No More Learning

On arriving at home, they found a knife-grinder's cart posted
in front of the house. A man with long and shaggy black locks
stood busily turning the wheel and humming a gipsy air, while
a dog, harnessed to his little vehicle, lay growling beside him
on the ground. In the hall stood a ragged girl, with disfigured
though once beautiful features, who stretched her hand towards
Elizabeth, imploring charity. Reinhardt felt in his pocket; but
Elizabeth was too quick for him, and hastily pouring the whole
contents of her purse into the beggar's hand, she turned abruptly


## p. 14049 (#235) ##########################################

THEODOR STORM
14049
away.
Reinhardt heard her smothered sobs as she passed up the
stairs.
His first impulse was to follow her, but instantly recollecting
himself, he remained behind. The girl still stood motionless in
the hall, the money just given her in her hand,
“What do you want ? » asked Reinhardt.
She started violently. "I want nothing more, » said she.
Then turning her head and fixing on him her piercing gaze, she
retreated slowly towards the door. A cry, a name, burst from
his lips; but she heard it not. With bowed head, and arms
folded on her breast, she crossed the court-yard below; while in
his ear there sounded the long-forgotten and ominous words, -
«Death, death will o'ertake me,
Friendless,- alone. ”
For a few moments the very power of breathing seemed sus-
pended; then he too turned, and sought the solitude of his own
chamber.
He seated himself, and tried to study: but he could not collect
his scattered thoughts; and after wasting an hour in a fruitless
effort to fix his attention, he went down to the general sitting-
room. No one was there, - only the cool green twilight. On
Elizabeth's work-table lay a red ribbon she had worn the previ-
ous day. He took it in his hand; but its very touch gave him
pain, and he laid it down on its old resting-place. He could not
rest. He went down to the lake, and unmooring the boat, he
steered across, and once more went over every spot that he had
visited so shortly before with Elizabeth. When he again returned
to the house it was dark, and in the court-yard he met the coach-
man taking the carriage-horses to graze; the travelers were just
returned. As he entered the hall, he heard Eric pacing up and
down the garden-room. Reinhardt could not go to him. A
moment he paused irresolute; then he softly mounted the stairs
leading to his own room. Here he threw himself into an arm-
chair at the window. He tried to persuade himself that he was
listening to the nightingale which was already singing among the
yew-trees beneath him; but he only heard the wild throbbing of
his own heart. Below in the house all were going to rest. The
night passed away; but he felt it not. For hours he sat thus.
At length he rose, and lay down in the open window.
. The
night-dew trickled between the leaves; the nightingale had left
XXIV—879


## p. 14050 (#236) ##########################################

14050
THEODOR STORM
off singing. Gradually towards the east the deep blue of the
leaves was broken by a pale yellow flush; a fresh breeze sprang
up and played on Reinhardt's burning forehead; the first lark
sprang rejoicing in the air. Reinhardt turned quickly from the
window, and went to the table. He felt for a pencil, with which
he traced a few lines on a loose sheet of paper. This done, he
took his hat and stick, and leaving the note on his desk, he care-
fully opened the door and descended into the hall. The gray dawn
still rested in every corner: the great cat stretched herself out
on the straw mat, and rubbed herself against the hand which he
unconsciously held towards her. In the garden, however, the
sparrows were already twittering among the branches, and pro-
claimed to every one that the night was past. Suddenly he heard
a door open above. Some one came down the stairs, and as he
looked up, Elizabeth stood before him. She laid her hand on
his arm; she moved her lips, but he caught no sound.
« Thou
wilt never come back," said she at length. “I know it. Do not
deceive me.
Thou wilt never come back. ”
"Never! ” said he. She let her hand fall, and said no more.
He crossed the hall to the door, and there he once more turned
towards her. She stood motionless on the same spot, and gazed
after him with dead, glazing eyes. He made one step forward,
and stretched out his arms; then violently he tore himself away,
and went out. Without lay the world in the fresh morning light.
The dewdrops hanging in the spiders' webs sparkled in the first
rays of the sun. He looked not behind. Quickly he hurried for-
ward; and as he left that quiet home farther and farther behind,
there rose before him the wide, wide world.
(
»
Translation of H. Clark.


