CHAPTER VIII.--AS A POET

THAT Hearn was a true poet none will deny, but it was one of the frequent seeming illogicalities of his character that he had no love of metric or rhymed poetry. I doubt if there is a single volume of such poetry in his library, and I never heard him repeat a line or stanza, and never knew him to read a page of what is called poetry. I suspect the simple reason was that his necessities compelled him rigidly to exclude everything from his world of thought which did not offer materials for the remunerating public. He had to make a living, and whence tomorrow's income should come was always a vital concern. Poetry of the metric and rhymed sort does not make bread and butter; hence there was no time to consider even the possibility of "cultivating the muses on a little oatmeal."

Of poetry he once wrote:--"The mere ideas and melody of a poem seem to me of small moment unless the complex laws of versification be strictly obeyed." The dictum, considering its source, is exquisitely ludicrous; for Hearn poetry could not be coined into dollars, even if he had had the mind and heart to learn anything of "the complex laws of versification." Elsewhere he excused his manifest utter ignorance of poetry and want of poetic appreciation by saying that there is so little really good poetry that it is easy to choose. He confessed his detestation of Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats, preferring Dobson, Watson, and Lang. "Of Wordsworth--well, I should smile!" "Refined poetry" he held of little or no value, but he found the "vulgar" songs of coolies, fishermen, etc., very true and beautiful poetry. He vainly tried to translate some of Gautier's poems. He attempted original verse-making but a few times, and from my scrap-book I reproduce one of the results, kindly furnished me by Mr. Alexander Hill, of Cincinnati, to whom it was given by Mr. Tunison. Perhaps it was printed in _Forest and Stream_.

A CREOLE BOAT SONG

Hot shines the sun o'er the quivering land, No wind comes up from the sea, Silent and stark the pine woods stand, And the mock-bird sleeps in the Mayhaw tree, Where, overhung with brier and vine, The placid waters slip and shine And dimple to thy lover's view-- La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

Under the bending cypress trees, Bedecked with pendulous cool grey moss That woos in vain the recreant breeze And silently mourns its loss. With drowsy eye, in my little boat I dreamily lie, and lazily float Lulled by the thrush's soft Te-rue-- On La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

A heron stands, like a ghost in grey, Knee-deep 'mongst the bending water lilies, And yellow butterflies lightly play 'Midst the blooms of fragrant amaryllis; The swift kingfisher winds his reel, Saying his grace for his noonday meal, And a hawk soars up to the welkin blue O'er La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

Across the point, where the ferry plies, I hear the click of the boatman's oar, And his Creole song, with its quavering rise Re-echoes soft from shore to shore; And this is the rhyme that he idly sings As his boat at anchor lazily swings, For the day is hot, and passers few On La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

"I ain't got time for make merry, me I ain't got time for make merry; My lill' gall waitin' at de River of Death To meet her ole dad at de ferry. She gwine be dere wid de smile on her face, Like the night she died, when all de place Was lit by the moonbeams shiverin' troo La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

"O sing dat song! O sing dat song! I ain't got time for make merry! De angel come 'fore berry long, And carr' me o'er de ferry! He come wid de whirlwind in de night-- He come wid de streak of de morning light-- He find me ready--yass, dass true-- By La belle riviere de Calcasieu.

"Den who got time for make merry, eh? Den who got time for make merry? De fire burn up de light 'ood tree, De bird eat up de berry. Long time ago I make Voudoo, An' I dance Calinda strong and true, But de Lord he pierce me troo and troo On La belle riviere de Calcasieu."

In the Watkin letters, Hearn transcribes a poem of six stanzas written by himself for the decoration of the soldiers' graves at Chalmette Cemetery in 1878.

Far more successful, for obvious reasons, was an attempt at echoing a bit of Eastern fancy. A strange, gruesome, Oriental being had caught his eye at New Orleans, who translated for him some characteristic Eastern verses. Hearn thus rendered them in English:[16]

[16] From Hearn's manuscript copy through the kindness again of Mr. Tunison and Mr. Hill.

