alone, ill for the most part, i never knew whether the time would come when you would be impelled to say to me: _take courage, for i love you_. i would have given life to find those words in your handwriting at my bedside in the morning, or on my pillow at night. i waited in vain, they never came; my sorrow grew, and now i am certain that you have ceased to care for me. i know what you will say, victor--you will tell me that you are hard at work, that you do everything for me, and do not let me want for anything. to that i reply that i have been just as busy or busier than you, yet have always found time to show you the outward signs of my inward love. i may also tell you that, without your love, i _do_ want for _everything_, and that my life is utterly wretched without it. lastly, i declare to you that if you continue to be so _reasonably_ kind and attentive, i will release you from your self-imposed burden, at some moment when you least expect it, and for evermore. i must have true love or nothing. juliette. _monday, 7.45 p.m., may 2nd, 1836._ my dear little beloved, i am sorry to find that you are not as convinced as i am, of the propriety of giving me your portrait. i confess i feel the greatest disappointment when i realise, from your daily evasion of my request, that i shall probably never become the possessor of the picture which is so like you, nor even, perhaps, of a copy of the original. i am sad and dejected. i think you do not care enough for me, a poor disinherited creature, to do me the favour you have already bestowed upon another, who already has her full meed of the gifts of life. i am therefore greatly disappointed. i had counted upon having the portrait, and had anticipated much happiness from its possession. the contemplation of it would have so greatly contributed to my courage and resignation, that it is very grievous to have to renounce it thus suddenly, without any compensation. if i wanted to speak of other things now, i could not; my heart is heavy, my eyes overflow with tears. i can only find bitter words for the expression of my wounded love. i love you more to-day than i have ever done before, yet i am not happy. juliette. _friday, 7.45 a.m., may 20th, 1836._ good morning, my dear little toto. you failed me again last night, so i shall never count upon you again. i loved you with all my strength, and thought of you even in my sleep. this morning i love you with my whole soul, and heartily long for you, but i know you will not come, so i am cross and sad. how fine the weather is, my toto, and how happy we could be in the fresh air, on the high road, in a nice little carriage, with a month of happiness in prospect: it would be paradise, but ... but ... i dare not set my heart upon it, for i should go crazy with grief if the treat were withheld. at all events, i am ready to start; my foot is well again, and we can set off to-night, or to-morrow morning, at whatever time suits you. i am quite ready, let us, therefore, seize our chance of the fine weather. my adored one, i am dying to make this expedition.... do try to get free at the earliest moment possible. i shall be so happy. i still love you, ever so much. i need you terribly. my heart is more than ready for the happiness you will give me during the whole time we shall be together. juliette. _thursday, 12.45 p.m., july 21st, 1836._ once more i am reduced to writing all that is in my heart, my adored one. it is but a slender satisfaction after the bliss we have been enjoying. nevertheless, we must take life as we find it, and it would be ungracious of me to complain. a month like the one we have just spent would compensate for a whole life-time of misfortune and worry. poor angel, since you left me i feel lost and alone in the world. you cannot imagine the utter void, surrounded as you are at this moment by the affection of charming children and devoted friends, while i am alone with my love--that is to say alone in space--for my love has no limits. i seek what consolation i can, by speaking to you, and writing to you. your handkerchief, breathing of you, lies by my side, with your adored name embroidered in the corner. i caress and talk to it, and we understand each other perfectly. for every kiss i press upon it, it exhales your sweet aroma; it is as if i scented your very soul. then i weep, as one does in a beautiful dream from which one fears to awake. heavens, how i love you! you are my life, my joy! i adore you! juliette. _friday, 2.15 p.m., september 2nd, 1836._ my poor, beloved angel. the nearer the moment approaches, the more i dread the inevitable parting which must follow the few days of happiness you have just given me. i long for delay, but i know very well that, however providence may interpose in my favour, the day must come when you will have to go to st. prix. lucky for me if it is not to-day. but, putting aside all considerations of love and juju, it would really not be prudent for you to go to the country in this cold, foggy weather; even this morning, in the warmth and repose of home, you felt a warning twinge of rheumatism, which prescribes prudence on your part. i fear your natural desire to kiss toto on his donkey, and watch the other little rogues at their holiday occupations, may draw you, in spite of rain, wind, and the good counsel of your old juju, to st. prix. at any rate, if you do this foolish thing, try to avoid chills, to think of me, and to come back to my care and caresses as quickly as possible. juliette. _saturday, 6 p.m., 29th, 1836._ you torment me unjustly, as usual, my darling beloved. yet you ought to begin to know me, and not suspect my every action, down to the drinking of a cup of coffee. the awkwardness of my position, the absolute solitude in which i am compelled to live, and the many insults i have to tolerate daily from you, exasperate me so, that i feel i would rather go out of your life, than continue to exist like a woman condemned and accursed. it is your fault that i am so unhappy. nobody else will ever love you so well, or be so entirely devoted to you. but one is not bound to put up with impossibilities, and i cannot live longer under a yoke which you make more crushing every day. what am i to do, beloved? run away from you? i have scarcely enough money for my quiet paris _routine_. remain here? if you have not the courage to abstain from visiting me, i certainly shall never have enough to prevent you from coming. the wound in my heart is raw and bleeding, thanks to the care you take to keep it in that condition. the slightest additional twinge becomes unbearable torture. i do not know what moral operation i would not consent to, to be cured of it. for the last three years you have really given me too much pain. i implore you, from the bottom of my heart, to be less offensive with me, or else to leave me for good and all. you may guess from this what i am enduring. juliette. _sunday, 2 p.m., january 1st, 1837._ your darling, adorable letter has reached me. i have devoured it with caresses. oh, how i love you! i have just sent my child out of the room, so that i might read it on my knees in front of your picture. these little pranks may seem foolish, but they contain a deeper, more sacred significance, like the devotion that inspires them. when you come, you will find me joyous and radiant, as i was on that glorious day when you first revealed your love. my beloved, my heart, i am very happy. i am in heaven, for you love me, my toto ... your dear letter has said it. your eyes, your mouth, your soul, will tell me so still better, presently. yes, indeed i am happy, i am surfeited. there is nothing left for me to desire or require--i have your love, a love which god himself might envy were he a _woman_. thank you, adored one, thank you from my heart and soul. i am as good as gold, believe me. juju. _tuesday, 7.30 p.m., february 21st, 1837._ do not grieve, my precious, do not lament. i will not attempt consolation, for you have better and more efficacious resources within your own self; but i share your affliction. whatever saddens you saddens me: where you love, i love; when you mourn, i mourn. if i conjure you not to give way to your grief, it is not because i hesitate to bear my portion of it, but because i believe that your poor brother himself would not now desire a return to this life.[65] i look upon his death more as a blessing than a misfortune. poor brother! i love you, my adored victor. in moments such as these, when sorrow brings you nearer to my level, i feel that my affection for you is absolutely true and purified from all dross. try to come early this evening. i will lavish caresses upon you silently, with my eyes and my innermost self, without worrying you. you shall rest by my fireside, and lean your dear head upon my shoulder, and read, and i shall be glad. i am jealous of that woman who has dared to _steal_ your verses; such things are not _lost_. it was a two-fold wickedness on her part, for she caused _you_ the trouble of rewriting them, and _me_ the torment of jealousy. i will not have you see her again, ever! do you hear? oh, i love you, i love you far too much. juliette. _monday, 7.15 p.m., april 2nd, 1837._ [illustration: caricature of mlle. george, by victor hugo. victor hugo museum.] [illustration: portrait of victor hugo by himself.] i have decided to get up, after all, thanks to the laundry-man; but for him, i should have remained in bed, nursing my depression. i am sad beyond everything, yet i cannot tell why--you are kind and affectionate, and i love you with my whole soul; but that does not seem enough. esteem, the keystone of happiness, is lacking. i have worn myself out in the endeavour to gain it during the last four years, yet it cometh not, nor ever will come, now. i must turn my efforts in another direction. i must try to break with you, tactfully, as you say, by quitting paris, and perhaps france. will that be sufficient to stop the tongue of scandal? i wish to leave you before you abandon me, because i do not admit your right to inflict such a fearful blow upon me. there are people, capable of committing suicide, who yet recoil at the thought of being murdered--i am one. i can and will kill myself, but i shrink from the injury you might possibly inflict upon me before long. my courage does not outstrip your cruelty. i love you too much for happiness. juliette. _tuesday, 10.15 a.m., may 2nd, 1837._ good morning, my well-beloved. did you have a good night? you looked overstrained and tired yesterday, and indeed there was enough to make you so, you poor dear. i do not know how you can put up with it all. forgive me for adding to your burthen the exactions of a woman who loves, and fears to recognise in lassitude an evidence of coldness. forgive me; if i did not occasionally doubt your love i should torment you less, and would show more consideration for your occupations and repose. you hurt me very much last night by speaking as you did, yet i wanted to know your true opinion of me. i have long been tormented by a mournful curiosity on that point. last night you satisfied it in full. i know now that you pity without despising me. i accept your compassion, for i need it, and ought to have it; but i should indignantly repudiate a contempt i do not deserve. my past history is sad, but not disgraceful. my life until i met you was the melancholy outcome of a poor girl's first fault; but at least it was never soiled by those hideous vices that deface the soul still more than the body. even at the worst moments of my trouble, i cherished within me an inner sanctuary, whither i could betake myself, as to some hallowed spot. since then, that sanctuary has been open to you only, and you can testify whether you have found it worthy of you; you know whether, since you have occupied its throne and altar, i have ever failed, one single day or minute, to prostrate myself on my knees before you in adoration, or have ever turned my gaze or my soul away from you. this proves, my beloved, that my former backsliding was only superficial, not inherently vicious; that my wound was accidental, not a loathsome, devouring canker; that i love you now, and am thereby made whole. juliette. _tuesday, 10.45 a.m., may 2nd, 1837._ i am following up my letter immediately with another, because i am alone, and the moment is propitious for me to open my heart to you from the very bottom. racket and pleasure are a hindrance to meditation, and at this moment i am rapt in contemplation of you and your beloved image. i see you as you are, that is to say, a god-made man to redeem and rescue me from the infamous life to which i had so long been enslaved. what christ did for the world you have done for me: like him, you saved my soul at the expense of your repose and life. may you be as blessed for this generous action as you are adored by me for it. i should have loved you, devil or angel, bad or good, selfish or devoted, cruel or generous--i must have loved you, for at the mere sight of you my whole being cries out: _i love you!_ would that i might proclaim it on my knees, with hands clasped and heart on lips: _i love you! i love you!_ the talk we had last night kept me from sleeping, but i do not complain; there are moments when sleep is a misfortune. i needed to rehearse one by one all your words, to collect carefully those which must remain for ever enshrined in my bosom as treasures of consolation and love; the less generous ones you uttered, i have consumed in the flame of my soul; nothing remains of them but ashes, dead as the ashes of my past. do not turn away in disgust from the scratches i have sustained in falling from my pedestal, as you might from hideous and incurable wounds. i repeat again, my beloved, because it is the truth: misfortune there has been in my life, but neither debauchery nor moral turpitude. henceforth there can be nothing but a sacred, pure love for you. i am worthy of pardon and affection. love me; i crave it of you. juliette. _thursday, 11.15 a.m., may 11th, 1837._ good morning, my dear little man; i have bad weather to announce: rain, snow, hail, wind, and, in addition, an abominable cold in my head which does not help to resign me to a day already filled with clouds. i love you--do you know that? and i admire you for your beautiful soul. it is splendid of you, my great toto, to have raised your voice so powerfully in defence of the poor, dead king.[66] you alone had the right, for you only are above suspicion; you only are influential enough to compel the impious, pitiless world to listen to your indulgent and religious voice. if it were possible for me to love you more, i should do so for this; but from the first day i saw you i have given my whole heart and thoughts and soul unreservedly into your keeping. how i love you, my adored victor, how i love you! in that short and much-misused word is contained all my soul, all the bloom of a devotion that has opened out under the sun of your gaze. good-bye, my own. juliette. _friday, 8.30 p.m., june 2nd, 1837._ my little man, you must make up your mind to take my love or leave it. compare my life with yours, and see whether i do not deserve that you should pity and love me with all your might. i am all alone, i have neither family nor fame, nor the thousand and one distractions that surround you. as i say, i am alone, always alone; it even seems probable that i shall not see you to-night, while you will be spending your evening in feasting, talking, and visiting your uncle, whom may the devil fly away with. everybody can get you except me; the exception is flattering and well chosen. i am so unhappy that i am going to bed and shall probably cry my eyes out--i am more inclined for that than for laughing. if you succeed in cheering me up to-night, i shall know you for a great man, and a still greater sorcerer; but you will not attempt it. i may be as sad and miserable as i like, and i am certain you will never interfere. good-night, toto; i am going to bed. good-night, be happy and gay and content; your poor juju will be unhappy enough for both. i love you, toto. juliette. _wednesday, 1.30 p.m., june 10th._ i love you before all things, and after all things. i love you, love you, love you! i have just written to mother pierceau that i shall send suzanne to her to-morrow. i forgot to ask you exactly how much money you brought me yesterday, and also for cash, for yesterday's expenses. i will do so to-night. i try hard to keep my accounts accurately, yet i am always in a muddle at the end of the month, and always either above or below what i ought to have. i do my best, but nothing seems to bring my sums out right. i think there is going to be a big storm. the sky is lowering like yesterday, and the weather still more oppressive. try not to get wet, and come and fetch your umbrella before it begins to pour. what a delightful afternoon we spent yesterday! i wish we could have it over again, even if we had to be soaked to the skin. i shall never forget the bassin du titan.[67] the pretty turtledove that came to slake its thirst in it seemed to recognise us, and wait for its drink, until you scattered drops of poetry into the mossy, flowery grooves, surrounding its edges. heavens! what precious pearls you squandered yesterday in that magnificent garden, at the feet of those peerless goddesses, which seem to come to life when your glance rests upon them--what flowers upon those lawns, peopled with joyous children! how all those gods and goddesses, heroes, kings, queens, women, nymphs, and children, must have quarrelled over the treasure you lavished upon them! i was sorry to go away. i should have liked to go back in the moonlight and gather up all those jewels upon which you set so little store. oh, i must return there very soon, and we will at the same time revisit our metz, where we have enjoyed so much bliss. that journey will bring us happiness, and i long to make it. i love you, my great toto. forgive this scribble; it looks absurd now, and indeed it must needs be so, for i was inebriated with love when i wrote it. my thoughts stagger and fall upon the paper, because they have drunk too deeply of my soul, and know not where they are. juliette. _thursday, 3.45 p.m., july 27th, 1837._ i must contribute my scribble in acknowledgment for the delightful lines you have just written in my little book.[68] my voice will sound like the cackle of a hen after the song of a nightingale; but that is the law of nature, so i do not see why i should be silent, because i have heard you. it was rash of you, my dear little man, to put down the date you suppose was that of my birth; but, as i am too honest to contradict you, i accept it and affirm that, since those days when you were a little boy studying _quintus curtius_, you have developed, and far outstripped all those you revered and admired when you were an urchin of seven--while i have remained the poor, uncultured girl you know. it is pretty certain that education could have added but little to my barren nature; the weeds of the sea-shore do not gain much from cultivation. on that point, thank heaven, i have nothing to complain of. no one worried much about me until you appeared upon the scene; but you came, my great and sublime poet, and you did not disdain to cull the little scentless flower prinking itself at your feet, to attract the sunshine of your glance. i bless you for your goodness. i know that a father and mother look down upon you from the realms above, and love you for the happiness you have given to the poor little daughter they left solitary on earth. i weep as i write, for it is the first time i have really looked into my innocent past, and my loving heart. i bless you, my generous man, on earth, as you will be blest in heaven. may all those dear to you participate in this benediction, and in the joys and riches of this world and the next! juliette. _thursday, 9 a.m., september 21st, 1837._ good morning, my beloved. the anniversary of our return to paris has been sadder still than the day itself, since you have not been with me at all, either last night or this morning. i am upset in consequence. i have not yet taken off my nightcap. i am cross. shall you be at auteuil all day? what a disappointment for poor juju, not to speak of claire, who has to take her chance of my temper when i am cross, and that idiot madame guérard, who has put me to the expense of a stamp merely to say that she thinks she is getting fat, and that she wishes you good morning. how thrilling! i love you, dearest toto; i love you too much, for i am miserable when you are away. i wish i could care comfortably, like you, for instance, who feel neither better nor worse, whether i am near or far. you are always the same; love never makes you miss the point of a joke, or a hearty laugh, nor fail to notice a grey cloud, the great bear, a frog, a sunset, the earth, water, gale, or zephyr. you see everything, enjoy everything, without a thought for poor old juju, who is being bored to desperation in her solitary corner. which of us two is the best lover, eh? answer that it is i, juju, and you will be speaking the truth. yes, i love you. try not to stay away from me all day. love me for being sad in your absence. juliette. _saturday, 6.30 p.m., september 23rd, 1837._ you are making yourself more and more of a rarity, my beautiful star, so that i become chilled, and gloomy as an antique, moss-grown statue, abandoned in the wilds of some deserted garden. i am not angry with you, but i do wish you were less busy and more lover-like. you have quickly resumed your fine paris appearance, my beloved little man, whilst i still cling to my travelling disguise. you ought surely to have waited for me to take the initiative, if only for the sake of manners. whom are you so anxious to please, my bright boy? who is the favoured one you aspire to put in my place? in any case, i warn you that i shall not be sly like granier,[69] but that i shall fall upon your respective carcases with frank blows of a cudgel, mind that! now you may go in search of your charmer, if you are prepared to see your bones ground to powder for my use. if you come early this evening i shall be so happy, so cheery, so content and good, that you will never wish to leave me again; but, if you delay, i shall be exactly the reverse, and you will have to coax and love me with all your might to comfort me. you are letting your letter-box get over-full again. toto, toto, i shall make a bonfire of its contents if you do not come quick and secure them. mind what you are about! juliette. _wednesday, 12.45 p.m., november 22nd, 1837._ i really believe you do it on purpose; but you may be certain that i shall pay you back in the same kind: indifference for indifference; _donnant donnant_ is my motto. now let us talk of other things. what do you think of the taking of constantine? i cannot believe the present ministry will survive long as at present constituted; thiers and barot may be called upon at any moment to form a new cabinet. what is your opinion? the commercial crisis is still making itself felt in the markets; oils of every description have gone down; for instance, rape oil which was at 47 is now only at 45. a recovery is looked for next year, but i have my doubts about it, haven't you?[70] * * * * * do you not agree with me that all this points to a revolution in the near future, which will entail sinister results for wailly's government? for my part, i view with consternation the removal of the carlists from st. jean pied de port to paimb[oe]uf, after a sojourn at st. ménéhould. i am already sick of the recital of the horrors which disturb the digestion and the tranquillity of the citizens, of whom you are the chief ornament. pray accept the expression of my distinguished consideration. juliette. _december 5th, 5 p.m., 1837._ how kind you are, my toto, to have come and relieved the suspense i was in as to what had happened in court.[71] heavens, how well you spoke! i was so moved and so convinced while i listened, that i forgot even to admire you, yet i have never known you finer or more eloquent. why must the case be adjourned for a week? is it to allow time for intrigues against the incorruptible consciences of my lords the judges? i should have given worlds for the verdict to have been delivered to-day; first because it would relieve you of an anxiety as annoying as it is fatiguing, secondly because i myself crave repose, and since this devil of a lawsuit has come on the scene i cannot sleep at night, and lastly because i shall then see you oftener, or at least so i hope. while i was waiting for you just now i copied a few passages from the letters of mdlle. de lespinasse about the c. d.[72] and the s.[73] of her period. her opinions then, fit our own times absolutely: the same absurdities, the same platitudes, and the same petty triumphs! it would be pitiable were it not so grotesque. nothing seems to have altered in the last sixty years; there are the identical _bourgeois_ in the identical rue saint denis, the same men and women of the world--nothing is missing. they have not grown old, they are still in good health. stupidity and bad taste are the best agents for the maintenance of society in all its pristine foolishness. here am i drivelling on just as if i knew what i was talking about. it would be a nice set-out if i attempted to write! i might just as well present myself as a candidate for the senate. please forgive me. your lawsuit is the cause of my chatter, but i will not transgress again. i love you far too much to go out of my way to make a fool of myself. juliette. receipts for the month of december 1837 dec. frs. sous. liards. cash in hand 4 0 3 1. money earned by my toto 51 4 0 4. cash from my darling 5 10 0 6. money earned by my dear one 44 0 0 9. cash from my toto's purse 10 0 0 12. " " " " " 5 0 0 13. " " " " " 7 0 0 14. money earned by my darling 45 0 0 17. cash from my adored one 10 2 0 18. " " " " " 4 2 0 19. money earned by my beloved 60 0 0 22. cash from my toto 2 0 0 24. " " " " 10 0 0 26. " " " " 3 0 0 28. money earned by my toto 102 12 0 30. money earned by my darling 100 9 0 _plus_ the money for the earring and ring 2 0 0 ----------------- total 466 19 3 expenditure for the month of december 1837 frs. sous. liards. food and wine 99 2 3 coal 1 1 0 lighting 21 6 0 household expenses and postage 16 0 0 baths, illness 8 1 0-1/2 general expenditure 29 8 0 incidental expenses and pocket-money 5 8 0-1/2 dress 41 5 0 incidental expenses and pocket-money 5 8 0-1/2 dress 41 5 0 washing 16 5 0 debts and pawnbroker 151 6 0-1/2 wages 20 13 0 to the lanvins 4 2 0-1/2 ---------------------- total 413 19 5 cash in hand 53 0 0 ---------------------- 466 19 5[74] to toto: 9 luncheons. dinners to 10 persons. in all, about 19. _sunday, 1.45 p.m., january 21st, 1838._ good-morning, my dear one, good-morning, my big toto. how did you manage to fit into your bed? you must have curled yourself up into five or six hundred curves. one grows at such a pace in the space of an evening like last night[75] that you must have become gigantic by this morning, though you were already greater than any one else in the world. i have grown, too, for my love equals your beauty, equals the praises and admiration lavished upon you; so, unless one is prepared to state, against all logic, that the container is smaller than the contents, i must have grown and even surpassed you--without vanity. love exalts as much as glory does, and i love you more than you are great. yes my toto, yes my dear victor, i dare affirm it because it is true. i love you more than you are great. how did you spend the night, adored one? i hope you did not work, tired out as you were, and in that horrible little icehouse. i cannot think of that room without shivering from head to foot. i shall be very glad when i hear that it is closed and warmed. unfortunately that does not promise to be soon, and meanwhile you suffer and freeze, and i torment myself about you. i adore you, my beloved toto. i would die for you if you would promise always to think lovingly of me; even without that condition i adore you, my victor. juliette. _sunday, 5.45 p.m., january 21st, 1838._ must it always be my lot to wait, dearly beloved? i thought i had given proofs sufficient of courage and resignation all this time, to have earned my reward now. of course i know you must have had the whole of paris in your house to-day, but if you cared for me as i do for you, you would leave all paris, and the world itself, for me. what good is the back door, if not to enable you to evade importunate people, and fly to the poor love who awaits you with so much longing and affection? why carry _four keys_ in your pocket, like the gaoler in a comic opera, if you do not make use of them on the proper occasion? i am very sad, my toto. i do not think you care for me any more. you are as splendidly kind and generous as ever, but you are no longer the ardent lover of old days. it is quite true although you will not admit it out of compassion for me. i am very unhappy. some day i shall do something desperate to rid you of