His sudden death at forty-seven
prevented
its accom-
plishment, and perhaps deprived him of a still wider and solider
fame.
plishment, and perhaps deprived him of a still wider and solider
fame.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v04 - Bes to Bro
In the various East-European lan-
guages wherein Bowring's researches bore
such valuable fruit,-embracing Bohemian,
Polish, Russian, Hungarian, Servian, and
Bulgarian, the race-soul of these nations
is preserved: their wild mythology, their
bizarre Oriental color, their impassioned
thought, their affections and traditions, and
often the sorrows and ideals learned during
centuries of vain wanderings and heavy
oppressions. In this rich and romantic field, which has been assid-
uously cultivated since his time, Bowring was a pioneer.
SIR JOHN BOWRING
John Bowring, born on October 17th, 1792, came of an old Puritan
family, long identified with the woolen trade. "In the early days,"
he tells us, "the Exeter merchants were mostly traveled men with a
practical knowledge of other tongues, and the quay at Exeter was
crowded with the ships of all nations. " Thus his imagination was kin-
dled by the visible links to far-away countries, and from intercourse
with the emigrants of various nations he acquired the foundation of
his brilliant linguistic attainments.
In 1811 he went to London as clerk to a commercial house, which
sent him to Spain in 1813, and subsequently to France, Belgium,
Holland, Russia, and Sweden. Immediately on his return to London
he published the first of his translations, Specimens of the Russian
Poets' (1820). In 1822 he published a second volume of Russian verse
## p. 2264 (#462) ###########################################
2264
SIR JOHN BOWRING
and a translation of Chamisso's whimsical tale Peter Schlemihl'; and
when in 1824 his friend Jeremy Bentham founded the Westminster
Review, Bowring became one of its editors. He contributed to it
numerous essays on political and literary topics, one of which, on
the literature of Finland, published in 1827, first brought the poetry
of that country into notice. In 1849 he was sent on a mission to
China; in 1854 was made plenipotentiary and knighted, and remained
in China during the Taeping insurrection, being made governor of
Hong Kong. In 1859 he resigned the post.
With the exception of negotiating commercial treaties for England
between the Hawaiian court and various European States, the remain-
der of his life was spent quietly in the pursuit of literary pleasures.
Even in his old age he translated fugitive poetry, wrote essays on
political, literary, and social questions of the hour, and frequently
delivered lectures. He died November 23d, 1872, in Exeter, within
sight of his birthplace under the shadows of the massive cathedral.
"In my travels," he said, "I have never been very ambitious of the
society of my countrymen, but have always sought that of the
natives; and there are few men, I believe, who can bear a stronger
or a wider testimony to the general kindness and hospitality of the
human family when the means of intercourse exist. My experiences
of foreign lands are everywhere connected with the most pleasing
and the most grateful remembrances. " In 1873 Lady Bowring pub-
lished a 'Memorial Volume of Sacred Poetry,' containing many of
his popular hymns; and in 1877 his Autobiographical Recollections'
were published, with a memoir by his son.
Sir John Bowring was a natural linguist of the first order. He
knew and spoke over a hundred languages, and affirmed that he
often dreamed in foreign tongues. His friend Tom Hood humor-
ously referred to his gifts in the following verse:—
«To Bowring! man of many tongues,
(All over tongues, like rumor)
This tributary verse belongs
To paint his learnèd humor.
All kinds of gab he knows, I wis,
From Latin down to Scottish-
As fluent as a parrot is,
But far more Polly-glottish.
No grammar too abstruse he meets,
However dark and verby;
He gossips Greek about the streets
And often Russ-in urbe.
Strange tongues- whate'er you do them call:
In short, the man is able
## p. 2265 (#463) ###########################################
SIR JOHN BOWRING
2265
To tell you what o'clock in all
The dialects of Babel.
Take him on Change-in Portuguese,
The Moorish and the Spanish,
Polish, Hungarian, Tyrolese,
The Swedish and the Danish:
Try him with these, and fifty such,
His skill will ne'er diminish;
Although you should begin in Dutch,
And end (like me) in Finnish. »
Bowring was a member of many learned societies, and had honors
and decorations without stint, including the Order of the White
Elephant, the Swedish Order of the Northern Star, and the Order of
Kamehameha I. His publications are a 'Russian Anthology,' 'Matins
and Vespers,' 'Batavian Anthology,' 'Ancient Poetry and Romances
of Spain, Peter Schlemihl,' 'Servian Popular Poetry,' 'Specimens
of the Polish Poets,' 'Sketch of the Language and Literature of
Holland,' 'Poetry of the Magyars,' 'Cheskian Anthology,' 'Minor
Morals,' 'Observations on Oriental Plague and Quarantines,' 'Manu-
script of the Queen's Court: a Collection of Old Bohemian Lyrico-
Epic Songs,' 'Kingdom and People of Siam,' A Visit to the
Philippine Islands,' Translations from Petöfi,' The Flowery Scroll'
(translation of a Chinese novel), and The Oak' (a collection of
original tales and sketches). He also edited the works of Jeremy
Bentham. Of his translations, the 'Servian Anthology' has been the
most admired for the skill and ease with which the wild beauty of
the poems, and their national spirit, has been preserved. At the time
of its publication, the collection of Servian popular poetry called
'Narodne srpske pjesme' had just appeared, and was the first attempt
to put into literary form the ballads and lyric songs sung by the
wandering minstrels and the people.
THE CROSS OF CHRIST
IN THE Cross of Christ I glory,
IN
Tow'ring o'er the wrecks of time;
All the light of sacred story
Gathers round its head sublime.
When the woes of life o'ertake me,
Hopes deceive and fears annoy,
Never shall the Cross forsake me
Lo! it glows with peace and joy.
## p. 2266 (#464) ###########################################
2266
SIR JOHN BOWRING
When the sun of bliss is beaming
Light and love upon my way,
From the Cross the radiance streaming
Adds more lustre to the day.
Bane and blessing, pain and pleasure,
By the Cross are sanctified;
Peace is there that knows no measure,
Joys that through all time abide.
In the Cross of Christ I glory,
Tow'ring o'er the wrecks of time;
All the light of sacred story
Gathers round its head sublime.
WATCHMAN! WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
ATCHMAN! tell us of the night,
What its signs of promise are:
Traveler! o'er yon mountain's height
See that glory-beaming star!
Watchman! doth its beauteous ray
Aught of hope or joy foretell?
Traveler! yes, it brings the day,
Promised day of Israel.
W
Watchman! tell us of the night;
Higher yet that star ascends:
Traveler! blessedness and light,
Peace and truth, its course portends.
Watchman! will its beams alone
Gild the spot that gave them birth?
Traveler! ages are its own,
And it bursts o'er all the earth.
Watchman! tell us of the night,
For the morning seems to dawn:
Traveler! darkness takes its flight,
Doubt and terror are withdrawn.
Watchman! let thy wanderings cease;
Hie thee to thy quiet home:
Traveler! lo! the Prince of Peace,
Lo! the Son of God is come!
L
## p. 2267 (#465) ###########################################
SIR JOHN BOWRING
2267
F
HYMN
ROM the recesses of a lowly spirit
My humble prayer ascends-O Father! hear it!
Upsoaring on the wings of fear and meekness,
Forgive its weakness.
I know, I feel, how mean and how unworthy
The trembling sacrifice I pour before Thee;
What can I offer in Thy presence holy,
But sin and folly?
For in Thy sight who every bosom viewest,
Cold are our warmest vows, and vain our truest;
Thoughts of a hurrying hour, our lips repeat them,
Our hearts forget them.
We see Thy hand - it leads us, it supports us;
We hear Thy voice-it counsels and it courts us;
And then we turn away—and still thy kindness
Pardons our blindness.
Ard still Thy rain descends, Thy sun is glowing,
Fruits ripen round, flowers are beneath us blowing,
And, as if man were some deserving creature,
Joys cover nature.
Oh, how long-suffering, Lord! - but Thou delightest
To win with love the wandering; Thou invitest
By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors,
Man from his errors.
Who can resist Thy gentle call-appealing
To every generous thought and grateful feeling?
That voice paternal-whispering, watching ever:
My bosom? - never.
Father and Savior! plant within that bosom
These seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom
In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal,
And spring eternal.
Then place them in those everlasting gardens
Where angels walk, and seraphs are the wardens;
Where every flower that creeps through death's dark portal
Becomes immortal.
## p. 2268 (#466) ###########################################
2268
SIR JOHN BOWRING
FROM LUIS DE GONGORA — NOT ALL NIGHTINGALES
HEY are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are little silver bells,
Touched by the winds in smiling dells;
TH
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
Think not the voices in the air
Are from the winged Sirens fair,
Playing among the dewy trees,
Chanting their morning mysteries;
Oh! if you listen, delighted there,
To their music scattered o'er the dales,
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are the little silver bells
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
Oh! 'twas a lovely song -- of art
To charm-of nature to touch the heart;
Sure 'twas some Shepherd's pipe, which, played
By passion, fills the forest shade:
No! 'tis music's diviner part
Which o'er the yielding spirit prevails.
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are the little silver bells
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
In the eye of love, which all things sees,
The fragrance-breathing jasmine trees-
And the golden flowers-and the sloping hill-
And the ever-melancholy rill-
Are full of holiest sympathies.