## p. 14051 (#237) ##########################################

14051
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
(1819–1896)
verse.
ILLIAM WETMORE STORY made himself accomplished in two
arts, like Blake or Rossetti. As a sculptor he was distin-
guished, and he was a graceful writer of both prose and
His statues of Edward Everett, George Peabody, Francis
Scott Key, Lowell, Bryant, Theodore Parker, or of such ideal or
historical subjects as Cleopatra, Medea, and The African Spirit, gave
him wide reputation. His published writings are of a varied nature,
ranging from legal books to love lyrics and odes of occasion. He
was one of those cultured Americans who
by long residence abroad become cosmopoli-
tan in spirit, and reflect their environment
in their work.
William Wetmore Story's father was
Judge Joseph Story, the noted jurist, whose
life the son wrote. William was born in
Salem, Massachusetts, February 19th, 1819;
and after being graduated from Harvard in
1838, studied law, was admitted to the bar,
and published several legal works. But the
desire to follow an art was strong in him;
and in 1848 he went to Rome, became a
sculptor, wrote many books, and resided at W. W. STORY
the Italian capital the remainder of his life,
a conspicuous member of the American colony. He died there in
1896.
As early as 1842 Story was editing and publishing law reports; and
two years later appeared his Phi Beta Kappa poem at Harvard. His
first book of 'Poems' dates from 1847; half a dozen volumes of verse
were printed during a period of well-nigh half a century,- the final
volume being A Poet's Portfolio' (1894), a volume of mingled prose
and verse in dialogue form, continuing the earlier (He and She:
A Poet's Portfolio (1883), and containing clever social verse and
pungent prose comment on life. Perhaps his most picturesque and
sympathetic prose is to be found in “Roba di Roma: or Walks and
Talks about Rome (1862), to which a sequel was “The Castle of St.
Angelo and the Evil Eye. ' Other books of essays are Conversations



## p. 14052 (#238) ##########################################

14052
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
in a Studio' (1890), and 'Excursions in Arts and Letters' (1891), –
polished, vigorous, often suggestive in thought and happy in expres-
sion. Story's sympathies are broad, and he is sensitive to the finer
issues of life and thought. In his mature poems he is the humanist
and apostle of culture.
A favorite verse form with him was the dramatic monologue made
famous by Browning, and many of his lyrics and narratives show the
influence of the Italy of art and literature. The most worthy of his
poetry is that gathered in the two volumes entitled Poems,' pub-
lished in 1886, and embodying several books previously issued.
THE GHETTO IN ROME
From (Roba di Roma. ' Copyright 1887, by William W. Story. Published by
Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
a
B° derived from the Talmud Ghet, and signifying segregation
and disjunction — is opprobrious; and fitly describes the
home of a people cut off from the Christian world, and banned
as infamous. Stepping out from the Piazza di Pianto, we plunge
at once down a narrow street into the midst of the common class
of Jews. The air reeks with the peculiar frowzy smell of old
woolen clothes, modified with occasional streaks of strata of
garlic; while above all triumphs the foul human odor of a
crowded and unclean population. The street is a succession of
miserable houses, and every door opens into a dark shop. Each
of these is wide open; and within and without, sprawling on
the pavement, sitting on benches and stools, standing in the
street, blocking up the passages, and leaning out of the upper
windows, are swarms of Jews,-fat and lean, handsome and
hideous, old and young, -as thick as ants around an ant-hill.
The shop doors are draped with old clothes, and second-hand
roba of every description. Old military suits of furbished shab-
biness, faded silken court dresses of a past century, with worn
embroidery, napless and forlorn dress-coats with shining seams
and flabby skirts, waistcoats of dirty damask, legs of velvet
breeches,- in a word, all the cast-off riffraff of centuries that
have fallen from their high estate,” are dangling everywhere
overhead. Most of the men are lounging about and leaning
against the lintels of the doors, or packed upon benches ranged


## p. 14053 (#239) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14053
in front of the shops. The children are rolling round in the
dirt, and playing with cabbage ends and stalks, and engaged in
numerous and not over-clean occupations. The greater part of
the women, however, are plying the weapon of their tribe, with
which they have won a world-wide reputation, - the needle, -
and, bent closely over their work, are busy in renewing old gar-
ments and hiding rents and holes with its skillful web-work.
Everybody is on the lookout for customers; and as you pass
down the street, you are subject to a constant fusillade of, “Pst,
Pst," from all sides. The women beckon you, and proffer their
At times they even seize the skirts of your coat in their
eagerness to tempt you to a bargain. The men come solemnly
up, and whisper confidentially in your ear, begging to know what
wares.
you seek
( C
Is there anything you can possibly want ? If so, do not be
abashed by the shabbiness of the shop, but enter, and ask even
for the richest thing. You will find it, if you have patience.
But once in the trap, the manner of the seller changes: he
dallies with you as a spider with a fly, as a cat with a mouse.
Nothing is to be seen but folded cloths on regular shelves -
all is hidden out of sight. At first, and reluctantly, he produces
a common, shabby enough article. “Oh no, that will never do,-
too common. ” Then gradually he draws forth a better specimen.
"Not good enough? why, a prince might be glad to buy it! ”
Finally, when he has wearied you out, and you turn to go,
he understands it is some superb brocade embroidered in gold,
some gorgeous portière worked in satin, some rich tapestry with
Scripture stories, that you want; and with a sigh he opens a
cupboard and draws it forth. A strange combination of incon-
sistent and opposite feelings has prevented him from exhibiting
it before. He is divided between a desire to keep it and a
longing to sell it. He wishes, if possible, to eat his cake and
have it too; and the poor ass in the fable between the two bun-
dles of hay was not in a worse quandary. At last, the article
you seek makes its appearance. It is indeed splendid, but you
must not admit it. It may be the dress the Princess d'Este wore
centuries ago,-faded, but splendid still; or the lace of Alexander
VI. the Borgia; or an ancient altar cloth with sacramental spots;
or a throne carpet of one of the popes. Do you really wish
to buy it, you must nerve yourself to fight. He begins at the
zenith, you at the nadir; and gradually, by dint of extravagant
laudation on his part, and corresponding depreciation on yours,