me, for i cannot bear to realise the coldness of your heart, and at the same time to accept your generous self-sacrifice. you know i have always told you that i will accept nothing from you if you do not love me! i love you so much that if i could inspire you with my feelings, there would be nothing left for me to desire in this world. juliette. _monday, noon, february 12th, 1838._ good-morning, my dear little man. how are you this morning? i am very well, but i should be still better if i had seen you and breakfasted with you.... i am arranging to go to _hernani_ to-night. i hope there will be no hitch, and that the promise of the bills will at last be fulfilled. i am longing for the moment. it is such ages since i have seen my _hernani_, and it is such a beautiful creation! i wish it were already night, and i were in my little box, with dear little toto sitting at the back, where i might reward him with eyes and lips for every beautiful line. you are not jealous? yes, i want you to be jealous! i want you to be jealous, even of yourself, or else i shall not believe that you love me. good-morning, toto. all this nonsense simply means that i dote on you and think you beautiful and great and adorable. you did not come last night--probably because there was to be a rehearsal this morning. try and behave properly at it, for i have argus eyes and shall come down upon you myself, like a thunderbolt, in the midst of your antics. meanwhile, take care of yourself; do not get cold feet or a headache like mine; it would be a great nuisance. dear soul, if you had the least regard for your health, you would have your flannel underclothing made at once. i assure you you would find it very comfortable. i am sorry now that i let you take the stuff away, for if i had it still, i should force you to do all this. it is not that i want to worry you, my adored one, for i know how many other important things you have to think of, but this is one of the most pressing; that is why i should like it done. i love you, my toto, with all my strength, and more yet. i press my lips in spirit upon your eyes and hair. juliette. _wednesday, 12.15 p.m., march 7th, 1838._ good-morning, my dear little beloved. how are your eyes, my toto? it torments me to know that you are suffering so much, for however brave and uncomplaining you may be, i can see quite well that you are in pain. if you knew how i love you, my dear one, you would understand my trouble and grief when you suffer. i suppose you are going to the rehearsal this morning. i wish the first performance[76] was to be this evening, for i am trembling already. generally, i only begin to shiver on the day itself, but this time my terrors have set in twenty-four hours in advance. i hope my fears will have been vain, like so often before, and that your beautiful poetry will prove all-conquering as ever. to-morrow my soul will animate the spectators. i shall inspire enthusiasm in the discriminating, and strangle, by sheer force of love, the hatred and envy of the scum who would dare criticise your magnificent _marion_, for whom i have so special a partiality. [illustration: autograph and drawing by juliette drouet.] i express myself awkwardly, but i feel all this acutely. juliette. _wednesday, 7.30 p.m., march 7th, 1838._ my darling, i see you very seldom, but it is not your fault, i know. i look constantly into my heart, whence you are never absent, and there i see you growing daily nobler, greater, and dearer. so to-morrow is _the great day_! ardently as i have desired its advent, i now dread it more than i can say. however, up till now i have always been very frightened, and nothing has happened, so i hope it may be the same this time. besides, how could the disapproval of a few miserable wretches and idiots affect the magnificent verses of _marion_? it will only prompt the sincere and intelligent portion of the audience to do you instant and brilliant justice. i am no longer afraid. i am as brave and strong as love itself. put me where you like--i do not care--all places are equally good to applaud from, just as all moments are suitable for adoring you. good-bye, my love. juliette. _thursday, 12.45 p.m., march 8th, 1838._ good-morning, blessed one. i am quite upset. if your success to-night is in proportion to my fright, you will have the most magnificent triumph of your life. i hardly know what i am doing; i am shaking like a leaf, i cannot grasp my pen. i must try to pull myself together for this evening. it is absurd of me to be such a little craven; besides, what harm can a _cabal_ do you? none! it can only enhance your greatness, if such a thing be possible; so, i am ashamed of my cowardice. i am horribly stupid to dread a thing which certainly will not happen, and if it did, would not injure you. now that is enough! i will not fear again, and i will admire and applaud my _marion_ in the very face of the cabal. i will give them a hot time to-night! bravo! bravo!! bravo!!! i feel as if i were there already, and the happiest of women. my little darling man, are you not soon coming to me? i do so long for you. i feel as if you had been very cold to me lately. in the old days, a first performance did not prevent your coming to make love to me. heavens, what torture it is to have to doubt you at a moment when i am so desperately in need of you! i love you! juliette. _friday, 1.45 p.m., march 9th, 1838._ you are adorable, my great victor. i wish i could express myself as earnestly as i feel, but that is impossible; i am tongue-tied. so the great performance is over! what a fool i was to be frightened, and how rightly i placed my confidence in that great noodle the public, which is so slow and so hard to work up, but when once started, boils over so satisfactorily. what a magnificent success, and how thoroughly justified! what a beautiful piece, what lovely verses! and the fascinating poet! everything was understood, applauded, admired. it was delightful. my soul was raised heavenward with the play. dear god, how magnificent it was!!!!!!!!!!! i must be there again to-morrow, and every night. surely i have the right! i love you, my toto, i adore you with all the strength of my soul. i wish i could go out--it is such a fine day. i kiss your beloved hands. juliette. _sunday, 12.15 a.m., march 11th, 1838._ good-morning, my beloved one, good-morning, handsomest and greatest of men. i cannot speak as well as some of the people who pay you such beautiful and sincere homage, but i feel from the bottom of my soul that i admire and love you more than any one in the world. all the same, i am sad and discouraged. i can see that you place no reliance on my intelligence, that my last years are flying by without earning what they easily might: a position, and a provision for the future. i am not angry with you. it is not your fault if you are prejudiced against me to the point of allowing me, without regret, to waste the last few years of my youth. possibly my desire to create for myself an independent position, and to remain ever at your side, has given birth to the delusion that i possess a great talent which only requires scope. however that may be, i am in despair, and i love you more than ever. you are good to look at, my adored one, you are great in intellect, my victor, and yet i dare proffer my devotion, for it is as genuine as your beauty and as deep as your genius. i adore you. juliette. _tuesday, 11.30 a.m., april 10th, 1838._ good-morning, my soul, my joy, my life. how are your adored eyes, my toto? i cannot refrain from asking, because it interests me to hear, more than anything in the world. i am always thinking about them. i long for the 15th of this month, for then i shall have the right to insist upon your resting, and i shall certainly exercise it. my dear love, what joy it will be for me to feel your dear head leaning against mine, to kiss your beautiful eyes, and to make certain that you do not work. the weather is lovely this morning. it carries my thoughts back to our dear little annual trip, when we were so happy and so cosy together. we are not to have that felicity this year, and really i do not know how i shall endure it when the time comes at which we used to start. it will be very hard and difficult, and i doubt whether my courage and reason will suffice to enable me to bear the greatest sacrifice i have ever made in my life. my dear one, it will be sad indeed; i wonder whether i shall be equal to it. i love you, adore you, admire you, and again i love and adore you. juliette. _tuesday, 7.45 p.m., april 10th, 1838._ my love, i am writing to you with joy and worship in my heart. you were so kind and tender and fascinating to me to-day that i seemed to feel again the savour and rapture of the days of old. my toto, my adored one, fancy if your love were to flower again like some brilliant, sweet-scented spring blossom! with what ecstasy and reverence i would preserve it fresh and rosy in my breast. poor beloved, your work has done to our idyll what the winter does to the trees and flowers--the sap has retired deep into the bottom of your heart, and often i have feared it was quite dead; but now i see it was not: it was only lulled to sleep and i shall possess my toto once more, beautiful, blooming, and perfumed as in those glorious days of our first love. i who am not a sensitive plant of the sun like you, have yet come better through the trial, and if i bear no blossom, i have at least the advantage of preserving my leaves ever green and alive; that is to say, i have never ceased to love and adore you. indeed that is true, my own, i love you as much as the first day. juliette. _sunday, 11 a.m., april 22nd, 1838._ you see, darling, by the dimensions of my paper, that i am preparing to go and applaud my _marion_ this evening. i will not reproach you for not having come this morning. in fact, in future i shall not allude to it again, for nothing is more unsuitable or ridiculous than the solicitations of a woman who vainly appeals for the favours of her lover. therefore, beloved, as i am to live with you as a sister with a brother, you will approve of my refraining from reminding you in any way of the time when we were husband and wife. it is still very cold, my maid says; although the sun is shining in at my windows, it has left its warmth in the sky. it resembles the fine phrases of a suitor who no longer loves; his words may be the same, his expressions as tender, his language as impassioned, but love is lacking and those words which scintillate as the sun upon my windows, fail to warm the heart of the poor woman who had dreamt of love eternal. you will probably see granier this morning.[77] i hope so, so that you may not be worried any more about that business. i also hope jourdain will come to-morrow about the chimney. it is unbearable that one should have to wait upon the whim of a workman for a job which might be finished in a few minutes, and that would please you so much. i have read with pleasure the verses that came to you in the newspaper from guadaloupe; they show that you are admired over there as much as here, and that you have fewer enemies abroad than at the académie française. i am furious with that little imp called thiers, who although he is not a quarter of a man as far as size goes, yet permits himself to cherish the rancour of a giant. miserable little wretch! if only i were not a woman, i might castigate you as you deserve! and you, my toto, so great and so wonderful, i adore you! juliette. _thursday, 10.15 a.m., august 2nd, 1838._ good-morning, my little beloved. do you still need a secretary? i am quite ready. come; it is so delightful to dip my pen into your glorious poetry, and watch the shining and coruscating of those precious gems which take the shape of your thoughts. dédé could not be more delighted and dazzled than i am, if she were given the diamonds and jewels of the crown of england to play with for an hour. oh, if i could only have spent the night with my cæsar and his noble companions, i would have followed him without fatigue wherever he wanted to go, even as far as.... but you would not allow it, you jealous boy; you feared comparison, and you were perfectly right, for i like well-dressed men. good-morning, my toto. my left eye is very bad; it is swollen and painful. if this continues i shall no longer be in the position of regretting that i cannot lend you my eyes in exchange for your own. i love you, i adore you. do not be too long before coming to me. i am longing for you with all my might. juliette. _wednesday, 9.45 p.m., august 15th, 1838._ my dear little man, i love you. you are the treasure of my heart. i wish we were already in our carriage galloping, galloping far, and farther still, so that it might take us ever so long to get back. since you have hinted at the possibility of my playing in your beautiful piece,[78] i am like a somnambulist who has been made to drink too much champagne. i see everything magnified: i see glory, happiness, love, adoration, in gigantic and impossible dimensions--impossible, because i feel you can never love me as i love you, and that my talent, however considerable, can never reach to the level of your sublime poetry. i do not say this from modesty, but because i do not think there exists in this world man or woman capable of interpreting the parts as you conceived them in your master mind. i love you, my toto, i adore you, my little man, you are my sun and my life, my love and my soul. all that, and more. juliette. _monday, 8 p.m., september._ are you proposing to cut out all the dandies and bloods of the capital? my congratulations to you. i was only waiting for some such sign to give myself up to an orgy of wild and eccentric toilette. heaven only knows the extravagances i mean to commit in the way of shoes, silk stockings, gowns, hats, light gloves, and bows for my hair! you will, i suppose, retaliate with an assortment of skin-tight trousers, strings of orders, and more or less absurd hair arrangements. delightful indeed! there only remains for one of us to live at the barrière de l'étoile and the other at the barrière du trône, to dazzle the dwellers of the town and suburbs, as well as strangers from abroad. capital!!! my sore throat has come on again and you are not here to cure it. if you think this pleasant you are quite wrong, and if i followed my own bent i should deprive you of your functions as doctor-in-chief of the great juju. i am determined to forgive you only if you come to supper with me presently. seriously, i cannot understand why you keep away, seeing that your play is in rehearsal, that this is our holiday time, and that i adore you. i am almost tempted to be a little jealous, only unfortunately, when i mean to be only slightly jealous, i become very seriously so; therefore i try as much as possible to spare myself that discomfort. you would be sweet and kind, my toto, if you would come and eat my frugal dinner with me to-night and ... i am going to concentrate my thoughts upon you, so as to magnetise you and bring you back in the shortest possible time to your faithful old juju who loves and adores you. my first proceeding is to kiss your eyes, your mouth, and your dear little feet. juliette. _tuesday, 12 noon, october 30th, 1838._ my beloved little man, you are so good and sweet when you see me that it is a pity you should see me so seldom, and that you should forget me as soon as your back is turned. to punish you, i am not going to write you two letters to-day; partly in consideration for your dear little eyes, and partly because it would be unfair to reward indifference and coldness in the same degree as affection and assiduity. pray do not take the above expression, "dear little eyes," in an ironical sense--i mean it on the contrary as an endearing diminutive; your "dear little eyes" signify to me my adored, beautiful eyes, the mirrors of my soul, the stars of my heaven, everything that is most beautiful and fascinating, gentlest, noblest, and highest. i love you, my toto. i kiss your ripe red lips, your dazzling teeth, your little hands, and your twinkling feet. i am writing only your little daily bulletin, because your eyes are bad, and you have no time to waste; neither do i wish to tire or bore you, but only to make you love me a little bit. juliette. _thursday, 8.30 p.m., november 22nd, 1838._ my little treasure of a man, you were sweet to select my hovel for a resting-place from which to write your laudatory remarks upon mlle. atala beauchêne,[79] commonly called beaudouin. it gave me a chance to admire your charming profile and kiss your beautiful shining locks. i thank you for that happiness, and i consent to your inditing daily effusions concerning that lady, if only you do so in my room and under my eyes. as you promised to come back presently, the chances are that you will not return. i have half a mind to undress, light my fire, and set to work to bruise poppy-heads; for my provision is almost at an end, and later on i may be busy at the theatre, if joly[80] persists in his crazy idea of giving us a whole week's rehearsals of a piece which is only to be played four months hence. it is an inducement to use the time at my disposal now, to prepare your little daily remedy. i love you, victor, i love you, my darling toto. juliette. _monday, 6 p.m., april 15th, 1839._ why is it, my little beloved, that you always seem so jealous? you take the bloom off all those scraps of happiness your dear presence would otherwise give me, for nothing chills one's embraces so much as the vexed, uneasy mien you usually wear. it would not even be so bad if you did not accuse _me_ of that same constrained, annoyed look; but the more suspicious you are, the more you think it is i who am cross, although this is simply the effect of the glasses through which your jealousy views me. never mind, i love you and forgive you, and if only you will come and take me out a little this evening and show me part of _lucrèce_ i shall be happy and content. what a beautiful day! i would have given days and even months for the chance of strolling by your side wherever your rêverie led you. alas, it is i who am sad, and with excellent reason! as for you, you old lunatic, what have you to complain of? you are adored, and you are free to accept and make use of that sentiment as much and as often as you desire; perhaps that is why you desire it so seldom.... but let us talk of other things. please love me a little, while i give you my whole soul. juliette. _sunday, 6.30 p.m., october 27th, 1839._ here i am at my scribbling again, my toto. it is a sad pleasure, if any, after the two months of love and intimacy which have just elapsed. here i sit again with my ink and paper, my faults of spelling, my stupidity and my love. when we were travelling i did not need all this paraphernalia to be happy. it was enough for me to worship you, and god knows whether i did that! here i do not love you less--on the contrary--but i live far from you, i long for you, i worry about you, i am unhappy--that is all. still, i am not ungrateful or forgetful; i fully appreciate that you have just given me nearly two months of bliss. i still feel upon my lips the touch of your kisses, and upon my hand the pressure of yours. but the felicity i have experienced only throws into greater relief the void your absence leaves in my life. when you are no longer by my side, i cease to exist, to think, to hope. i desire you and i suffer. therefore i dread as much as death itself the return to that hideous paris, where there is naught for lovers who love as we love--neither sunshine, nor that confidence which is the sunshine of love--nothing but rain, suspicion, jealousy, the three blackest, saddest, iciest of the scourges which can afflict body and heart. oh, i am wretched, my toto, in proportion to my love; it is true, my adored one, and it will ever be thus, when you are not with me. juliette. _friday, 10 a.m., november 1st, 1839._ good-morning, my dear little beloved, my darling little man. you told me so definitely yesterday that my handwriting was hideous, and my scrawl nothing but a horrible maze in which you lose both patience and love, that i hardly dare write to you to-day, and it would take very little to make me cease our correspondence altogether. we must have an explanation on this subject, for it is cruel of you to force me to make myself ridiculous night and morning, simply because i love you and am the saddest and loneliest of women. if my love must be drowned in my ignorance and stupidity, at least do not force me to make the plunge myself. there was a time when you would not have noticed the ugliness of my writing; you would only have read my meaning and been happy and grateful. now you laugh, which is shabby and wicked of you. this seems to be the fate of all the quasimodo of this world, moral and physical; they are jeered at: form is everything, spirit nothing. even if i could constrain my crabbed scrawl to say, "my soul is beautiful," you would not be any the less amused. therefore, my dear little man, pending the moment when i can join in the laugh against myself, i think it would be as well to suspend these daily lucubrations. besides, the moment has come when i must turn all my time and energies towards making my position secure. nothing in this world can turn me from my purpose, for it is to me a question of life and death, and heaven knows that in all these seven years i have never failed to tell you so whenever there has been an opportunity. i count upon you to help me, my beloved. i am asking you for more than life--for the moral consummation of our marriage of love. let me go with you wherever my happiness is threatened, let me be the wife of your mind and heart, if i cannot be yours in law. if i express myself badly, do not scoff, but understand that i have a right to put into words what you yourself have felt, and that i insist upon defending my own against all those women who get at you under pretext of serving you. i will have my turn, for i love you and am jealous. j. _friday, 6.30 p.m., november 1st, 1839._ you are good, my adored one, and i am a wretch; but i love you while you only permit yourself to be loved; that is what makes you so tranquil and me so bitter. my heart is weighed down by jealousy this evening and nothing less than your adored presence will suffice to calm me, for i carry hell and all the furies within my soul. i wish i could be sewn to the lining of your coat to-night, for i feel i am about to encounter some great danger that i can only defeat by not leaving your side. if my fears are well-grounded, i shall probably fail in averting the doom that threatens me, for you will not be able to stay with me all the evening. the compliments and flattery you will receive will take you from me. i cannot deny that i am unhappy and jealous, and would much rather be with you at fontainebleau, at the hôtel de france, than in box c. of the théâtre français, even when _marion de lorme_ is being played. kiss me, my little man; you are very sweet in your new greatcoat, but you had not told me you had been to your tailor. i shall keep up with you by sending for my dressmaker. i do not mean to surrender to you the palm for smartness and dandyism. ha! who is caught? toto! toto! résilieux is beaming, claire is happy, suzanne is an idiot; such is the condition of the household. i am all three at the same time, plus the adoration i profess energetically for your imperial and sacred person. kiss me and be careful of yourself this evening. juliette. _monday, 12 noon, november 4th, 1839._ good-morning, treasure. it is twelve by my clock, which is several hours fast, but i have been up some little time. i have dressed my child, and she is now practising on the piano. i spent the night thinking over what you said, my adored one. one luminous phrase especially stands out and scorches my soul. perhaps you only said it idly as one of the compliments one is constrained to make to the woman who loves one? i know not, but i do know, that i have taken the assurance you gave me that you have never really loved any woman but me, as a sacred thing, unalterably true. i adore you and had never felt even the semblance of love until i met you. i love and adore you, and shall love and adore you for ever, for love is the essence of my body, my heart, my life, and my soul. believe this, my treasure, for it is god's own truth. your dread of seeing me re-enter theatrical life will quickly be dissipated by the probity and steadiness of my conduct. i hope, and am certain of this. you have nothing to fear from me wherever i may be. i adore you, i venerate you. if i could do as you wish and renounce the theatre, that is to say my sole chance of securing my future, i would do so without hesitation and without your having to urge it, simply to please you. but, my beloved, i feel that it were easier to relinquish life itself than the hope of paying my creditors and making myself independent by earning my own living. if i were to make this sacrifice i am sure my despair would bring about some irreparable catastrophe that would weigh upon you all your days. my adored one, do not try to turn me from the only thing that can bring me peace and make me believe in your love. help me and do not forsake me unless i give you just cause to do so. spend your whole life in loving me, in exchange for my unswerving loyalty and adoration. kiss me, my little man. i love you. juliette. _friday, 4.45 p.m., november 15th, 1839._ i wrote the date and hour on this half-sheet of paper, thinking it was blank. i explain this, in order that your suspicious mind may not again draw a flood of insulting deductions from a thing that has happened so simply and naturally. you upset me just now when you said good-bye, because you said cruel things. it was a bad moment to choose. your manner to me is enough to discourage an angel, and i have begun to ask myself whether it is possible to love a woman one does not esteem. if you esteemed me you would not for ever suspect my words, my silence, my actions, my conduct; if you loved me you would know how to appreciate my honesty and fidelity, whereas even in the tenderest moments of our most intimate communion, you never fail to say something cruel and disheartening. i often say one might almost imagine you were under a promise to someone to tire out my love by inflicting pain upon me on every occasion; but i hope you will never succeed in doing this. i suffer, i despair at heart, but i love you so far, and i hope for both our sakes that i always shall. i cling to my love even more than to your esteem, for the latter is a poor blind thing that cannot distinguish night from day, candle-light from sunshine, or an honest woman from a harlot. [illustration: the bridge of marne. drawing by victor hugo (victor hugo museum).] my love is more clear-sighted. it was attracted at once by your physical and spiritual perfection, and has never confused you with any other of the human species. i love you, toto. torment me, drive me to desperation if you will, but you shall never succeed in diminishing my affection. my head aches, little man, and the thoughts that fill it at this moment are not calculated to cure its pain. i press my hand upon my brow to crush thought, and i open my heart to all that is good and tender in my love for you. good-bye, toto. i adore you. good-bye. we were very happy this morning; let us try to be so again very soon. in the meantime i adore you. juliette. _wednesday, 8.45, november 20th, 1839._ i am in despair. i wish i were dead and everything at an end! the more precautions i take, the more i purge my life, the less happiness i achieve. it is as if i were accursed, and i often feel a wild desire to behave as if i were, and crush my love underfoot. i am so unhappy that i lose all courage and hope for the future. you were very good to me when you were going away, but that does not prove that when you come back presently you may not be the most offensive and unjust of men. i sacrifice to you one by one all my actions, even the most insignificant; i am careful inwardly and outwardly to cause you no sort of offence, and yet i am unsuccessful! my struggles only fatigue and dishearten me. on the eve of taking the great step which would bind us to each other even closer than we already are, would it not be better for us to break off our relations, and put a stop to the whole thing instead? i can understand now the generosity of didier, who elects to die upon the scaffold forgiving marion with his last breath, rather than live persecuting and torturing her with the recollection of her past, and with suspicions a thousand times more painful than death and oblivion. ah, yes, i can understand a didier like that.... i suffer! ah, god, people who do not love are very fortunate! i love you, and i know that failing some violent remedy i shall continue to suffer and care for you. i admit that all these things i write are absurd, and that it would be wiser to throw this letter into the fire, and keep to myself the thousand and one follies inspired by my despair. juliette. _monday, 5.30 p.m., december 16th, 1839._ you did well, my adored one, to come back after the painful incident we had just gone through. if you had not, i should have been wretched all the evening. thank you, my beloved toto, thank you, my love. you looked very preoccupied, my treasure, when you came up the first time. i gathered that guirault's letter had something to do with this, and that you were meditating your answer. beyond that, i did not take much notice, for i was too furious with you to be able to think of anything. if you knew how much i love you, and how faithful i am to you, my adored one, you would be less suspicious. suspicion is an insult that makes me frantic, because, it proves to me that you do not believe in either my honesty or my love. jealousy is another thing: one can be jealous of a face or of a person, because however sure one may be of one's own superiority, one may still fear that some beast or monster may be preferred to oneself; but jealousy, i repeat, is different from everlasting suspicion of one's actions and even of one's negative conduct and inaction. finally, i differentiate between jealousy and suspicion; i feel there is a great gulf between my jealousy and yours, and yet i love you more than you love me--you cannot gainsay that--if you admit it, i will pardon all your misdeeds and adore you and kiss your dear little feet. _hurrah! i am to have my wardrobe! hurrah!