It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles, beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpouring of fervid eloquence which moved every listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety’s sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way. Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams — visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender — them home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation

Then a hand was laid on my shoulder and I 
shrank together with a crash. It was the policeman. 
He scanned me austerely and said : 

"Where did you get that overcoat?" 

Although I had not been doing any harm, I had 
all the sense of being caught — caught in something 
disreputable. The officer's accusing eye and unbe- 
lie\ang aspect heightened this effect. I told what 
had befallen me at the house in as straightforward a 
way as I could, but I was ashamed of the tale, and 
looked it, without doubt, for I knew and felt how 
improbable it must necessarily sound to anybody, 
particularly a policeman. Manifestly he did not 
believe me. He made me tell it all over again, then 
he questioned me: 

"You don't know the woman?" 

"No, I don't know her." 

"Haven't the least idea who she is: 

"Not the least." 

"You didn't tell her your name?" 

"No." 

"She didn't ask for it?" 

"No." 

"You just asked her to lend you the overcoat, 
and she let you take it?" 

"She put it on me herself." 

"And didn't look frightened?" 

"Frightened? Of course not." 

' * Not even surprised ? ' ' 

156 



DOWN THE RHONE 

"Not in the slightest degree." 

He paused. Presently he said: 

*'My friend, I don't believe a word of it. Don't 
you see, yourself, it's a tale that won't wash? Do 
you believe it?" 

*'Yes. I know it's true." 

"Weren't you surprised?" 

"Clear through to the marrow!" 

He had been edging me along back tu the house. 
He had a deep design; he sprung it on me now. 
Said he: 

"Stop where you are. I'll mighty soon find out!" 

He walked to the door and up the steps, keeping 
a furtive eye out toward me and ready to jump for 
me if I ran. Then he pretended to pull the bell, and 
instantly faced about to observe the effect on me. 
But there wasn't any; I walked toward him instead 
of running away. That unsettled him. He came 
down the steps, evidently perplexed, and said : 

"Well, I can't make it out. It may be all right, 
but it's too many for me. I don't like your looks 
and I won't have such characters around. Go along, 
now, and look sharp. If I catch you prowling around 
here again I'll run you m." 

I found Smith at the Water Color dinner that 
night, and asked him if it were merely my face that 
had enabled me to borrow the overcoat from a 
stranger, but he was surprised and said : 

"No! WTiat an idea — and what intolerable con- 
ceit ! She is my housekeeper, and remembered your 
drawling voice from overhearing it a moment that 
night four or five years ago in my house ; so she knew 

157 



MARK TWAIN 

where to send the police if you didn't bring the coat 
back!" 

After all those years I was sitting here, now, at 
midnight in the peasant hotel, in my night clothes, 
and honoring womankind in my thoughts; for here 
was another woman, with the noble and delicate 
intuitions of her sex, trusting me, a total stranger, 
with all her modest wealth. She entered the room. 
just then, and stood beaming upon me a moment with 
her s\N'eet matronly eyes — then took away the jewelry. 

Tuesday, September 22d. — Breakfast in open air. 
Extra canvas was now to be added to the boat's 
hood to keep the passengers and valises better pro- 
tected during rainstorms. I passed through the vil- 
lagette and started to walk over the wooded hill, the 
boat to find us on the river bank somewhere below, 
by and by. I soon got lost among the high bushes 
and turnip gardens. Plenty of paths, but none went 
to river. Reflection. Decision — that the path most 
traveled ^s-as the one leading in the right direction. 
It was a poor conclusion. I got lost again ; this time 
worse than before. But a peasant of above eighty 
(as she said, and certainly she was very old and 
wrinkled and gray and bent) found me presently and 
undertook to guide me safely. She was vigorous, 
physically, prompt and decided of movement, and 
altogether soldierlike; and she had a hawk's eye 
and beak, and a g>'psy's complexion. She said that 
from her girlhood up to not so very many years ago 
she had done a man's work on a woman's pay on 
the big keel boats that carry stone do^Ti the river, 
and was as good a man as the best, in the matter 

158 



DOWN THE RHONE 

of handling stone. Said she had seen the great 
Napoleon when she was a little child. Her face was 
so \\Tinklcd and dark and so eaglclike that she re- 
minded mc of old Indians one sees out on the Great 
Plains — the outside signs of age, but in the eye an 
indestructible spirit. She had a couple of laden 
baskets with her which I had found heavy after 
three minutes* carrying, when she was finding the 
way for me, but they seemed nothing to her. She 
impressed one rather as a man than as a woman; 
and so, when she spoke of her child that was drowned, 
and her voice broke a little and her lip quivered, it 
surprised me; I was not expecting it. "Grandchild?" 
No — it was her own child. "Indeed? When?" So 
then it came out that it was sixty years ago. It 
seemed strange that she should mind it so long. But 
that was the woman of it, no doubt. She had a frag- 
ment of newspaper — religious — with rude holy wood- 
cuts in it and doubtful episodes in the lives of medi- 
aeval saints and anchorites — and she could read these 
instructive matters in fine print without glasses ; also, 
her eyes were as good at long distances. She led 
hither and thither among the paths and finally 
brought me out overlooking the river. There was a 
steep sandy frontage there, where there had recently 
been a small landslide, and the faint new path ran 
straight across it for forty feet, like a slight snow 
track along the slant of a very steep roof. I halted 
and declined. I had no mind to try the crumbly 
path and creep and quake along it with the boiling 
river — and maybe some rocks — under my eluow 
thirty feet below. Such places turn my stomach. 

