GIFT OF 
 
 SEELEY W. MUDD 
 
 and 
 
 GEORGE I. COCHRAN MEYER ELSASSER 
 DR. JOHN R. HAYNES WILLIAM L. HONNOLD 
 JAMES R. MARTIN MRS. JOSEPH F.SARTORI 
 
 / the 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 SOUTHERN BRANCH 
 
 JOHN FISKE
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped 
 
 SOUTHERN BRANOx 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNU 
 LIBRARY, 
 
 <LOS ANQELEa CAUK 
 
 T C-^
 
 ST. KOCH'S CHAPEL.
 
 A Christmas Masque of Saint Roch 
 Pere Dagobert 
 
 and 
 
 Throwing the Wanga 
 
 M. E. M. DAVIS 
 
 Author of "Under the Man-Fig," "In War Times," "At La 
 Rose Blanche," "Minding the Gap," Etc. 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 A. C. McCLLRG AND COMPANY 
 1896 
 
 5543
 
 COrVKIGHT 
 
 BY M. E. M. DAVIS 
 
 1896
 
 -PS 
 \s\*\ 
 
 OLffe 
 
 , 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 . PAGE. 
 
 A Christmas Masque ol Saint Roch . . 9 
 
 Pcre Dagobert . . . . . . 37 
 
 Throwing the Wanga .... 47 
 
 CC 
 O3 
 
 a 
 
 H 
 
 <D 
 ^ 
 02 
 H
 
 The Author is indebted to Messrs. Harper 
 and Brothers for permission to republish PERE 
 DAGOBERT nnd THROWING THE WANGA in this 
 volume. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF SAINT ROCH 
 appears here in print for the first time.
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF 
 SAINT ROCH.
 
 ST. KOCH'S CHAPEL.
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. 
 ROCH.* 
 
 A small Gothic Chapel set in the midst of a 
 burying ground, on the outskirts of a city. 
 
 I. 
 
 AT DAWN. 
 
 The Bell, from an ivied niche beneath the sur 
 mounting cross of the facade : 
 
 Christ is born, is born! 
 And o'er the teeming City yonder, lo 
 A star the foretorch of the slumbering sun 
 Shines palely bright! And guided by its rays, 
 A thousand little feet go pattering, bare 
 And white across the floors. And mother-eyes 
 A-watch, brim o'er with happy tears 
 Because The Child at Bethlehem is born! 
 
 *See "Notes,'' page ?7.
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 Chorus of Dead People : 
 
 But we, with stone and sod upon our breasts? 
 But we, sealed in these narrow niches ? We, 
 Shut in these stately vaults ? 
 
 Semi- Chorus of Dead Children : 
 
 Our baby- feet 
 Are wrapped in cere-cloths, so we cannot walk! 
 
 Semi- Chorus of Dead People : 
 Our eyes beneath our coffin-lids are dry! 
 We have forgot the happy tears we shed 
 (Or ere we died) because The Child was born! 
 
 Chorus : 
 
 Ah we, with these great stones upon our breasts! 
 The effigy of St. Roch above the altar in the 
 Chapel. 
 
 Christ is born, is born! 
 
 (Dreamily) I mind me of the skies in Languedoc. 
 How blue they were at Noel-tide! And I 
 A little lad marked by His cross from birth 
 10
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 (But heeding naught of that!) so danced and 
 
 sang 
 
 Along those old Montpelian streets, that maids 
 With golden hair came out to see ! 
 
 And then, 
 
 The Gift upon me came, by God, His grace, 
 And I did heal men of the plague. 
 
 So sirs, 
 
 By God, His grace, the painters painted me 
 Upon their church-walls Guido, and Rubens, 
 And Titian ; so, on window-panes in gold 
 And red I stand, and with me my good dog! 
 Nay, God have mercy lest I praise myself ! 
 Lord, heal the sick and ease the broken heart L
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 II. 
 
 MID-MORN. AT THE GATE. 
 
 Alphonse, the sexton, a grey-bearded man, sits 
 on a rude bench by the gateway. A small table 
 before him is heaped with tallow-candles and tin 
 candle-sticks. Many people entering and passing 
 on to the Chapel. Beggars and children crowded 
 about the entrance. 
 
 The Sexton, to himself: 
 
 Christ's mercy, what a sunny day! My wil 
 low-trees rejoice as if 'twere spring. Candles, 
 M'sieu ? (to a cynic who pauses at the gate.} 
 
 Cynic : 
 Candles ! What should I do with candles ! 
 
