No More Learning

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. My mother (God grant her peace! ) caused her many a
tear, and when I brought home my Lotte she wouldn't keep the
peace until at last she found out that happiness depends on kind-
ness more than on money. On the patch of land that I bought,
my wife and I lived as happily as people live when there's love
in the house and a bit of bread to spare. We worked hard and
spent little.
A long, scoured table, a wooden bench or so, a
chest or two of coarse linen, and a few pots and pans — that was
our furniture. The walls had never tasted whitewash, but Lotte
kept them scoured, She went to church barefoot, and put on
her shoes at the door. Good things such as coffee and plums,
that the poorest hut has now-a-days, we never saw. We didn't
save much, for crops sold cheap. But I didn't speculate, nor
squeeze money from the sweat of the poor. In time five pretty
little chatterboxes arrived, all flaxen-haired girls with blue eyes,
or brown. I was satisfied with girls, but the mother hankered
after a boy. That's a poor father that prefers a son to a
daughter. A man ought to take boys and girls alike, just as
God sends them. I was glad enough to work for my girls, and
I didn't worry about their future, nor build castles in the air for
them to live in. After fifteen years the boy arrived, but he took
himself quickly out of the world and coaxed his mother away
with him. ”
Little brother was silent, and bowed his snow-white head. ' My
heart felt as if the dead wife flitted through the room and gently
touched the old fellow's thin locks. I saw him kneeling at her
death-bed, heard the little girls sobbing, and waited in silence till
he drew himself up, sighing deeply:-
1-29


## p. 450 (#484) ############################################

450
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
My
“My Lotte died; she left me alone. What didn't I promise
the dear Lord in those black hours! My life, my savings, yea, all
my children if He would but leave her to me. In vain.
thoughts are not thy thoughts, saith the Lord, and My ways
are not thy ways. ' It was night in my soul.
I cried over my
children, and I only half did my work. At night 'I tumbled into
bed tearless and prayerless. Oh, sad time! God vainly knocked at
my heart's door until the children fell ill. Oh, what would become
of me if these flowers were gathered ? What wealth these rosy
mouths meant to me, how gladly would they smile away my sor-
row! I had set myself up above the Lord. But by my children's
bedside I prayed for grace. They all recovered.
I took my
motherless brood to God's temple to thank Him there. Church-
going won't bring salvation, but staying away from church makes
a man stupid and coarse.
“But I am forgetting, little sister. I started to tell you
about my fifteen children. You see I made up my mind that I
had to find a mother for the chicks. I wouldn't chain a young
thing to my bonds, even if she understood housekeeping. I held
to the saying, Equal wealth, equal birth, equal years make a
good match. When an old widower courts a young girl he looks
at her faults with a hundred eyes when he measures her with
his first wife. But a home without a wife is like spring with-
out blossoms. So, thinking this way, I chose a widow with ten
children. ”
Twirling his thumbs, little brother smiled gayly as he looked
at me. « Five and ten make fifteen, I thought, and when fifteen
prayers rise to heaven, the Lord must hear.
My two eldest
stepsons entered military service. We wouldn't spend all our
money on the boys and then console our poor girls with a hus-
band. I put three sons to trades. But my girls were my pride.
They learned every kind of work. When they could cook, wash,
and spin, we sent them into good households to learn more.
Two married young.
Some of the rest are seamstresses and
housekeepers. One is a secretary, and our golden-haired Miez is
lady's-maid to the Countess H- Both these girls are be-
trothed. Miez is the brightest, and she managed to learn, even
at the village school. So much is written about education nowa-
days,” (little brother drew himself up proudly as he added, "I
take a newspaper,”) “but the real education is to keep children
at work and make them unselfish. They must love their work,