And tell of love a thousand tales.
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales,
## p. 2269 (#467) ###########################################
SIR JOHN BOWRING
2269
But they are the little silver bells
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
From Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain. '
FROM JOHN KOLLAR-SONNET
HERE came three minstrels in the days of old
TH To the Avaric savage-in their hands
Their own Slavonian citharas they hold:
"And who are ye! " the haughty Khan demands,
Frowning from his barbaric throne: "and where-
Say where your warriors- where your sisters be. "
"We are Slavonians, monarch! and come here
From the far borders of the Baltic sea:
We know no wars no arms to us belong -
We cannot swell your ranks-'tis our employ
Alone to sing the dear domestic song. "
And then they touched their harps in doubtful joy.
"Slaves! " said the tyrant -"these to prison lead,
For they are precious hostages indeed! "
From the Cheskian Anthology. '
FROM BOGDANOVICH (OLD RUSSIAN) — SONG
HAT to the maiden has happened?
What to the gem of the village?
Ah! to the gem of the village.
WHA
Seated alone in her cottage,
Tremblingly turned to the window;
Ah! ever turned to the window.
Like the sweet bird in its prison,
Pining and panting for freedom;
Ah! how 'tis pining for freedom!
Crowds of her youthful companions
Come to console the loved maiden;
Ah! to console the loved maiden.
## p. 2270 (#468) ###########################################
2270
SIR JOHN BOWRING
"Smile then, our sister, be joyful;
Clouds of dust cover the valley;
Ah! see, they cover the valley.
"Smile then, our sister, be joyful;
List to the hoof-beat of horses;
Oh! to the hoof-beat of horses. "
Then the maid looked through the window.
Saw the dust-clouds in the valley;
Oh! the dust-clouds in the valley.
Heard the hoof-beat of the horses,
Hurried away from the cottage;
Oh! to the valley she hurries.
"Welcome, O welcome! thou loved one. "
See, she has sunk on his bosom;
Oh! she has sunk on his bosom.
Now all her grief has departed:
She has forgotten the window;
Oh! quite forgotten the window.
Now her eye looks on her loved one,
Beaming with brightness and beauty;
Oh! 'tis all brightness and beauty.
From Specimens of the Russian Poets. "
FROM BOBROV - THE GOLDEN PALACE
[Sung at midnight in the Greek churches the last week before Easter. ]
THE
HE golden palace of my God
Tow'ring above the clouds I see
Beyond the cherubs' bright abode,
Higher than angels' thoughts can be:
How can I in those courts appear
Without a wedding garment on?
Conduct me, Thou life-giver, there;
Conduct me to Thy glorious throne:
And clothe me with thy robes of light,
And lead me through sin's darksome night,
My Savior and my God!
From Specimens of the Russian Poets. ▸
## p. 2271 (#469) ###########################################
SIR JOHN BOWRING
2271
FROM DMITRIEV— THE DOVE AND THE STRANGER
WHY
STRANGER
HY mourning there so sad, thou gentle dove?
DOVE
I mourn, unceasing mourn, my vanished love.
STRANGER
What, has thy love then fled, or faithless proved?
DOVE
Ah no! the sportsman murdered him I loved!
STRANGER
Unhappy one! beware! that sportsman's nigh!
DOVE
Oh, let him come- or else of grief I die.
From Specimens of the Russian Poets. ›
FROM SARBIEWSKI-SAPPHICS TO A ROSE
[Intended to be used in the garlands for decorating the head of the
Virgin Mary. ]
R°
OSE of the morning, in thy glowing beauty
Bright as the stars, and delicate and lovely,
Lift up thy head above thy earthly dwelling,
Daughter of heaven!
Wake! for the watery clouds are all dispersing;
Zephyr invites thee,- frosts and snows of winter
All are departed, and Favonian breezes
Welcome thee smiling.
Rise in thy beauty;-wilt thou form a garland
Round the fair brow of some beloved maiden?
Pure though she be, unhallowed temple never,
Flow'ret! shall wear thee.
-
Thou shouldst be wreathed in coronal immortal —
Thou shouldst be flung upon a shrine eternal -
Thou shouldst be twined among the golden ringlets
Of the pure Virgin.
From Specimens of the Polish Poets. >
## p. 2272 (#470) ###########################################
2272
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
(1848-1895)
B
OYESEN had thoroughly assimilated the spirit of his native
Norway before he left it. In the small southern seaport of
Friedricksvaern he had lived the happy adventurous boy-
hood depicted in those loving reminiscences 'Boyhood in Norway. '
He knew the rugged little land and the sparkling fiords; his imagin-
ation had delighted in Necken and Hulder and trolls, and all the
charming fantastic sprites of the Northland. So when he was far
away, during his bread-winning struggles in America, they grew
clearer and dearer in perspective; and in
'Gunnar,' 'A Norseman's Pilgrimage,'
'Ilka on the Hilltop,' and other delight-
ful books, he bequeathed these memories
to his adopted land.
He came of well-to-do people, and re-
ceived a liberal education at the gymna-
sium of Christiania, the University of
Leipsic, and the University of Norway.
His father, professor of mathematics at
the Naval Academy, had made several
trips to the United States and had been
impressed by the opportunities offered
there to energetic young men. Upon his
urgent advice, Hjalmar when about twenty-
HJALMAR H. BOYESEN
one came to America, and soon obtained a position upon a Norwegian
newspaper, the Fremad of Chicago.
From childhood he had longed to write, but had been discouraged
by his father, who expatiated upon the limitations of their native
tongue, and assured him that to succeed in literature he must be
able to write in another language as readily as in his own. Even in
his school days he had shown a remarkable aptitude for languages;
not only for understanding and speaking them, but for a sympathetic
comprehension of foreign literatures, and that sensitiveness to shades
of expression which so rarely comes to any but a native. He now
worked with all his energy to acquire English, not only as a neces-
sary tool, but as the best medium for conveying his own thought.
This whole-souled devotion to an adopted tongue was soon re-
warded by a more spontaneous ease of expression than he possessed
## p. 2273 (#471) ###########################################
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
2273
even in his native Norwegian. No one could guess from his poems
that he was foreign to the speech in which he wrote them; few even
among those born and bred to its use have had such mastery of its
capacities.
He soon left the Fremad and began teaching Greek and Latin
at the small Urbana University, in Ohio. Thence he was called to
Cornell University in 1874 as professor of German, and in 1880 to
Columbia College, where later he became professor of German lan-
guages and literatures. He was a teacher of rare stimulus and charm.
He had an attractive vigor of personality; his treatment of subjects
was at once keenly analytic and very sympathetic, while his indi-
vidual point of view was impressed in an easy and vivid style.
The same qualities won for Boyesen a distinguished place in the
lecture-field, where he gave his audiences an exceptional combination
of solid learning and graceful and lucid expression. A series on the
Norse sagas, at the Lowell Institute in Boston, are still valued as
'Scandinavian Studies. '
In critical work, of which these studies form a part, Professor
Boyesen made his chief mark, as was natural, on the literature and
legends of his native land. The best commentary on Ibsen yet pub-
lished in English is his introduction to Ibsen's works; he manages
to compress within the space of a very few pages the pith of the
great anarch's social ideas and the character of his dramatic work.
His 'Goethe and Schiller' is also excellent.
In pure letters, his earliest poems collected into 'Idyls of Nor-
way,' and his early stories of Norse life, of which 'Gunnar' was first
and best, were never surpassed by him in later life, if indeed they
were equaled. The best powers of his mind were gradually drawn
into fields which solidified and broadened his intellect, but checked
the free inspiration and romantic feeling of youth. In gauging his
merit as a creative artist, we must set aside all but the work of
these few enthusiastic years. An important part of this change must
be credited to the influence of the Russian novelists and their Ameri-
can disciples. Whatever may be the final verdict on Turgénieff and
Tolstoy, their tremendous effect on American literature is one of the
most striking facts in our recent literary history; its value is a more
dubious matter, according to the point of view. Boyesen met Tur-
génieff in Paris, and was deeply impressed by him; he also became
intimate with W. D. Howells, and through the influence of the lat-
ter became an ardent disciple of Tolstoy. The result was to trans-
form the romanticist of 'Gunnar'-steeped in the legends of old
Norway, creating a fairy-land atmosphere about him and delighting
to live in the ideal,- into a so-called realist, setting himself to the
task of brushing away all illusions and painting life as sterile and
IV-143
## p. 2274 (#472) ###########################################
2274
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
unpicturesque as it is in its meanest, most commonplace conditions.
To do this, he claimed, was the stern function of the author. To
help his readers to self-knowledge, although it might lessen their
happiness, was the greatest service he could render them.
He succeeded. The best comment on the theory and the practice
alike is that 'Gunnar' lives and its realistic successors do not, and
indeed never did; and that much the same may be said of the cor-
responding epochs of other American novelists' work, with a few
exceptions where native genius was too strong to be spoiled even by
a vicious artistic principle. 'The Mammon of Unrighteousness' and
'The Golden Calf' belong to the second half of Boyesen's work.