THE RUSE

From _Amaron Satacum_

Late at night the lover returns unlooked-for, Full of longing, after that cruel absence;-- Finds his darling by her women surrounded; Enters among them:--

Only sees his beautiful one, his idol, Speaks no word, but watches her face in silence, Looks with eyes of thirst and with lips of fever Burning for kisses.

Late it is; and, nevertheless, the women, Still remaining, weary his ears with laughter, Prattling folly, tantalizing his longing-- Teasing his patience.

Love weaves ruse in answer to gaze beseeching;-- Shrill she screams: "O heaven!--What insect stings so!" And with sudden waft of her robe outshaken, Blows the vile light out.

I find the following verses in his scrap-book of the New Orleans period:[17]

[17] Dated July 11, 1885.

THE MUMMY

(After the French of Louis Bouilhet)

Startled,--as by some far faint din Of azure-lighted worlds, from sleep, The Mummy, trembling, wakes within The hypogeum's blackest deep,--

And murmurs low, with slow sad voice: "Oh! to be dead and still endure!-- Well may the quivering flesh rejoice That feels the vulture's gripe impure!

"Seeking to enter this night of death, Each element knocks at my granite door:-- 'We are Earth and Fire and Air,--the breath Of Winds,--the Spirits of sea and shore.

"'Into the azure, out of the gloom, Rise!--let thine atoms in light disperse!-- Blend with the date-palm's emerald plume!-- Scatter thyself through the universe!

"'We shall bear thee far over waste and wold: Thou shalt be lulled to joyous sleep By leaves that whisper in light of gold, By murmur of fountains cool and deep.

"'Come!--perchance from thy dungeon dark Infinite Nature may wish to gain For the godlike Sun another spark, Another drop for the diamond rain.'

* * * * *

"Woe! mine is death eternal! ... and I feel Them come, as I lie alone,-- The Centuries, heavy as drifted sand Heaping above my bed of stone!

"O be accursed, ye impious race!-- Caging the creature that seeks to soar; Preserving agony's weird grimace, In hideous vanity, evermore!"

* * * * *

Aux bruits lointains ouvrant l'oreille, Jalouse encor du ciel d'azur, La momie en tremblant s'eveille Au fond de l'hypogee obscur.

Oh, dit-elle, de sa voix lente, Etre mort, et durer toujours. Heureuse la chaire pantelante Sous l'ongle courbe des vautours.

Pour plonger dans ma nuit profonde Chaque element frappe en ce lieu. --Nous sommes L'air! nous sommes l'onde! Nous sommes la terre et le feu!

Viens avec nous, le steppe aride Veut son panache d'arbres verts, Viens sous l'azur du ciel splendide, T'eparpiller dans l'univers.

Nous t'emporterons par les plaines Nous te bercerons a la fois Dans le murmure des fontaines Et la bruissement des bois.

Viens. La nature universelle Cherche peut-etre en ce tombeau Pour de soleil une etincelle! Pour la mer une goutte d'eau!

* * * * *

Et dans ma tombe imperissable Je sens venir avec affroi Les siecles lourds comme du sable Qui s'amoncelle autour de moi.

Ah! sois maudite, race impie, Qui le l'etre arretant l'essor Gardes ta laideur assoupie Dans la vanite de la mort.

In one of Hearn's letters to the Cincinnati _Commercial_, written soon after his arrival in New Orleans, he writes:

Here is a specimen closely akin to the Creole of the Antilles. It is said to be an old negro love-song, and I think there is a peculiar weird beauty in several of its stanzas. I feel much inclined to doubt whether it was composed by a negro, but the question of its authorship cannot affect its value as a curiosity, and, in any case, its spirit is thoroughly African. Unfortunately, without accented letters it is impossible to convey any idea of the melody, the liquid softness, the languor, of some of the couplets. My translation is a little free in parts.

I

Dipi me vouer toue, Adele, Ape danse calinda, Mo reste pour toue fidele, Liberte a moin caba. Mo pas soussi d'autt negresses, Mo pas gagnin coeur pour yo; Yo gagnin beaucoup finesses; Yo semble serpent Congo.