_ you will not be an academician, but you will always be my dear little lover. juliette. _thursday, 5 p.m., january 16th, 1840._ i love you, my toto, and am sad at seeing you so seldom. but i know how much you have to do, my little man, so am not angry with you--still that does not prevent me from being horribly sad. money melts in my pocket. i was reading yesterday a description of monsieur de sévigné, the son, which applies wonderfully to me. "he had no hobbies, did not entertain, gave no presents, wore plain attire, gambled not at all, had only one servant and not a single horse on which to ride out with the king or the dauphin; yet his hand was like a crucible wherein gold is melted." i am rather like that. i do not give many presents, i wear the same dress for a year at a time, i only do expensive cooking when you are coming to dine with me, i have only one servant, and yet money disappears in my establishment like snow under the rays of the sun. with me, it is not my hand that is the crucible, but my past life, which is like an abyss that all the money in the world would find it difficult to fill. that is why i am sad. love me, my toto, and above all do not kill yourself with working for everybody as you do without respite. i can sell something i do not want, whereas your health and repose are indispensable to my welfare and tranquillity. remember that, my dear one, and do not be over scrupulous at the expense of the real consideration which makes my happiness. when shall i see you again, treasure? juliette. _sunday, 1.15 p.m., march 22nd, 1840._ good-morning, my beloved toto. i read the manuscript of "didine" over again last night, and i shed all the tears i had restrained in your presence. i am more convinced than ever that you committed an act of unfaithfulness against our love when you composed those lines. i do not see how you can hope to persuade me to the contrary, or wonder that i am wounded to the quick by such a mental and spiritual lapse. jealousy is not excited only by infidelities of the senses, but primarily by such an infidelity as that which you have committed in writing these verses and concentrating your gaze and your thoughts upon that young girl, while my whole heart and soul were raised in prayer for you in that church at strasbourg. i will never go back there, either to the church or to the town. there is an end of that. would to god we had never gone there at all! i should have preserved one illusion more, and suffered one sorrow less. well, well, it is not your fault. you wished to carry away the memory of that woman, as you could not possess her person, and you have written some very beautiful lines which prove, in the same degree as my pain, what a profound and striking impression she produced upon you. i hope you may never experience a jealousy so well-justified as mine about any woman you may love in the future; for myself i desire a speedy recovery from the most miserable infatuation in all this world. juliette. _monday, 6.45 p.m., june 1st, 1840._ i am writing to you in the company of résilieux, my love, but that does not restore to me the gaiety i have lost since this morning. that woman and her persistence annoy me more than i can say. when i think of the close confinement in which i live and realise the depth and devotion of the love i bear you, i am indignant to the bottom of my heart that a wretched woman of the street should dare to cast the eye of envy upon a passion which constitutes the religion and adoration of my whole life. if i listened to my own inclination, i should make a terrible example of the hussy and her low caprice, and no other would venture an attempt to capture your affections for many a long day. i am wretched since this morning. i think myself plain, old, stupid, badly dressed--and all because i tremble for the safety of my love, because i am afraid for my poor little slice of happiness. alas! alas! my toto, i care too much for you; it is crazy of me. i did so hope that when your family was settled in the country, you would sometimes come and take me out with you--but, on the contrary, in a whole month i have only been out once with you; for i do not count those two evenings at the theatre, when i drove there and back in a carriage. it would be a cruel jest if you considered those as going out with you. i am not well. i have rushes of blood to the head and heart, but you do not care. i shall not do my monthly accounts to-night; my head aches too badly. perhaps i may try to-morrow. the laundress has been here and i have paid her; i shall probably get the grocer's bill to-morrow, but i shall certainly not pay it unless you have plundered some passer-by to-night. meanwhile, i love you, my toto. dinner has just been announced; i shall not be as happy as yesterday, for you are not dining with me; but perhaps as i am alone i shall be able to ruminate over my good fortune, for i was hardly able to realise it at all yesterday with all those females about. juliette. _january 7th, 9.30 a.m., 1841._ good-morning, my darling toto, to whom i dare not yet give his prospective title, for i am very doubtful of the integrity of old dupaty. i hope you will not keep me waiting too long for the result of the rabid voting of the opposing parties.[81] the contest becomes more and more curious and interesting. i wish it were already four o'clock. the weather is not very propitious for that moribund scoundrel. it would be difficult to let him down through the window, and still more so to transport him to the place where we do not wish him to be. if the computation is correct, the mortal illness of the old wretch should give you the place by a majority of one vote at the first scrutiny; but what about a black-ball? perhaps this time it will come from the ignoble creature who walks under the filthy, greasy, hideous hat of that beast dupaty. i wish we were already at this afternoon, that i might know what the foul old man has dared to do. until then i shall look at my clock many and many a time. try, my love, to come at once and tell me the result whatever it may be. i shall at least have the pleasure of seeing you, which will add to the joy of your nomination or console you for your defeat. by the way, you were so shabby last night that one might suppose you were preparing to contest the palm of bad dressing with that old pickpocket dupaty. i shall forgive you your untidiness if you are successful. i love you. juliette. _thursday, 6 p.m., january 7th, 1841._ i am enchanted for everybody's sake, my dear academician, that at last you are elected. there you are at last, thanks to the seventeen votes of your friends, and in spite of your fifteen adversaries. you are an academician. hurrah! i wish i could have witnessed with my own eyes the grimaces of all those contemptible old things, and heard the profession of faith of that horrible dupaty; you ought to indemnify me by showing me your own beautiful countenance for a little more than a paltry five minutes as you did just now. i love you, toto, as much as the first day and more than ever. but, alas, i dare not believe the same of you, for i do not see much proof of it, as my maid would say. the fact is that whether as an academician, or a candidate, or nothing at all, i hardly see you more than an hour a day. this is neither novel nor consoling; it becomes more and more sad and painful. think of that, my love, and come very soon after you have read my letter. i love you. juliette. _sunday, 10.45 a.m., april 11th, 1841._ good morning, my beloved toto, my adored little man. how are you, my darling? i am afraid you may have tired yourself last night reading your splendid speech to me. poor beloved, it would be a calamity that my pleasure should cost you so dear; it would be unjust and cruel. i hope it is not so, my adored one, and that you have not been punished for your kindness. what a magnificent address! and how stupid it is of me only to appreciate it inwardly, and to be incapable of expressing my feelings better than by inarticulate grunts. it is not my fault, yet since i have learned to love you i have not been able to resign myself to my limitations. every time the opportunity presents itself to admire you i am furious with myself and should like to slap and kick myself--though my poor body would have no time to recover between the assaults, for every single thing you say and do is as admirable and striking as your written works. so i should be kept busy. fortunately you do not object to my want of intellect; you realise the quality and proportions of my love. all my intelligence and being have turned to spirit, to idolise you. i may be only a goose outwardly, but inwardly i am sublime with devotion. which is best? i cannot tell, it is for you to decide. meanwhile i am the most fortunate of women to have heard the beginning of your beautiful speech, and i love you with all my strength. juliette. _thursday, 4.30 a.m., june 3rd, 1841._ good morning, my adored little man, my beloved _monsieur l'académicien_! how are you, my toto? i am very much afraid you will be horribly tired before this afternoon, poor treasure![82] i think you should have had the speech printed a day earlier, and have kept this night free for resting. i really do not know how you will manage to deliver your address after these several days of grinding fatigue, and a night spent in correcting the proofs at the printing-works. nobody but you can accomplish these feats of endurance. still, my beloved, it is time you changed a mode of living which must kill you in the long run. i hope you are going to spend the remaining few hours in your bed. i already feel as agitated as if i were going to make the speech myself. i shall be in a desperate state of mind until you have finished and salvandy begins to speak. i shall have this fearful lump on my chest until then. whatever happens i adore you. juliette. _june 3rd, 5.30 p.m., 1841._ where shall i begin, my love? at your divine feet or your celestial brow? what shall i express first? my admiration? or the adoration that overflows my heart like your sublime genius surpasses the mediocre creatures who listened to you without understanding, and gazed at you without falling upon their knees! ah, let me mingle those two sentiments that dazzle my brain and burn up my heart. i love you! i admire you! i adore you! you are truly splendid, noble, and sublime, my poet, my beloved, light of my eyes, flame of my heart, life of my life! poor adored beloved; when i saw you enter, so pale and shaken, i felt myself swooning, and but for the support of madame démousseaux and madame pierceau, i should have fallen to the floor. happily nobody noticed my emotion, and when i came to myself and saw your sweet smile answering mine and encouraging me, i felt as if i were awaking from a long, painful dream, though only a second of time had elapsed. thank you, my adored one, for sparing a thought to the poor woman who loves you, at that solemn moment--i should have said, that supreme moment, if the assemblage had not consisted for the greater part of tiresome blockheads and vile scoundrels. thank you, my good angel, my sublime victor, my illustrious _child_. i saw all your dear little family;[83] lovely didine, charming charlot, and dear little toto who looked pale and delicate. i kissed them all in spirit as i did their divine father. i love you. juliette. _thursday, 2.30 p.m., july 8th, 1841._ while you are lording it at the académie[84] i am weeping and suffering at home. you might have spared me this pain by inviting me to attend the sitting, or else staying away yourself. i must warn you, my toto, that this sort of sacrifice and torment is unendurable, and if it happens again i do not know what i may do rather than resign myself to it. we are not living in the east, and you have not _bought_ me, thank heaven! i am free to cast off the yoke of proceedings which are neither just, nor kind, nor affectionate. i swear by all i hold most sacred in this world, namely my love, that i will not submit a third time to be thus flouted. if you knew how furious and miserable i am feeling at this moment of writing, you would not venture to inflict a third trial of the kind upon me. in any case pray keep my letter as a _definite announcement_ of what i am capable of doing if you are so cruel as to persist in your present line of conduct. meanwhile i am doing my best to avoid taking any definitely fatal step, but i warn you that i cannot much longer remain mistress of myself. juliette. _1 a.m._ hell in my heart at noon, paradise at midnight, my toto. i love you and have full confidence in you. _friday, 7.45 p.m., november 19th, 1841._ i have it! hurrah!! fancy, it has been here all the morning, yet nothing warned me! my heart did not beat faster than usual, the earth did not tremble, the skies did not fall, in fact everything remained in its humdrum, normal condition, as if nothing unusual had happened--and it was here all the time! i possessed it in my room, under my eyes! verily it can hardly be credited, and if anybody but myself said so i should not believe it. but what you must believe, my love, for indeed it is true, is that i love you and that you are the kindest, most charming, best, handsomest, most generous, most noble, and most adored of men. that is what you have got to believe, because it is god's own truth. the cabinet is fascinating, but what is still nicer is the way you gave it to me. "the manner of the gift is better than the gift itself," was once said by some one whose name i have forgotten. when you are the donor, the proverb is still more applicable. if you had all the treasures of the universe to bestow, you would do it with a grace that would enhance the value of the gift a thousandfold. as for me i am mad with delight, for i believe you love me. i may tell you now that last night i cried helplessly at the thought of how much younger and handsomer you are than i. i anticipated the moment when you will no longer be able to love me, and my heart contracted so that i should have suffocated without the relief of tears. i feel i shall certainly die the day you cease to care for me, and i know that no other woman can ever worship you as i do. but i trust that day will never dawn, will it, my angel? there are no wrinkles in the heart, and you will see my face only in the reflection of your attachment, eh, victor, my beloved? the while i wept and mourned, you were thinking of me, my poor sweet, and bringing me the cabinet. we were both performing an act of love, mine gloomy, yours, charming and considerate like everything you do. i hope your present will bring us both happiness, and that you will adore me as long as i shall admire my dear little cabinet--that is, for ever. i have it! what happiness! i should like to put it in the middle of the room on a golden table, or in my bed, or carry it in my arms, on my heart, anywhere in fact where it could be seen and touched. meanwhile i will give it a good cleaning to-morrow. it is rather too late to-night. i must do some copying, and dine, and send you back the scribble you entrusted to me yesterday, so i will put off till to-morrow--principally because i shall have a better light then. i will clean it in bed, drawer by drawer. it will be a delightful occupation. i love you, i love you, toto, i kiss you and adore you, toto. juliette. _wednesday evening, 6.30, february 9th, 1842._ do you really want me to write toto, even when my heart is breaking, and my soul brimful of discouragement? i obey, but if you would only listen to me, you would allow me to discontinue these daily scrawls, which have never served any purpose but that of betraying the measure of my stupidity and making you tire of a love become absurd by dint of reiteration. i feel you only insist out of kindness, but it seems futile to continue this childish babble, which deceives neither you nor me, and gives me no indication of what is passing in your mind. it would be better, my beloved, to inure me gradually to a catastrophe which may be nearer than i guess, than to make efforts to leave me an illusion which neither of us really shares nowadays. a sad ending to all our past happiness! god grant it may not be altogether buried. this does not prevent me from doing you full justice, my friend. you are kind with a kindness full of pity and divine indulgence, but you no longer cherish for me the love of a man for a woman. do not pretend otherwise, for you cannot delude me. i bear you no grudge my victor, neither should you bear me any, for it is no more your fault than mine, that you do not love me while i still love you--not our fault, but god's, who distributes unequally the amount of love we may each expend during our lives. happy he or she to whom the smaller sum is apportioned--so much the worse for him or her whose heart is inexhaustible. now, my beloved toto, i will torment you no longer. i will even try to make myself agreeable, though, alas, what woman can be agreeable when she is no longer loved! but i shall do my best, and that, coupled with your natural generosity, may still retard for a few days the greatest misfortune of my life. fear nothing from me, my victor. you have to-day received the last expression of my choler. one may strike, and even kill, while one feels oneself beloved, but one must spare the man who no longer cherishes one. you see, my victor, that you have nothing to be afraid of, but i beseech you to let me off these daily scribbles about things that have neither point nor reason. i demand this of your goodness. juliette. _thursday, 2.30 p.m., february 10th, 1842._ my beloved, my adored victor, thank you! you remove hell from my heart, and replace it with paradise. thank you! my life, my spirit, my soul, bless and adore you. what a letter, my god! i wanted to read it kneeling; happy tears poured down my cheeks. you love me, my dear one! it must be true, for you declare it in the loveliest, sweetest language of the whole world. you love me although i am ill-tempered, violent, stupid; you love me my good angel, because you know that your love is the breath of life to me, and that without it i could no longer exist. i also love you, but only god and myself know how deeply. yesterday when you left me, i was on my knees praying and kissing with tears the footsteps i could hear fading away in the street. i could have flung myself out of the window and died at your feet. my despair, then, was as poignant as the bliss i felt just now when i read your adored letter. my victor, my love, my life, my joy, i love you more than ever! i implore your forgiveness, i throw myself at your feet and embrace them. thank you, my treasure. you must be very happy, for you have done a lovely thing in writing me the most charming, the kindest, the most wonderful and most adorable letter that ever issued from your heart. juliette. _thursday, 9.30, april 30th, 1842._ good morning, my adored toto. how did the little invalid sleep last night? as for you, i do not even ask, my poor dear, for i know you spend all your nights working. i love you, my poor angel. i do not know what else to say, because that is the only thought in my heart and soul; to love you always and for ever. here comes the bright sunshine that is going to cure our poor little man at once.[85] i have not seen a finer spring since the one we spent strolling about the heights of montmartre together. i cannot think of it without tears of regret for the days that are gone, and of gratitude to providence for those few moments of most perfect felicity. i would give half my life to have it again, my beloved toto; and it depends only upon you--if you wished it, we could easily recover the happiness of those days. why do you no longer desire it? i know you have to work, but so you did then--_claude gueux_, _philosophie mêlée_, _les voix intérieures_, _les chants du crépuscule_, _angélo_, _les rayons et les ombres_ and _ruy blas_, are there to prove it. in those days you loved me better than you do at present. alas, i love you more than ever, or rather, as much as the first day!--that is, with all my soul. juliette. [illustration: a dedication by victor hugo to juliette drouet. the original belongs to m. louis barthou.] _saturday, 6.30 p.m., august 20th, 1842._ i am a strange creature--at least you think so, do you not, beloved? but what you take for eccentricity, caprice, bad-temper, is really love, but an unhappy love, mistrustful and anxious. everything is to me a subject of dread almost amounting to despair. thus this visit to the duchesse d'orléans, whither i quite admit you were kind enough to take me, was simply a torment on account of the hour and the circumstances: i, badly dressed, barely clean, and that woman under the prestige of a great sorrow[86] which, next to physical beauty, is the surest way to your heart. i frankly confess that however gallant my love may be, and whatever reliance i may place upon your loyalty, i am not easy when i have to fight and struggle without weapons. this result of a _surprise_ and a hurried rush through paris in a cab may seem excessive to you, and verging on hysteria; but the fact is, my adored one, that my love, so long repressed, is verily degenerating into a disease, almost into frenzy. everything hurts me. i am afraid of everything. i am a poor thing needing much compassion for loving you so. if these incoherent expressions do not force upon you the realisation of the depth of my devotion, it must be that you no longer care for me, or indeed have never done so; but if on the contrary you do understand, you will pity and pardon me, and love me all the better, and i am the happiest of women. juliette. _february 14th, 11.15 a.m., 1843._ good morning beloved toto, good morning adored one. i love you. when i heard you describing last night the impression produced upon you by the rehearsal of _lucrèce_ and more especially by the singing of the guests, i seemed to feel it all myself. the fact that my love has not grown a day older, that my admiration is still on the increase, that i think you as handsome and as young as ever, makes it easier for me to go back to the feelings of those days. looking into my heart, i seem to feel that all this adulation and joy and feast of glory and love began yesterday. alas, those ten years have left traces only upon my poor countenance, and have been as harsh to it as they have been indulgent to your charming features. i express this somewhat crudely, as i always manage to do, but it is not my fault, my love, nor any one else's. i love you. therein consist my intelligence, my wit, my superiority; beyond that i am as stupid as any other animal. you must be very busy to-day with the two rehearsals,[87] and the maxime[88] worry which falls upon your devoted head, not to speak of the _great business_! i dare not expect you to-night till very late. well, my dearly beloved, i know you do not belong to me, so i will resign myself as cheerfully as may be, and put a good face upon your absence. try to think of me, my dear little man; that is all i venture to ask at this moment. as for me, there is no more merit in thinking of you and loving you than in breathing. i love you, toto, as much as life. juliette. _wednesday, 4.30 p.m., september 13th, 1843._ where are you? what are you about, my adored one?[89] in what condition is your family? what state are you in yourself? what will happen to us all in our despair, if god be not merciful to us! since you left me i can think only of your arrival at home. i imagine the scene: the despairing sobs of your children, the expression of your own frightful grief, so long and sternly repressed. all those tears and sufferings fall back upon my heart and rend it. i cannot bear more. my poor head is on fire and my hands burn like live coals. i want to pray and cannot; all my faculties, all my being, turn to you. i would give my life to spare you a single pang. i would have sacrificed myself in this world, and the next to save your adored child. my god, what will become of me if you stay away much longer, when i have refrained with such difficulty from sending to get news of you? i have begged madame lanvin to come to me this afternoon and bring her husband, so that if, as i fear, i have not seen you before then, he can go and ask for news of you under the name of monsieur st. hilaire. my heart aches, my poor treasure, when i think of all you are enduring. i feel i cannot much longer bear not seeing you. i shall commit some act of folly if you do not come to my assistance. i exhausted my strength and courage on that awful journey, and during last night and to-day. i have none left now to endure your absence. i picture to myself your wife ill, and you also; in fact, i am like a mad thing in the extremity of my anxiety and grief. i am trying to occupy myself mechanically, in order to bring nearer the moment when i shall see you, but my efforts only make every minute of waiting seem like a century, and all the fears my heart anticipates, become frightful realities against which i cannot struggle. my adored victor, whatever be your despair, mine is greater still; for i feel it through my love, which makes it a hundred times worse and multiplies it beyond all human calculation. never has man been so idolised by woman as you are by me, and the poor angel we mourn knows it and sees it now, as god knows and sees it, and she will forgive, as he does, i am certain. i think of her, poor beloved, as an angel of heaven. to her i shall direct my prayers, that she may give you the strength and courage you need. to her also i shall address myself in the hour of death, that the good god may take me with all of you into his paradise. my adored victor, it is more than five o'clock, and you have not yet come. what shall i do! what can i think, or rather what am i to fear? we are in a terrible cycle of misfortune, and god only knows when it will end. my victor, before giving way to despair, think of mine, remember that i love you more than life. juliette. _sunday, 5.45 p.m., october 8th, 1843._ i have been working all the morning my beloved, or rather scribbling on paper--only to please you, for i doubt whether my labour will be of any use to you; still, i am trying hard, and if i cannot do _better_, i am doing _my_ best. i cannot do more. i am trying more especially to forget no detail, which makes me occasionally note down trivialities, little futile, insignificant things. my search among our memories is like the botanising of a child who is as apt to collect couch grass as the more useful and rarer plants. however, i am doing my best, and better still, i am obeying you. would you believe that, although i have been writing the whole day, i have not yet reached _auch_.