Books and Habits, from the Lectures of Lafcadio Hearn. Lafcadio Hearn

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СКАЧАТЬ scarcely had we entered the main street, than he cried out: “Oh, I have seen this place before!” Of course he had not seen it before; he was from Osaka and had never left the great city until then. But the pleasure of his new experience had given him this feeling of familiarity with the unfamiliar. I do not pretend to explain this familiarity with the new—it is a great mystery still, just as it was a great mystery to the Roman Cicero. But almost everybody that has been in love has probably had the same feeling during a moment or two—the feeling “I have known that woman before,” though the where and the when are mysteries. Some of the modern poets have beautifully treated this feeling. The best example that I can give you is the exquisite lyric by Rossetti entitled “Sudden Light.”

      I have been here before,

      But when or how I cannot tell:

      I know the grass beyond the door,

      The sweet keen smell,

      The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

      You have been mine before—

      How long ago I may not know:

      But just when at that swallow’s soar

      Your neck turn’d so,

      Some veil did fall—I knew it all of yore.

      Has this been thus before?

      And shall not thus time’s eddying flight

      Still with our lives our loves restore

      In death’s despite,

      And day and night yield one delight once more?

      I think you will acknowledge that this is very pretty; and the same poet has treated the idea equally well in other poems of a more complicated kind. But another poet of the period was haunted even more than Rossetti by this idea—Arthur O’Shaughnessy. Like Rossetti he was a great lover, and very unfortunate in his love; and he wrote his poems, now famous, out of the pain and regret that was in his heart, much as singing birds born in cages are said to sing better when their eyes are put out. Here is one example:

      Along the garden ways just now

      I heard the flowers speak;

      The white rose told me of your brow,

      The red rose of your cheek;

      The lily of your bended head,

      The bindweed of your hair:

      Each looked its loveliest and said

      You were more fair.

      I went into the woods anon,

      And heard the wild birds sing

      How sweet you were; they warbled on,

      Piped, trill’d the self-same thing.

      Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause

      The burden did repeat,

      And still began again because

      You were more sweet.

      And then I went down to the sea,

      And heard it murmuring too,

      Part of an ancient mystery,

      All made of me and you:

      How many a thousand years ago

      I loved, and you were sweet—

      Longer I could not stay, and so

      I fled back to your feet.

      The last stanza especially expresses the idea that I have been telling you about; but in a poem entitled “Greater Memory” the idea is much more fully expressed. By “greater memory” you must understand the memory beyond this life into past stages of existence. This piece has become a part of the nineteenth century poetry that will live; and a few of the best stanzas deserve to be quoted,

      In the heart there lay buried for years

      Love’s story of passion and tears;

      Of the heaven that two had begun

      And the horror that tore them apart;

      When one was love’s slayer, but one

      Made a grave for the love in his heart.

      The long years pass’d weary and lone

      And it lay there and changed there unknown;

      Then one day from its innermost place,

      In the shamed and ruin’d love’s stead,

      Love arose with a glorified face,

      Like an angel that comes from the dead.

      It uplifted the stone that was set

      On that tomb which the heart held yet;

      But the sorrow had moulder’d within

      And there came from the long closed door

      A dear image, that was not the sin

      Or the grief that lay buried before.

      There was never the stain of a tear

      On the face that was ever so dear;

      ’Twas the same in each lovelier way;

      ’Twas old love’s holier part,

      And the dream of the earliest day

      Brought back to the desolate heart.

      It was knowledge of all that had been

      In the thought, in the soul unseen;

      ’Twas the word which the lips could not say

      To redeem or recover the past.

      It was more than was taken away

      Which the heart got back at the last.

      The passion that lost its spell,

      The rose that died where it fell,

      The look that was look’d in vain,

      The prayer that seemed lost evermore,

      They were found in the heart again,

      With all that the heart would restore.

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