 Sexton : 
 
 I beg your pardon, M'sieu; I thought St. 
 Roch
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 Cynic : 
 
 'Tis not your business, man, to think. Stick 
 to your trade of turning people under ground ; 
 and let your wooden Saint in yonder Chapel 
 mind his of getting husbands for a pack of 
 silly girls to flatter, to deceive, aye, and to wring 
 their hearts if such lack-witted, blubbering 
 slaves dwell in their vapid breasts ! (fie passes 
 within the gateway.} 
 
 A mother with two children, one a cripple in 
 her arms: 
 
 Give me some candles, sexton, quick. They 
 should have burned an inch or more ere now! 
 
 Sexton : 
 How many, Madame ? 
 
 The Mother: 
 
 My little Lame-foot here is six years old 
 today. A Christmas-gift he was to us ! So, 
 six small flames about the altar's base shall 
 burn for him. 
 
 13
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 The Cripple: 
 
 And when they've burned, dear mother, will 
 I walk ? ' 
 
 The Mother: 
 
 Yes, truly, if we pray aright, rny child. 
 
 The Other Child: 
 
 Oh, let us hurry on to pray ! I long to see 
 rny brother run. Then he can catch the butter 
 flies which tease me so, and flutter high above 
 my reach. (They pass on.) 
 
 A Blind Man, led: 
 
 I'll burn no candles for the Saint this day! 
 If he can't cure me for the one 1 gave last 
 year, why let him beat his dog, I say, and 
 send him forth to beg. He'll never cheat me 
 of another cent. (He passes on.) 
 
 A Child, shouting: 
 
 Sand! Sand! Here's your nice white sand 
 to strew upon your graves ! Who'll buy fresh 
 sand ? 
 
 14
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 A Beggar-woman, to passers-by, whining : 
 Charite ! Charite, s'il vous plait ! 
 
 A One-legged Negro Man, to passers-by, in a 
 
 wheedling voice: 
 
 I knows my pretty young Mistiss is gvvine ter 
 give me a nickel ! . . . I knows my fine 
 young genterrnan is gvvine ter give dis po' ole 
 nigger a dime ! . . . Fo' de Lawd, Marse, 
 I'se got sebenteen chillen an' gran' chillen at 
 home, wi' dey mouf sot fer Chrismus dinner ! 
 
 Denise Durand, a Young Girl : 
 
 Yes, give me ten candles, Alphonse. (She 
 passes on, murmuring:) Five candles for myself 
 that I may win him back again ; and five for 
 him that he may surfer none, nor know no 
 ill of any kind. . . No, eight for him, and 
 two for me. . . Nay, all for him ! So he may 
 walk in sunshine, though I brave the storm ! 
 
 A Ragged Little Girl, gazing after her : 
 My ! Ain't she sweet ! I'm her ! 
 15
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 Second Ragged Little Girl, who carries a baby 
 sister in her arms: 
 
 Mais non ! Since one year, me, I 'ave choose 
 Ma'mselle Denise. She's me ! 
 
 First Ragged Little Girl : 
 You sha'n't have her ! She's me ! 
 
 Second Ragged Little Girl: 
 Mais non ! I'm 'er ! I'm 'er ! 
 
 A Man with a child's coffin in his arms : 
 Where shall I put this little scrap? It barely 
 lived to draw one breath. 'Tis not much 
 matter where it lies. 
 
 Sexton; they speak in French: 
 
 Nay, lad, the veriest sparrow hath a value in 
 
 His eyes! Yonder, in the clover-bed, in 
 
 shadow of a flying buttress of the Chapel, where 
 
 the wind is never rough, go dig a nest there 
 
 for the little thing. Perchance some mother 
 
 buried near may hear it if it wake and cry at 
 
 16
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 night, and so will rise and comfort it. (The 
 man passes on.} 
 
 Gordon Leslie, a Young Man : 
 Is this the chapel called St. Roch ? where 
 folks are wont to come to pray ? 
 
 Sexton : 
 Yes, M'sieu. 
 
 Leslie : 
 
 Ah oh 'tis a custom here, I'm told, to 
 burn some candles when one prays for for 
 what one wants ? 
 
 Sexton : 
 
 Mais certainement, M'sieu. If M'sieu will pass 
 at the Chapel, he will see those candle burning 
 now. But, on St. Joseph's day, or on Good 
 Friday, thass the time ! del ! how the eye is 
 dazzle' with those candle on St. Joseph's day ! 
 
 Leslie : 
 
 Ah, I'll take some candles then, for custom's 
 sake. 
 
 17
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 Sexton : 
 How many, M'sieu ? 
 
