Part 12

In this piece it was my design to explain and enforce this doctrine: that vicious actions are not hurtful because they are forbidden, but forbidden because they are hurtful, the nature of man alone considered; that it was therefore every one's interest to be virtuous, who wished to be happy even in this world; and I should from this circumstance (there being always in the world a number of rich merchants, nobility, States, and princes who have need of honest instruments for the management of their affairs, and such being so rare) have endeavored to convince young persons that no qualities were so likely to make a poor man's fortune as those of probity and integrity.

My list of virtues contained at first but twelve: but a Quaker friend having kindly informed me that I was generally thought proud; that my pride showed itself frequently in conversation; that I was not content with being in the right when discussing any point, but was overbearing and rather insolent, of which he convinced me by mentioning several instances;--I determined endeavoring to cure myself, if I could, of this vice or folly among the rest, and I added _Humility_ to my list, giving an extensive meaning to the word.

I cannot boast of much success in acquiring the _reality_ of this virtue, but I had a good deal with regard to the _appearance_ of it. I made it a rule to forbear all direct contradiction to the sentiments of others, and all positive assertion of my own. I even forbid myself, agreeably to the old laws of our Junto, the use of every word or expression in the language that imported a fixed opinion, such as _certainly_, _undoubtedly_, etc., and I adopted, instead of them, _I conceive_, _I apprehend_, or _I imagine_ a thing to be so or so; or it _so appears to me at present_. When another asserted something that I thought an error, I denied myself the pleasure of contradicting him abruptly, and of showing immediately some absurdity in his proposition; and in answering I began by observing that in certain cases or circumstances his opinion would be right, but in the present case there _appeared_ or _seemed_ to me some difference, etc. I soon found the advantage of this change in my manner; the conversations I engaged in went on more pleasantly. The modest way in which I proposed my opinions procured them a readier reception and less contradiction; I had less mortification when I was found to be in the wrong, and I more easily prevailed with others to give up their mistakes and join with me when I happened to be in the right.

And this mode, which I at first put on with some violence to natural inclination, became at length so easy and so habitual to me, that perhaps for these fifty years past no one has ever heard a dogmatical expression escape me. And to this habit (after my character of integrity) I think it principally owing that I had early so much weight with my fellow-citizens when I proposed new institutions, or alterations in the old, and so much influence in public councils when I became a member; for I was but a bad speaker, never eloquent, subject to much hesitation in my choice of words, hardly correct in language: and yet I generally carried my points.

In reality, there is perhaps no one of our natural passions so hard to subdue as _pride_. Disguise it, struggle with it, beat it down, stifle it, mortify it as much as one pleases, it is still alive, and will every now and then peep out and show itself; you will see it perhaps often in this history; for even if I could conceive that I had completely overcome it, I should probably be proud of my humility.

LOUIS HONORE FRECHETTE

(1839-)

BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN

Louis Honore Frechette, the best known of the French-Canadian poets, was born near the forties, at Levis, a suburb of Quebec. He is patriotic; his genius is plainly that of New France, while the form of it is of that older France which produced the too exquisite sonnets of Voiture; and what counts greatly with the Canadians, he has received the approbation of the Academy; he is a personage in Paris, where he spends a great deal of time. From 'Nos Gens de Lettres' (Our Literary Workers: Montreal, 1873), we learn that the father of M. Frechette was a man of business, and that he did not encourage his son's poetic tendencies to the detriment of the practical side of his character.

Levis has traditions which are part of that stirring French-Canadian history now being made known to us by Mrs. Catherwood and Gilbert Parker. And the great St. Lawrence spoke to him in

"All those nameless voices, which are Beating at the heart."