II

Mo aime toue trop, ma belle, Mo pas capab resiste; Coeur a moin tout comme sauterelle, Li fait ne qu'appe saute. Mo jamin contre gnoun femme Qui gagnin belle taille comme toue; Jie a ton jete la flamme; Corps a toue enchene moue.

III

To tant comme serpent sonnette Qui connin charme zozo, Qui gagnin bouche a li prette Pour servi comme gnoun tombo.

Mo jamin voue gnoun negresse Qui connin marche comme toue, Qui gagnin gnoun si belle gesse; Corps a toue ce gnoun poupe.

IV

Quand mo pas vouer toue, Adele, Mo sentt m'ane mourri, Mo vini com' gnoun chandelle Qui ape alle fini: Mo pas vouer rien sur la terre Qui capab moin fait plaisi; Mo capab dans la riviere Jete moin pour pas souffri.

V

Dis moin si to gagnin n'homme; Mo va fals ouanga pour li; Mo fais li tourne fantome, Si to vle moin pour mari. Mo pas le in jour toue boudeuse; L'autt femme, pour moin ce fatras; Mo va rende toue bien heureuse; Mo va baill' toue bell' madras.

TRANSLATION

I

Since first I beheld you, Adele, While dancing the _calinda_, I have remained faithful to the thought of you: My freedom has departed from me. I care no longer for all other negresses; I have no heart left for them: You have such grace and cunning: You are like the Congo serpent.

II

I love you too much, my beautiful one: I am not able to help it. My heart has become just like a grasshopper, It does nothing but leap. I have never met any woman Who has so beautiful a form as yours. Your eyes flash flame; Your body has enchained me captive.

III

Ah, you are so like the serpent-of-the-rattles Who knows how to charm the little bird, And who has a mouth ever ready for it To serve it for a tomb! I have never known any negress Who could walk with such grace as you can, Or who could make such beautiful gestures: Your body is a beautiful doll.

IV

When I cannot see you, Adele, I feel myself ready to die; My life becomes like a candle Which has almost burned itself out. I cannot, then, find anything in the world, Which is able to give me pleasure;-- I could well go down to the river And throw myself in it that I might cease to suffer.

V

Tell me if you have a man; And I will make an _ouanga_ charm for him; I will make him turn into a phantom, If you will only take me for your husband. I will not go to see you when you are cross; Other women are mere trash to me; I will make you very happy, And I will give you a beautiful Madras handkerchief.

I think there is some true poetry in these allusions to the snake. Is not the serpent a symbol of grace? Is not the so-called "line of beauty" serpentine? And is there not something of the serpent in the beauty of all graceful women?--something of undulating shapeliness, something of silent fascination?--something of Lilith and Lamia? The French have a beautiful verb expressive of this idea, _serpenter_, "to serpent"--to curve in changing undulations like a lithe snake. The French artist speaks of the outlines of a beautiful human body as "serpenting," curving and winding like a serpent. Do you not like the word? I think it is so expressive of flowing lines of elegance--so full of that mystery of grace which puzzled Solomon; "the way of a serpent upon a rock."

The allusion to Voudooism in the last stanza especially interested me, and I questioned the gentleman who furnished me with the song as to the significance of the words: "I will make him turn into a phantom." I had fancied that the term _fantome_ might be interpreted by "ghost," and that the whole line simply constituted a threat to make some one "give up the ghost."

"It is not exactly that," replied my friend; "it is an allusion, I believe, to the withering and wasting power of Voudoo poisons. There are such poisons actually in use among the negro obi-men--poisons which defy analysis, and, mysterious as the poisons of the Borgias, slowly consume the victims like a taper. He wastes away as though being dried up; he becomes almost mummified; he wanes like a shadow; he turns into a phantom in the same sense that a phantom is an unreal mockery of something real."

Thus I found an intelligent Louisianan zealous to confirm an opinion to which I was permitted to give expression in the _Commercial_ nearly three years ago--that a knowledge of secret septic poisons (probably of an animal character), which leave no trace discoverable by the most skilful chemists, is actually possessed by certain beings who are reverenced as sorcerers by the negroes of the West Indies and the Southern States, but more especially of the West Indies, where much of African fetichism has been transplanted.

OZIAS MIDWINTER.