Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, September 5, 2012 - Page 27www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOKPassing Of A Pal

Gentle-natured, faithful, loving,kind,Can I believe behind those speak-ing eyesNow glazed in death,No soul existed;Or that somewhere, in the vastspaces of the BeyondOne friend awaits me, patient,expectant eyed,As in life he watched my everystep -Quick with joy at kindly word orthoughtSpoken or expressed -The dumb that could not speakBy word of mouth,Yet whose brown eyes heldspeechThat I, poor dolt, could notIn my puny mind translate.Just a dog -my pal.Yet could I know that "over there"In that Valhalla to which this lifeIs but short journey -When my spirit feet have trod theportals,One stood within, four-footed, rap-turousTo welcome me, as in these daysjust passed,I'd easier go at my appointed time,To meet just punishment or rewardFor ill or good committedIn this vale of tears;Did I but know that inThe untrod regions of that un-known spaceAwaiting me-to guide my infantspirit stepsWould be - Just a dog - My Pal.

- Monty Blandford(On the death of his be-

lovedbulldog ‘Wog’)

Cigarettes

It couldn’t be done ... so he did itSomebody said that it couldn't be done,But he, with a chuckle, repliedThat "Maybe it couldn't," but he wouldbe oneWho wouldn't say so -till he tried.So he buckled right in, with a trace ofa grinOn his face. If he worried he hid it.He started to sing as he tackled thethingThat couldn't be done - and he did it.Somebody scoffed, "Oh, you'll neverdo that;At least, no one ever has done it,"But he took off his coat, and he tookoff his hat,And the first thing we knew - he'dbegun it.

With the lift of his chin, and a bit of agrin,Without any doubting or quitting,He started to sing as he tackled thethingThat couldn't be done - and he did it.There are thousands to tell you it can-not be done,There are thousands to prophesy fail-ure,There are thousands to point to youone by one,The dangers that wait to assail you.But just buckle in with a grin,Then take off your coat and go to it,Just start in to sing as you tackle thethingThat "cannot be done"- and you'll doit.

You may talk about our enemies,But I have never met,Such a soul-and-body killer.As the noxious cigarette.For it hardens up your arteries,And it makes your bloodstream badAnd it finally has you scuttled,If you don't give it up, my lad.You like to have a good timeTo play and sing and dance,But if a sickness comes to you,It does reduce your chance.To be smart, you have to do it,In this world so big and wide,But the live fish swim 'gainst cur-rents,It's the dead go with the tide.Once the bulwark of a nation,Always practical and keen,Now the hand that rocks the cradleIs besmudged with nicotine.Once a breath as sweet as morn-ing,Like the early roses wet,Now she kisses baby's gold curls,Through the smoke of a cigarette.You say I'm too old-fashioned,But it would be good indeed,If our women led in victoryO'er this soul-destroying weed.And now the war is ended,Did I gamble, I'd make betsThat the world would be much bet-terIf it gave up cigarettes.

- Pearl C Ellison

Monday, it’s Washing DayI'm an inoffensive householder, I don'tphilosophise,I rent a flat in Camberwell, I'm nei-therrich nor wise,My outlook's quite suburban but youmust give me my dueI know how many beans make five,I've learned a thing or two.And that power of observation, whichundoubtedly is mineHas lately been attracted to the wash-ing on the line.I note each Monday morning as mytrain goes rattling on,The back yards that we pass evincethe same phenomenonThere's no woman at her washing, youcan see the evidence,And it's often most intriguing,stretched across from fence to fence.There are sheets and shirts a-shiningin a spotless, snowy state,And camisoles - and other things Ishan't enumerate.Though differing in detail every pros-pect is the same,That that's at all remarkable of courseI do not claim.No, my point (which very likely you

thorough doing out,Put our notions through the wringer,take the starch out of our brains,Wash the dirt from our conceptions,and then drop it down the drains,And by Wednesday at latest have anice clean point of view,And our funny old ideas all washedwhite and good as new?

- Allan Dawes

will all regard as bosh)Is that everybody's linen every Mon-day gets a wash,And by Wednesday at latest, it looksjust as good as new.Now, wouldn't it be wonderful if wewere like that, too?I say, wouldn't it be wonderful if youand I, old scout,Could every Monday morning get a

Have you ever been broke? Just broke to the wide? Withwhat you stand up in, and nothing beside? Living on scrapsthe best part of the week, when you can get 'em, and withnowhere to sleep.

I've been like that on a cold winter's night - when thestreets were deserted, and nothing in sight but a slow-moving ‘bobby’ whose job is to see that the public is pro-tected from people like me, who. get put inside to answerin court why they're wandering about without means ofsupport.

It always strikes me as a queer sort of joke, to pick ona man just because he is broke.

Life isn't worth much when you get to that state of justwaiting to die with nowhere to wait.

I remember the time, it's a long while ago, when I stoodon a bridge with the river below. The last food I'd had wastwo days before, and I never expected I'd need any more.

The night was the worst that ever I'd known, with adirty wet fog, that chilled to the bone. I set my teeth hard,and I set down my heel on the rail that my hands were tooperished to feel when a snivelling pup came out of thefog and whimpered to me (just a scrap of a dog, bedraggledand dirty like me) - just a wreck, with Oh, such a sad littleface on his poor scraggy neck.

A few seconds more and I would have died, but helicked my hand, and I sat down and cried. And I coveredthe poor little mite in my coat, and carried him off with alump in my throat. I took him along to the one place I knewwhere they'd give him a bed and a biscuit or two.

They didn't seem keen on taking him in, but the ser-geant in charge, gave a bit of a grin when I told him thedog could do with a meal.

He said, "I'll fix him up, but how do you feel ?"It may be perhaps the sergeant had seen the state I was

in - I wasn't too clean.

The hunger and cold that I'd suffered all day, ex-hausted my limits, and I fainted away.

Well, they fed me and slept me, and gave me two bob,and the following day they gave me a job. I've workedever since, and I've put a bit by. I'm comfortable now, andI don't want to die.

I've a nice little house in a quiet little street, with adecent-sized garden, that's kept nice and neat. I've workedthere a lot when I've had time to spare, and I'm so proud ofone little corner that's there, with the pick of my flowersround a little old stone, that stands on the corner, all on itsown.

It bears an inscription not very grand - the letters arecrooked, but you'll understand that I wasn't too steady - Icouldn't quite see at the time I carved it, quite, quite, re-cently.

And these are words that I carved on the stone:"Here lies my friend, when I was alone,Hopeless and friendless, just lost in a fog

- God saved my life, with the help of a dog.- NosMo King

Providence saved my life

Important JobI may fail to be as clever as myneighbour down the street,I may fail to be as wealthy as someother men I meet,I may never win the glory which alot of men have had,But I've got to be successful as alittle fellow's dad.There are certain dreams I cherishwhich I'd like to see come true,There are things I would accom-plish ere my time of life is through;But the task my heart is set on is toguide a little ladAnd to make myself successful asthat little fellow's dad.I may never come to glory, I maynever gather gold.Men may list me with the failureswhen my business life is told;But if he who follows after shall bemanly, I'll be gladFor I'll know I've been successfulas that little fellow's dad.It's the one job that I dream of, it'sthe task I think of most,If I failed that growing youngster,I'd have nothing else to boastFor though wealth and fame I'dgather all my fortune would be sadIf I'd failed to be successful as thatlittle fellow's dad. - E.A.G.

Her Heaven:An Epitaph

"Here lies a poor woman who al-ways was tired,She lived in a house where helpwas not hired,Her last words on earth were"Dear friends, I am goingWhere washing ain't done, norsweeping. nor sewing,But everything there is exact tomy wishesFor where they don't eat, there'sno washing of dishes,I'll be where loud anthems will al-ways be ringing,But, having no voice, I'll be clearof the singing,Don't mourn for me now; don'tmourn for me never -I'm going to do nothing for everand ever "

Page 16 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 13, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOKThe WaspAnd the BeeA wasp met a bee that was buzz-ing by,And he said, "Little cousin, can youtell me whyYou are loved so much better bypeople than I?My back shines as bright and yel-low as gold,And my shape is most elegant, too,to behold,Yet nobody likes me, for that I amtold,""Ah, cousin," the bee said, "'tis allvery true,But if I had half as much mischiefto do,Indeed they would love me no bet-ter than you.You have a fine shape and a deli-cate wing,They own you are handsome, butthen there's one thing,They cannot put up with, and thatis your sting.My coat is quite homely and plain,as you see,Yet nobody ever is angry with me,Because I'm a humble and inno-cent bee,"From this little story let people be-ware,Because, like the wasp, if ill-na-tured they areThey will never be loved if they'reever so fair.

LifeMan comes into the world withouthis consent, and leaves it againsthis will.On earth he is misjudged andmisunder stood. In infancy he is anangel, in boyhood a little devil, inmanhood he is a fool.If he has a wife and family he is achump, if a bachelor he is inhu-man.If he enters a public house, he is adrunkard, if he stays out be is amiser. If he is a poor man he hasno brains, if he is rich he has all theluck in the world.If he has brains he is consideredsmart, but dishonest. If he goes tochurch he is a hypocrite, if he staysaway he is a sinful man.If he gives to charity, it is advertisement, if he does not he is stingyand mean.When he comes into the world ev-erybody wants to kiss him, beforehe goes out everyone wants to kickhim.If he dies a young man there was agreat future before him, if he livesto a ripe old age everybody hopeshe has made a will.

LIFE IS A FUNNYPROPOSITION !

Wanted! a spot to live inWhere there is peace and joy,A place full of contentment,That nothing can destroy.

Where all the folk I meet each dayAre friends, in the truest sense.

Where my mistakes and failingsMake no gossip o'er the fence,

Where I am loved-in spite of faults,(Which I have by the score)

Where every house in every street,Has "Welcome" on the door,And everyone-in every house

Is kindly, loving, trueReady to serve with pleasure

Whatever they can do.A place where there's no greed for power

No frantic fight for gainNo jealousy or hatred

Which leave their blackened stainOf war, on hearts and lives of men

Who wanted not to fight,But live in peace with those they love

Each living soul's birthright.If I could find that perfect spot,

A place all sweet and fair,Where there's no hate or selfishness

Could I make my home there?Would my house be ha order

For all the world to seeOr would there be a room or two

Not fit for company?It's just as well I've stopped to think

Before I advertise,That "stop-look-listen" sign I've seen

Is very, very wiseBut all the same-I'll not destroy

That "ad"- I'll get to workTo make that dream of mine come true,

No longer can I shirkThat much delayed spring-cleaning

Into those cupboards, whereI've hid my beastly skeletonsHoping to keep them there

While all the time they worried me,Lest, when my friends should call,

The faulty lock that held themWould give way, and out they'd fall.

