THAT Hearn was a true poet none will deny, but it was one of the
frequent seeming illogicalities of his character that he had no love of
metric or rhymed poetry. I doubt if there is a single volume of such
poetry in his library, and I never heard him repeat a line or stanza,
and never knew him to read a page of what is called poetry. I suspect
the simple reason was that his necessities compelled him rigidly to
exclude everything from his world of thought which did not offer
materials for the remunerating public. He had to make a living, and
whence tomorrow's income should come was always a vital concern. Poetry
of the metric and rhymed sort does not make bread and butter; hence
there was no time to consider even the possibility of "cultivating the
muses on a little oatmeal."
Of poetry he once wrote:--"The mere ideas and melody of a poem seem to
me of small moment unless the complex laws of versification be strictly
obeyed." The dictum, considering its source, is exquisitely ludicrous;
for Hearn poetry could not be coined into dollars, even if he had had
the mind and heart to learn anything of "the complex laws of
versification." Elsewhere he excused his manifest utter ignorance of
poetry and want of poetic appreciation by saying that there is so little
really good poetry that it is easy to choose. He confessed his
detestation of Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats, preferring Dobson,
Watson, and Lang. "Of Wordsworth--well, I should smile!" "Refined
poetry" he held of little or no value, but he found the "vulgar" songs
of coolies, fishermen, etc., very true and beautiful poetry. He vainly
tried to translate some of Gautier's poems. He attempted original
verse-making but a few times, and from my scrap-book I reproduce one of
the results, kindly furnished me by Mr. Alexander Hill, of Cincinnati,
to whom it was given by Mr. Tunison. Perhaps it was printed in _Forest
and Stream_.
A CREOLE BOAT SONG
Hot shines the sun o'er the quivering land,
No wind comes up from the sea,
Silent and stark the pine woods stand,
And the mock-bird sleeps in the Mayhaw tree,
Where, overhung with brier and vine,
The placid waters slip and shine
And dimple to thy lover's view--
La belle riviere de Calcasieu.
Under the bending cypress trees,
Bedecked with pendulous cool grey moss
That woos in vain the recreant breeze
And silently mourns its loss.
With drowsy eye, in my little boat
I dreamily lie, and lazily float
Lulled by the thrush's soft Te-rue--
On La belle riviere de Calcasieu.
A heron stands, like a ghost in grey,
Knee-deep 'mongst the bending water lilies,
And yellow butterflies lightly play
'Midst the blooms of fragrant amaryllis;
The swift kingfisher winds his reel,
Saying his grace for his noonday meal,
And a hawk soars up to the welkin blue
O'er La belle riviere de Calcasieu.
Across the point, where the ferry plies,
I hear the click of the boatman's oar,
And his Creole song, with its quavering rise
Re-echoes soft from shore to shore;
And this is the rhyme that he idly sings
As his boat at anchor lazily swings,
For the day is hot, and passers few
On La belle riviere de Calcasieu.
"I ain't got time for make merry, me
I ain't got time for make merry;
My lill' gall waitin' at de River of Death
To meet her ole dad at de ferry.
She gwine be dere wid de smile on her face,
Like the night she died, when all de place
Was lit by the moonbeams shiverin' troo
La belle riviere de Calcasieu.
"O sing dat song! O sing dat song!
I ain't got time for make merry!
De angel come 'fore berry long,
And carr' me o'er de ferry!
He come wid de whirlwind in de night--
He come wid de streak of de morning light--
He find me ready--yass, dass true--
By La belle riviere de Calcasieu.
"Den who got time for make merry, eh?
Den who got time for make merry?
De fire burn up de light 'ood tree,
De bird eat up de berry.
Long time ago I make Voudoo,
An' I dance Calinda strong and true,
But de Lord he pierce me troo and troo
On La belle riviere de Calcasieu."
In the Watkin letters, Hearn transcribes a poem of six stanzas written
by himself for the decoration of the soldiers' graves at Chalmette
Cemetery in 1878.
Far more successful, for obvious reasons, was an attempt at echoing a
bit of Eastern fancy. A strange, gruesome, Oriental being had caught his
eye at New Orleans, who translated for him some characteristic Eastern
verses. Hearn thus rendered them in English:[16]
[16] From Hearn's manuscript copy through the kindness again of
Mr. Tunison and Mr. Hill.