A high place must be given, however, to his stories for boys in
the children's magazines, principally on Norwegian themes. These
are among the best of their kind,-spirited, wholesome, strong in
plot and workmanship, and containing some examples of his most
perfect style. Even the more slender juvenile tales have passages of
the finest poetic spirit, and a charm scarcely equaled in his more
ambitious work. He won some laurels as a dramatist: Alpine
Roses' was successfully acted in New York in 1883, and 'Ilka on
the Hilltop' (taken from his story of that name) in 1884.
Although he was in complete sympathy with the American life
and character and wished to make them his own, Professor Boyesen
was never quite an American. His descriptions of life in the United
States are therefore always the result of a foreigner's observation.
His generous humanity appeals to all races, however, and his books
have been successfully translated into German, Russian, and Nor-
wegian. For years he had been collecting matter for an extensive
history of Scandinavian literature,- a task for which his nationality,
his scholarship, and his mastery of the English language especially
fitted him.
His sudden death at forty-seven prevented its accom-
plishment, and perhaps deprived him of a still wider and solider
fame.
## p. 2275 (#473) ###########################################
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
2275
A NORWEGIAN DANCE
From Gunnar, a Tale of Norse Life. ' Copyright 1874, by J. R. Osgood & Co.
Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons
THEY
HEY all hurried back to the hall. Gudrun might well wish to
ask questions, but she dared not; for she felt the truth, but
was afraid of it. They could not help seeing, when they
entered the hall, that many curious glances were directed toward
them. But this rather roused in both a spirit of defiance.
Therefore, when Gunnar was requested to begin the stev he
chose Ragnhild for his partner, and she accepted. True, he was
a houseman's son, but he was not afraid. There was a giggling
and a whispering all round, as hand in hand they stepped out
on the floor. Young and old, lads and maidens, thronged eagerly
about them. Had she not been so happy, perhaps she would not
have been so fair. But as she stood there in the warm flush
of the torchlight, with her rich blond hair waving down over
her shoulders, and with that veiled brightness in her eyes, her
beauty sprang upon you like a sudden wonder, and her presence
was inspiration. And Gunnar saw her; she loved him: what
cared he for all the world beside? Proudly he raised his head
and sang:-
Gunnar - There standeth a birch in the lightsome lea,
Ragnhild-
In the lightsome lea;
Gunnar So fair she stands in the sunlight free,
Ragnhild-
In the sunlight free;
Both-
So fair she stands in the sunlight free.
-
Gunnar
Both-
Ragnhild-High up on the mountain there standeth a pine,
There standeth a pine;
Gunnar
Ragnhild-So stanchly grown and so tall and fine,
So tall and fine;
So stanchly grown and so tall and fine.
-
A maiden I know as fair as the day,
As fair as the day;
Gunnar
Ragnhild-
Gunnar She shines like the birch in the sunlight's play,
Ragnhild-
In the sunlight's play;
Both- She shines like the birch in the sunlight's play.
-
Ragnhild-I know a lad in the spring's glad light,
In the spring's glad light;
Gunnar -
―
## p. 2276 (#474) ###########################################
2276
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
Ragnhild-Far-seen as the pine on the mountain-height,
On the mountain-height;
Far-seen as the pine on the mountain-height.
Gunnar-
Both-
Gunnar So bright and blue are the starry skies,
Ragnhild-
The starry skies;
Gunnar
Ragnhild-
Both
But brighter and bluer that maiden's eyes,
That maiden's eyes;
But brighter and bluer that maiden's eyes.
-
Ragnhild-And his have a depth like the fjord, I know,
Gunnar
The fjord, I know;
Ragnhild-Wherein the heavens their beauty show,
Gunnar -
Their beauty show;
Both
Wherein the heavens their beauty show.
Gunnar The birds each morn seek the forest glade,
Ragnhild-
The forest glade;
Gunnar So flock my thoughts to that lily maid,
Ragnhild-
That lily maid;
Both
So flock my thoughts to that lily maid.
――――――
Ragnhild-The moss it clingeth so fast to the stone,
Gunnar
So fast to the stone;
Ragnhild-So clingeth my soul to him alone,
Gunnar
To him alone;
Both-
So clingeth my soul to him alone.
―
Gunnar -
Ragnhild-
Gunnar-
Ragnhild-
Both
-
-
Ragnhild-The plover hath but an only tone,
Gunnar
An only tone;
Ragnhild-My life hath its love, and its love alone,
Gunnar-
Its love alone;
Both
My life hath its love, and its love alone.
――――
Each brook sings its song, but forever the same,
Forever the same;
Forever my heart beats that maiden's name,
That maiden's name;
Forever my heart beats that maiden's name.
Gunnar The rivers all to the fjord they go,
Ragnhild-
To the fjord they go;
Gunnar So may our lives then together flow,
Ragnhild-
Together flow;
Both
Oh, may our lives then together flow!
-
## p. 2277 (#475) ###########################################
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
2277
Here Gunnar stopped, made a leap toward Ragnhild, caught
her round the waist, and again danced off with her, while a
storm of voices joined in the last refrain, and loud shouts of
admiration followed them. For this was a stev that was good
for something; long time it was since so fine a stev had been
heard on this side of the mountains. Soon the dance became
general, and lasted till after midnight. Then the sleigh-bells and
the stamping of hoofs from without reminded the merry guests
that night was waning. There stood the well-known swan-shaped
sleigh from Henjum, and the man on the box was Atle himself.
Ragnhild and Gudrun were hurried into it, the whip cracked,
and the sleigh shot down over the star-illumined fields of snow.
The splendor of the night was almost dazzling as Gunnar
came out from the crowded hall and again stood under the open
sky. A host of struggling thoughts and sensations thronged
upon him.
He was happy, oh, so happy! —at least he tried to
persuade himself that he was; but strange to say, he did not
fully succeed. Was it not toward this day his yearnings had
pointed, and about which his hopes had been clustering from
year to year, ever since he had been old enough to know what
yearning was? Was it not this day which had been beckoning
him from afar, and had shed light upon his way like a star, and
had he not followed its guidance as faithfully and as trustingly as
those wise men of old? "Folly and nonsense," muttered he; "the
night breeds nightly thoughts! " With an effort he again brought
Ragnhild's image before his mind, jumped upon his skees, and
darted down over the glittering snow. It bore him toward the
fjord. A sharp, chill wind swept up the hillside, and rushed against
him. "Houseman's son! " cried the wind. Onward he hastened.
"Houseman's son! " howled the wind after him. Soon he reached
the fjord, hurried on up toward the river-mouth, and coming to
the Henjum boat-house, stopped, and walked out to the end of
the pier, which stretched from the headland some twenty to thirty
feet out into the water. The fjord lay sombre and restless
before him. There was evidently a storm raging in the ocean,
for the tide was unusually high, and the sky was darkening from
the west eastward. The mountain-peaks stood there, stern and
lofty as ever, with their heads wrapped in hoods of cloud. Gun-
nar sat down at the outer edge of the pier, with his feet hang-
ing listlessly over the water, which, in slow and monotonous
plashing, beat against the timbers. Far out in the distance he
## p. 2278 (#476) ###########################################
2278
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
could hear the breakers roar among the rocky reefs; first the
long, booming roll, then the slowly waning moan, and the great
hush, in which the billows pause to listen to themselves. It is
the heavy deep-drawn breath of the ocean. It was cold, but
Gunnar hardly felt it.
He again stepped into his skees and followed the narrow road,
as it wound its way from the fjord up along the river. Down
near the mouth, between Henjum and Rimul, the river was
frozen, and could be crossed on the ice. Up at Henjumhei it
was too swift to freeze. It was near daylight when he reached
the cottage. How small and poor it looked! Never had he seen
it so before; - very different from Rimul. And how dark and
narrow it was all around it! At Rimul they had always sun-
shine. Truly, the track is steep from Henjumhei to Rimul; the
river runs deep between.
## p. 2279 (#477) ###########################################
2279
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
(1837-)
W
HATEVER objections may be made to the sensational character
of many of Miss Braddon's earlier novels, her place is cer-
tainly in the ranks of the "born" story-tellers. Although
still in the prime of life, she has been before the public for thirty-
seven years. Her books have been produced in amazingly rapid and
continuous succession. She was born in London in 1837, wrote little
stories in her early teens, and was fond of entertaining her com-
panions with startling original tales.
When a young girl she conceived a passion for the stage, and a
dramatic or melodramatic - element is conspicuous in most of her
novels. She was barely twenty-one when she had completed a comedi-
etta, The Lover of Arcadia,' which, after many alterations and
revisions, was put on the stage of the Strand Theatre in 1860, with —
naturally but moderate success. Her disappointment was extreme.
She gave up the hope of becoming a successful dramatist. Her next
venture, like that of most young authors, was a small volume of
poems, of which Garibaldi was the chief theme. About this time she
also wrote a number of highly colored, much strained tales in the
Temple Bar and St. James' magazines. These tales drew attention,
and awoke an echo which neither the comedietta nor the poems had
done, making it clear to her that in narrative fiction lay her strength.
She was ambitious, she wanted money even more than reputation,
and she has followed narrative fiction most diligently ever since, with
widening and indisputable success.