So out I'll drag them-every onePride, hate and love of self,And criticism-worst of all,

Come off that topmost shelf !My! What a space you've cluttered up

Each beastly, bony thing,And oh ! what joy to see you go

I'm truly glad it's spring.Now that I've brought these skeletons

Into the light of dayI'll watch that in this house of mine

They come no more to stay.So when that glad New Day shall come,

And our dreams we realize,If I am worthy of a placeWhy ! then I'll advertise.

M. DANGERFIELD

Gone fishin’

A fellow isn't thinking mean - outfishin'His thoughts are mostly good andclean out fishin'He doesn't knock his fellow-menOr harbour any grudges then,A feller's at his finest when-out fish-ing'The rich are comrades to the poor -out fishin',All brothers of the common lure - outfishin',The urchin with the pin and stringCan chum with millionaire or kingVain pride is a forgotten thing -outfishin'.A feller gets a chance to dream - outfishin',He learns the beauty of the stream -out fishin',And he can wash his soul in airThat isn't foul with selfish care,

And relish plain and simple fare -outfishin'.A feller has no time for hate-out fishin',He isn't eager to be great - out fishin',He isn't thinking thoughts of self,Or goods piled high upon the shelf,But is always just himself -out fishin'.A feller's glad to be a friend - outfishin'.A helping hand he'll lend - out fishin',The brotherhood of rod and line,And sky and stream is always fine,Men come close to God's design - outfishin'.A feller isn't plotting schemes - outfishin',He's only busy with his dreams - outfishin',His livery is a coat of tan,His creed to do the best he can,A feller's always mostly man - outfishin'.

Give your heart to a dogBuy a pup and your money will bringLove unflinching that cannot liePerfect passion and worship fedBy a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.Nevertheless it is hardly fair,To risk your heart for a dog to tear.When the fourteen years which nature permits,Are closing in -asthma or tumor or fits,And the vet's unspoken prescriptionTo lethal chambers or loaded guns,Then you will find it's your own affair,But-you've given your heart for a dog to tear.When the body that lived at your single will,When the whimper of welcome is stilled - how still.When the spirit that answered your every word,Is gone- wherever it goes -for good,You will discover how much you care,And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

A Woman’s ‘If’If we can sit among a crowd of gos-sips,And not repeat the scandal that we'veheard;If we can know aught of another'sbusiness,And not betray it by a single word;If we can smile and still, inside, feelkindlyWhen other women hint our hats arefrights,If we can sit upon a church commit-tee,And not involve ourselves in anyfights;If we can go to a bargain sale counter,And neither shove nor elbow our wayin;

If we can keep our hearts from pride,or triumph,Should any of our neighbours chanceto sin;If we can loyal be to one who's ab-sentAt gatherings when we hear folks runher down;If we can keep our tempers at themomentThe clothes line breaks, or kiddiesact the clown;If we can go through life with kindlytolerance,And keep our faith in God until it ends,Then when there comes to us the greattransition We rank as WOMEN andnot cats, my friends.

Les Misérables by Victor HugoObserver Classic Books

BONUS

SECTION

Observer

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 13, 2013 - Page 17

said, we believe that a perpetual memory of thetomb is proper for the living. On this point, thepriest and the philosopher agree. We must die.The Abbe de la Trappe replies to Horace.To mingle with one’s life a certain presence ofthe sepulchre,— this is the law of the sage; andit is the law of the ascetic. In this respect, theascetic and the sage converge. There is a mate-rial growth; we admit it. There is a moral gran-deur; we hold to that. Thoughtless and vivaciousspirits say:—“What is the good of those motionless figureson the side of mystery? What purpose do theyserve? What do they do?”Alas! In the presence of the darkness whichenvirons us, and which awaits us, in our igno-rance of what the immense dispersion will makeof us, we reply: “There is probably no workmore divine than that performed by these souls.”And we add: “There is probably no work whichis more useful.”There certainly must be some who pray con-stantly for those who never pray at all.In our opinion the whole question lies in theamount of thought that is mingled with prayer.Leibnitz praying is grand, Voltaire adoring isfine. Deo erexit Voltaire.We are for religion as against religions.We are of the number who believe in the wretch-edness of orisons, and the sublimity of prayer.Moreover, at this minute which we are now tra-versing,— a minute which will not, fortunately,leave its impress on the nineteenth century,— atthis hour, when so many men have low browsand souls but little elevated, among so manymortals whose morality consists in enjoyment,and who are busied with the brief and misshapenthings of matter, whoever exiles himself seemsworthy of veneration to us.The monastery is a renunciation. Sacrificewrongly directed is still sacrifice. To mistake agrave error for a duty has a grandeur of its own.Taken by itself, and ideally, and in order to ex-amine the truth on all sides until all aspects havebeen impartially exhausted, the monastery, thefemale convent in particular,— for in our cen-tury it is woman who suffers the most, and inthis exile of the cloister there is something ofprotestation,— the female convent has incon-testably a certain majesty.This cloistered existence which is so austere,so depressing, a few of whose features we havejust traced, is not life, for it is not liberty; it is notthe tomb, for it is not plenitude; it is the strangeplace whence one beholds, as from the crest ofa lofty mountain, on one side the abyss wherewe are, on the other, the abyss whither we shallgo; it is the narrow and misty frontier separatingtwo worlds, illuminated and obscured by both atthe same time, where the ray of life which hasbecome enfeebled is mingled with the vagueray of death; it is the half obscurity of the tomb.We, who do not believe what these women be-lieve, but who, like them, live by faith,— wehave never been able to think without a sort oftender and religious terror, without a sort of pity,that is full of envy, of those devoted, tremblingand trusting creatures, of these humble and au-gust souls, who dare to dwell on the very brinkof the mystery, waiting between the world whichis closed and heaven which is not yet open,turned towards the light which one cannot see,possessing the sole happiness of thinking thatthey know where it is, aspiring towards the gulf,and the unknown, their eyes fixed motionless onthe darkness, kneeling, bewildered, stupefied,shuddering, half lifted, at times, by the deepbreaths of eternity.

But the right to live apart, even with its inconve-niences and its abuses, insists on being statedand taken into account. Cenobitism is a humanproblem.When one speaks of convents, those abodes oferror, but of innocence, of aberration but of good-will, of ignorance but of devotion, of torture butof martyrdom, it always becomes necessary tosay either yes or no.A convent is a contradiction. Its object, salva-tion; its means thereto, sacrifice. The convent issupreme egoism having for its result supremeabnegation.To abdicate with the object of reigning seems tobe the device of monasticism.In the cloister, one suffers in order to enjoy. Onedraws a bill of exchange on death. One discountsin terrestrial gloom celestial light. In the clois-ter, hell is accepted in advance as a post obit onparadise.The taking of the veil or the frock is a suicidepaid for with eternity.It does not seem to us, that on such a subjectmockery is permissible. All about it is serious,the good as well as the bad.The just man frowns, but never smiles with amalicious sneer. We understand wrath, but notmalice.

Even to see and to show does not suffice. Phi-losophy should be an energy; it should have foreffort and effect to ameliorate the condition ofman. Socrates should enter into Adam and pro-duce Marcus Aurelius; in other words, the manof wisdom should be made to emerge from theman of felicity. Eden should be changed into aLyceum. Science should be a cordial. To en-joy,— what a sad aim, and what a paltry ambi-tion! The brute enjoys. To offer thought to thethirst of men, to give them all as an elixir thenotion of God, to make conscience and sciencefraternize in them, to render them just by thismysterious confrontation; such is the functionof real philosophy. Morality is a blossoming outof truths. Contemplation leads to action. Theabsolute should be practicable. It is necessarythat the ideal should be breathable, drinkable,and eatable to the human mind. It is the idealwhich has the right to say: Take, this is my body,this is my blood. Wisdom is a holy communion.It is on this condition that it ceases to be a sterilelove of science and becomes the one and sover-eign mode of human rallying, and that philoso-phy herself is promoted to religion.Philosophy should not be a corbel erected onmystery to gaze upon it at its ease, without anyother result than that of being convenient to cu-riosity.For our part, adjourning the development of ourthought to another occasion, we will confineourselves to saying that we neither understandman as a point of departure nor progress as anend, without those two forces which are theirtwo motors: faith and love.Progress is the goal, the ideal is the type.What is this ideal? It is God.Ideal, absolute, perfection, infinity: identicalwords.

Continued on Page 18

●●●●● Victor Hugo

Whither go these majestic irradiations of thesoul? Into the shadow; that is to say, to the light.The grandeur of democracy is to disown noth-ing and to deny nothing of humanity. Close tothe right of the man, beside it, at the least, thereexists the right of the soul.To crush fanaticism and to venerate the infinite,such is the law. Let us not confine ourselves toprostrating ourselves before the tree of creation,and to the contemplation of its branches full ofstars. We have a duty to labor over the humansoul, to defend the mystery against the miracle,to adore the incomprehensible and reject theabsurd, to admit, as an inexplicable fact, onlywhat is necessary, to purify belief, to removesuperstitions from above religion; to clear Godof caterpillars..