 Leslie : 
 
 Fifty (the sexton stares}. Oh, I meant twenty- 
 five (hurriedly reddening). Give me the usual 
 number. (The sexton gives him three candles 
 in fiat candle-sticks. He holds these awkwardly 
 as he passes on.) 
 
 A Sewing Woman, very shabbily dressed: 
 
 Two candles, sexton, if you please. (She 
 passes on.) 
 
 Beggar-woman follows her whining: 
 Charite", Madame, Charit ! 
 
 A Ragged Lad: 
 
 I don't want no candles, Mister. I'm goin' 
 to set a minit on one o' them tombstones 
 yonder. (He passes on.) 
 
 18
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 Child, shouting: 
 
 Sand ! Sand ! Here's your nice sand to 
 sprinkle on your graves ! Your nice fresh 
 sand ! 
 
 A Man with a spade on his shoulder, sullenly : 
 I s'pose I've got to dig the grave. It's hard 
 
 a man can't spend his Christmas Day in peace. 
 
 Why must the woman, devil take her ! die on 
 
 Christmas eve ? (He passes on.) 
 
 Sexton, solus: 
 
 Poor soul, to die on Christmas eve when all 
 the world is joyous and alive ! Here's my 
 last candle. It shall burn for her that she 
 may rest in peace.
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 III. 
 
 NOON. WITHIN THE CHAPEL. 
 
 Many candles burning about the foot of the 
 altar. The wooden effigy of St. Roch and his 
 dog above. People kneeling. The wails are 
 hung with votive offerings. 
 
 Denise Durand, after her prayer, watching 
 her candles: 
 
 Now, if the third candle from the end the 
 one that flares and flames as if an unseen 
 spirit blew upon it if that candle should 
 burn out soonest, then I'll take it for a sign 
 he did not mean the cruel things he said. 
 But if the fifth one soonest sinks, why then 
 I'll know he does not love me any more ! 
 
 The Sewing Woman, after her prayer, watch 
 ing her candles: 
 
 How fast they burn ! And yet, before the 
 flames into the sockets sink and die, all will
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 be ended for the child and me. One leap 
 into the River, one cry from those dear baby- 
 lips when over us close the turbid yellow 
 waves, and then no more fierce longings 
 for the past, no shrinking from the future, no 
 hunger more, nor cold, nor hard-eyed scorn 
 for me or my child. 
 
 The Blind Man : 
 
 A cheating saint, a greedy glutton saint ! He'll 
 never make me see, no not unless I burn a 
 dozen candles to his wooden nose. But I'll not, 
 that's flat. 
 
 Leslie, putting down his candles: 
 If those fellows at the Club could see me 
 now ! Well, let them laugh, I care not, I . . 
 . . The good saint, wooden as he looks, 
 knows what / want. I'll leave my candles and 
 my wishes in his care. (He goes out.} 
 
 The Mother, after her prayer, watching her 
 crippled child: 
 
 I think he's paler than he was ! My little 
 
 21
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 braveling, art thou cold ? Lean close to 
 mother, little one, and make thy prayer, thy 
 self, to Jesus that He may heal thee on thy 
 
 birthday, and on His Oh God, my 
 
 boy! my boy ! he's dead! Help! Help! 
 
 The Other Child, frightened: 
 And can my brother run ? 
 
 The Mother, wildly: 
 
 Oh, he has wings now, he can fly! Oh 
 God, my child ! 
 
 Child Outside shouting: 
 
 Sand ! here's your nice clean sand to strew 
 upon your graves ! 
 
 22
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 IV. 
 
 MID-AFTERNOON. BY THE SUN DIAL. 
 
 In the burying-ground by the chapel : many 
 tombs about ; a few people walking among the 
 graves. A Sun Dial near the main footway. 
 
 The Cynic, reading the inscription on the. dial : 
 " I number but the shining hours." Well, 
 precious little work you've got to do, you 
 hoary, moss-grown dial, that's all I have to 
 say. The shining hours in this world are as 
 scarce as honesty in man, or truth and chas 
 tity in woman. Yet once I also thought 
 pshaw, no matter what I thought ! (Sits down 
 on a flat tombstone near the dial?) 
 
 Leslie comes oiit of the chapel and leans on the 
 
 dial. 
 
 Leslie : 
 
 " I number but the shining hours." Ah, those 
 were shining hours indeed, when Lord, what 
 a fool a man can be !
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 Cynic : 
 
 A very just observation indeed, ray friend. 
 But add, if men are fools, women in truth 
 are worse than knaves, and so 
 
 Leslie, angrily: 
 Sir, by what right ? 
 