[90] my mind and pen rather resemble the fantastic equipage we drove thither, but there is less risk in the present venture. the worst that can happen is that we should tumble promiscuously into a muck heap of absurdities and nonsense which leave no bruises, whereas we risked our necks several times in the course of the thirty-three miles between tarbes and auch. i should love to see you, my toto. the day, though filled with joyous recollections of our journey, has seemed long and sad to me. nothing can take the place of one of your embraces. the remembrance of the greatest happiness cannot weigh against one glance from you. i realise it more to-day than ever before; therefore, do try and come, my beloved toto. it will give me courage and patience to get through the evening. i love you too much, you see, but i cannot help it; it is no fault of mine. juliette. _sunday, 7.15 p.m., november, 1843._ i think of you my beloved, i desire you, i love you. ah yes, i love you my adored toto, you may be sure of it, for it is god's truth. my little claire and i talk of you and nothing but you. we love you and bless you. the poor little child will not be with me much longer, and i can already see her poor little face wrinkling up with sorrow; but i try to be cheerful and to remind her of the fortnight's holiday which will soon come. we love the pictures of your dear little toto, and his pretty home. we gaze at them with eagerness and affection, we are all eyes and heart. at this moment claire is reading ulric's poems,[91] while i am writing to my beloved toto with a heart full of gratitude and devotion. may the happiness you bestow upon me, be yours also, my love! may a just pride sustain you, for you have saved two souls, the mother's and the daughter's! i feel ineffable things i dare not express, for fear of vulgarising them by the mere fact of putting them into words. do not delay long ere you come, my darling toto. if you knew the joy and radiance you diffuse in this house, you would indeed hasten your steps. alas, i am foolish, for have you not children of your own whom you must also make glad! i am envious of them, but not cruel enough to deprive them of their bliss--only i beg of them to hurry with their enjoyment, so that my turn may come. did you give dédé the sachet? did toto take back his quince jelly? meanwhile, i am giving suzanne a whole evening to herself, and making my little rogue read _le musée des familles_. i should love to give you a good kiss, but i know you will not come for it. you have not the sense to do so. juliette. _monday, 11.15 a.m., july 22nd, 1844._ good morning my beloved, my sweet, my darling little toto. how are you? are you less sad and painfully pre-occupied than yesterday, my adored one? alas, it is unlikely ... your grief and sorrow are not of those that time can soften. you have the painful faculty of feeling things far more acutely than do other men. genius does not only pertain to the brain, it belongs above all to the heart. my poor dear one, i love you; i suffer when you suffer; be merciful to us both, i implore you. my little claire went away this morning. she was more resigned than usual, for she has a holiday of three days in prospect, beginning next saturday. the poor little thing is very devoted to us; her sole happiness is to be with us. she complains of not seeing you often enough, and i back her up in that. you must try to give us at least one evening out of the three she will spend at home. verily i am not very cheerful company for the poor child when i am alone with her. i am so absorbed in my love that sometimes i do not speak to her twice in the day, however much i try to bring myself to do so. i have copied méry's verses, because i do not wish to deprive mademoiselle dédé of his autograph. i can understand her setting store by it, poor darling, so i shall make a point of returning it to her. only (and it is you i am addressing now) you must give me just as many as you give her. you must not lose your good habits, my darling, for i am sure it would bring us bad luck. therefore you must bring me all your letters as you used to do. i promise to divide them conscientiously with dear little dédé, and you know quite well that i am a woman of my word. i adore you. juliette. _thursday, 4.45 p.m., october 20th, 1844._ i have sent to barbedienne, my adored one, but suzanne has not yet returned. i am writing to you meanwhile to make the time hang less heavy. i hope to goodness i may be able to procure that lovely medal![92] since i have glimpsed the chance of possessing it, i feel my disappointment would be greater than i could bear, if i failed to get it. good god, how slowly that girl walks! fancy having to trust to legs like those on such an occasion! i could have gone there and back ten times, since she went. may the devil fly away with her, or rather, precipitate her right into the middle of my room with his cloven foot, providing only that she brings the longed-for medal! [illustration: juliette drouet in 1846. bust by victor vilain (victor hugo museum).] here she is! ah! victor, do not be angry! victor, i am at your feet--victor, i will be reasonable for the whole of the rest of my life if only you will let me add 15 fr. to the sum you promised me. oh, victor, i have not time to wait for your answer and yet i fear to annoy you. ah, no, you are too kind to be angry with your poor juju who loves you with such absolute admiring, devoted love! you will look at her with your gentle, ineffable smile, and say i was right--surely, yes, you will. three cheers for toto! juju is a clever woman ... at heart. yes, it is quite true and i am the happiest of women. juliette. _tuesday, 9.30 a.m., september, 1845._ i have just been gardening, beloved. i am soaked with dew and all muddy, but i have spent three hours thinking of you without any bitterness. my eyes were as moist as my flowers, but i was not weeping. while i busied myself with the garden, i reviewed in thought the lovely flowers of my past happiness. i saw them again fresh and blooming as the first day, and i felt close to you, separated only by a breath. as long as the illusion lasted i was almost happy. i should have liked to pluck my soul and send it to you as a nosegay. perhaps what i am saying is silly, yet it is the sort of nonsense that can only issue direct from the tenderest, most passionate heart that ever lived. for nearly thirteen years past, i have never once written to you without feeling my hand tremble and my eyes fill. when i speak of you, no matter to whom, my heart swells as if it would burst through my lips. when i am dead, i am certain that the imprint of my love will be found on my heart. it is impossible to worship as i do without leaving some visible trace behind when life is over. my beloved victor, let your thoughts dwell with me, so that my days may seem shorter and less dreary; and do try to surprise me by coming to-night. oh, how happy i shall be if you do that! meanwhile, i love you more than i can say. juliette. _saturday, 8 a.m., september 27th, 1845._ good morning my beloved, my soul, my life, my adored victor. how are you? i hope yesterday did not tire you too much. i forgot until you reminded me that you have been forbidden to walk much, but i do trust it did you no harm; did it, victor darling? as for me i felt no fatigue, i seemed to have wings. i should have liked to place my feet on all the paths we traversed together eleven years ago, to kiss the very stones of the roads and the leaves on the trees, and to pick all the flowers in the woods, so keenly did i fancy they were the very same that watched us pass together all those years ago. i gazed at you my adored victor, and in my eyes you were as young and handsome, nay handsomer even, than eleven years ago. i looked into my heart and found it full of the same ecstasy and adoration that animated it the first day i loved you. nothing was changed in us or about us. the same ardent, devoted, sad and sweet affection in our hearts, the same autumn sun and sky above our heads, the same picture in the same frame; nothing had changed in eleven years. i would have given a decade of my life to stand alone for ten minutes in that house that has sheltered our memories for so long. i should like to have carried away ashes from the fireplace, dust from the floors. i should have liked to pray and weep, where once i prayed and wept, to have died of love on the spot where once i accepted your soul in a kiss. i had to exercise superhuman self-control not to perpetrate some act of folly in the presence of that girl who showed us so indifferently over a house i could have purchased at the price of half the rest of my life. fortunately, thanks to her profound ignorance of our identity, she noticed nothing, and we were each able to bring away a tiny relic of our former happiness. mine must be buried with me when i die. beloved, did you work late last night? it was very imprudent of you if you did, after the fatigue you underwent during the day. to-day, you must be very careful and not walk much. i shall be extremely stern with you. my antiquarian propensities shall not make me forget, like yesterday, that you are still convalescent and must hardly walk at all. and you will obey me, because little totos must always obey little jujus, as you know. kiss me, my adored victor, and may god bless you for all the happiness you give me. juliette. _saturday, 9 p.m., may 2nd, 1846._ i cannot nerve myself to the realisation that i shall not see you this evening my sweet adored beloved; yet it is all too true. this is the first time in fourteen years that i have not slept in a room belonging to you.[93] consequently i am feeling quite forlorn. everything conspires to harrow me. just now when i left you i longed for death, and the tears i drove from my eyes trickled inwardly to my sad heart. if this anxiety about my child, and the separation from you, are to last long, i do not think i shall have strength to endure them. i am vexed and disgusted at the tone of those about me. i am ashamed and indignant at my inability to remove myself from it, however i may try; then when i remember you, so generous, so loyal, so noble, so kind and indulgent, my bitterness evaporates and nothing remains in my heart but admiration, gratitude, and love for your divine and fascinating self. * * * * * when i got back, i found my child in a raging fever. i gave her fresh compresses, and now she is sleeping. god grant she may do so all night, and that the change of ideas and surroundings and air may have a good effect upon her health. i shall in that case have less cause to grudge the sacrifices i am voluntarily making to that end. meanwhile, i am a prey to fearful anxiety, and am suffering the uttermost from the absence of what i love best in this world, above life, above duty, above everything. good-night, beloved. think of me. sleep well, and love me. juliette. _tuesday, 3.45 p.m., 1846._ i love you, my victor. between every letter of those five sweet words there lurk depths of maternal anguish and sorrow. gloomy reflections mingle with my tenderest thoughts. my life at this moment is divided between my poor little daughter whom i already mourn in anticipation, (for i feel that these few days of illness are but snatched from eternity), and my adoration for you, from which no preoccupation, even of the most terrible and sinister character, can long distract me. on the contrary, my love is all the greater for the trials and sufferings god sends me. i love you selflessly, as if i myself were already over the border. my heart is racked, yet i adore you. claire's condition is the same as yesterday; only the weakness, which, but for the doctor's plain warning i might have attributed to the heat, has increased. the night was not very bad; the poor little thing suffers hardly at all. she seems to have no firmer hold on life than life has upon her. apathy and profound indifference characterise her illness. only her father has the power to rouse her for the few moments he is with her. he came this morning and happened to meet the doctor,[94] who, it appears, is not quite so despondent as monsieur triger;[95] but what does that prove? i have not been able to get her up at all to-day. she lay in bed in a state of profuse and constant perspiration. the various tonics she takes fail to produce any effect whatever. the exhaustion increases hour by hour, which means that death is coming nearer. i pray, but i obtain neither solace nor confidence. the good god disdains my prayers and rejects them, i know--yet i love and admire him in his beneficent, lofty, noble, generous and beautiful works. i love him as his saints and angels in heaven love him. what more can i do to find favour in his eyes? he deprived me of my mother at my birth; now he is about to snatch my child from me. is that his justice? i do not want to blaspheme, but i am very miserable, and if i do not see you, if you cannot come to-day, i do not know what will become of me. despair fills my soul, but i love you. god may crush my heart if he so wills, but the last breath from it shall be a cry of love for you, my sublime beloved. juliette. _april 29th, 9 a.m., 1847._ good morning, my adored victor. my thoughts and soul and heart go out to you in this greeting. i hope i shall see you before you go to the rehearsal, for if i do not, i shall have to wait till this evening, which would increase my depression. from now until the anniversary of the terrible day on which i lost my poor child, every hour and minute is punctuated by the recollection of the sufferings of that poor little thing, and of the anguish i went through. they are painful memories, impossible to exclude from my thoughts. last night while i lay sleepless i seemed to hear her, and in my dreams i saw her again as she looked at the close of her illness. i am worn out this morning. all the pangs and fatigues of the last moments of her life weigh down my heart and limbs. it may be that i shall find comfort in prayer, and i shall pray better by her side, buoyed up by the hope that she will hear me and obtain for me resignation enough to bear her absence without murmur or bitterness. it was you who gave me the courage to live. all that a heart can gain from consolation, i found in your love; but there is a grief surpassing all others and beyond human aid, for which only god can provide, and to him i must address myself to-day. juliette. _thursday, 8 a.m., may 6th, 1847._ good morning, my all, my greatly loved toto. how are you this morning? did you gather in a good harvest of glances, smiles and flattery yesterday from the women you met? were you the cause of many incipient passions, or were you yourself ensnared by those females, like any beardless student or bald-headed peer of the realm? tell me, how are you after your evening at court? for my part, i have a very sore throat and am feeling fearfully cross. i have a longing to scratch which i should love to vent upon the face of some woman or even upon yours--or better still, upon both. i am sick of playing the gentle, sheep-like woman. i intend to become as fierce as a hyena, and to make your life and everything depending upon it a burthen to you. i mean to make a terrible example of you, so that people shall say as you pass by, that it is a woman who has been outraged, but a juju who has avenged herself! meanwhile, to begin with, i am going to wrest from you somehow, two silk dresses, a lovely hat, two pairs of smart shoes; and if you do not confess your crime, i will punish you to the tune of torrents of tea-gowns, pocket-handkerchiefs, and silk stockings. i am capable of anything if you drive me too far. juliette. _tuesday, 12.45 p.m., june 6th, 1848._ the more i think of all that is going on in paris at this moment, my beloved, the less do i desire the success of your election.[96] we must let this frenzy of the populace which knows not what it wants and is in no condition to distinguish the true from the false, or evil from good, exhaust itself first. when it is worn out with turning in its own vicious circle of disorder, violence, and misery, it will come to heel and humbly crave the assistance of incorruptible, strong, sane politicians, among whom you are the most incorruptible, the strongest, and the sanest. i say this in the simplicity of my heart, without any pretension to be other than a mere woman who loves you above all things, and trembles lest you should enter upon some undertaking that might jeopardise your life without saving your country. therefore i pray that this candidature, to which you have been driven in self-sacrifice and generosity, may not succeed. if i am unpatriotic, i accept the blame, but i do think that in this instance my feeling is in accord with the best interests of france. it would not be the first time that the heart has proved cleverer than the brain. it has happened too often in my case for me to marvel. pending our next meeting, i kiss you from my soul, i adore you with all my strength. juliette. [illustration: victor hugo, républicain. political caricature, 1848.] _monday, 9 a.m., july 9th, 1849._ i am hurrying, my love, for i wish to be at the door of the assemblée at noon precisely, in order to secure a good place.[97] i wish the great moment had arrived, for i am already feeling stage-fright, and it will go on increasing until i see you descend from the tribune. i thought this morning that i could not experience any other sensation than happiness at seeing you, but now i begin to understand what fear is. yet when i say fear, i am hardly correct; for i mean something more indefinite, which is rather the suspense before a great joy, than the stupid emotion of cowardice or funk. in any case, i am very agitated; i wander aimlessly about the house, and feel as if the longed-for moment would never arrive. my blessed love, my great victor, my sublime beloved, i kiss in spirit your noble forehead with its generous thoughts, your beautiful eyes so gentle and powerful, your fascinating mouth, which has the happiness of speaking all your divine thoughts. i prostrate myself before the most beautiful and most sublime thing in the whole world, namely, your dear little person and your profound genius. i do not ask you to think of me before your speech, adored one, but afterwards i entreat you to spare me one glance to complete my happiness. juliette. _wednesday, 12.30, february 6th, 1850._ think of me, my adored one, and do not permit yourself to be ensnared by the mercenary blandishments of that woman.[98] i am in the throes of a jealousy so terrible, that the hardest heart would be moved to pity, and the most intrepid would fear me; for i am suffering, and i am capable of anything to avenge a despicable treachery. alas, my poor adored one, this is not what i should like to say, or what i ought to say. i realise that threats are powerless to hold you. i believe if the statistics of infidelity could be drawn up like those of crime, it would be shown that the severe penalties of the code of love are more apt to drive lovers into breaches of its laws than to bind them together. i am sure of it, and i wish i could convert my natural ferocity into bland indifference, in order to remove from you the stimulant of a forbidden rachel; but it is no good--i shall never manage it. therefore, i implore you for the sake of your personal safety and mine, to be honourable and prudent in your dramatic relations with that dangerous and perfidious jewess. try not to prolong your literary and theatrical consultation beyond the strictly necessary limits, and to come and fetch me before three o'clock. i should be so grateful to you, my adored little man, for you would thus abridge the moments of my torment. meanwhile i am very unhappy and anxious and worried. i try to hearten myself up by remembering the last promises you made me. when do you intend to keep them, i wonder? god knows! juliette. _saturday, 8 a.m., april 6th, 1850._ good morning, my adored one, my sublime beloved. how are you? did you have a better night, or did fatigue and excitement prevent you from sleeping? when i think of the admirable speech, so religious in character, so noble, self-abnegating, and conciliating, that you delivered yesterday[99] at the risk of your health, and then reflect upon the senseless uproar, and idiotic and violent interruptions it provoked, i feel only hatred, contempt, and disgust, for political life. it is revolting that a man like you should be the butt of the irresponsibility of all the parties. it is hateful, abominable, infamous, that scoundrels without talent, wit, or feeling should dare argue with you and should be accorded an attentive hearing where you only meet with insults. really, my treasure, the more i see of political life, the more i regret the time when you were simply the _poet_ victor hugo, my sublime love, my radiant lover. i revere your courage and devotion, but i am hurt in my tenderest feelings when i see you delivered over to the beasts of an arena a thousand times less discriminating than that of ancient rome. therefore, my beloved victor, i have conceived a loathing, not only for your antagonists, but also for the form of government which imposes this sisyphus life upon you. if i had the power to change it, i can assure you i should not hesitate, even if i had to deprive you for ever of your rights of citizenship. unfortunately, i can do nothing beyond cordially detesting those who obstruct your work. i pity you, bless you, admire you, and love you with all my soul. juliette. _saturday, 3 p.m., june 29th, 1850._ i have just watched you go with inexpressible sadness, my sweet and beautiful beloved. with you have departed the sunshine, the flowers, the pleasant thoughts, the hopes that link past happiness with future bliss. nought remains to me but my love, a poor hermit whose regrets have been her sole bedfellows this long time. when you turned the corner of the street, something luminous, soft, and sweet, seemed to die within me. from that moment i have been as depressed and desolate as if a great misfortune had befallen me. alas, it is in fact the misfortune that weighs down my whole life, namely, your absence. since politics have monopolised your time, happiness has eluded my grasp. will it ever return? i doubt it, hence my despair. i am greatly to be commiserated, my beloved, in that i have constituted your eyes my illumination, your smile my joy, your words my bliss, your love my life--so that when you are away, all these are simultaneously snatched from me. i am not certain of seeing you to-night, still less to-morrow. what is to become of me? what am i to do with this poor body bereft of its soul when you are not by? tell me if you can. explain if you dare. meanwhile, i adore you. juliette. _monday, 10 p.m., july 7th, 1851._ what i had foreseen has happened, my beloved, even sooner and more painfully than i had feared. does this fresh crisis foreshadow my speedy recovery? i dare not hope it, for i feel that my disease is incurable. i tell you so in the frankness of my despair. i neither can nor will deceive you, beloved, and my anxiety, far from diminishing, augments with every minute. i am suffering the torment of the most humiliating and poignant jealousy. i know that for seven years you have _adored_ a woman you think beautiful, witty and accomplished.[100] i know that but for her sudden treachery,[101] she would still be your preferred mistress. i know that you introduced her into your family-circle, that she is of your world, that you can meet her at any moment, that you promised her you would continue your intimacy with her, at all events outwardly. all this i know--yet you expect me to feel my own position secure! surely i should need to be idiotic or insane to do that. alas, i happen to be instead a very clear-sighted, miserable woman. _midnight._ beloved, thanks to you and thanks to your tender perseverance and inexhaustible kindness, i am once more, and this time for ever i hope, the sensible, sanguine, happy juju of the good old days. but if i am to be quite as i was then, you must suffer no longer, my little man--you must be as strong as three turks, and love me as much as a hundred swiss-guards. on those conditions i shall be happy! happy!! happy!!!, but pending that great day, try to sleep soundly to-night, not to be unwell to-morrow, and to forgive me for loving you too much. juliette. _saturday, 8 p.m., july 26th, 1851._ i trust you, my beloved, and believe everything you say. i yield my soul to the hopes of happiness you have held out to me. my heart is full of love and security. i love you, i am happy, i am at peace, i forget all i have suffered. i remember only the tender, loyal, encouraging words you uttered just now. felicity has succeeded despair--i quit hell and enter paradise. i love you and you love me, nothing can be sad any more. you will see how i shall resume my interest in life, how i shall smile, how happy i shall be, and what confidence i shall have in you. i do not know whether we shall be able to carry out all the adorable plans you sketched just now, but i experienced great happiness in anticipation while i watched you making them, and knew myself so closely associated with them. i felt as if all my past sorrows were transfigured into happiness to come. i listened, and my heart was filled with joy. thank you, my victor, thank you, my beloved. do not be anxious about me any more; now that you love me i shall get well. i shall be happy again, you will see. i am beginning already, so as to lose no time in rewarding you for your goodness and gentleness and patience. i am awaiting you with my sweetest smiles, my tenderest caresses. juliette. _monday, 12.45 p.m., july 28th, 1851._ this is the hour i begin to expect you, my victor; each second that lags past with the slowness of eternity crushes my hopes as quickly as i conceive them. what is to become of me all this wretched day if i may not see you? oh, i thought myself stronger, braver, more resigned; but now i see i have used up all my strength in the horrible struggle i have been going through this last month. what will happen to me, shut up here, all alone with that terrible anniversary, the 28th june, 1851? how can i evade its ghastly grip, how keep myself from suicide, from the desperate hankering after death? oh, god, how i suffer! i implore you, do not leave me alone here to-d....