At the age of eight he began to write verses. He was told by his careful father that poets never become rich; but he still continued to make verses. He grew to be a philosopher as well as a poet, and a little later became firmly of Horace's opinion, that a poet to be happy does not need riches gained by work. His father, who no doubt felt that a philosopher of this cult was not fit for the world, sent him to the Seminary at Quebec. At the Seminary he continued to write verses. The teachers there found merit in the verses. The "nameless voices" still beat at his heart, though the desks of the preparatory college had replaced the elms of the St. Lawrence. But poets are so rare that even when one is caught young, his captors doubt his species. The captors in this case determined to see whether Pegasus could trot as well as gallop. "Transport yourself, little Frechette," they said, "to the Council of Clermont and be a troubadour." What is time to the poet? He became a troubadour: but this was not enough; his preceptors were still in doubt; they locked him in a room and gave him as a subject the arrival of Mgr. de Laval in Canada. An hour passed; the first sufferings of the young poet having abated, he produced his verses. It was evident that Pegasus could acquire any pace. His talent was questioned no more.

As he became older, Frechette had dreams of becoming a man of action, and began to learn telegraphy at Ogdensburg; but he found the art too long and life too brief. He went back to the seminary and contributed 'Mes Loisirs' (My Spare Hours) to the college paper. From the seminary--the _Petit Seminaire_, of course,--he went to the College of Ste. Anne, to Nicolet, and finally to Laval University, "singing, and picking up such crumbs of knowledge as suited his taste."

In 1864 M. Frechette was admitted to practice at the bar of Quebec. He was a poet first and always; but just at this time he was second a journalist, third a politician, and perhaps fourth a barrister. He began to publish a paper, Le Journal de Levis. It failed: disgusted, he bade farewell to Canada, and began in Chicago the publication of L'Observateur: it died in a day. He poured forth his complaints in 'Voix d'un Exile' (The Voice of an Exile). "Never," cries M. Darveau in 'Nos Gens de Lettres' (Our Literary Workers), "did Juvenal scar the faces of the corrupt Romans as did Frechette lash the shoulders of our wretched politicians." His L'Amerique, a journal started in Chicago, had some success, but it temporarily ruined Frechette, as the Swiss whom he had placed in charge of it suddenly changed its policy, and made it sympathize with Germany in the Franco-Prussian war.

Frechette's early prose is fiery and eloquent; his admirers compared it to that of Louis Veuillot and Junius, for the reason, probably, that he used it to denounce those whom he hated politically. Frechette's verse has the lyrical ring. And although M. Camille Doucet insisted that the French Academy in crowning his poems honored a Frenchman, it must be remembered that Frechette is both an American and a British subject; and these things, not likely to disarm Academical conservatism, made the action the more significant of the poet's value.

There is strong and noble passion in 'La Voix d'un Exile' and in the 'Ode to the Mississippi.' His arraignment of the Canadian politicians may be forgotten without loss,--no doubt he has by this time forgiven them,--but the real feeling of the poet, who finds in the Mississippi the brother of his beloved St. Lawrence, is permanent:--

"Adieu, vallons ombreux, mes campagnes fleuries, Mes montagnes d'azur et mes blondes prairies, Mon fleuve harmonieux, mon beau del embaume-- Dans les grandes cites, dans les bois, sur les greves, Ton image flottera dans mes reves, O mon Canada, bien aime.

Je n'ecouterai plus, dans nos forets profondes, Dans nos pres verdoyants, et sur nos grandes ondes, Toutes ces voix sans nom qui font battre le coeur."

[Farewell, shaded valleys, my flowery meadows, my azure mountains and my pale prairies, my musical stream, my fair sky! In the great towns, in the wood, along the water-sides, thy scenes will float on in my dreams, O Canada, my beloved!

I shall hear no more, in our deep forests, in our verdant meads and upon our broad waters, all those nameless voices which make one's heart throb.]

In 1865 the first book of poems which appealed to the world from French Canada appeared. It was Frechette's 'Mes Loisirs' (My Spare Hours). Later came 'Pele-Mele' (Pell-Mell), full of fine cameo-like poems,--but like cameos that are flushed by an inner and vital fire. Longfellow praised 'Pele-Mele': it shows the influence of Hugo and Lamartine; it has the beauty of De Musset, with more freshness and "bloom" than that poet of a glorious past possessed; but there are more traces of Lamartine in 'Pele-Mele' than of Hugo.