In 1862 appeared her first full-fledged novel, 'Lady Audley's Se-
cret. ' It achieved instantaneous distinction and an enormous sale,
six editions being disposed of in as many weeks. She had finally hit
the mark, though not by accident. She had carefully thought out a
new scheme, and had corrected literary mistakes by her late expe-
rience. She knew that the first desire of novel readers is for novelty,
a characteristic usually preferred to originality, which is often much
more slowly recognized. Mrs. Gore's fashionable novels, correct in
portraiture and upholstery, clever but monotonous, had had their
day; Mrs. Trollope's coarse and caustic delineations; G. P. R. James's
combats, adventures, skirmishes, disguises, trials, and escapes, and
Bulwer's sentimental and grandiloquent romances, had begun to pall
upon the public taste. Miss Braddon perceived that the time had
-
--
## p. 2280 (#478) ###########################################
2280
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
come for something new, so 'Lady Audley's Secret' was a striking
innovation.
Hitherto, wickedness had been ugly. She endued it with grace
and beauty. She invented a mystery of crime surrounded by every-
day circumstances, yet avoiding the "detective novel» mechanism.
A new story, Aurora Floyd,' repeated the immense success of
'Lady Audley. ' Novel after novel followed, full of momentous inci-
dents, of surprises leading to new surprises. All the time Miss Brad-
don was observing much, correcting much in her methods and ideas.
She studied manners closely; drew ingenious inferences; suggested
dramatic and startling conclusions. She has, too, introduced into
modern fiction the beguiling female fiend, who, like the Italian
duchess of the Middle Ages, betrays with a smile, and with one arm
about her lover beckons to the hired bravo to do his bloody work.
Her plots, though sometimes forced, are ingenious and exciting. The
movement of her stories is swift, and the scenes and personages con-
tribute to the appointed end. As the author has grown in literary
stature, a finer and often admirable effort is made to analyze or to
develop character, as an element subservient to the exigencies of the
stirring catastrophe.
Her style and treatment have matured with practice and with
years, and her later novels display artistic form and finish. Her
'Mohawks' is in many respects a superb study of fashionable life,
with several historical portraits introduced, of London in the time of
Pope, St. John, Walpole, and Chesterfield a tableau of great move-
ment and accuracy of composition. In thirty-five years she has writ-
ten more than sixty stories, the best of them being perhaps this fine
semi-historical melodrama. Several of her earlier fictions have been
successfully dramatized. An exquisite little tale for Christmas-tide,
'The Christmas Hirelings,' is an evidence of her lightness of touch
and refinement of conception in a trifle. In 1874 Miss Braddon mar-
ried John Maxwell, a well-known London publisher.
――――
## p. 2281 (#479) ###########################################
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
2281
THE ADVENT OF THE HIRELINGS>
E
From The Christmas Hirelings': copyrighted by Harper and Brothers
VERYTHING had been made ready for the little strangers.
There were fires blazing in two large bedrooms overhead-
rooms with a door of communication. In one there were
still the two little white beds in which Lilian and Sibyl had
slept when they were children; poor Lilian, whose bed was in
the English cemetery at Florence, under a white marble monu-
ment erected by her sorrowing husband, and whose sorrowing
husband had taken to himself a second wife five years ago.
Every one knew where Lilian was lying, but no one at Penlyon
Castle knew where Sibyl's head had found rest. All that people
knew about the disobedient daughter was that her husband had
died within three or four years of her marriage, worn to death
in some foreign mission. Of his luckless widow no one at Pen-
lyon had heard anything, but it was surmised that her father
made her an allowance. He could hardly let his only daughter
starve, people said, however badly she might have treated him.
Lady Lurgrave's early death had been a crushing blow to his
love and to his pride. She had died childless.
Sir John had heard the carriage stop, and the opening of the
hall door; and although he pretended to go on reading his paper
by the lamp placed close at his elbow, the pretense was a poor
one, and anybody might have seen that he was listening with
all his might.
The footman had opened the hall door as the wheels drew
near; it was wide open when the carriage stopped. The red
light from the hall fire streamed out upon the evening gray, and
three little silvery voices were heard exclaiming:-
"Oh, what a pretty house! "
"Oh, what a big house! "
And then the smallest voice of the three with amazing dis
tinctness:
"What an exceedingly red fire. "
The carriage door flew open, and two little girls all in red
from top to toe, and one little boy in gray, rolled out in a heap,
or seemed to roll out, like puppies out of a basket, scrambled
## p. 2282 (#480) ###########################################
2282
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
on to their feet and ran up the steps,-Mr. Danby, slim and
jaunty as usual, following them.
"Good gracious, how tiny they are! " cried Adela, stooping
down to kiss the smaller girl, a round red bundle, with a round
little face, and large dark gray eyes shining in the firelight.
The tiny thing accepted the kiss somewhat shrinkingly, and
looked about her, awed by the grandeur of the hall, the large
fireplace and blazing logs, the men in armor, or the suits of
armor standing up and pretending to be men.
"I don't like them," said the tiny girl, clinging to Danby
and pointing at one of these mailed warriors with a muffled red
hand: "they're not alive, are they, Uncle Tom? "
"No, no, no, Moppet, they're as dead as door-nails. "
"Are they? I don't like dead people. "
"Come, come, Moppet, suppose they're not people at all-no
more than a rocking-horse is a real live horse. We'll pull one of
them down to-morrow and look inside him, and then you'll be
satisfied. "
The larger scarlet mite, larger by about an inch, older by a
year, was standing before the fire, gravely warming her hands,
spreading them out before the blaze as much as hands so tiny
could spread themselves. The boy was skipping about the hall,
looking at everything, the armed warriors especially, and not at
all afraid.
"They're soldiers, aren't they? " he asked.
"Yes, Laddie. "
"I should like to be dressed like that, and go into a battle
and kill lots of people. I couldn't be killed myself, could I, if I
had that stuff all over me? "
"Perhaps not, Laddie; but I don't think it would answer.
You'd be an anachronism. ”
"I wouldn't mind being a nackerism if it saved me from
being killed," said Laddie.
"Come, little ones, come and be presented to your host," said
Mr. Danby, as the footman opened the library door; and they
all poured in-Danby, Adela, and the children- the smallest
running in first, her sister and the boy following, considerably
in advance of the grown-ups.
Moppet ran right into the middle of the room as fast as her
little red legs could carry her; then seeing Sir John sitting where
the bright lamplight shown full upon his pale elderly face, with
## p. 2283 (#481) ###########################################
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
2283
its strongly marked features, black eyebrows, and silvery-gray
hair, she stopped suddenly as if she had beheld a Gorgon, and
began to back slowly till she brought herself up against the
silken skirt of Adela Hawberk's gown; and in that soft drapery
she in a manner absorbed herself, till there was nothing to be
seen of the little neatly rounded figure except the tip of a bright
red cap and the toes of two bright red gaiters.
The elder mite had advanced less boldly, and had not to beat
so ignominious a retreat. She was near enough to Mr. Danby
to clutch his hand, and holding by that she was hardly at all
frightened.
The boy, older, bolder, and less sensitive than either of the
girls, went skipping around the library as he had skipped about
the hall, looking at things and apparently unconscious of Sir
John Penlyon's existence.
"How d'ye do, Danby? " said Sir John, holding out his hand
as his old friend advanced to the fire, the little red girl hanging
on to his left hand, while he gave his right to his host. "Upon
my word, I began to think you were never coming back. You've
been an unconscionable time. One would suppose you had to
fetch the children from the world's end. "
"I had to bring them to the world's end, you might say.
Boscastle is something more than a day's journey from London
in the depth of winter. "
"And are these the children? Good heavens, Danby! what
could you be thinking about to bring us such morsels of hu-
manity? "
"We wanted children," said Danby, "not hobbledehoys. "
"Hobbledehoys! no, but there is reason in everything. You
couldn't suppose I wanted infants like these-look at that little
scrap hidden in Adela's frock. It's positively dreadful to contem-
plate! They will be getting under my feet. I shall be treading
upon them, and hurting them seriously. "
"No you won't, Jack; I'll answer for that. "
"Why not, pray? "
"Because of their individuality. They are small, but they
are people. When Moppet comes into a room everybody knows
she is there. She is a little scared now; but she will be as bold
* as brass in a quarter of an hour. "
Sir John Penlyon put on his spectacles and looked at the
little hirelings more critically. Their youth and diminutive size
## p. 2284 (#482) ###########################################
2284
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
had been a shock to him. He had expected bouncing children
with rosy faces, long auburn hair, and a good deal of well-
developed leg showing beneath a short frock. These, measured
against his expectations, were positively microscopic.
Their cheeks were pale rather than rosy. Their hair was
neither auburn nor long. It was dark hair, and it was cropped
close to the neat little heads, showing every bump in the broad,
clever-looking foreheads. Sir John's disapproving eyes showed
him that the children were more intelligent than the common
run of children; but for the moment he was not disposed to
accept intelligence instead of size.
"They are preposterously small," he said "not at all the
kind of thing I expected. They will get lost under chairs or
buried alive in waste-paper baskets. I wash my hands of them.
Take them away, Adela. Let them be fed and put to bed. ”
Then turning to Mr. Danby as if to dismiss the subject, "Any-
thing stirring in London when you were there, Tom? "
Before Danby could answer, Moppet emerged from her shelter,
advanced deliberately, and planted herself in front of Sir John
Penlyon, looking him straight in the face.