## p. 14054 (#240) ##########################################

14054
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
your side.
you approach each other. But the distance is too great, - the
bargain is impossible. You turn and go away.
He runs after
you when he sees that you are not practicing a feint, and offers
it for less; but still the price is too high, and he in turn leaves
you. You pass along the street. With a mysterious and con-
fidential air, another of the tribe approaches you. He walks by
Was it a gold brocade you wanted ? He also has one
like that which you have seen, only in better condition. Would
your Signoria do him the favor to look at it? You yield to his
unctuous persuasion, and enter his shop; but what is your aston-
ishment when, after a delusive show of things you do not want,
the identical article for which you have been bargaining is again
produced in this new shop, and asserted stoutly, and with a faint
pretense of indignation, to be quite another piece! This game
is sometimes repeated three or four times. Wherever you enter,
your old friend, Monsieur Tonson like, makes its appearance;
and you are lucky if you obtain it at least for twice its value,
though you only pay a twentieth part of the price originally
asked.
All the faces you see in the Ghetto are unmistakably Hebraic,
but very few are of the pure type. Generally it is only the dis-
agreeable characteristics that remain: the thick peculiar lips, the
narrow eyes set close together, and the nose thin at the junction
with the eyebrows, and bulbous at the end. Centuries of degra-
dation have for the most part imbruted the physiognomy, and all
of them have a greasy and anointed look. Here and there you
will see a beautiful black-eyed child, with a wonderful mass of
rich tendril-like curls, rolling about in the dirt; or a patriarchal-
looking old Abraham, with a full beard, and the pure Israelite
nose hooked over the mustache, and cut up backward in the nos-
trils. Hagars, too, are sometimes to be seen; and even stately
Rebeccas at rarer intervals stride across the narrow street, with a
proud, disdainful look, above their station; but old Sarahs abound,
- fat, scolding, and repulsive, - who fill to the extreme edge the
wide chair on which they sit, while they rest their spuddy hands
on their knees, and shake all over like jelly when they laugh.
Almost all the faces are however of the short, greasy, bulbous
type, and not of the long, thin, hook-nosed class. No impurity
of breed and caste has sufficed to eradicate from them the Jew-
ish characteristics.
As it is with the faces, so it is with the names,
Hebrew names have in great measure disappeared, or been inter-
The pure


## p. 14055 (#241) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14055
married with Italian surnames. These surnames are for the most
part taken from some Italian city, or borrowed from some stately
Italian house, with a pure Jewish prefix; as for instance, Isaac
Volterra, Moses Gonzaga, Jacob Ponticorvo. So also their speech
is Roman, and their accent thick and Jewish. It is seldom that
one hears them speak in their original Hebrew tongue, though
they all understand it, and employ it in their religious services.
The place and the people are in perfect keeping. The Ghetto
is the high carnival of old clothes, the May-fair of rags. It is
the great receptacle into which the common sewers of thievery
and robbery empty. If a silver salver, a gold watch, a sparkling
jewel, be missed unaccountably, it will surely run down into the
Ghetto. Your old umbrella, your cloak that was stolen from the
hall, the lace handkerchief with your initials embroidered in one
corner, your snuff-box that the Emperor of Russia presented you,
there lurk in secret holes, and turn up again after months
or years of seclusion. In this columbarium your lost inanimate
friends are buried, but not without resurrection.
Crammed together, layer above layer, like herrings in a bar-
rel, the Jews of Rome are packed into the narrow confines of
the Ghetto. Three of the modern palaces of Rome would more
than cover the whole Jewish quarter; yet within this restricted
space are crowded no less than four thousand persons. Every
inch has its occupant; every closet is tenanted. And this seems
the more extraordinary in spacious and thinly populated Rome,
where houses go a-begging for tenants, and where, in the vast
deserted halls and chambers of many a palace, the unbrushed
cobwebs of years hang from decaying walls and ceilings. With
the utmost economy of room, there is scarcely space ,enough to
secure privacy and individuality; and herded together like a huge
family, they live in their sty.
-
THE KING OF THE BEGGARS
From (Roba di Roma. Copyright 1887, by William W. Story. Published by
Houghton, Miffin & Co.
D'
IRECTLY above the Piazza di Spagna, and opposite to the Via
de' Condotti, rise the double towers of the Trinità de'
Monti. The ascent to them is over one hundred and
thirty-five steps, planned with considerable skill, so as to mask