 Denise, who has approached unperceived, from 
 the chapel: 
 
 Why, Gordon Mr. Leslie! 
 
 Leslie : 
 Denise Miss Durand ! You here ? 
 
 Denise, smiling a little : 
 Mr. Leslie you here? 
 
 Leslie : 
 
 Denise, forgive me ! When I twitted you 
 
 about your superstitions your leaden Virgins 
 
 and your small St. Josephs standing on their 
 
 heads and well your wonderful St. Roch 
 
 24
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 upon his altar here ; and these same twittings 
 led us on from sneer to counter-sneer, until 
 we quarreled 
 
 Denise, interrupting : 
 Then, you'll admit now ? 
 
 Leslie, dubiously : 
 Oh, as to that 
 
 Cynic, under his breath: 
 Soho! the smothered fire breaks out again. 
 Fools ! Well let it scorch them both, aye 
 shrivel them to cinders ! 
 
 Denise : 
 
 Nay, Gordon let it pass. 1 will believe for 
 both of us. But (curiously) what are you do 
 ing here ? 
 
 Leslie, sheepishly: 
 
 To tell the truth Denise, I've got three 
 candles by the altar, there, alight and all for 
 you that I might win you back again. 
 
 25
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 Denise with rapture: 
 
 Oh Gordon! And I have ten alight and 
 all for you. 
 
 Leslie, tenderly : 
 Spendthrift! 
 
 Beggar-woman, approaching : 
 Charite", M'sieu ! Charite", Ma'mselle ! . 
 Merci, M'sieu et Madame la Marine ! (S/ie goes 
 away rattling Gordon's alms in a tin box?) 
 
 Gordon, looking after her : 
 \ prophetess, Denise, a prophetess ! 
 
 The Sewing Woman comes out of the chapel 
 walking hurriedly. The Cynic springing to his 
 feet at sight of her : 
 
 Margaret ! 
 
 Sewing Woman : 
 Philip ! 
 
 Philip, sneeringly, reseating himself: 
 I find you somewhat shabby, Madam, con 
 sidering 
 
 26
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 Margaret, interrupting fiercely: 
 Considering that night and day I drive the 
 needle to ward off starvation from my child 
 
 and yours ! 
 
 Philip: 
 
 Ha, Colburn's money then is spent. Or stay, 
 the story's old and threadbare, Madam, but 'tis 
 short- and true. Will you hear it? The 
 friend, we'll say, beguiles his friend's wife 
 from her home ; then, wearying of her, caste 
 her off. That's all. Oh, shame on him a 
 friend ; on you a wife! 
 
 Margaret, bewildered: 
 
 Colburn . . . beguiles ? Philip, what 
 do you mean ? 
 
 Philip: 
 
 God ! She dares to ask me what I mean \ 
 My home left desolate .... the man I 
 trusted .... my wife and child 
 
 Margaret, passionately : 
 
 Who left it desolate, your home and mine ? 
 Did I not wait there long and weary months 
 
 27
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 for your return ? For you, who left me to be 
 gone a single day ! No word to tell me why 
 you had abandoned wife and child ; no tidings 
 save one cruel line to say that we were hence 
 forth naught to you your wife and child! 
 And then I traced you step by step until I 
 found you here, where for many weary months 
 too proud to beg your charity I have 
 fought hunger and despair not for my own 
 sake, but our child's. 
 
 Philip, trembling : 
 
 But the letter which you wrote .... 
 which said that you and Colburn 
 
 Margaret, turning coldly away: 
 
 I know nothing of such a letter ; nor have I 
 seen George Colburn since he left the house 
 with you. The letters I have written you have 
 come back to me unopened. Oh shame on 
 you, Philip, shame on the father of my child ! 
 28
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 Leslie, interposing courteously: 
 I beg your pardon sir. Do you speak of 
 George Colburn of The Cedars. George Col- 
 burn, who exposed the other day that villain 
 and arch traitor, Allan Carr ? I chance to 
 know 
 
 Philip, suddenly enlightened: 
 Allan Carr ! why I remember now 't was he 
 who brought me news of Margaret's flight with 
 Colburn and her letter. He who ... 
 God forgive me for a dupe, a fool, a brute, an 
 idiot ! Margaret ! 
 
 Margaret, upon his breast sobbing : 
 Oh, Philip ! 
 
 The Sexton comes out of the chapel with the 
 dead body of the little cripple in his arms. 
 The mother follows, mute and anguished. 
 
