5 At a particular hour it was his custom to sit on that bench in the sunshine, wrapped in his blankets in the winter, in summer I in his shirt sleeves with his one old coat I carefully hung on that peg; I can see him - before me now. On certain days he I would wash his few poor clothes, and hang them out on the bushes to dry; then he would patiently mend them with his great brass thimble and coarse thread. 10 Poor old garments! they were covered with awkward patches. At noon he would prepare his one meal; for his breakfast and supper were but a cup of coffee. Slowly and with the great- 15 est care the materials were prepared, and the cooking watched. There was a savor of the camp, a savor of the Paris café, and a savor of originality; and often, wearied by the dishes prepared by my 20 half-breeds, I have come over to the island to dine with Jacques, for the old soldier was proud of his skill, and liked an appreciative guest. And I but it is not my story to tell.' 'Oh, Father Piret, if you could but —' 25 Thanks, Madame. To others I say, "What would you? I have been here since. youth; you know my life." But to you I say, there was a past; brief, full, 30 crowded into a few years; but I cannot tell it; my lips are sealed! Again, thanks for your sympathy, Madame. And now I will go back to Jacques. The 'We were comrades, he and I; he would 35 not come over to the Chenaux; he was unhappy if the routine of his day was disturbed, but I often stayed a day with him at the Agency, for I too liked the silent house. It has its relics, by the way. 40 Have you noticed a carved door in the back part of the main building? That was brought from the old chapel on the mainland, built as early as 1700. whole of this locality is sacred ground in 45 the history of our church. It was first visited by our missionaries in 1670, and over at Point St. Ignace the dust which was once the mortal body of Father Marquette lies buried. The exact site of the 50 grave is lost; but we know that in 1677 his Indian converts brought back his body, wrapped in birch bark, from the eastern shore of Lake Michigan, where he died, to his beloved mission of St. Ignace. 55 There he was buried in a vault under the little log church. Some years later the spot was abandoned, and the resident priests returned to Montreal. We have another little Indian church there now, and the point is forever consecrated by its unknown grave. At various times I told Jacques the history of this straitits islands and points; but he evinced little interest. He listened with some attention to my account of the battle which took place on Dousman's farm, not far from the British landing; but when he found that the English were victorious, he muttered a great oath and refused to hear more. To him the English were fiends incarnate. Had they not slowly murdered his Emperor on their barren rock in the sea? Only once did I succeed in interesting the old soldier. Then, as now, I received twice each year a package of foreign pamphlets and papers; among them came, that summer, a German ballad, written by that strange being Henri Heine. I give it to you in a later English translation: THE GRENADIERS To the land of France went two grenadiers, The news from the fatherland learning. For there they both heard the sorrowful tale, That France was by fortune forsaken: That her mighty army was scattered like hail, And the Emperor, the Emperor taken, Then there wept together the grenadiers, And one said, 'Oh, woe!' as the news he hears, 'How I feel my old wound burning!' The other said, 'The song is sung, And I wish that we both were dying! But at home I've a wife and a child they're young, On me, and me only, relying.' Oh, what is a wife or a child to me? Deeper wants all my spirits have shaken: Let them beg, let them beg, should they hungry be! My Emperor, my Emperor taken! 'But I beg you, brother, if by chance You soon shall see me dying, Then take my corpse with you back to wn France, condo r. Bal sitti tilto.16 Let it ever in France be lyingle fa 1 sought en May 1/. 