If anybody thinks I mean these
words for a sarcasm, he is mistaken: no slur on official life, or
on what the world calls a man's vocation, is intended.
words for a sarcasm, he is mistaken: no slur on official life, or
on what the world calls a man's vocation, is intended.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v01 - A to Apu
In (St.
Margaret's Eve,' and in many
other ballads, Allingham expresses the broader, more dramatic sweep
of the ballad, and reveals his Celtic ancestry.
The lovable Irishman, William Allingham, worked hard to enter
the brotherhood of poets. When he was only fourteen his father
took him from school to become clerk in the town bank of which he
himself was manager. «The books which he had to keep for the
next seven years were not those on which his heart was set,” says
Mr. George Birkbeck Hill. But this fortune is almost an inevitable
part, and probably not the worst part, of the training for a literary
vocation; and he justified his ambitions by pluckily studying alone
till he had mastered Greek, Latin, French, and Germån.
Mr. Hill, in his Letters of D. G. Rossetti? (Atlantic Monthly,
May, 1896), thus quotes Allingham's own delightful description of his
early home at Ballyshannon, County Donegal:-
(The little old town where I was born has a voice of its own, low, solemn,
persistent, humming through the air day and night, summer and winter.
Whenever I think of that town I seem to hear the voice. The river which
makes it rolls over rocky ledges into the tide. Before spreads a great ocean in
sunshine or storm; behind stretches a many-islanded lake. On the south runs
a wavy line of blue mountains; and on the north, over green rocky hills rise
peaks of a more distant range. The trees hide in glens or cluster near the
river; gray rocks and bowlders lie scattered about the windy pastures. The
## p. 429 (#463) ############################################
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
429
sky arches wide over all, giving room to multitudes of stars by night, and
long processions of clouds blown from the sea; but also, in the childish mem-
ory where these pictures live, to deeps of celestial blue in the endless days of
summer. An odd, out-of-the-way little town, ours, on the extreme western
edge of Europe; our next neighbors, sunset way, being citizens of the great
new republic, which indeed, to our imagination, seemed little if at all farther
off than England in the opposite direction. ”
of the cottage in which he spent most of his childhood and
youth he writes:-
«Opposite the hall door a good-sized walnut-tree leaned its wrinkled stem
towards the house, and brushed some of the second-story panes with its
broad, fragrant leaves. To sit at that little upper window when it was open to
a summer twilight, and the great tree rustled gently, and sent one leafy spray
so far that it even touched my face, was an enchantment beyond all telling.
Killarney, Switzerland, Venice, could not, in later life, come near it. On three
sides the cottage looked on flowers and branches, which I count as one of the
fortunate chances of my childhood; the sense of natural beauty thus receiving
its due share of nourishment, and of a kind suitable to those early years. ”
At last a position in the Customs presented itself:-
«In the spring of 1846 I gladly took leave forever of discount ledgers
and current accounts, and went to Belfast for two months' instruction in the
duties of Principal Coast Officer of Customs; a tolerably well-sounding title,
but which carried' with it a salary of but £80 a year. I trudged daily about
the docks and timber-yards, learning to measure logs, piles of planks, and,
more troublesome, ships for tonnage; indoors, part of the time practiced cus-
toms book-keeping, and talked to the clerks about literature and poetry in a
way that excited some astonishment, but on the whole, as I found at parting,
a certain degree of curiosity and respect. I preached Tennyson to them.
My spare time was mostly spent in reading and haunting booksellers' shops
where, I venture to say, I laid out a good deal more than most people, in pro-
portion to my income, and managed to get glimpses of many books which I
could not afford or did not care to buy. I enjoyed my new position, on the
whole, without analysis, as a great improvement on the bank; and for the
rest, my inner mind was brimful of love and poetry, and usually all external
things appeared trivial save in their relation to it. ”
Of Allingham's early song-writing, his friend Arthur Hughes
says:-
« Rossetti, and I think Allingham himself, told me, in the early days of our
acquaintance, how in remote Ballyshannon, where he was a clerk in the Cus-
toms, in evening walks he would hear the Irish girls at their cottage doors
singing old ballads, which he would pick up. If they were broken or incom-
plete, he would add to them or finish them; if they were improper he would
refine them. He could not get them sung till he got the Dublin Catnach of
that day to print them, on long strips of blue paper, like old songs, and if
about the sea, with the old rough woodcut of a ship on the top. He either
## p. 430 (#464) ############################################
430
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
gave them away or they were sold in the neighborhood. Then, in his evening
walks, he had at last the pleasure of hearing some of his own ballads sung at
the cottage doors by the blooming lasses, who were quite unaware that it was
the author who was passing by. ”
In 1850 Allingham published a small volume of lyrics whose fresh-
ness and delicacy seemed to announce a new singer, and four years
later his Day and Night Songs' strengthened this impression.
Stationed as revenue officer in various parts of England, he wrote
much verse, and published also the “The Rambles of Patricius Walker,'
a collection of essays upon his walks through England; Lawrence
Bloomfield in Ireland, the tale of a young landlord's efforts to
improve the condition of his tenantry; an anthology, Nightingale
Valley' (1862), and an excellent collection of English ballads, "The
Ballad Book) (1865).
In 1870 he gladly embraced an opportunity to leave the Customs
for the position of assistant editor of Fraser's Magazine under Froude,
whom he afterward succeeded as editor. He was now a member of
a brilliant literary circle, knew Tennyson, Ruskin, and Carlyle, and
was admitted into the warm friendship of the Pre-Raphaelites. But
in no way does he reflect the Pre-Raphaelite spirit by which he was
surrounded; nor does he write his lyrics in the metres and rhythms
of mediæval France. He is as oblivious of rondeaux, ballades, and
roundels, as he is of fair damosels with cygnet necks and full pome-
granate lips. He is a child of nature, whose verse is free from all
artificial inspiration or expression, and seems to flow easily, clearly,
and tenderly from his pen. Some of it errs in being too fanciful.
In the Flower-Songs, indeed, he sometimes becomes trivial in his
comparison of each English poet to a special flower; but his poetry
is usually sincere with an undercurrent of pathos, as in “The Ruined
Chapel,' 'The Winter Pear, and the Song. ' For lightness of touch
and aerial grace, 'The Bubble) will bear comparison with any verse
of its own genre.
(Robin Redbreast has many delightful lines; and
in "The Fairies' one is taken into the realm of Celtic folklore, which
is Allingham's inheritance, where the Brownies, the Pixies, and the
Leprechauns trip over the dew-spangled meadows, or dance on the
yellow sands, and then vanish away in fantastic mists. Quite differ-
ent is Lovely Mary Donnelly, which is a sample of the popular songs
that made him a favorite in his own country.
After his death at Hampstead in 1889, his body was cremated
according to his wish, when these lines of his own were read:
Body to purifying flame,
Soul to the Great Deep whence it came,
Leaving a song on earth below,
An urn of ashes white as snow. ”
## p. 431 (#465) ############################################
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
431
THE RUINED CHAPEL
B ,
Y THE shore, a plot of ground
Clips a ruined chapel round,
Buttressed with a grassy mound;
Where Day and Night and Day go by
And bring no touch of human sound.
Washing of the lonely seas,
Shaking of the guardian trees,
Piping of the salted breeze;
Day and Night and Day go by
To the endless tune of these.
Or when, as winds and waters keep
A hush more dead than any sleep,
Still morns to stiller evenings creep,
And Day and Night and Day go by;
Here the silence is most deep.
The empty ruins, lapsed again
Into Nature's wide domain,
Sow themselves with seed and grain
As Day and Night and Day go by;
And hoard June's sun and April's rain.
Here fresh funeral tears were shed;
Now the graves are also dead;
And suckers from the ash-tree spread,
While Day and Night and Day go by;
And stars move calmly overhead.
From Day and Night Songs. "
THE WINTER PEAR
IS
S ALWAYS Age severe?
Is never Youth austere ?
Spring-fruits are sour to eat;
Autumn's the mellow time.
Nay, very late in the year,
Short day and frosty rime,
Thought, like a winter pear,
Stone-cold in summer's prime,
May turn from harsh to sweet.
From Ballads and Songs. .
## p. 432 (#466) ############################################
432
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
SONG
O
SPIRIT of the Summer-time!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.
