Partingtonian patchwork Blifkins the martyr : the domestic trials of a model husband. The modern syntax : Dr. Spooner's experiences in search of the delectable. Partington papers : strippings of the warm milk of human kindness. New and old dips from an unambitious inkstand. Humorous, eccentric, rhythmical |
 |
|
 |
| LES MISERABLES.
|
|
 | Partingtonian patchwork |  |
LES MISERABLES.
A LONG WAY AFTER VICTOR HUGO.
I.
JEAN VALJEAN.
Jean Valjean
A convict had been—
For nineteen years no freedom had known.
When from Toulon released,
He was feared as a beast,
And hooted and hounded from country to town.
The fourth day, near
To Pontarlier,
The place of his destination,
He was hungered and sore,
But men shut their door,
Nor pitied his desolation.
Even the dogs their kennels refused
To one so vile from bondage loosed,
Till, by men and dogs alike abused,
He grew savage with desperation.
He swore to himself a bitter prayer,
As he passed on through Cathedral Square,
And shook his fist at the temple there,
As though he thought the church might care;
But it frowned in the dark with a frigid air,
Nor heeded his demonstration.
With failing strength
He fell, at length,
By a very strange fatality,
At a printer's door,
The whole world o'er
The biding-place, on every shore,
Of wisdom and morality.
A convict had been—
For nineteen years no freedom had known.
When from Toulon released,
He was feared as a beast,
And hooted and hounded from country to town.
The fourth day, near
To Pontarlier,
The place of his destination,
He was hungered and sore,
But men shut their door,
Nor pitied his desolation.
Even the dogs their kennels refused
To one so vile from bondage loosed,
Till, by men and dogs alike abused,
He grew savage with desperation.
178
As he passed on through Cathedral Square,
And shook his fist at the temple there,
As though he thought the church might care;
But it frowned in the dark with a frigid air,
Nor heeded his demonstration.
With failing strength
He fell, at length,
By a very strange fatality,
At a printer's door,
The whole world o'er
The biding-place, on every shore,
Of wisdom and morality.
Not a single crumb had he to eat—
He couldn't buy of bread or meat,
For the shops were shut along the street,
And he fain would sleep,
In its silence deep,
Forgetting his stinted rations;
When a woman,—'tis always thus, I think,
That, just as we're going to take a wink,
And our eyelids peacefully 'gin to sink,
The woman makes our tempers kink
With sharp interrogations,—
A woman saw his sorry plight,
Asleep in the street on a stone by night,
A singular couch for one not tight;
So she spoke to him as a Christian might,
And then he surlily told her
That he was a soldier in distress—
A claim that always its way must press;
We every day its power confess,
And do our best to aid and bless,
And never turn cold shoulder.
She heard and pitied the worthless scamp.
He swore he hadn't a postage stamp,
Had sought each door on a bootless tramp.
She said he mustn't lie in the damp,
A victim of Fortune's malice,
But gave him two-pence, and bade him go
To a house a block along or so,
Next door to the Bishop's palace.
He couldn't buy of bread or meat,
For the shops were shut along the street,
And he fain would sleep,
In its silence deep,
Forgetting his stinted rations;
When a woman,—'tis always thus, I think,
That, just as we're going to take a wink,
And our eyelids peacefully 'gin to sink,
The woman makes our tempers kink
With sharp interrogations,—
A woman saw his sorry plight,
Asleep in the street on a stone by night,
A singular couch for one not tight;
So she spoke to him as a Christian might,
And then he surlily told her
That he was a soldier in distress—
A claim that always its way must press;
We every day its power confess,
And do our best to aid and bless,
And never turn cold shoulder.
179
He swore he hadn't a postage stamp,
Had sought each door on a bootless tramp.
She said he mustn't lie in the damp,
A victim of Fortune's malice,
But gave him two-pence, and bade him go
To a house a block along or so,
Next door to the Bishop's palace.
Now the Bishop was of men the best,
In whom the country round was blest;
A model man, whose every thought
With good of his fellow-men was fraught.
His soul reflected the beaming love
That streams direct from the throne above;
His constant wish to do for others,
And held the good and bad as brothers;
He acted without regard of self—
Gave up all thought of rank or pelf,
And did his Master's duty;
The poor and needy ones he fed,
The languid and the erring led,
The strong upon their way were sped,
The hearts were soothed that joy had fled,
And his tears upon the sorrowing shed
Sprang up in shapes of beauty.
In whom the country round was blest;
A model man, whose every thought
With good of his fellow-men was fraught.