The man walking ahead of her was white, too-coat, pants, surgical mask at present dangling below his chin, tight ugly cap around his hair.

20 MINUTES "Thank God you finally made it!" Lola cried, "Ian's been pissing
himself!"
"Shut up! Drop dead!" Petronella rasped, and slapped the papers
out of Lola's hand as she offered them. "I don't give a fart who we have
on the show, not if it's the stinking King of England! I sure as hell am
not going out looking like this!"
"You won't have to, baby," Terry soothed, Inspecting the
discolored tresses. Lola, on the point of weeping, went down on hands
and knees to reclaim the scattered papers. "Lord, though, why didn't
you have it done at Guido's same as usual?"
"This happened at Guido's."
"What?" Terry was horrified. He insisted on everyone he handled
having their hair washed, styled, cut at Guido's, because it was the only
place in New York where they guaranteed their shampoos were done
with imported rainwater. They shipped it specially from Chile.
"Silver nitrate," Petronella sighed. "I contacted Guido at home and
blew my stack, and he checked up and called back almost weeping.
Seems they've been rain-making down there-remember I had a
rainmaker on the show last year? Guido thinks it reacted with the
setting lotion."
Marlon brought a choice of wigs. Terry seized one, and a brush and
comb and aerosol of lacquer. He brutally sabotaged Guido's efforts
into a tight layer close to the scalp and set about re-creating the same
style on the wig.
"Going to take long?" Petronella demanded.
"Couple of minutes," Terry said. He forbore to add that anything
Guide's best stylist could do, he could copy, only in a tenth of the time.
Everyone knew how good he was.
"Thank God. Lola, you bitch, where are my briefings?"
"Here!" the girl snuffled. Petronella flicked through the pages.
"Oh, yes, I remember. Jacob Bamberley-"
"He likes to be called Jack!" Lola cut in."Stuff what he likes. I run this show. Terry baby, we got the man
who sent all that poisoned shit to Africa. Know what I'm going to make
him do? I'm going to make him eat a bowlful of it right at the start of the
show, then come back to him at the end so people can see what it's
done to him."
Turning to the next briefing, she added thoughtfully, "And I shall
definitely call him Jacob."
This was a Globe Relief operation on behalf of Globe Relief. When
it became clear that Kaika's accusations weren't just propaganda, it
had been a matter of panic stations all around. It was no use stressing
the true fact that Globe was the largest aid organization on the planet
and invariably the soonest on the scene of a disaster. Simply because it
was American-based and American-funded, it was tarred with the
Vietnam brush. There was almost certain to be a UN inquiry shortly.
Accordingly State had made it very clear that unless Globe came up
promptly with a full defense the organization would have to be thrown
to the wolves. Inestimable trouble had already been caused by black
militants instantly prepared to believe in chemical genocide.
The obvious steps had naturally been taken. Samples of the
Nutripon still in store had been analyzed and given a clean bill. Now
suspicion had turned on the yeasts and fungi in the hydroponics plant:
could a rogue, akin say to the ergot mold of rye, have infected one
batch of the stuff with a natural psychedelic poison? It would have
helped if they'd had a sample from Noshri to study, but apparently it
had all been consumed or burned during the riots. So it was going to be
a slow job

Morte villana, di pietà nemica, di dolor madre antica, giudicio incontastabile gravoso, poi che hai data matera al cor doglioso ond'io vado pensoso, di te blasmar la lingua s'affatica. E s'io di grazia ti voi far mendica, convenesi ch'eo dica lo tuo fallar d'onni torto tortoso, non però ch'a la gente sia nascoso, ma per farne cruccioso chi d'amor per innanzi si notrica. Dal secolo hai partita cortesia e ciò ch'è in donna da pregiar vertute: in gaia gioventute distrutta hai l'amorosa leggiadria. Più non voi discovrir qual donna sia che per le propietà sue canosciute. Chi non merta salute non speri mai d'aver sua compagnia.Piangete, amanti, poi che piange Amore, udendo qual cagion lui fa plorare. Amor sente a Pietà donne chiamare, mostrando amaro duol per li occhi fore, perché villana Morte in gentil core ha miso il suo crudele adoperare, guastando ciò che al mondo è da laudare in gentil donna sovra de l'onore. Audite quanto Amor le fece orranza, ch'io 'l vidi lamentare in forma vera sovra la morta imagine avvenente; e riguardava ver lo ciel sovente, ove l'alma gentil già locata era, che donna fu di sì gaia sembianza.

Io mi senti' svegliar dentro a lo core

Un spirito amoroso che dormia:

E poi vidi venir da lungi Amore

Allegro sì, che appena il conoscia,

Dicendo: "Or pensa pur di farmi onore";

E 'n ciascuna parola sua ridia.

E poco stando meco il mio segnore,

Guardando in quella parte onde venia,

Io vidi monna Vanna e monna Bice

Venire inver lo loco là 'v'io era,

L'una appresso de l'altra miriviglia;

E sì come la mente mi ridice,

Amor mi disse: "Quell'è Primavera,

E quell'ha nome Amor, sì mi somiglia.