Bring back the friendship of the sun;
The gilded evenings calm and late,
When weary children homeward run,
And peeping stars bid lovers wait.
Bring back the singing; and the scent
Of meadow-lands at dewy prime;
Oh, bring again my heart's content,
Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
From Day and Night Songs. >
THE BUBBLE
SEF
EE the pretty planet!
Floating sphere!
Faintest breeze will fan it
Far or near;
World as light as feather;
Moonshine rays,
Rainbow tints together,
As it plays.
Drooping, sinking, failing,
Nigh to earth,
Mounting, whirling, sailing,
Full of mirth;
Life there, welling, flowing,
Waving round;
Pictures coming, going,
Without sound.
Quick now, be this airy
Globe repelled!
Never can the fairy
Star be held.
Touched - it in a twinkle
Disappears!
Leaving but a sprinkle,
As of tears.
From (Ballads and Songs,
## p. 433 (#467) ############################################
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
433
ST. MARGARET'S EVE
I
BUILT my castle upon the seaside,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
Half on the land and half in the tide,
Love me true!
Within was silk, without was stone,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
It lacks a queen, and that alone,
Love me true!
The gray old harper sang to me,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
«Beware of the Damsel of the Sea ! »
Love me true!
Saint Margaret's Eve it did befall,
The waves roll so gayly O,
The tide came creeping up the wall,
Love me true!
I opened my gate; who there should stand-
The waves roll so gayly 0,
But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand,
Love me true!
The cup was gold, and full of wine,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
“Drink,” said the lady, “and I will be thine,»
Love me true!
“Enter my castle, lady fair,”
The waves roll so gayly O,
« You shall be queen of all that's there,
Love me true!
A gray old harper sang to me,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
« Beware of the Damsel of the Sea! ”
Love me true!
In hall he harpeth many a year,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
And we will sit his song to hear,
Love me true!
1-28
## p. 434 (#468) ############################################
434
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
“I love thee deep, I love thee true,"
The waves roll so gayly 0,
«But ah! I know not how to woo,”
Love me true!
Down dashed the cup, with a sudden shock,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
The wine like blood ran over the rock,
Love me true!
She said no word, but shrieked aloud,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
And vanished away from where she stood,
Love me true!
I locked and barred my castle door,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
Three summer days I grieved sore,
Love me true!
For myself a day, a night,
The waves roll so gayly O,
And two to moan that lady bright,
Love me true!
From (Ballads and Songs.
THE FAIRIES
(A CHILD'S SONG)
U
P THE airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men:
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some have made their home;
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow-tide foam.
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
## p. 435 (#469) ############################################
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
435
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Sliveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay northern lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag leaves
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall feel their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men:
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
From "Ballads and Songs.
## p. 436 (#470) ############################################
436
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
ROBIN REDBREAST
(A Child's SONG)
G
OOD-BY, good-by, to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away -
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house.
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
From Ballads and Songs.
## p. 437 (#471) ############################################
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
437
AN EVENING
A
SUNSET's mounded cloud;
A diamond evening-star;
Sad blue hills afar:
Love in his shroud.
Scarcely a tear to shed;
Hardly a word to say:
The end of a summer's day;
Sweet Love is dead.
From Day and Night Songs. )
DAFFODIL
G
OLD tassel upon March's bugle-horn,
Whose blithe reveille blows from hill to hill
And every valley rings - 0 Daffodil!
What promise for the season newly born ?
Shall wave on wave of flow'rs, full tide of corn,
O'erflow the world, then fruited Autumn fill
Hedgerow and garth? Shall tempest, blight, or chill
Turn all felicity to scathe and scorn ?
Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring
Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird
Of evil augury is seen or heard :
Come now, like Pan's old crew, we'll dance and sing,
Or Oberon's: for hill and valley ring
To March's bugle-horn, - Earth's blood is stirred.
From (Flower Pieces. '
LOVELY MARY DONNELLY
(To an Irish Tune)
O
LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!
If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest.
Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,
How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many
a shock.
Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower,
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.
## p. 438 (#472) ############################################
438
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up:
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup;
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine,
It's rolling down upon her neck and gathered in a twine.
The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all before;
No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor;
But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but she was gay!
She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,
The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet;
The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,
But blessed himself he wasn't deaf, when once her voice she
raised.
And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your
hands,
And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.
Oh, you're the flower o'womankind in country or in town;
The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.
If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty
bright,
And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.
Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall,
Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress:
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less.
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low:
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!
From Ballads and Songs. '
## p. 439 (#473) ############################################
439
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
(1793-1866)
LMQUIST, one of the most versatile writers of Sweden, was a
man of strange contrasts, a genius as uncertain as a will-o'-
the-wisp. His contemporary, the famous poet and critic
Atterbom, writes:-
«What did the great poets of past times possess which upheld them under
even the bitterest worldly circumstances ? Two things: one a strong and
conscientious will, the other a single — not double, much less manifold - deter-
mination for their work, oneness. They were not self-seekers; they sought,
they worshiped something better than themselves. The aim which stood
dimly before their inmost souls was not the enjoyment of flattered vanity; it
was a high, heroic symbol of love of honor and love of country, of heavenly
wisdom. For this they thought it worth while to fight, for this they even
thought it worth while to suffer, without finding the suffering in itself strange,
or calling earth to witness thereof.
The writer of (Törnrosens Bok)
[The Book of the Rose) is one of these few; he does therefore already reign
over a number of youthful hearts, and out of them will rise his time of honor,
a time when many of the celebrities of the present moment will have faded
away. ”
Almquist was born in Stockholm in 1793.
When still a very
young man he obtained a good official position, but gave it up in
1823 to lead a colony of friends into the forests of Värmland, where
they intended to return to a primitive life close to the heart of
nature. He called this colony a «Man's-home Association, and
ordained that in the primeval forest the members should live in turf-
covered huts, wear homespun, eat porridge with a wooden spoon,
and enact the ancient freeholder. The experiment was not successfui,
he tired of the manual work, and returning to Stockholm, became
master of the new Elementary School, and began to write text-books
and educational works. His publication of a number of epics,
dramas, lyrics, and romances made him suddenly famous. Viewed
a whole, this collection is generally called The Book of the
Rose, but at times "En Irrande Hind' (A Stray Deer). Of this, the
two dramas, “Signora Luna' and Ramido Marinesco,' contain some
of the pearls of Swedish literature. Uneven in the plan and execu-
tion, they are yet masterly in dialogue, and their dramatic and
tragic force is great. Almquist's imagination showed itself as indi-
vidual as it is fantastic. Coming from a man hitherto known as the
writer of text-books and the advocate of popular social ideas, the
as
## p. 440 (#474) ############################################
440
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
volumes aroused extraordinary interest. The author revealed himself
as akin to Novalis and Victor Hugo, with a power of language like
that of Atterbom, and a richness of color resembling Tegnér's. At-
terbom himself wrote of (Törnrosens Bok) that it was a work whose
« faults were exceedingly easy to overlook and whose beauties ex-
ceedingly difficult to match. ”
After this appeared in rapid succession, and written with equal
ease, lyrical, dramatic, educational, poetical, æsthetical, philosophical,
moral, and religious treatises, as well as lectures and studies in his-
tory and law; for Almquist now gave all his time to literary labors.
His novels showed socialistic sympathies, and he put forth news-
paper articles and pamphlets on Socialism which aroused considerable
opposition. Moreover, he delighted in contradictions. One day he
wrote as an avowed Christian, extolling virtue, piety, and Christian
knowledge; the next, he abrogated religion as entirely unnecessary:
and his own explanation of this variability was merely –“I paint so
because it pleases me to paint so, and life is not otherwise. ”
In 1851 was heard the startling rumor that he was accused of
forgery and charged with murder. He fled from Sweden and disap-
peared from the knowledge of men. Going to America, he earned
under a fictitious name a scanty living, and became, it is said, the
private secretary of Abraham Lincoln. In 1866 he found himself
again under the ban of the law, his papers were destroyed, and he
escaped with difficulty to Bremen, where he died.
One of his latest works was his excellent modern novel, Det Går
An' (It's All Right), a forerunner of the problem novel of the day.
It is an attack upon conventional marriage, and pictures the helpless-
ness of a woman in the hands of a depraved man. Its extreme
views called out violent criticism.