His soul reflected the beaming love
That streams direct from the throne above;
His constant wish to do for others,
And held the good and bad as brothers;
He acted without regard of self—
Gave up all thought of rank or pelf,
And did his Master's duty;
The poor and needy ones he fed,
The languid and the erring led,
The strong upon their way were sped,
The hearts were soothed that joy had fled,
And his tears upon the sorrowing shed
Sprang up in shapes of beauty.
With the insolent airs of a surly boor,
The loafer opened the Bishop's door;
I dare say left his mud on the floor,
To the great disgust of Madame Magloire,
Leaned on his stick the priest before,
And told him all his story:
Jean Valjean was the name he gave,
For nineteen years a galley slave;
The while he'd managed a trifle to save,
Was able to pay for what he might crave,
Wherein he seemed to glory.
The Bishop turned to Madame Magloire,
Who had placed for three at table before,
And bade her provide for one guest more;
At which Jean was astonished.
He read to them his yellow pass,
A record of fearful crime, alas!
Of all he had done the world to harass—
A hopeless case for prayer or mass;
He asked for bread and a bed of grass,
Nor longer hoped with men to class;
But vain was the Bishop admonished.
Without opening to Jean his head
He bade Magloire put sheets on the bed
In the alcove—then to the convict said,
Sit down, sir, by the fire.
The man, surprised and wild to hear
A word of human love and cheer,
Felt, as might be supposed, quite queer,
And odd enough in his way did appear,
But complied with the Bishop's desire.
The loafer opened the Bishop's door;
I dare say left his mud on the floor,
To the great disgust of Madame Magloire,
Leaned on his stick the priest before,
And told him all his story:
Jean Valjean was the name he gave,
180
The while he'd managed a trifle to save,
Was able to pay for what he might crave,
Wherein he seemed to glory.
The Bishop turned to Madame Magloire,
Who had placed for three at table before,
And bade her provide for one guest more;
At which Jean was astonished.
He read to them his yellow pass,
A record of fearful crime, alas!
Of all he had done the world to harass—
A hopeless case for prayer or mass;
He asked for bread and a bed of grass,
Nor longer hoped with men to class;
But vain was the Bishop admonished.
Without opening to Jean his head
He bade Magloire put sheets on the bed
In the alcove—then to the convict said,
Sit down, sir, by the fire.
The man, surprised and wild to hear
A word of human love and cheer,
Felt, as might be supposed, quite queer,
And odd enough in his way did appear,
But complied with the Bishop's desire.
The table was set,
And round it all met,
Jean Valjean on the Bishop's right.
The silver forks and spoons of state
Were put in honor beside each plate,
When the Bishop complained of the light.
“The silver candlesticks!” he cried.
'Twas a matter with him of a little pride
To have them lit with a guest by his side;
And Madame Magloire,
As she'd done before,
Obeyed him she'd never in thought denied.
And round it all met,
Jean Valjean on the Bishop's right.
The silver forks and spoons of state
Were put in honor beside each plate,
When the Bishop complained of the light.
“The silver candlesticks!” he cried.
'Twas a matter with him of a little pride
To have them lit with a guest by his side;
181
As she'd done before,
Obeyed him she'd never in thought denied.
'Twas a goodly feast you may be bound;
Magloire a bottle of wine had found,
And care in a little while was drowned,
And the convict was in a bother.
Again he told the Bishop his name;
But the Bishop said it was all the same,
He felt his sorrow and his shame,
He knew his title ere he came,
And that he told him was “Brother.”
Magloire a bottle of wine had found,
And care in a little while was drowned,
And the convict was in a bother.
Again he told the Bishop his name;
But the Bishop said it was all the same,
He felt his sorrow and his shame,
He knew his title ere he came,
And that he told him was “Brother.”
Then Jean Valjean went to bed;
But wicked thoughts spun through his head,
The good, and pure, and holy instead.
At midnight he arose from sleep,
And round the house like a cat did creep,
Doing such perfidious works—
Stealing the spoons and stealing the forks,
Then leaped the window and garden gate,
And left the Bishop minus his plate!
A wicked wretch, but such must be
From taking felons and like to tea!
So thought Madame Magloire
And many more,
But the Bishop smiled more glad than before.
They had taken his forks, but he said 'twas as good
To use spoons and forks that were made of wood.
But wicked thoughts spun through his head,
The good, and pure, and holy instead.
At midnight he arose from sleep,
And round the house like a cat did creep,
Doing such perfidious works—
Stealing the spoons and stealing the forks,
Then leaped the window and garden gate,
And left the Bishop minus his plate!