"I'm sorry you don't like us, Mr. Old Gentleman," she said.
guages wherein Bowring's researches bore
such valuable fruit,-embracing Bohemian,
Polish, Russian, Hungarian, Servian, and
Bulgarian, the race-soul of these nations
is preserved: their wild mythology, their
bizarre Oriental color, their impassioned
thought, their affections and traditions, and
often the sorrows and ideals learned during
centuries of vain wanderings and heavy
oppressions. In this rich and romantic field, which has been assid-
uously cultivated since his time, Bowring was a pioneer.
SIR JOHN BOWRING
John Bowring, born on October 17th, 1792, came of an old Puritan
family, long identified with the woolen trade. "In the early days,"
he tells us, "the Exeter merchants were mostly traveled men with a
practical knowledge of other tongues, and the quay at Exeter was
crowded with the ships of all nations. " Thus his imagination was kin-
dled by the visible links to far-away countries, and from intercourse
with the emigrants of various nations he acquired the foundation of
his brilliant linguistic attainments.
In 1811 he went to London as clerk to a commercial house, which
sent him to Spain in 1813, and subsequently to France, Belgium,
Holland, Russia, and Sweden. Immediately on his return to London
he published the first of his translations, Specimens of the Russian
Poets' (1820). In 1822 he published a second volume of Russian verse
## p. 2264 (#462) ###########################################
2264
SIR JOHN BOWRING
and a translation of Chamisso's whimsical tale Peter Schlemihl'; and
when in 1824 his friend Jeremy Bentham founded the Westminster
Review, Bowring became one of its editors. He contributed to it
numerous essays on political and literary topics, one of which, on
the literature of Finland, published in 1827, first brought the poetry
of that country into notice. In 1849 he was sent on a mission to
China; in 1854 was made plenipotentiary and knighted, and remained
in China during the Taeping insurrection, being made governor of
Hong Kong. In 1859 he resigned the post.
With the exception of negotiating commercial treaties for England
between the Hawaiian court and various European States, the remain-
der of his life was spent quietly in the pursuit of literary pleasures.
Even in his old age he translated fugitive poetry, wrote essays on
political, literary, and social questions of the hour, and frequently
delivered lectures. He died November 23d, 1872, in Exeter, within
sight of his birthplace under the shadows of the massive cathedral.
"In my travels," he said, "I have never been very ambitious of the
society of my countrymen, but have always sought that of the
natives; and there are few men, I believe, who can bear a stronger
or a wider testimony to the general kindness and hospitality of the
human family when the means of intercourse exist. My experiences
of foreign lands are everywhere connected with the most pleasing
and the most grateful remembrances. " In 1873 Lady Bowring pub-
lished a 'Memorial Volume of Sacred Poetry,' containing many of
his popular hymns; and in 1877 his Autobiographical Recollections'
were published, with a memoir by his son.
Sir John Bowring was a natural linguist of the first order. He
knew and spoke over a hundred languages, and affirmed that he
often dreamed in foreign tongues. His friend Tom Hood humor-
ously referred to his gifts in the following verse:—
«To Bowring! man of many tongues,
(All over tongues, like rumor)
This tributary verse belongs
To paint his learnèd humor.
All kinds of gab he knows, I wis,
From Latin down to Scottish-
As fluent as a parrot is,
But far more Polly-glottish.
No grammar too abstruse he meets,
However dark and verby;
He gossips Greek about the streets
And often Russ-in urbe.
Strange tongues- whate'er you do them call:
In short, the man is able
## p. 2265 (#463) ###########################################
SIR JOHN BOWRING
2265
To tell you what o'clock in all
The dialects of Babel.
Take him on Change-in Portuguese,
The Moorish and the Spanish,
Polish, Hungarian, Tyrolese,
The Swedish and the Danish:
Try him with these, and fifty such,
His skill will ne'er diminish;
Although you should begin in Dutch,
And end (like me) in Finnish. »
Bowring was a member of many learned societies, and had honors
and decorations without stint, including the Order of the White
Elephant, the Swedish Order of the Northern Star, and the Order of
Kamehameha I. His publications are a 'Russian Anthology,' 'Matins
and Vespers,' 'Batavian Anthology,' 'Ancient Poetry and Romances
of Spain, Peter Schlemihl,' 'Servian Popular Poetry,' 'Specimens
of the Polish Poets,' 'Sketch of the Language and Literature of
Holland,' 'Poetry of the Magyars,' 'Cheskian Anthology,' 'Minor
Morals,' 'Observations on Oriental Plague and Quarantines,' 'Manu-
script of the Queen's Court: a Collection of Old Bohemian Lyrico-
Epic Songs,' 'Kingdom and People of Siam,' A Visit to the
Philippine Islands,' Translations from Petöfi,' The Flowery Scroll'
(translation of a Chinese novel), and The Oak' (a collection of
original tales and sketches). He also edited the works of Jeremy
Bentham. Of his translations, the 'Servian Anthology' has been the
most admired for the skill and ease with which the wild beauty of
the poems, and their national spirit, has been preserved. At the time
of its publication, the collection of Servian popular poetry called
'Narodne srpske pjesme' had just appeared, and was the first attempt
to put into literary form the ballads and lyric songs sung by the
wandering minstrels and the people.
THE CROSS OF CHRIST
IN THE Cross of Christ I glory,
IN
Tow'ring o'er the wrecks of time;
All the light of sacred story
Gathers round its head sublime.
When the woes of life o'ertake me,
Hopes deceive and fears annoy,
Never shall the Cross forsake me
Lo! it glows with peace and joy.
## p. 2266 (#464) ###########################################
2266
SIR JOHN BOWRING
When the sun of bliss is beaming
Light and love upon my way,
From the Cross the radiance streaming
Adds more lustre to the day.
Bane and blessing, pain and pleasure,
By the Cross are sanctified;
Peace is there that knows no measure,
Joys that through all time abide.
In the Cross of Christ I glory,
Tow'ring o'er the wrecks of time;
All the light of sacred story
Gathers round its head sublime.
WATCHMAN! WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
ATCHMAN! tell us of the night,
What its signs of promise are:
Traveler! o'er yon mountain's height
See that glory-beaming star!
Watchman! doth its beauteous ray
Aught of hope or joy foretell?
Traveler! yes, it brings the day,
Promised day of Israel.
W
Watchman! tell us of the night;
Higher yet that star ascends:
Traveler! blessedness and light,
Peace and truth, its course portends.
Watchman! will its beams alone
Gild the spot that gave them birth?
Traveler! ages are its own,
And it bursts o'er all the earth.
Watchman! tell us of the night,
For the morning seems to dawn:
Traveler! darkness takes its flight,
Doubt and terror are withdrawn.
Watchman! let thy wanderings cease;
Hie thee to thy quiet home:
Traveler! lo! the Prince of Peace,
Lo! the Son of God is come!
L
## p. 2267 (#465) ###########################################
SIR JOHN BOWRING
2267
F
HYMN
ROM the recesses of a lowly spirit
My humble prayer ascends-O Father! hear it!
Upsoaring on the wings of fear and meekness,
Forgive its weakness.
I know, I feel, how mean and how unworthy
The trembling sacrifice I pour before Thee;
What can I offer in Thy presence holy,
But sin and folly?
For in Thy sight who every bosom viewest,
Cold are our warmest vows, and vain our truest;
Thoughts of a hurrying hour, our lips repeat them,
Our hearts forget them.
We see Thy hand - it leads us, it supports us;
We hear Thy voice-it counsels and it courts us;
And then we turn away—and still thy kindness
Pardons our blindness.
Ard still Thy rain descends, Thy sun is glowing,
Fruits ripen round, flowers are beneath us blowing,
And, as if man were some deserving creature,
Joys cover nature.
Oh, how long-suffering, Lord! - but Thou delightest
To win with love the wandering; Thou invitest
By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors,
Man from his errors.
Who can resist Thy gentle call-appealing
To every generous thought and grateful feeling?
That voice paternal-whispering, watching ever:
My bosom? - never.
Father and Savior! plant within that bosom
These seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom
In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal,
And spring eternal.
Then place them in those everlasting gardens
Where angels walk, and seraphs are the wardens;
Where every flower that creeps through death's dark portal
Becomes immortal.
## p. 2268 (#466) ###########################################
2268
SIR JOHN BOWRING
FROM LUIS DE GONGORA — NOT ALL NIGHTINGALES
HEY are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are little silver bells,
Touched by the winds in smiling dells;
TH
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
Think not the voices in the air
Are from the winged Sirens fair,
Playing among the dewy trees,
Chanting their morning mysteries;
Oh! if you listen, delighted there,
To their music scattered o'er the dales,
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are the little silver bells
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
Oh! 'twas a lovely song -- of art
To charm-of nature to touch the heart;
Sure 'twas some Shepherd's pipe, which, played
By passion, fills the forest shade:
No! 'tis music's diviner part
Which o'er the yielding spirit prevails.
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are the little silver bells
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
In the eye of love, which all things sees,
The fragrance-breathing jasmine trees-
And the golden flowers-and the sloping hill-
And the ever-melancholy rill-
Are full of holiest sympathies.
And tell of love a thousand tales.