## p. 14056 (#242) ##########################################

14056
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
the steepness of the Pincian, and forming the chief feature of
the Piazza. Various landings and dividing walls break up their
monotony; and a red-granite obelisk, found in the gardens of Sal-
lust, crowns the upper terrace in front of the church.
All day
long these steps are flooded with sunshine, in which, stretched
at length, or gathered in picturesque groups, models of every age
and both sexes bask away the hours when they are free from
employment in the studios. Here in a rusty old coat, and long
white beard and hair, is the «Padre Eterno”; so called from his
constantly standing as model for the First Person of the Trinity
in religious pictures. Here is the ferocious bandit, with his thick
black beard and conical hat; now off duty, and sitting with his
legs wide apart, munching in alternate bites an onion which
he holds in one hand, and a lump of bread which he holds in
the other. Here is the contadina, who spends her studio life in
praying at a shrine with upcast eyes, or lifting to the Virgin
her little sick child, or carrying a perpetual copper vase to the
fountain, or receiving imaginary bouquets at a Barmecide car-
nival. Here is the invariable pilgrim, with his scallop-shell, who
has been journeying to St. Peter's and reposing by the way near
aqueducts or broken columns so long that the memory of man
runneth not to the contrary; and who is now fast asleep on his
back, with his hat pulled over his eyes. When strangers come
along, the little ones run up and thrust out their hands for
baiocchi; and so pretty are they with their large, black, lustrous
eyes, and their quaint, gay dresses, that a new-comer always
finds something in his pocket for them. Sometimes a group of
artists passing by will pause and steadily examine one of these
models, turn him about, pose him, point out his defects and
excellences, give him a baiocco, and pass on. It is, in fact, a
models' exchange.
All this is on the lower steps, close to the Piazza di Spagna;
but as one ascends to the last platform, before reaching the
upper piazza in front of the Trinità de' Monti, a curious squat
figure, with two withered and crumpled legs, spread out at right
angles and clothed in long blue stockings, comes shuffling along
on his knees and hands, which are protected by clogs. As it
approaches, it turns suddenly up from its quadrupedal position;
takes off its hat; shows a broad, stout, legless torso, with a vigor-
ous chest and a ruddy face, as of a person who has come half-way
up from below the steps through a trap-door, and with a smile


## p. 14057 (#243) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14057
»
((
whose breadth is equaled only by the cunning which lurks
round the corners of the eyes, says, in the blandest and most
patronizing tones, with a rising inflection, “Buon giorno, signore !
Oggi fa bel tempo,” or “fa cattivo tempo," as the case may be.
This is no less a person than Beppo, King of the Beggars, and
Baron of the Scale di Spagna. He is better known to travelers
than the Belvedere Torso of Hercules at the Vatican; and has all
the advantage over that wonderful work, of having an admirable
head and a good digestion. Hans Christian Andersen has cel-
ebrated him in The Improvisatore,' and unfairly attributed to
him an infamous character and life; but this account is purely
fictitious, and is neither vero nor ben trovato. Beppo, like other
distinguished personages, is not without a history. The Romans
say of him, "Era un signore in paese suo” – “He was a gentle-
man in his own country”; and this belief is borne out by a cer-
tain courtesy and style in his bearing which would not shame
the first gentleman in the land. He was undoubtedly of a good
family in the provinces, and came to Rome while yet young to
seek his fortune. His crippled condition cut him off from any
active employment, and he adopted the profession of a mendicant
as being the most lucrative and requiring the least exertion.
Remembering Belisarius, he probably thought it not beneath his
own dignity to ask for an obolus. Should he be above doing
what a great general had done? However this may be, he cer-
tainly became a mendicant, after changing his name; and steadily
pursuing this profession for more than a quarter of a century, by
dint of his fair words, his bland smiles, and his constant «Fa
buon tempo,” and “Fa cattivo tempo,” – which, together with his
withered legs, were his sole stock in starting,- he has finally
amassed a very respectable little fortune. He is now about fifty-
five years of age; has a wife and several children; and a few
years ago, on the marriage of a daughter to a very respectable
tradesman, he was able to give her what was considered in Rome
a very respectable dowry. The other day, a friend of mine met
a tradesman of his acquaintance running up the Spanish steps.
“Where are you going in such haste ? ” he inquired.
“ To my banker. ”
your
banker ? But what banker is there above the
« To
steps ? »
)
"Only Beppo," was the grave answer. "I want sixty scudi,
and he can lend them to me without difficulty. ”
"Really? ”
(


