Outre-Mer, Volume 1

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Vous eussiez vu venir tous ceux de Saint-Yon,

  Et ceux de Brétigny apportant du poisson,

  Les barbeaux et gardons, anguilles et carpettes

  Etoient à bon marché Croyez, A cette journée-là, La, la, Et aussi les perchettes.

  I found another source of amusement in observing the various personages that daily passed and repassed beneath my window. The character, which most of all arrested my attention, was a poor blind fiddler, whom I first saw chaunting a doleful ballad at the door of a small tavern near the gate of the village. He wore a brown coat out at elbows, the fragment of a velvet waistcoat, and a pair of tight nankeens, so short as hardly to reach below his calves. A little foraging cap, that had long since seen its best days, set off an open, good-humored countenance, bronzed by sun and wind. He was led about by a brisk middle aged woman, in straw hat and wooden shoes; and a little bare-footed boy, with clear blue eyes and flaxen hair, held a tattered hat in his hand, in which he collected eleemosynary sous. The old fellow had a favorite song, which he used to sing with great glee to a merry, joyous air, the burden of which ran “chantons l’amour et le plaisir!”--let us sing of love and pleasure. I often thought it would have been a good lesson for the crabbed and discontented rich man, to have heard this remnant of humanity,--poor, blind, and in rags, and dependent upon casual charity for his daily bread, singing, in so cheerful a voice, the charms of existence, and, as it were, fiddling life away to a merry tune.

  I was one morning called to my window by the sound of rustic music. I looked out, and beheld a procession of villagers advancing along the road, attired in gay dresses, and marching merrily on in the direction of the church. I soon perceived that it was a marriage festival. The procession was led by a long orang-outang of a man, in a straw hat and white dimity bob-coat, playing on an asthmatic clarionet, from which he contrived to blow unearthly sounds, ever and anon squeaking off at right angles from his tune, and winding up with a grand flourish on the guttural notes. Behind him, led by his little boy, came the blind fiddler, his honest features glowing with all the hilarity of a rustic bridal, and, as he stumbled along, sawing away upon his fiddle till he made all crack again. Then came the happy bridegroom, dressed in his Sunday suit of blue, with a large nosegay in his button-hole, and close beside him his blushing bride, with downcast eyes, clad in a white robe and slippers, and wearing a wreath of white roses in her hair. The friends and relatives brought up the procession; and a troop of village urchins came shouting along in the rear, scrambling among themselves for the largess of sous and sugar-plums, that now and then issued in large handfuls from the pockets of a lean man in black, who seemed to officiate as master of ceremonies on the occasion. I gazed on the procession till it was out of sight; and when the last wheeze of the clarionet died upon my ear, I could not help thinking how happy were they, who were thus to dwell together in the peaceful bosom of their native village, far from the gilded misery and the pestilential vices of the town.

  On the evening of the same day, I was sitting by the window, enjoying the freshness of the air, and the beauty and stillness of the hour, when I heard the distant and solemn hymn of the Catholic burial service, at first so faintly and indistinct that it seemed an illusion. It rose mournfully on the hush of evening,-- died gradually away,--then ceased. Then it rose again, nearer and more distinct, and soon after a funeral procession appeared, and passed directly beneath my window. It was led by a priest, bearing the banner of the church, and followed by two boys, holding long flambeaux in their hands. Next came a double file of priests in white surplices, with a missal in one hand and a lighted wax taper in the other, chaunting the funeral dirge at intervals,--now pausing, and then again taking up the mournful burden of their lamentation, accompanied by others, who played upon a rude kind of horn, with a dismal and wailing sound. Then followed various symbols of the church, and the bier, borne on the shoulders of four men. The coffin was covered with a black velvet pall, and a chaplet of white flowers lay upon it, indicating that the deceased was unmarried. A few of the villagers came behind, clad in mourning robes, and bearing lighted tapers. The procession passed slowly along the same street, that in the morning had been thronged by the gay bridal company. A melancholy train of thought forced itself home upon my mind. The joys and sorrows of this world are so strikingly mingled! Our mirth and grief are brought so mournfully in contact! We laugh while others weep,--and others rejoice when we are sad! The light heart and the heavy walk side by side, and go about together! Beneath the same roof are spread the wedding feast and the funeral pall! The bridal song mingles with the burial hymn! One goes to the marriage bed; another to the grave; and all is mutable, uncertain and transitory!