A wicked wretch, but such must be
From taking felons and like to tea!
So thought Madame Magloire
And many more,
But the Bishop smiled more glad than before.
They had taken his forks, but he said 'twas as good
To use spoons and forks that were made of wood.
Jean Valjean was speedily caught
And into the Bishop's presence brought
By three gensdarmes—they had him, they thought;
But the Bishop pretended he'd given the plate,
And told him he needn't have leaped the gate,
And wondered by what strange absence of mind
He'd left his candlesticks behind.
Jean Valjean here opened his eyes
In a wild and undisguised surprise.
And into the Bishop's presence brought
By three gensdarmes—they had him, they thought;
182
And told him he needn't have leaped the gate,
And wondered by what strange absence of mind
He'd left his candlesticks behind.
Jean Valjean here opened his eyes
In a wild and undisguised surprise.
Then the Bishop spoke. “My brother,” said he,
“You're no more for evil, but good, you see.
I've bought your soul of you, and withdraw
It from the imp of perdition's claw,
To lift it from the ills of the sod,
And give it to the keeping of God.”
“You're no more for evil, but good, you see.
I've bought your soul of you, and withdraw
It from the imp of perdition's claw,
To lift it from the ills of the sod,
And give it to the keeping of God.”
A strange, strange trade,
As ever was made;
But, reader, if you'd find the key
To open up this mystery,
I'd say, do go
To Lee and Shepard's, or where you please,
And hire or borrow, and read at your ease,
The book by Victor Hugo.
As ever was made;
But, reader, if you'd find the key
To open up this mystery,
I'd say, do go
To Lee and Shepard's, or where you please,
And hire or borrow, and read at your ease,
The book by Victor Hugo.
II.
FANTINE.
Ne'er did monarch array his queen
Richer than Hugo did Fantine,
With pearls of gold
More manifold
Than she of Egypt wore of old—
More regal than those of the “Queen of the South,”
The gold on her head, the pearls in her mouth.
O, she was fair as nymph or fay,
And she was sweet as flowers in May,
And she was as lithe as a breeze at play,
And she was as mild as a summer day.
She was all alone—
No parents had known,
A waif on the world for charity thrown;
A sad, sad doom,
For beauty and bloom—
Immortal seed on a soil of stone;
The fruit of love's unhallowed chrism,
Denied the right of blest baptism,
Left to shame and human blame,
That follows the fallen like breath of flame,
Called Fantine
By herself—Fantine—
Simply because it was her name.
She knew none else; 'twas at her cast,
Like a bone to a dog, by a beggar who passed—
'Twas Fantine only, first and last.
Richer than Hugo did Fantine,
With pearls of gold
More manifold
Than she of Egypt wore of old—
183
The gold on her head, the pearls in her mouth.
O, she was fair as nymph or fay,
And she was sweet as flowers in May,
And she was as lithe as a breeze at play,
And she was as mild as a summer day.
She was all alone—
No parents had known,
A waif on the world for charity thrown;
A sad, sad doom,
For beauty and bloom—
Immortal seed on a soil of stone;
The fruit of love's unhallowed chrism,
Denied the right of blest baptism,
Left to shame and human blame,
That follows the fallen like breath of flame,
Called Fantine
By herself—Fantine—
Simply because it was her name.
She knew none else; 'twas at her cast,
Like a bone to a dog, by a beggar who passed—
'Twas Fantine only, first and last.
And Fantine loved;
Her heart was moved
With a love more ardent than approved;
But still it was a love as true,
As e'er in human bosom grew,
Fed by Hymen's sacred dew,
And blest in sacerdotal view;
For love is the same in poor and rich,
Working them up to the self-same pitch,
And don't distinguish “t'other from which.”
She loved, with all her little powers
—Hungry love that the heart devours—
A man of wit and ready tin,
But soiled by the world and touch of sin,
With carious teeth and a wrinkled skin,
And bad digestion—how could he win?
His eyes were watery, too, and dim,
But she saw no blemish at all in him:
So true to him
She flew to him,
And stuck like Hilton's glue to him!
But he, the churl, I'm sorry to say,
Didn't love her in that same way.
His was a passion—a baleful flame,
That kindles in fervor and ends in shame;
A blaze that burns with a lurid light,
Then leaves a darkness, as black as night,
Of broken heart and spirit blight;
And poor Fantine,
With anguish keen,
Felt cold desertion's direst harms:
Her first love flown—
Alone—alone—
Bearing her woe in heart—and arms.