## p. 14058 (#244) ##########################################

14058
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
»
“Of course. Come vi pare ? " said the other, as he went on
to his banker.
Beppo hires his bank — which is the upper platform of the
steps — of the government, at a small rent per annum; and woe
to any poor devil of his profession who dares to invade his
premises! Hither, every day at about noon, he comes mounted
on his donkey and accompanied by his valet, a little boy, who,
though not lame exactly, wears a couple of crutches as a sort of
livery; and as soon as twilight begins to thicken and the sun is
gone, he closes his bank (it is purely a bank of deposit), crawls
up the steps, mounts a stone post, and there majestically waits
for his valet to bring the donkey. But he no more solicits de-
posits. His day is done; his bank is closed; and from his post
he looks around, with a patronizing superiority, upon the poorer
members of his profession, - who are soliciting with small success
the various passers-by, -as a king smiles down upon his subjects.
The donkey being brought, he shuffles on to its crupper, and
makes a joyous and triumphant passage down through the streets
of the city to his home. The bland business smile is gone. The
wheedling subserviency of the day is over. The cunning eye
opens largely. He is calm, dignified, and self-possessed. He
mentions no more the state of the weather. “What's Hecuba to
him," at this free moment of his return ? It is the large style
in which all this is done that convinces me that Beppo was a
“signor in paese suo. ” He has a bank, and so had Prince Torlo-
nia and Sir Francis Baring. But what of that ? he is a gentleman
still. The robber knights and barons demanded toll of those who
passed their castles, with violence and threats, and at the bloody
point of their swords. Whoso passes Beppo's castle is prayed in
courtesy to leave a remembrance, and receives the blandest bow
and thanks in return. Shall we then say the former are nobles
and gentlemen, the other is a miserable beggar? Is it worse
to ask than to seize ? Is it meaner to thank than to threaten?
If he who is supported by the public is a beggar, our kings are
beggars, our pensions are charity. Did not the Princess Royal
hold out her hand the other day to the House of Commons ?
and does any one think the worse of her for it? We are all,
in measure, beggars; but Beppo, in the large style of kings and
robber-barons, asks for his baiocco, and like the merchant-princes,
keeps his bank. I see dukes and noble guards in shining hel-
mets, spurs, and gigantic boots, ride daily through the streets on
horseback, and hurry to their palaces; but Beppo, erectly mounted


## p. 14059 (#245) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14059
on his donkey, in his short jacket (for he disdains the tailored
skirts of a fashionable coat, though at times over his broad
shoulders a great blue cloak is grandly thrown, after the man.
ner of the ancient emperors), is far more impressive, far more
princely, as he slowly and majestically moves at nightfall towards
his august abode. The shadows close around him as he passes
along; salutations greet him from the damp shops; and darkness
at last swallows up for a time the great square torso of the
"King of the Beggars. "
Such is Beppo as he appears on the public 'change. His pri-
vate life is involved somewhat in obscurity; but glimpses have
been had of him which indicate a grand spirit of hospitality, and
condescension not unworthy of the best days of his ancestors, the
barons of the Middle Ages. Innominato, a short time since, was
passing late at night along the district of the Monti, when his
attention was attracted by an unusual noise and merry-making
in one of its mean little osterie or bettole. The door was ajar;
and peeping in, he beheld a gallant company of roisterers of the
same profession as Beppo, with porters, and gentlemen celebrated
for lifting in other ways. They were gathered round a table,
drinking merrily; and mounted in the centre of it, with his with-
ered legs crooked under him, sat Baron Beppo, the high-priest of
the festive rites. It was his banquet; and he had been strictly
Scriptural in his invitations to all classes from the street. He
was the Amphitryon who defrayed the cost of the wine, and ac-
knowledged with a smile and a cheerful word the toasts of his
guests; and when Innominato saw him, he was as glorious” as
Tam O'Shanter. He was not under the table, simply because he
was on it; and he had not lost his equilibrium, solely because
he rested upon so broad a base. Planted like an oak, his legs
figuring the roots, there he sat, while the jolly band of beggars
and rascals were “rousing the night-owl with a catch," and the
blood of the vine was freely flowing in their cups. The conver-
sation was very idiomatic and gay, if not aristocratic, and Beppo's
tongue wagged with the best. It was a most cheering spectacle.
The old barons used to sit above the salt, but Baron Beppo sat
higher yet,- or rather, he reminded one of classic days, as,
mounted there like a Bacchic Torso, he presided over the noisy
rout of Silenus,
Beppo has, however, fallen lately into disgrace. His break-
fast had perhaps disagreed with him, perhaps he had “roused
(
>