 The Other Child, querulously: 
 But why does not my brother fly if he has 
 wings ? You said he had wings, Mother. If I 
 29
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 had wings I'd fly to the top of yonder willow 
 tree. (They pass on to the gate.} 
 
 The Blind Man comes out of the chape/. Leslie 
 and Philip drop some coins into his hat. 
 
 . The Blind Man : 
 
 Lord bless you, gentlemen ! I'd liefer hear 
 the silver tinkling in my hat, and feel the 
 smooth round quarters twixt my thumb and 
 finger, any day, than see ! Now fetch me home, 
 boy. (He passes on to the gate.} 
 
 The Ragged Lad, jumping up -with a half-sob 
 from the ground where he has been lying: 
 
 I wisht I hadn't run away from home. 'Taint 
 no fun, nohow. I'm goin' back. I w-want to 
 see my m-mother! (He passes on to the gate.) 
 
 Child, shouting: 
 
 Here's your fresh sand! Here's your last 
 chance to buy some nice fresh sand!
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. KOCH. 
 
 One-legged Negro, in the distance, shouting 
 lustily : 
 
 I'm gvvine home ter give dem sebenteen chil- 
 len an' gran'chillen dey Chris'mus tu'key ! 
 
 Ragged Little Girl in the distance, crooning to 
 her baby -sister : 
 
 " Fais dodo, Minette ! 
 Trois p'ti cochons de lait 
 Endormez-moi cette enfant 
 Jusqu' a 1'age de quinze ans ! 
 Quand quinze ans sera sonne, 
 Nous irons la marier 
 Avec joli 'ti Tintin, 
 P'ti fils de not' voisin. 
 Fais dodo, Minette 
 Do do." 
 
 Margaret: 
 
 Come, Philip, let us hasten to our child. 
 { They pass on, arm in arm, to the gate.} 
 
 Denise, reading the inscription on the dial: 
 "I number but the shining hours." Nay, 
 Gordon, all the hours are shining! (They pass 
 
 an, arm in arm, to the gate.) 
 3i
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 V. 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 The Bell, from its ivied niche : 
 Christ is born, is born! 
 A yellow rim the afterglow of day 
 Belts in the earth, as if a token-ring 
 Of God were slipped about it for a sign 
 Of peace and love. So belted, blessed Earth, 
 Move on among the spheres, and add thy note 
 Of joy to theirs because The Child is born! 
 
 Chorus of Dead People : 
 Sweet is our rest beneath the grassy sod! 
 Secure our niches in the arching vaults, 
 Where Pain nor Sorrow may pursue us more. 
 
 Semi-chorus of Dead Children : 
 We do not care to walk. Our little feet 
 Are safe from all the thorny ways of life. 
 32
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 The Baby in the grave by the Chapel : 
 But I'm afeard! 
 
 The Woman who died on Christmas Eve : 
 
 Is that a baby's voice? 
 Mine arms do yearn for one I left behind! 
 I'm coming, little one; be not afraid! 
 
 Chorus : 
 'Tis sweet to rest for aye beneath the stones! 
 
 The effigy of St. Roch in the Chapel : 
 Christ is born, is born! 
 
 (Dreamily). How soft the stars that shone on 
 Languedoc! 
 
 And so those bold Venetians stole 
 
 my bones 
 
 And from Montpelier, in a time of plague, 
 Bore them away to Venice by the sea. 
 And Doge and Senate welcomed them in state: 
 And Tintoretto at San Rocco there, 
 33
 
 A CHRISTMAS MASQUE OF ST. ROCH. 
 
 Did paint such wonders that the world stood 
 
 still, 
 
 And all for me, who healed him of the plague! 
 Nay, God forgive me! If I boast, forgive, 
 For Thou alone hast power to heal, and Thou 
 To ease the wounded heart; that so the world 
 be blest! 
 
 A whisper from above that thrills the air : 
 The world be blest!
 
 PERE DAGOBERT.
 
 PERE DAGOBERT.* 
 
 None of your meagre, fasting, wild-eyed, spare 
 
 Old friars was Father Dagobert! 
 
 He paced the streets of the Vieux Carre 
 
 In seventeen hundred and somewhat, gay, 
 
 Rubicund, jovial, round and fat. 
 
 He wore a worldly three-cornered hat 
 
 On his shaven pate; he had silken hose 
 
 To his ample legs; and he tickled his nose 
 
 With snuff from a gold tabatiere. 
 
 He listened with courtly, high-bred air 
 
 To the soft-eyed penitente who came 
 
 Kirtled lassie, or powdered dame 
 
 To kneel by the carved confessional 
 
 And breathe in a whisper musical 
 
 The deadliest sin she could recall. 
 
 *See "Notes," page 58. 
 