Her heart was moved
With a love more ardent than approved;
But still it was a love as true,
As e'er in human bosom grew,
Fed by Hymen's sacred dew,
And blest in sacerdotal view;
For love is the same in poor and rich,
Working them up to the self-same pitch,
And don't distinguish “t'other from which.”
She loved, with all her little powers
184
A man of wit and ready tin,
But soiled by the world and touch of sin,
With carious teeth and a wrinkled skin,
And bad digestion—how could he win?
His eyes were watery, too, and dim,
But she saw no blemish at all in him:
So true to him
She flew to him,
And stuck like Hilton's glue to him!
But he, the churl, I'm sorry to say,
Didn't love her in that same way.
His was a passion—a baleful flame,
That kindles in fervor and ends in shame;
A blaze that burns with a lurid light,
Then leaves a darkness, as black as night,
Of broken heart and spirit blight;
And poor Fantine,
With anguish keen,
Felt cold desertion's direst harms:
Her first love flown—
Alone—alone—
Bearing her woe in heart—and arms.
In heaven above or earth below
A purer love none e'er may know,
Than in the mother's breast doth glow;
Irrespective of sin or shame,
Glorying still in the mother's name,
Nature asserting its holy claim,
In fortune's light,
In poverty's blight,
In sorrow's night,
It burns forever and burns the same;
And sweet Fantine
Loved her poor wean
As 'twere a child of loftier fame.
A purer love none e'er may know,
Than in the mother's breast doth glow;
Irrespective of sin or shame,
Glorying still in the mother's name,
Nature asserting its holy claim,
In fortune's light,
In poverty's blight,
In sorrow's night,
It burns forever and burns the same;
185
Loved her poor wean
As 'twere a child of loftier fame.
On a dusty day
O'er a public way
Was Fantine and her child astray,
Weary and sad, and most forlorn,
Bound for the town where she was born,
Hoping an honest living to win,
Outside the vortex of deadly sin,
When she arrived at a wayside inn.
'Twas a queer, old nook,
With forbidding look;
But there before it, in a swing,
Two children, bright as flowers in spring,
Rocked to and fro,
While, soft and low,
The mother a gentle air did sing;
And Fantine felt
Her motherly heart within her melt,
As she looked upon the beautiful thing.
The mothers, with a motherly pride,
Put their children side by side,
And poor Fantine,
As she viewed the scene,
Thought of her fatherless babe, and cried.
“What will Mrs. Grundy say?”
She said to herself, in a tearful way;
For she dreaded the folk of M. sur M.,
And dreaded the lies she must tell to them.
So she gave up all of her little hoard,
And a promise of more than she could afford,
In payment for the baby's board;
Then with a heart of grief and pain,
And falling tears, like summer rain,
With empty pocket and giddy brain,
She wandered forth on her walk again,
Leaving her babe, without a fear,
With Mr. and Mrs. Thernardier,
By prudent folk considered queer,
Because Fantine
Must surely have seen
They didn't respectable appear.
O'er a public way
Was Fantine and her child astray,
Weary and sad, and most forlorn,
Bound for the town where she was born,
Hoping an honest living to win,
Outside the vortex of deadly sin,
When she arrived at a wayside inn.
'Twas a queer, old nook,
With forbidding look;
But there before it, in a swing,
Two children, bright as flowers in spring,
Rocked to and fro,
While, soft and low,
The mother a gentle air did sing;
And Fantine felt
Her motherly heart within her melt,
As she looked upon the beautiful thing.
The mothers, with a motherly pride,
Put their children side by side,
And poor Fantine,
As she viewed the scene,
Thought of her fatherless babe, and cried.
“What will Mrs. Grundy say?”
She said to herself, in a tearful way;
For she dreaded the folk of M. sur M.,
And dreaded the lies she must tell to them.
So she gave up all of her little hoard,
And a promise of more than she could afford,
In payment for the baby's board;
186
And falling tears, like summer rain,
With empty pocket and giddy brain,
She wandered forth on her walk again,
Leaving her babe, without a fear,
With Mr. and Mrs. Thernardier,
By prudent folk considered queer,
Because Fantine
Must surely have seen
They didn't respectable appear.
M. Madeleine
Had made great gain
By a patent he had chanced obtain;
Godsend to those of M. sur M.,
An El Dorado 'twas to them.
The little place
Grew up apace,
Under his grave and watchful care,
And industry grew,
And virtue, too,
And Fantine found employment there.
Her toil beguiled
By thought of her child,
That there in the distance lived and smiled.