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the flowery vales,
## p. 2269 (#467) ###########################################
SIR JOHN BOWRING
2269
But they are the little silver bells
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
From Ancient Poetry and Romances of Spain. '
FROM JOHN KOLLAR-SONNET
HERE came three minstrels in the days of old
TH To the Avaric savage-in their hands
Their own Slavonian citharas they hold:
"And who are ye! " the haughty Khan demands,
Frowning from his barbaric throne: "and where-
Say where your warriors- where your sisters be. "
"We are Slavonians, monarch! and come here
From the far borders of the Baltic sea:
We know no wars no arms to us belong -
We cannot swell your ranks-'tis our employ
Alone to sing the dear domestic song. "
And then they touched their harps in doubtful joy.
"Slaves! " said the tyrant -"these to prison lead,
For they are precious hostages indeed! "
From the Cheskian Anthology. '
FROM BOGDANOVICH (OLD RUSSIAN) — SONG
HAT to the maiden has happened?
What to the gem of the village?
Ah! to the gem of the village.
WHA
Seated alone in her cottage,
Tremblingly turned to the window;
Ah! ever turned to the window.
Like the sweet bird in its prison,
Pining and panting for freedom;
Ah! how 'tis pining for freedom!
Crowds of her youthful companions
Come to console the loved maiden;
Ah! to console the loved maiden.
## p. 2270 (#468) ###########################################
2270
SIR JOHN BOWRING
"Smile then, our sister, be joyful;
Clouds of dust cover the valley;
Ah! see, they cover the valley.
"Smile then, our sister, be joyful;
List to the hoof-beat of horses;
Oh! to the hoof-beat of horses. "
Then the maid looked through the window.
Saw the dust-clouds in the valley;
Oh! the dust-clouds in the valley.
Heard the hoof-beat of the horses,
Hurried away from the cottage;
Oh! to the valley she hurries.
"Welcome, O welcome! thou loved one. "
See, she has sunk on his bosom;
Oh! she has sunk on his bosom.
Now all her grief has departed:
She has forgotten the window;
Oh! quite forgotten the window.
Now her eye looks on her loved one,
Beaming with brightness and beauty;
Oh! 'tis all brightness and beauty.
From Specimens of the Russian Poets. "
FROM BOBROV - THE GOLDEN PALACE
[Sung at midnight in the Greek churches the last week before Easter. ]
THE
HE golden palace of my God
Tow'ring above the clouds I see
Beyond the cherubs' bright abode,
Higher than angels' thoughts can be:
How can I in those courts appear
Without a wedding garment on?
Conduct me, Thou life-giver, there;
Conduct me to Thy glorious throne:
And clothe me with thy robes of light,
And lead me through sin's darksome night,
My Savior and my God!
From Specimens of the Russian Poets. ▸
## p. 2271 (#469) ###########################################
SIR JOHN BOWRING
2271
FROM DMITRIEV— THE DOVE AND THE STRANGER
WHY
STRANGER
HY mourning there so sad, thou gentle dove?
DOVE
I mourn, unceasing mourn, my vanished love.
STRANGER
What, has thy love then fled, or faithless proved?
DOVE
Ah no! the sportsman murdered him I loved!
STRANGER
Unhappy one! beware! that sportsman's nigh!
DOVE
Oh, let him come- or else of grief I die.
From Specimens of the Russian Poets. ›
FROM SARBIEWSKI-SAPPHICS TO A ROSE
[Intended to be used in the garlands for decorating the head of the
Virgin Mary. ]
R°
OSE of the morning, in thy glowing beauty
Bright as the stars, and delicate and lovely,
Lift up thy head above thy earthly dwelling,
Daughter of heaven!
Wake! for the watery clouds are all dispersing;
Zephyr invites thee,- frosts and snows of winter
All are departed, and Favonian breezes
Welcome thee smiling.
Rise in thy beauty;-wilt thou form a garland
Round the fair brow of some beloved maiden?
Pure though she be, unhallowed temple never,
Flow'ret! shall wear thee.
-
Thou shouldst be wreathed in coronal immortal —
Thou shouldst be flung upon a shrine eternal -
Thou shouldst be twined among the golden ringlets
Of the pure Virgin.
From Specimens of the Polish Poets. >
## p. 2272 (#470) ###########################################
2272
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
(1848-1895)
B
OYESEN had thoroughly assimilated the spirit of his native
Norway before he left it. In the small southern seaport of
Friedricksvaern he had lived the happy adventurous boy-
hood depicted in those loving reminiscences 'Boyhood in Norway. '
He knew the rugged little land and the sparkling fiords; his imagin-
ation had delighted in Necken and Hulder and trolls, and all the
charming fantastic sprites of the Northland. So when he was far
away, during his bread-winning struggles in America, they grew
clearer and dearer in perspective; and in
'Gunnar,' 'A Norseman's Pilgrimage,'
'Ilka on the Hilltop,' and other delight-
ful books, he bequeathed these memories
to his adopted land.
He came of well-to-do people, and re-
ceived a liberal education at the gymna-
sium of Christiania, the University of
Leipsic, and the University of Norway.
His father, professor of mathematics at
the Naval Academy, had made several
trips to the United States and had been
impressed by the opportunities offered
there to energetic young men. Upon his
urgent advice, Hjalmar when about twenty-
HJALMAR H. BOYESEN
one came to America, and soon obtained a position upon a Norwegian
newspaper, the Fremad of Chicago.
From childhood he had longed to write, but had been discouraged
by his father, who expatiated upon the limitations of their native
tongue, and assured him that to succeed in literature he must be
able to write in another language as readily as in his own. Even in
his school days he had shown a remarkable aptitude for languages;
not only for understanding and speaking them, but for a sympathetic
comprehension of foreign literatures, and that sensitiveness to shades
of expression which so rarely comes to any but a native. He now
worked with all his energy to acquire English, not only as a neces-
sary tool, but as the best medium for conveying his own thought.
This whole-souled devotion to an adopted tongue was soon re-
warded by a more spontaneous ease of expression than he possessed
## p. 2273 (#471) ###########################################
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
2273
even in his native Norwegian. No one could guess from his poems
that he was foreign to the speech in which he wrote them; few even
among those born and bred to its use have had such mastery of its
capacities.
He soon left the Fremad and began teaching Greek and Latin
at the small Urbana University, in Ohio. Thence he was called to
Cornell University in 1874 as professor of German, and in 1880 to
Columbia College, where later he became professor of German lan-
guages and literatures. He was a teacher of rare stimulus and charm.
He had an attractive vigor of personality; his treatment of subjects
was at once keenly analytic and very sympathetic, while his indi-
vidual point of view was impressed in an easy and vivid style.
The same qualities won for Boyesen a distinguished place in the
lecture-field, where he gave his audiences an exceptional combination
of solid learning and graceful and lucid expression. A series on the
Norse sagas, at the Lowell Institute in Boston, are still valued as
'Scandinavian Studies. '
In critical work, of which these studies form a part, Professor
Boyesen made his chief mark, as was natural, on the literature and
legends of his native land. The best commentary on Ibsen yet pub-
lished in English is his introduction to Ibsen's works; he manages
to compress within the space of a very few pages the pith of the
great anarch's social ideas and the character of his dramatic work.
His 'Goethe and Schiller' is also excellent.
In pure letters, his earliest poems collected into 'Idyls of Nor-
way,' and his early stories of Norse life, of which 'Gunnar' was first
and best, were never surpassed by him in later life, if indeed they
were equaled. The best powers of his mind were gradually drawn
into fields which solidified and broadened his intellect, but checked
the free inspiration and romantic feeling of youth. In gauging his
merit as a creative artist, we must set aside all but the work of
these few enthusiastic years. An important part of this change must
be credited to the influence of the Russian novelists and their Ameri-
can disciples. Whatever may be the final verdict on Turgénieff and
Tolstoy, their tremendous effect on American literature is one of the
most striking facts in our recent literary history; its value is a more
dubious matter, according to the point of view. Boyesen met Tur-
génieff in Paris, and was deeply impressed by him; he also became
intimate with W. D. Howells, and through the influence of the lat-
ter became an ardent disciple of Tolstoy. The result was to trans-
form the romanticist of 'Gunnar'-steeped in the legends of old
Norway, creating a fairy-land atmosphere about him and delighting
to live in the ideal,- into a so-called realist, setting himself to the
task of brushing away all illusions and painting life as sterile and
IV-143
## p. 2274 (#472) ###########################################
2274
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
unpicturesque as it is in its meanest, most commonplace conditions.
To do this, he claimed, was the stern function of the author. To
help his readers to self-knowledge, although it might lessen their
happiness, was the greatest service he could render them.
He succeeded. The best comment on the theory and the practice
alike is that 'Gunnar' lives and its realistic successors do not, and
indeed never did; and that much the same may be said of the cor-
responding epochs of other American novelists' work, with a few
exceptions where native genius was too strong to be spoiled even by
a vicious artistic principle. 'The Mammon of Unrighteousness' and
'The Golden Calf' belong to the second half of Boyesen's work.
A high place must be given, however, to his stories for boys in
the children's magazines, principally on Norwegian themes. These
are among the best of their kind,-spirited, wholesome, strong in
plot and workmanship, and containing some examples of his most
perfect style. Even the more slender juvenile tales have passages of
the finest poetic spirit, and a charm scarcely equaled in his more
ambitious work. He won some laurels as a dramatist: Alpine
Roses' was successfully acted in New York in 1883, and 'Ilka on
the Hilltop' (taken from his story of that name) in 1884.