## p. 14060 (#246) ##########################################

14060
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
(
the night-owl” too late on the previous night, and perhaps his
nerves were irritated by a bad “scirocco”; but certain it is that
one unfortunate morning an English lady to whom he applied
for qualche cosa” made some jocosely intended answer, to the
effect that he was as rich as she, and alluded, it is said, to the
dowry he had given his daughter; whereupon it became suddenly
“cattivo giorno” with Beppo, and he suffered himself to threaten
her, and even, as some accounts go, to throw stones; and the
lady having reported him to the authorities, Beppo went into
forced retirement for a time. I was inade aware of this one day
by finding his bank occupied by a new figure and face. Aston-
ished at the audacity of this interloper, I stopped and said, “And
Beppo, where is he? The jolly beggar then informed me, in a
very high and rather exulting voice (I am sorry to say), begin-
ning with a sharp and prolonged eh-e-e-e-h, that the police
had laid violent hands on Beppo, because he had maltreated an
English lady, and that he ought to have known better, but
come si fa”; and that for the present he was at San Michele.
Beppo having repented, and it is to be hoped amended, during
his sojourn in that holy hospice, has now again made his appear-
ance in the world. But during his absence the government has
passed a new and salutary law, by which beggars are forbidden
publicly to practice their profession, except upon the steps of
the churches. There they may sit and extend their hand, and
ask charity from those who are going to their prayers; but they
may no longer annoy the public, and especially strangers in the
street. Beppo, therefore, keeps no more his bank on the steps
of the Piazza di Spagna; but has removed it to those of the
church of St. Agostino, where, at least for the present, he is
open to the “receipt of custom. ”
The words of the previous sentence are now, alas! no longer
true. Since they were written and printed last, Beppo has passed
away from among the living to join the great company, among
which Lazarus is not the least. Vainly the eye of the stranger
will seek him on the steps of the Piazza di Spagna, or on those
of St. Agostino. The familiar figure has gone.
The places
which have known him will know him no more; and of the large
and noble company of mendicants at Rome, there is not one left
who could fitly wear the mantle that has fallen from his shoul.
ders.


## p. 14061 (#247) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14061
SPRING IN ROME
From Roba di Roma. Copyright 1887, by William W. Story. Published by
Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
SI
PRING has come. The nightingales already begin to bubble
into
song
under the Ludovisi ilexes and in the Barberini
Gardens. Daisies have snowed all over the Campagna, peri-
winkles star the grass, crocuses and anemones impurple the
spaces between the rows of springing grain along the still brown
slopes. At every turn in the streets basketfuls of sweet-scented
Parma violets are offered you by little girls and boys; and at the
corner of the Condotti and Corso is a splendid show of camellias,
set into beds of double violets, and sold for a song. Now and
then one meets huge baskets filled with these delicious violets
on their way to the confectioners and caffès, where they will
be made into sirup; for the Italians are very fond of this bibita,
and prize it not only for its flavor, but for its medicinal qualities.
Violets seem to rain over the villas in spring; acres are purple
with them, and the air all around is sweet with their fragrance.
Every day scores of carriages are driving about the Borghese
grounds, which are open to the public: and hundreds of children
are running about, plucking fowers and playing on the lovely
slopes and in the shadows of the noble trees; while their parents
stroll at a distance and wait for them in the shady avenues.
There too you will see the young priests of the various semi-
naries, with their robes tucked up, playing at ball, and amusing
themselves at various sports.
If one drives out at any of
the gates he will see that spring is come. The hedges are put-
ting forth their leaves, the almond-trees are in full blossom, and
in the vineyards the contadini are setting cane-poles, and trimming
the vines to run upon them. Here and there along the slopes the
rude antique plow, dragged heavily along by great gray oxen,
turns up the rich loam, that needs only to be tickled to laugh out
in flowers and grain. Here and there, the smoke of distant bon-
fires, burning heaps of useless stubble, shows against the dreamy
purple hills like the pillar of cloud that led the Israelites. One
smells the sharp odor of these fires everywhere, and hears them
crackle in the fields:-
.
“Atque levem stipulam crepitantibus urere flammis. ”
(And stubble easily burned with crackling flames. )


## p. 14062 (#248) ##########################################

14062
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
[The following poems are copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of
Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers. )
CLEOPATRA
DEDICATED TO J. L. M.
H*
ERE, Charmian, take my bracelets,-
They bar with a purple stain
My arms; turn over my pillows, --
They are hot where I have lain;
Open the lattice wider,
A gauze on my bosom throw,
And let me inhale the odors
That over the garden blow.
I dreamed I was with my Antony,
And in his arms I lay;
Ah, me! the vision has vanished
The music has died away.
The flame and the perfume have perished,
As this spiced aromatic pastille
That wound the blue smoke of its odor
Is now but an ashy hill.
Scatter upon me rose-leaves,-
They cool me after my sleep;
And with sandal odors fan me
Till into my veins they creep;
Reach down the lute, and play me
A melancholy tune,
To rhyme with the dream that has vanished,
And the slumbering afternoon.
There, drowsing in golden sunlight,
Loiters the slow smooth Nile
Through slender papyri, that cover
The wary crocodile.
The lotus lolls on the water,
And opens its heart of gold,
And over its broad leaf-pavement
Never a ripple is rolled.
The twilight breeze is too lazy
Those feathery palms to wave,