VOLUME ii - COSETTEBOOK SEVENTH - PARENTHESIS

CHAPTER V - PRAYERContinued from last week

CHAPTER VITHE ABSOLUTE GOODNESS

OF PRAYER

With regard to the modes of prayer, all are good,provided that they are sincere. Turn your bookupside down and be in the infinite.There is, as we know, a philosophy which de-nies the infinite. There is also a philosophy, patho-logically classified, which denies the sun; thisphilosophy is called blindness.To erect a sense which we lack into a source oftruth, is a fine blind man’s self-sufficiency.The curious thing is the haughty, superior, andcompassionate airs which this groping philoso-phy assumes towards the philosophy which be-holds God. One fancies he hears a mole crying,“I pity them with their sun!”There are, as we know, powerful and illustriousatheists. At bottom, led back to the truth by theirvery force, they are not absolutely sure that theyare atheists; it is with them only a question ofdefinition, and in any case, if they do not believein God, being great minds, they prove God.We salute them as philosophers, while inexora-bly denouncing their philosophy.Let us go on.The remarkable thing about it is, also, their fa-cility in paying themselves off with words. Ametaphysical school of the North, impregnatedto some extent with fog, has fancied that it hasworked a revolution in human understanding byreplacing the word Force with the word Will.To say: “the plant wills,” instead of: “the plantgrows”: this would be fecund in results, indeed,if we were to add: “the universe wills.” Why?Because it would come to this: the plant wills,therefore it has an I; the universe wills, there-fore it has a God.As for us, who, however, in contradistinction tothis school, reject nothing a priori, a will in theplant, accepted by this school, appears to usmore difficult to admit than a will in the uni-verse denied by it.To deny the will of the infinite, that is to say,God, is impossible on any other conditions thana denial of the infinite. We have demonstratedthis.The negation of the infinite leads straight to ni-hilism. Everything becomes “a mental concep-tion.”With nihilism, no discussion is possible; for thenihilist logic doubts the existence of its inter-locutor, and is not quite sure that it exists itself.From its point of view, it is possible that it maybe for itself, only “a mental conception.”Only, it does not perceive that all which it hasdenied it admits in the lump, simply by the utter-ance of the word, mind.In short, no way is open to the thought by a phi-losophy which makes all end in the monosyl-lable, No.To No there is only one reply, Yes.Nihilism has no point.There is no such thing as nothingness. Zero doesnot exist. Everything is something. Nothing isnothing.Man lives by affirmation even more than bybread.

CHAPTER VIIPRECAUTIONS TO BE OBSERVED

IN BLAME

History and philosophy have eternal duties,which are, at the same time, simple duties; tocombat Caiphas the High-priest, Draco the Law-giver, Trimalcion the Legislator, Tiberius theEmperor; this is clear, direct, and limpid, andoffers no obscurity.

CHAPTER VIIIFAITH, LAW

A few words more.We blame the church when she is saturated withintrigues, we despise the spiritual which is harshtoward the temporal; but we everywhere honorthe thoughtful man.We salute the man who kneels.A faith; this is a necessity for man. Woe to himwho believes nothing.One is not unoccupied because one is absorbed.There is visible labor and invisible labor.To contemplate is to labor, to think is to act.Folded arms toil, clasped hands work. A gazefixed on heaven is a work.Thales remained motionless for four years. Hefounded philosophy.In our opinion, cenobites are not lazy men, andrecluses are not idlers.To meditate on the Shadow is a serious thing.Without invalidating anything that we have just

BOOK EIGHTH — CEMETERIES TAKETHAT WHICH IS COMMITTED THEM

CHAPTER I -WHICH TREATS OF THE MANNER OF

ENTERING A CONVENTIt was into this house that Jean Valjean had, asFauchelevent expressed it, “fallen from thesky.”He had scaled the wall of the garden whichformed the angle of the Rue Polonceau. Thathymn of the angels which he had heard in themiddle of the night, was the nuns chanting mat-

Observer Classic BooksFrom Page 17ins; that hall, of which he had caught a glimpsein the gloom, was the chapel. That phantomwhich he had seen stretched on the ground wasthe sister who was making reparation; that bell,the sound of which had so strangely surprisedhim, was the gardener’s bell attached to the kneeof Father Fauchelevent.Cosette once put to bed, Jean Valjean andFauchelevent had, as we have already seen,supped on a glass of wine and a bit of cheesebefore a good, crackling fire; then, the only bedin the hut being occupied by Cosette, each threwhimself on a truss of straw.Before he shut his eyes, Jean Valjean said: “Imust remain here henceforth.” This remark trot-ted through Fauchelevent’s head all night long.To tell the truth, neither of them slept.Jean Valjean, feeling that he was discoveredand that Javert was on his scent, understood thathe and Cosette were lost if they returned to Paris.Then the new storm which had just burst uponhim had stranded him in this cloister. JeanValjean had, henceforth, but one thought,— toremain there. Now, for an unfortunate man inhis position, this convent was both the safestand the most dangerous of places; the most dan-gerous, because, as no men might enter there, ifhe were discovered, it was a flagrant offence,and Jean Valjean would find but one step inter-vening between the convent and prison; the saf-est, because, if he could manage to get himselfaccepted there and remain there, who wouldever seek him in such a place? To dwell in animpossible place was safety.On his side, Fauchelevent was cudgelling hisbrains. He began by declaring to himself that heunderstood nothing of the matter. How had M.Madeleine got there, when the walls were whatthey were? Cloister walls are not to be steppedover. How did he get there with a child? Onecannot scale a perpendicular wall with a childin one’s arms. Who was that child? Where didthey both come from? Since Fauchelevent hadlived in the convent, he had heard nothing of M.sur M., and he knew nothing of what had takenplace there. Father Madeleine had an air whichdiscouraged questions; and besides,Fauchelevent said to himself: “One does notquestion a saint.” M. Madeleine had preservedall his prestige in Fauchelevent’s eyes. Only,from some words which Jean Valjean had letfall, the gardener thought he could draw the in-ference that M. Madeleine had probably becomebankrupt through the hard times, and that he waspursued by his creditors; or that he had compro-mised himself in some political affair, and wasin hiding; which last did not displeaseFauchelevent, who, like many of our peasantsof the North, had an old fund of Bonapartismabout him. While in hiding, M. Madeleine hadselected the convent as a refuge, and it wasquite simple that he should wish to remain there.But the inexplicable point, to whichFauchelevent returned constantly and overwhich he wearied his brain, was that M.Madeleine should be there, and that he shouldhave that little girl with him. Fauchelevent sawthem, touched them, spoke to them, and still didnot believe it possible. The incomprehensiblehad just made its entrance into Fauchelevent’shut. Fauchelevent groped about amid conjec-tures, and could see nothing clearly but this: “M.Madeleine saved my life.” This certainty alonewas sufficient and decided his course. He saidto himself: “It is my turn now.” He added in hisconscience: “M. Madeleine did not stop to de-liberate when it was a question of thrusting him-self under the cart for the purpose of draggingme out.” He made up his mind to save M.Madeleine.Nevertheless, he put many questions to himselfand made himself divers replies: “After whathe did for me, would I save him if he were athief? Just the same. If he were an assassin,would I save him? Just the same. Since he is asaint, shall I save him? Just the same.”But what a problem it was to manage to havehim remain in the convent! Fauchelevent didnot recoil in the face of this almost chimericalundertaking; this poor peasant of Picardy with-out any other ladder than his self-devotion, hisgood will, and a little of that old rustic cunning,on this occasion enlisted in the service of a gen-erous enterprise, undertook to scale the difficul-ties of the cloister, and the steep escarpments ofthe rule of Saint–Benoit. Father Faucheleventwas an old man who had been an egoist all hislife, and who, towards the end of his days, halt,infirm, with no interest left to him in the world,

found it sweet to be grateful, and perceiving agenerous action to be performed, flung himselfupon it like a man, who at the moment when heis dying, should find close to his hand a glass ofgood wine which he had never tasted, and shouldswallow it with avidity. We may add, that the airwhich he had breathed for many years in thisconvent had destroyed all personality in him,and had ended by rendering a good action ofsome kind absolutely necessary to him.So he took his resolve: to devote himself to M.Madeleine.We have just called him a poor peasant ofPicardy. That description is just, but incomplete.At the point of this story which we have nowreached, a little of Father Fauchelevent’s physi-ology becomes useful. He was a peasant, but hehad been a notary, which added trickery to hiscunning, and penetration to his ingenuousness.Having, through various causes, failed in hisbusiness, he had descended to the calling of acarter and a laborer. But, in spite of oaths andlashings, which horses seem to require, some-thing of the notary had lingered in him. He hadsome natural wit; he talked good grammar; heconversed, which is a rare thing in a village; andthe other peasants said of him: “He talks almostlike a gentleman with a hat.” Fauchelevent be-longed, in fact, to that species, which the imper-tinent and flippant vocabulary of the last cen-tury qualified as demi-bourgeois, demi-lout, andwhich the metaphors showered by the chateauupon the thatched cottage ticketed in the pigeon-hole of the plebeian: rather rustic, rather citi-fied; pepper and salt. Fauchelevent, thoughsorely tried and harshly used by fate, worn out,a sort of poor, threadbare old soul, was, never-theless, an impulsive man, and extremely spon-taneous in his actions; a precious quality whichprevents one from ever being wicked. His de-fects and his vices, for he had some, were allsuperficial; in short, his physiognomy was ofthe kind which succeeds with an observer. Hisaged face had none of those disagreeablewrinkles at the top of the forehead, which sig-nify malice or stupidity.At daybreak, Father Fauchelevent opened hiseyes, after having done an enormous deal ofthinking, and beheld M. Madeleine seated onhis truss of straw, and watching Cosette’s slum-bers. Fauchelevent sat up and said:—“Now that you are here, how are you going tocontrive to enter?”This remark summed up the situation andaroused Jean Valjean from his revery.The two men took counsel together.“In the first place,” said Fauchelevent, “you willbegin by not setting foot outside of this cham-ber, either you or the child. One step in the gar-den and we are done for.”“That is true.”“Monsieur Madeleine,” resumed Fauchelevent,“you have arrived at a very auspicious moment,I mean to say a very inauspicious moment; oneof the ladies is very ill. This will prevent themfrom looking much in our direction. It seemsthat she is dying. The prayers of the forty hoursare being said. The whole community is in con-fusion. That occupies them. The one who is onthe point of departure is a saint. In fact, we areall saints here; all the difference between themand me is that they say ‘our cell,’ and that I say‘my cabin.’ The prayers for the dying are to besaid, and then the prayers for the dead. We shallbe at peace here for today; but I will not answerfor tomorrow.”“Still,” observed Jean Valjean, “this cottage isin the niche of the wall, it is hidden by a sort ofruin, there are trees, it is not visible from theconvent.”“And I add that the nuns never come near it.”“Well?” said Jean Valjean.The interrogation mark which accentuated this“well” signified: “it seems to me that one mayremain concealed here?” It was to this interro-gation point that Fauchelevent responded:—“There are the little girls.”“What little girls?” asked Jean Valjean.Just as Fauchelevent opened his mouth to ex-plain the words which he had uttered, a bellemitted one stroke.“The nun is dead,” said he. “There is the knell.”And he made a sign to Jean Valjean to listen.The bell struck a second time.“It is the knell, Monsieur Madeleine. The bellwill continue to strike once a minute for twenty-four hours, until the body is taken from thechurch.— You see, they play. At recreation hoursit suffices to have a ball roll aside, to send themall hither, in spite of prohibitions, to hunt and