Although he was in complete sympathy with the American life
and character and wished to make them his own, Professor Boyesen
was never quite an American. His descriptions of life in the United
States are therefore always the result of a foreigner's observation.
His generous humanity appeals to all races, however, and his books
have been successfully translated into German, Russian, and Nor-
wegian. For years he had been collecting matter for an extensive
history of Scandinavian literature,- a task for which his nationality,
his scholarship, and his mastery of the English language especially
fitted him.
His sudden death at forty-seven prevented its accom-
plishment, and perhaps deprived him of a still wider and solider
fame.
## p. 2275 (#473) ###########################################
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
2275
A NORWEGIAN DANCE
From Gunnar, a Tale of Norse Life. ' Copyright 1874, by J. R. Osgood & Co.
Reprinted by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons
THEY
HEY all hurried back to the hall. Gudrun might well wish to
ask questions, but she dared not; for she felt the truth, but
was afraid of it. They could not help seeing, when they
entered the hall, that many curious glances were directed toward
them. But this rather roused in both a spirit of defiance.
Therefore, when Gunnar was requested to begin the stev he
chose Ragnhild for his partner, and she accepted. True, he was
a houseman's son, but he was not afraid. There was a giggling
and a whispering all round, as hand in hand they stepped out
on the floor. Young and old, lads and maidens, thronged eagerly
about them. Had she not been so happy, perhaps she would not
have been so fair. But as she stood there in the warm flush
of the torchlight, with her rich blond hair waving down over
her shoulders, and with that veiled brightness in her eyes, her
beauty sprang upon you like a sudden wonder, and her presence
was inspiration. And Gunnar saw her; she loved him: what
cared he for all the world beside? Proudly he raised his head
and sang:-
Gunnar - There standeth a birch in the lightsome lea,
Ragnhild-
In the lightsome lea;
Gunnar So fair she stands in the sunlight free,
Ragnhild-
In the sunlight free;
Both-
So fair she stands in the sunlight free.
-
Gunnar
Both-
Ragnhild-High up on the mountain there standeth a pine,
There standeth a pine;
Gunnar
Ragnhild-So stanchly grown and so tall and fine,
So tall and fine;
So stanchly grown and so tall and fine.
-
A maiden I know as fair as the day,
As fair as the day;
Gunnar
Ragnhild-
Gunnar She shines like the birch in the sunlight's play,
Ragnhild-
In the sunlight's play;
Both- She shines like the birch in the sunlight's play.
-
Ragnhild-I know a lad in the spring's glad light,
In the spring's glad light;
Gunnar -
―
## p. 2276 (#474) ###########################################
2276
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
Ragnhild-Far-seen as the pine on the mountain-height,
On the mountain-height;
Far-seen as the pine on the mountain-height.
Gunnar-
Both-
Gunnar So bright and blue are the starry skies,
Ragnhild-
The starry skies;
Gunnar
Ragnhild-
Both
But brighter and bluer that maiden's eyes,
That maiden's eyes;
But brighter and bluer that maiden's eyes.
-
Ragnhild-And his have a depth like the fjord, I know,
Gunnar
The fjord, I know;
Ragnhild-Wherein the heavens their beauty show,
Gunnar -
Their beauty show;
Both
Wherein the heavens their beauty show.
Gunnar The birds each morn seek the forest glade,
Ragnhild-
The forest glade;
Gunnar So flock my thoughts to that lily maid,
Ragnhild-
That lily maid;
Both
So flock my thoughts to that lily maid.
――――――
Ragnhild-The moss it clingeth so fast to the stone,
Gunnar
So fast to the stone;
Ragnhild-So clingeth my soul to him alone,
Gunnar
To him alone;
Both-
So clingeth my soul to him alone.
―
Gunnar -
Ragnhild-
Gunnar-
Ragnhild-
Both
-
-
Ragnhild-The plover hath but an only tone,
Gunnar
An only tone;
Ragnhild-My life hath its love, and its love alone,
Gunnar-
Its love alone;
Both
My life hath its love, and its love alone.
――――
Each brook sings its song, but forever the same,
Forever the same;
Forever my heart beats that maiden's name,
That maiden's name;
Forever my heart beats that maiden's name.
Gunnar The rivers all to the fjord they go,
Ragnhild-
To the fjord they go;
Gunnar So may our lives then together flow,
Ragnhild-
Together flow;
Both
Oh, may our lives then together flow!
-
## p. 2277 (#475) ###########################################
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
2277
Here Gunnar stopped, made a leap toward Ragnhild, caught
her round the waist, and again danced off with her, while a
storm of voices joined in the last refrain, and loud shouts of
admiration followed them. For this was a stev that was good
for something; long time it was since so fine a stev had been
heard on this side of the mountains. Soon the dance became
general, and lasted till after midnight. Then the sleigh-bells and
the stamping of hoofs from without reminded the merry guests
that night was waning. There stood the well-known swan-shaped
sleigh from Henjum, and the man on the box was Atle himself.
Ragnhild and Gudrun were hurried into it, the whip cracked,
and the sleigh shot down over the star-illumined fields of snow.
The splendor of the night was almost dazzling as Gunnar
came out from the crowded hall and again stood under the open
sky. A host of struggling thoughts and sensations thronged
upon him.
He was happy, oh, so happy! —at least he tried to
persuade himself that he was; but strange to say, he did not
fully succeed. Was it not toward this day his yearnings had
pointed, and about which his hopes had been clustering from
year to year, ever since he had been old enough to know what
yearning was? Was it not this day which had been beckoning
him from afar, and had shed light upon his way like a star, and
had he not followed its guidance as faithfully and as trustingly as
those wise men of old? "Folly and nonsense," muttered he; "the
night breeds nightly thoughts! " With an effort he again brought
Ragnhild's image before his mind, jumped upon his skees, and
darted down over the glittering snow. It bore him toward the
fjord. A sharp, chill wind swept up the hillside, and rushed against
him. "Houseman's son! " cried the wind. Onward he hastened.
"Houseman's son! " howled the wind after him. Soon he reached
the fjord, hurried on up toward the river-mouth, and coming to
the Henjum boat-house, stopped, and walked out to the end of
the pier, which stretched from the headland some twenty to thirty
feet out into the water. The fjord lay sombre and restless
before him. There was evidently a storm raging in the ocean,
for the tide was unusually high, and the sky was darkening from
the west eastward. The mountain-peaks stood there, stern and
lofty as ever, with their heads wrapped in hoods of cloud. Gun-
nar sat down at the outer edge of the pier, with his feet hang-
ing listlessly over the water, which, in slow and monotonous
plashing, beat against the timbers. Far out in the distance he
## p. 2278 (#476) ###########################################
2278
HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN
could hear the breakers roar among the rocky reefs; first the
long, booming roll, then the slowly waning moan, and the great
hush, in which the billows pause to listen to themselves. It is
the heavy deep-drawn breath of the ocean. It was cold, but
Gunnar hardly felt it.
He again stepped into his skees and followed the narrow road,
as it wound its way from the fjord up along the river. Down
near the mouth, between Henjum and Rimul, the river was
frozen, and could be crossed on the ice. Up at Henjumhei it
was too swift to freeze. It was near daylight when he reached
the cottage. How small and poor it looked! Never had he seen
it so before; - very different from Rimul. And how dark and
narrow it was all around it! At Rimul they had always sun-
shine. Truly, the track is steep from Henjumhei to Rimul; the
river runs deep between.
## p. 2279 (#477) ###########################################
2279
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
(1837-)
W
HATEVER objections may be made to the sensational character
of many of Miss Braddon's earlier novels, her place is cer-
tainly in the ranks of the "born" story-tellers. Although
still in the prime of life, she has been before the public for thirty-
seven years. Her books have been produced in amazingly rapid and
continuous succession. She was born in London in 1837, wrote little
stories in her early teens, and was fond of entertaining her com-
panions with startling original tales.
When a young girl she conceived a passion for the stage, and a
dramatic or melodramatic - element is conspicuous in most of her
novels. She was barely twenty-one when she had completed a comedi-
etta, The Lover of Arcadia,' which, after many alterations and
revisions, was put on the stage of the Strand Theatre in 1860, with —
naturally but moderate success. Her disappointment was extreme.
She gave up the hope of becoming a successful dramatist. Her next
venture, like that of most young authors, was a small volume of
poems, of which Garibaldi was the chief theme. About this time she
also wrote a number of highly colored, much strained tales in the
Temple Bar and St. James' magazines. These tales drew attention,
and awoke an echo which neither the comedietta nor the poems had
done, making it clear to her that in narrative fiction lay her strength.
She was ambitious, she wanted money even more than reputation,
and she has followed narrative fiction most diligently ever since, with
widening and indisputable success.