He was a romanticist through and through, with a strong leaning
toward the French school. Among the best of his tales are (Ara-
minta May,' (Skällnora Quarn' (Skällnora's Mill), and “Grimstahamns
Nybygge (Grimstahamn's Settlement). His idyl Kapellet' (The
Chapel) is wonderfully true to nature, and his novel 'Palatset" (The
Palace) is rich in humor and true poesy. His literary fame will
probably rest on his romances, which are the best of their kind in
Swedish literature.
## p. 441 (#475) ############################################
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
441
CHARACTERISTICS OF CATTLE
A
NY one with a taste for physiognomy should carefully observe
the features of the ox and the cow; their demeanor and
the expression of their eyes. They are figures which bear
an extraordinary stamp of respectability. They look neither joy.
ful nor melancholy. They are seldom evilly disposed, but never
sportive. They are full of gravity, and always seem to be going
about their business. They are not merely of great economic
service, but their whole persons carry the look of it. They are
the very models of earthly carefulness.
Nothing is ever to be seen more dignified, more official-look-,
ing, than the whole behavior of the ox; his way of carrying his
head, and looking around him.
If anybody thinks I mean these
words for a sarcasm, he is mistaken: no slur on official life, or
on what the world calls a man's vocation, is intended. I hold
them all in as much respect as could be asked. And though I
have an eye for contours, no feeling of ridicule is connected in
my mind with any of these. On the contrary, I regard the ox
and the cow with the warmest feelings of esteem. I admire in
them a naïve and striking picture of one who minds his own
business; who submits to the claims of duty, not using the
word in its highest sense; who in the world's estimate is dig-
nified, steady, conventional, and middle-aged,—that is to say,
neither youthful nor stricken in years.
Look at that ox which stands before you, chewing his cud
and gazing around him with such unspeakable thoughtfulness -
but which you will find, when you look more closely into his
eyes, is thinking about nothing at all. Look at that discreet,
excellent Dutch cow, which, gifted with an inexhaustible udder,
stands quietly and allows herself to be milked as a matter of
course, while she gazes into space with a most sensible express-
ion. Whatever she does, she does with the same imperturbable
calmness, and as when a person leaves an important trust to his
own time and to posterity. If the worth of this creature is
thus great on the one side, yet on the other it must be con-
fessed that she possesses not a single trait of grace, not a
particle of vivacity, and none of that quick characteristic retreat-
ing from an object which indicates an internal buoyancy, an
elastic temperament, such as we see in a bird or fish.
There is something very agreeable in the varied lowing of cattle
## p. 442 (#476) ############################################
442
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
when heard in the distant country, and when replied to by a
large herd, especially toward evening and amid echoes. On the
other hand, nothing is more unpleasant than to hear all at once,
and just beside one, the bellowing of a bull, who thus authori.
tatively announces himself, as if nobody else had any right to
utter a syllable in his presence.
A NEW UNDINE
From The Book of the Rose)
M
ISS RUDENSKÖLD and her companion sat in one of the pews
in the cheerful and beautiful church of Normalm, which
is all that is left of the once famous cloister of St. Clara,
and still bears the saint's name. The sermon was finished, and
the strong full tones of the organ, called out by the skillful
hands of an excellent organist, hovered like the voices of unseen
angel choirs in the high vaults of the church, floated down to
the listeners, and sank deep into their hearts.
Azouras did not speak a single word; neither did she sing,
for she did not know a whole hymn through. Nor did Miss
Rudensköld sing, because it was not her custom to sing in
church. During the organ solo, however, Miss Rudensköld vent-
ured to make some remarks about Dr. Asplund's sermon which
was so beautiful, and about the notices afterward which were so
tiresome. But when her neighbor did not answer, but sat look-
ing ahead with large, almost motionless eyes, as people stare
without looking at anything in particular, she changed her sub-
ject.
At one of the organ tones which finished a cadence, Azouras
started, and blinked quickly with her eyelids, and a light sigh
showed that she came back to herself and her friend, from her
vague contemplative state of mind. Something indescribable,
very sad, shone in her eyes, and made them almost black; and
with a childlike look at Miss Rudensköld she asked, "Tell me
what that large painting over there represents. ”
«The altar-piece? Don't you know? The altar-piece in Clara
is one of the most beautiful we possess. ”
"What is going on there ? ” asked Azouras.
Miss Rudensköld gave her a side glance; she did not know
that her neighbor in the pew was a girl without baptism, with.
out Christianity, without the slightest knowledge of holy religion,
## p. 443 (#477) ############################################
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQVIST
443
a heathen -and knew less than a heathen, for such a one has
his teachings, although they are not Christian. Miss Rudensköld
thought the girl's question came of a momentary forgetfulness,
and answered, to remind her:-
“Well, you see, it is one of the usual subjects, but unusually
well painted, that is all. High up among the other figures in
the painting you will see the half-reclining figure of one that is
dead - see what an expression the painter has put into the face!
- That is the Saviour. ”
« The Saviour ? »
“Yes, God's son, you know; or God Himself. ”
“And he is dead ? » repeated Azouras to herself with wonder-
ing eyes. «Yes, I believe that; it must be so: it is godlike to
die !
Miss Rudensköld looked at her neighbor with wide-opened
eyes. “You must not misunderstand this subject,” she said. It
is human to live and want to live; you can see that, too, in the
altar-piece, for all the persons who are human beings, like our-
selves, are alive. ”
“Let us go out! I feel oppressed by fear - no, I will tarry
here until my fear passes away. Go, dearest, I will send you
word. ”
Miss Rudensköld took leave of her; went out of the church
and over the churchyard to the Eastern Gate, which faces Oden's
lane.
The girl meanwhile stayed inside; came to a corner in the
organ stairs; saw people go out little by little; remained unob-
served, and finally heard the sexton and the church-keeper go
away. When the last door was closed, Azouras stepped out of
her hiding-place. Shut out from the entire world, severed from
all human beings, she found herself the only occupant of the
large, light building, into which the sun lavishly poured his gold.
Although she was entirely ignorant of our holy church cus-
toms and the meaning of the things she saw around her, she had
nevertheless, sometimes in the past, when her mother was in
better health, been present at the church service as a pastime,
and so remembered one thing and another. The persons with
whom she lived, in the halls and corridors of the opera, hardly
ever went to God's house; and generally speaking, church-going
was not practiced much during this time. No wonder, then, that
a child who was not a member of any religious body, and who
## p. 444 (#478) ############################################
444
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
had never received an enlightening word from any minister,
should neglect what the initiated themselves did not attend to
assiduously.
She walked up the aisle, and never had the sad, strange feel-
ing of utter loneliness taken hold of her as it did now; it was
coupled with the apprehension of a great, overhanging danger.
Her heart beat wildly; she longed unspeakably - but for what?
for her wild free forest out there, where she ran around quick as
a deer? or for what ?
She walked up toward the choir and approached the altar rail-
ing. "Here at least — I remember that once — but that was long
ago, and it stands like a shadow before my memory- I saw many
people kneel here: it must have been of some use to them?
Suppose I did likewise ? »
Nevertheless she thought it would be improper for her to
kneel down on the decorated cushions around the chancel. She
folded her hands and knelt outside of the choir on the bare stone
floor. But what more was she to do or say now? Of what use
was it all ? Where was she to turn ?
She knew nothing. She looked down into her own thoughts
as into an immense, silent dwelling. Feelings of sorrow and a
sense of transiency moved in slow swells, like shining, breaking
waves, through her consciousness. “Oh — something to lean on-
a help— where? where? where ? »
She looked quietly about her; she saw nobody. She was sure
to meet the most awful danger when the door was opened, if
help did not come first.
She turned her eyes
back toward the organ, and in her
thoughts she besought grace of the straight, long, shining pipes.
But all their mouths were silent now.
She looked up to the pulpit; nobody was standing there. In
the pews nobody. She had sent everybody away from here and
from herself.
She turned her head again toward the choir.
She remem-
bered that when she had seen so many gathered here, two min-
isters in vestments had moved about inside of the railing and
had offered the kneeling worshipers something. No doubt to
help them! But now—there was nobody inside there. To be
sure she was kneeling here with folded hands and praying eyes;
but there was nobody, nobody, nobody who offered her the least
little thing. She wept.