"Frechette's imagination," says an admiring countryman of his, "is a chisel that attacks the soulless block; and with it he easily forms a column or a flower." His poems have grown stronger as he has become more mature. There is a great gain in dramatic force, so that it has surprised none of his readers that he should have attempted tragedy with success. He lost some of that quality of daintiness which distinguished 'Le Matin' (Morning), 'La Nuit' (Night), and 'Fleurs Fanees' (Faded Flowers). The 'Pensees d'Hiver' (Winter Reflections) had this quality, but 'La Derniere Iroquoise' (The Last Iroquois) rose above it, and like much of 'Les Fleurs Boreales' (Boreal Flowers) and his latest work, it is powerful in spirit, yet retains the greatest chastity of form.

M. Frechette translated several of Shakespeare's plays for the Theatre Francais. After 'Les Fleurs Boreales' was crowned by the Academy, there appeared 'Les Oiseaux de Neige' (The Snow-Birds), 'Feuilles Volantes' (Leaves in the Wind), and 'La Foret Vierge' (The Virgin Forest). The volume which shows the genius of Frechette at its highest is undoubtedly 'La Legende d'un Peuple' (The Legend of a Race), which has an admirable preface by Jules Claretie.

[Signature: Maurice Francis Egan]

OUR HISTORY

Fragments from 'La Legende d'un Peuple': translated by Maurice Francis Egan

O history of my country,--set with pearls unknown,-- With love I kiss thy pages venerated.

O register immortal, poem of dazzling light Written by France in purest of her blood! Drama ever acting, records full of pictures Of high facts heroic, stories of romance, Annals of the giants, archives where we follow, As each leaf we turn, a life resplendent, And find a name respected or a name beloved, Of men and women of the antique time!

Where the hero of the past and the hero of the future Give the hand of friendship and the kiss of love; Where the crucifix and sword, the plowshare and the volume,-- Everything that builds and everything that saves,-- Shine, united, living glories of past time And of time that is to be.

The glories of past time, serene and pure before you, O virtues of our day! Hail first to thee, O Cartier, brave and hardy sailor, Whose footstep sounded on the unexplored shores Of our immense St. Lawrence. Hail, Champlain, Maisonneuve, illustrious founders of two cities, Who show above our waves their rival beauties. There was at first only a group of Bretons Brandishing the sword-blade and the woodman's axe, Sea-wolves bronzed by sea-winds at the port of St. Malo; Cradled since their childhood beneath the sky and water. Men of iron and high of heart and stature, They, under eye of God, set sail for what might come. Seeking, in the secrets of the foggy ocean, Not the famous El Dorados, but a soil where they might plant, As symbols of their saving, beside the cross of Christ, The flag of France.

After them came blond-haired Normans And black-eyed Pontevins, robust colonists, To make the path a road, and for this holy work To offer their strong arms: the motive was the same; The dangers that they fronted brought out prodigies of courage. They seemed to know no dangers; or rather, They seemed to seek the ruin that they did not meet. Frightful perils vainly rose before them, And each element against them vainly had conspired: These children of the furrow founded an empire!

Then, conquering the waves of great and stormy lakes, Crossing savannahs with marshes of mud, Piercing the depths of the forests primeval, Here see our founders and preachers of Faith! Apostles of France, princes of our God, Having said farewell to the noise of the world, They came to the bounds of the New World immense To sow the seed of the future, And to bear, as the heralds of eternal law, To the end of the world the torch of progress.

Leaning on his bow, ferociously calm, The child of the forest, bitter at heart, A hunted look mingling with his piercing glance, Sees the strangers pass,--encamped on the plain or ambushed in the woods,-- And thinks of the giant spirits he has seen in his dreams. For the first time he trembles and fears-- Then casting off his deceitful calm, He will rush forth, uttering his war-cry, To defend, foot by foot, his soil so lately virgin, And ferocious, tomahawk in hand, bar this road to civilization!