## p. 451 (#485) ############################################

JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
451
Work and pray, these were my rules, and thank Heaven! all my
children are good and industrious.
“Just think, last summer my dear girls sent me a suit of fine
city clothes and money to go a journey, begging their old father
to make them a visit. On, how pretty they looked when they
showed me round the city in spite of my homespun, for I
couldn't bring myself to wear the fine clothes, after all. The
best dressed one was our little lady's-maid, who had a gold watch
in her belt. So I said: 'Listen, child, that is not fit for you. '
But she only laughed. Indeed it is, little father.
'If my gra-
cious lady makes me a present, I'm not likely to be mistaken for
her on that account. '-'And girls, are you contented to be in
service ? ' — Certainly, father: unless there are both masters and
servants the world would go out of its grooves. My good
Countess makes service so light, that we love and serve her.
Yes, little father,' added Miez, my gracious mistress chose Gus-
tav for me, and is going to pay for the wedding and start us in
housekeeping - God bless her! Now see what good such a
woman does. If people would but learn that it takes . wits to
command as well as to obey, they would get along well enough
in these new times of equality. Thank heaven! we country folk
shan't be ruined by idleness. When I saw my thatched roof
again, among the fir-trees, I felt as solemn as if I were going to
prayers. The blue smoke looked like incense. I folded my
hands, I thanked God. ”
Little brother arose, his eyes bright with tears. He cast a
wistful look toward the apples in the chimney: "My old wife,
little sister ? ” — “Certainly, take them all, little brother, you are
heartily welcome to them. "-"We are like children, my wife and
I, we carry tidbits to each other, now that our birds have all
flown away. ” — " That is right, old boy, and God keep thee! ” I
said. From the threshold the words echoed back, "God keep
thee! »
Translation of Miss H. Geist.
STRUGGLE AND PEACE
QUARTER-CENTURY warfare woke
No sabre clash nor powder smoke,
No triumph song nor battle cry;
Their shields no templared knights stood by.
A


## p. 452 (#486) ############################################

452
JOHANNA AMBROSIUS
Though fought were many battles hot,
Of any fight the world knew not
How great the perils often grew —
God only knew.
Within my deepest soul-depths torn,
In hands and feet wounds bleeding borne,
Trodden beneath the chargers' tread,
How I endured, felt, suffered, bled,
How wept and groaned I in my woe,
When scoffed the malice-breathing foe,
How pierced his scorn my spirit through,
God only knew.
The evening nears; cool zephyrs blow;
The struggle wild doth weaker grow;
The air with scarce a sigh is filled
From the pale mouth; the blood is stilled.
Quieted now my bitter pain;
A faint star lights the heavenly plain;
Peace cometh after want and woe
My God doth know.
DO THOU LOVE, TOO!
THE
He waves they whisper
In Luna's glance,
Entrancing music
For the nixies' dance.
They beckon, smiling,
And wavewise woo,
While softly plashing :-
“Do thou love, too! »
In blossoming lindens
Doves fondly rear
Their tender fledglings
From year to year.
With never a pausing,
They bill and coo,
And twitter gently:-
“Do thou love, too ! »


## p. 453 (#487) ############################################

EDMONDO DE AMICIS
453
INVITATION
H
ow long wilt stand outside and cower ?
Come straight within, beloved guest.
The winds are fierce this wintry hour:
Come, stay awhile with me and rest.
You wander begging shelter vainly
A weary time from door to door ;
I see what you have suffered plainly:
Come, rest with me and stray no more!
And nestle by me, trusting-hearted;
Lay in my loving hands your head:
Then back shall come your peace departed,
Through the world's baseness long since fled;
And deep from out your heart upspringing,
Love's downy wings will soar to view,
The darling smiles like magic bringing
Around your gloomy lips anew.
Come, rest: myself will here detain you,
So long as pulse of mine shall beat;
Nor shall my heart grow cold and pain you,
Till carried to your last retreat.
You gaze at me in doubting fashion,
Before the offered rapture dumb;
Tears and still tears your sole expression:
Bedew my bosom with them - come!
EDMONDO DE AMICIS
(1846-)
1869, Vita Militare' (Military Life), a collection of short
stories, was perhaps the most popular Italian volume of the
year. Read alike in court and cottage, it was everywhere
discussed and enthusiastically praised. Its prime quality was that
quivering sympathy which insures some success to any imaginative
work, however crudely written. But these sketches of all the grim
and amusing phases of Italian soldier life are drawn with an exqui-
site precision. The reader feels the breathless discouragement of
the tired soldiers when new dusty vistas are revealed by a sudden
turn in the road (“A Midsummer March'); understands the strong