Canto o zelo do Génio, a quem Minerva Deu a guarda da Athenas Lusitana. Musa minha, tu desce, tu conserva Em minha alma essa fúria soberana, Que ateaste na mente de Cervantes, Que tanto pede a raça dos pedantes. 158 POEMAS HERÓI-COMICOS Fervia a papelada, que inspirava O Rancor, e Inveja a vates pobres, E sem rebuço impávida atacava Illustres almas, e talentos nobres, Das batinas, das becas, do Prelado Querendo ver o crédito offuscado Já o invicto Marquez com regia pompa Da risonha Cidade avista os muros. Já toca a larga ponte em áureo coche. Entre os apóstatas da sciência avulta, como prota- gonista, certo estudante de nome Gonçalo, que vai procurar as sopas de um tio, em Mioselha. O êxodo realiza-se no meio de complicações inte- ressantes. A màe de uma tricana, enganada pelo estu- dante Gonçalo, prega a revolta contra os fugitivos e logra reunir gente com que lhes aparece no caminho a pedir contas ao sedutor da filha. Trava-se combate rijo. Gonçalo fica derreado neste prélio, mas, sem querer ouvir os conselhos do tio, continua a madracear em devoto culto à ralaça Ignorância Sendo caixeiro da casa comercial de j. P. Chasse- seau, cujo gerente era William Vright, mas dedicado à literatura, António Aires malquistou-se com Camilo Castelo Branco, parece que por causa de rivalidades entre os partidários das cantoras Beloni e Dabedeille. Apareceram no Eco Popular alusões desagradáveis a Camilo, que escrevia no Jornal do Povo com o pseu- dónimo de «Anastácio das Lombrigas» e que em despique atacou o poema As Comendas, o qual havia produzido escândalo.

Mais tolo que o Moniz, e até que o Costa, 

Menos patife é Couto, e é menos asno. 

Tu, Bernardo, ó sandeu, tu rei dos tolos, 

Não és tão besta, como o besta Anselmo. 

Se dos Burros te fiz protogonista, 

Foi porque soube que o cantor dos burros 

Tinha escolhido Anselmo, e o tinha feito 

Heroe de outro poema a Correiada, 

Em que os feitos de Anselmo, e as manhas suas, 

I>esde o bastardo berço em versos canta: 

De eterno opprobrio alli será coberto, 

Dando ao diabo a estólida baforada , 

Qual nunca os doidos do hospital disseram». 

Mais adiante volta ao assunto: 

SEPTEMBER 5, 1919.—W. H. Hudson points the way to an interesting field of speculation in one of the early chapters of Far Away and Long Ago, in which he speaks of his mother. "When I think of her," he writes, "I remember with gratitude that our parents seldom punished us, and never, unless we went too far in our domestic dissensions or tricks, even chided us. This, I am convinced, is the right attitude for parents to observe, modestly to admit that nature is wiser than they are, and to let their little ones follow, as far as possible, the bent of their own minds, or whatever it is that they have in place of minds. It is the attitude of the sensible hen toward her ducklings, when she has had frequent experience of their incongruous ways, and is satisfied that they know best what is good for them; though, of course, their ways seem peculiar to her, and she can never entirely sympathize with their fancy for going into the water. I need not be told that the hen is, after all, only stepmother to her ducklings, since I am contending that the civilized woman—the artificial product of our self-imposed conditions—cannot have the same relation to her offspring as the uncivilized woman really has to hers. The comparison, therefore, holds good, the mother with us being practically stepmother to children of another race; and if she is sensible, and amenable to nature's teaching, she will attribute their seemingly unsuitable ways and appetites to the right cause, and not to a hypothetical perversity or inherent depravity of heart, about which many authors will have spoken to her in many books: "But though they wrote it all by rote They did not write it right." The very dim race memory of old tribal and even primitive life which is in all of us is much stronger in children than in grown-ups. They are closer to the past than their elders, and although we hear a great deal about maternal instinct, it is probable that it is a much slighter and more limited thing than the instinct of a young child. I have noticed, for instance, that without any help from me H. 3rd has learned to fall with amazing skill. He can trip over the edge of the carpet, do a somersault ending on the point of his nose and come up smiling, unless some grown-up makes him aware of his danger by crying out in horror. He did not copy it from me. I have never even undertaken to teach him by precept or illustration. The difficult trick of relaxing in midair is his own contribution. He cannot be said to have learned it. He seems always to have had it. At the age of eight months he pitched headlong out of his carriage and landed on top of his head without so much as ruffling his feelings. It may be fantastic, but I rather think that his skill in preparing for the bump by a complete relaxation of every muscle is a legacy from some ancestor back in the days when knowing how to fall was of vital importance, since even the best of us might, upon special occasions, miscalculate the distance from branch to branch. So strong is my faith in the child's superior memory of primitive life that if the hallboy were to call me up on the telephone to-morrow to say that there was an ichthyosaurus downstairs who wanted to see me, I would not think of deciding what to do about it without first consulting H. 3rd. Curiously enough, Hudson relates one incident which might well be cited in support of the theory that the child is equipped at birth with certain protective instincts, but he passes it over with a different explanation. He says that on a certain afternoon his baby sister, who could scarcely walk, was left alone in a room, and suddenly came toddling to the door shrieking "ku-ku," an Argentine word for danger, which was almost her single articulate possession. Her parents rushed into the room and found a huge snake coiled up in the middle of the rug. The child had never seen a snake before, and there was much speculation as to how she knew it was dangerous. "It was conjectured," writes Hudson, "that she had made some gesture to push it away when it came onto the rug, and that it had reared its head and struck viciously at her." It seems to us that a much more plausible explanation lies in the theory that this child who had never seen a snake profited from some old racial memory of the danger of serpents. Unfortunately, under modern conditions some restrictions must be put on the liberty of small children. I have been told that a child knows instinctively that he must not put his hand into a fire, but he has no age-grounded instinct not to touch a radiator. Still, it might be fair to say that in most New York apartment houses none of them would be hot enough to hurt him much. I can testify that children of less than two years of age are not equipped with any inherited protective knowledge about matches, pins, cigarette stubs, $5 bills, or even those of larger denominations; bits of glass, current newspapers or magazines, safety razor blades (for which, of course, there is an excuse, since the adjective may well mislead a child), watches or carving knives. But all these articles are too recent to come within the scope of inherited primitive knowledge.