  It is with sensations of pure delight, that I recur to the brief period of my existence, which was passed in the peaceful shades of Auteuil. There is one kind of wisdom, which we learn from the world, and another kind, which can be acquired in solitude only. In cities we study those around us; but in the retirement of the country we learn to know ourselves. The voice within us is more distinctly audible in the stillness of the place; and the gentler affections of our nature spring up more freshly in its tranquillity and sunshine,--nurtured by the healthy principle, which we inhale with the pure air, and invigorated by the genial influences, which descend into the heart from the quiet of the sylvan solitude around, and the soft serenity of the sky above.

  JACQUELINE.

  Epigraph

  When thou shalt see the body put on death’s sad and ashy counte- nance, in the dead age of night, when silent darkness does encompass the dim light of thy glimmering taper, and thou hearest a solemn bell tolled to tell the world of it, which now, as it were, with this sound is struck into dumb attention, tell me if thou canst then find a thought of thine devoting thee to pleasure and the fugitive toys of life.

  Owen Felltham’s Resolves

  JACQUELINE.

  Death lies on her, like an untimely frost

  Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

  Shakspeare

  “Dear mother,--is it not the bell I hear?”

  “Yes, my child; the bell for morning prayers. It is Sunday to-day.”

  “I had forgotten it. But now all days are alike to me. Hark! it sounds again--louder-- louder. Open the window, for I love the sound. There; the sunshine and the fresh morning air revive me. And the church bell--oh mother, --it reminds me of the holy sabbath mornings by the Loire--so calm, so hushed, so beautiful! Now give me my prayer-book, and draw the curtain back that I may see the green trees and the church spire. I feel better to-day, dear mother.”

  It was a bright, cloudless morning in August. The dew still glistened on the trees; and a slight breeze wafted to the sick-chamber of Jacqueline the song of the birds, the rustle of the leaves, and the solemn chime of the church-bells. She had been raised up in bed, and reclining upon the pillow, was gazing wistfully upon the quiet scene without. Her mother gave her the prayer-book and then turned away to hide a tear that stole down her cheek.

  At length the bells ceased. Jacqueline crossed herself, kissed a pearl crucifix that hung around her neck, and opened the silver clasps of her missal. For a time she seemed wholly absorbed in her devotions. Her lips moved,--but no sound was audible. At intervals the solemn voice of the priest was heard at a distance, and then the confused responses of the congregation, dying away in inarticulate murmurs. Ere long the thrilling chaunt of the Catholic service broke upon the ear. At first it was low, solemn, and indistinct;--then it became more earnest and entreating, as if interceding, and imploring pardon for sin;-- and then arose louder and louder, full, harmonious, majestic, as it wafted the song of praise to heaven,--and suddenly ceased. Then the sweet tones of the organ were heard,--trembling, thrilling, and rising higher and higher, and filling the whole air with their rich melodious music. What exquisite accords!--what noble harmonies!--What touching pathos!-- The soul of the sick girl seemed to kindle into more ardent devotion, and to be wrapt away to heaven
in the full harmonious chorus, as it swelled onward, doubling and redoubling, and rolling upward in a full burst of rapturous devotion!--Then all was hushed again. Once more the low sound of the bell smote the air, and announced the elevation of the host. The invalid seemed entranced in prayer. Her book had fallen beside her,--her hands were clasped, --her eyes closed,--her soul retired within its secret chambers. Then a more triumphant peal of bells arose. The tears gushed from her closed and swollen lids; her cheek was flushed; she opened her dark eyes and fixed them with an expression of deep adoration and penitence upon an image of the Savior on the cross, which hung at the foot of her bed, and her lips again moved in prayer. Her countenance expressed the deepest resignation. She seemed to ask only that she might die in peace, and go to the bosom of her Redeemer.