## p. 454 (#488) ############################################

454
EDMONDO DE AMICIS
silent love between officer and orderly, suppressed by military eti-
quette (“The Orderly'); smiles with the soldiers at the pretty runa-
way boy, idol of the regiment (The Son of the Regiment'): pities
the humiliations of the conscript novice ("The Conscript'); thrills
with the proud sorrow of the old man whose son's colonel tells the
story of his heroic death ('Dead on the field of Battle').
( When I
had finished reading it,” said an Italian workman, "I would gladly
have pressed the hand of the first soldier whom I happened to
meet. ” The author was only twenty-three, and has since given the
world many delightful volumes, but nothing finer.
These sketches were founded upon personal knowledge, for De
Amicis began life as a soldier. After his early education at Coni
and Turin, he entered the military school at Modena, from which he
was sent out as sub-lieutenant in the third regiment of the line. He
saw active service in various expeditions against Sicilian brigands;
and in the war with Austria he fought at the battle of Custozza.
His literary power seems to have been early
manifest; for in 1867 he became manager
of a newspaper, L'Italia Militare, at Flor-
ence; and in 1871, yielding to his friends'
persuasions, he settled down to authorship
at Turin. His second book was the "Ricordi,'
memorials dedicated to the youth of Italy,
of national events which had come within
his experience. Half a dozen later stories
published together were also very popular,
especially (Gli Amici di Collegio (College
Friends), Fortezza,' and 'La Casa Paterna'
(The Paternal Home). He has written
EDMONDO DE Amicis
some graceful verse as well.
But De Amicis soon craved the stimulus of novel environments,
of differing personalities; and he set out upon the travels which he
has so delightfully recounted. This ardent Italian longed for the
repose of “a gray sky," a critic tells us. He went first to Holland,
* and experienced a joyous satisfaction in the careful art of that trim
little land. Later, a visit to North Africa in the suite of the Italian
ambassador prompted a brilliant volume, Morocco,' which glitters
and flashes like a Damascus blade. ” Among his other well-known
books, descriptive of other trips, are Holland and Its People,'
(Spain, London, Paris,' and 'Constantinople,' which, translated
into many languages, have been widely read.
That unfortunate though not uncommon traveler who finds ennui
everywhere must envy De Amicis his inexhaustible enthusiasm, his
power of epicurean enjoyment in the color and glory of every land.

(


## p. 455 (#489) ############################################

EDMONDO DE AMICIS
455
His is a curiously optimistic nature. Always perceiving the beautiful
and picturesque in art and nature, he treats other aspects hopefully,
and ignores them when he may. He catches what is characteristic
in every nation as inevitably as he catches the physiognomy of a
land with its skies and its waters, its flowers and its atmosphere.
His is a realism transfigured by poetic imagination, which divines
essential things and places them in high relief.
Very early in life De Amicis announced his love and admiration
of Manzoni, of whom he called himself a disciple. But his is a very
different mind. This Italian, born at Onéglia of Genoese parents,
has inherited the emotional nature of his country. He sees every-
thing with feeling, penetrating below the surface with sympathetic
insight. Italy gives him his sensuous zest in life. But from France,
through his love of her vigor and grace, his cordial admiration of
her literature, he has gained a refining and strengthening influence.
She has taught him that direct diction, that choice simplicity, which
forsakes the stilted Italian of literary tradition for a style far
simpler, stronger, and more natural.
All selections used by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons
THE LIGHT
From Constantinople
A
Nd first of all, the light! One of my dearest delights at Con-
stantinople was to see the sun rise and set, standing upon
the bridge of the Sultana Validé. At dawn, in autumn, the
Golden Horn is almost always covered by a light fog, behind
which the city is seen vaguely, like those gauze curtains that
descend upon the stage to conceal the preparations for a scenic
spectacle. Scutari is quite hidden; nothing is to be seen but the
dark uncertain outline of her hills. The bridge and the shores
are deserted, Constantinople sleeps; the solitude and silence render
the spectacle more solemn. The sky begins to grow golden
behind the hills of Scutari. Upon that luminous strip are drawn,
one by one, black and clear, the tops of the cypress trees in the
vast cemetery, like an army of giants ranged upon the heights;
and from one cape of the Golden Horn to the other there shines
a tremulous light, faint as the first murmur of the awakening
city. Then behind the cypresses of the Asiatic shore comes forth
an eye of fire, and suddenly the white tops of the four minarets
of Saint Sophia are tinted with deep rose. In a few minutes,