DECEMBER 17, 1919.—We read Floyd Dell's Were You Ever a Child? to-day and found him remarking: "People talk about children being hard to teach and in the next breath deplore the facility with which they acquire the 'vices.' That seems strange. It takes as much patience, energy and faithful application to become proficient in a vice as it does to learn mathematics. Yet consider how much more popular poker is than equations! But did a schoolboy ever drop in on a group of teachers who had sat up all night parsing, say, a sentence in Henry James, or seeing who could draw the best map of the North Atlantic states? And when you come to think of it, it seems extremely improbable that any little boy ever learned to drink beer by seeing somebody take a tablespoonful once a day."
Most of this is true. The only trouble with all the new theories about bringing up children is that it leaves the job just as hard as ever.
We believe in the new theories for all that. They work, we think, but, like most worth while things, they are not always easy. For instance, H. 3rd came into the parlor the other day carrying the carving knife. Twenty years ago I could have taken it away and spanked him, but then along came the psychologists with their talk of breaking the child's will, and sensible people stopped spanking. Ten years ago I could have said, "Put down that carving knife or you'll make God feel very badly. In fact, you'll make dada feel very badly. You'll make dada cry if you don't obey him." But then the psychoanalysts appeared and pointed out that there was danger in that. In trying to punish the child by making him feel that his evil acts directly caused suffering to the parent there was an unavoidable tendency to make the child identify himself with the parent subconsciously. That might lead to all sorts of ructions later on. The child might identify himself so completely with his father that in later life he would use his shirts and neckties as if they were his own.
Of course, I might have gone over to H. 3rd and, after a short struggle, taken the carving knife away from him by main force, but that would have made him mad. He would at length have suppressed his anger and right away a complex would begin in his little square head.
Picture him now at thirty—he has neuralgia. Somebody mentions the theory of blind abscesses and he has all his teeth pulled out. No good comes of it. He goes to a psychoanalyst and the doctor begins to ask questions. He asks a great many over a long period of time. Eventually he gets a clue. He finds that when H. 3rd was eight years old he dreamed three nights in succession of stepping on a June bug.
"Was it a large, rather fat June bug?" asks the doctor carelessly, as if the answer was not important.
"Yes," says H. 3rd, "it was."
"That June bug," says the doctor, "was a symbol of your father. When you were twenty months old he took a Carving knife away from you and you have had a suppressed anger at him ever since. Now that you know about it your neuralgia will disappear."
And the neuralgia would go at that. But by that time I'd be gone and nothing could be done about this suppressed feud of so many years' standing. My mind went through all these possibilities and I decided it would be simpler and safer to let H. 3rd keep the carving knife as long as he attempted nothing aggressive. A wound is not so dangerous as a complex.
"And, anyhow," I thought, "if he can make that carving knife cut anything he's the best swordsman in the flat."

---

DECEMBER 20, 1919.—Our attitude toward H. 3rd and the carving knife turns out to have been all wrong. We received a letter from Floyd Dell to-day in which he points out that no Freudian could possibly approve our policy of non-interference. Mr. Dell says we should have used force to the utmost.
"Psychoanalytically speaking," he writes, "I think you were wrong about H. 3rd and the carving knife. There is really no Freudian reason why, when he came carrying it into the parlor, you should not have gone over to him and, 'after a short struggle,' taken it away from him by main force. Of course, that would have made him mad. But what harm would that have done?... Unless, of course, you had previously represented yourself to him as a Divine and Perfect Being. In that case his new conception of you as a big bully would have had to struggle with his other carefully implanted and nourished emotions—and his sense of the injustice of your behavior might have been 'repressed.'
"But you know quite well that you are not a Divine and Perfect Being, and, if you consider it for a moment from the child's point of view, you will concede that his emotional opinion of you under such circumstances, highly colored as it is, has its justification. When you yourself want something very much (whether you are entitled to it or not) and when some one (however righteously) keeps you from getting it, how do you feel? But you know that you live in a world in which such things happen. H. 3rd has still to learn it, and if he learns it at his father's knee he is just that much ahead. The boys at school will teach it to him, anyway. The fact is, parents are unwilling that their children should hate them, however briefly, healthily and harmlessly.
"The Victorian parent spanked his offspring and commanded them to love him any way. The modern parent refrains from spanking (for good reasons) and hopes the child will love him. The Freudian parent does not mind if his children do hate him once or twice a day, so long as they are not ashamed of doing so. If H. 3rd swats his father in an enraged struggle to keep possession of the precious carving knife he is expressing and not repressing his emotions. And so long as he has done his best to win he is fairly well content to lose. What a child doesn't like is to have to struggle with a big bully that he mustn't (for mysterious reasons) even try to lick! The privilege of fighting with one's father, even if it does incidentally involve getting licked, is all that a healthy child asks for. Never fear, the time will come when he can lick you; and awaiting that happy time will give him an incentive for growing up. Quite possibly you don't want him to grow up; but that is only another of the well-known weaknesses of parents!"