rummage for it all about here. Those cherubsare devils.”“Who?” asked Jean Valjean.“The little girls. You would be very quickly dis-covered. They would shriek: ‘Oh! a man!’ Thereis no danger today. There will be no recreationhour. The day will be entirely devoted to prayers.You hear the bell. As I told you, a stroke eachminute. It is the death knell.”“I understand, Father Fauchelevent. There arepupils.”And Jean Valjean thought to himself:—“Here is Cosette’s education already provided.”Fauchelevent exclaimed:—“Pardine! There are little girls indeed! And theywould bawl around you! And they would rushoff! To be a man here is to have the plague. Yousee how they fasten a bell to my paw as thoughI were a wild beast.”Jean Valjean fell into more and more profoundthought.—“This convent would be our salva-tion,” he murmured.Then he raised his voice:—“Yes, the difficulty is to remain here.”“No,” said Fauchelevent, “the difficulty is toget out.”Jean Valjean felt the blood rush back to his heart.“To get out!”“Yes, Monsieur Madeleine. In order to returnhere it is first necessary to get out.”And after waiting until another stroke of the knellhad sounded, Fauchelevent went on:—“You must not be found here in this fashion.Whence come you? For me, you fall fromheaven, because I know you; but the nuns re-quire one to enter by the door.”All at once they heard a rather complicated peal-ing from another bell.“Ah!” said Fauchelevent, “they are ringing upthe vocal mothers. They are going to the chap-ter. They always hold a chapter when any onedies. She died at daybreak. People generally dodie at daybreak. But cannot you get out by theway in which you entered? Come, I do not askfor the sake of questioning you, but how did youget in?”Jean Valjean turned pale; the very thought ofdescending again into that terrible street madehim shudder. You make your way out of a forestfilled with tigers, and once out of it, imagine afriendly counsel that shall advise you to returnthither! Jean Valjean pictured to himself thewhole police force still engaged in swarming inthat quarter, agents on the watch, sentinels ev-erywhere, frightful fists extended towards hiscollar, Javert at the corner of the intersection ofthe streets perhaps.“Impossible!” said he. “Father Fauchelevent,say that I fell from the sky.”“But I believe it, I believe it,” retortedFauchelevent. “You have no need to tell methat. The good God must have taken you in hishand for the purpose of getting a good look atyou close to, and then dropped you. Only, hemeant to place you in a man’s convent; he madea mistake. Come, there goes another peal, thatis to order the porter to go and inform the mu-nicipality that the dead-doctor is to come hereand view a corpse. All that is the ceremony ofdying. These good ladies are not at all fond ofthat visit. A doctor is a man who does not be-lieve in anything. He lifts the veil. Sometimeshe lifts something else too. How quickly theyhave had the doctor summoned this time! Whatis the matter? Your little one is still asleep. Whatis her name?”“Cosette.”“She is your daughter? You are her grandfather,that is?”“Yes.”“It will be easy enough for her to get out of here.I have my service door which opens on the court-yard. I knock. The porter opens; I have my vin-tage basket on my back, the child is in it, I goout. Father Fauchelevent goes out with his bas-ket — that is perfectly natural. You will tell thechild to keep very quiet. She will be under thecover. I will leave her for whatever time is re-quired with a good old friend, a fruit-seller whomI know in the Rue Chemin–Vert, who is deaf,and who has a little bed. I will shout in the fruit-seller’s ear, that she is a niece of mine, and thatshe is to keep her for me until tomorrow. Thenthe little one will re-enter with you; for I willcontrive to have you re-enter. It must be done.But how will you manage to get out?”Jean Valjean shook his head.“No one must see me, the whole point lies there,Father Fauchelevent. Find some means of get-ting me out in a basket, under cover, like Cosette.” - Continued on Page 55

Page 18 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Fauchelevent scratched the lobe of his ear withthe middle finger of his left hand, a sign of seri-ous embarrassment.A third peal created a diversion.“That is the dead-doctor taking his departure,”said Fauchelevent. “He has taken a look andsaid: ‘She is dead, that is well.’ When the doctorhas signed the passport for paradise, theundertaker’s company sends a coffin. If it is amother, the mothers lay her out; if she is a sister,the sisters lay her out. After which, I nail her up.That forms a part of my gardener’s duty. A gar-dener is a bit of a grave-digger. She is placed ina lower hall of the church which communicateswith the street, and into which no man may en-ter save the doctor of the dead. I don’t count theundertaker’s men and myself as men. It is inthat hall that I nail up the coffin. The undertaker’smen come and get it, and whip up, coachman!that’s the way one goes to heaven. They fetch abox with nothing in it, they take it away againwith something in it. That’s what a burial is like.De profundis.”A horizontal ray of sunshine lightly touched theface of the sleeping Cosette, who lay with hermouth vaguely open, and had the air of an angeldrinking in the light. Jean Valjean had fallen togazing at her. He was no longer listening toFauchelevent.That one is not listened to is no reason for pre-serving silence. The good old gardener went ontranquilly with his babble:—“The grave is dug in the Vaugirard cemetery.They declare that they are going to suppressthat Vaugirard cemetery. It is an ancient cem-etery which is outside the regulations, which hasno uniform, and which is going to retire. It is ashame, for it is convenient. I have a friend there,Father Mestienne, the grave-digger. The nunshere possess one privilege, it is to be taken tothat cemetery at nightfall. There is a specialpermission from the Prefecture on their behalf.But how many events have happened since yes-terday! Mother Crucifixion is dead, and FatherMadeleine —”“Is buried,” said Jean Valjean, smiling sadly.Fauchelevent caught the word.“Goodness! if you were here for good, it wouldbe a real burial.”A fourth peal burst out. Fauchelevent hastilydetached the belled knee-cap from its nail andbuckled it on his knee again.“This time it is for me. The Mother Prioresswants me. Good, now I am pricking myself onthe tongue of my buckle. Monsieur Madeleine,don’t stir from here, and wait for me. Some-thing new has come up. If you are hungry, thereis wine, bread and cheese.”And he hastened out of the hut, crying: “Com-ing! coming!”Jean Valjean watched him hurrying across thegarden as fast as his crooked leg would permit,casting a sidelong glance by the way on hismelon patch.Less than ten minutes later, FatherFauchelevent, whose bell put the nuns in hisroad to flight, tapped gently at a door, and agentle voice replied: “Forever! Forever!” thatis to say: “Enter.”The door was the one leading to the parlor re-served for seeing the gardener on business. Thisparlor adjoined the chapter hall. The prioress,seated on the only chair in the parlor, was wait-ing for Fauchelevent.

CHAPTER IIFAUCHELEVENT IN THE

PRESENCE OF A DIFFICULTY

It is the peculiarity of certain persons and cer-tain professions, notably priests and nuns, to weara grave and agitated air on critical occasions. Atthe moment when Fauchelevent entered, thisdouble form of preoccupation was imprinted onthe countenance of the prioress, who was thatwise and charming Mademoiselle de Blemeur,Mother Innocente, who was ordinarily cheerful.The gardener made a timid bow, and remainedat the door of the cell. The prioress, who wastelling her beads, raised her eyes and said:—“Ah! it is you, Father Fauvent.”This abbreviation had been adopted in the con-vent.Fauchelevent bowed again.“Father Fauvent, I have sent for you.”“Here I am, reverend Mother.”“I have something to say to you.”“And so have I,” said Fauchelevent with a bold-ness which caused him inward terror, “I havesomething to say to the very reverend Mother.”

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 13, 2013 - Page 19www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Page 20 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 13, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 13, 2013 - Page 53www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Melbourne Boulevard Pharmacy and Health Foods

Questions and answersabout teeth whitening

■ How does it work?You place a mouth tray

filled with whitening gel inyour mouth, and our ad-vanced cold blue light ac-celerator produces the bestresults available in a frac-tion of the time or cost ofother procedures.

Does it harm my teeth,gums or dental work?No. The treatment uses aspecial cold light, whichwill not burn and specialwhitening gels. For peoplewith normal, healthy teethand gums there are no ad-verse side effects. It doesnot remove tooth enamel.

How effective is it on myteeth, crown or caps?

It removes stains causedby aging, coffee, tea, cola,red wine, smoking, etc.

It also reducesdiscolouration caused bymedications and whitespots from fluoride.

Stains are removedfrom crowns/veneerswithout changing theiroriginal colour.

Does it hurt?No. For people with

normal, healthy teeth andgums there is no pain andany side effects are tempo-rary and will disappearquickly.

How long will teeth whit-ening last?

Depending on yourlifestyle and dental hy-giene it is possible to main-tain your whiter teeth fortwo years.

How long after the treat-ment before I can eat/drink?

For 24 hours after thetreatment you shouldavoid coffee, tea, coladrinks, red wine, smokingor consuming anythingthat could stain your teeth.If it stains a white shirt, itcould stain your teeth!

Make an AppointmentToday!