 37 
 
 85543
 
 PERE DAGOBERT. 
 
 La Nouvelle Orleans' self was young, 
 When the Pere came over from France, a strong, 
 Handsome, rollicking Capuchin brother, 
 Poor as a mouse of the Church, his mother, 
 With a voice like an angel's, sweet and clear. 
 That saints and sinners rejoiced to hear. 
 The town it had grown apace, and he 
 For the goodly half of a century 
 Had blessed its brides when the banns were said, 
 And christened its babies and buried its dead; 
 He had sipped the wines from its finest stores 
 As he played at chess with its Governors; 
 And wherever a feast was forward, there 
 Was a cover for Father Dagobert. 
 
 In the midst of its fields of indigo 
 Where the sleek, black negroes, row on row, 
 Dug and delved for the brotherhood, 
 The stately house of the Order stood ; 
 And here at ease on their fine estate 
 The Pere and his Capuchins slept and ate, 
 And thrived and fattened for many a year, 
 Ungrudged by none of their royal cheer. 
 38
 
 PERE DAGOBERT. 
 
 II. 
 
 But over the wall of this paradise 
 One day the inquisitorial eyes 
 Of the Spanish Padre Cirilo 
 Gazed, horror-stricken! 
 
 " Your Grace must know," 
 He wrote with haste to the Order's head, 
 " What shame by our Order here is spread ; 
 An idle, battening set, they dwell 
 Unmindful each of his cord and cell 
 In a galleried convent, tall and fair, 
 Misgoverned by one named Dagobert 
 (A bibulous Frenchman, gross and fat, 
 Who wears a graceless three-cornered hat, 
 And takes his snuff from a jeweled box). 
 They have cunningly carven singing clocks 
 In their refectory; when they dine 
 They drink the best and the beadiest wine; 
 They have silver spoons and forks nay, more, 
 39
 
 PERE DAGO BERT. 
 
 They have special spoons for the cafe noir 
 That clears their brains when the feast is o'er. 
 
 "This Dagobert" (so the Padre said) 
 Usurps the power of the Church's Head, 
 And cares not a fig what Rome has wrought! 
 The Santa Cruzada itself is naught; 
 And thirty years it hath been, in full, 
 Since Papal or Apostolic Bull 
 Hath reached his flock; but the people fare 
 Content to follow the singing Pere; 
 For in truth he sings, and sings, alas! 
 With a seraph's tongue at the daily mass." 
 
 Further he told how this singing priest 
 Forgot the fast and shifted the feast 
 Of the Holy Church at his own good will, 
 With the people blindly following still. 
 He hinted at comely quadroons a-stare 
 With bold black eyes at morning prayer 
 In the convent chapel, or strolling, gay, 
 Through the convent halls at close of day. 
 4 o
 
 PERE DAGOBERT. 
 
 " And the rascals grow daily richer! Your 
 
 Grace" 
 (He groaned) " Must look to this godless 
 
 place, 
 And humble the head of this haughty friar! " 
 
 His Grace was shocked. With a holy ire 
 
 He sped his edict across the sea. 
 
 But a wrathful Province heard the decree, 
 
 And Governer, Alcalde, citizen staid, 
 
 Riffraff, soldier, matron and maid, 
 
 All swore nor Church, nor State should dare 
 
 To rob them of Father Dagobert! 
 
 So back to Spain the Padre went, 
 
 Humbled himself, and penitent. 
 
 The Pere, unruffled, pursued his way, 
 
 Disturbed nor vexed to his dying day; 
 
 And the friars rejoiced to their convent's core, 
 
 And slept and ate at their ease once more.
 
 PERE DAGOBERT. 
 
 III. 
 
 Down in the weed-grown Cimetiere 
 
 St. Louis reposes the worthy Pere; 
 
 And they say, when the nights are warm and 
 
 sweet, 
 
 And stayed is the sound of passing feet, 
 That he clambers down from his snug retreat 
 In the crumbling vault, and up and down 
 The narrow walks, in his fine serge gown 
 And three-cornered hat, he makes his way, 
 And sings as he goes, till the break of day; 
 And the powdered dames of the old regime, 
 And the pig-tail courtiers, all agleam 
 With jewels and orders, come thronging out 
 From tombs and vaults a shadowy rout 
 To sit a-top of the mouldy stones 
 That cover the common plebeian bones, 
 And listen, all wrapped in a vapory mist; 
 While the hands they have pressed, the lips 
 
 they have kissed 
 
 42
 
 FERE DAGOBERT. 
 