In 1862 appeared her first full-fledged novel, 'Lady Audley's Se-
cret. ' It achieved instantaneous distinction and an enormous sale,
six editions being disposed of in as many weeks. She had finally hit
the mark, though not by accident. She had carefully thought out a
new scheme, and had corrected literary mistakes by her late expe-
rience. She knew that the first desire of novel readers is for novelty,
a characteristic usually preferred to originality, which is often much
more slowly recognized. Mrs. Gore's fashionable novels, correct in
portraiture and upholstery, clever but monotonous, had had their
day; Mrs. Trollope's coarse and caustic delineations; G. P. R. James's
combats, adventures, skirmishes, disguises, trials, and escapes, and
Bulwer's sentimental and grandiloquent romances, had begun to pall
upon the public taste. Miss Braddon perceived that the time had
-
--
## p. 2280 (#478) ###########################################
2280
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
come for something new, so 'Lady Audley's Secret' was a striking
innovation.
Hitherto, wickedness had been ugly. She endued it with grace
and beauty. She invented a mystery of crime surrounded by every-
day circumstances, yet avoiding the "detective novel» mechanism.
A new story, Aurora Floyd,' repeated the immense success of
'Lady Audley. ' Novel after novel followed, full of momentous inci-
dents, of surprises leading to new surprises. All the time Miss Brad-
don was observing much, correcting much in her methods and ideas.
She studied manners closely; drew ingenious inferences; suggested
dramatic and startling conclusions. She has, too, introduced into
modern fiction the beguiling female fiend, who, like the Italian
duchess of the Middle Ages, betrays with a smile, and with one arm
about her lover beckons to the hired bravo to do his bloody work.
Her plots, though sometimes forced, are ingenious and exciting. The
movement of her stories is swift, and the scenes and personages con-
tribute to the appointed end. As the author has grown in literary
stature, a finer and often admirable effort is made to analyze or to
develop character, as an element subservient to the exigencies of the
stirring catastrophe.
Her style and treatment have matured with practice and with
years, and her later novels display artistic form and finish. Her
'Mohawks' is in many respects a superb study of fashionable life,
with several historical portraits introduced, of London in the time of
Pope, St. John, Walpole, and Chesterfield a tableau of great move-
ment and accuracy of composition. In thirty-five years she has writ-
ten more than sixty stories, the best of them being perhaps this fine
semi-historical melodrama. Several of her earlier fictions have been
successfully dramatized. An exquisite little tale for Christmas-tide,
'The Christmas Hirelings,' is an evidence of her lightness of touch
and refinement of conception in a trifle. In 1874 Miss Braddon mar-
ried John Maxwell, a well-known London publisher.
――――
## p. 2281 (#479) ###########################################
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
2281
THE ADVENT OF THE HIRELINGS>
E
From The Christmas Hirelings': copyrighted by Harper and Brothers
VERYTHING had been made ready for the little strangers.
There were fires blazing in two large bedrooms overhead-
rooms with a door of communication. In one there were
still the two little white beds in which Lilian and Sibyl had
slept when they were children; poor Lilian, whose bed was in
the English cemetery at Florence, under a white marble monu-
ment erected by her sorrowing husband, and whose sorrowing
husband had taken to himself a second wife five years ago.
Every one knew where Lilian was lying, but no one at Penlyon
Castle knew where Sibyl's head had found rest. All that people
knew about the disobedient daughter was that her husband had
died within three or four years of her marriage, worn to death
in some foreign mission. Of his luckless widow no one at Pen-
lyon had heard anything, but it was surmised that her father
made her an allowance. He could hardly let his only daughter
starve, people said, however badly she might have treated him.
Lady Lurgrave's early death had been a crushing blow to his
love and to his pride. She had died childless.
Sir John had heard the carriage stop, and the opening of the
hall door; and although he pretended to go on reading his paper
by the lamp placed close at his elbow, the pretense was a poor
one, and anybody might have seen that he was listening with
all his might.
The footman had opened the hall door as the wheels drew
near; it was wide open when the carriage stopped. The red
light from the hall fire streamed out upon the evening gray, and
three little silvery voices were heard exclaiming:-
"Oh, what a pretty house! "
"Oh, what a big house! "
And then the smallest voice of the three with amazing dis
tinctness:
"What an exceedingly red fire. "
The carriage door flew open, and two little girls all in red
from top to toe, and one little boy in gray, rolled out in a heap,
or seemed to roll out, like puppies out of a basket, scrambled
## p. 2282 (#480) ###########################################
2282
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
on to their feet and ran up the steps,-Mr. Danby, slim and
jaunty as usual, following them.
"Good gracious, how tiny they are! " cried Adela, stooping
down to kiss the smaller girl, a round red bundle, with a round
little face, and large dark gray eyes shining in the firelight.
The tiny thing accepted the kiss somewhat shrinkingly, and
looked about her, awed by the grandeur of the hall, the large
fireplace and blazing logs, the men in armor, or the suits of
armor standing up and pretending to be men.
"I don't like them," said the tiny girl, clinging to Danby
and pointing at one of these mailed warriors with a muffled red
hand: "they're not alive, are they, Uncle Tom? "
"No, no, no, Moppet, they're as dead as door-nails. "
"Are they? I don't like dead people. "
"Come, come, Moppet, suppose they're not people at all-no
more than a rocking-horse is a real live horse. We'll pull one of
them down to-morrow and look inside him, and then you'll be
satisfied. "
The larger scarlet mite, larger by about an inch, older by a
year, was standing before the fire, gravely warming her hands,
spreading them out before the blaze as much as hands so tiny
could spread themselves. The boy was skipping about the hall,
looking at everything, the armed warriors especially, and not at
all afraid.
"They're soldiers, aren't they? " he asked.
"Yes, Laddie. "
"I should like to be dressed like that, and go into a battle
and kill lots of people. I couldn't be killed myself, could I, if I
had that stuff all over me? "
"Perhaps not, Laddie; but I don't think it would answer.
You'd be an anachronism. ”
"I wouldn't mind being a nackerism if it saved me from
being killed," said Laddie.
"Come, little ones, come and be presented to your host," said
Mr. Danby, as the footman opened the library door; and they
all poured in-Danby, Adela, and the children- the smallest
running in first, her sister and the boy following, considerably
in advance of the grown-ups.
Moppet ran right into the middle of the room as fast as her
little red legs could carry her; then seeing Sir John sitting where
the bright lamplight shown full upon his pale elderly face, with
## p. 2283 (#481) ###########################################
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
2283
its strongly marked features, black eyebrows, and silvery-gray
hair, she stopped suddenly as if she had beheld a Gorgon, and
began to back slowly till she brought herself up against the
silken skirt of Adela Hawberk's gown; and in that soft drapery
she in a manner absorbed herself, till there was nothing to be
seen of the little neatly rounded figure except the tip of a bright
red cap and the toes of two bright red gaiters.
The elder mite had advanced less boldly, and had not to beat
so ignominious a retreat. She was near enough to Mr. Danby
to clutch his hand, and holding by that she was hardly at all
frightened.
The boy, older, bolder, and less sensitive than either of the
girls, went skipping around the library as he had skipped about
the hall, looking at things and apparently unconscious of Sir
John Penlyon's existence.
"How d'ye do, Danby? " said Sir John, holding out his hand
as his old friend advanced to the fire, the little red girl hanging
on to his left hand, while he gave his right to his host. "Upon
my word, I began to think you were never coming back. You've
been an unconscionable time. One would suppose you had to
fetch the children from the world's end. "
"I had to bring them to the world's end, you might say.
Boscastle is something more than a day's journey from London
in the depth of winter. "
"And are these the children? Good heavens, Danby! what
could you be thinking about to bring us such morsels of hu-
manity? "
"We wanted children," said Danby, "not hobbledehoys. "
"Hobbledehoys! no, but there is reason in everything. You
couldn't suppose I wanted infants like these-look at that little
scrap hidden in Adela's frock. It's positively dreadful to contem-
plate! They will be getting under my feet. I shall be treading
upon them, and hurting them seriously. "
"No you won't, Jack; I'll answer for that. "
"Why not, pray? "
"Because of their individuality. They are small, but they
are people. When Moppet comes into a room everybody knows
she is there. She is a little scared now; but she will be as bold
* as brass in a quarter of an hour. "
Sir John Penlyon put on his spectacles and looked at the
little hirelings more critically. Their youth and diminutive size
## p. 2284 (#482) ###########################################
2284
MARY ELIZABETH BRADDON
had been a shock to him. He had expected bouncing children
with rosy faces, long auburn hair, and a good deal of well-
developed leg showing beneath a short frock. These, measured
against his expectations, were positively microscopic.
Their cheeks were pale rather than rosy. Their hair was
neither auburn nor long. It was dark hair, and it was cropped
close to the neat little heads, showing every bump in the broad,
clever-looking foreheads. Sir John's disapproving eyes showed
him that the children were more intelligent than the common
run of children; but for the moment he was not disposed to
accept intelligence instead of size.
"They are preposterously small," he said "not at all the
kind of thing I expected. They will get lost under chairs or
buried alive in waste-paper baskets. I wash my hands of them.
Take them away, Adela. Let them be fed and put to bed. ”
Then turning to Mr. Danby as if to dismiss the subject, "Any-
thing stirring in London when you were there, Tom? "
Before Danby could answer, Moppet emerged from her shelter,
advanced deliberately, and planted herself in front of Sir John
Penlyon, looking him straight in the face.
"I'm sorry you don't like us, Mr. Old Gentleman," she said.