But she kept her story within her breast,
And none her weighty secret guessed.
But gossips were round,—
They always abound,
Like canker worms, to curse the ground,
As clearly, in a moral way,
As the worms the farmer's hope to-day,
Filling his heart with dire dismay,—
Gossips who saw her proper life,
Who knew not were she maid or wife,
And whispered this and whispered that,
In hours of sly, malicious chat,
Until, alas for poor Fantine!
One came among them—her child had seen!
And then the rout,
The virtuous shout,
To think that she had been found out!
Then were the arrows of hatred hurled,
And poor Fantine was thrown on the world.
Alas for her,
Sweet sufferer!
No friends to call on, far or near;
And how could she pay Thernardier?
He was pressing her for his pay,
Said the child was pining away,
Driving her crazed with fears each day;
Besides, her landlord wanted his rent,
But she had expended her last red cent;
Had even sold
The precious gold
That covered her head to raise the dimes,
And the bright pearls, too,
In her mouth that grew,
But not at premium of later times.
Had made great gain
By a patent he had chanced obtain;
Godsend to those of M. sur M.,
An El Dorado 'twas to them.
The little place
Grew up apace,
Under his grave and watchful care,
And industry grew,
And virtue, too,
And Fantine found employment there.
Her toil beguiled
By thought of her child,
That there in the distance lived and smiled.
But she kept her story within her breast,
And none her weighty secret guessed.
But gossips were round,—
They always abound,
Like canker worms, to curse the ground,
As clearly, in a moral way,
As the worms the farmer's hope to-day,
Filling his heart with dire dismay,—
Gossips who saw her proper life,
187
And whispered this and whispered that,
In hours of sly, malicious chat,
Until, alas for poor Fantine!
One came among them—her child had seen!
And then the rout,
The virtuous shout,
To think that she had been found out!
Then were the arrows of hatred hurled,
And poor Fantine was thrown on the world.
Alas for her,
Sweet sufferer!
No friends to call on, far or near;
And how could she pay Thernardier?
He was pressing her for his pay,
Said the child was pining away,
Driving her crazed with fears each day;
Besides, her landlord wanted his rent,
But she had expended her last red cent;
Had even sold
The precious gold
That covered her head to raise the dimes,
And the bright pearls, too,
In her mouth that grew,
But not at premium of later times.
Dante mentions the rapid pace,
And the easy trip to a certain place,
When mortals fall from a state of grace;
'Twas certainly thus in Fantine's case.
It makes the heart of the virtuous bleed
The record of her shame to read—
Till she fell in the hands of the hard Javert,
And was brought before his honor the mayor,
Whose face she spat in then and there!
But no angry glow
Did his honor show,
Who told Javert to let her go.
Then she, astounded, heard him tell
That he was one who wished her well;
Hadn't known she had left his mill;
That 'twas others who had dealt her ill;
Then had her conveyed,
For hospital aid,
Where the Sisters their heavenly mission fill,
Promising bliss in store for her yet
In union sweet with her little Cosette.
And the easy trip to a certain place,
When mortals fall from a state of grace;
'Twas certainly thus in Fantine's case.
It makes the heart of the virtuous bleed
The record of her shame to read—
Till she fell in the hands of the hard Javert,
And was brought before his honor the mayor,
188
But no angry glow
Did his honor show,
Who told Javert to let her go.
Then she, astounded, heard him tell
That he was one who wished her well;
Hadn't known she had left his mill;
That 'twas others who had dealt her ill;
Then had her conveyed,
For hospital aid,
Where the Sisters their heavenly mission fill,
Promising bliss in store for her yet
In union sweet with her little Cosette.
Sad, ah, sad was the closing scene
Of the little life of poor Fantine.
Crushed, and broken, and poor, and ill,
She saw her measure of sorrow fill;
Her hope deferred, till her wasted breath
Became as one with the airs of death,
Then sunk to rest, and never met
The fond embrace of her dear Cosette.
Her last shocked gaze, with her closing gasp,
Showing Jean Valjean,
Her Madeleine,
Held like a vise in Javert's grasp.
Of the little life of poor Fantine.
Crushed, and broken, and poor, and ill,
She saw her measure of sorrow fill;
Her hope deferred, till her wasted breath
Became as one with the airs of death,
Then sunk to rest, and never met
The fond embrace of her dear Cosette.
Her last shocked gaze, with her closing gasp,
Showing Jean Valjean,
Her Madeleine,
Held like a vise in Javert's grasp.
| Partingtonian patchwork | |