(
## p. 445 (#479) ############################################
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
445
»
»
She looked out of the great church windows to the clear
noonday sky; her eyes beheld the delicate azure light which
spread itself over everything far, far away, but on nothing could
her eyes rest. There were no stars to be seen now, and the sun
itself was hidden by the window post, although its mild golden
light flooded the world.
She looked away again, and her eyes sank to the ground.
Her knees were resting on a tombstone, and she saw many of
the same kind about her. She read the names engraven on the
stones; they were all Swedish, correct and well-known. «Oh,”
she said to herself with a sigh, “I have not a name like others!
My names have been many, borrowed, — and oh, often changed.
I did not get one to be my very own! If only I had one like
other people! Nobody has written me down in a book as I have
heard it said others are written down. Nobody asks about me.
I have nothing to do with anybody! Poor Azouras,” she whis-
pered low to herself. She wept much.
There was no one else who said « poor Azouras Tintomara ! »
but it was as if an inner, higher, invisible being felt sorry for
the outer, bodily, visible being, both one and the same person
in her. She wept bitterly over herself.
"God is dead," she thought, and looked up at the large altar-
piece again. “But I am a human being; I must live. ” And
she wept more heartily, more bitterly.
The afternoon passed, and the hour for vespers struck. The
bells in the tower began to lift their solemn voices, and keys
rattled in the lock. Then the heathen girl sprang up, and, much
like a thin vanishing mist, disappeared from the altar. She hid
in her corner again. It seemed to her that she had been for-
ward, and had taken liberties in the choir of the church to
which she had no right; and that in the congregation coming in
now, she saw persons who had a right to everything.
Nevertheless, when the harmonious tones of the organ began
to mix with the fragrant summer air in the church, Azouras
stood radiant, and she felt quickly how the weight lifted from
her breast. Was it because of the tears she had shed ? Or did
an unknown helper at this moment scatter the fear in her heart ?
She felt no more that it would be dangerous to leave the
church; she stole away, before vespers were over, came out into
the churchyard and turned off to the northern gate.
## p. 446 (#480) ############################################
446
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
GOD'S WAR
H's
is mighty weapon drawing,
God smites the world he loves;
Thus, worthy of him growing,
She his reflection proves.
God's war like lightning striking,
The heart's deep core lays bare,
Which fair grows to his liking
Who is supremely fair.
Escapes no weakness shame,
No hid, ignoble feeling;
But when his thunder pealing
Enkindles life's deep flame,
And water clear upwelleth,
Flowing unto its goal,
God's grand cross standing, telleth
His truth unto the soul.
Sing, God's war, earth that shakes!
Sing, sing the peace he makes!
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
(1854-)
B
EFORE the year 1895 the name of the German peasant, Johanna
Ambrosius, was hardly known, even within her own country.
Now her melodious verse has made her one of the most
popular writers in Germany. Her genius found its way from the
humble farm in Eastern Prussia, where she worked in the field beside
her husband, to the very heart of the great literary circles.
She was
born in Lengwethen, a parish village in Eastern Prussia, on the 3d of
August, 1854. She received only the commonest education, and every
day was filled with the coarsest toil. But her mind and soul were
uplifted by the gift of poetry, to which she gave voice in her rare
moments of leisure. A delicate, middle-aged woman, whose simplicity
is undisturbed by the lavish praises of literary men, she leads the
most unpretending of lives. Her work became known by the merest
chance. She sent a poem to a German weekly, where it attracted the
attention of a Viennese gentleman, Dr. Schrattenthal, who collecteā
her verses and sent the little volume into the world with a preface
by himself. This work has already gone through twenty-six editions.
## p. 447 (#481) ############################################
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
447
The short sketch cited, written some years ago, is the only prose of
hers that has been published.
The distinguishing characteristics of the poetry of this singularly
gifted woman are the deep, almost painfully intense earnestness per-
vading its every line, the fine sense of harmony and rhythmic felicity
attending the comparatively few attempts she has thus far made, and
her tender touch when dwelling upon themes of the heart and home.
One cannot predict what her success will be when she attempts more
ambitious flights, but thus far she seems to have probed the æsthetic
heart of Germany to its centre.
A PEASANT'S THOUGHTS
T"
>
he first snow, in large and thick flakes, fell gently and silently
on the barren branches of the ancient pear-tree, standing
like a sentinel at my house door. The first snow of the
year speaks both of joy and sadness. It is so comfortable to sit
in a warm room and watch the falling flakes, eternally pure and
lovely. There are neither flowers nor birds about, to make you
see and hear the beautiful great world. Now the busy peasant
has time to read the stories in his calendar. And I, too, stopped
my spinning-wheel, the holy Christ-child's gift on my thirteenth
birthday, to fold my hands and to look through the calendar of
my thoughts.
I did not hear a knock at the door, but a little man came in
with a cordial “Good morning, little sister! ” I knew him well
enough, though we were not acquaintances. Half familiar, half
strange, this little time-worn figure looked. His queer face
seemed stamped out of rubber, the upper part sad, the lower
full of laughing wrinkles. But his address surprised me, for we
were not in the least related. I shook his horny hand, respond-
ing, “Hearty thanks, little brother. ” «I call this good luck,”
began little brother: "a room freshly scoured, apples roasting in
the chimney, half a cold duck in the cupboard; and you all alone
with cat and clock. It is easier talking when there are two, for
the third is always in the way. ”
The old man amused me immensely. I sat down on the
bench beside him and asked after his wife and family. “Thanks,
thanks,” he nodded, all well and happy except our nestling
Ille. She leaves home to-morrow, to eat her bread as a dress-
maker in B—. ”—“And the other children, where are they ? ”
(
(C
## p. 448 (#482) ############################################
448
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
a
“Flown away, long ago! Do you suppose, little sister, that I
want to keep all fifteen at home like so many cabbages in
a single bed ? » Fifteen children! Almost triumphantly, little
brother watched me. I owned almost as many brothers and
sisters myself, and fifteen children were no marvel to me. So I
asked if he were a grandfather too.
“Of course," he answered gravely. But I am going to tell
you how I came by fifteen children. You know how we peasant
folk give house and land to the eldest son, and only a few
coppers to the youngest children. A bad custom, that leads to
quarrels, and ends sometimes in murder. Fathers and mothers
can't bring themselves to part with the property, and so they
live with the eldest son, who doles out food and shelter, and gets
the farm in the end. So, in time, a family has some rich mem-
bers and more paupers. Now, we'd better sell the land and let
the children share alike; but then that way breaks estates too.
I was
a younger child, and I received four hundred thalers;
large sum forty years ago. I didn't know anything but field
work. The saying that “The peasant must be kept stupid or he
will not obey' was still printed in all the books. So I had to
look about for a family where a son was needed. One day, with
my four hundred thalers in my pocket, I went to a farm where
there was an unmarried daughter. When you go a-courting
among us, you pretend to mean to buy a horse. That's the
fashion. With us, a lie doesn't wear French rouge. The parents
of Marianne (that was her name) made me welcome. Brown
Bess was brought from the stable, and her neck, legs, and teeth
examined. I showed my willingness to buy her, which meant as
much as to say, Your daughter pleases me. ' As proud as you
please, I walked through the buildings. Everything in plenty, all
right, not a nail wanting on the harrow, nor a cord missing from
the harness. How I strutted! I saw myself master, and I was
tickled to death to be as rich as my brother.
«But I reckoned without my host. On tiptoe I stole into the
kitchen, where my sweetheart was frying ham and eggs. I
thought I might snatch a kiss. Above the noise of the sizzling
frying-pan and the crackling wood, I plainly heard the voice of
my-well, let us say it-bride, weeping and complaining to an
old house servant: 'It's a shame and a sin to enter matrimony
with a lie. I can't wed this Michael: not because he is ugly;
that doesn't matter in a man, but he comes too late! My heart
## p. 449 (#483) ############################################
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
449
belongs to poor Joseph, the woodcutter, and I'd sooner be turned
out of doors than to make a false promise. Money blinds my
mother's eyes! Don't be surprised, little sister, that I remember
these words so well. A son doesn't forget his father's blessing,
nor a prisoner his sentence. This was my sentence to poverty
and single-blessedness. I sent word to Marianne that she should
be happy — and so she was.