[102] _midnight._ this letter, which was begun in delirium and mad jealousy has ended, thanks to you my ineffable beloved, in the happy calm of confidence and the sacred joy of love shared. may you be blest, my victor, as much as you are respected, venerated, adored, and admired by me--then you will have nothing further to desire in this world or the next. juliette. _saturday, 8 a.m., august 2nd, 1851._ good morning, man that i love; good morning, with all my joy and smiles and soul and happiness and love, if you had a good night and are well. i felt sure your dear charles' depression could not stand against an hour of your gentle and persuasive philosophy. you have the marvellous art of extracting good from evil, and consolation from despair, and there is irresistible magic in your eyes and smile; your every word is full of seduction. i, who only linger in this life in the hope of seeing you every day, should know something of that. what the joys of eternity in paradise may be i cannot tell, but i would sacrifice them all for one minute of your true love. my victor, my victor, i love you. you will see how sensible i am going to be, and how i shall give way to all the exigencies of your work, and the consideration required by your position as a political personage. i am ready, my victor; dispose of me how you will; whether happy or unhappy, i shall bless you. i trust the bad atmosphere you were compelled to breathe for several hours yesterday did not injure your throat. i am eagerly awaiting this afternoon to learn this, and to see you. until then, i love you, i love you, i love you. juliette. _friday morning, september 12th, 1851._ good morning, and forgive me my poor sweet beloved, for nothing was further from my thoughts than to torment you as i involuntarily did yesterday. my foolishness does not include malice, and i respect you even in my most violent bouts of despair. besides, you had just been telling me something that ought to increase my clinging to life, namely, my responsibility for your tranquillity, your fortune, your genius and existence. without accepting in its entirety this exaggerated view of my own importance in the grave situation you find yourself in, my persecuted love, i have grasped that i should be unworthy of the position, were i to allow my troubles to weigh in the balance, against your safety. therefore, my victor, you have nothing to fear from me, so long as my poor brain retains a glimmer of reason, and my wretched heart a scrap of confidence in your loyalty. i spent part of the night reading over your old letters, especially those of _may 1844_,[103] and i shed more tears over your desecrated tenderness and sullied affection, than you can have squandered kisses upon that woman, during the seven years of your treachery to me. if life could escape through the eyes, my sufferings would long ere this be terminated; but like sorrow, the soul is not so quickly exhausted, though god only knows where it finds sustenance. as for me, my adored one, i love you without being able either to live or to be healed. i am ashamed of my incurability, and i gratefully compassionate the superhuman efforts you make to restore me to courage. juliette. _thursday, 10.45 p.m., october 23rd, 1851._ you know my dear little man, that i need no encouragement to give way to epistolary intemperance. when time permits, i am always ready to fling myself unrestrainedly into a sea of lucubrations without sense or end. but this time i have more than a mere pretext for giving rein to my harmless mania; i have two days full of the most radiant joy and happiness that could befall a woman who lives only by and for her love. whole volumes would not suffice to enumerate and describe them, and even your sublime genius would not be too great to express the splendid poetry of them. i felt as if a little winged soul sprang from each one of our embraces and flew heavenward with cries of jubilation and joy. your love penetrated my soul and warmed it, as the rays of the sun pierce through the fogs and melancholy of autumn, and reach the earth to console it and lay the blessed seed of hope within her womb. i rejoiced in the bliss, watered by tears, that precedes and follows love and sunshine, in that season of life and nature. though my heart is bestrewn with the dead leaves of past illusions, i feel new sap rising within it, which awaits only your vivifying breath to bring forth the flowers and fruits of love. my adored victor, my soul overflows with the accumulated joys of those two days of life by your side under the eye of god. i relieve myself as best i can by pouring out the surplus of my enchantment upon this paper. sleep well, my adored one, i love you and bless you. juliette. _thursday, 8 a.m., november 6th, 1851._ good morning, my sweetheart, my adored one. i wish my kisses had wings, that you might find them on your pillow at your awakening. if you only knew how much i love you, you would understand that for me there is life, heart, and soul, only in you, by you, and for you. yesterday when i passed your old house in the place royale, all the memories of our love and happiness awoke again within me. i stood awhile before it, caressing its threshold with my eyes, fingering the knocker, pushing the door ajar to peer in, as i should look at the inside of a reliquary, or touch some sacred object. then i went into the garden to gaze up at the windows whence you sometimes looked down upon me. i wandered all about the district in the same sweet, sad tremor i experience when i read over your old love-letters. i traced our past happiness upon every stone of the pavement, at every street-corner, on the shop-signs--everywhere i found memories of our kisses among those surroundings where i enjoyed happiness for so long, where you loved me and i adored you--where, eight years ago, i would gladly have lain me down to die if god had left me the choice. juliette. brussels, _wednesday, 1 p.m., december 17th, 1851_. beloved one, i wish the first sheet of paper i use, the first word i write, in this hospitable country, to be a message of love from me to you. it is surely the least i can do, since my every thought, my life and heart and soul, pass through you before reaching the common objects of this world and returning to me. is it indeed possible that you are safe, my poor treasure, and that i have nothing further to fear for your life or liberty? is it true that you love me, and that you deign to rely upon me in the difficult passages of life? is it conceivable that i am henceforth happy and blest among women, and that i have the right to raise my head and bask openly in the sunlight of love and self-sacrifice! ah, god, i thank thee for all the gifts and joys and blessings thou dost bestow upon me to-day, in the revered and adored person of my sublime beloved! all my efforts shall be directed towards deserving them more and more. all my gratitude is for thee, my god! juliette. brussels, _wednesday, 3.30 p.m., december 17th, 1851_. do not worry about me, my beloved, for i never love you better or more tranquilly than when i know you are attending to your family duties and busying yourself with securing the peace and comfort of your wife and children. pray devote yourself entirely to the service of your noble wife for the time of her sojourn here. do not deny her any of the little pleasures that may divert her mind from the heavy trials she has just undergone. let my resignation and courage, my consideration and devotion, help to smooth the rough places of life for her as long as she remains with you. give her all the consolation and joy in your power. lavish upon her the respect and affection she deserves, and do not fear ever to wear out my patience and trust in you. i see you coming my adored one. bless you. juliette. brussels, _monday, 3.30 p.m., january 19th, 1852._ i had set myself a task, beloved, before writing to you, in order to earn that sweet reward. i have just completed it, and without further delay i proceed with my insignificant vapourings, in the intervals of copying two most interesting stories. i am not writing for your benefit, but for the pleasure it gives me to babble a few tender words to you in default of the kisses and caresses i cannot give you at this distance. my victor, as you do not wish me to be sad, and hate to feel that i am unhappy, and dread the sight of my pain, you must adopt the habit of telling me everything frankly and under all circumstances. your deceptions, however trivial and kindly meant, hurt me far more than the harshest of truths (if you were capable of harshness towards any creature). i declare this without bitterness and in the form of an appeal, my beloved. do not hide anything from me. try to manage that your answers to the admiring letters certain women address to you, should be written at my house rather than elsewhere. do not delay telling me things until i have guessed them for myself, or circumstances have betrayed them. no hints can be unimportant where jealousy is concerned, and there is no happiness without complete confidence. therefore, my beloved, i implore you with all the urgency my soul is capable of, to tell me everything--even the ownership of those _opera glasses_, and about the _hügelmann_ notes, of which i have several here, forwarded from belle-île, and certain names and addresses; and about those actresses you protect with so much solicitude, and the machinations of the bluestockings who apply to you for mysterious nocturnal interviews, under pretext of enlisting your pity or your literary sympathy--about mdlle. constance, too, in spite of her significant name and reassuring age. i want to know everything--i must know everything, if you are really concerned for my peace of mind, and health, and happiness. then i shall become calm, patient, happy; my pulse will beat evenly, i shall grow fat and smiling. does not all that make it worth while for you to be frank, loyal, and ever faithful towards me? juliette. brussels, _monday, 1 p.m., march 22nd, 1852_. you may give me something to copy for you now if you like. i have nearly finished that foolish scrawl, so if you want to utilise my time, you can send me anything you like. i am quite at your disposal. meanwhile, i am mending your underlinen and my own, and watching the clouds sail above my narrow horizon. i envy them without having the courage to follow their example and allow myself to be driven by chance winds or caprice. i am too lazy, bodily and mentally, to move. i recline in my chimney corner, cosily humped up, and my soul lies torpid within me. i am not exactly unhappy, neither am i sad in the true meaning of the word--but i am uneasy and depressed. i feel a threatening influence in the atmosphere about me. what it is, i cannot precisely say, but i am under some evil thrall. i am sure there is a mystery between us that you are trying to conceal, and that fate will force me to discover sooner or later. perhaps it would be safer not to try to hide things from me--it would certainly be more loyal and generous; but as neither prayers nor tears can induce you to give me your full confidence, i will await my fate with resignation. after all, as long as you arrange your life to suit your own feelings and tastes, i have no right to complain. i have never meant to force myself upon you in any case; therefore, my victor, whatever happens, you may be sure i shall place no obstacle in the way of your happiness and glory. i love you with all the pride of my inferiority. juliette. brussels, _sunday morning, july 18th, 1852_. good-morning, my victor. i will do exactly as you like. so long as my love is not called into question, what does it matter how, and when, my body changes its _habitat_ and moves from brussels to jersey? therefore, my victor, i make no objection to starting at the same time as you. between the pain of a twenty-four hours' separation, and the mortification of travelling with you as a total stranger, my poor heart would find it hard to choose. it is quite natural that i should sacrifice myself to appearances, and respect the presence of your sons by this painful incognito, but it seems cruelly unjust and ironical that it should be required of my devotion and fidelity and love, when it was never thought of in the case of that other woman, whose sole virtue consisted in possessing none. for her, the family doors were always open, the deference and courteous protection of your sons exacted; your wife extended to her the cloak of her consideration, and accepted her as a friend, a sister, and more. for her, indulgence, sympathy, affection--for me, the rigorous application of all the penalties contained in the code of prejudice, hypocrisy, and immorality. honours for the shameless vices of the society lady--only indignities for the poor creature who sins through honest devotion and love. it is quite simple. society must be considered. i will leave for jersey when and how you will. i am quite ready to copy for charles. i fear he may find my bad writing more tiresome than useful, but i shall do my best, and i will get some better pens. he had better send me the manuscript as soon as possible. from now till then i am, my victor, at your absolute disposal. juliette. jersey, _thursday, 9 a.m., december 2nd, 1852_. good morning, my divine, adored love. when one considers what the infamous trap laid for you on december 2nd has inspired you to write, one is tempted to give thanks to providence. it almost seems as if that dastardly crime had been committed for the aggrandisement of your renown, and the better instruction of the nations. i do not think any scoundrel will ever be found bold enough to repeat the offence, after reading your fulminating poems. just a year ago, on this day and at this hour, i learnt the news of the _coup d'état_ through poor dillon. knowing how closely it concerned me, the worthy creature rushed to my house from the faubourg st. germain to warn me, and place her services at my disposal, which meant at yours, for she is a brave, noble woman. from that moment until the day i received your dear letter from brussels announcing your safety, i lived in a state of nightmare. i only woke again to life and happiness when i found myself in your arms on the morning of december 14th in the customs shed at brussels. since then, my beloved victor, my sublime victor, i have never let a day pass without thanking god for rescuing you so miraculously, nor have i ceased for one minute to admire and adore you. juliette. [illustration: drawing by victor hugo, signed "toto." unpublished, belonging to the author.] [illustration: the flower and the butterfly. drawing by victor hugo for juliette (victor hugo museum).] jersey, _friday, 9 a.m., december 3rd, 1852_. good morning, my life, my soul, my joy, my happiness. dear adored one, from yesterday until the 14th of this month, there is not a moment that does not recall to me the dangers you were exposed to a year ago,[104] and the terrors and inexpressible anguish i endured all through those awful ten days. a year ago, at this very hour of the morning, you stood in the faubourg st. antoine, alone, holding and challenging a frantic mob lost to all sense of reason and restraint. i can see you now, my poor beloved, calling upon the soldiers to remember their duty and their honour, threatening the generals, withering them with your contempt. you were terrible and sublime. you might have been the genius of france witnessing in an agony of bitter despair, the accomplishment of the most cowardly and despicable of crimes. it is an absolute miracle that you escaped alive from that spot which echoed with the solitary force of your heroic fury. when i think of it i still feel terrified and dazzled. juliette. jersey, _saturday, 8 a.m., november 27th, 1852_. good morning, my poor flayed, mutilated darling. how i pitied you yesterday during the long-drawn-out massacre of your masterpiece,[105] which however, like an immortal, emerged from the ordeal finer and in better fettle than ever. as for me, my treasure, i could only admire and envy your heroic impassivity in the face of that frightful profanation. i could hardly sit still, so vexed and irritated did i feel at the audacity of those wretched strolling mountebanks. yet heaven knows how hard they must have worked to be even as ridiculous as they were. one cannot be really angry with them, but it is impossible to recall them individually without laughing till the tears run down one's cheeks. that is what i have been doing ever since i came out of that horrible little theatre, for i did not sleep very much. my thoughts were busy with you, my adored one; i was seeing you again in imagination, handsome, young, triumphant, as you were at the original performance of your _angélo_. i felt all the tenderness and adoration of those old days surging up again in my heart. juliette. jersey, _monday, 8 a.m., december 29th, 1852_. good morning, my too-dearly loved little man. i am cleverer than you, for i do not need lenses, paper, chemicals, and sunshine, to reproduce you in every form within my heart. love is a splendid stereoscope; it throws all the photographs and daguerreotypes in the world, into the shade. it can even, if the need exist, convert black jealousy into white confidence, and force into relief the smallest modicum of happiness, the slightest mark of love. that being so, i hardly know why i desire so ardently to multiply your dear little pictures around me, unless it is that i wish to compare them with those of my inner shrine. whatever be the reason, i do implore you, my dear little man, to give me one as soon as possible; it will be such a pleasure to me. meanwhile my poor persecuted hero, i cannot tell what trials the future may have in store for you, but as long as a breath of life remains within me, i mean to expend it in defending, guarding, and serving you. my faith in the power of my love amounts to superstition; i feel that so long as i care for you, nothing irretrievably bad can happen to you. this is neither pride nor fatuousness on my part; it is a sort of intuition that comes to me, i think, from heaven above. juliette. jersey, _9 p.m., thursday, january 6th, 1853_. if the soul could take visible shape, you would perceive mine at this moment, my sweet adored one, bending over you and smiling. if kisses had wings, you would feel them swooping about your dear little person in clouds, like joyous birds upon a beautiful flowering bush. unfortunately, my soul and kisses have to pass and repass before you invisible, and perhaps even unsuspected by you. but that does not deter me, and i am drawn irresistibly to you by the need of living in your atmosphere. my thoughts sit boldly at your side wherever you are. however my chastened personality may bend under the contempt and disdain of the world, my love rears itself proudly in the consciousness of its superiority. while you leave my body standing outside, it enters hardily with you and leaves you not. this may not be very tactful of me, but it is the mark of an ardent and loyal heart. and after all we are living "on an island." i can see you, making eyes at your neighbour on the left, and signalling to the one opposite. i want you to be mine absolutely, body and soul, and i do not mean to share one little bit of you with anybody. you must make up your mind to that, and content yourself with enjoying the cosmopolitan cookery of that hungarian lucullus.[106] i will allow you to gorge like four englishmen and drink like one pole, but i shall not take my eyes off you and shall watch your every movement. i think you laugh a great deal for a grave man with a handsome mouth, and your hands are enough to bring a blush of envy to the paws of all those exiled females! they suffer by comparison--so much the better! hold your tongue, drink, turn your head my way at once, and keep it there. juliette. jersey, _tuesday, 12.30 p.m., february 1st, 1853_. i really mean what i said just now, my dear little boy. instead of posing interminably in front of the daguerreotype,[107] you could quite well have taken me for a walk if you had wanted to. anyhow, pretexts for keeping away from me will never fail you, and the fine weather will now add many to those already on your list. therefore i ask you in all good faith, what use am i to you in this island, apart from my functions of copyist? i do not wish to reopen this eternal discussion in which you never tell me the truth, yet i shall never cease to protest against a state of things so foreign to true love, and so little conducive to my happiness. and now, my dear little man, you may amuse yourself, and make daguerreotypes, and enjoy the glorious sunshine in your own way. i, for my part, shall make use of solitude, desertion, and shadow, to bring to a head an attack of depression which will easily develop into a great big sorrow. i shall study how to make the most of it. meanwhile i smile prettily at you, after the fashion of a stage dancer executing the final pirouette which has exhausted her strength and left her breathless. brrrr.... long live toto! long live worries and all their kith and kin! long live love! juliette. jersey, _thursday, 9 p.m., april 28th, 1853_. i come to you, my beloved, as you are unable to return to me this evening. i come to tell you i love you without regret for the past or fear for the future. i come to you with a smile on my lips and a blessing in my bosom, with my hand upon my mutilated heart and my eyes full of pardon, with my purity restored and my soul redeemed by twenty years of fidelity and love, with my delusions swept away and my faith shining. i come to you without rancour, sustained by divine hope. i come with the maternal devotion and the passionate tenderness of a lover, with a mind instinct with reverence and admiration, a resignation and piety like to those of god's martyrs, and i constitute you the supreme arbiter of my fate. do with me what you will in this life, so long as you take me with you in the next. i sacrifice my feelings to the virtue of your wife and the innocence of your daughter, as a homage and a safeguard, and i reserve my prayers and tears for poor fallen women like myself. lastly, my adored one, i give you my share of paradise in exchange for your chances of hell, considering myself fortunate to have purchased your eternal bliss with my eternal love. juliette. jersey, _thursday, 5 p.m., july 7th, 1853_. whatever you may say, my sweet one, to retard the gradual cessation of my daily yarns, you cannot stay the progress of the natural law, even when assisted by my passive submission to your will. why continue this custom of writing to you twice a day, when the pretext for doing so has faded from our joint lives? if i were a woman of parts, i could substitute imagination and shrewd observation for love-making; but as these are entirely lacking in me, i have nothing to record in those bulletins where kisses and caresses once occupied the chief place. now, when i have said good morning and alluded to the state of the weather, i have nothing more to say, because i am stupid. your influence alone can extract what is in my heart. for this reason, my dear one, these scribbles became blank and aimless, from the moment the happiness that once dictated them began to die away and degenerate into a friendship despoiled of all pleasure and voluptuousness. i do not reproach you, my adored one, any more than i reproach myself for not being still the woman you loved beyond everything--still it might be better to discontinue this daily record of the change, and to give up the piteous babblings which no longer have even the excuse of wit. juliette. jersey, _saturday, 2.30 p.m., september 24th_. how one's brain scintillates from living for ever within four walls! what sparkling and varied incidents one experiences in this existence of a squirrel in a cage! for my part i am so inspired by it that i hardly know where to commence. let us, therefore, proceed in due sequence; my cat, which has been slumbering for the last two hours on its right ear, has just turned over on to its left. père nicotte, abandoning the ploughshare, announces for thursday, september 29th, the sale by auction of three fat hogs, a sow with her eight sucking pigs, three yearling bulls, another rising two, and other items too numerous and too peculiar to enumerate. births: august 5th. blanche laura, daughter of mr. harper richard hugo. the annual dinner of the society will take place on the above-mentioned day. those intending to be present, and those proposing to furnish fruit for the same, are urgently requested to send in their names on or before the preceding saturday. what more do you want? eleven pigs, not including the sow, three yearling bulls, not including the one rising two, a daughter of your own, and permission to invite yourself to a dinner of the society, and even to furnish the fruit for it. if all this does not attract you and stir the very marrow of your bones, and tempt your appetite, you must be dead to the promptings of sensibility, paternity, and sensuality. in that case, go to bed and to sleep, and leave me to myself--the more so, as i do not happen to possess an accommodating table,[108] to furnish me with ready-made apparitions. remember, i have to be my own dante, æsop, and shakspere, whereas you catch the dead fish that the spirits of the other world attach to your lines--a proceeding practised in the mediterranean long before those tittle-tattling tables were thought of. pray accept my most tender sentiments. juliette. jersey, _sunday, 10 a.m., january 1st, 1854_. i love you so much, my darling, that i cannot find anything else to say to you. my poor spirit is ready to give way under the weight of too much love, like a bough bending under an abnormal show of fruit; but my heart has strength enough to bear without flinching the infinite tenderness, admiration, and adoration i feel for you. what a letter, my adored one! i read it with my heart in my eyes. it seemed to penetrate word by word like sun-rays into the very marrow of my bones. my victor, your hopes are mine, your will, mine, your faith, mine; i am what you deserve that i should be; i live only for you and in you. to love you, serve you, reverence you, adore you, are my only aspirations in this world. where you are, i shall be; where you struggle, i shall watch; when you suffer i shall pray, when you are threatened i will defend you, save you, or die. i tell you all this pell-mell and anyhow, my adored victor, for it is impossible for me to discipline my thoughts when they fly in your direction--they are less amenable to common sense than to my heart and soul, which are in ecstasy since this morning. i know not what trials may still be in store for you, my sublime, persecuted love, but i can answer for my own courage and devotion to you. like you i associate our two angels with all my prayers and hopes and joys and love. i constitute them your guardian angels and to them i confide your life, that is, mine, your heart, that is, my happiness. i send you enough kisses to make a connecting-rod from my mouth to yours. juliette. guernsey, _monday, 7.30 p.m., july 21st, 1856_. it shall not be said that your adored name ever appeared before me in its dazzling nimbus without being saluted by my heart with a triple salvo of love, oh, my dearly beloved, and without the outpouring of all the perfume of my soul at your divine feet. although i am very tired, almost ill, i cannot let this day pass without giving you my tenderest, sweetest, most love-laden greetings. others may bring you flowers and pay you handsome compliments, but i offer you twenty-three years of tried fidelity free of human stain. it is all i have to bestow--it may be insignificant, but it is my all. such a thing cannot be bought; it is accounted among the treasures of god. in his keeping you will find it, when the gifts of heaven shall replace those of earth. meanwhile, to show you that i still belong to this sphere, i send you my beautiful violet robe brocaded with gold; but i specially stipulate that it should form part of the decoration of your own room, rather than that you should hang it in the gallery. still, if you prefer to use it elsewhere i leave you free to do as you like, for your pleasure is my sole desire. you must not imagine that my generosity is entirely disinterested, because that would be a great mistake. i am sure you would not wish to remain in my debt, and that you will therefore give me a little drawing for your birthday. this is my request--now bring me your cheeks that i may kiss them without stint, and do be discreet to-night with the women who will come to offer you birthday greetings! keep your heart entire and intact for me. juliette. guernsey, _friday, 1.45 p.m., december 12th, 1856._ adored one, i am sending suzanne to get news of your dear little sick child.