---

DECEMBER 22, 1919.—Concerning H. 3rd and the carving knife I am gratified to find support for my position from Dr. Edward Hiram Reede, the well-known Washington neurologist, who finds that from the point of view of H. 3rd there was soundness in my policy of non-interference.
"Speaking for him," he writes, "I commend your action. Urged as he is by the two chief traits of childhood, at the present time—curiosity and imitation—I see no reason for direct coercion. So long as the modern child is environed by a museum, as the modern home appears, his curiosity must always be on edge, and if each new goal of curiosity is wrested from him by the usual 'Don't!' or the more ancient struggle for possession instead of by a transference of interest, then the contest will be interminable.
"H. 3rd by right of experience looks upon the armamentarium of the kitchen as his indisputable possessions and can hardly be expected to except a carver. The deification of the parent occurs in accord with the ancestor worship of primitive forebears, and the father will remain the god to the child so long as observation daily reveals the parent as a worker of miracles. Parental self-canonization is not at all necessary to produce this."

no tempo em que JoSo de Deus andava em Coimbra, havia na Lusa-Athenas, que é terra de mulheres bonitas, duas se- nhoras muito formosas, que eram irmãs, — uma chamada Rachel e a outra Cândida. A Rachel, princi- palmente, diz que era uma divindade; e a mocidade da Academia, sobretudo os poetas, bebiam os ares por ella ! Não era branca nem morena : tinha uma côr de bronze, de uma suavidade encantadora, nariz grego, e então uns olhos extraordinários, avelhi- dados, muito brilhantes e pestanudos, que eram a perdição da rapaziada ! Os pretendentes eram assim — aos cardumes... E cabeça de rapaz sobre a qual esses olhos admiráveis pousassem por um instante, mesmo casualmente, era cabeça perdida; porque en- trava logo de andar á roda, como se fosse uma ven- toinha, e o menos que lhe acontecia era rebentar n'uma catadupa de versos — que nem sempre, diga-se a verdade, eram condignos da inspiradora...Ora o João de Deus pertencia á ala dos namorados d'essa divindade, se bem que nunca lhe fallasse ; e tanto que a mng^estosa Rachel ficou seodo para elle uma espécie de Musa. como para o Camões a Catha- rina, para o Dante a Bea- triz, a Laura para o Pe- Irarcha, para Miguel Angelo Victoria Golonna, etc, etc. Fez-Uie muitos versos, e aquelta poesia a vida que a n^o ha mais linda em todo o mundo ; e fcz-lhe depois, quando ella moi^ reu, aquella elegia que tem uma das mell)ores coisas que o génio Immano tem produzido, e que Joflo de Deus, por signnl, improvi- sou n'uma toirada, alheio, vário, absorto, estranho ao mais foi'midavel chinfrim que se tem desencadeado n'uma praça de toiros ! Soubera a noticia da morte quando ia para lá; chegou O Secretario e amodorrou - se a um canto ; e quando se deu fé que a praça de toiros tinha desabado, revolvida, de- baixo para cima, pelo furacão da rapaziada, foi dar com elle o JoSo Vilhena, o seu fiel Achates, no mesmo logar onde o deixara, e que por milagre tinha escapado ! Pegou-lhe por um braço e levou-o d'alli. como se estivesse doido ou a dormir.. RESURREXIT NON EST HICNão vira nada; não ouvira coisa nenhuma; desa- bara a praça e elle a sonhar! Mas depois, chegado a casa, dictou d um jacto a soberba elegia, qiie o João Vilhena, absorto deante de tal maravilha, escreveu sem o perturbar, com os olhos vidrados de lagri- mas... Despe o luto da tua soledade E vem junto de mim, lírio esquecido Do orvalho do céo ! Tens nos meus olhos pranto de piedade, E se és, mulher, irmã dos que hão sofrido, . . Mulher, sou irmão teu. Até ao fim !Ora mas até me parece que foi por causa d'essa mulher, da sublima e divina Rachel, que João de Deus nunca atremou com a vida de Coimbra, le- vando a formar-se dez annos, — « tantos quantos durou o cerco de Troya », como elle dizia ! Segundo a melhor versão, que era ainda a delle, João de Deus chegou de Messines a Coinibra em Março de 1849. Não levava exame nenhum, porque só tinha aprendido Latim com um padre do Algarve, e não sabia mais nada ! Mas passado um mez, eil-o que faz no lyceu de Coimbra o seu exame de instruc- ção primaria onde lhe perguntaram o Padre-Nosso, e na primeira epocha de exames, não está lá com meias medidas : — faz d uma assentada os preparatórios todos, e em Outubro entra para a Universidade— Tu que andas aqui a fazer, á João ? — pergun- tou-lhe o rapaz. — Perdeste alguma coisa ? — Perdi o anno. Ando a vêr se o encontro — respondeu-lhe o João. O outro ofereceu-se : — Homem, se tu queres eu digo a meu tio que te abone as faltas, quando se reunir a congregação !

como queiras. O anno foi o que sabes. 

O Rodrigo (era o Rodrigo da Fonseca, então ministro do 
reino) até mandou dizer para a Universidade que 
não apertassem nos actos este anno, — e eu assim 
talvez passasse ! Mas o diabo são as faltas ! 

— Deixa ! Eu fallo a meu tio. 

Mas as coisas complicaram-se I Aquelle visconde, 
que regia Direito Gommercial, não exigia dos rapazes 
grande applicação, mas queria-os muito sérios dentro 
da aula, ou ao menos que fingissem de sérios... 

Por desgraça, um dos discípulos do visconde, um 
Folhadella do Porto, era um cábula como não havia 
segundo ! Não estudava palavra, nem estava com 
ceremonias : entrava com o bedel quando o bedel ia 
marcar as faltas, e sahia logo atraz do bedel ! Isto 
todos os dias, infallivelmente, sem falhar um ! O vis- 
conde fazia vista grossa; mas lá por dentro, azoava 
com a historia, e tinha-a ferrada de não deixar ir o 
rapaz a acto, no fim do anno ! 
 