“But now to my own story. I worked six years as farm hand
for my rich brother, and then love overtook me. The little
housemaid caught me in the net of her golden locks. What a
fuss it made in our family! A peasant's pride is as stiff as that
of your Vous' and Zus. My girl had only a pair of willing
hands and a good heart to give to an ugly, pock-marked being
like me.
other ballads, Allingham expresses the broader, more dramatic sweep
of the ballad, and reveals his Celtic ancestry.
The lovable Irishman, William Allingham, worked hard to enter
the brotherhood of poets. When he was only fourteen his father
took him from school to become clerk in the town bank of which he
himself was manager. «The books which he had to keep for the
next seven years were not those on which his heart was set,” says
Mr. George Birkbeck Hill. But this fortune is almost an inevitable
part, and probably not the worst part, of the training for a literary
vocation; and he justified his ambitions by pluckily studying alone
till he had mastered Greek, Latin, French, and Germån.
Mr. Hill, in his Letters of D. G. Rossetti? (Atlantic Monthly,
May, 1896), thus quotes Allingham's own delightful description of his
early home at Ballyshannon, County Donegal:-
(The little old town where I was born has a voice of its own, low, solemn,
persistent, humming through the air day and night, summer and winter.
Whenever I think of that town I seem to hear the voice. The river which
makes it rolls over rocky ledges into the tide. Before spreads a great ocean in
sunshine or storm; behind stretches a many-islanded lake. On the south runs
a wavy line of blue mountains; and on the north, over green rocky hills rise
peaks of a more distant range. The trees hide in glens or cluster near the
river; gray rocks and bowlders lie scattered about the windy pastures. The
## p. 429 (#463) ############################################
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
429
sky arches wide over all, giving room to multitudes of stars by night, and
long processions of clouds blown from the sea; but also, in the childish mem-
ory where these pictures live, to deeps of celestial blue in the endless days of
summer. An odd, out-of-the-way little town, ours, on the extreme western
edge of Europe; our next neighbors, sunset way, being citizens of the great
new republic, which indeed, to our imagination, seemed little if at all farther
off than England in the opposite direction. ”
of the cottage in which he spent most of his childhood and
youth he writes:-
«Opposite the hall door a good-sized walnut-tree leaned its wrinkled stem
towards the house, and brushed some of the second-story panes with its
broad, fragrant leaves. To sit at that little upper window when it was open to
a summer twilight, and the great tree rustled gently, and sent one leafy spray
so far that it even touched my face, was an enchantment beyond all telling.
Killarney, Switzerland, Venice, could not, in later life, come near it. On three
sides the cottage looked on flowers and branches, which I count as one of the
fortunate chances of my childhood; the sense of natural beauty thus receiving
its due share of nourishment, and of a kind suitable to those early years. ”
At last a position in the Customs presented itself:-
«In the spring of 1846 I gladly took leave forever of discount ledgers
and current accounts, and went to Belfast for two months' instruction in the
duties of Principal Coast Officer of Customs; a tolerably well-sounding title,
but which carried' with it a salary of but £80 a year. I trudged daily about
the docks and timber-yards, learning to measure logs, piles of planks, and,
more troublesome, ships for tonnage; indoors, part of the time practiced cus-
toms book-keeping, and talked to the clerks about literature and poetry in a
way that excited some astonishment, but on the whole, as I found at parting,
a certain degree of curiosity and respect. I preached Tennyson to them.
My spare time was mostly spent in reading and haunting booksellers' shops
where, I venture to say, I laid out a good deal more than most people, in pro-
portion to my income, and managed to get glimpses of many books which I
could not afford or did not care to buy. I enjoyed my new position, on the
whole, without analysis, as a great improvement on the bank; and for the
rest, my inner mind was brimful of love and poetry, and usually all external
things appeared trivial save in their relation to it. ”
Of Allingham's early song-writing, his friend Arthur Hughes
says:-
« Rossetti, and I think Allingham himself, told me, in the early days of our
acquaintance, how in remote Ballyshannon, where he was a clerk in the Cus-
toms, in evening walks he would hear the Irish girls at their cottage doors
singing old ballads, which he would pick up. If they were broken or incom-
plete, he would add to them or finish them; if they were improper he would
refine them. He could not get them sung till he got the Dublin Catnach of
that day to print them, on long strips of blue paper, like old songs, and if
about the sea, with the old rough woodcut of a ship on the top. He either
## p. 430 (#464) ############################################
430
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
gave them away or they were sold in the neighborhood. Then, in his evening
walks, he had at last the pleasure of hearing some of his own ballads sung at
the cottage doors by the blooming lasses, who were quite unaware that it was
the author who was passing by. ”
In 1850 Allingham published a small volume of lyrics whose fresh-
ness and delicacy seemed to announce a new singer, and four years
later his Day and Night Songs' strengthened this impression.
Stationed as revenue officer in various parts of England, he wrote
much verse, and published also the “The Rambles of Patricius Walker,'
a collection of essays upon his walks through England; Lawrence
Bloomfield in Ireland, the tale of a young landlord's efforts to
improve the condition of his tenantry; an anthology, Nightingale
Valley' (1862), and an excellent collection of English ballads, "The
Ballad Book) (1865).
In 1870 he gladly embraced an opportunity to leave the Customs
for the position of assistant editor of Fraser's Magazine under Froude,
whom he afterward succeeded as editor. He was now a member of
a brilliant literary circle, knew Tennyson, Ruskin, and Carlyle, and
was admitted into the warm friendship of the Pre-Raphaelites. But
in no way does he reflect the Pre-Raphaelite spirit by which he was
surrounded; nor does he write his lyrics in the metres and rhythms
of mediæval France. He is as oblivious of rondeaux, ballades, and
roundels, as he is of fair damosels with cygnet necks and full pome-
granate lips. He is a child of nature, whose verse is free from all
artificial inspiration or expression, and seems to flow easily, clearly,
and tenderly from his pen. Some of it errs in being too fanciful.
In the Flower-Songs, indeed, he sometimes becomes trivial in his
comparison of each English poet to a special flower; but his poetry
is usually sincere with an undercurrent of pathos, as in “The Ruined
Chapel,' 'The Winter Pear, and the Song. ' For lightness of touch
and aerial grace, 'The Bubble) will bear comparison with any verse
of its own genre.
(Robin Redbreast has many delightful lines; and
in "The Fairies' one is taken into the realm of Celtic folklore, which
is Allingham's inheritance, where the Brownies, the Pixies, and the
Leprechauns trip over the dew-spangled meadows, or dance on the
yellow sands, and then vanish away in fantastic mists. Quite differ-
ent is Lovely Mary Donnelly, which is a sample of the popular songs
that made him a favorite in his own country.
After his death at Hampstead in 1889, his body was cremated
according to his wish, when these lines of his own were read:
Body to purifying flame,
Soul to the Great Deep whence it came,
Leaving a song on earth below,
An urn of ashes white as snow. ”
## p. 431 (#465) ############################################
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
431
THE RUINED CHAPEL
B ,
Y THE shore, a plot of ground
Clips a ruined chapel round,
Buttressed with a grassy mound;
Where Day and Night and Day go by
And bring no touch of human sound.
Washing of the lonely seas,
Shaking of the guardian trees,
Piping of the salted breeze;
Day and Night and Day go by
To the endless tune of these.
Or when, as winds and waters keep
A hush more dead than any sleep,
Still morns to stiller evenings creep,
And Day and Night and Day go by;
Here the silence is most deep.
The empty ruins, lapsed again
Into Nature's wide domain,
Sow themselves with seed and grain
As Day and Night and Day go by;
And hoard June's sun and April's rain.
Here fresh funeral tears were shed;
Now the graves are also dead;
And suckers from the ash-tree spread,
While Day and Night and Day go by;
And stars move calmly overhead.
From Day and Night Songs. "
THE WINTER PEAR
IS
S ALWAYS Age severe?
Is never Youth austere ?
Spring-fruits are sour to eat;
Autumn's the mellow time.
Nay, very late in the year,
Short day and frosty rime,
Thought, like a winter pear,
Stone-cold in summer's prime,
May turn from harsh to sweet.
From Ballads and Songs. .
## p. 432 (#466) ############################################
432
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
SONG
O
SPIRIT of the Summer-time!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.
Bring back the friendship of the sun;
The gilded evenings calm and late,
When weary children homeward run,
And peeping stars bid lovers wait.