THE RUSE
From _Amaron Satacum_
Late at night the lover returns unlooked-for,
Full of longing, after that cruel absence;--
Finds his darling by her women surrounded;
Enters among them:--
Only sees his beautiful one, his idol,
Speaks no word, but watches her face in silence,
Looks with eyes of thirst and with lips of fever
Burning for kisses.
Late it is; and, nevertheless, the women,
Still remaining, weary his ears with laughter,
Prattling folly, tantalizing his longing--
Teasing his patience.
Love weaves ruse in answer to gaze beseeching;--
Shrill she screams: "O heaven!--What insect stings so!"
And with sudden waft of her robe outshaken,
Blows the vile light out.
I find the following verses in his scrap-book of the New Orleans
period:[17]
[17] Dated July 11, 1885.
THE MUMMY
(After the French of Louis Bouilhet)
Startled,--as by some far faint din
Of azure-lighted worlds, from sleep,
The Mummy, trembling, wakes within
The hypogeum's blackest deep,--
And murmurs low, with slow sad voice:
"Oh! to be dead and still endure!--
Well may the quivering flesh rejoice
That feels the vulture's gripe impure!
"Seeking to enter this night of death,
Each element knocks at my granite door:--
'We are Earth and Fire and Air,--the breath
Of Winds,--the Spirits of sea and shore.
"'Into the azure, out of the gloom,
Rise!--let thine atoms in light disperse!--
Blend with the date-palm's emerald plume!--
Scatter thyself through the universe!
"'We shall bear thee far over waste and wold:
Thou shalt be lulled to joyous sleep
By leaves that whisper in light of gold,
By murmur of fountains cool and deep.
"'Come!--perchance from thy dungeon dark
Infinite Nature may wish to gain
For the godlike Sun another spark,
Another drop for the diamond rain.'
* * * * *
"Woe! mine is death eternal! ... and
I feel Them come, as I lie alone,--
The Centuries, heavy as drifted sand
Heaping above my bed of stone!
"O be accursed, ye impious race!--
Caging the creature that seeks to soar;
Preserving agony's weird grimace,
In hideous vanity, evermore!"
* * * * *
Aux bruits lointains ouvrant l'oreille,
Jalouse encor du ciel d'azur,
La momie en tremblant s'eveille
Au fond de l'hypogee obscur.
Oh, dit-elle, de sa voix lente,
Etre mort, et durer toujours.
Heureuse la chaire pantelante
Sous l'ongle courbe des vautours.
Pour plonger dans ma nuit profonde
Chaque element frappe en ce lieu.
--Nous sommes L'air! nous sommes l'onde!
Nous sommes la terre et le feu!
Viens avec nous, le steppe aride
Veut son panache d'arbres verts,
Viens sous l'azur du ciel splendide,
T'eparpiller dans l'univers.
Nous t'emporterons par les plaines
Nous te bercerons a la fois
Dans le murmure des fontaines
Et la bruissement des bois.
Viens. La nature universelle
Cherche peut-etre en ce tombeau
Pour de soleil une etincelle!
Pour la mer une goutte d'eau!
* * * * *
Et dans ma tombe imperissable
Je sens venir avec affroi
Les siecles lourds comme du sable
Qui s'amoncelle autour de moi.
Ah! sois maudite, race impie,
Qui le l'etre arretant l'essor
Gardes ta laideur assoupie
Dans la vanite de la mort.
In one of Hearn's letters to the Cincinnati _Commercial_, written soon
after his arrival in New Orleans, he writes:
Here is a specimen closely akin to the Creole of the
Antilles. It is said to be an old negro love-song, and I
think there is a peculiar weird beauty in several of its
stanzas. I feel much inclined to doubt whether it was
composed by a negro, but the question of its authorship
cannot affect its value as a curiosity, and, in any case,
its spirit is thoroughly African. Unfortunately, without
accented letters it is impossible to convey any idea of the
melody, the liquid softness, the languor, of some of the
couplets. My translation is a little free in parts.
I
Dipi me vouer toue, Adele,
Ape danse calinda,
Mo reste pour toue fidele,
Liberte a moin caba.
Mo pas soussi d'autt negresses,
Mo pas gagnin coeur pour yo;
Yo gagnin beaucoup finesses;
Yo semble serpent Congo.
II
Mo aime toue trop, ma belle,
Mo pas capab resiste;
Coeur a moin tout comme sauterelle,
Li fait ne qu'appe saute.