## p. 456 (#490) ############################################

456
EDMONDO DE AMICIS
from hill to hill, from mosque to mosque, down to the end of the
Golden Horn, all the minarets, one after the other, turn rose
color; all the domes, one by one, are silvered, the flush descends
from terrace to terrace, the tremulous light spreads, the great
veil melts, and all Stamboul appears, rosy and resplendent upon
her heights, blue and violet along the shores, fresh and young, as
if just risen from the waters.
As the sun rises, the delicacy of the first tints vanishes in an
immense illumination, and everything remains bathed in white
light until toward evening. Then the divine spectacle begins
again. The air is so limpid that from Galata one can see clearly
every distant tree, as far as Kadi-Kioi. The whole of the
immense profile of Stamboul stands out against the sky with such
a clearness of line and rigor of color, that every minaret, obelisk,
and cypress-tree can be counted, one by one, from Seraglio Point
to the cemetery of Eyub. The Golden Horn and the Bosphorus
assume a wonderful ultramarine color; the heavens, the color of
amethyst in the East, are afire behind Stamboul, tinting the hori-
zon with infinite lights of rose and carbuncle, that make one
think of the first day of the creation; Stamboul darkens, Galata
becomes golden, and Scutari, struck by the last rays of the set-
ting sun, with every pane of glass giving back the glow, looks
like a city on fire.
And this is the moment to contemplate Constantinople. There
is one rapid succession of the softest tints, pallid gold, rose and
lilac, which quiver and float over the sides of the hills and the
water, every moment giving and taking away the prize of beauty
from each part of the city, and revealing a thousand modest
graces of the landscape that have not dared to show themselves
in the full light. Great melancholy suburbs are lost in the
shadow of the valleys; little purple cities smile upon the heights;
villages faint as if about to die; others die at once like extin-
guished flames; others, that seemed already dead, revive, and
glow, and quiver yet a moment longer under the last ray of the
sun. Then there is nothing left but two resplendent points upon
the Asiatic shore,- the summit of Mount Bulgurlu, and the
extremity of the cape that guards the entrance to the Propontis;
they are at first two golden crowns, then two purple caps, then
two rubies; then all Constantinople is in shadow, and ten thou-
sand voices from ten thousand minarets announce the close of
the day.


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EDMONDO DE AMICIS
457
RESEMBLANCES
From Constantinople
How many
N the first days, fresh as I was from the perusal of Oriental
literature, I saw everywhere the famous personages of history
and legend, and the figures that recalled them resembled
sometimes so faithfully those that were fixed in my imagination,
that I was constrained to stop and look at them.
times have I seized my friend by the arm, and pointing to a
person passing by, have exclaimed: "It is he, cospetto! do you
not recognize him ? ” In the square of the Sultana Validé, I fre-
quently saw the gigantic Turk who threw down millstones from
the walls of Nicæa on the heads of the soldiers of Baglione; I
saw in front of a mosque Umm Djemil, that old fury that sowed
brambles and nettles before Mahomet's house; I met in the book
bazaar, with a volume under his arm, Djem aleddin, the learned
man of Broussa, who knew the whole of the Arab dictionary by
heart; I passed quite close to the side of Ayesha, the favorite
wife of the Prophet, and she fixed upon my face her eyes, brill-
iant and humid, like the reflection of stars in a well; I have
recognized, in the At-Meidan, the famous beauty of that poor
Greek woman killed by a cannon ball at the base of the serpent-
ine column; I have been face to face, in the Fanar, with Kara-
Abderrahman, the handsome young Turk of the time of Orkhan;
I have seen Coswa, the she-camel of the Prophet; I have en-
countered Kara-bulut, Selim's black steed; I have met the poor
poet Fignahi, condemned to go about Stamboul tied to an ass
for having pierced with an insolent distich the Grand Vizier of
Ibrahim; I have been in the same café with Soliman the Big,
the monstrous admiral, whom four robust slaves hardly succeeded
in lifting from the divan; Ali, the Grand Vizier, who could not
find in all Arabia a horse that could carry him; Mahmoud Pasha,
the ferocious Hercules that strangled the son of Soliman; and the
stupid Ahmed Second, who continually repeated « Koso! Koso! »
(Very well, very well) crouching before the door of the copyists'
bazaar, in the square of Bajazet. All the personages of the
Thousand and One Nights, the Aladdins, the Zobeides, the
Sindbads, the Gulnares, the old Jewish merchants, possessors of
enchanted carpets and wonderful lamps, passed before me like a
procession of phantoms.


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BIRDS
From "Constantinople )
CON
ONSTANTINOPLE has one grace and gayety peculiar to itself,
that comes from an infinite number of birds of every kind,
for which the Turks nourish a warm sentiment and regard.
Mosques, groves, old walls, gardens, palaces, all resound with
song, the whistling and twittering of birds; everywhere wings
are fluttering, and life and harmony abound. The sparrows enter
the houses boldly, and eat out of women's and children's hands;
swallows nest over the café doors, and under the arches of the
bazaars; pigeons in innumerable swarms, maintained by legacies
from sultans and private individuals, form garlands of black and
white along the cornices of the cupolas and around the terraces
of the minarets; sea-gulls dart and play over the water; thousands
of turtle-doves coo amorously among the cypresses in the ceme-
teries; crows croak about the Castle of the Seven Towers hal-
cyons come and go in long files between the Black Sea and
the Sea of Marmora; and storks sit upon the cupolas of the
mausoleums. For the Turk, each one of these birds has a gentle
meaning, or a benignant virtue: turtle-doves are favorable to
lovers, swallows keep away fire from the roofs where they build
their nests, storks make yearly pilgrimages to Mecca, halcyons
carry the souls of the faithful to Paradise. Thus he protects and
feeds them, through a sentiment of gratitude and piety; and they
enliven the house, the sea, and the sepulchre. Every quarter of
Stamboul is full of the noise of them, bringing to the city a sense
of the pleasures of country life, and continually refreshing the
soul with a reminder of nature.
CORDOVA
From (Spain)
F
or a long distance the country offers no new aspect to the
feverish curiosity of the tourist. At Vilches there is a vast
plain, and beyond there the open country of Tolosa, where
Alphonso VIII. , King of Castile, gained the celebrated victory
«de las Navas” over the Mussulman army. The sky was very
clear, and in the distance one could see the mountains of the
Sierra de Segura. Suddenly, there comes one a sensation
over