## p. 14063 (#249) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14063
And yon little cloud is as motionless
As a stone above a grave.
Ah, me! this lifeless nature
Oppresses my heart and brain!
Oh! for a storm and thunder -
For lightning and wild fierce rain!
Fling down that lute — I hate it!
Take rather his buckler and sword,
And crash them and clash them together
Till this sleeping world is stirred.
Hark! to my Indian beauty,-
My cockatoo, creamy white,
With roses under his feathers,-
That flashes across the light.
Look! listen! as backward and forward
To his hoop of gold he clings,
How he trembles, with crest uplifted,
And shrieks as he madly swings!
O cockatoo, shriek for Antony!
Cry, “Come, my love, come home! »
Shriek, “Antony! Antony! Antony! ”
Till he hears you even in Rome.
There — leave me, and take from my chamber
That stupid little gazelle,
With its bright black eyes so meaningless,
And its silly tinkling bell!
Take him,- my nerves he vexes,
The thing without blood or brain,-
Or by the body of Isis,
I'll snap his thin neck in twain!
Leave me to gaze at the landscape
Mistily stretching away,
Where the afternoon's opaline tremors
O'er the mountains quivering play;
Till the fiercer splendor of sunset
Pours from the west its fire,
And melted, as in a crucible,
Their earthly forms expire;
And the bald blear skull of the desert
With glowing mountains is crown
wned,
That burning like molten jewels
Circle its temples round.


## p. 14064 (#250) ##########################################

14064
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
a
I will lie and dream of the past time,
Æons of thought away,
And through the jungle of memory
Loosen my fancy to play:
When, a smooth and velvety tiger,
Ribbed with yellow and black,
Supple and cushion-footed,
I wandered where never the track
Of a human creature had rustled
The silence of mighty woods,
And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom,
I knew but the law of my moods.
The elephant, trumpeting, started
When he heard my footstep near,
And the spotted giraffes fled wildly
In a yellow cloud of fear.
I sucked in the noontide splendor,
Quivering along the glade,
Or yawning, panting, and dreaming,
Basked in the tamarisk shade,
Till I heard my wild mate roaring,
As the shadows of night came on
To brood in the trees' thick branches,
And the shadow of sleep was gone;
Then I roused, and roared in answer,
And unsheathed from my cushioned feet
My curving claws, and stretched me,
And wandered my mate to greet.
We toyed in the amber moonlight,
Upon the warm flat sand,
And struck at each other our massive arms,-
How powerful he was and grand !
His yellow eyes flashed fiercely
As he crouched and gazed at me,
And his quivering tail, like a serpent,
Twitched, curving nervously.
Then like a storm he seized me,
With a wild triumphant cry,
And we met, as two clouds in heaven
When the thunders before them fly.
We grappled and struggled together,
For his love like his rage was rude;
And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck
At times, in our play, drew blood.


## p. 14065 (#251) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14065
Often another suitor -
For I was fexile and fair –
Fought for me in the moonlight,
While I lay couching there,
Till his blood was drained by the desert;
And, ruffled with triumph and power,
He licked me and lay beside me
To breathe him a vast half-hour.
Then down to the fountain we loitered,
Where the antelopes came to drink;
Like a bolt we sprang upon them,
Ere they had time to shrink;
We drank their blood and crushed them,
And tore them limb from limb,
And the hungriest lion doubted
Ere he disputed with him.
That was a life to live for!
Not this weak human life,
With its frivolous bloodless passions,
Its poor and petty strife!
Come to my arms, my hero:
The shadows of twilight grow,
And the tiger's ancient fierceness
In my veins begins to flow.
Come not cringing to sue me!
Take me with triumph and power,
As a warrior storms a fortress!
I will not shrink or cower.
Come as you came in the desert,
Ere we were women and men,
When the tiger passions were in us,
And love as you loved me then!
THE CHIFFONIER
I
AM a poor Chiffonier!
I seek what others cast away!
In refuse-heaps the world throws by,
Despised of man, my trade I ply;
And oft I rake them o'er and o'er,
And fragments broken, stained, and torn,
XXIV-880


## p. 14066 (#252) ##########################################

14066
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
I gather up, and make my store
Of things that dogs and beggars scorn.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
You see me in the dead of night
Peering along with pick and light,
And while the world in darkness sleeps,
Waking to rake its refuse-heaps:
I scare the dogs that round them prowl,
And light amid the rubbish throw:
For precious things are hid by foul,
Where least we heed and least we know.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
No wretched and rejected pile,
No tainted mound of offal vile,
No drain or gutter I despise,
For there may lie the richest prize.
And oft amid the litter thrown,
A silver coin a golden ring -
Which holdeth still its precious stone,
Some happy chance to me may bring.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
-
These tattered rags, so soiled and frayed,
Were in a loom of wonder made,
And beautiful and free from shame
When from the master's hand they came.
The reckless world that threw them off
Now heeds them only to despise;
Yet, ah! despite its jeers and scoff,
What virtue still within them lies!
I am the poor Chiffonier!
Yes! all these shreds so spoiled and torn,
These ruined rags you pass in scorn,
This refuse by the highway tost,
I seek that they may not be lost;
And, cleansed from filth that on them lies,
And purified and purged from stain,
Renewed in beauty they shall rise
To wear a spotless form again.
I am the poor Chiffonier!