[109] although night is coming on, i hope i may get a good report; this weather is enough to give an attack of nerves to anybody at all disposed that way. you saw suzanne yourself, my darling, yet someone is knocking--fancy if it should be you! it is! what happiness! how good, how ineffably good you are, dear kind father, to have come yourself to reassure me about the little feverish symptoms that are beginning to show themselves to-night in your little girl's condition. let us hope they will yield to remedies this time, and that the night may prove more calm and satisfactory than the day just passed. meanwhile thank you with all my heart, thank you with all my soul, for allowing me to share your family hopes and fears and joys and troubles. thank you. if god hears and grants my prayers, as i trust with sacred confidence he will, your adored child will soon be restored to health and happiness. juliette. guernsey, _monday, 7.30 p.m., april 13th, 1857_. if you say another word i shall seize them all,[110] so there! i shall certainly not place my house, my rooms, my old age, my tables, chairs, carpets, water, ink, my virtue, great and small, at your disposal, to be rewarded by seeing masterpieces pass under my very nose on their way to teleki, mademoiselle alix, and other trollops of her calibre. i must have some too; castles, moonlight scenes, sunrises, and fog effects. if you are not prepared for a quarrel, you must give me at least my share. ah, here you come! i am not sorry to see you.... juliette. jersey, _saturday, 4 p.m., july 1st, 1857_. darling beloved, i begin my letter in the hope of its being interrupted shortly, and completed this evening with a lighter heart; but i so need to love you that i must take the initiative, my adored one. i have just read the sad, tender poems you gave me to copy. i see you coming.... _8.45 p.m._ i have just finished copying those adorable verses, so poignant through their very restraint,[111] and i weep for my own grief as well as yours, my poor afflicted friends. the shadow which has fallen across your lives is black night in my case, for all the radiant joys of family life were wiped out with the death of my only child. when i think of my forlorn infancy bereft of father and mother, and of what my deathbed will be, without the loving tears of a child of my own, i feel as if a curse were laid upon me for the expiation of some hideous crime. yet, oh god, i am not ungrateful to thee, far from it; i feel indeed with the deepest gratitude of heart and soul how good thou art! may you be as greatly blest as you are loved by me, my victor. you are divinely grand and sublime. i kiss your dear little feet and your angel's wings. i worship you on my knees. juliette. jersey, _tuesday, 2.30 p.m., july 2nd, 1857_. yes, since you wish to hear it, i love you, my little man; but i could demonstrate it much more intelligently by working something for you on canvas, than by daubing this poor little sheet of paper with hieroglyphics. if perchance death should surprise us before you have destroyed these crude ebullitions of my heart, inquisitive folk will experience keen disappointment; they will find it difficult to distinguish the traces of an overmastering passion in such a petty mind as mine. i hope you will be provident enough and generous enough to spare me this humiliation beyond the grave, by burning gradually all those poor letters that are so ineffective the moment they have crossed the threshold of my soul. meanwhile i continue to obey you with entire submission, and my love for you is greater than your genius--that is to say, i love you, love you, love you, without being able to find anything to compare with the magnitude of my infatuation. juliette. guernsey, _saturday, 8 p.m., december 19th, 1857_. although unwell and fatigued, my beloved victor, i cannot leave this little home where we have loved each other, without penning a grateful farewell for all the felicity it has sheltered during the year i have lived in it. i trust i may be as happy in my beautiful new house as i have been here in my hovel. the sadness i feel to-day is nearer akin to nerves than to real sorrow. please forgive it, my adored victor, if you have misunderstood and thought for a single instant that you were to blame for it. far from reproaching you for the difficulties of my situation, i admire your ineffable kindness and bless you from the bottom of my heart for all the trouble you are taking to house me handsomely. it was difficult, but of what are you not capable when you set your mind to a thing? i think without affecting the false modesty of a collector, that you have succeeded, and i thank you with all the strength of my loving soul, which asks no better than to be happy in the new paradise you have just prepared for me. juliette. guernsey, _friday, 11 a.m., july 16th, 1858_. my beloved, my beloved, my beloved, what sin have we committed that god should strike us so cruelly in your health and my love! unless it be a crime to love you too much, i do not feel guilty of aught. what shall i do, my god, what will become of me! victor ill and away from me! i dread lest, as i write, you should almost hear my sobs and guess at my despair, from these reckless words. i had anticipated this trouble and thought myself able to face it. i know it is imperatively necessary that you should remain at home, yet my whole being rebels at this separation as at a cruel injustice, and the greatest misfortune of my life. why, why, why am i like this, oh, my god? yet i possess courage, thou knowest! thou knowest also that i desire his speedy recovery and love him with a devoted, illimitable love. my adored victor! why then, is the reason of this gloomy and profound despair which robs me of strength and reason? oh, god, dost thou hate me? have my offences been graver than those of other women like me, that thou shouldst chastise me so mercilessly! oh, i suffer, victor, i love you, i am wretched! juliette. guernsey, _saturday, noon, july 24th, 1858_. another short spell of courage and patience, my poor gentle martyr, and your deliverance will be complete. the doctor has just assured me so. i shall soon be able to rejoice at your convalescence without the poignant dread of a frightful disaster mingling itself with my joy. in the delirious delight this good news gave me, i kissed the doctor's kindly hands, which have become sacred to me since they have ministered to you. the poor man was surprised and moved by my emotion, and looked quite embarrassed--almost shy of my gratitude--but i was proud of it. why should not a woman kiss the hands that have saved the life of the man she adores, when so many men kiss the idle fingers of the women who betray them. rosalie arrived a few minutes after the doctor, to fetch your egg, and found me weeping and smiling. i explained the reason to her. the girl has surprised me in tears so often that i fear she will take me for a cry-baby by temperament, though god knows, i do not lay claim to hyper-sensitiveness. but how could i have remained calm during your long, painful illness. for, my beloved, one can afford to admit now, that you have been in grave danger the last twelve days. happily all is over, you are saved and i thank god on my knees and adore you. juliette. guernsey, _wednesday morning, august 4th, 1858_. at last, at last, at last, beloved, i have reached the blessed moment when i shall see you again! i am so happy that words and breath fail me. oh, my adored one, how have i managed to live so far away and separated from you for so long! three weeks ago i should have thought such a sacrifice beyond my strength, yet to-day i am almost afraid i am seeing you too soon; for my solicitude takes fright at the idea of any imprudence that might augment or prolong the sufferings you have only just overcome. the worthy doctor assures me there is no risk for you in the short walk from your house to mine, but i have been so wretched during your illness, and i love you so much, that my heart knows not to whom to hearken. my beloved, my joy, my life, my happiness, be prudent! i adore you, i await you, my love. juliette. guernsey, _monday, 8 a.m., june 13th, 1859_. [illustration: juliette drouet's hand.] good morning, my adored one. i say it with all the tenderness which had to be disguised owing to the presence of your kind and charming son, during the lovely fortnight we have spent at sark. everything there was a feast for mind and heart. one thing only was lacking for my complete happiness; freedom to love you aloud and in all frankness. now there need be no obstacle to the passionate expansion of my soul, but it is in the silence and solitude of my house, without the joys, smiles, sparkling wit, and poetical atmosphere you and your son spread before my dazzled eyes, during the splendid fortnight i spent with you both; so true is it that one cannot have everything at the same time here below, and that perfect happiness is attained only in heaven. but while our two souls are travelling thither, the one assisting the other, i am grateful to god for the radiant fortnight he has just given me. i thank him with a full heart, and beseech him to repay you and your dear charles with as many fruitful and glorious years as you have given me days of happiness in the tender intimacy of sark. as usual, my words are inadequate to express my feelings, but you will understand, my beloved, and restore the balance between the two. i hope you spent a good night, my sweet love. i am waiting for you to give you as many kisses as you are able to carry. until then i adore you with all my soul. _tuesday, june 14th._ may god preserve you from all evil, my beloved, and permit my love and blessing to constitute the whole happiness of your life. juliette. guernsey, _thursday, 4.30 p.m., february 16th, 1860_. you sat at this very spot just now, my sweet love, writing in my little red book, (record of our love), the very things my own heart feels and would have dictated to you, could it have spoken aloud--so certain is it that my life belongs absolutely to you, and that my thoughts take birth from your glances. like you, i have faith in our radiant future in the life beyond; like you, i pray to die as near you as possible, cradled in your arms, whenever it please heaven. if i hearkened only to the voice of my selfishness, i should plead that it might be now, but i am too conscious of the sublime mission you are called upon to accomplish towards humanity in this world, to dare put up such an impious petition. i will wait bravely, patiently, reverently, in prayer and adoration, until it please god to call us unto himself. _thursday evening, 7.30._ i resume my scribble where i left it when you came back this afternoon, my darling beloved--not to add anything of value, but to continue for my own pleasure the sweet dialogue between my heart and my love. i thank you for our dear twenty-seventh anniversary, which you made memorable by words so luminous and a tenderness so penetrating and sacred. i thank you for myself, whose pride and joy and veneration you are; i thank you on behalf of my nephew and his family, for the immense honour you have conferred upon them by writing to their son. lastly, my beloved, i kiss your feet, your hands, your lips, your eyes, your brow, and i only cease through fear of wearying you by this over-flow of caresses. i love you. juliette. mont st. jean, _monday, 8 p.m., june 17th, 1861_. dearly beloved. whilst you are expanding among the tender delights of family life, i am invoking all my physical and moral strength to prevent myself giving way under the sadness of your absence. as long as my eyes could distinguish the omnibus, that is to say, as far as the _betterave renaissante_, i watched your progress along the gronendael road. beyond that point, i was forced to relinquish the sweet illusion that i could still see the dear little black speck on the horizon, and to acknowledge that nothing lay before me but the endless void of your twenty-four hours' absence. so, as i did not know what to do with myself or how to kill time, i walked by a fairly easy field-path as far as the church at waterloo, and came back by way of the village, without however visiting the church, notwithstanding the pressing invitation of an old woman who called me her dear friend. i got back to the hotel at six o'clock precisely, and spent the half hour before dinner freshening myself up by washing from head to foot; then i put on a dressing-gown and went down to our little dining-room, where i ate without hunger and drank without thirst, so dismal and forlorn am i when you are no longer present. i must have been pretty fully convinced of the impossibility of accompanying you to brussels without exposing your movements to undesirable criticism, to accept the sad alternative of remaining here alone. but that certainty is no comfort whatever, and i am just as miserable as if it had been in my power to make the expedition with you. certainly, human respect is a horrid beast, more malevolent and worrying than even midges and their poisonous sting, and all the ammonia in the world is powerless against it. i am well fitted to make the comparison seeing that my arm is already healed, while my heart suffers more and more. dear adored one, do try, on your part, to spend profitably this interval which is costing me so dear. be happy; i love you, bless you, and adore you. juliette. guernsey, _tuesday, 8 a.m., february 17th, 1863_. good morning, my beloved. in full daylight and glorious sunshine, in love and happiness, good morning. again i greet you, like that first day thirty years ago, when my eyes followed you along the boulevard after you left me. my soul winged flights of kisses to you when you looked round for one more glance at my window before turning into the rue du temple. that picture remains for ever graven upon my mind; i can assert with truth that everything remains the same in my heart as the night i first became yours. these thirty years of love have passed like one day of uninterrupted adoration, and i feel now younger, more virile, and more capable of loving you, than ever before--heart, body, soul, all are yours, and live only by you and through you. i smile upon you, bless you, adore you. juliette. guernsey, _sunday, 10.30 a.m., april 26th, 1863_. good morning, unutterably dear one. may all the blessings of heaven and earth rest upon you and those you love. i slept very well and hope you did the same. my headache has gone and i feel as sturdy as an oak-tree. i do not in the least desire a great house whence i shall not be able to see you in the mornings, and i should much prefer to keep my own little perch upon which my heart poises so happily while i watch you moving about your home. having made my protest, beloved, you shall dictate to me the letter i must write to notify the landlord that he need not move out to-morrow. we can settle when you come, what time i must be ready, so as not to lose one second of our little walk up the hill. i am so happy at the thought of remaining near you, that i feel as if i had already substituted youthful wings for my old legs. even my garden is gay, and cries out to me by the mouths of its lovely flowers: _don't go away_! health is where happiness is, and happiness means loving each other, side by side, eyes upon eyes, soul with soul. therefore, i shall stay here. that is quite settled. guernsey, _friday, 7.30 a.m., october 30th, 1863_. good morning, good morning, and again, good morning, my dear, wide-awake person. you must be very well to-day, judging by the energy with which you are shaking your rugs to the four winds. i hope that signifies a good night, good health, lively love, and all the rest of it. as for myself, i slept little, but soundly. i got up before gun-fire this morning, and had already finished my dressing when i saw you on your balcony. what a privation it will be for me, my adored man, when i can no longer watch you in the mornings, moving about your house. i do not feel as if i should ever get accustomed to it, and i think of it with apprehension, for there is a proverb that says, "out of sight, out of mind." if you gave up loving me, or worse, loved me less, what should i make of life in that great empty drawing-room? at this moment, i am trying to numb these reflections by the contemplation of the marvels you are creating in that future house of mine; but at the bottom of my heart, i know i shall always mourn this poor little lodging, where my eyes could watch over you, caress you, guard you, preserve you, and adore you. the more i think of it, the more oppressed i feel, and the more i blame myself for having exchanged the happiness of every moment, for a comfort i shall hardly have leisure to appreciate, and for health which did not require amelioration. my poor beloved, forgive these regrets which are only dictated by love, and this anxiety which also means love. try not to let the separation of our houses entail that of our hearts; try to love me as heartily there as here, and do not let yourself be enticed away from me by anybody. on those conditions i promise to live happily in the splendid rooms you have prepared for me. j. guernsey, _wednesday, 1.30 p.m., june 15th, 1864_. dearly beloved, i cannot forsake this little home where we have loved each other for eight years, without imprinting a kiss of gratitude upon its threshold. i have just gazed my supreme farewell at your beautiful house, which has so long been to me the polar star of my heart's wanderings. alas, i am lengthening out the moments as much as possible; i cannot bring myself to leave this dear little house, which i had made the shrine of my cult for you. i should like to carry away the walls against which you have leaned, the floors you have trodden, and even the dust your feet have spurned. i fear lest my sadness be observed by those who cannot understand it, and the efforts i make to seem unconcerned increase the constriction of my heart, and drench my eyes with tears. oh, my adored beloved, how you will have to love me and give me all the time at your disposal, to console me for the immense grief i am experiencing to-day in quitting your neighbourhood, that is to say, in losing sight of it! how you will have to double and treble and quadruple your love, to replace the dear memories i leave behind me! may god protect me and may the dear souls of our angels follow us to the new home, and bless us till our last hour! i adore you. j. guernsey, _thursday, 5.30 a.m., june 16th, 1864_. where are you, my beloved? my eyes seek you vainly, you are no longer there to smile upon me; it is all over--i shall never again see the little roost whence you used to blow kisses and wave your hand so tenderly. i am alone now in my fine house, alone for ever; for there is no further chance in this life of having you near me. i shall never again live in your immediate intimacy, as i have done for the past eight years. loyally as you may endeavour to bridge over the distance between our abodes by coming to me oftener in the day-time, the separation of our two existences must ever endure. i know it by the blank depression i am feeling this morning. i would give a hundred thousand houses and palaces, and the universe itself, for that little slice of horizon where my heart projected itself night and day. i am ashamed of having been so mean-spirited as to barter my daily happiness against a chimerical amelioration of health. i am punished for my transgression, my dearest. i carry death in my heart. forgive me! i would gladly smile at you, but at this moment i feel incapable of doing so. forgive me for loving you too much. i hope you had a good night. i hope you gazed upon my dark, empty house and gave it one sigh of regret. i hope you love me and are conscious of my absence. may god preserve you from all evil, dearly beloved, and may your love remain whole and intact in severance as in propinquity. i bless you, and adore you. a kiss to all our dear memories. j. guernsey, _sunday, 8.30 a.m., june 11th, 1865_. it would take very little to make me stay in bed till noon. i am ashamed of myself and well punished, for i have not seen you this morning, and have not yet heard whether you had a good or a bad night. i hope you were clever enough to sleep uninterruptedly from the moment you laid your head on the pillow, till that of your uprising. i shall be very glad if i have guessed right. meanwhile, my sweet treasure, i send you a smile and a blessing. i am listening at this moment to the joyous cheeping of my tiny chicks over a saucer of milk that has just been put before them. i am also watching two white butterflies darting after each other among my roses, like twin souls in eden. the flowers are blooming, love-making is going on all around, and my heart is overflowing with tenderness and adoration for you. the further i progress in life, the more i love you; you are the beginning and end of my being. i hope everything of you, and my soul trusts you, all in all. you are my radiant and divine beloved. j. guernsey, _sunday, 7.30 a.m., december 2nd, 1866_. good-morning, my adored one, bless you. i can afford to smile on this date, abhorred of all worthy folk: december 2nd.--because it is, for me alone, a joyful anniversary. if my gratitude is an offence towards humanity, i humbly ask pardon of god and man. i am tormented at the thought that you may have slept badly. if i could be reassured on that point, i should be quite happy this morning. unfortunately, i can only find out much later when you come here to bathe your dear eyes. the mention of your eyes reminds me of your poor wife's sight. surely, if the doctors were not certain of curing her, they would not keep her so long in paris, away from all her belongings, in winter weather? my desire for her complete recovery of a sense of which she has made such noble use in her beautiful book _victor hugo, raconté_, makes me look upon her delay in returning, as a happy presage of future recovery. i ask it of heaven, with love. j. guernsey, _wednesday, 8 a.m., january 1st, 1868_. i thank you, dearest, for letting me have a share in your prayers, when you plead to god not to separate us in life or in death. it is what i pray all day long; it is the aspiration of my heart and the faith of my soul. i am not a devout woman, my sublime beloved, i am only the woman who loves and admires and reverences you. to live near you is paradise; to die with you is the consecration of our love for all eternity. i want to live and die with you. i, like you, crave it of god. may he grant our joint prayers! i feel as you do, my beloved, that those two dear souls hover above us and watch over us and bless us. i associate them with all my thoughts and sorrows and joys, and i place my prayers under their protection, that they may convey them direct to the foot of the great white throne. i bless them as they bless me, with all that is loftiest and holiest and most sacred in my soul. i am stopping at almost every line of this letter to read your adorable one over again, although i already know it by heart. i kiss it, talk to it, listen to it, and then begin all over again. i love you. j. guernsey, _thursday, 7 a.m., may 7th, 1868_. dearly beloved, i am rather less worried since i have seen you and exchanged a kiss with you; yet i know you slept badly. i can feel that you are ailing and sad. i pray god to give you happiness again as soon as possible, in the form of a second little georges all smiling and beautiful; meanwhile, i beg him to let my love be the balm that will heal your wounds, until the day of resurrection of the sweet child for whom you weep.[112] i hope he will hear and grant my petitions on your behalf, and that you will be restored to some degree of calmness and consolation. when you write to your two dear sons, charles and victor, do not forget, i beg, to thank them from me for the little portrait. tell them i love them and mingle my tears with theirs. i adore you, my great one, my venerated one, my sublime mourner. j. brussels, _sunday, 7.30 a.m., august 2nd, 1868_. again i have slept better than ever, beloved. i trust it has been the same with you. i was very proud and pleased at my walk with you and your family last night, but i felt somewhat shy and ill at ease. please permit me to decline any further invitations of the kind. should the occasion arise again, which is improbable, i think good taste and discretion demand that i should hold myself aloof from your family affections, and only associate myself with them at a distance, or in my own home. as this feeling, or scruple, whichever you may like to call it, could not be expressed in the presence of your dear children yesterday, i consented to go with you, while intending to call your attention privately to the embarrassment such an incident would cause me, if it should happen again. i think you will probably agree with me, and approve of my sacrificing my pleasure to your tender family intercourse. j. brussels, _wednesday, 8.30 a.m., august 26th, 1868_. my poor beloved, i pray god to spare you and your dear children the misfortune which threatens you at this moment in the loss of your angelic and adorable wife. i hope, i hope, i hope. i pray, i love you, i summon all our dear angels above to her assistance and yours. i pray god to make two equal shares of the days remaining to me, and add one to the life of your saintly and noble wife. my beloved, my heart is wrung, i suffer all you suffer twice over, through my love for you. i do not know what to do. i long to go to you, i should love to take my share of the nursing of your poor invalid, but human respect holds me back, and my heart is heavier than ever. suzanne has only just come from your house, and i already want to send her back again, in the hope that she may bring me less disquieting news than that which i have just received. oh, god have mercy upon us and change our anguish into joy! brussels, _thursday, august 27th, 1868_. my beloved, in the presence of that soul which now sees into my own,[113] i renew the sacred vow i made the first time i gave myself to you; to love you in this world and in the next, so long as my soul shall exist, in the certainty of being sanctioned and blessed in my devotion by the great heart and noble mind which has just preceded us, alas, into eternity. brussels, _friday, 8 a.m., august 28th, 1868_. i placed your sleep last night under the protection of your dear one, my beloved, and implored her to remove from your dreams all painful memories of the sad day just past. i hope she heard me and that you slept well. henceforth, it is to this gentle and glorious witness of your life in this world, now your radiant protectress in heaven, that i will appeal for the peace and happiness you require, to finish the great humanitarian task to which you have pledged yourself. may god bless her and you, as i bless her and you. the more i think over to-night's mournful journey, the more convinced i feel that i ought not to take part in it. the pious homage of my heart to that great and generous woman must not be exposed to a wrong interpretation by indifferent or ill-natured critics. we must make this last sacrifice to human malignity, in order to have the right to love each other openly afterwards; do you not agree, my beloved? afterwards, may nothing ever come between us here below, nor above--such is my ardent desire! j. brussels, _friday, 5.30 p.m., august 28th_. my heart and thoughts are with you and your beloved dead. i am sad and heart-broken, not for the angelic and sublime woman who now shines out in the world of spirits while we here below regret her, but for you, my poor sad man, to whom she was a holy and meek companion; for your dear children whose joy and pride she was; for myself, to whom she was ever a discreet and considerate protectress. my heart is torn by your grief, my poor afflicted ones; my eyes rain all the tears you are shedding. dear treasure, i beg your wife to obtain for you the courage you need. may her memory remain with you, sweet and gentle and benign as was her exquisite person in life. i entrust you to her as i confide myself to you, and i bless you both. j. guernsey, _tuesday, 2 p.m., february 1st, 1870_. since i have seen you, my great beloved, i am feeling much better. your smile has completed my cure. it may be an illusion of my eyes and heart, but at this moment i seem to feel the breath of spring. perhaps it proceeds from the nearness of the anniversary of the first performance of _lucrèce borgia_, which is to be acclaimed and applauded by an enthusiastic public to-morrow night, just as it was thirty-seven long years ago. bonaparte may do his best to-morrow against this magnificent play, he will get no good out of his police-engineered cabal. i think he will hardly dare risk such an infamous attempt, but i wish it was already saturday, that we might be quite easy. meanwhile, i love you after the fashion of princesse négroni. juliette. guernsey, _monday, 8.30 a.m., february 14th, 1870_. good morning, my dearest. did you sleep better last night, my great, little man? were you warmer? how are you this morning? it is indeed tedious to have to wait until this afternoon to hear all this. i am trying to moderate my impatience by doing things for you. i have already selected your two eggs, put fresh water into your finger-bowl, and a snow-white napkin on your plate. suzanne is making your coffee, which perfumes the whole house, while i trace these gouty old "pattes-de-mouche," which are to lay all the tender nonsense of my heart at your feet. i am beginning early, as you see, to be certain that they arrive in time. the thaw has begun. i was quite hot in the night, though i must admit i had taken measures to that end; so i slept excellently, as you can judge by the state of my spirits. but what i really want you to take note of is, that i adore you. j. guernsey, _saturday, 7.45 a.m., may 21st, 1870_. my heart, my eyes, my soul, are bewildered, my beloved, so overwhelmed are they with tenderness, admiration, and happiness! what an adorable letter, and what a marvellous surprise! how good you are to me! how generous and charming! words fail me, and the best i can say is: i love you! i love you! i threw my arms around old mariette's neck, and almost embraced marquand himself in the delirium of my delight. what a splendid frame for that lovely little mirror! it contains everything: flowers, birds, a shelf, little georges' sweet face above, and your beautiful verses for wings. how can i thank you adequately, or describe my gratitude? fortunate am i to have eternity before me in which to bless you. i kissed my dear little letter before everybody, but i would not read it until just now when i was able to bolt my door. i always read you thus, my adored one. my soul demands privacy for the better understanding of your sublime words, and i never finish the reading of them without feeling transported with love and almost prepared for the next world. i love you!! mariette told me you had spent a very good night. is it really true? i slept capitally, too, and am feeling more than well. i have been looking about for a place for my new treasure, but have not yet decided on one. i shall leave it to you to choose its proper place in my museum of _souvenirs_. meanwhile, i have covered it away from the dust and put it in the shady drawing-room. as soon as i have read your adorable little letter again, i shall go back and have another look at it. j. [illustration: victor hugo, by rodin.] guernsey, _friday, 5 a.m., august 18th, 1870_. at all hazards i must send you my morning greeting, though i trust you are sleeping too soundly to hear it. you have slept so little and so badly for many nights, that it would be only fair that this night should be long and good. as for me, i hardly slept at all, but i do not mind and am hardly surprised, as it is a habit of mine. but the thing i feel i cannot become inured to, is the apprehension of the perils you are about to encounter on your journey to paris, ranging from the loss of your wealth to the death of your love for me--either would finish me. i think with terror of the tortures of all kinds i shall undergo there; my courage fails me and craves mercy in anticipation. i have fought all night against the wicked temptation to desert my post in a cowardly manner before even meeting the enemy--not an enemy that can be fought with fire and blood, but one that stabs you smiling. but i have not even the courage of cowardice; i am ready to suffer a thousand deaths if only i can preserve you from a single danger. you must live at any cost, that you may be enabled to complete your glorious task, and be happy, no matter how or with whom. my duty is to devote myself to that end, whatever betide. if i go under in the execution of it, so much the worse for