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 |
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JEAN VALJEAN. |
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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;
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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;
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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.
| Partingtonian patchwork | |