* * * * *

A cowardly king, tool of a more cowardly court, Satyr of the _Parc aux cerfs_, slave at the Trianon, Plunged in the horrors of nameless debauches, At the caprice of Pompadour dancing like an atom,-- The blood of his soldiers and the honor of his kingdom, Of our dying heroes hearing he no voice. Montcalm, alas! conquered for the first time, Falling on the field of battle, wrapped in his banner. Levis, last fighter of the last fight, Tears--avenging France and her pride!-- A supreme triumph from fate.

* * * * *

That was all. In front of our tottering towers The stranger planted his insolent colors, And an old flag, wet with bitter tears, Closed its white wings and went across the sea!

CAUGHNAWAGA

Paraphrased by Maurice Francis Egan

A world in agony breathes its last sigh! Gaze on the remnants of an ancient race,-- Great kings of desert terrible to face, Crushed by the new weights that upon them lie; Stand near the Falls, and at this storied place You see a humble hamlet;--by-and-by You'll talk of ambuscades and treacherous chase.

Can history or sight a traitor be? Where are the red men of the rolling plains? Ferocious Iroquois,--ah, where is he?-- Without concealment (this for all our pains!) The Chief sells groceries for paltry gains, With English tang in speech of Normandy!

LOUISIANA

Paraphrased from 'Les Feuilles Volantes,' by Maurice Francis Egan

Land of the Sun! where Fancy free Weaveth her woof beneath a sky of gold, Another Andalusia, thee I see; Thy charming memories my heart-strings hold, As if the song of birds had o'er them rolled.

In thy fresh groves, where scented orange glows, Circle vague loves about my longing heart; Thy dark banana-trees, when soft wind flows, In concert weird take up their sombre part, As evening shadows, listening, float and dart.

'Neath thy green domes, where the lianas cling, Show tropic flowers with wide-opened eyes, With arteries afire till morn-birds sing; More than old Werthier, in new love's surprise, Stand on the threshold of thy Paradise.

Son of the North, I, of the realm of snows,-- Vision afar, but always still a power,-- In these soft nights and in the days of rose, Dreaming I feel, e'en in the saddest hour, Within my heart unclose a golden flower.

THE DREAM OF LIFE

TO MY SON

Paraphrased from 'Les Feuilles Volantes,' by Maurice Francis Egan

At twenty years, a poet lone, I, when the rosy season came, Walked in the woodland, to make moan For some fair dame;

And when the breezes brought to me The lilac spent in fragrant stream, I wove her infidelity In love's young dream.

A lover of illusions, I! Soon other dreams quite filled my heart, And other loves as suddenly Took old love's part.

One Glory, a deceitful fay, Who flies before a man can stir, Surprised my poor heart many a day,-- I dreamed of her!

But now that I have grown so old, At lying things I grasp no more. My poor, deceived heart takes hold Of other lore.

Another life before us glows, Casts on all faithful souls its gleam: Late, late, my heart its glory knows,-- Of it I dream!

HAROLD FREDERIC

(1856-)

Mr. Frederic was born in Utica, New York, August 19th, 1856. He spent his boyhood in that neighborhood, and was educated in its schools. The rural Central New York of a half-century ago was a region of rich farms, of conservative ideas, and of strong indigenous types of character. These undoubtedly offered unconscious studies to the future novelist.

Like many of his guild he began writing on a newspaper, rising by degrees from the position of reporter to that of editor. The drill and discipline taught him to make the most of time and opportunity, and he contrived leisure enough to write two or three long stories. Working at journalism in Utica, Albany, and New York, in 1884 he became chief foreign correspondent of the New York Times, making his headquarters in London, where he has since lived.

Mr. Frederic's reputation rests on journalistic correspondence of the higher class, and on his novels, of which he has published six. His stories are distinctively American. He has caught up contrasting elements of local life in the eastern part of the United States, and grouped them with ingenuity and power. His first important story was 'Seth's Brother's Wife,' originally appearing as a serial in Scribner's Magazine. Following this came 'The Lawton Girl,' a study of rustic life; 'In the Valley,' a semi-historical novel, turning on aspects of colonial times along the Mohawk River; 'The Copperhead,' a tale of the Civil War; 'Mukena and Other Stories,' graphic character sketches, displaying humor and insight; 'The Damnation of Theron Ware,' the most serious and carefully studied of his books; and 'March Hares,' a sketch of contemporary society.