Shop 5, 401 St Kilda Road

Melbourne, Vic 3004

9866 1284

naturopath.mbp@live.com.au

Page 54 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 13, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

Observer Classic Books

The prioress stared at him.“Ah! you have a communication to make tome.”“A request.”“Very well, speak.”Goodman Fauchelevent, the ex-notary, be-longed to the category of peasants who haveassurance. A certain clever ignorance consti-tutes a force; you do not distrust it, and you arecaught by it. Fauchelevent had been a successduring the something more than two years whichhe had passed in the convent. Always solitaryand busied about his gardening, he had nothingelse to do than to indulge his curiosity. As hewas at a distance from all those veiled womenpassing to and fro, he saw before him only anagitation of shadows. By dint of attention andsharpness he had succeeded in clothing all thosephantoms with flesh, and those corpses werealive for him. He was like a deaf man whosesight grows keener, and like a blind man whosehearing becomes more acute. He had appliedhimself to riddling out the significance of thedifferent peals, and he had succeeded, so thatthis taciturn and enigmatical cloister possessedno secrets for him; the sphinx babbled all hersecrets in his ear. Fauchelevent knew all andconcealed all; that constituted his art. The wholeconvent thought him stupid. A great merit in re-ligion. The vocal mothers made much ofFauchelevent. He was a curious mute. He in-spired confidence. Moreover, he was regular,and never went out except for well-demon-strated requirements of the orchard and veg-etable garden. This discretion of conduct hadinured to his credit. None the less, he had settwo men to chattering: the porter, in the con-vent, and he knew the singularities of their par-lor, and the grave-digger, at the cemetery, andhe was acquainted with the peculiarities of theirsepulture; in this way, he possessed a doublelight on the subject of these nuns, one as to theirlife, the other as to their death. But he did notabuse his knowledge. The congregation thoughta great deal of him. Old, lame, blind to every-thing, probably a little deaf into the bargain,—what qualities! They would have found it diffi-cult to replace him.The goodman, with the assurance of a personwho feels that he is appreciated, entered into arather diffuse and very deep rustic harangue tothe reverend prioress. He talked a long timeabout his age, his infirmities, the surcharge ofyears counting double for him henceforth, ofthe increasing demands of his work, of the greatsize of the garden, of nights which must bepassed, like the last, for instance, when he hadbeen obliged to put straw mats over the melonbeds, because of the moon, and he wound up asfollows: “That he had a brother”—(the prioressmade a movement),—“a brother no longeryoung”—(a second movement on the part ofthe prioress, but one expressive of reassur-ance),—“that, if he might be permitted, thisbrother would come and live with him and helphim, that he was an excellent gardener, that thecommunity would receive from him good ser-vice, better than his own; that, otherwise, if hisbrother were not admitted, as he, the elder, feltthat his health was broken and that he was insuf-ficient for the work, he should be obliged, greatlyto his regret, to go away; and that his brother hada little daughter whom he would bring with him,who might be reared for God in the house, andwho might, who knows, become a nun someday.”When he had finished speaking, the prioressstayed the slipping of her rosary between herfingers, and said to him:—“Could you procure a stout iron bar betweennow and this evening?”“For what purpose?”“To serve as a lever.”“Yes, reverend Mother,” replied Fauchelevent.The prioress, without adding a word, rose andentered the adjoining room, which was the hallof the chapter, and where the vocal motherswere probably assembled. Fauchelevent wasleft alone.

“Amen,” said Fauchelevent.The clock struck opportunely. It cut “more of-ten” short. It is probable, that had it not been forthis, the prioress and Fauchelevent would neverhave unravelled that skein.Fauchelevent mopped his forehead.The prioress indulged in another little inwardmurmur, probably sacred, then raised hervoice:—“In her lifetime, Mother Crucifixion made con-verts; after her death, she will performmiracles.”“She will!” replied Father Fauchelevent, fall-ing into step, and striving not to flinch again.“Father Fauvent, the community has beenblessed in Mother Crucifixion. No doubt, it isnot granted to every one to die, like Cardinal deBerulle, while saying the holy mass, and tobreathe forth their souls to God, while pronounc-ing these words: Hanc igitur oblationem. Butwithout attaining to such happiness, MotherCrucifixion’s death was very precious. She re-tained her consciousness to the very last mo-ment. She spoke to us, then she spoke to theangels. She gave us her last commands. If youhad a little more faith, and if you could havebeen in her cell, she would have cured your legmerely by touching it. She smiled. We felt thatshe was regaining her life in God. There wassomething of paradise in that death.”Fauchelevent thought that it was an orison whichshe was finishing.“Amen,” said he.“Father Fauvent, what the dead wish must bedone.”The prioress took off several beads of her chap-let. Fauchelevent held his peace.She went on:—“I have consulted upon this point many ecclesi-astics laboring in Our Lord, who occupy them-selves in the exercises of the clerical life, andwho bear wonderful fruit.”“Reverend Mother, you can hear the knell muchbetter here than in the garden.”“Besides, she is more than a dead woman, sheis a saint.”“Like yourself, reverend Mother.”“She slept in her coffin for twenty years, byexpress permission of our Holy Father, PiusVII.—”“The one who crowned the Emp — Buonaparte.”For a clever man like Fauchelevent, this allu-sion was an awkward one. Fortunately, the pri-oress, completely absorbed in her own thoughts,did not hear it. She continued:—“Father Fauvent?”“Reverend Mother?”“Saint Didorus, Archbishop of Cappadocia, de-sired that this single word might be inscribed onhis tomb: Acarus, which signifies, a worm ofthe earth; this was done. Is this true?”“Yes, reverend Mother.”“The blessed Mezzocane, Abbot of Aquila,wished to be buried beneath the gallows; thiswas done.”“That is true.”“Saint Terentius, Bishop of Port, where themouth of the Tiber empties into the sea, re-quested that on his tomb might be engraved thesign which was placed on the graves of parri-cides, in the hope that passers-by would spit onhis tomb. This was done. The dead must beobeyed.”“So be it.”“The body of Bernard Guidonis, born in Francenear Roche–Abeille, was, as he had ordered,and in spite of the king of Castile, borne to thechurch of the Dominicans in Limoges, althoughBernard Guidonis was Bishop of Tuy in Spain.Can the contrary be affirmed?”“For that matter, no, reverend Mother.”“The fact is attested by Plantavit de la Fosse.”Several beads of the chaplet were told off, stillin silence. The prioress resumed:—“Father Fauvent, Mother Crucifixion will be in-terred in the coffin in which she has slept for thelast twenty years.”“That is just.”“It is a continuation of her slumber.”“So I shall have to nail up that coffin?”“Yes.”“And we are to reject the undertaker’s coffin?”“Precisely.”“I am at the orders of the very reverend com-munity.”“The four Mother Precentors will assist you.”“In nailing up the coffin? I do not need them.”“No. In lowering the coffin.”“Where?”“Into the vault.”

“What vault?”“Under the altar.”Fauchelevent started.“The vault under the altar?”“Under the altar.”“But —”“You will have an iron bar.”“Yes, but —”“You will raise the stone with the bar by meansof the ring.”“But —”“The dead must be obeyed. To be buried in thevault under the altar of the chapel, not to go toprofane earth; to remain there in death whereshe prayed while living; such was the last wishof Mother Crucifixion. She asked it of us; that isto say, commanded us.”“But it is forbidden.”“Forbidden by men, enjoined by God.”“What if it became known?”“We have confidence in you.”“Oh! I am a stone in your walls.”“The chapter assembled. The vocal mothers,whom I have just consulted again, and who arenow deliberating, have decided that Mother Cru-cifixion shall be buried, according to her wish,in her own coffin, under our altar. Think, FatherFauvent, if she were to work miracles here!What a glory of God for the community! Andmiracles issue from tombs.”“But, reverend Mother, if the agent of the sani-tary commission —”“Saint Benoit II., in the matter of sepulture, re-sisted Constantine Pogonatus.”“But the commissary of police —”“Chonodemaire, one of the seven German kingswho entered among the Gauls under the Empireof Constantius, expressly recognized the rightof nuns to be buried in religion, that is to say,beneath the altar.”“But the inspector from the Prefecture —”“The world is nothing in the presence of thecross. Martin, the eleventh general of theCarthusians, gave to his order this device: Statcrux dum volvitur orbis.”“Amen,” said Fauchelevent, who imperturbablyextricated himself in this manner from the di-lemma, whenever he heard Latin.Any audience suffices for a person who hasheld his peace too long. On the day when therhetorician Gymnastoras left his prison, bearingin his body many dilemmas and numerous syl-logisms which had struck in, he halted in frontof the first tree which he came to, harangued itand made very great efforts to convince it. Theprioress, who was usually subjected to the bar-rier of silence, and whose reservoir was overfull,rose and exclaimed with the loquacity of a damwhich has broken away:—“I have on my right Benoit and on my left Ber-nard. Who was Bernard? The first abbot ofClairvaux. Fontaines in Burgundy is a countrythat is blest because it gave him birth. His fatherwas named Tecelin, and his mother Alethe. Hebegan at Citeaux, to end in Clairvaux; he wasordained abbot by the bishop of Chalon-sur-Saone, Guillaume de Champeaux; he had sevenhundred novices, and founded a hundred andsixty monasteries; he overthrew Abeilard at thecouncil of Sens in 1140, and Pierre de Bruysand Henry his disciple, and another sort of err-ing spirits who were called the Apostolics; heconfounded Arnauld de Brescia, darted light-ning at the monk Raoul, the murderer of theJews, dominated the council of Reims in 1148,caused the condemnation of Gilbert de Porea,Bishop of Poitiers, caused the condemnation ofEon de l’Etoile, arranged the disputes of princes,enlightened King Louis the Young, advised PopeEugene III., regulated the Temple, preached thecrusade, performed two hundred and fiftymiracles during his lifetime, and as many asthirty-nine in one day. Who was Benoit? He wasthe patriarch of Mont–Cassin; he was the sec-ond founder of the Saintete Claustrale, he wasthe Basil of the West. His order has producedforty popes, two hundred cardinals, fifty patri-archs, sixteen hundred archbishops, four thou-sand six hundred bishops, four emperors, twelveempresses, forty-six kings, forty-one queens,three thousand six hundred canonized saints, andhas been in existence for fourteen hundredyears. On one side Saint Bernard, on the otherthe agent of the sanitary department! On oneside Saint Benoit, on the other the inspector ofpublic ways! The state, the road commission-ers, the public undertaker, regulations, the ad-ministration, what do we know of all that? Thereis not a chance passer-by who would not be