 In the olden days, grow warm again, 
 And the eyes whereon rusty coins have lain 
 For a hundred years and more, grow bright 
 With the deathless joys of a long-gone night. 
 
 A bell in Don Almonaster's tower 
 By the old Place d'Armes rings out the hour. 
 Short in his canticle stops the Pere 
 To cross himself and mutter a prayer; 
 Then he climbs to his chilly resting-place 
 And pulls his cope up over his face, 
 And folds his hands in a patient way, 
 And rests himself through the livelong day. 
 
 The dames and courtiers slowly rise, 
 Brushing the dews from their softened eyes, 
 And courtesying grandly as they go, 
 They pass along in a stately row; 
 They pause at the door of their family tombs 
 Glancing askance at the inner glooms, 
 And lifting a finger with slow demur 
 To say with that air of a connoisseur 
 43
 
 PERE DAGOBERT. 
 
 That greeted a Manon, when she and they 
 Trod the stage of the vieux carrc, 
 " Ma foil 'tis a wondrous thing and rare, 
 The singing of Father Dagobert!" 
 
 44
 
 THROWING THE WANGA.
 
 THROWING THE WANGA.* 
 
 ST. JOHN'S EVE. 
 Shrill over dark blue Pontchar train 
 
 It conies and goes, the weird refrain^ 
 IVanga ! wanga ! 
 
 The trackless swamp is quick with cries 
 Of noisome things that dip and rise 
 On night-grown wings ; and in the deep, 
 Dark pools the monstrous forms that sleep 
 Inert by day uplift their heads. 
 The zela flwver its poison sheds 
 Upon the warm and languorous air ; 
 The lak-vine weaves its noxious snare ; 
 The wide palmetto leaves are stirred 
 By venomed breathings, faintly heard 
 Across the still, star-lighted night. 
 
 *See "Notes," page 58. 
 
 47
 
 THROWING THE VVANGA. 
 
 Her lonely spice-fed fire, alight 
 Upon the black swamp's utmost rim, 
 Now spreads and flares, now smoulders dim; 
 And at her feet they curl and break, 
 The dark blue waters of the lake. 
 
 Her arms are wild above her head 
 Old withered arms, whose charm has fled. 
 
 " Zizi, Creole Zizi, 
 You is slim an' straight ez a saplin' 
 
 Dat grows by de bayou's aidge ; 
 You is brown an' sleek ez a young Bob White 
 
 Whar hides in de yaller sedge. 
 
 "Yo' eyes is black an' shiny, 
 
 An' quick ez de lightnin' flash ; 
 You wuz bawn in de time er freedom, 
 
 An' never is felt de lash. 
 Me, I kin th'ow wanga ! " 
 
 Her dusky face is wracked and seamed, 
 That once like ebon marble gleamed. 
 4 S
 
 THROWING THE WANGA. 
 
 Zizi, Creole Zizi, 
 " You is spry on yo' foot ez de jay-bird 
 
 Whar totes de debble his san'; 
 You kin tole de buckra to yo' side 
 
 By de turnin' o' yo' ban'. 
 
 " Yo' ways is sweet ez de sugar 
 
 You puts in yo' pralines. 
 When de orange flower on de banquette 
 
 draps, 
 
 An' de pistache-nut is green. 
 - Me, I kin th'ow wanga! " 
 
 Her knotted shoulders, brown and bare, 
 The deathless scars of slarehood wear. 
 
 " Zizi, Creole Zizi, 
 You is crope lak a thieft to de do'-yard 
 
 When de moon wuz shinin' high, 
 An' you stole de ole man' heart erway 
 Wid de laughin' in yo' eye. 
 49
 
 THROWING THE WANGA. 
 
 " My ole man! de chillun's daddy! 
 
 We is hoed de cotton row 
 An' shucked de corn-shuck side by side 
 
 Fer forty year an' mo'! 
 
 Me, I kin th'ow wanga! " 
 
 The flames that leap about her feet 
 Burn with a perfume strange and sweet. 
 
 " Zizi, Creole Zizi, 
 Twis' yo'se'f in de coonjine 
 
 Lak a moccasin in the slime; 
 Twis' yo'se'f when de fiddle talks 
 
 Fer de las' endurin' time. 
 
 Den was'e ter de bone in de midnight, 
 In de mawnin' wa'se erway; 
 
 Bu'n wid heat in de winter-time, 
 An' shiver de hottes' day 
 Wanga! Wanga! 
 
 " Onder yo' fla'ntin' tignon 
 De red-hot beetles crawl, 
 
 Wid claws dat sco'ch inter de meat 
 
 An' mek de blood draps fall! 
 50
 
 THROWING THE WANGA. 
 