  The mother was kneeling by the window, with her face concealed in the folds of the curtain. She arose, and, going to the bed-side of her child, threw her arms around her, and burst into tears.

  “My dear mother, I shall not live long--I feel it here. This piercing pain--at times it seizes me, and I cannot--cannot breathe.”

  “My child, you will be better soon.”

  “Yes, mother, I shall be better soon. All tears and pain and sorrow will be over. The hymn of adoration and entreaty I have just heard, I shall never hear again on earth. Next sabbath, mother, kneel again by that window as to-day. I shall not be here, upon this bed of pain and sickness, but when you hear the solemn hymn of worship and the beseeching tones that wing the spirit up to God, think, mother, that I am there,--with my sweet sister who has gone before us,--kneeling at our Savior’s feet, and happy--oh, how happy!”

  The afflicted mother made no reply,--her heart was too full to speak.

  “You remember, mother, how calmly Amie died. Poor child, she was so young and beautiful!--I always pray, that I may die as she did. I do not fear death as I did before she was taken from us. But oh--this pain--this cruel pain--it seems to draw my mind back from heaven. When it leaves me I shall die in peace.”

  “My poor child!--God’s holy will be done!”

  The invalid soon sank into a quiet slumber. The excitement was over, and exhausted nature sought relief in sleep.

  The persons, between whom this scene passed, were a widow and her sick daughter, from the neighborhood of Tours. They had left the banks of the Loire to consult the more experienced physicians of the metropolis, and had been directed to the Maison de Santé at Auteuil for the benefit of the pure air. But all in vain. The health of the suffering, but uncomplaining patient grew worse and worse, and it soon became evident that the closing scene was drawing near.

  Of this Jacqueline herself seemed conscious; and toward evening she expressed a wish to receive the last sacraments of the church. A priest was sent for: and ere long the tinkling of a little bell in the street announced his approach. He bore in his hand a silver vase containing the consecrated wafer, and a small vessel filled with the holy oil of the extreme unction hung from his neck. Before him walked a boy carrying a little bell, whose sound announced the passing of these symbols of the Catholic faith. In the rear, a few of the villagers, bearing lighted wax tapers, formed a short and melancholy procession. They soon entered the sick chamber, and the glimmer of the tapers mingled with the red light of the setting sun, that shot his farewell rays through the open window. The vessel of oil and the vase containing the consecrated wafers were placed upon the table in front of a crucifix, that hung upon the wall, and all present excepting the priest, threw themselves upon their knees. The priest then approached the bed of the dying girl, and said in a slow and solemn tone;

  “The King of kings and Lord of lords has passed thy threshold. Is thy spirit ready to receive him?”--

  “It is, father.”

  “Hast thou confessed thy sins?”

  “Holy father, no.”

  “Confess thyself, then, that thy sins may be forgiven, and thy name recorded in the book of life.”

  And turning to the kneeling crowd around, he waved his hand for them to retire, and was left alone with the sick girl. He seated himself beside her pillow, and the subdued whisper of the confession mingled with the murmur of the evening air, which lifted the heavy folds of the curtains and stole in upon the holy scene. Poor Jacqueline had few sins to confess,--a secret thought or two towards the pleasures and delights of the world,--a wish to live, unuttered, but which to the eye of her self-accusing spirit seemed to resist the wise providence of God;--no more. The confession of a meek and lowly heart is soon made. The door was again opened;--the attendants entered, and knelt around the bed, and the priest proceeded;

  “And now prepare thyself to receive with contrite heart the body of our blessed Lord and Redeemer.--Dost thou believe that our Lord Jesus Christ was conceived by the Holy Spirit, and born of the Virgin Mary?”

  “I believe.”

  And all present joined in the solemn response--

  “I believe.”

