There was not a single Saint in heaven

To whom they did not pray.

And the Choristers' song, which late was so strong, Faltered with consternation;

For the church did rock as an earthquake shock Uplifted its foundation.

And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast

That shall one day wake the dead;The strong church-door could bear no more, And the bolts and bars they fled;

And the tapers' light was extinguished quite;
And the Choristers faintly sung;

And the Priests, dismayed, panted and prayed,
And on all Saints in heaven for aid
They called with trembling tongue.

And in He came with eyes of flame,
The Devil, to fetch the dead;

And all the church with his presence glowed
Like a fiery furnace red.

He laid his hand on the iron chains,

And like flax they moldered asunder; And the coffin lid, which was barred so firm, He burst with his voice of thunder.

And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise,
And come with her Master away:

A cold sweat started on that cold corpse,
At the voice she was forced to obey.

She rose on her feet in her winding-sheet;
Her dead flesh quivered with fear;

And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave
Never did mortal hear.

She followed her Master to the church-door

There stood a black horse there;

His breath was red like furnace smoke,
His eyes like a meteor's glare.

The Devil he flung her on the horse,
And he leaped up before·

And away like the lightning's speed they went, And she was seen no more.

They saw her no more: but her cries

For four miles round they could hear; And children at rest at their mother's breast Started, and screamed with fear.

THE CURSE

From The Curse of Kehama'

I

CHARM thy life

From the weapons of strife,
From stone and from wood,
From fire and from flood,

From the serpent's tooth,
And the beasts of blood;
From Sickness I charm thee,
And Time shall not harm thee:
But Earth, which is mine,
Its fruits shall deny thee;
And Water shall hear me,

And know thee and fly thee;
And the Winds shall not touch thee

When they pass by thee,

And the Dews shall not wet thee

When they fall nigh thee:
And thou shalt seek Death
To release thee, in vain;
Thou shalt live in thy pain,
While Kehama shall reign,

With a fire in thy heart,
And a fire in thy brain;
And Sleep shall obey me,
And visit thee never,

And the Curse shall be on thee

Forever and ever.

ÉMILE SOUVESTRE

(1806-1854)

N 1854, the year of Émile Souvestre's death in Paris, the French Academy awarded to his widow the Lambert prize,- a testimonial to the memory of the most useful writer. The principal work to win him this distinction-'Le Philosophe sous les Toits,' was not a piece of brilliant creation, not a learned treatise, but a sweet-spirited little volume of reflections upon daily life. Upon its appearance in 1851 the Academy crowned it; and in translation, 'The Attic Philosopher' has long been esteemed by English readers. The philosopher was Souvestre himself, who knew poverty and hard work all his life; and accepting both with contagious courage and cheerfulness, advised his readers to make the best of whatever came.

He tested this philosophy. Born at Morlaix in Finisterre in 1806, he passed his childhood and youth there; and grew intimately familiar with Breton life and scenery. Next he studied law at Rennes, where he tried unsuccessfully to practice. He was about twenty-four when he went to Paris, hoping to make his way in literature. It has been said that in Paris every would-be author is forced to discover his own value; and after a stay there, many retire in sad self-knowledge. Souvestre was stimulated by the richer intellectual life. His individuality was too strong to be submerged. He remained a thorough Breton, distance giving him a more definite appreciation of his early home.

The sudden death of his brother, a sea captain, made him the only support of his family; and he was obliged to return to Brittany, where he became clerk in a large publishing-house at Nantes. During the next uncertain years he wrote short articles for local journals. For a time he was associated with a M. Papot in the management of a school. He then became editor of a Brest newspaper. In 1835 he returned to Paris, where his Breton tales soon made him a name. During his comparatively short life of forty-eight years he wrote more than forty books, comprising plays, short stories, and historical works.

Like his great compatriot, the early realist Le Sage, one of Souvestre's primary qualities was clear common-sense. Usual, universal sentiments appealed to him more than romantic eccentricities. Like another great Breton, Ernest Renan, he was deeply occupied with the

question of religion. His stories, most of which reflect Breton life, are often true tales told him by the peasants; and all have the qualities of reality and religious feeling.

His greatest work, 'Les Derniers Bretons,' was an exposition of Breton life, with all its traditions, sentiments, and modes of thought and action. He felt that many tales traditionary among the poor were in danger of being lost; and he hated to see them die from the people's memory. He felt too that this folk-lore was of historical value as a spontaneous revelation of a mental and moral attitude. As he points out, the Eastern fairy tale, full of gorgeous color and material delight, has little in common with the Breton tales, with their curious mingling of shrewdness and sentiment, their positive concern over and belief in the reward of virtue and retribution of sin. Both compositions reflect their authors. In his 'Le Foyer Breton,' a collection of folk-lore tales, - he preserved as far as possible the traditional form of expression. They are full of local saws and allusions; many are genuine fairy tales, in which kindly and practical fairies, by removing a series of obstacles, render young lovers happy. Others evince a true Breton delight in the weird and grotesque, and narrate the horrible fate of those who brave evil spirits in accursed spots at midnight.

THE WASHERWOMEN OF NIGHT

From 'Le Foyer Breton'

HE Bretons are children of transgression like the rest, but they love their dead; they pity those who burn in Purga

tory, and try to ransom them from the fire of probation. Every Sunday after mass, they pray for their souls on the spot where their poor bodies perished.

It is especially in the black month [November] that they perform this Christian act. When the forerunner of winter comes [All-Saints' Day], every one thinks of those who have gone to the judgment of God. They have masses said at the altar of the dead, they light candles to them, they confide them to the best saints, they take the little children to their tombs; and after vespers, the rector comes out of church to bless their graves.

It is also upon this night that Christ grants some solace to the dead, and permits them to revisit the homes in which they lived. There are then as many dead in the houses of the living

as there are yellow leaves in the rough roads. Therefore true Christians leave the table-cloth spread and the fire lighted, that the dead may take their meals, and warm the limbs stiffened by the cold of cemeteries.

But if there are true adorers of the Virgin and her Son, there are also the children of the Black Angel [the Devil], who forget those who have been nearest their hearts. Wilherm Postik was one of the latter. His father had quitted life without having received absolution; and as the proverb says, "Kadion is always the son of his father." Therefore he cared only for forbidden pleasures, danced during church-time when he could, and drank during mass with beggarly horse-jockeys. Yet God had not failed to send him warnings. In one year he had seen an ill wind strike his mother, his sisters, and his wife; but he had consoled himself for their deaths by inheriting their property.

The rector vainly warned him in sermon, that he was a subject of scandal to all the parish. Far from correcting Wilherm, this public advice had only the result of making him give up church, as might easily have been foreseen; for it is not by snapping the whip one brings back a runaway horse. So he set about living more as he chose than ever,- as faithless and lawless as a fox in the brush.

Now it happened in that time that the fine days came to an end, and the feast of the dead arrived. All baptized folk put on their mourning-garments, and went to church to pray for the dead; but Wilherm dressed himself in his best, and took the road to the neighboring town.

All the time the others spent in relieving souls in pain, he passed there drinking brandy with the sailors, and singing verses composed by the millers [i. e., coarse songs]. He did this until nearly midnight; and did not think of returning until the others grew weary of wrong-doing. He had an iron constitution for pleasure; and he left the inn the last one, as steady and active as when he had entered.

But his heart was hot with drink. He sang aloud along the road, songs which usually even the boldest would only whisper; he passed the crucifixes without lowering his voice or lifting his hat; and he struck the thickets of broom with his stick right and left, without fear of wounding the souls which fill the ways upon that day.