|
"The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth" - William Shakespeare
Much attention is focused upon the love stories of Edgar Allan and Virginia Poe and Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning when discussing great love stories of the 19th century, while the love story of Anglo-French writer, Hilaire Belloc and his Irish-American wife, Elodie Hogan, is often overlooked. It is, however, a touching and romantic tale and the Bellocs actually faced more obstacles than the Poes and the Brownings. For one thing, they lived on two different continents when they met.
Hilaire Belloc was born in 1870 as Joseph Hilaire Pierre Belloc in France, the son of English writer, Elizabeth "Bessie" Parkes and French attorney, Louis Swanton Belloc. On his mother's side, Hilaire was descended from English scientist, Joseph Priestly. His paternal grandparents were French painter, Jean-Hilaire Belloc and Irish/French writer, Louise Swanton Belloc, who translated many authors into French. After the death of their father while they were very young, Hilaire and his older sister, Marie, grew up primarily in England.
Elodie Agnes Hogan was born in 1868 in Napa, California, the child of Irish parents. At the time she met Hilaire Belloc, her mother, Ellen, was already a widow. Mrs. Hogan and her daughters had previously befriended Hilaire's sister and mother. Hilaire encountered the beautiful American girl on her second visit with the Belloc women in 1890, and fell in love at first sight. He squired the young woman around London during her visit and she reciprocated his attentions.
|
|
|
by LANGSTON HUGHES (1902-1967)
I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
|
|
by OSCAR WILDE (1854-1900)
This winter air is keen and cold,
And keen and cold this winter sun,
But round my chair the children run
Like little things of dancing gold.
Sometimes about the painted kiosk
The mimic soldiers strut and stride,
Sometimes the blue-eyed brigands hide
In the bleak tangles of the bosk.
|
|
on Going to the Wars
BY RICHARD LOVELACE (1618–1657)
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the Nunnery
Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind,
To War and Arms I flee.
True, a new Mistress now I chase,
The first Foe in the Field;
And with a stronger Faith embrace
A Sword, a Horse, a Shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.
|
|
|