972 17 'The cross of honor with crimson band Shall rest on my heart as it bound ine→ Give me my musket in my hand,.tri olt And buckle my sword around me. o noit 151 100 endes ( no la doct "And there I will lie and listen still, In my sentry coffin staying, Till I feel the thundering cannon's thrill, altered everse to his prayers for always when I was at the Agendynwent with him to his sanctuary, if for no other pur pose than to prevent the uttered-impre 5 cation that served as Amen for the whole. The verse, whatever it was, came in be fore this.ol Tooq wat eid des bluow So the summer passedro The vague in tention of goingbon to the Red River of the North had faded away and Jacques lived along on the island as though he had never lived anywhere else. He grew wonted to the Agency, like some old family cat, until he seemed to belong to the Then my Emperor will ride well over my 15 house, and all thought of disturbing him, grave, was forgotten.75 There is Jacques out, washing his clothes'; There is Jacques: going to buy his coffee there is Jacques sitting on the piazza,saith the islanders 20 the old man served them insteads of sa clock. 1970 90105 svad I 2b997d-blad Mid sabers bright slashing and fighting, And I'll rise all weaponed up out of my mio grave, 926 For the Emperor, the Emperor fighting! vd rotthw bakod zam290 a 3997enne >This simple ballad went straight to the heart of old Jacques; tears rolled down his cheeks as I read, and he would have it over and over again. Ah! that comrade 25 was happy, he said. He died when the Emperor was only taken. I too would have gone to my grave smiling, could I have thought that my Emperor would come riding over it with all his army 30 around him again! But he is dead - my Emperor is dead! Ah! that comrade was a happy man; he died! He did not have to stand by while the English - may they be forever cursed! slowly, slowly mur- 35 dered him murdered the great Napo leon No that comrade died. Perhaps he is with the Emperor now that comrade grenadier.' One dark,autumin day Inicame overfrom the Chenaux to get the mail. The water was rough, and my boat, tiltedsfar over on one side, skimmed the crests of the waves in the daring fashion peculiar to the Mackinac craft the mail-steamer had not come in, dwing to the storm outside, and I went on to the Agency to see Jacques. He seemed as usual, and we had dinner over the little fire for the day was chilly; the meal over, my host pi everything in order again in his methodical way, and then retired to his sanctuary for prayers! I followed, and stood in/the doorway while he kneltor The room was dusky, and the uniform with its oute stretched saber looked like a Head soldier leaning against the wallithe face of Na 'To be with his Emperor was Jacques' 40 polcon opposite seemed to gaze down on idea of heaven. 3f?༼ From that moment each time I visited the Agency I must repeat the verses again and again; they became a sort of hymn. Jacques had not the capacity to learn the 45 ballad, although he so often listened to it, but the seventh verse he managed to repeat after a fashion of his own, setting it to a nondescript tune, and crooning it about the house as he came and went on 50 his little rounds. Gradually he altered the words, but I could not make out the new phrases as he muttered them over to himself, as if trying them. 'What is it you are saying, Jacques?' I asked. But he would not tell me. After a time I discovered that he had added the Jacques as he knelt, as though listening Jacques muttered his prayers and I res sponded Amen; then, after a silence, came the altered verse then, with arquick glance toward me, another silence, which I felt sure contained the unspoken curse: Gravely he led the way back to the kitchen for, owing to the cold, the als lowed me to dispense with the parlor→→→ and there we spent the afternoon together, talking, and watching for the mail-hoat "Jacques," said of what is thatbverse you have added to your prayers? Come. my friend, why should you keep it from me? 2 to roisain have eld "It is nothing, mon père - nothing" he replied. But again I urged him to tell me; more to pass away the time than og any real interest. I "Come," I said, "it may be your last chance, Who knows but that I may be, drowned on my way back to the Chenaux? ni nobbil hel - True, replied the old soldier calmly, Well, then, here it is, mon père: my death-wish, Voilà Knig eeshop. 