A student of the life about him, possessing a dramatic sense and a saving grace of humor, Mr. Frederic in his fiction is often photographic and minute in detail, while he does not forget the importance of the mass which the detail is to explain or embellish. He likes to deal with types of that mixed population peculiar to the farming valleys of Central New York,--German, Irish, and American,--bringing out by contrast their marked social and individual traits. Not a disciple of realism, his books are emphatically "human documents."

There is always moreover a definite plot, often a dramatic development. But it is the attrition of character against character that really interests him. 'Seth's Brother's Wife' and 'The Lawton Girl' leave a definite ethical intention. In the 'Damnation of Theron Ware' is depicted the tragedy of a weak and crude character suddenly put in touch with a higher intellectual and emotional life, which it is too meagre and too untrained to adopt, and through which it suffers shipwreck. In 'In the Valley' the gayety and seriousness of homely life stand out against a savage and martial background.

Mr. Frederic profoundly respects his art, is never careless, and never unconscientious. Of his constructive instinct a distinguished English critic has said that it "ignores nothing that is significant; makes use of nothing that is not significant; and binds every element of character and every incident together in a consistent, coherent, dramatic whole."

THE LAST RITE

From 'The Damnation of Theron Ware.' Copyright 1896, by Stone & Kimball

Walking homeward briskly now, with his eyes on the sidewalk, and his mind all aglow with crowding suggestions for the new work and impatience to be at it, Theron Ware came abruptly upon a group of men and boys who occupied the whole path, and were moving forward so noiselessly that he had not heard them coming. He almost ran into the leader of this little procession, and began a stammering apology, the final words of which were left unspoken, so solemnly heedless of him and his talk were all the faces he saw.

In the centre of the group were four workingmen, bearing between them an extemporized litter of two poles and a blanket hastily secured across them with spikes. Most of what this litter held was covered by another blanket, rounded in coarse folds over a shapeless bulk. From beneath its farther end protruded a big broom-like black beard, thrown upward at such an angle as to hide everything beyond those in front. The tall young minister, stepping aside and standing tiptoe, could see sloping downward, behind this hedge of beard, a pinched and chalk-like face, with wide-open, staring eyes. Its lips, of a dull lilac hue, were moving ceaselessly, and made a dry, clicking sound.

Theron instinctively joined himself to those who followed the litter, a motley dozen of street idlers, chiefly boys. One of these in whispers explained to him that the man was one of Jerry Madden's workmen in the wagonshops, who had been deployed to trim an elm-tree in front of his employer's house, and being unused to such work, had fallen from the top and broken all his bones. They would have cared for him at Madden's house, but he insisted upon being taken home. His name was MacEvoy, and he was Joey MacEvoy's father, and likewise Jim's and Hughey's and Martin's. After a pause, the lad, a bright-eyed, freckled, barefooted wee Irishman, volunteered the further information that his big brother had run to bring "Father Forbess," on the chance that he might be in time to administer "extry munction."

The way of the silent little procession led through back streets,--where women hanging up clothes in the yards hurried to the gates, their aprons full of clothes-pins, to stare open-mouthed at the passers-by,--and came to a halt at last in an irregular and muddy lane, before one of a half-dozen shanties reared among the ash-heaps and debris of the town's most bedraggled outskirts.

A stout, middle-aged, red-armed woman, already warned by some messenger of calamity, stood waiting on the roadside bank. There were whimpering children clinging to her skirts, and a surrounding cluster of women of the neighborhood; some of the more elderly of whom, shriveled little crones in tidy caps, and with their aprons to their eyes, were beginning in a low-murmured minor the wail which presently should rise into the _keen_ of death. Mrs. MacEvoy herself made no moan, and her broad ruddy face was stern in expression rather than sorrowful. When the litter stopped beside her, she laid a hand for an instant on her husband's wet brow, and looked--one could have sworn impassively--into his staring eyes. Then, still without a word, she waved the bearers toward the door, and led the way herself.