E debaixo um ratão de mitra e becca 
Empunhando com geito uma caneca. 

O régio pregador do primeiro anno 
Vae pregando um sermão a São Magano : 

Leva ao lado o chaguitas caganitas(1)

 ou o Fogaça (2) 
A tocar-lhe ao ouvido uma cabaça. 

Vão também com o traje dos anginhos 
Os novatos mais bellos e tenrinhos. 

Um conduz uma táboa veina ao peito 
como emblema das aulas de Direito. 

Mais atraz como symbUo da sebenta 
Leva um outro uma chave ferrugenta. 

P'ra levar a tesoura do Paixão (3) 
Vae um anjo maior : vae o Simão. 

O Papá e a Mamã, muito abraçados, 
Vão fallando dos seus amor's passados. 

-- Segue então toda a musica Zé-P'reira 
Disposta tal e qual d'esta maneira : 

Um musico no centro a tocar bombo 
c'uma c'roa e um manto régio ao lombo. 

Em redor mais alguns de capacetes ou cacetes
com tambor's, cornetins e clarinetes. 



Mário Pinheiro Chagas, agora advogado em Lisboa. 

 António Fogaça, o poeta das Orações do Amor, 

que falleceu sendo estudante... 

O célebre alfaiate da rua Larga, 

regenerador, de bigode com 
pêra e grande fallador.. 

And I might see the youth intent, Guard every pass with crossbow bent ; And through the brake the rangers stalk, And falc'ners hold the ready hawk ; And foresters in green-wood trim, Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim, Attentive, as the bratchet's bay, From the dark covert drove the prey, To slip them as he broke away. The startled quarry bounds amain, As fast the gallant greyhounds strain ; Whistles the arrow from the bow, Answers the harquebuss below ; While all the rocking hills reply, To hoof clang, hound, and hunter's cry, And bugles ringing lightsomely." Nor dull, between each merry chase, Pass'd by the intermitted space ; For we had fair resource in store, In Classic, and in Gothic lore: We mark'd each memorable scene, And held poetic talk between ; Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, But had its legend, or its song. All silent now for now are still Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill ! No longer, from thy mountains dun, The yeoman hears the well-known gun, And, while his honest heart glows warm, At thought of his paternal farm, Round to his mates a brimmer fills, And drinks " The Chieftain of the Hills !" No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers, Fair as the elves whom Janet saw, By moonlight, dance on Carterhaugh ; No youthful Baron's left to grace The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase, And ape, in manly step and tone, The majesty of Oberon : And she is gone, whose lovely face Is but her least and lowest grace ; Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, To show our earth the charms of heaven, She could not glide along the air, With form more light, or face more fair. From Yair, which hills so closely bind, Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, Till all his eddying currents boil, Her long-descended lord is gone, And left us by the stream alone. And much I miss those sportive boys, Companions of my mountain joys, Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, When thought is speech, and speech is truth. Close to my side, with what delight They press 'd to hear of Wallace wight, When, pointing to his airy mound, I call'd his ramparts holy ground! Kindled their brows to hear me speak ; And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, Despite the difference of our years, Return again the glow of theirs. Ah, happy boys I such feelings pure, They will not, cannot, long endure ;

The rapt One of the god-like forehead, 
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth ; 

And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 

Like clouds that rake the mountain summits, 
Or waves that own no curbing hand, 

How fast has brother followed brother 
From sunshine to the sunless land ! 

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
Were earlier raised, remain to hear 

A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
" Who next will droop and disappear ? " 

Our haughty lifejis crowned with darkness, 
Like London, with its own black wreath, 

On which with thee, O ! Crabbe, forth-looking 
I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 

As if but yesterday departed, 
Thou too art gone before ; but why 

O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered 
Should frail survivors heave a sigh. 

Mourn rather for that holy Spirit. 

Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep; 
For Her who, ere her summer faded, 

Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 

No more of old romantic sorrows. 

For slaughtered youth or love-lorn maid ! 
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, 

And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead. 



DESCRIPTION OF MOUNT BENGER. 

Oft from yon height I loved to mark, 

Soon as the morning roused the lark, 

And woodlands raised their raptured hymn, 

That land of glory spreading dim ; 

While slowly up the awakening dale 

The mists withdrew their fleecy veil, 

And tower, and wood, and winding stream, 



BY A BUSH. 113 

Were brightening in the golden beam. 
Yet where the westward shadows fell, 
My eye with fonder gaze would dwell, 
Though wild the view, and brown and bare ; 
Nor castled halls, nor hamlets fair, 
Nor range of sheltering woods, were there, 
Nor river's sweeping pride between, 
To give expression to the scene. 
There stood a simple home, where swells 
The meady sward to moory fells, 
A rural dwelling thatched and warm, 
Such as might suit the upland farm. 
A honeysuckle clasped the sash, 
Half shaded by the giant ash ; 
And there the wall-spread apple-tree 
Gave its white blossoms to the bee, 
Beside yon sheltering clump of ash, 
Which screens below the boiling pool 
With pebbled bottom clear and cool, 
Where often, from the shelving brim, 
We launched on sedgy sheaf to swim. 



BY A BUSH. 

By a bush on yonder brae 

Where the airy Benger rises, 
Sandy tuned his artless lay ; 
Thus he sung the lee-lang day : 



H4 JAMES HOGG. 