5 1201 117952Something you wish to have done after death? dilw" e gomaidɔ stidų srit "Yes," anne, nuz sdfeqot doors And, who is to do it? My Emperor' plnil odi mort by day!! But, Jacques, the Emperor is dead." He will have it done all the same, mon père 9151) vllegit bus silino sale 15 In vain I argued; Jacques was calmly obstinate, He had mixed up his Emperor with the stories of the Saints; why should not Napoleon do what they had done? 6.66 was some expected letters. The steamer came in slowly, the mail distributed slowly, and I stopped to read my letters before returning. I had a picture-paper 5 for Jacques, and as I looked out across the straits, I saw that the storm was over; and decided to return to the: Chenaux in the afternoon, leaving word with my halfbreeds to have the sail-boat in readiness at three o'clock. The sun was throwing out a watery gleam as, after the lapse of an hour or two, I walked up the limestone road and entered the great gate of the Agency. As I came through the garden along the cherry-tree avenue, saw Jacques, sitting on that bench in the sun, for this was his hour for sunshine; his staff was in his hand, and he was leaning back against the side of the house with his eyes closed, as if in reverie. "Jacques, here is a picture-paper for you," I said, laying my hand on his shoulder. He did not answer. He was dead. "What is the verse, anyway?" I said 20 at last. "It is my death-wish, as I said before, mon père." And he repeated the following. He said it in French, for I had given him a French translation, as he 25 knew nothing of German; but I will give you the English, as he had altered it: The Emperor's face with its green leaf band Amen. 'So prays Grenadier Jacques. 'The old soldier had sacrificed the smooth metre; but I understood what he meant. A Alone, sitting in the sunshine, apparently without a struggle or a pang, the soul of the old soldier had departed. Whither? We know not. But smile if you will, Madame—I trust he is with his Emperor.' I did not smile; my eyes were too full of tears. I buried him as he wished,' continued Father Piret, in his old uniform, with the picture of Napoleon laid on his breast, 35 the saber by his side, and the withered sprig in his lifeless hand. He lies in our little cemetery on the height, near the shadow of the great cross; the low white board tablet at the head of the mound once bore the words "Grenadier Jacques," but the rains and the snows have washed away the painted letters. It is well.' The storm increased, and I spent the night at the Agency, lying on the bed of 40 boughs, covered with a a blanket. The house shook in the gale, the shutters rattled, and all the floors near and far creaked as though feet were walking over them. I was wakeful and restless, but 45 Jacques slept quietly, and did not stir till daylight broke over the stormy water, showing the ships scudding by under bare poles, and the distant mail-boat laboring up toward the island through the heavy 50 My host made his toilette, washing and shaving himself carefully, and putting on his old clothes as though going on parade. Then came breakfast, with a stew added in honor of my presence, and as 55 by this time the steamer was not far from Round Island. I started down towards the little post-office, anxious to receive sea. The priest paused, and we both looked toward the empty bench, as though we saw a figure seated there, staff in hand. After a time my little hostess came out on the piazza, and we all talked together of the island and its past. My boat is waiting,' said Father Piret at length; 'the wind is fair, and I must return to the Chenaux to-night. This near departure is my excuse for coming twice in one day to see you, Madame.' 'Stay over, my dear sir,' I urged. 'I too shall leave in another day. We may not meet again.' may,' answered the priest, rising as he spoke. A day later, and I too sailed away. As the steamer bore me southward, I looked back toward the island with a sigh. Half hidden in its wild green garden I 5 saw the old Agency; first I could distinguish its whole rambling length; then I lost the roofless piazza, then the dormer windows, and finally I could only discern the white chimneys, 'with their crumbling 10 crooked tops. The sun sank into the Strait off Waugoschance, the evening gun flashed from the little fort on the height, the shadows grew dark and darker, the island turned into green foliage, then a blue outline, and finally there was nothing but the dusky water. 'Father, your blessing,' said the little hostess in a low tone, after a quick glance toward the many windows through which the bulwarks of Protestantism might be gazing. But all was dark, both without and within, and the father gave his blessing to both of us, fervently, but with an apostolic simplicity. Then he left us, and I watched his tall form, crowned with silvery hair, as he passed down the he passed down the cherry-tree avenue. Later in the evening the moon came out, and I saw a Mackinac boat skimming by the house, its white 15 sails swelling full in the fresh breeze. That is Father Piret's boat,' said my hostess. The wind is fair; he will reach the Chenaux before midnight.' The Galaxy, December, 1874 SIDNEY LANIER (1842-1881) Of the younger group of Southern poets, those who began their work after 1870, the leader was Sidney Lanier, of Macon, Georgia. As with Timrod and Hayne, the current of his life was changed utterly by the outbreak of the war. He had been gently reared in a refined home amid books and literary conversation. His father, a lawyer, a man of the older classical culture, sent his son to Oglethorpe College, not far from his home, and saw him graduate at eighteen with a scholastic record that won for him an appointment as tutor in languages for the following year. There were dreams of German universities, of advanced courses, and a career as a scholar, but in April of his first year as a teacher there came to the little college the sudden call of war. Four years of soldiering followed, ending in capture by the enemy and four months in a Federal prison. Then in the spring of 1865, with permanently shattered health, the veteran of twenty-three went back to Georgia, to find poverty and desolation, his mother dying of consumption, and his own career almost hopeless. School teaching was his only resource. A brief period of this, and he broke down almost completely with the disease that had taken his mother. The remaining fifteen years of his life was a bitter fight with consumption, the odds completely against him. He spent a winter in Texas, and, falling in with a rare group of musicians, was made aware that he had a gift for music that amounted to genius. Later he was able to secure a position as flute-player in Thomas's orchestra, New York, and at length was called to Baltimore to take part in the Peabody Symphony concerts conducted by Hamerik. It is the testimony of musicians that Lanier was unquestionably the most inspired flute-player America has produced. Now it was that he began to turn again to poetry, the passion of his boyhood. The poem 'Corn' in Lippincott's attracted the attention of Bayard Taylor who gave him encouragement and secured for him the commission to write the Centennial cantata which made him a national figure. In 1877 he issued a volume of poems, and shortly afterwards was called to the faculty of Johns Hopkins University as a lecturer on literature. He was ready now to reap the rewards of his success, and began eagerly, excitedly, to pour out the message that was within him. But it was too late. The disease he had fought so long could no longer be denied; he died in the Southern pines at the age of thirty-nine. Although the greater part of Lanier's published work is in prose, it is as a poet that he will endure, if he is to endure, for we must say at the start that he was not a poet of the first rank. To turn the pages of his small collection is to be impressed with its fragmentariness and, in the case of much of it, its immaturity. His early handicaps, his constant ill health when merely to live required his best effort, and his impetuous, highly imaginative temperament all tended to make his output sporadic and excited. He was essentially an improvisatore, a maker of splendid fragments, of rhapsodic outbursts, of tip-toe glimpses.' In his best pieces like Sunrise' and 'The Marshes of Glynn,' and 'The Symphony' he attempted with considerable success to blend music and poetry in harmonious word symphonies. What he might have done had he lived we can only conjecture. We know that his last work was by far his best. His 'Sunrise' he wrote while literally on his death bed, with temperature at high fever rate, and his voice weakened to a whisper. Surely the silencing of a gift of music at such a pitch of melody and spiritual uplifting must be counted as one of the tragedies of our American literature. Some of his realistic pictures of Southern life in his early novel TigerLilies, made several years before the advent of Harte and his school, place him among the pioneers in what we realize now is an important area of American literature. CAIN SMALLIN Cain Smallin was the most indefatigable of scouts. He was always moving; the whole country-side knew him. His good-natured face and communicative habits procured for him a cordial welcome at every house in that quiet country, where as yet only the distant roar of the war had been heard, where all was still and sunny and lonesome, where the household talk was that of old men and women, of girls and children, whose sons and 5 brothers were all away in the midst of that dimly-heard roaring. In this serene land a soldier's face that had been in front of cannon and bullets was a thing to be looked at twice, and a soldier's talk |