- Continued on Page 56

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 13, 2013 - Page 55www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

ty.“Father Fauvent!”“Reverend Mother!”“Do you know the chapel?”“I have a little cage there, where I hear the massand the offices.”“And you have been in the choir in pursuance ofyour duties?”“Two or three times.”“There is a stone to be raised.”“Heavy?”“The slab of the pavement which is at the sideof the altar.”“The slab which closes the vault?”“Yes.”“It would be a good thing to have two men forit.”“Mother Ascension, who is as strong as a man,will help you.”“A woman is never a man.”“We have only a woman here to help you. Eachone does what he can. Because Dom Mabillongives four hundred and seventeen epistles ofSaint Bernard, while Merlonus Horstius onlygives three hundred and sixty-seven, I do notdespise Merlonus Horstius.”“Neither do I.”“Merit consists in working according to one’sstrength. A cloister is not a dock-yard.”“And a woman is not a man. But my brother isthe strong one, though!”“And can you get a lever?”“That is the only sort of key that fits that sort ofdoor.”“There is a ring in the stone.”“I will put the lever through it.”“And the stone is so arranged that it swings on apivot.”“That is good, reverend Mother. I will open thevault.”“And the four Mother Precentors will help you.”“And when the vault is open?”“It must be closed again.”“Will that be all?”“No.”“Give me your orders, very reverend Mother.”“Fauvent, we have confidence in you.”“I am here to do anything you wish.”“And to hold your peace about everything!”“Yes, reverend Mother.”“When the vault is open —”“I will close it again.”“But before that —”“What, reverend Mother?”“Something must be lowered into it.”A silence ensued. The prioress, after a pout ofthe under lip which resembled hesitation, brokeit.“Father Fauvent!”“Reverend Mother!”“You know that a mother died this morning?”“No.”“Did you not hear the bell?”“Nothing can be heard at the bottom of the gar-den.”“Really?”“I can hardly distinguish my own signal.”“She died at daybreak.”“And then, the wind is not blowing in my direc-tion this morning.”“It was Mother Crucifixion. A blessed woman.”The prioress paused, moved her lips, as thoughin mental prayer, and resumed:—“Three years ago, Madame de Bethune, aJansenist, turned orthodox, merely from havingseen Mother Crucifixion at prayer.”“Ah! yes, now I hear the knell, reverendMother.”“The mothers have taken her to the dead-room,which opens on the church.”“I know.”“No other man than you can or must enter thatchamber. See to that. A fine sight it would be, tosee a man enter the dead-room!”“More often!”“Hey?”“More often!”“What do you say?”“I say more often.”“More often than what?”“Reverend Mother, I did not say more often thanwhat, I said more often.”“I don’t understand you. Why do you say moreoften?”“In order to speak like you, reverend Mother.”“But I did not say ‘more often.’”At that moment, nine o’clock struck.“At nine o’clock in the morning and at all hours,praised and adored be the most Holy Sacra-ment of the altar,” said the prioress.

From Page 20

CHAPTER IIIMOTHER INNOCENTE

About a quarter of an hour elapsed. The prior-ess returned and seated herself once more onher chair.The two interlocutors seemed preoccupied. Wewill present a stenographic report of the dia-logue which then ensued, to the best of our abil-

Observer Classic Books

www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

From Page 55

ObserverMelbourne

Looking for aProfessional

to run the show?

Ted RyanPhone 9876 1652

Mobile: 0412 682 927E-Mail: tedryan@australiaonline.net.au

★ Compere/Host★ Auctioneer★ Promotions

★ A-Grade Journalist★ Voice-OverCommercials

★ Race Caller -All Sports, Race Nights

★ TV, Radio, Press★ Respected Member

of the Media

ted.ryan@optusnet.com.au

Page 56 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Observer Crossword Solution No 2

The prioress meditated.“What is to be done with that coffin, FatherFauvent?”“It will be given to the earth.”“Empty?”Another silence. Fauchelevent made, with hisleft hand, that sort of a gesture which dismissesa troublesome subject.“Reverend Mother, I am the one who is to nailup the coffin in the basement of the church, andno one can enter there but myself, and I willcover the coffin with the pall.”“Yes, but the bearers, when they place it in thehearse and lower it into the grave, will be sure tofeel that there is nothing in it.”“Ah! the de-!” exclaimed Fauchelevent.The prioress began to make the sign of the cross,and looked fixedly at the gardener. The vil stuckfast in his throat.He made haste to improvise an expedient tomake her forget the oath.“I will put earth in the coffin, reverend Mother.That will produce the effect of a corpse.”“You are right. Earth, that is the same thing asman. So you will manage the empty coffin?”“I will make that my special business.”The prioress’s face, up to that moment troubledand clouded, grew serene once more. She madethe sign of a superior dismissing an inferior tohim. Fauchelevent went towards the door. As hewas on the point of passing out, the prioressraised her voice gently:—“I am pleased with you, Father Fauvent; bringyour brother to me tomorrow, after the burial,and tell him to fetch his daughter.”

the dead. A holy death is prohibited. Burial is acivil matter. This is horrible. Saint Leo II. wrotetwo special letters, one to Pierre Notaire, theother to the king of the Visigoths, for the purposeof combating and rejecting, in questions touch-ing the dead, the authority of the exarch and thesupremacy of the Emperor. Gauthier, Bishop ofChalons, held his own in this matter against Otho,Duke of Burgundy. The ancient magistracyagreed with him. In former times we had voicesin the chapter, even on matters of the day. TheAbbot of Citeaux, the general of the order, wascouncillor by right of birth to the parliament ofBurgundy. We do what we please with our dead.Is not the body of Saint Benoit himself in France,in the abbey of Fleury, called Saint Benoit-sur-Loire, although he died in Italy at Mont–Cassin,on Saturday, the 21st of the month of March, ofthe year 543? All this is incontestable. I abhorpsalm-singers, I hate priors, I execrate heretics,but I should detest yet more any one who shouldmaintain the contrary. One has only to readArnoul Wion, Gabriel Bucelin, Trithemus,Maurolics, and Dom Luc d’Achery.”The prioress took breath, then turned toFauchelevent.“Is it settled, Father Fauvent?”“It is settled, reverend Mother.”“We may depend on you?”“I will obey.”“That is well.”“I am entirely devoted to the convent.”“That is understood. You will close the coffin.The sisters will carry it to the chapel. The officefor the dead will then be said. Then we shallreturn to the cloister. Between eleven o’clockand midnight, you will come with your iron bar.All will be done in the most profound secrecy.There will be in the chapel only the four MotherPrecentors, Mother Ascension and yourself.”“And the sister at the post?”“She will not turn round.”“But she will hear.”“She will not listen. Besides, what the cloisterknows the world learns not.”A pause ensued. The prioress went on:—“You will remove your bell. It is not necessarythat the sister at the post should perceive yourpresence.”“Reverend Mother?”“What, Father Fauvent?”

“Has the doctor for the dead paid his visit?”“He will pay it at four o’clock today. The pealwhich orders the doctor for the dead to be sum-moned has already been rung. But you do notunderstand any of the peals?”“I pay no attention to any but my own.”“That is well, Father Fauvent.”“Reverend Mother, a lever at least six feet longwill be required.”“Where will you obtain it?”“Where gratings are not lacking, iron bars arenot lacking. I have my heap of old iron at thebottom of the garden.”“About three-quarters of an hour before mid-night; do not forget.”“Reverend Mother?”“What?”“If you were ever to have any other jobs of thissort, my brother is the strong man for you. Aperfect Turk!”“You will do it as speedily as possible.”“I cannot work very fast. I am infirm; that iswhy I require an assistant. I limp.”“To limp is no sin, and perhaps it is a blessing.The Emperor Henry II., who combated AntipopeGregory and re-established Benoit VIII., has twosurnames, the Saint and the Lame.”“Two surtouts are a good thing,” murmuredFauchelevent, who really was a little hard ofhearing.“Now that I think of it, Father Fauvent, let usgive a whole hour to it. That is not too much. Benear the principal altar, with your iron bar, ateleven o’clock. The office begins at midnight.Everything must have been completed a goodquarter of an hour before that.”“I will do anything to prove my zeal towards thecommunity. These are my orders. I am to nailup the coffin. At eleven o’clock exactly, I am tobe in the chapel. The Mother Precentors will bethere. Mother Ascension will be there. Two menwould be better. However, never mind! I shallhave my lever. We will open the vault, we willlower the coffin, and we will close the vaultagain. After which, there will be no trace of any-thing. The government will have no suspicion.Thus all has been arranged, reverend Mother?”“No!”“What else remains?”“The empty coffin remains.”This produced a pause. Fauchelevent meditated

indignant to see how we are treated. We havenot even the right to give our dust to Jesus Christ!Your sanitary department is a revolutionary in-vention. God subordinated to the commissary ofpolice; such is the age. Silence, Fauvent!”Fauchelevent was but ill at ease under thisshower bath. The prioress continued:—“No one doubts the right of the monastery tosepulture. Only fanatics and those in error denyit. We live in times of terrible confusion. We donot know that which it is necessary to know, andwe know that which we should ignore. We areignorant and impious. In this age there existpeople who do not distinguish between the verygreat Saint Bernard and the Saint Bernard de-nominated of the poor Catholics, a certain goodecclesiastic who lived in the thirteenth century.Others are so blasphemous as to compare thescaffold of Louis XVI. to the cross of JesusChrist. Louis XVI. was merely a king. Let usbeware of God! There is no longer just nor un-just. The name of Voltaire is known, but not thename of Cesar de Bus. Nevertheless, Cesar deBus is a man of blessed memory, and Voltaireone of unblessed memory. The last arch-bishop,the Cardinal de Perigord, did not even know thatCharles de Gondren succeeded to Berulle, andFrancois Bourgoin to Gondren, and Jean–Francois Senault to Bourgoin, and FatherSainte–Marthe to Jean–Francois Senault. Thename of Father Coton is known, not because hewas one of the three who urged the foundationof the Oratorie, but because he furnished HenriIV., the Huguenot king, with the material for anoath. That which pleases people of the world inSaint Francois de Sales, is that he cheated atplay. And then, religion is attacked. Why? Be-cause there have been bad priests, becauseSagittaire, Bishop of Gap, was the brother ofSalone, Bishop of Embrun, and because both ofthem followed Mommol. What has that to dowith the question? Does that prevent Martin deTours from being a saint, and giving half of hiscloak to a beggar? They persecute the saints.They shut their eyes to the truth. Darkness is therule. The most ferocious beasts are beasts whichare blind. No one thinks of hell as a reality. Oh!how wicked people are! By order of the kingsignifies today, by order of the revolution. Oneno longer knows what is due to the living or to ●●●●● To Be Continued Next Week

S P R I G H T L Y R E S T E D R A L L A Y S S H I E L D I N GW U A E E D A M I O N E A L A O A T H N I D OI E T E R R A V E R G E R S M O R A L S I M A G E L BM A D N E S S R E A R H A U O C K H A N N A I V E L Y

R A S P E N E G Y P T D A M E S E A S E D H E N N A OM A A M Y O G R E R E F O R E S T I N G S A G A G N A B SO N S E T T I T O N E C S L Y R E G Z M E L E ER S S O R R I E R D N E T B A L L E L E G A L L Y B EG E I S H A U R A I S E D I Y U T E R U S R O S C A R SU S I T E M S T E N C A S E S R E D I C T T AE N T E R S P M A N N E R I E A S I E R E H E B R E WS I T E S A U A A S T E R O I D S N O D D S R O S