Bring back the singing; and the scent
Of meadow-lands at dewy prime;
Oh, bring again my heart's content,
Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
From Day and Night Songs. >
THE BUBBLE
SEF
EE the pretty planet!
Floating sphere!
Faintest breeze will fan it
Far or near;
World as light as feather;
Moonshine rays,
Rainbow tints together,
As it plays.
Drooping, sinking, failing,
Nigh to earth,
Mounting, whirling, sailing,
Full of mirth;
Life there, welling, flowing,
Waving round;
Pictures coming, going,
Without sound.
Quick now, be this airy
Globe repelled!
Never can the fairy
Star be held.
Touched - it in a twinkle
Disappears!
Leaving but a sprinkle,
As of tears.
From (Ballads and Songs,
## p. 433 (#467) ############################################
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
433
ST. MARGARET'S EVE
I
BUILT my castle upon the seaside,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
Half on the land and half in the tide,
Love me true!
Within was silk, without was stone,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
It lacks a queen, and that alone,
Love me true!
The gray old harper sang to me,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
«Beware of the Damsel of the Sea ! »
Love me true!
Saint Margaret's Eve it did befall,
The waves roll so gayly O,
The tide came creeping up the wall,
Love me true!
I opened my gate; who there should stand-
The waves roll so gayly 0,
But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand,
Love me true!
The cup was gold, and full of wine,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
“Drink,” said the lady, “and I will be thine,»
Love me true!
“Enter my castle, lady fair,”
The waves roll so gayly O,
« You shall be queen of all that's there,
Love me true!
A gray old harper sang to me,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
« Beware of the Damsel of the Sea! ”
Love me true!
In hall he harpeth many a year,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
And we will sit his song to hear,
Love me true!
1-28
## p. 434 (#468) ############################################
434
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
“I love thee deep, I love thee true,"
The waves roll so gayly 0,
«But ah! I know not how to woo,”
Love me true!
Down dashed the cup, with a sudden shock,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
The wine like blood ran over the rock,
Love me true!
She said no word, but shrieked aloud,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
And vanished away from where she stood,
Love me true!
I locked and barred my castle door,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
Three summer days I grieved sore,
Love me true!
For myself a day, a night,
The waves roll so gayly O,
And two to moan that lady bright,
Love me true!
From (Ballads and Songs.
THE FAIRIES
(A CHILD'S SONG)
U
P THE airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men:
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some have made their home;
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow-tide foam.
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
## p. 435 (#469) ############################################
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
435
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Sliveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay northern lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag leaves
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall feel their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men:
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
From "Ballads and Songs.
## p. 436 (#470) ############################################
436
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
ROBIN REDBREAST
(A Child's SONG)
G
OOD-BY, good-by, to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away -
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house.
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
From Ballads and Songs.
## p. 437 (#471) ############################################
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
437
AN EVENING
A
SUNSET's mounded cloud;
A diamond evening-star;
Sad blue hills afar:
Love in his shroud.
Scarcely a tear to shed;
Hardly a word to say:
The end of a summer's day;
Sweet Love is dead.
From Day and Night Songs. )
DAFFODIL
G
OLD tassel upon March's bugle-horn,
Whose blithe reveille blows from hill to hill
And every valley rings - 0 Daffodil!
What promise for the season newly born ?
Shall wave on wave of flow'rs, full tide of corn,
O'erflow the world, then fruited Autumn fill
Hedgerow and garth? Shall tempest, blight, or chill
Turn all felicity to scathe and scorn ?
Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring
Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird
Of evil augury is seen or heard :
Come now, like Pan's old crew, we'll dance and sing,
Or Oberon's: for hill and valley ring
To March's bugle-horn, - Earth's blood is stirred.
From (Flower Pieces. '
LOVELY MARY DONNELLY
(To an Irish Tune)
O
LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!
If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest.
Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,
How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many
a shock.
Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower,
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.
## p. 438 (#472) ############################################
438
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up:
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup;
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine,
It's rolling down upon her neck and gathered in a twine.
The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all before;
No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor;
But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but she was gay!
She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,
The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet;
The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,
But blessed himself he wasn't deaf, when once her voice she
raised.
And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your
hands,
And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.
Oh, you're the flower o'womankind in country or in town;
The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.
If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty
bright,
And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.
Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall,
Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress:
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less.
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low:
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!
From Ballads and Songs. '
## p. 439 (#473) ############################################
439
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
(1793-1866)
LMQUIST, one of the most versatile writers of Sweden, was a
man of strange contrasts, a genius as uncertain as a will-o'-
the-wisp. His contemporary, the famous poet and critic
Atterbom, writes:-
«What did the great poets of past times possess which upheld them under
even the bitterest worldly circumstances ? Two things: one a strong and
conscientious will, the other a single — not double, much less manifold - deter-
mination for their work, oneness. They were not self-seekers; they sought,
they worshiped something better than themselves. The aim which stood
dimly before their inmost souls was not the enjoyment of flattered vanity; it
was a high, heroic symbol of love of honor and love of country, of heavenly
wisdom. For this they thought it worth while to fight, for this they even
thought it worth while to suffer, without finding the suffering in itself strange,
or calling earth to witness thereof.
The writer of (Törnrosens Bok)
[The Book of the Rose) is one of these few; he does therefore already reign
over a number of youthful hearts, and out of them will rise his time of honor,
a time when many of the celebrities of the present moment will have faded
away. ”
Almquist was born in Stockholm in 1793.
When still a very
young man he obtained a good official position, but gave it up in
1823 to lead a colony of friends into the forests of Värmland, where
they intended to return to a primitive life close to the heart of
nature. He called this colony a «Man's-home Association, and
ordained that in the primeval forest the members should live in turf-
covered huts, wear homespun, eat porridge with a wooden spoon,
and enact the ancient freeholder. The experiment was not successfui,
he tired of the manual work, and returning to Stockholm, became
master of the new Elementary School, and began to write text-books
and educational works. His publication of a number of epics,
dramas, lyrics, and romances made him suddenly famous. Viewed
a whole, this collection is generally called The Book of the
Rose, but at times "En Irrande Hind' (A Stray Deer). Of this, the
two dramas, “Signora Luna' and Ramido Marinesco,' contain some
of the pearls of Swedish literature. Uneven in the plan and execu-
tion, they are yet masterly in dialogue, and their dramatic and
tragic force is great. Almquist's imagination showed itself as indi-
vidual as it is fantastic. Coming from a man hitherto known as the
writer of text-books and the advocate of popular social ideas, the
as
## p. 440 (#474) ############################################
440
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
volumes aroused extraordinary interest. The author revealed himself
as akin to Novalis and Victor Hugo, with a power of language like
that of Atterbom, and a richness of color resembling Tegnér's. At-
terbom himself wrote of (Törnrosens Bok) that it was a work whose
« faults were exceedingly easy to overlook and whose beauties ex-
ceedingly difficult to match. ”
After this appeared in rapid succession, and written with equal
ease, lyrical, dramatic, educational, poetical, æsthetical, philosophical,
moral, and religious treatises, as well as lectures and studies in his-
tory and law; for Almquist now gave all his time to literary labors.
His novels showed socialistic sympathies, and he put forth news-
paper articles and pamphlets on Socialism which aroused considerable
opposition. Moreover, he delighted in contradictions. One day he
wrote as an avowed Christian, extolling virtue, piety, and Christian
knowledge; the next, he abrogated religion as entirely unnecessary:
and his own explanation of this variability was merely –“I paint so
because it pleases me to paint so, and life is not otherwise. ”
In 1851 was heard the startling rumor that he was accused of
forgery and charged with murder. He fled from Sweden and disap-
peared from the knowledge of men. Going to America, he earned
under a fictitious name a scanty living, and became, it is said, the
private secretary of Abraham Lincoln. In 1866 he found himself
again under the ban of the law, his papers were destroyed, and he
escaped with difficulty to Bremen, where he died.
One of his latest works was his excellent modern novel, Det Går
An' (It's All Right), a forerunner of the problem novel of the day.
It is an attack upon conventional marriage, and pictures the helpless-
ness of a woman in the hands of a depraved man. Its extreme
views called out violent criticism.