Mo jamin contre gnoun femme
Qui gagnin belle taille comme toue;
Jie a ton jete la flamme;
Corps a toue enchene moue.
III
To tant comme serpent sonnette
Qui connin charme zozo,
Qui gagnin bouche a li prette
Pour servi comme gnoun tombo.
Mo jamin voue gnoun negresse
Qui connin marche comme toue,
Qui gagnin gnoun si belle gesse;
Corps a toue ce gnoun poupe.
IV
Quand mo pas vouer toue, Adele,
Mo sentt m'ane mourri,
Mo vini com' gnoun chandelle
Qui ape alle fini:
Mo pas vouer rien sur la terre
Qui capab moin fait plaisi;
Mo capab dans la riviere
Jete moin pour pas souffri.
V
Dis moin si to gagnin n'homme;
Mo va fals ouanga pour li;
Mo fais li tourne fantome,
Si to vle moin pour mari.
Mo pas le in jour toue boudeuse;
L'autt femme, pour moin ce fatras;
Mo va rende toue bien heureuse;
Mo va baill' toue bell' madras.
TRANSLATION
I
Since first I beheld you, Adele,
While dancing the _calinda_,
I have remained faithful to the thought of you:
My freedom has departed from me.
I care no longer for all other negresses;
I have no heart left for them:
You have such grace and cunning:
You are like the Congo serpent.
II
I love you too much, my beautiful one:
I am not able to help it.
My heart has become just like a grasshopper,
It does nothing but leap.
I have never met any woman
Who has so beautiful a form as yours.
Your eyes flash flame;
Your body has enchained me captive.
III
Ah, you are so like the serpent-of-the-rattles
Who knows how to charm the little bird,
And who has a mouth ever ready for it
To serve it for a tomb!
I have never known any negress
Who could walk with such grace as you can,
Or who could make such beautiful gestures:
Your body is a beautiful doll.
IV
When I cannot see you, Adele,
I feel myself ready to die;
My life becomes like a candle
Which has almost burned itself out.
I cannot, then, find anything in the world,
Which is able to give me pleasure;--
I could well go down to the river
And throw myself in it that I might cease to suffer.
V
Tell me if you have a man;
And I will make an _ouanga_ charm for him;
I will make him turn into a phantom,
If you will only take me for your husband.
I will not go to see you when you are cross;
Other women are mere trash to me;
I will make you very happy,
And I will give you a beautiful Madras handkerchief.
I think there is some true poetry in these allusions to the snake. Is
not the serpent a symbol of grace? Is not the so-called "line of beauty"
serpentine? And is there not something of the serpent in the beauty of
all graceful women?--something of undulating shapeliness, something of
silent fascination?--something of Lilith and Lamia? The French have a
beautiful verb expressive of this idea, _serpenter_, "to serpent"--to
curve in changing undulations like a lithe snake. The French artist
speaks of the outlines of a beautiful human body as "serpenting,"
curving and winding like a serpent. Do you not like the word? I think it
is so expressive of flowing lines of elegance--so full of that mystery
of grace which puzzled Solomon; "the way of a serpent upon a rock."
The allusion to Voudooism in the last stanza especially interested me,
and I questioned the gentleman who furnished me with the song as to the
significance of the words: "I will make him turn into a phantom." I had
fancied that the term _fantome_ might be interpreted by "ghost," and
that the whole line simply constituted a threat to make some one "give
up the ghost."
"It is not exactly that," replied my friend; "it is an allusion, I
believe, to the withering and wasting power of Voudoo poisons. There are
such poisons actually in use among the negro obi-men--poisons which defy
analysis, and, mysterious as the poisons of the Borgias, slowly consume
the victims like a taper. He wastes away as though being dried up; he
becomes almost mummified; he wanes like a shadow; he turns into a
phantom in the same sense that a phantom is an unreal mockery of
something real."
Thus I found an intelligent Louisianan zealous to confirm an opinion to
which I was permitted to give expression in the _Commercial_ nearly
three years ago--that a knowledge of secret septic poisons (probably of
an animal character), which leave no trace discoverable by the most
skilful chemists, is actually possessed by certain beings who are
reverenced as sorcerers by the negroes of the West Indies and the
Southern States, but more especially of the West Indies, where much of
African fetichism has been transplanted.
OZIAS MIDWINTER.