A N G S T A M O K U I P C C N A T O G Y P S YG A F A R N E E D N O O S E O P E C D U E L S

A M I C E D E A D B E A T R D E T E R R E D M A I D VE M M A K I E V N B R I T S N R O E N I D H E A L

M T N A U D I E N C E S P E N S I O N E R L A IS O F T E S T R O D L R S I O L Y I Y E L L I N GU O U S K I N S P A P A N I B S O M E N S S N US L A G P M S G P R I M E G O L A I D P G A T H E L LA M A D E D O N E O P A L F U E L O I N E A T E R LN E S T R O O C E A N M I F F S V O M I T D T S T A Y

E H L A T E R D E M I E V A E O C H R E S DF L E E A H A G I L E G I V E R T O T E M U A I C O NI W R I T H E N E R I O T A S T I E I R E G G A E EG E E S I S A C S E E D C O G H O U R S A S E N A S AH R V T R E A T D I S H L E A N S C E N T N S RT A S T I E R S V F O I R E W S R C S T R E E T S

R O E O V E R E A T E N T H I R T I E T H T L UA M I D M A I N R M I G A S N A A O R A L M O B S

S O W E D I N A S M U C H C A G I T A T O R F O E S EB E Y E S G L E N O C C U R N E R O I N F O P

E J E C T T H E E C R U I L G R I N K E B A BA O Y U R S A E L A N D S C A P E U O G L E N N AD I R E C T E M A P P E D E S T R E W N I A G E O L DD N L A N C E X A L E R T L Y O S P E L L R VR A B B I S E M E S S U P D E C A B I N S S M A N A G EE O S K I D D E D Y T R I U M P H O T E S T B A N M RS P R A T I N F R E E B P I D O L L I D E A L TS A G S C N O A H I N D U L G E N C E S B L O C H A S I S

R P R O N G C A N A L P E R R Y S T A R E K E E L S VD E N S E L Y D E M O A P A M C M A R K M E A T I E RR E P A L S Y M O N R O E T P R E P A Y N O B L Y S EO X E O K E E N G R E I C H N Z E R O E U L AP E T U L A N C E R E C E S S N S I D L E D B E D S P R E A D

Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 13, 2013 - Page 57www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOK

Business letter The Little WomanThe little woman, to her I bowAnd doff my hat as I pass her by;In reverence the furrows that markher browAnd the sparkling love-light in hereye.The little woman who stays athomeAnd makes no bid for the world'sapplause;Who never sighs for a chance toroam,But toils all day in a grander cause.The little woman, who seems soweak,Yet bears her burdens day by dayAnd no one has ever heard herspeakIn a bitter or loud complaining way.She sings a snatch of a merrysong,As she toils in her home from morntill night.Her work is hard and the hourslongBut the little woman's heart is light.A slave to love is that womansmall,And her burdens heavier yearlygrow,But somehow she seems to bearthem allAs the deep'ning lines in her whitecheeks show.Her children all have a mother'scare,Her home the touch of a good wifeknows;No burden's too heavy for her tobear,But, patiently doing her best, shegoes.The little woman, may God be kindTo her wherever she dwells today;The little woman, who seems tofindHer joy in toiling along life's way.May God bring peace to her work-worn breastAnd joy to her mother-heart at last;May love be hers when it's time torestAnd the roughest part of the roadis passed.The little woman-how oft it seemsGod chooses her for the mother'spart,And many a grown-up sits anddreamsTo-day of her with an aching heart.For he knows well how she toiledfor himAnd he sees it now that it is toolate;And often his eyes with tears growdimFor the little woman whosestrength was great.

E.A.G.

Be sure to wipeyour bootsYoung Willie was a grubby boyAnd he was very fond of play,Though home he crept, just like amouse,He'd always hear his Mother say,"Be sure to wipe your boots."Poor Willie had an accident,Was cut in pieces by a train,The ambulance men brought himhome,They also heard the same refrain,"Be sure to wipe your boots."The shock killed Mother and sheflewTo regions of celestial air,When Willie came, he heard hervoice,"Before you climb the golden stair,Be sure to wipe your boots."

F. OSWALD BARNETT

Dear Sir,In reply to your letter requesting meto send a cheque, I wish to inform youthat the present condition of my bankaccount makes it ordinarily impos-sible. My shattered financial conditionis due to Union Laws, ProvincialLaws, Sister-in-Laws. Brother-in-Laws, and Outlaws.

Through these Laws I am com-pelled to pay a busi ness tax, supertax, railway tax, petrol tax, gas tax,excise tax, sales tax, tariff tax andamusement tax, of which I have none.

Even my brain is taxed. I am required to get a business licence, carlicence, truck licence, not to mentionmarriage licence and a dog licence.

I am required to contribute to ev-ery society and organisation which thegenius of man is capable of bringingto light the women's relief, the unem-ployment relief and the gold diggers'relief.

Also to every hospital and chari-table institution in the country includ-ing the Red Cross and the doublecross.

For my own safety I am requiredto carry a life insurance, property in-surance, liability insurance, burglaryinsurance, accident insurance, earth-quake insurance, war risk insurance,unemployment insurance, old age in-surance and fire insurance.

My business is so governed that Ido not know today, nor can I find out,who owns it.

I am inspected, expected, sus-pected, rejected, disrespected, exam-ined, and re-examined, informed, re-quired, summoned, fined, com-manded and compelled until I providean inexhaustible supply of money forevery known need, desire or hope ofthe human race.

Simply because I re fused to do-nate something or other, I am boy-cotted, talked about, held up, helddown, and robbed until I am ruined.

I can tell you honestly, that exceptfor the miracle that happened, I couldnot enclose the cheque.

The Wolf that comes to manydoors nowadays, had pups in mykitchen. I sold them, and here is themoney ..

... and anotherDear Sir,For the following reasons I am unableto send you the cheque you ask for

I have been held up, held down,sand bagged, walked upon, sat upon,flattened out and squeezed by the In-come Tax, the Super Tax, the MotorTax, and by every Society,Organisation, and Club that the inven-tive mind of man can think of to ex-tract what I may or may not have inmy possession.

I have been sucked dry for the RedCross, the Black Cross, the Blue Cross,the Double Cross, and every hospital,male, female and infantile, in the coun-try.

The Government has governed mybusiness until I don't know who ownsit.

I am inspected, suspected, exam-ined and re-examined, informed, re-formed, required, requested, com-

manded and demanded, so that I nolonger know what I am, where I am,who I am, or why I am here at all.

All that I know is that I am ex-pected, suspected, surmised, allegedand accused of being an inexhaust-ible supply of money for every need,desire, want, lack, requirement orhope of the human race, and becauseI will not go out and beg, borrow, filch,purloin, misappropriate, rob, thieve orsteal money to give away, I am cussed,discussed, scandalised, boycotted,talked to, talked at, talked about, liedto, lied about, held up, hung up, rungup, written to, wired to, robbed anddamned near ruined.

The only reason why I am obligedto live at all is to see what the hell isgoing to happen next, in case I havebeen missed somewhere.

Hoping cordially that you are thesame, Yours faithfully.

Whyworry?

Either you are successful or you are not successful.If you are successful there is nothing to worry about.If you're not successful there are only two things to worry about ;Your health is either good or you are sick. If your health is good there is nothing to worryabout; if you are sick there are only two things to worry about, you are going to get well or youare going to shuffle off this mortal coil.If you get well there is nothing to worry about, and if you are going to shuffle off this mortalcoil, there are only two things to worry about; you are either going to heaven or you are boundfor the other place. If you are going to heaven there is nothing to worry about; if, on theother hand, you are going to the other place, you will be so busy on your arrival shakinghands with old friends that you won't have any time to worry so why worry?

Taking a bath Nephew JohnBroad is the gate and wide is thepath,That leads man to his shining bath,But ere you spend the shining hour,'Midst spray, and soap and sluiceandshower,Be careful, where'er you be,To shut the door and turn the key.

I had a friend-my friend no more,Who failed to bolt the bathroomdoor,A maiden aunt came in one day,As in the bath submerged he lay.She didn't notice Nephew JohnAnd turned the boiling water on.

He had no time, nor even scopeTo camouflage himself with soap

But gave a yell, and flung asideThe sponge with which he soughtto hide.It fell to earth I know not where,He beat his breast in wild despairAnd then like Venus from the foam,Sprang into. view and made forhome.

His aunt fell swooning to the groundAlas ! they never brought her round,She died, intestate in her prime,The victim of another's crime.

And so poor John cannot forgetHow by a breach of etiquetteHe lost in one foul swoop andplungeHis aunt, his honour and his sponge.

DANNY WEBB (3DB)

Three monkeys sat on a cocoanut treeDiscussing things as they're said to be;Said one to the others-"Now listen, youtwoThere's a certain rumour that can't betrue ;That man descended from our noble race,Why! The very idea! It's a dire disgrace.No monkey ever deserted his wifeStarved her baby-or ruined her life,And you've never known a mother monkTo leave her young with others tobunkTill they scarcely knew their mother.And another thing you'll never seeA monk build a fence round a cocoanuttree,And let the cocoanuts go to waste,Forbidding all other monks a taste.Why,,if I built a fence around this treeStarvation would force you to stealfrom me.Here's a thing another monk won't doGo out at night and get on a stew,Or use a gun, or a club, or a knifeTo take some other monkey's life.Yes, man descended, the ornery cuss,But brother-he didn't descend from us.

The Monkey’s Viewpoint

Page 58 - Melbourne Observer - Wednesday, February 13, 2013 www.MelbourneObserver.com.au

PHILOSOPHER’S SCRAPBOOKIt Has More PunchI'd rather see a sermon than hearone any day,I'd rather one should walk with methan merely tell the way.The eye's a better pupil and morewilling than the ear,Fine counsel is confusing, butexample's always clear,And the best of all the preachersare the men who live their creeds,For to see good put in action is whateverybody needs.I can soon learn how to do it if you'lllet me see it done,I can watch your hands in action,but your tongue too fast may run,And the lectures you deliver maybe very wise and true,But I'd rather get my lessons byobserving what you do,For I may misunderstand you andthe high advice you give,But there's no misunderstandinghow you act and how you live.When I see a deed of kindness Iam eager to be kind,When a weaker brother stumbles,and a strong man stays behindJust to see if I can help him, thenthe wish grows strong in meTo become as big and thoughtfulas I know that friend to be,And all travellers can witness thatthe best of guides to-dayIs not the one who tells them, butthe one who shows the way.One good man teaches many, menbelieve what they behold,One deed of kindness noticed isworth forty that are told.Who stands with men of honourlearns to hold his honour dearFor right living speaks a languagewhich to everyone is clear.Though an able speaker charmsme with his eloquence, I say,I'd rather see a sermon than hearone any day.