## p. 14066 (#253) ##########################################



## p. 14066 (#254) ##########################################


HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.


## p. 14066 (#255) ##########################################

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## p. 14066 (#256) ##########################################


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## p. 14067 (#257) ##########################################

14067
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
(1811-1896)
BY GEORGE S. MERRIAM
ARRIET BEECHER Srowe shared the general conditions of
inheritance and nurture which bred the strongest group of
thinkers and authors that America has produced. It was
the peculiarity of early New England to combine an intense interest
in the supreme questions of human destiny, regarded as the basis of
the personal life, with the closest application to industrial and practi-
cal affairs. Calvinism stimulated thought on religious problems; and
austere conditions of soil and climate enforced on the sturdy English
stock the practice of industry, thrift, and shrewdness. For two cen-
turies the narrowness of the dogmatic creed, and the awfulness of its
sanctions, checked any free or original exploit of the intellect. Then
came in a great enlargement of conditions, and a fresh stimulus.
With the birth of the nation, brains and hands began to stretch out
from their provincial cradle toward continental expansion. The rise
of national questions; the impulse from Europe, stirred to its founda-
tion by the French Revolution, and giving birth to new literatures;
the outburst of the protest against Calvinism, which had been secretly
growing for generations; a new ardor in the churches for missions
and reforms; an advance in material comfort which widened oppor-
tunity and did not yet enervate,- those were among the influences
which enriched and mellowed the soil in which hardy shoots had
been growing, and out of which now flowered a brilliant little com-
pany of thinkers, poets, and story-tellers.
Mrs. Stowe was the daughter of Lyman Beecher, the foremost
orthodox minister of his time; a man of sturdy, aggressive, exuberant
nature, the father of a notable family of sons and daughters. His
biography is one of the richest portraitures of New England life in
the first half of the century. It shows how the sensitive and thought-
ful child grew up in an atmosphere of theological discussion, which
stiinulated the mind and by turns satisfied and distressed the heart,
while her observation and sense of humor found rich material. She
was largely endowed with imagination, with sensibility, with the
mystic's temper. She became the wife of a theological professor
with scanty means; and the tenderness of motherly experience was
mixed with the pressing cares of the household. By a removal to


## p. 14068 (#258) ##########################################

14068
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
the West she gained knowledge of more various society and institu-
tions, and then came back to the quiet of a Maine village, to ponder
in her heart all she had seen and heard and felt.
The interest of the North in the slave system of the South was
especially due to a little company of strenuous agitators, who were
instant in season and out of season in denouncing slavery as the sum
of all villainies. The violence of tone which generally characterized
the Abolitionists, and their readiness to denounce all men and all
institutions that did not fully agree with them, limited the influence
due to their purity and heroism. The conservatism of commerce, the
timidity of politicians, above all, the remoteness of the whole matter
from the personal knowledge of the Northern people, long restrained
the mass of the community from any very wide or active interest in
the subject. Mrs. Stowe's sympathy had been profoundly touched by
the tales of wrong and suffering that had come to her ears from
escaped slaves while she lived in Cincinnati. She had pondered the
whole question of slavery,— with a woman's heart, a poet's imagina-
tion, and a mind schooled by company with masculine and logical
thinkers. Then the political interests of the whole country were
focused upon the slavery question, by the great Congressional debate
on the Compromise measures in 1850. Conspicuous in that legislation
was the Fugitive Slave Act, making elaborate provision for the rendi-
tion of fugitive slaves from their Northern refuge. This law, and the
scenes incident to its enforcement, brought the reality of slavery
home to the Northern people closer than ever before, while it also
implicated them more directly in the support of the system. But
inertia and timidity still held back the mass of politicians, churches,
and the general community, from effective action or energetic protest.
Then this woman in her busy home in the quiet village, shedding
tears at midnight over the sorrows of slave wives and mothers, found
her imagination possessed by the scenes of a slave's story. It was
transferred to paper almost automatically. Then other scenes linked
themselves together, -scenes of pathos, of humor, of racy conversa-
tion, of dramatic action, of anguish, and of rapture. The whole story
was born and grew,- an inspiration, a creation, mysterious and beau-
tiful as the growth of a human life. It was given to the public, and
it took captive the heart of America and of the world.