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jour！〃
So Sylvie married a confectioner； and； like Marion in the 〃Ballad of
Forty Years；〃 〃Adrienne's dead〃 in a convent。 That is all the story； all the
idyll。 Gerard also wrote the idyll of his own delirium； and the proofs of
it （Le Reve et la Vie） were in his pocket when they found him dead in La
Rue de la Vieille Lanterne。
Some of his poems have a sweetness and careless grace； like the grace
of his favourite old ballads。 One cannot translate things like this：
〃Ou sont nos amoureuses？ Elles sont au tombeau！ Elles sont plus
heureuses Dans un sejour plus beau。〃
But I shall try the couplets on a Greek air：
〃Neither good morn nor good night。〃
The sunset is not yet； the morn is gone； Yet in our eyes the light hath
paled and passed； But twilight shall be lovely as the dawn； And night shall
bring forgetfulness at last！
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Gerard's poems are few； the best are his vision of a lady with gold
hair and brown eyes； whom he had loved in an earlier existence； and his
humorous little piece on a boy's love for a fair cousin； and on their winter
walk together； and the welcome smell of roast turkey which greets them
on the stairs； when they come home。 There are also poems of his
madness； called Chimeres； and very beautiful in form。 You read and
admire； and don't understand a line； yet it seems that if we were a little
more or a little less mad we would understand：
〃Et j'ai deux fois vainqueur traverse l'Acheron： Modulant tour e tour
sur la lyre d'Orphee Les soupirs de la sainte et les cris de la fee。〃
Here is an attempt to translate the untranslatable； the sonnet called …
〃El Desdichado。〃
I am that dark； that disinherited； That all dishonoured Prince of
Aquitaine； The Star upon my scutcheon long hath fled； A black sun on my
lute doth yet remain！ Oh； thou that didst console me not in vain； Within
the tomb； among the midnight dead； Show me Italian seas； and blossoms
wed； The rose； the vine…leaf； and the golden grain。
Say； am I Love or Phoebus？ have I been Or Lusignan or Biron？ By a
Queen Caressed within the Mermaid's haunt I lay； And twice I crossed the
unpermitted stream； And touched on Orpheus' lyre as in a dream； Sighs of
a Saint； and laughter of a Fay！
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ON BOOKS ABOUT RED MEN
To Richard Wilby； Esq。； Eton College； Windsor。
My Dear Dick；It is very good of you； among your severe studies at
Eton； to write to your Uncle。 I am extremely pleased to hear that your
football is appreciated in the highest circles； and shall be happy to have as
good an account of your skill in making Latin verses。
I am glad you like 〃She；〃 Mr。 Rider Haggard's book which I sent you。
It is 〃something like；〃 as you say； and I quite agree with you； both in being
in love with the heroine； and in thinking that she preaches rather too much。
But； then； as she was over two thousand years old； and had lived for most
of that time among cannibals； who did not understand her； one may excuse
her for 〃jawing；〃 as you say； a good deal； when she met white men。 You
want to know if 〃She〃 is a true story。 Of course it is！
But you have read 〃She；〃 and you have read all Cooper's； and
Marryat's； and Mr。 Stevenson's books； and 〃Tom Sawyer；〃 and
〃Huckleberry Finn；〃 several times。 So have I； and am quite ready to
begin again。 But； to my mind； books about 〃Red Indians〃 have always
seemed much the most interesting。 At your age； I remember； I bought a
tomahawk； and； as we had also lots of spears and boomerangs from
Australia； the poultry used to have rather a rough time of it。
I never could do very much with a boomerang； but I could throw a
spear to a hair's breadth； as many a chicken had occasion to discover。
When you go home for Christmas I hope you will remember that all this
was very wrong； and that you will consider we are civilized people； not
Mohicans； nor Pawnees。 I also made a stone pipe； like Hiawatha's； but I
never could drill a hole in the stem； so it did not 〃draw〃 like a civilized
pipe。
By way of an awful warning to you on this score； and also； as you say
you want a true book about Red Indians； let me recommend to you the
best book about them I ever came across。 It is called 〃A Narrative of the
Captivity and Adventures of John Tanner； during Thirty Years' Residence
among the Indians；〃 and it was published at New York by Messrs。 Carvill；
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in 1830。
If I were an American publisher； instead of a British author （how I
wish I was！） I'd publish 〃John Tanner〃 again； or perhaps cut a good deal
out； and make a boy's book of it。 You are not likely to get it to buy； but
Mr。 Steevens； the American bookseller； has found me a copy。 If I lend
you it； will you be kind enough to illustrate it on separate sheets of paper；
and not make drawings on the pages of the book？ This will； in the long
run； be more satisfactory to yourself； as you will be able to keep your
pictures； for I want 〃John Tanner〃 back again： and don't lend him to your
fag…master。
Tanner was born about 1780； he lived in Kentucky。 Don't you wish
you had lived in Kentucky in Colonel Boone's time？ The Shawnees were
roaming about the neighbourhood when Tanner was a little boy。 His uncle
scalped one of them。 This made bad feeling between the Tanners and the
Shawnees； but John； like any boy of spirit； wished never to learn lessons；
and wanted to be an Indian brave。 He soon had more of being a brave
than he liked； but he never learned any more lessons； and could not even
read or write。
One day John's father told him not to leave the house； because from
the movements of the horses； he knew that Indians were in the woods。 So
John seized the first chance and nipped out； and ran to a walnut tree in one
of the fields； where he began filling his straw hat with walnuts。 At that
very moment he was caught by two Indians； who spilled the nuts； put his
hat on his head； and bolted with him。 One of the old women of the tribe
had lost her son； and wanted to adopt a boy； and so they adopted Johnny
Tanner。 They ran with him till he was out of breath； till they reached the
Ohio； where they threw him into a canoe； paddled across； and set off
running again。
In ten days' hard marching they reached the camp； and it was worse
than going to a new school； for all the Indians kicked John Tanner about；
and 〃their dance；〃 he says； 〃was brisk and cheerful； after the manner of the
scalp dance！〃 Cheerful for John！ He had to lie between the fire and the
door of the lodge； and every one who passed gave him a kick。 One old
man was particularly cruel。 When Tanner was grown up； he came back
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to that neighbourhood； and the firs