" Thou shalt ever be my theme, 

Yarrow, winding down the hollow, 
With thy bonny sister stream 

Sweeping through the broom so yellow. 
On these banks thy waters lave, 
Oft the warrior found a grave. 



" Oft on thee the silent wain 

Saw the Douglas' banners streaming 
Oft on thee the hunter train 
Sought the shelter'd deer in vain ; 
Oft, in thy green dells and bowers 

Swains have seen the fairies riding ; 
Oft the snell and sleety showers 
Found in thee the warrior hiding. 
Many a wild and bloody scene 
On thy bonnie banks have been. 



" Now the days of discord gane, 

Henry's kindness keeps us cheery ; 
While his heart shall warm remain, 
Dule will beg a hauld in vain. 
Bloodless now in many hues, 

Flow'rets bloom, our hills adorning ; 
There my Jenny milks her ewes, 
Fresh an' ruddy as the morning, 
Mary Scott could ne'er outvie 
Jenny's hue an' glancing eye. 



WILL AND DA VIE. 115 

" Wind, my Yarrow, down the howe, 

Forming bows o' dazzling siller ; 
Meet thy titty yont the knowe ; 
Wi' my love I'll join like you. 
Flow my Ettrick, it was thee, 

Into life wha first did drap me. 
Thee I've sung, an' when I dee 
Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me : 
Passing swains shall say, and weep, 
Here our Shepherd lies asleep." 



WILL AND DA VIE 



A SCOTTISH PASTORAL. 



Where Yarrow pours her silver billow 
Through bowers of birch, and brakes of willow ; 
Where loud the grouse crows on the fell, 
And sweet the thrush sings in the dell ; 
Where milk-white flocks unnumbered lie, 
And mirth laughs keen in every eye ; 
And plenty smiles from day to day, 
Beneath Buccleuch's indulgent sway ; 
Two friendly shepherds, blithe and young. 
Oft on the greensward sat and sung, 
Or scoured the lofty fells together, 
And brushed the red flower from the heather. 

12 



u6 JAMES HOGG. 

One morn they tuned, by dawn of day, 
On Bowerhope Law the rural lay ; 
For such a scene that lay was meet 
As wildly gay, as simply sweet; 
The great may even lend an ear 
Wild Yarrow's mountain strains to hear. 

DAVIE. 

Ah, Will, these purple heather blooms, 
That round us shed their light perfumes, 
These sparkling gems of crystal dew, 
That morning sky so mild and blue, 
Have raised my heart to such a height, 
I breathe so pure, I feel so light, 
'Gainst all the reasons you can bring 
I must and will my matin sing. 
Cheer up your heart, for once be gay ; 
Screw on your flute and join the lay. 

WILL. 

Ah, Shepherd, cease ; your idle strain 
Adds sharpness to my bosom's pain. 
How can ye pour that strain so airy, 
That trifling, idle, wild vagary ; 
Nor sadly once reflect with me 
On what has been, and what may be ? 

" As little heeds the lark on high, 
The watchful falcon hovering nigh, 
But flickering his kind mate above, 
He trills his matin song of love. 



WILL AND DA VIE. 117 

Ah, reckless bird, that lively strain 
Thy mate shall never hear again ! 
The spoiler tears thy panting breast, 
And all forsaken is thy nest." 

Cease, Shepherd, cease the case is yours ; 
The sky of Britain threatening lowers ! 
Else, let your strain be soft and slow, 
And every fall a note of woe. 



DAVIE. 

How can I strike one plaintive sound 
While nature smiles so sweet around ? 
See how our lambs, in many a skein, 
Are dancing on the daisied green ; 
Their pliant limbs they keenly brace, 
Strained in the unambitious race ; 
Till gruff old wedders, blithe to see 
The young things skip so merrily, 
With motley antics join the throng, 
And bob and caper them among. 

The plover whistles in the glen, 
The tewit tilts above the fen ; 
Even the hoarse curlew strains her throat, 
And yelps her loudest, liveliest note : 
The rural joy then must I shun, 
So ripened by the rising sun ? 



Ii8 JAMES HOGG. 

No while my bosom beats so high, 
Responsive to a lovely eye 
That pierced it with a gilded arrow, 
I'll sing of love, of joy, and Yarrow. 

I'll sing that rural scene before me ; 
That shady world of placid glory. 
See how the afer vibrates o'er 
The lofty front of brown Clockmore ; 
Beyond Carlevon's rocky crest 
The drowsy moon sinks pale to rest ; 
An angel shade of silken green 
O'erveils the cliffs of wild Loch Skene ; 
While Border Cheviot, blue and high, 
Melts like a shadow on the sky. 

From proud Mount Benger's top, the sun 
His airy course has scarce begun ; 
His orient cheek is resting still 
Upon the grey cairn on the hill. 
The scarlet curtain of the sky, 
A wreathed and waving canopy, 
Sweels like the dew on mountain flower 
Or frost-work on the southland shower. 

The Yarrow, like a baldrick thrown 
Loose on the vale, lies bent and lone ; 
A silver snake of every dye 
That gilds the mountain, tincts the sky ; 
And slowly o'er her verdant vales 
A cobweb veil of vapour sails. 



WILL AND DA VIE. 119 

Saint Mary holds her mirror sheen, 
To moorland gray and mountain green ; 
To speckled schell-fowl hovering nigh, 
To milky swan and morning sky : 
Their phantom cliffs hang trembling low, 
And hoary thorns inverted grow. 

Her purple bosom sleeps as still 
As sunbeam on the silent hill, 
No curling breeze across it strays, 
No sportful eddy o'er it plays, 
Save where the wild duck wanders slow, 
Or dark trout spreads his waxing O. 