  “Dost thou believe that the Father is God, that the Son is God, and that the Holy Spirit is God,--three persons and one God?”

  “I believe.”

  “Dost thou believe that the Son is seated on the right hand of the Majesty on high, whence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead?”

  “I believe.”

  “Dost thou believe that by the holy sacraments of the church thy sins are forgiven thee, and that thus thou art made worthy of eternal life?”

  “I believe.”

  “Dost thou pardon, with all thy heart, all who have offended thee in thought, word or deed?”

  “I pardon them.”

  “And dost thou ask pardon of God and thy neighbor for all offences thou hast committed against them, either in thought, word, or deed?”

  “I do!”

  “Then repeat after me; O Lord Jesus, I am not worthy, nor do I merit, that thy divine Majesty should enter this poor tenement of clay; but according to thy holy promises be my sins forgiven, and my soul washed white from all transgression.”

  Then taking a consecrated wafer from the vase, he placed it between the lips of the dying girl, and while the assistant sounded the little silver bell, said;

  “Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi cus- todiat animam tuam in vitam eternam.”

  And the kneeling crowd smote their breasts and responded in one solemn voice;

  “Amen!”

  The priest then took from the silver box on the table a little golden rod, and dipping it in holy oil, anointed the invalid upon the hands, feet and breast in the form of the cross. When these ceremonies were completed, the priest and his attendants retired, leaving the mother alone with her dying child, who, from the exhaustion caused by the preceding scene, sank into a death-like sleep.

  ‘Between two worlds life hovered like a star,

  ’Twixt night and morn upon the horizon’s verge.’

  The long twilight of the summer evening stole on; the shadows deepened without, and the night-lamp glimmered feebly in the sick chamber; but still she slept. She was lying with her hands clasped upon her breast,--her pallid cheek resting upon the pillow, and her bloodless lips apart, but motionless and silent as the sleep of death. Not a breath interrupted the silence of her slumber. Not a movement of the heavy and sunken eye-lid-not a trembling of the lip--not a shadow on the marble brow told when the spirit took its flight. It passed to a better world than this.

  ‘There’s a perpetual spring,--perpetual youth;

  No joint-benumbing cold, nor scorching heat,

  Famine, nor age have any being there.’

  THE SEXAGENARIAN, A SKETCH OF CHARACTER.

  Youth is full of pleasure,

  Age is full of care;

  Youth like summer morn,

  Age like winter weather;

  Youth like summer brave,

  Age like winter bare;

  Youth is full of sport,

  Age’s breath is short;

  Youth is nimble, age is lame;

  Youth is hot and
bold,

  Age is weak and cold;

  Youth is wild, and age is tame.

  Shakspeare

  Epigraph

  THE SEXAGENARIAN.

  Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old, with all the characters of age? Have you not a moist eye? a dry hand? a yellow cheek? a white beard? a decreasing leg?

  Shakspeare

  There he goes,--in his long russet surtout, --sweeping down yonder gravel walk beneath the trees, like a yellow leaf in Autumn, wafted along by a fitful gust of wind. Now he pauses;--now seems to be whirled round in an eddy,--and now rustles and brushes onward again. He is talking to himself in an undertone as usual; and flourishes a pinch of snuff between his fore-finger and his thumb,--ever and anon drumming on the cover of his box by way of emphasis, with a sound like the tap of a wood-pecker. He always takes a morning walk in the garden,--in fact, I may say he passes a greater part of the day there, either strolling up and down the gravel walks, or sitting on a rustic bench in one of the leafy arbors. He always wears that same dress, too; at least, I have never seen him in any other;-- a bell-crowned hat,--a frilled bosom, and white dimity vest, soiled with snuff,--light nankeen smalls,--and, over all, that long and flowing surtout of russet-brown circassian, hanging in wrinkles round his slender body, and toying with his thin rakish legs. Such is his constant garb, morning and evening; and it gives him a cool and breezy look even in the heat of a noon-day in August.