 " Over yo' bed de screech-owl 
 
 In de midnight screech an' cry! 
 Den kiver yo' head, Creole Zizi 
 
 Den kiver yo' head an' die 
 Wanga! Wanga! " 
 
 Her voice is hushed, she crouches lou< 
 
 Above the embers' flickering glow. 
 
 The swamp-wind wakes, and many a thing 
 
 Unnamed flits by on furry wing ; 
 
 They brush her cheeks unfelt; slie hears 
 
 The far-off songs of other years. 
 
 Her eyes grow tender as she sways 
 And croons above the dying blaze. 
 
 " Oh, de cabin at de quarter in de old planta 
 tion days, 
 Wid de garden patch behin' it an' de gode- 
 
 vine by de do'. 
 An' de do'-yard sot wid roses, whar de chil- 
 
 lun runs and plays, 
 
 An' de streak o' sunshine, yaller lak, er- 
 slantin' on de flo'! 
 51
 
 THROWING THE WANGA. 
 
 "We wuz young an' lakly niggers when de ole 
 
 man fetch me home. 
 Ole Mis' she gin de weddin', an' young 
 
 Mis' she dress de bride! 
 He say he gwineter love me twel de time o' 
 
 kingdom come, "* 
 
 An' forty year an' uperds we is trabble side 
 by side! 
 
 " But ole Mars' wuz killed at Shiloh, an' young 
 
 Mars' at Wilderness: 
 Ole Mis' is in de graveyard, wid young 
 
 Mis' by her side, 
 An' all er we-all's fambly is scattered eas' an' 
 
 wes'. 
 
 An' de gode-vine by de cabin do' an' de 
 roses all has died! 
 
 " My chillun they is scattered too, an' some is 
 
 onder groun'. 
 
 Hit wuz forty years an' uperds we is trab 
 ble, him an me!
 
 THROWING THE WANGA. 
 
 Ole Mis', whar is de glory o' de freedom I 
 
 is foun'? 
 De ole man he is lef me fer de young eyes 
 
 o' Zizi!" 
 
 Her arms are ivild above her head, 
 The softness from her voice has fled. 
 
 " Zizi, Creole Zizi, 
 
 Twis' yo'se'f in de coonjine 
 Lak a moccasin in de slime; 
 
 Kunjur de ole man \vid yo' eye 
 Fer de las' endurin' time! 
 
 " Den cry an' mo'n in de mawnin', 
 
 In de midnight mo'n an' cry, 
 Tvvel de debble has you, han' an' foot, 
 
 Den stretch yo'se'f an' die! 
 Wanga! Wanga! 
 
 53
 
 NOTES.
 
 NOTES. 
 ST. ROCH. 
 
 ST. ROCH'S CHAPEL : A famous mortuary shrine 
 at New Orleans, much frequented by all classes of 
 people. Candles are burned to ensure answer to 
 prayer. 
 
 ST. ROCH : A mediaeval saint born at Montpelier, 
 France (1395). He is said to have come into the 
 world with a small red cross on his breast. Died 
 (1427). His bones were stolen by the Venetians 
 during the plague of 1485, and carried from Mont 
 pelier to Venice. 
 
 St. Roch is invoked in time of sickness. He is 
 locally invested with extraordinary powers and sup 
 posed to be peculiarly potent in obtaining husbands 
 for young women. St. Roch is always represented 
 in company with his dog. 
 
 The beautiful church of San Rocco at Venice, 
 decorated by Tintoretto and his pupils, is dedicated 
 to this saint. 
 
 Small images of St. Joseph are sold at the 
 57
 
 NOTES. 
 
 chapel of St. Roch for charms. Vulgar supersti 
 tion declares that the saint is more efficacious if 
 stood upon his head. 
 
 PERE DAGOBERT. 
 
 PERE DAGOBERT was made Superior of the 
 French Capuchins at New Orleans in 1766. For 
 more than fifty years he continued to be the spiritual 
 father of the Louisiana colonists. The story of his 
 quarrel with Father Cirilo and the Spanish Capu 
 chins is amusingly told by Charles Gayarre" in his 
 History of Louisiana. 
 
 THROWING THE WANGA. 
 
 To throw the Wanga : French, Jeter le \Vanga .- 
 to cast the Vodoo spell.
 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 405 Hilgard Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90024-1388 
 
 Return this material to the library 
 
 from which it was borrowed.
 
 PS 
 
 Davis Mary 
 Evelyn (Moore) 
 A 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 A A 000034555 ; 
 
 PS 
 
 1515 
 
 Ck6