Look to the east 'tis shadow all, 
Crowned by yon broad and dazzling ball. 
Turn westward mountain, glen, and wold, 
Are all one blaze of burning gold ! 

Ah, God of nature ! such a scene, 
So grand, so lovely, so serene, 
Bears the free soul on rapture's wing, 
Before thy diamond throne to sing ; 
Above yon sky's celestial blue, 
To gaze on glories ever new ; 
And list the strains of angel song 
From angel harps that pour along, 
By fragrant breezes softly driven 
O'er suns that sand the floors of heaven. 



JAMES HOGG. 

The enraptured youth now ceased to sing ; 
But still on ether's waving wing, 
From echo's cave was borne along 
Thy dying measures of the song : 
With eye entranced, and head declined, 
They listened to the waving wind 
Hung on the cliff-born fairly lay, 
Till the last quaver died away. 



THE LASSIE OF YARROW. 

" What makes my heart beat high, 
What makes me heave the sigh, 
When yon green den I spy, 

Lonely and narrow ? 
Sure on your bracken lea, 
Under the hawthorn tree, 
Thou hast bewitched me, 

Lassie of Yarrow !" 



" Yon bracken den so lone, 
Rueful I ponder on ; 
Lad, though my vow ye won, 

'Twas to deceive thee. 
Sore, sore I rue the day 
When in your arms I lay, 
And swore by the hawthorn gray, 

Never to leave thee." 



WILL AND DAVIE. 

" Mary, thy will is free ; 
All my fond vows to thee 
Were but in jest and glee ; 

Could'st thou believe me ? 
I have another love 
Kind as the woodland dove ; 
False to that maid to prove, 

Oh, it would grieve me !" 

Mary's full eye so blue, 
Mild as the evening dew, 
Quick from his glance withdrew, 

Soft was her sighing ; 
Keen he the jest renewed, 
Hard for his freedom sued 
When her sweet face he viewed, 

Mary was crying. 

" Cheer thee," the lover said, 
" Now thy sharp scorn repaid, 
Never shall other maid 

Call me her marrow. 
Far sweeter than sun or sea, 
Or aught in this world I see, 
Is thy love-smile to me, 

Lassie of Yarrow!" 



122 JAMES HOGG. 



ST. MARY OF THE LOWES. 

O lone St. Mary of the waves, 
In ruin lies thine ancient aisle, 

While o'er thy green and lowly graves, 
The moorcocks bay, and plovers wail : 
But mountain spirits on the gale, 

Oft o'er thee sound the requiem dread ; 
And warrior shades, and spectres pale, 

Still linger by the quiet dead. 

Yes, many a chief of ancient days 

Sleeps in thy cold and hallow'd soil ; 
Hearts that would thread the forest maze, 

Alike for spousal or for spoil ; 

That wist not, ween'd not, to recoil 
Before the might of mortal foe, 

But thirsted for the Border broil, 
The shout, the clang, the overthrow. 

Here lie those who, o'er flood and field, 
Were hunted as the osprey's brood, 

Who braved the power of man, and seal'd 
Their testimonies with their blood : 
But long as waves that wilder'd flood, 

Their sacred memory shall be dear, 
And all the virtuous and the good 

O'er their low graves shall drop the tear. 



ST. MARY OF THE LOWES. 123 

Here sleeps the last of all the race 

Of these old heroes of the hill, 
Stern as the storm in heart and face : 

Gainsaid in faith or principle. 

Then would the fire of heaven fill 
The orbit of his faded eye ; 

Yet all within was kindness still, 
Benevolence and simplicity. 

GRIEVE, thou shall hold a sacred cell 

In hearts with sin and sorrow toss'd ; 
While thousands, with their funeral knell, 

Roll down the tide of darkness, lost ; 

For thou wert Truth's and Honour's boast, 
Firm champion of Religion's sway ! 

Who knew thee best revered thee most, 
Thou emblem of a former day ! 

Here lie old Border bowmen good ; 

Ranger and stalker sleep together, 
Who for the red-deer's stately brood 

Watch'd, in despite of want and weather, 

Beneath the hoary hills of heather ; 
Even Scotts, and Kerrs, and Pringles, blended 

In peaceful slumbers, rest together, 
Whose fathers there to death contended. 

Here lie the peaceful, simple race, 

The first old tenants of the wild, 
Who stored the mountains of the chase 

With flocks and herds whose manners mild 



124 JAMES HOGG. 

Changed the baronial castles, piled 
In every glen, into the cot, 

And the rude mountaineer beguiled, 
Indignant, to his peaceful lot. 

Here rural beauty low reposes ; 

The blushing cheek, and beaming eye, 
The dimpling smile, the lip of roses, 

Attracters of the burning sigh, 

And love's delicious pangs, that lie 
Enswathed in pleasure's mellow mine : 

Maid, lover, parent, low and high, 
Are mingled in thy lonely shrine. 

And here lies one here I must turn 
From all the noble and sublime, 

And, o'er thy new but sacred urn, 

Shed the heath flower and mountain-thyme, 
And floods of sorrow, while I chime 

Above thy dust one requiem. 

Love was thine error, not thy crime, 

Thou mildest, sweetest, mortal gem ! 

For ever hallow'd be thy bed, 

Beneath the dark and hoary steep ; 

Thy breast may flowerets overspread, 
And angels of the morning weep 
In sighs of heaven above thy sleep, 

And tear-drops of embalming dew ; 
Thy vesper hymn be from the deep, 

Thy matin from the ether blue !