Warren sheaf., 1881-07-06

the old leather day after day, at the old street
corner, where one could see the angel on Ha
drian's tomb, and the people coming and going
over the St Angelo bridge. and the Tibesr
though angry always because the days Of Sal
lust were done, and the gardens and the villas
and the pleasure places Of Horace's iiymning
had passed awav into dullness and darkness
and left only to its desolate~ banks the songhsof
the wind in the sedges, and the rustic Of the
fox in the thickets.
hunted often for the fair haired rose child !:
but never saw her any more Only fused t.:
say to myself: .sCewards beg, !" when some
times in the sdrouth of the dusty day I was
tempted to drop tool and leather and sit stitch
ing there no more, 3s3.
'Cowards beg,,' I said to myself, and stayed
by the cobbler's stall, seeing day come and 70
behind the angel with the sword, there upon
Hadrian's tomb Little words strike deep some
tmes-acorns, which grow to timbers and bear
safe to shore, or wreck for instant death, a
thousand souls.
struck at me with his crutch, and cursed me
for letting down the family greatness and
shaming the gems Quintiii. Italo, who was
beautiful as cherub anu knew how to look
starved and woe -begone after eating half kid
stuffed with prunes, was q son after his own
heart, and made dozen crowns day, weep
in the sweetest fashion in the sunshine* \ \
But neither Italo's kisses nor Beredino's blows
aver got me back to begging. Ilearned the
;obbler's trade and, stuck to t,vonly running
If from the stall every saints day and holy day
20 caper and dance and sing, and eat melons
outside the walls, as every Roman will, be ht
nix or sixty am fool, too, of course Rome
;ood old monk taught me reading and the like
He was mendicant friar, but knew more tina,
most of them, and was, in humble, rambling
ashton, scholar, incoming his days away witt
Latin book on the green hillocks that tumbl.
ike waves about the leagues of ruins beyond
ne Lateran gate. ..s 4 ,Iq@sys..s.,.4, ~
After straining ones sympathy up to the
rand military and political ambitions Of Amer
lcan ssself -made" men wide Mr.. 'Thayer's hi
,graphies) tits quite "a relief to come down t.
the simple satisfactions of this self-made TIA:
ian, who says: Art was dear to me- Wander.
the charm of quiet cloisters, the delight of a
strange, rare volume. The interest of quaint
nit of pottery, the unutterable loveliness of
.ome perfect painters vision making glory
IN some old, dusky, world d-forgotten church; !;
and 30 my life was full of gladness here in
Rome .s..,s'g...,
]. Is there here no power of vision, of sympa-
thy, of catching local coloring and atmosphere,
which accounts for Ouida's fascination without
ascribing it to sprurience?" Besides her want
}Ot retlcence and her unpruned luXuriance of
style-had she submitted to the ascetc mental
discip]ine Of Charlotte Bronte or of George
Elliot, neither of them would have outranked
her-her melancholy is an injurious fault. The
moral of her books is like that of Artemus
Ward: "Be virtuous and you will be happy,
but you won't have a good time" 1t takes a
great genius-enlisted on the side of rectitude
to make you feel that, nevertheless, it is bet
ter to be virtuous and happy than it Is to be
bad and have all sorts of good times I am not
familiar with the earlier books of Ouida, but
It one can read her earlier books, can read
those most pure and sorrowful brief idyls,,
Two Little Wooden Shoes, A Provence Rose,
A Dog of Flanders; can read even the much
abused Moths, and not feel afterward that OBJ
security and loneliness and starvation are better
for an artist or fora woman than is trick-won
popularity, then the fault lies in him who
reads; it does not lie with Louise de Ia Rame