He was a romanticist through and through, with a strong leaning
toward the French school. Among the best of his tales are (Ara-
minta May,' (Skällnora Quarn' (Skällnora's Mill), and “Grimstahamns
Nybygge (Grimstahamn's Settlement). His idyl Kapellet' (The
Chapel) is wonderfully true to nature, and his novel 'Palatset" (The
Palace) is rich in humor and true poesy. His literary fame will
probably rest on his romances, which are the best of their kind in
Swedish literature.
## p. 441 (#475) ############################################
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
441
CHARACTERISTICS OF CATTLE
A
NY one with a taste for physiognomy should carefully observe
the features of the ox and the cow; their demeanor and
the expression of their eyes. They are figures which bear
an extraordinary stamp of respectability. They look neither joy.
ful nor melancholy. They are seldom evilly disposed, but never
sportive. They are full of gravity, and always seem to be going
about their business. They are not merely of great economic
service, but their whole persons carry the look of it. They are
the very models of earthly carefulness.
Nothing is ever to be seen more dignified, more official-look-,
ing, than the whole behavior of the ox; his way of carrying his
head, and looking around him.
If anybody thinks I mean these
words for a sarcasm, he is mistaken: no slur on official life, or
on what the world calls a man's vocation, is intended. I hold
them all in as much respect as could be asked. And though I
have an eye for contours, no feeling of ridicule is connected in
my mind with any of these. On the contrary, I regard the ox
and the cow with the warmest feelings of esteem. I admire in
them a naïve and striking picture of one who minds his own
business; who submits to the claims of duty, not using the
word in its highest sense; who in the world's estimate is dig-
nified, steady, conventional, and middle-aged,—that is to say,
neither youthful nor stricken in years.
Look at that ox which stands before you, chewing his cud
and gazing around him with such unspeakable thoughtfulness -
but which you will find, when you look more closely into his
eyes, is thinking about nothing at all. Look at that discreet,
excellent Dutch cow, which, gifted with an inexhaustible udder,
stands quietly and allows herself to be milked as a matter of
course, while she gazes into space with a most sensible express-
ion. Whatever she does, she does with the same imperturbable
calmness, and as when a person leaves an important trust to his
own time and to posterity. If the worth of this creature is
thus great on the one side, yet on the other it must be con-
fessed that she possesses not a single trait of grace, not a
particle of vivacity, and none of that quick characteristic retreat-
ing from an object which indicates an internal buoyancy, an
elastic temperament, such as we see in a bird or fish.
There is something very agreeable in the varied lowing of cattle
## p. 442 (#476) ############################################
442
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
when heard in the distant country, and when replied to by a
large herd, especially toward evening and amid echoes. On the
other hand, nothing is more unpleasant than to hear all at once,
and just beside one, the bellowing of a bull, who thus authori.
tatively announces himself, as if nobody else had any right to
utter a syllable in his presence.
A NEW UNDINE
From The Book of the Rose)
M
ISS RUDENSKÖLD and her companion sat in one of the pews
in the cheerful and beautiful church of Normalm, which
is all that is left of the once famous cloister of St. Clara,
and still bears the saint's name. The sermon was finished, and
the strong full tones of the organ, called out by the skillful
hands of an excellent organist, hovered like the voices of unseen
angel choirs in the high vaults of the church, floated down to
the listeners, and sank deep into their hearts.
Azouras did not speak a single word; neither did she sing,
for she did not know a whole hymn through. Nor did Miss
Rudensköld sing, because it was not her custom to sing in
church. During the organ solo, however, Miss Rudensköld vent-
ured to make some remarks about Dr. Asplund's sermon which
was so beautiful, and about the notices afterward which were so
tiresome. But when her neighbor did not answer, but sat look-
ing ahead with large, almost motionless eyes, as people stare
without looking at anything in particular, she changed her sub-
ject.
At one of the organ tones which finished a cadence, Azouras
started, and blinked quickly with her eyelids, and a light sigh
showed that she came back to herself and her friend, from her
vague contemplative state of mind. Something indescribable,
very sad, shone in her eyes, and made them almost black; and
with a childlike look at Miss Rudensköld she asked, "Tell me
what that large painting over there represents. ”
«The altar-piece? Don't you know? The altar-piece in Clara
is one of the most beautiful we possess. ”
"What is going on there ? ” asked Azouras.
Miss Rudensköld gave her a side glance; she did not know
that her neighbor in the pew was a girl without baptism, with.
out Christianity, without the slightest knowledge of holy religion,
## p. 443 (#477) ############################################
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQVIST
443
a heathen -and knew less than a heathen, for such a one has
his teachings, although they are not Christian. Miss Rudensköld
thought the girl's question came of a momentary forgetfulness,
and answered, to remind her:-
“Well, you see, it is one of the usual subjects, but unusually
well painted, that is all. High up among the other figures in
the painting you will see the half-reclining figure of one that is
dead - see what an expression the painter has put into the face!
- That is the Saviour. ”
« The Saviour ? »
“Yes, God's son, you know; or God Himself. ”
“And he is dead ? » repeated Azouras to herself with wonder-
ing eyes. «Yes, I believe that; it must be so: it is godlike to
die !
Miss Rudensköld looked at her neighbor with wide-opened
eyes. “You must not misunderstand this subject,” she said. It
is human to live and want to live; you can see that, too, in the
altar-piece, for all the persons who are human beings, like our-
selves, are alive. ”
“Let us go out! I feel oppressed by fear - no, I will tarry
here until my fear passes away. Go, dearest, I will send you
word. ”
Miss Rudensköld took leave of her; went out of the church
and over the churchyard to the Eastern Gate, which faces Oden's
lane.
The girl meanwhile stayed inside; came to a corner in the
organ stairs; saw people go out little by little; remained unob-
served, and finally heard the sexton and the church-keeper go
away. When the last door was closed, Azouras stepped out of
her hiding-place. Shut out from the entire world, severed from
all human beings, she found herself the only occupant of the
large, light building, into which the sun lavishly poured his gold.
Although she was entirely ignorant of our holy church cus-
toms and the meaning of the things she saw around her, she had
nevertheless, sometimes in the past, when her mother was in
better health, been present at the church service as a pastime,
and so remembered one thing and another. The persons with
whom she lived, in the halls and corridors of the opera, hardly
ever went to God's house; and generally speaking, church-going
was not practiced much during this time. No wonder, then, that
a child who was not a member of any religious body, and who
## p. 444 (#478) ############################################
444
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
had never received an enlightening word from any minister,
should neglect what the initiated themselves did not attend to
assiduously.
She walked up the aisle, and never had the sad, strange feel-
ing of utter loneliness taken hold of her as it did now; it was
coupled with the apprehension of a great, overhanging danger.
Her heart beat wildly; she longed unspeakably - but for what?
for her wild free forest out there, where she ran around quick as
a deer? or for what ?
She walked up toward the choir and approached the altar rail-
ing. "Here at least — I remember that once — but that was long
ago, and it stands like a shadow before my memory- I saw many
people kneel here: it must have been of some use to them?
Suppose I did likewise ? »
Nevertheless she thought it would be improper for her to
kneel down on the decorated cushions around the chancel. She
folded her hands and knelt outside of the choir on the bare stone
floor. But what more was she to do or say now? Of what use
was it all ? Where was she to turn ?
She knew nothing. She looked down into her own thoughts
as into an immense, silent dwelling. Feelings of sorrow and a
sense of transiency moved in slow swells, like shining, breaking
waves, through her consciousness. “Oh — something to lean on-
a help— where? where? where ? »
She looked quietly about her; she saw nobody. She was sure
to meet the most awful danger when the door was opened, if
help did not come first.
She turned her eyes
back toward the organ, and in her
thoughts she besought grace of the straight, long, shining pipes.
But all their mouths were silent now.
She looked up to the pulpit; nobody was standing there. In
the pews nobody. She had sent everybody away from here and
from herself.
She turned her head again toward the choir.
She remem-
bered that when she had seen so many gathered here, two min-
isters in vestments had moved about inside of the railing and
had offered the kneeling worshipers something. No doubt to
help them! But now—there was nobody inside there. To be
sure she was kneeling here with folded hands and praying eyes;
but there was nobody, nobody, nobody who offered her the least
little thing. She wept.
(
## p. 445 (#479) ############################################
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
445
»
»
She looked out of the great church windows to the clear
noonday sky; her eyes beheld the delicate azure light which
spread itself over everything far, far away, but on nothing could
her eyes rest. There were no stars to be seen now, and the sun
itself was hidden by the window post, although its mild golden
light flooded the world.