I’m Glad I AmAustralianAlthough I hate no other man,I'm glad I am Australian.It's more than love of open air,The sun that shines through all theyear,Or cloudless skies and lazy seas,Or scent of eucalyptus trees.I love them all, but more I findI love the right to speak my mind,About the Church and Parliament,Wherever I may have a bent,Among my friends or in a crowd,I still may think my thoughts aloud,Without a fear I'll go to quod,Or have to face a firing squad.Of all the freedoms that I seekI prize the most the right to speakAlthough I hate no other man,I'm glad I am Australian.

- F Oswald Barnett

If I KnewIf I knew that a word of mine,A word not kind or true,Might leave its trace on a lovedone's face,I wouldn't speak harshly, wouldyou?If I knew that the light of a smile,Might linger the whole daythrough,And lighten some heart with aheavier part,I wouldn't withhold it, would you?

The Vagabond PoetIntroduction to "Vagabond'sHouse" DON BLANDING-THEVAGABOND

POETHe is an American, living in Ha-waii, although by temperamentand inclination he is a vagabondand wanderer in many climes.

He is the author of at least tenbooks of prose and poetry, all ofwhich are profusely illustratedwith black and white sketches andornaments, which come from theable pen of this astounding char-acter.

A certain man once offered DonBlanding a million dollars for the"secrets of laughter"-Blandingcouldn't collect because he hadthe laughter, but didn't know theformula.

With him the greatest secretof laughter has always been hisability to evoke high adventurefrom every hour of living.

Best known of all his works is"Vagabond's House."

The house is his ideal expres-sion of that imaginary retreatwhich each man builds and fur-nishes according to his heart'sdesire.

His wanderings and wishingsbrought him sufficient success torealise his dream and he built his"Dream House."

As you will hear, he filled itwith all the beautiful things hisheart had longed for.

He lived in it and his door wasalways open to the guest or wayfarer.

The tragedy came some yearslater when, during one of his no-madic absences, the dream housewas destroyed by fire.

When I have a house .. as I sometimemay . .I'll suit my fancy in every way.I'll fit it with things that have caughtmy eyeIn drifting from Iceland to Molokai.It won't be correct or in period style,But . . oh, I've thought for a long, longwhileOf all the corners and all the nooks,Of all the bookshelves and all thebooks,The great big table, the deep softchairs,And the Chinese rug at the foot of thestairs(It's an old, old rug from far ChowWan that a Chinese princess oncewalked on).My house will stand on the side of ahillBy a slow, broad river, deep and still,With a tall lone pine on guard nearbyWhere the birds can sing and thestorm winds cry.A flagstone walk, with lazy curves,Will lead to the door where a Pan'shead servesAs a knocker there, like a vibrantdrum,To let me know that a friend hascome,And the door will squeak as I swing itwideTo welcome you to the cheer inside.For I'll have good friends who can sitand chatOr simply sit, when it comes to that,By the fireplace where the fir logsblazeAnd the smoke rolls up in a weavinghaze.I'll want a wood-box, scarred andrough,For leaves and bark and odorous stuffLike resinous knots and cones andgumsTo toss on the flames when wintercomes.And I hope a cricket will stay around,For I love its creaky lonesome sound.There'll be driftwood powder to burnon logsAnd a shaggy rug for a couple ofdogs,Boreas, winner of prize and cup,And Mickey, a lovable gutter-pup.Thoroughbreds, both of them, rightfrom the start,One by breeding, the other by heart.There are times when only a dog willdoFor a friend . . . when you're beaten,sick and blueAnd the world's all wrong, for he won'tcareIf you break and cry, or grouch andswear,For he'll let you know as he licks yourhandsThat he's downright sorry .. and un-derstands.I'll have on a bench a box inlaidWith dragon-plaques of milk-whitejadeTo hold my own particular brandOf cigarettes brought from thePharaoh's land,With a cloisonne bowl on a lizard'sskinTo flick my cigarette ashes in.And a squat blue jar for a certain blendOf pipe tobacco, I'll have to sendTo a quaint old chap I chanced to meetIn his fusty shop on a London street.A long low shelf of teak will holdMy best-loved books in leather andgold,While magazines lie on a bowleggedstand,In a polyglot mixture close at hand.I'll have on a table a rich brocade

A great big smashing fine marineThat'll make you feel the spray in yourface.I'll hang it over my fireplace.The second picture ... a freakish thing... Is gaudy and bright as a macaw'swing,An impressionistic smear called"Sin,"A nude on a striped zebra skinBy a Danish girl I knew in France.My respectable friends will lookaskanceAt the purple eyes and the scarlet hair,At the pallid face and the evil stareOf the sinister, beautiful vampireface.I shouldn't have it about the place,But I like ... while I loathe ... thebeastly thing,And that's the way that one feels aboutsin.The picture I love the best of allWill hang alone on my study wallWhere the sunset's glow and themoon's cold gleamWill fall on the face, and make it seemThat the eyes in the picture are meetinmine,That the lips are curved in the finesweet lineOf that wistful, tender, provocativesmileThat has stirred my heart for a won-drous while.It's a sketch of the girl who loved toowellTo tie me down to that bit of HellThat a drifter knows when he findshe's heldBy the soft, strong chains that pas-sions weld.It was best for her and for me, I know,That she measured my love and bademe goFor we both have our great illusionyetUnsoiled, unspoiled by vain regret.I won't deny that it makes me sadTo know that I've missed what I mighthave had.It's a clean sweet memory, quite apart,And I've been faithful ... in my heart.All these things I will have about,Not a one could I do without;Cedar and sandalwood chips to burnIn the tarnished bowl of a copper urn;A paper-weight of meteoriteThat seared and scorched the sky onenight,A Moro kris . . . my paper-knife . . .Once slit the throat of a Rajah's wife.The beams of my house will be fra-grant woodThat once in a teeming jungle stoodAs a proud tall tree where the leop-ards couchedAnd the parrots screamed and theblack men crouched.The roof must have a rakish dipTo shadowy eaves where the rain candripIn a damp, persistent tuneful way;It's a cheerful sound on a gloomy day.And I want a shingle loose some-whereTo wail like a banshee in despairWhen the wind is high and the stormgods raceAnd I am snug by my fireplace.I hope a couple of birds will nestAround the house. I'll do my bestTo make them happy, so every yearThey'll raise their brood of fledglingshere.When I have my house I will suitmyselfAnd have what I'll call my "Condi-ment Shelf,"Filled with all manner of herbs andspice,Curry and chutney for meats and rice,

Some linesscrawled on thedoor of theVagabond’s houseWest of the sunset stands myhouse,There . . and east of the dawn;North to the Arctic runs my yard;South to the Pole, my lawn;Seven seas are to sail my shipsTo the ends of the earth . . . be-yond;Drifter's gold is for me to spend -For I am a vagabond.Fabulous cities are mine to loot;Queens of the earth to wed;Fruits of the world are mine to eat;The couch of a king, my bed;All that I see is mine to keep;Foolish, the fancy seems,But I am rich with the wealth ofSight,The coin of the realm of dreams....

That I think the pixies must, havemade,For the dull gold thread on blues andgraysWeaves a pattern of Puck ... the MagicMaze.On the mantelpiece I'll have a placeFor a little mud god with a paintedfaceThat was given to me ... oh, long ago,By a Philippine maid in Olangapo.Then, just in range of a lazy reach .. .A bulging bowl of Indian beechWill brim with things that are good tomunch,Hickory nuts to crack and crunch;Big fat raisins and sun-dried dates,And curious fruits from the MalayStraits;Maple sugar and cookies brownWith good hard cider to wash themdown;Wine-sap apples, pick of the crop,And ears of corn to shell and popWith plenty of butter and lots of salt ...If you don't get filled it's not my fault.And there where the shadows fall I'veplannedTo have a magnificent concert-grandWith polished wood and ivory keys,For wild discordant rhapsodies,For wailing minor Hindu songs,For Chinese chants with clanginggongs,For flippant jazz, and for lullabies,And moody things that I'll improviseTo play the long gray dusk awayAnd bid good-bye to another day.Pictures ... I think I'll have but three:One, in oil, of a wind-swept seaWith the flying scud and the waveswhipped white .. .(I know the chap who can paint it right)In lapis blue and a deep jade green ...

Pots and bottles of extracts rare ...Onions and garlic will both be thereAnd soya and saffron and savoury-gooAnd stuff that I'll buy from an oldHindu;Ginger with syrup in quaint stone jarsWhen I have my house I will suitmyselfAnd have what I'll call my "Condi-mentShelf,"Filled with all manner of herbs andspice,Curry and chutney for meats and rice,Pots and bottles of extracts rare ...Onions and garlic will both be there...And soya and saffron and savoury-gooAnd stuff that I'll buy from an oldHindu;Ginger with syrup in quaint stone jarsAlmonds and figs in tinselled bars;Astrakhan caviare, highly prized,And citron and orange peel crystal-lized;Anchovy paste and poha jam;Basil and chili and marjoram;Pickles and cheeses from every land,And flavours that come fromSamarkand;And, hung with a string from a handyhook,Will be a dog-eared, well-thumbedbookThat is pasted full of recipesFrom France and Spain and theCaribbees;Roots and leaves and herbs to useFor curious soups and odd ragouts.I'll have a cook that I'll name "Oh Joy,"A sleek, fat, yellow-faced China boyWho can roast a pig or mix a drink,(You can't improve on a slant-eyedChink).On the gray-stone hearth there'll be amatFor a scrappy, swaggering yellow catWith a war-scarred face from a hun-dred fightsWith neighbours' cats on moonlightnights.A wise old Tom who can hold his ownAnd make my dogs let him alone.

The

Vagabond Poet

continues next

week in The

Philosopher’s

Scrapbbook