me, or possibly, so much the better. to serve you and love you is my mission in this world--the rest does not concern me. j. _thursday morning, july 20th, 1871_. this is your patron-saint's day, my great beloved. others will congratulate you with flowers and music and expressions of admiring gratitude and emotion, but nobody will love you more than i do, or bless and adore you as you deserve to be loved, blessed and adored! i hope this anniversary may be the beginning of a new year less sinister and sad than the last, and that your dear grandchildren will give you as much joy and happiness as you have had sadness and misfortune in the past. i say this hastily, as best i can, with emotion in my old heart and thrills of joy in my soul. as i sit scribbling, i hear your voice calling me and i rush towards you just as in the early days of our love. i kiss your hair, your eyes, your lips, your hands, your feet. i adore you. juliette. paris, _thursday, 10.15, january 18th, 1872_. good morning, my great and venerated one. i kiss one by one the wounds of your heart, praying god to heal those that ache worst. i beg him to give me strength to help you carry your heavy cross to the end. i ask him, above all, to give me that which, alas, is lacking in my nature, namely, that infinite gentleness without which the most perfect devotion is unavailing. since the day before yesterday, my poor, sublime martyr, my heart has been wrung by the new blow that has fallen upon you,[114] and i weep helplessly, without power to check my tears. god who gave you genius makes you pay heavy toll for that favour, by overwhelming your life with the pangs of sorrow. my beloved, i beg you to tell me how i may serve you. i will do anything you desire. i will use my whole heart and strength in your service. i love you. j. paris, _8 a.m., monday, february 26th, 1872_. this is your birthday, beloved--the anniversary of anniversaries, acclaimed in heaven by the great men of genius who preceded you upon earth, and blessed by me ever since the day i first gave myself to you. we used to celebrate it with all the sweetest instruments of love; kisses, words of endearment, letters, all were pressed into service to make this date, february 26th, a perfume, an ecstasy, a ray of sunshine. to-day these winged caresses have flown to other realms, but there remains to us the solemn devotion that better becomes the sacred marriage of two souls for all eternity. in the name of that devotion i send you my tenderest greetings and beg you to let me know how you spent the night. i hope your little breach of regulations yesterday did not prevent you from sleeping. as for me, i slept little, but i am quite well this morning, thanks to the influence of this radiant date. i ask little georges and little jeanne to kiss you for me as many times as you have lived minutes in this world. my dearly beloved, i bless you. j. paris, _saturday, 2 p.m., april 13th, 1872_. this is a day of sunshine: god, in his heaven above, and little jeanne under my roof. i hardly know--or rather, perhaps i do know which is the brighter of the two, but i am not going to tell you, for fear of making you too proud. what a beautiful day, and what an adorable little girl! but what a pity we cannot all enjoy these spring-time delights together, walking and driving, in town and country-meadows. i am really afraid the good god will weary of us and pronounce the fatal dictum: "it is too late" when at last we make up our minds to take our share of life, sunshine, and happiness. the terrible part is that whether innocent or guilty we shall all suffer alike for _your_ transgression, for divine justice is very like that of man. as for me, i enter my protest from my little retreat, but it serves no purpose except that of an idle pastime; it does not even keep me from adoring you. j. paris, _tuesday, 12 noon, november 18th, 1873_. my beloved, i do not desire to turn your successes into a scourge for your back, but i cannot help feeling that my old-fashioned devotion cuts a sorry figure amongst the overdressed _cocottes_ who assail you incessantly with their blandishments and invitations. this fantastic chase has gone on for a long time without extorting from you any sign of weariness or satiety. as for me, i long only for repose--if not in this life (which seems difficult in my case to obtain), then in the immobility of death, which cannot long be delayed at the pace i am going. i ask your permission to begin preparing for it by giving up my daily letters. that will be something gained; the rest will come gradually, little by little, till one fine day we shall find ourselves quite naturally on the platform of indifference, or of reason, as you will prefer to call it. from to-day on, therefore, i place the key of my heart on your doorstep, and will wander away alone in the direction of god. j. paris, _friday, 11.15 a.m., december 26th, 1873_. dear adored one. all your desires in life, as well as mine, are granted to-day if your dear victor has spent a good night, as i hope. i am anxiously waiting for mariette's return to know how the dear invalid is.... my poor beloved, i am in despair--i have just seen mariette, who tells me that your poor son is in high fever at this moment.[115] i do not know how to tell you; i do not think i shall have the strength to do so. dr. sée has been sent for and mariette has just gone back to hear what he thinks of this relapse. oh, heaven have mercy on us! i hardly dare breathe or even weep, so greatly do i dread betraying to you the misfortune which threatens you, my beloved. how can i ward off the fate that is hanging over you? what can i say or do? my brain reels! ought i to tell you everything--would it be wrong to conceal from you the imminent sorrow that is going to wring your heart once more? i know not, but i lack the courage either to speak or to be silent; i am in despair, yet i dare not make moan. i suffer, i adore you. pity me, as i pity you. let us love each other under this cruel trial, as we should if heaven were opening its gates to us. j. paris, _monday, 5 o'clock p.m., december 29th, 1873_. go, dearest, try to find in a solitary walk, which may prove fruitful to the world, some solace for the painful agitation of your heart. my thoughts follow you lovingly and bless every one of your steps. do not worry about me in the new arrangements of your life. whatever you settle shall be accepted by me. for forty-one years i have followed that programme, and i will do so now, more than ever. provided you love me as i love you, i desire nothing more from god or you. the advice i give you, apart from my own personal concerns, is always practical and in your own interest and that of your dear grandchildren. i should feel i had failed in my duty if i kept the least of my ideas from you, whether good or bad, insignificant or stupid. i love you and adore you, body, heart and soul. j. paris, _tuesday, 12.30 p.m., february 17th, 1874_. dear one, there is rather more bustle about us than usual on this our sweet and sacred anniversary. we have the little excitement of your two adorable grandchildren, which we had not expected, but which is all the more delightful for that. the perfection of happiness would have been to take them ourselves to that famous circus which little georges already knows, and little jeanne dreams of; but the bad weather and the remains of my influenza counsel a pusillanimous prudence. it is not without regret, beloved, that i impose this sacrifice of one of our most precious joys upon you, but i feel i cannot do otherwise to-day. as for the dear little things, their pleasure will, fortunately, not be marred in any way. so long as they can revel in the antics of mr. and mrs. punch and their august family, they will not mind whom they go with. that being the case, mariette is a sufficient escort to the promised land of auriol and punch. as for ourselves, dearest, i trust that our two souls, communing together, will not miss those fascinating little witnesses of our love over much. j. paris, _wednesday, 7 p.m., march 11th, 1874_. he whose heart is younger than his years suffers all the sorrows of his age. this aphorism contains in a few words the secret of the turmoil i involuntarily bring into your life, while i myself suffer like a soul in damnation. still, i must not allow this ridiculous folly to be an annoyance to you; i must and will get the better of it, and leave you your liberty, every liberty, especially that of being happy whenever and however you like. otherwise, my poor beloved, you will very shortly come to hate the sight of me. i know it, and it terrifies me in anticipation. so i am determined to crush my heart at all costs, that i may restore peace and happiness to yours. j. paris, _saturday, 1.45 p.m., april 4th, 1874_. i thank you dear one, for having been loyal enough to tell me this morning that you had written another poem to madame m. i thank you also for having offered to read it to me, and not to send it to her till afterwards. i accepted this respite in the first instance, but i realised later that _what is delayed is not lost_, and that i should gain nothing by struggling against being bracketed with this _statue inhabited by a star_, and that i was simply putting myself in the absurd position of the ostrich that tries to avert danger by hiding his head in the sand. therefore beloved, i beg you to act quite freely, and to send the verses dedicated to your beautiful muse whenever you like. once the poetry has been written, it is quite natural that you should intoxicate each other without consideration for me. besides, in my opinion, infidelity does not consist in action only; i consider it already accomplished by the sole fact of desire. that being settled, my dear friend, i beg you to behave exactly as you like, and as if i were no longer in the way. i shall then have leisure to rest from the fatigues of life before taking my departure for eternity. try and be happy if you can. j. [illustration: juliette drouet about 1877.] paris, _thursday, 7 a.m., april 11th, 1874_. permit me, my great beloved, to offer you my three-score years and ten, freshly completed this morning. give the poor old things a friendly reception, for they are as blazing with love for you now, as if they had only been born yesterday. i commission little jeanne to give you seventy million kisses for me to-day, not one less, but a few more if she likes. i hope little georges' nose has not bled since yesterday, and that he slept well like the rest of you. i slept like a top, and am splendid this morning. i feel a degree of youthfulness that must proceed from the seventy springs i have absorbed so freely. the sky itself contributes its birthday greeting by pouring its measure of sunshine upon us. therefore, long live love, for us in the first place, (for a little selfishness will not harm happiness,) and in the second, long live love for all whom we love. may you be blest, my beloved, in all those you care for. i adore you. j. paris, _thursday, 10.45 p.m., may 7th, 1874_. dear, dear one, the separation i dreaded as a veritable calamity is now an accomplished fact. god grant it may not be the beginning of the end of my happiness. my heart is full of sad presentiment. the distance that separates us is like a broken bridge between our hearts, over which neither joy nor hope may pass henceforth. i cherish no illusion; from this evening forward, all intimacy between us is over, and my sweet horizon of love is for ever clouded. i try to give myself courage by reflecting that the happiness i lose is gained by you in the affection of your two dear grandchildren. i tell myself that this compensation should be sufficient for me; still i am in despair, and i can hardly help shedding floods of tears, as if some irreparable misfortune had befallen me when you walked away just now. i accustomed myself far too speedily to a happiness that was only lent to me for a little while. but however short-lived it proved, i bless you, and pray god to turn my regrets and sorrow into a future of joy and kisses and ecstasy for you and your two little angels. j. paris, _9.30 a.m., sunday, june 21st, 1874_. i had hoped that nothing would happen to disturb the sanctity of this sad anniversary,[116] and had counted on the assistance of the angels of death to defend me from the aggressions of the devils of life. alas, i was sadly at fault, for never was a more audacious or more cynical attempt made against my peace of mind. one might think that the mangled remains of my poor heart were a target for the arrows of those emissaries of vice! i declare myself vanquished without a fight, and ere my reason finally succumbs, i mean to place my bruised heart in shelter, far from the flattering intrigues of which you are the fortunate hero. _3 p.m._ you wish me not to be anxious, not to relinquish a tussle in which i am unarmed? it is more generous than wise on your part, for what happened to-day, happened yesterday, and will again to-morrow, and i have no strength left, either physical or moral. this martyrdom of sisyphus, who daily raises his love heavenward only to see it fall back with all its weight upon his heart, inspires me with horror, and i prefer death a thousand times over, to such torture. have mercy upon me! let me go! it shall be wherever you will. do not run the risk for yourself and me of my committing some frightful act of folly. i ask you this in the name of your daughter and mine--in the name of little georges and your dear little jeanne. give me a chance to recover from these reiterated attacks. i assure you it is the only remedy possible, or capable of effecting my cure. you will hardly notice my absence; the children of your blood, and those of your genius, and the rest, will easily fill the void of my absence, and meanwhile i shall regain calmness. i shall become resigned and perhaps be cured, and in any case it will be a respite for you as well as for me. i assure you my treasure, that it will be a good thing for you. i beg you to let me try it. the abuse of love, like the abuse of health, brings suffering and death in its train. the soul may have a plethora, as well as the body. mine suffocates under its own weight. let me try to lighten it in solitude and the contemplation of our past happiness. i beg and implore it of you--i ask it in the name of those you mourn and love. j. paris, _monday, 6 p.m., february 16th, 1875_. my dearest, your letter burns and dazzles me, and i feel humbled by it, because physically i know myself to be so far beneath your ideal; but morally, when i look inward and see my soul as your love has transformed it, i am arrogant enough to think myself above it, and to have no fear of the moment when i may reveal to you its resplendent purity in the eyes of god. pending this, sublime and divine treasure of mine, you must shut your eyes to the sad reality of my old, sickly body, and await with patience the rejuvenation promised in heaven. i pray god to allow me to live as long as you, because i do not know how i could exist a single minute without you, even in paradise with our holy angels. i hope he will grant my ardent prayer, and that we shall die and rise again together on the same day and at the same hour. to ensure this, i must put my health on a level with yours, which will be difficult, for i am very feeble. i try to, every day, without much success so far, but i am counting on the spring to give me a push up the hill, so that i may continue to pace the road at your side. this evening, if nobody comes, and if madame charles leaves us early, i shall beg you to let me do _le passus_ with you. i should like to celebrate the day by something brave and wholesome. i hope i shall manage it. i love you, bless you, and adore you. j. guernsey, _tuesday, 7.45 a.m., april 21st, 1875_. good morning my great, good, ineffable, adorable beloved. i pray heaven to bless you in heaven as i bless you here below. i hope you slept as well as i did, that you bear me no grudge for the irritability born of excessive fatigue, and that you do not love me less on account of it. my confidence in your inexhaustible indulgence lends me courage to proceed with the sad business that brought me here.[117] the thought that we shall never return to these houses of ours, where we loved and suffered and were happy together, makes my heart as heavy as if we were already attending our funerals. this fresh break between the sweet past of our love and the short future that remains to us in this life, makes the present very painful. but i am not unthankful for the compensations that await us in paris in the society of your dear grandchildren--far from it! i shall smile upon them and bless them with my last breath, as the tangible angels of your happiness and mine. i am doing my best to be ready to start on tuesday morning. i regret not being able to carry away every relic of our love, from the soil of the garden, to the air you breathe. by the way i have a petition to make to you, but am ready to submit to a refusal if you do not approve of granting it. i want you to allow me to give louis the two splendid drawings of st. paul and the cock, which are really mine to dispose of, since you gave them to me long ago. some mementoes are more prized by an heir than mere money, and i should like to leave these from you to my kind and worthy nephew, if you consent. meanwhile, as i said before, i will bow to a refusal, even if you give me no reason, for i adore you. j. paris, _tuesday, 7.45 a.m., october 5th, 1875_. good news from your dear little travellers. the top of the morning to you, and long live love! the telegram, which came after i was in bed, that is to say after eleven o'clock, is dated from genoa, and says they arrive the day after to-morrow at madame ménard's, and will write at once from there. meanwhile they send you thousands of kisses, of which i make bold to reserve a share, before being quite certain that i am meant to do so. this long delayed arrival in france heralds their speedy return home, which is not at all displeasing to me--_on the contrary!_ my gaze, night and morning, at their dear little portraits in no degree replaces their kisses, their sweet faces, and the joyous little shrieks one hears all day long. at last we are touching the end of our long abstinence and shall soon be able to devour them whole. meanwhile i continue to feed upon your heart, to whet my appetite. j. paris, _sunday, 5 p.m., november 21st, 1875_. dear beloved, your promise to take me every day to versailles, if you are obliged to return to the assemblée, fills my heart with such joy that i have been humming all the merry songs i used to sing. it is long since i have done such a thing. what would it be if some lucky event sent us all back to guernsey, never to leave it again ... or at least, not for a very long time! what enchantment, what a starlit dream, if god were to give us that bliss a second time! i think i should promptly return to the age i was when i received your first kiss. fortunately for france, god will not grant this selfish wish, but he will forgive me for entertaining it i hope, for i cannot help loving you beyond everything in this world, and it does not hinder me from being satisfied with whatever happiness he is pleased to vouchsafe, so long as you are content, and love only me, who adore you. j. paris, _tuesday, 8 a.m., april 25th, 1876_. my treasure, i pray god not to separate us in this life or the next. that is why i am anxious to be with you in the crowd that will rush to see and hear you at the cemetery to-day.[118] i know by experience that your enthusiasm borders on imprudence, so i want to press my body to yours as closely as our souls are riveted, so that whatever befalls you on this sad occasion, may include me. as the love animating our hearts is identical, it is only fair that our fate should be the same. i wish this evening were safely over, that i might be satisfied that everything has gone off well; for i am afraid if poor louis blanc attends the mournful ceremony in his present state of ill-health and weakness, he may not be able to get through it. i shall not be easy until we are at home again. meanwhile i pray heaven and our angels above to watch over you and preserve you from all danger. i bless, love, and adore you, for all eternity. j. paris, _wednesday, 7.30 a.m., april 26th, 1876_. i thank you with sacred emotion, my dear one, for your inclusion of me in the sublime and magnificent exordium you pronounced yesterday on the noble wife of louis blanc. i accept it without false modesty, because i feel i deserve it, and i am proud and grateful for this ante-apotheosis you made of me, a living woman, standing at the open grave of the devoted deceased. i am sure her spirit will not have grudged it, and that she blesses you from above, as i do from below, joining her prayers to mine, that god may grant all grace and divine consolation to those we love. i have already re-read your splendid oration many times to-day, and although i know it by heart, each repetition discloses some fresh beauty in it. my one cry is: i love you! i love you!! i love you!!! all my heart and soul are contained in those words: i love you. j. _monday, 10 a.m., november 11th, 1878._ no, my beloved, you have no right to endanger your precious health and risk your glorious life for nothing. "art for art's sake" is not permissible in your case, and we shall oppose it strenuously, even at the risk of curtailing your liberty. i am sorry, but there it is--you must make up your mind to it. there are plenty of useless men in this world who may waste their lives as they like, but you must guard and preserve yours for as long as it pleases god to grant it to you for the honour and happiness of humanity. so, my dear little man, i implore you not to repeat yesterday's imprudence, or any other, for all our sakes, including your adorable grandchildren's and mine whose health and life and soul you are. when i see you so careless of yourself i cannot help feeling you no longer love me, and that my continued presence is so wearisome to you that you want to be rid of it at any price. then i am seized with a desperate longing to deliver you of me for ever, rather than be the involuntary accomplice of your repeated suicidal acts, which have been ineffectual so far, not through your fault, but because god intends you to go on living, for his greater glory and your own. may his will be done. amen. j. [illustration: the deathbed of victor hugo. victor hugo museum.] [illustration: a dedication by victor hugo to juliette drouet. the writing reads thus: "a la juliette de victor hugo, plus charmante et plus aimée que la juliette de shakespeare." the original belongs to m. louis barthou.] villequier, _friday and saturday mornings, september 12th and 13th, 1879_. a double letter, my beloved; to-day's and yesterday's, which, for want of paper, pens and ink, i was not able to send you at the proper time, in spite of the inexhaustible fount of my love. this morning being better provided, i can let myself go in the happiness of being with you in the house of your respected friends,[119] enjoying their tender and devoted hospitality. i am proud and yet shy of sharing it with you; proud, because i think myself worthy, shy because i do not know how to thank them or to prove my gratitude. fortunately the honour and pleasure of your presence is reward enough for those you esteem, and from whom you accept this filial friendship, admiration, and devotion. i express myself badly, but you are accustomed to grasp my meaning, in spite of the lapses of my pen; so i never worry about the confusion of my scribbles, and i end them imperturbably, as i begin them, by the sacred words: i love you. i did not venture to ask your permission yesterday to accompany you on your pious pilgrimage,[120] but i add the prayers i addressed to god and your dear dead, to the sacrifice i was forced to make to appearances. if you allow me, i shall go before we leave villequier, and kneel beside those venerated tombs, to offer under the open sky my profound respect and eternal benediction. i shall only do it if you consent, for i should not like to offend against good taste by the outward manifestation of the sentiment i cherish in my heart for your dear dead relations. i know you slept well--thanks evidently to the calm and happy life your friends provide for you in their circle, for which i thank and bless them from the bottom of my heart. i do not know whether the weather will be favourable to-day for the excursion we planned; it is foggy so far, but whatever be the state of the barometer, i am disposed to be quite happy if you are, and to adore you without conditions of any kind. by the way, how are you going to evade the attentions of the mayor and corporation of le hâvre without hurting the feelings of the poor workmen who implore you to go amongst them while you are in their neighbourhood? it is not an easy problem to solve. luckily nothing is a difficulty to you--nor to me either when there is any question of loving you with all my might from one end of life to the other! j. paris, _monday, 7 a.m., may 30th, 1880_. how beautiful, how grand, how divine!!! i have just finished that glorious reading, and am electrified by the elixir of your ardent poetry; my fainting soul clings to your mighty wings, to arrest its fall from the starry heights in which you plane, to the profound abyss of my ignorance. i was afraid i might disturb your sleep by the rustling of the leaves as i cut and devoured them greedily, never noticing that night was turning into day. finally, fearing to be caught by you, i dragged myself unwillingly to bed at three o'clock, and have now already been up an hour, in triumphant health, rejuvenated by the virility of the thoughts your inexhaustible genius pours forth without intermission before a dazzled and grateful humanity. my hand shakes from my inward tremor, and it is with difficulty that i finish this poor little cry of admiration. even my voice, if i tried to speak at this moment, could hardly stammer out my adoration. i am in the throes of a kind of delirium which would be painful, were it not as exquisite as the divine love which overflows from my heart. j. paris, _tuesday, 8 a.m., november 2nd, 1880_. beloved, heaven decrees that in the absence of your dear departed souls, your sweet angels here below should be restored to you to-day. let us bless him with all reverence, and be solemnly happy with the memory of those who once made our felicity, and the kisses of your adorable grand-children, who constitute your present and future content. what joy it is to see them once more, lovelier than ever if possible, and in still better health. all night i listened to every sound, that i might be the first to welcome them on the threshold. i succeeded, and was repaid by their hugs. the sun shot forth its brightest beams in their honour. as for you, divine grandpapa, i trust your horrid cold will yield to the tender caresses that await you, and that we shall have you with us in our enjoyment. the least we can hope for is an indulgence in unlimited caresses, after these three months of separation. i make a start by flinging myself into your arms. j. paris, _tuesday, 9 a.m., december 14th, 1881_. i come to fetch my heart where i left it, that is to say in yours. i return it to you, praying you not to bruise it over much by unjust and wounding tyrannies. my independent, proud nature has always borne them ill, and is now in revolt. i beg you beloved, not to constitute yourself the critic of my little personal needs. whatever i may ask, i assure you i shall never exceed the bounds of necessity, and never will i take unfair advantage of your trust and generosity. the position you have given me in your household precludes me from placing myself at a disadvantage in the eyes of your guests by an appearance not in consonance with your means. therefore, please, dear great man, leave it to my discretion to do honour to you as well as to myself. besides, the little time i have to spend on earth is not worth haggling about. so, my great little man, let us be good to each other for the rest of the time god grants us to live side by side, and heart to heart. j. paris, _sunday, noon, july 10th, 1881_. my dear beloved, i must first of all confess the fault (if it be one) i committed yesterday under the influence of the universal enthusiasm occasioned by the glorious ovation offered to you, so that you may forgive it, even if you see fit to punish me. this is my crime. whilst you, still in the full flood of your emotion, were thanking the enthusiastic crowd, the councillors of our district approached to congratulate you and at the same time to beg for money for their schools. madame lockroy sent them forty francs by georges. failing to attract your attention, though they stood behind you, intent upon presenting their money-boxes themselves, they turned to me. in my agitated surprise, i handed them the hundred-franc note i was saving up for my birthday. i gave the note in your name, at the same time reminding them they had already received five hundred from you the day before, through their mayor. he, happening to be present, confirmed my statement. this is my transgression; if you deem it deserving of severity you need not refund the money. if you take into account the delirium and excitement of the occasion you will smile and give me back my poor little mite of which i have great need. in any case you must not scold me too much, for i am very sensitive. j. _wednesday, 8 a.m., june 21st, 1882._ beloved, thank you for taking me to-day to the mournful and sweet _rendez-vous_ of st. mandé. i feel as if my sorrow would be less bitter, kneeling at my child's grave than when i am at a distance ... as if my soul could get closer to that of my little beloved, through the earth of her tomb, than anywhere else. i hope you will find your dear daughter in good health, and that we shall both return from this sacred errand resigned to the will of god, though not consoled, for that is no longer possible in this world. thank you again, my adored one, for sharing with me the sad anniversary that recalls to you the many sorrows of your own life. i am very grateful to you, and i bless you as i love you, with all the strength of my soul. j. _monday, january 1st, 1883._ dear adored one, i do not know where i may be this time next year, but i am proud and happy to sign my life-certificate for 1883 with this one word: i love you. juliette.