[A Voyage to the Isle of Love.]
INTRODUCTION.
Le Voyage de l'Isle d'Amour, that dainty fantasy which has been so admirably translated by Mrs. Behn, is the work of Paul Tallemant, a graceful French littérateur, who was born at Paris, 18 June, 1642. He was brought up in circumstances of affluence and even prodigal luxury until the extravagances and dissipations of both grandfather and father left him whilst yet young in a state of indigence. He thereupon took orders, but, as was not unusual at the time, devoted much attention to art and literature, becoming well known in society for his songs, ballads, idylls, pastorals, and even gallant little operas in which he never ceased to burn incense to the King. He proved so successful that at twenty-four in 1666 he succeeded to the place of Gombaud in the Academy. His chief title to literary renown at that date was none other than Le Voyage de l'Isle d'Amour. Colbert, his patron, procured for him a pension of 500 crowns, the abbeys of Ambierle and Saint-Albin, together with various other posts affording no small emoluments. Tallemant became a popular preacher and society flocked to hear his fashionable discourses. He frequently counted the Queen and Princes of the blood amongst his auditors. He died of an apoplexy in his seventy-first year. His poems, always neat and elegant, can hardly be claimed to have any great value, although they never fail to please. Mrs. Behn has indeed greatly improved upon her original. Le Voyage de l'Isle d'Amour was first printed at Paris, 12mo, 1663. It was reprinted in Le Recueil de pièces galantes; Cologne, 12mo, 1667; again, 'A Leyde. Chez Abraham Gogat.' 12mo, 1671. Le Voyage et la Conqueste de l'Isle d'Amour, le Passe-Partout des Coeurs appeared at Paris 'chez Augustin Besoigne' 1675. With the sub-title La Clef des Coeurs it was issued from van Bulderen's press at the Hague in 1713, 12mo. So it will be seen that the little book enjoyed no small popularity. The best edition is that in volume XXVI of the collection entitled Voyages Imaginaires, Songes, Visions, et Romans Cabalistiques. Amsterdam, 1788. It is illustrated by an exquisitely graceful plate of C. P. Marillier at the lines
Celui que tu vois si sévère,
Est le Respect, fils de l'Amour.
Him whom you see so awful and severe,
Is call'd Respect, the Eldest Son of Love.
A VOYAGE to the ISLE OF LOVE.
An Account from Lisander to Lysidas his Friend.
At last, dear Lysidas, I'l set thee Free,
From the disorders of Uncertainty;
Doubt's the worst Torment of a generous Mind,
Who ever searching what it cannot find,
Is roving still from wearied thought to thought,
And to no settled Calmness can be brought:
The Cowards Ill, who dares not meet his Fate, }
And ever doubting to be Fortunate, }
Falls to that Wretchedness his fears Create. }
I should have dy'd silent, as Flowers decay,
Had not thy Friendship stopt me on my way,
That friendship which our Infant hearts inspir'd,
E're them Ambition or false Love had fir'd:
Friendship! which still enlarg'd with years and sense
Till it arriv'd to perfect Excellence;
Friendship! Mans noblest bus'ness! without whom }
The out-cast Life finds nothing it can own, }
But Dully dyes unknowing and unknown. }
Our searching thought serves only to impart
It's new gain'd knowledge to anothers Heart;
The truly wise, and great, by friendship grow,
That, best instructs 'em how they should be so,
That, only sees the Error of the Mind,
Which by its soft reproach becomes Refin'd;
Friendship! which even Loves mighty power controuls,
When that but touches; this Exchanges Souls.
The remedy of Grief, the safe retreat
Of the scorn'd Lover, and declining great.
This sacred tye between thy self and me,
Not to be alter'd by my Destiny;
This tye, which equal to my new desires
Preserv'd it self amidst Loves softer Fires,
Obliges me (without reserve) t' impart
To Lycidas the story of my Heart;
Tho' 'twill increase its present languishment,
To call to its remembrance past content:
So drowning Men near to their native shore
(From whence they parted ne'er to visit more)
Look back and sigh, and from that last Adieu,
Suffer more pain then in their Death they do:
That grief, which I in silent Calms have born,
It will renew, and rowse into a Storm.