She looked away again, and her eyes sank to the ground.
Her knees were resting on a tombstone, and she saw many of
the same kind about her. She read the names engraven on the
stones; they were all Swedish, correct and well-known. «Oh,”
she said to herself with a sigh, “I have not a name like others!
My names have been many, borrowed, — and oh, often changed.
I did not get one to be my very own! If only I had one like
other people! Nobody has written me down in a book as I have
heard it said others are written down. Nobody asks about me.
I have nothing to do with anybody! Poor Azouras,” she whis-
pered low to herself. She wept much.
There was no one else who said « poor Azouras Tintomara ! »
but it was as if an inner, higher, invisible being felt sorry for
the outer, bodily, visible being, both one and the same person
in her. She wept bitterly over herself.
"God is dead," she thought, and looked up at the large altar-
piece again. “But I am a human being; I must live. ” And
she wept more heartily, more bitterly.
The afternoon passed, and the hour for vespers struck. The
bells in the tower began to lift their solemn voices, and keys
rattled in the lock. Then the heathen girl sprang up, and, much
like a thin vanishing mist, disappeared from the altar. She hid
in her corner again. It seemed to her that she had been for-
ward, and had taken liberties in the choir of the church to
which she had no right; and that in the congregation coming in
now, she saw persons who had a right to everything.
Nevertheless, when the harmonious tones of the organ began
to mix with the fragrant summer air in the church, Azouras
stood radiant, and she felt quickly how the weight lifted from
her breast. Was it because of the tears she had shed ? Or did
an unknown helper at this moment scatter the fear in her heart ?
She felt no more that it would be dangerous to leave the
church; she stole away, before vespers were over, came out into
the churchyard and turned off to the northern gate.
## p. 446 (#480) ############################################
446
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
GOD'S WAR
H's
is mighty weapon drawing,
God smites the world he loves;
Thus, worthy of him growing,
She his reflection proves.
God's war like lightning striking,
The heart's deep core lays bare,
Which fair grows to his liking
Who is supremely fair.
Escapes no weakness shame,
No hid, ignoble feeling;
But when his thunder pealing
Enkindles life's deep flame,
And water clear upwelleth,
Flowing unto its goal,
God's grand cross standing, telleth
His truth unto the soul.
Sing, God's war, earth that shakes!
Sing, sing the peace he makes!
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
(1854-)
B
EFORE the year 1895 the name of the German peasant, Johanna
Ambrosius, was hardly known, even within her own country.
Now her melodious verse has made her one of the most
popular writers in Germany. Her genius found its way from the
humble farm in Eastern Prussia, where she worked in the field beside
her husband, to the very heart of the great literary circles.
She was
born in Lengwethen, a parish village in Eastern Prussia, on the 3d of
August, 1854. She received only the commonest education, and every
day was filled with the coarsest toil. But her mind and soul were
uplifted by the gift of poetry, to which she gave voice in her rare
moments of leisure. A delicate, middle-aged woman, whose simplicity
is undisturbed by the lavish praises of literary men, she leads the
most unpretending of lives. Her work became known by the merest
chance. She sent a poem to a German weekly, where it attracted the
attention of a Viennese gentleman, Dr. Schrattenthal, who collecteā
her verses and sent the little volume into the world with a preface
by himself. This work has already gone through twenty-six editions.
## p. 447 (#481) ############################################
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
447
The short sketch cited, written some years ago, is the only prose of
hers that has been published.
The distinguishing characteristics of the poetry of this singularly
gifted woman are the deep, almost painfully intense earnestness per-
vading its every line, the fine sense of harmony and rhythmic felicity
attending the comparatively few attempts she has thus far made, and
her tender touch when dwelling upon themes of the heart and home.
One cannot predict what her success will be when she attempts more
ambitious flights, but thus far she seems to have probed the æsthetic
heart of Germany to its centre.
A PEASANT'S THOUGHTS
T"
>
he first snow, in large and thick flakes, fell gently and silently
on the barren branches of the ancient pear-tree, standing
like a sentinel at my house door. The first snow of the
year speaks both of joy and sadness. It is so comfortable to sit
in a warm room and watch the falling flakes, eternally pure and
lovely. There are neither flowers nor birds about, to make you
see and hear the beautiful great world. Now the busy peasant
has time to read the stories in his calendar. And I, too, stopped
my spinning-wheel, the holy Christ-child's gift on my thirteenth
birthday, to fold my hands and to look through the calendar of
my thoughts.
I did not hear a knock at the door, but a little man came in
with a cordial “Good morning, little sister! ” I knew him well
enough, though we were not acquaintances. Half familiar, half
strange, this little time-worn figure looked. His queer face
seemed stamped out of rubber, the upper part sad, the lower
full of laughing wrinkles. But his address surprised me, for we
were not in the least related. I shook his horny hand, respond-
ing, “Hearty thanks, little brother. ” «I call this good luck,”
began little brother: "a room freshly scoured, apples roasting in
the chimney, half a cold duck in the cupboard; and you all alone
with cat and clock. It is easier talking when there are two, for
the third is always in the way. ”
The old man amused me immensely. I sat down on the
bench beside him and asked after his wife and family. “Thanks,
thanks,” he nodded, all well and happy except our nestling
Ille. She leaves home to-morrow, to eat her bread as a dress-
maker in B—. ”—“And the other children, where are they ? ”
(
(C
## p. 448 (#482) ############################################
448
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
a
“Flown away, long ago! Do you suppose, little sister, that I
want to keep all fifteen at home like so many cabbages in
a single bed ? » Fifteen children! Almost triumphantly, little
brother watched me. I owned almost as many brothers and
sisters myself, and fifteen children were no marvel to me. So I
asked if he were a grandfather too.
“Of course," he answered gravely. But I am going to tell
you how I came by fifteen children. You know how we peasant
folk give house and land to the eldest son, and only a few
coppers to the youngest children. A bad custom, that leads to
quarrels, and ends sometimes in murder. Fathers and mothers
can't bring themselves to part with the property, and so they
live with the eldest son, who doles out food and shelter, and gets
the farm in the end. So, in time, a family has some rich mem-
bers and more paupers. Now, we'd better sell the land and let
the children share alike; but then that way breaks estates too.
I was
a younger child, and I received four hundred thalers;
large sum forty years ago. I didn't know anything but field
work. The saying that “The peasant must be kept stupid or he
will not obey' was still printed in all the books. So I had to
look about for a family where a son was needed. One day, with
my four hundred thalers in my pocket, I went to a farm where
there was an unmarried daughter. When you go a-courting
among us, you pretend to mean to buy a horse. That's the
fashion. With us, a lie doesn't wear French rouge. The parents
of Marianne (that was her name) made me welcome. Brown
Bess was brought from the stable, and her neck, legs, and teeth
examined. I showed my willingness to buy her, which meant as
much as to say, Your daughter pleases me. ' As proud as you
please, I walked through the buildings. Everything in plenty, all
right, not a nail wanting on the harrow, nor a cord missing from
the harness. How I strutted! I saw myself master, and I was
tickled to death to be as rich as my brother.
«But I reckoned without my host. On tiptoe I stole into the
kitchen, where my sweetheart was frying ham and eggs. I
thought I might snatch a kiss. Above the noise of the sizzling
frying-pan and the crackling wood, I plainly heard the voice of
my-well, let us say it-bride, weeping and complaining to an
old house servant: 'It's a shame and a sin to enter matrimony
with a lie. I can't wed this Michael: not because he is ugly;
that doesn't matter in a man, but he comes too late! My heart
## p. 449 (#483) ############################################
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
449
belongs to poor Joseph, the woodcutter, and I'd sooner be turned
out of doors than to make a false promise. Money blinds my
mother's eyes! Don't be surprised, little sister, that I remember
these words so well. A son doesn't forget his father's blessing,
nor a prisoner his sentence. This was my sentence to poverty
and single-blessedness. I sent word to Marianne that she should
be happy — and so she was.
“But now to my own story. I worked six years as farm hand
for my rich brother, and then love overtook me. The little
housemaid caught me in the net of her golden locks. What a
fuss it made in our family! A peasant's pride is as stiff as that
of your Vous' and Zus. My girl had only a pair of willing
hands and a good heart to give to an ugly, pock-marked being
like me.