[121] appendix i. list of those of victor hugo's poems which were inspired by juliette drouet.[122] a. _les chants du crépuscule_ xiv. oh! n'insultez jamais (september 6th, 1835). xxi. hier la nuit d'été (may 21st, 1835). xxii. nouvelle chanson sur un vieil air (february 28th, 1834). xxiii. autre chanson. xxiv. oh! pour remplir de moi (september 19th, 1834). xxv. puisque j'ai mis ma lèvre (january 1st, 1835). xxvi. or mademoiselle j. (march 1st, 1835). xxvii. la pauvre fleur (december 7th, 1834). xxviii. au bord de la mer (october 7th, 1834). xxix. puisque nos heures sont remplies (february 19th, 1835). xxxiii. dans l'église de.... (october 25th, 1834). xxxvi. puisque mai tout en fleurs (may 21st, 1835). _b. les voix intérieures_ vi. oh! vivons disent-ils (march 4th, 1837). viii. venez que je vous parle (april 21st, 1837). ix. pendant que la fenêtre était ouverte (february 26th, 1837). xi. puisqu'ici-bas toute âme (may 19th, 1836). xvi. passé (april 1st, 1835). xvii. soirée en mer (november 9th, 1836). xii. or ol ... (may 26th, 1837). xxx. or olympio (october 15th, 1835). xxxi. la tombe dit à la rose (june 3rd, 1837). _c. les rayons et les ombres_ xxii. guitare (march 14th, 1837). xxiii. autre guitare (july 18th, 1838). xxiv. quand tu me parles de gloire (october 12th, 1837). xxvii. oh! quand je dors, viens auprès de ma couche (june 19th, 1839). xxviii. a une jeune femme (may 16th, 1837). xxv. or cette terre où l'on ploie (may 20th, 1838). xxxiii. l'ombre (march 1839). xxxiv. tristesse d'olympio (october 21st, 1837). xli. dieu qui sourit et qui donne (january 1st, 1840). _d. les contemplations_ [illustration: book-plate designed for juliette drouet by victor hugo. the original belongs to m. louis barthou.] book ii ii. mes vers faisaient doux et frêles.... v. hier au soir xiii. viens, une flute invisible xv. parole dans l'ombre xvii. sous les arbres xx. il fait froid xxi. il lui disait: vois-tu, si tous deux nous pouvions xxiii. après l'hiver xxiv. que le sort quel qu'il soit vous trouve toujours grande xxv. je respire où tu palpites xxvii. oui, va prier à l'église xxviii. un soir que je regardais le ciel book v xiv. claire p.... xxiv. j'ai cueilli cette fleur pour toi sur la colline book vi viii. claire _e. toute la lyre_ book vi. l'amour i. lorsque ma main frémit ii. oh, si vous existez, mon ange, mon génie (march 10th, 1833). iii. vois-tu, mon ange, il faut accepter nos douleurs (january 1st, 1835). iv. vous m'avez éprouvé (june 23rd, 1843). xv. étapes du c[oe]ur. vii. a j---et ix. qu'est-ce que cette année emporte xvii. n'est-ce pas mon amour xxxi. oh dis, te souviens-tu de cet heureux dimanche xxxiv. garde à jamais dans ta mémoire xxxvi. a une immortelle xlvii. quand deux c[oe]urs en s'aimant ii. books concerning juliette drouet _les belles femmes de paris_, par une société de gens de lettres et de gens du monde, paris, 1839. edmond biré: _victor hugo après_ 1830. paris, 1879. alfred asseline: _victor hugo intime_. paris, 1885. richard levelide: _propos de table de victor hugo_. paris, 1885. gustave rivet: _victor hugo chez lui_. paris, 1885. tristan legay: _les amours de victor hugo_. paris, 1901. louis guimbaud: _victor hugo et juliette drouet_ in _la contemporaine_ of february 25th and march 10th, 1902. léon séché: _juliette drouet_ in the _revue de paris_ of february 1st, 1903. wellington wack: _the story of juliette and victor hugo_. london and paris (no date, about 1906). juana richard levelide: _victor hugo intime_. paris, 1907. hector fleischmann: _une maîtresse de victor hugo_. paris, 1912. jean pierre barbier: _juliette drouet, sa vie, son oeuvre_. paris, 1913. iii. works of art representing juliette drouet "juliette drouet in 1827." statuette by chaponnière. only one proof is known to us; it belongs to m. daniel baux bovy, ex-curator of the musée de genève. "juliette drouet in 1830." portrait in oils by champmartin (musée victor hugo). "juliette drouet as princesse négronie." coloured engraving in the martini series. "juliette drouet." engraving by léon maël, in _l'artiste_, 1832. "juliette drouet in 1846." plaster bust by victor vilain (musée victor hugo). "juliette drouet at jersey and guernsey." numerous photographs belonging to messrs. blaizot and planès. "juliette drouet in 1882." drawing by vuillaume in _le monde illustré_ of december 15th, 1882. "juliette drouet in 1883." portrait in oils by bastien lepage; exhibited in the salon, 1883; now included in the pereira collection. index académie française, 60-61 alix, mademoiselle, 267 anges, mother des, 5 barthès, monsieur de, 74 bernardines, bénédictines of perpetual adoration, 3 bertin, monsieur, 33 biard, madame, 245 blanc, madame louis, 303 chenay, madame julie, 98 constance, mademoiselle, 253 dédé, mademoiselle, 232 démousseaux, madame, 218 dorval, madame, 12, 49, 142 _drouet, juliette_: her birthplace, 1 childhood, 3 becomes pradier's mistress, 8 gives birth to a daughter, 8 enters theatrical world, 9 meets victor hugo, 13 plays princesse negroni, 17 falls in love with victor hugo, 23 denial of imaginary offences, 119 after her first visit to 6, place royale, 121 works on les feuilles d'automne, 123 suggests leaving victor hugo, 125 her fears for the future, 127 her landlord threatens to evict her, 131 farewell for ever, 132 leaves victor hugo, 30 asks for forgiveness, 135 four hours before the production of _angélo_, 143 an hour after the triumph of _angélo_, 144 the house at metz, 36 letters from metz, 155 her request for a portrait, 171 lawsuit of victor hugo against the comédie française, 186 cash accounts, 188 removes to rue st. anastase, 46 alluding to the revival of _hernani_, 189 revival of m_arion de lorme_, 192 cast for the queen in _ruy blas_, 199 comments on _didine_, 212 letter written after the catastrophe in which victor hugo's eldest daughter and his son-in-law perished, 227 comments on a speech on deportation, 243 letters from brussels, 251-283 residence in jersey and guernsey, 84 letters from jersey, 256 " " guernsey, 265-286 " " paris, 290 death 114 her last letter, 310 drouet, rené henri, 2 ferrier, mademoiselle ida, 28 fougères, 1 gautier, théophile, his description of juliette, 19 gauvain, julienne joséphine. _see_ drouet, juliette georges, mademoiselle, 11, 12, 143 granier de cassagnac, 198 guérard, madame, 184 harel, félix, 9, 143 hilaire, monsieur st., 228 hugo, charles, 92; death, 105 hugo, françois, 92, 293 hugo, victor (_see also_ drouet, juliette) meets juliette, 13 revival of _hernani_, 57 becomes an academician, 62, 216 his opening speech, 65 lives at jersey and guernsey, 94 elected a member of the assemblée nationale, 105 hugo, madame victor, 16 joly, anténor, 202 juliette, mademoiselle. _see_ drouet, juliette kock, madame, 30 kraftt, madame, 133 lanvin, madame, 123, 227 lespinasse, mademoiselle de, 187 lockroy, madame, 309 luthereau, madame, 86 luxembourg, 67 mars, mademoiselle, 142 maxime, mademoiselle, 226 mechtilde, mother ste., 5 ménard, madame, 301 meurice, paul, 104 orléans, duc d', 225 pasquier, monsieur, 144 pierceau, madame, 144, 218 pradier, claire, 69; death, 82 pradier, james, 7; makes juliette his mistress, 8; writes to juliette, 73, 123 quelen, monsignor, archbishop of paris, 7 récamier, madame, 144 teleki, 267 _tudor, marie_, 137 verdier, monsieur, 144 watteville, madame, 73, 123 _printed by hazell, watson & viney, ld., london and aylesbury._ the princess mathilde bonaparte by philip w. sergeant, author of "the last empress of the french," etc. _demy 8vo, cloth gilt, fully illustrated, 16/-net._ princess mathilde bonaparte, the niece of the great emperor, died only ten years ago. she was the first serious passion of her cousin, the emperor napoleon iii, and she might have been, if she had wished, empress of the french. instead, she preferred to rule for half a century over a _salon_ in paris, where, although not without fault, she was known as "the good princess." from jungle to zoo by ellen velvin, f.z.s., author of "behind the scenes with wild animals," etc. _large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, with many remarkable photographs, 6/-net._ a fascinating record of the many adventures to which wild animals and their keepers are subject from the time the animals are captured until their final lodgment in zoo or menagerie. the author has studied wild animals for sixteen years, and writes from personal knowledge. the book is full of exciting stories and good descriptions of the methods of capture, transportation and caging of savage animals, together with accounts of their tricks, training, and escapes from captivity. the admirable painter: a study of leonardo da vinci by a. j. anderson, author of "the romance of fra filippo lippi," "his magnificence," etc. _demy 8vo, cloth gilt, fully illustrated, 10/6 net._ in this book we find leonardo da vinci to have been no absorbed, religious painter, but a man closely allied to every movement of the brilliant age in which he lived. leonardo jotted down his thoughts in his notebooks and elaborated them with his brush, in the modelling of clay, or in the planning of canals, earthworks and flying-machines. these notebooks form the groundwork of mr. anderson's fascinating study, which gives us a better understanding of leonardo, the man, as well as the painter, than was possible before. women of the revolutionary era by lieut.-col. andrew c. p. haggard, d.s.o., author of "remarkable women of france, 1431-1749," etc. _demy 8vo, cloth gilt, fully illustrated, 16/-net._ lieut.-col. haggard has many times proved that history can be made as fascinating as fiction. here he deals with the women whose more or less erratic careers influenced, by their love of display, the outbreak which culminated in the reign of terror. most of them lived till after the beginning of the revolution, and some, like marie antoinette, théroigne de méricourt and madame roland, were sucked down in the maelstrom which their own actions had intensified. the memoirs of the duke de st. simon newly translated and edited by francis arkwright. _in six volumes, demy 8vo, handsomely bound in cloth gilt, with illustrations in photogravure, 10/6 net each volume. (volumes i. and ii. are now ready.)_ no historian has ever succeeded in placing scenes and persons so vividly before the eyes of his readers as did the duke de st. simon. he was a born observer; his curiosity was insatiable; he had a keen insight into character; he knew everybody, and has a hundred anecdotes to relate of the men and women he describes. he had a singular knack of acquiring the confidential friendship of men in high office, from whom he learnt details of important state affairs. for a brief while he served as a soldier. afterwards his life was passed at the court of louis xiv, where he won the affectionate intimacy of the duke of orleans and the duke of burgundy. st. simon's famous memoirs have recently been much neglected in england, owing to the mass of unnecessary detail overshadowing the marvellously fascinating chronicle beneath. in this edition, however, they have been carefully edited and should have an extraordinarily wide reception. by the waters of germany by norma lorimer, author of "a wife out of egypt," etc. with a preface by douglas sladen. _demy 8vo, cloth gilt, with a coloured frontispiece and 16 other illustrations by_ margaret thomas _and_ erna michel, _12/6 net_. this fascinating travel-book describes the land of the rhine and the black forest, at the present time so much the centre of public interest. the natural and architectural beauties of germany are too supreme for even the sternest german-hater to deny; and this book describes them and the land around them well. but apart from the love-story which miss lorimer has weaved into the book, a particularly great interest attaches to her description of the home life of the men who, since she saw them, have deserved and received the condemnation of the whole civilized world. by the waters of sicily by norma lorimer, author of "by the waters of germany," etc. _new and cheaper edition, reset from new type, large crown 8vo, cloth gilt, with a coloured frontispiece and 16 other illustrations, 6/-._ this book, the predecessor of "by the waters of germany," was called at the time of its original publication "one of the most original books of travel ever published." it had at once a big success, but for some time it has been quite out of print. full of the vivid colour of sicilian life, it is a delightfully picturesque volume, half travel-book, half story; and there is a sparkle in it, for the author writes as if glad to be alive in her gorgeously beautiful surroundings. footnotes: [1] her birth-certificate is drawn up in the following terms: "on april 11th, 1806, at 3 p.m. before me, louis pinel, mayor of fougères and registrar of births, deaths, and marriages, julien gauvain, tailor, aged twenty-nine, residing at rue de la révolution, fougères, presented a female child, born on the preceding day at 7 a.m., the legitimate daughter of himself and his wife marie caretandet; he declared his intention of bestowing upon her the names of julienne-joséphine. the said declaration and presentation were made in the presence of françois dorange, sheriff's officer, aged twenty-five, residing in fougères, and françois paunier, gardener, aged sixty-eight, residing in lécousse. this certificate was duly signed by the father and the witnesses, after the same had been read aloud to them. signed: julien gauvain, françois paunier, dorange, and louis pinel." [2] she posed, not, as has been stated, and as we ourselves have erroneously printed, for statues in the towns of lille and strasburg, but for numerous studies of the head and the nude which pradier afterwards made use of; thus the features of julienne may be recognised in almost all the rough studies belonging to the first portion of pradier's career, which are exhibited under glass in the museum at geneva. [3] the portrait of victor hugo by devéria has often been reproduced. it is popular. léon noël's lithograph is less known. it is to be found either in the _artiste_ in the course of the year 1832 or in the musée victor hugo. we reproduced it in the _contemporaine_ of february 25th, 1902. [4] victor hugo, _correspondance_. letter to sainte-beuve, august 22nd, 1833. [5] victor hugo, _correspondance_. letter to sainte-beuve, july 7th, 1831. [6] _lettres à la fiancée._ [7] under the heading: _a ol._ (olympio) xii. [8] théophile gautier, _portraits contemporains_. [9] alphonse karr, _une heure trop tard_. [10] we heard it from monsieur benezit, who was often with frédérick lemaître about the year 1872. [11] théophile gautier, _portraits contemporains_. [12] _lucrèce borgia._ first note to the original edition. [13] she was forty-six and beginning to grow fat. according to juliette, she told victor hugo that his mistress was deceitful, vain, lawless, and a flirt. [14] v. h. fleischmann, _une maîtresse de victor hugo_, chap. vii. [15] nothing remains of it now, save the name and the site. all the rest, park, garden, and dwelling, has been completely altered. [16] in 1877 madame drouet, although seventy-one years old, insisted upon attending the funeral of mlle. louise bertin. "i wish," she wrote to victor hugo, "to show in this way that i have not forgotten the marks of sympathy she gave you on my account in the early days of our love" (_letter of april 28th, 1877_). [17] this inn still exists, and is not changed in any way. it is exceedingly modest. [18] it belongs now to madame veuve bigot. on the left exterior wall a versailles society has thought fit to place an inscription recording that victor hugo once inhabited the house. four lines of _la tristesse d'olympio_ follow. it would have been more correct to bracket the name of juliette drouet with that of the poet, for after all it was not he who lived there, but she. [19] here occurs the only discrepancy between _la tristesse d'olympio_ and the letters of juliette. victor hugo writes in 1837: "they have paved this rough, badly-laid road"; whereas juliette, as early as 1835, calls it _the pavement_. [20] _la tristesse d'olympio._ [21] see also later, in the collection of letters, the one written under date of january 25th, 1844. [22] september 27th, 1845. [23] september 29th, 1845: "i wish i had the money to buy it all before it is desecrated." victor hugo understood her feeling, and a generous impulse led him to propose to buy the house. the price asked was six thousand francs. very delicately juliette refused. october 7th, 1845. [24] 1834. [25] december 15th, 1838. [26] théophile gautier. [27] in 1836 victor hugo was forced to take legal action against the comédie française. he won his case the following year. [28] we have proofs of this in two letters from juliette to victor hugo. [29] february 1st, 1836. [30] it will be remembered that mlle. maxime brought an action against the comédie and victor hugo on that point, which made some considerable stir. see the articles of monsieur jules claretie in _le journal_ of february 5th, 1902. [31] _les burgraves_ alternated in the bill with a piece by madame de girardin in which rachel played the heroine. [32] may 30th, 1841. [33] the removal took place in the month of february 1845. the rent and accommodation of the apartment were about the same as at no. 14. the furnishing, which victor hugo wished to make somewhat more luxurious, cost 2,256 francs, including the first quarter's rent. [34] 1833. [35] monsieur léon seche, _revue de paris_, february 15th, 1903. [36] catalogue of an interesting collection of autograph letters of which the sale took place on saturday, november 30th, 1912, page 21. paris. noël charavay, 1912. in another note dated from les metz, victor hugo tells claire "that he loves her with all his heart, and uses his best handwriting in writing to her, which is very praiseworthy in an old student like himself." and he adds, "i kiss both your little peach-cheeks." (same, p. 22.) [37] autograph postscript by victor hugo to a letter to juliette on may 28th, 1833, quoted above. [38] pradier did not fail to write a sermon on this occasion full of the unction and solecisms in which he habitually excelled. [39] june 5th, 1841. [40] _les contemplations_, livres v., xiv., claire p. [41] one of the sons of the sculptor was called john. [42] april 25th, 1845. [43] april 27th, 1845. [44] the thrilling episode of victor hugo's political adventures in 1851, by which his life was placed in jeopardy through his espousal of the cause of liberty and progress, is related by himself in _l'histoire d'un crime_. he was forced to go into hiding in december for several days, and subsequently made his escape to brussels in the disguise of a workman. juliette had preceded him thither, to prepare a safe refuge for him.--_translator's note._ [45] charles hugo, _les hommes de l'exil_, p. 104. [46] _ibid._ [47] may 18th, 1852. [48] this passage constitutes the portion of the galleries of st. hubert situated at right angles to the two others, called respectively, passage du roi, and passage de la reine. [49] may 24th, 1852. [50] a packet of victor hugo's love-letters to madame b. was treacherously forwarded to her by the lady in question. they extended over a period of seven years, 1844 to 1851. victor hugo had carried on his secret intrigue with madame b. while he was daily visiting and corresponding with juliette. the discovery of his duplicity almost broke her heart.--_translator's note._ [51] victor hugo, _correspondance_, letter to émile deschanel, december 11th, 1853. [52] january 23rd, 1853. [53] it was signed by félix pyat, rougée, and jourdain. [54] victor hugo had disposed of the bulk of his furniture in june 1852, but he had stored the things he specially valued at juliette's apartment, cité rodier. [55] these remarks may be verified by the series of photographs of the poet taken by his sons during his exile and preserved in the musée victor hugo. some of the snapshots, as we should call them nowadays, are an indication of the distress of the great outlaw. [56] _victor hugo intime_, by madame juana lesclide. [57] a young girl in bad circumstances, to whom juliette had given shelter under her own roof, and who thus requited the charity of her benefactress.--_translator's note._ [58] juliette drouet was buried on may 12th, 1883, in the cemetery of saint mandé, near her daughter claire, under a marble stone she had selected for herself in 1881. her funeral was attended by a large body of journalists. the speech was delivered by auguste vacquerie. according to a letter she wrote to victor hugo on november 1st, 1881, she wished for an epitaph taken from one of the "sublime poems" he had addressed to her. her desire was not gratified; the tomb does not even bear the name of our heroine. [59] juliette drouet occasionally acted as the poet's secretary. [60] this letter is not signed. the envelope is addressed: "m. victor hugo. a quarter to twelve, midnight. i am going to your house." [61] victor hugo was then living at 6, place royale, in the house which is now the musée victor hugo. juliette drouet lived not far away at 4, rue de paradis au marais, which is now one of the sections of the rue des francs-bourgeois. [62] juliette's furniture had just been seized, and her landlord was threatening to evict her. [63] mlle. mars, who was rehearsing a part in _angélo_, at the comédie française. [64] there are traces of tears all over this letter. [65] eugène hugo, brother of the poet, had just expired. see number xxix of _voix intérieures, à eugène, vicomte hugo_. [66] this is an allusion to the second poem in the _voix intérieures_: "sunt lacrimæ...." [67] one of the basins in the park of versailles. [68] victor hugo had given juliette a _quintus curtius_ in which he had formerly studied latin. on the fly-leaf he had written a few words of dedication. [69] a critic. [70] juliette drouet here enumerates the depreciation of various stocks. the letter is of course written in a sarcastic vein induced by _pique_.--_translator's note._ [71] this is an allusion to the lawsuit of victor hugo against the comédie française. [72] casimir delavigne. [73] scribe. [74] juliette's sums were always wrong. [75] alluding to the revival of _hernani_ at the comédie française, january 20th, 1838. [76] the revival of _marion de lorme_ at the comédie française was to take place the next evening, march 8th. [77] granier de cassagnac, one of the most ardent champions of victor hugo against the classical writers. the poet had introduced him to the _journal des débâts_. [78] _ruy blas._ the poet had considered the propriety of casting juliette for the part of the queen, and had in consequence caused her to be engaged by the théâtre de la renaissance. [79] the creator of the part of the queen in _ruy blas_. the first performance had taken place on november 8th. [80] anténor joly, manager of the théâtre de la renaissance. he had intended to produce juliette in a musical comedy. [81] victor hugo had already submitted himself three times as a candidate for the académie and was elected the fourth time, that is to say, the day juliette wrote this letter. his chief adversary in the académie was one of his former rivals, the vaudevilliste, dupaty. [82] victor hugo was received into the académie by monsieur de salvandy on june 3rd, 1841. [83] the poet's children. [84] victor hugo had been elected chancellor of the académie française on the preceding june 24th. charles nodier was the president. [85] françois victor hugo, whose childhood was extremely delicate. [86] this is an allusion to the recent death of the duc d'orléans, the friend and protector of victor hugo. [87] rehearsals of _burgraves_ at the comédie française. [88] an allusion to the disagreement of the poet with mdlle. maxime, to whom the comédie française wished to allot the part of _guachumara_, and whom he was afterwards able to replace by mdlle. théodorine (mme. melingue). [89] this letter is written after the catastrophe at villequier on september 4th, 1847, in which the eldest daughter and the son-in-law of the poet perished. [90] this is an allusion to a journey juliette and victor hugo had just made, the account of which had been published in _alpes et pyrénées_. [91] probably ulrich guttinguer. [92] a bronze medal representing victor hugo, after the medallion by david d'angers. [93] this letter was written at auteuil, where juliette was living, with her dying daughter, in a house belonging to the sculptor, pradier. victor hugo visited her there nearly every day. [94] the doctor chosen by pradier. [95] juliette's own doctor. [96] victor hugo was then a candidate for the assemblée nationale. [97] victor hugo was to make a speech that day on _la misère_, vide _actes et paroles_, _avant l'éxil_. [98] mdlle. rachel. arsène houssaye, who had recently been appointed director of the comédie française, had just introduced victor hugo to the great tragedian. [99] a speech on deportation. vide _actes et paroles_, _avant l'éxil_. [100] madame biard. [101] madame biard had sent juliette a packet of victor hugo's letters to her. [102] the word "to-day" is left unfinished in the original, thus: _aujo_.... [103] the period when victor hugo's intrigue with madame biard began. [104] on december 2nd, 1851, victor hugo held a meeting of the representatives of the people, at which he drew up a proclamation addressed to the army. on the 3rd he presided over a meeting of the republicans in the faubourg st. antoine. word was brought that the troops were marching on the faubourg. victor hugo thereupon delivered an impassioned appeal to his audience, which concluded in the following terms: "on one side stand the army, and a crime--on the other, a handful of men, and the right! such is the struggle. are you prepared to carry it through?"--_translator's note._ [105] a troupe of actors passing through jersey had insisted upon playing _angélo_ before the exiled poet. [106] teleki, one of victor hugo's friends in jersey. [107] victor hugo had taken up photography. [108] an allusion to spiritualism to which victor hugo had just fallen a prey. [109] adèle hugo, daughter of the poet. [110] victor hugo's drawings. he was giving them away indiscriminately to his friends, and juliette was jealous. [111] probably one of the poems commemorating the catastrophe of villequier. they were collected and republished in _les contemplations_. [112] charles hugo had lost his eldest son, georges. he gave the same christian name to the second, who, with petite jeanne, figures in _l'art d'être grand-père_. [113] madame victor hugo had just died. [114] françois victor hugo had just been given up by the doctors. his slow agony lasted eleven months. [115] françois victor hugo died in the course of the day. [116] the anniversary of the death of claire. [117] the removal from _hauteville féerie_. [118] victor hugo was to make a speech at the funeral of madame louis blanc. [119] a. vacquerie and family. [120] to the grave of léopoldine. [121] this letter is the last juliette ever wrote. [122] monsieur eugène planès possesses the original editions of _chants du crépuscule_, _les voix intérieures_, _les rayons et les ombres_, dedicated to juliette and annotated by herself. he has been good enough to refer to them and verify our list in so far as the three following collections are concerned. we have included in the selection only the love-poems directly inspired by juliette. we have left out the miscellaneous pieces which were dedicated to her after they were written, sometimes at her own request. * * * * * typographical error corrected by the etext transcriber: the silent bièvre=> the silent bièvres {pg 33} 