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which seems to respond to a suppressed exclamation of surprise:
the first aloes with their thick leaves, the unexpected heralds of
tropical vegetation, rise on both sides of the road. Beyond, the
fields studded with flowers begin to appear. The first are studded,
those which follow almost covered, then come vast stretches of
ground entirely clothed with poppies, daisies, lilies, wild mush-
rooms, and ranunculuses, so that the country (as it presents itself
to view) looks like a succession of immense purple, gold, and
snowy-hued carpets. In the distance, among the trees, are in-
numerable blue, white, and yellow streaks, as far as the eye can
reach; and nearer, on the banks of the ditches, the elevations of
ground, the slopes, and even on the edge of the road are flowers
in beds, clumps, and clusters, one above the other, grouped in
the form of great bouquets, and trembling on their stalks, which
one can almost touch with his hand. Then there are fields white
with great blades of grain, flanked by plantations of roses, orange
groves, immense olive groves, and hillsides varied by a thousand
shades of green, surmounted by ancient Moorish towers, scattered
with many-colored houses; and between the one and the other
are white and slender bridges that cross rivulets hidden by the
trees.
On the horizon appear the snowy caps of the Sierra Nevada;
under that white streak lie the undulating blue ones of the nearer
mountains. The country becomes more varied and flourishing;
Arjonilla lies in a grove of olives, whose boundary one cannot
see; Pedro Abad, in the midst of a plain, covered with vineyards
and fruit-trees; Ventas di Alcolea, on the last hills of the Sierra
Nevada, peopled with villas and gardens. We are approaching
Cordova, the train Aies along, we see little stations half hidden
by trees and flowers, the wind carries the rose leaves into the
carriages, great butterflies fly near the windows, a delicious per-
fume permeates the air, the travelers sing; we pass through an
enchanted garden, the aloes, oranges, palms, and villas grow
,
more frequent; and at last we hear a cry—“Here is Cordova!
How many lovely pictures and grand recollections the sound
of that name awakens in one's mind! Cordova, — the ancient
pearl of the East, as the Arabian poets call it,- the city of
cities; Cordova of the thirty suburbs and three thousand mosques,
which inclosed within her walls the greatest temple of Islam!
Her fame extended throughout the East, and obscured the glory
of ancient Damascus. The faithful came from the most remote
(
-


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even
&
I am
regions of Asia to banks of the Guadalquivir to prostrate them-
selves in the marvelous Mihrab of her mosque, in the light of the
thousand bronze lamps cast from the bells of the cathedrals of
Spain. Hither flocked artists, savants, poets from every part of
the Mahometan world to her flourishing schools, immense libra-
ries, and the magnificent courts of her caliphs.
. Riches and
beauty flowed in, attracted by the fame of her splendor. From
here they scattered, eager for knowledge, along the coasts of
Africa, through the schools of Tunis, Cairo, Bagdad, Cufa, and
to India and China, in order to gather inspiration and
records; and the poetry sung on the slopes of the Sierra Morena
flew from lyre to lyre, as far as the valleys of the Caucasus, to
excite the ardor for pilgrimages. The beautiful, powerful, and
wise Cordova, crowned with three thousand villages, proudly
raised her white minarets in the midst of orange groves, and
spread around the valley a voluptuous atmosphere of joy and
glory.
I leave the train, cross a garden, look around me.
alone. The travelers who were with me disappear here and
there; I still hear the noise of a carriage which is rolling off;
then all is quiet. It is midday, the sky is very clear, and the
air suffocating I see two white houses; it is the opening of a
street; I enter and go on. The street is narrow, the houses as
small as the little villas on the slopes of artificial gardens,
almost all one story in height, with windows a few feet from
the ground, the roofs so low that one could almost touch them
with a stick, and the walls very white. The street turns; I
look, see no one, and hear neither step nor voice. I say to
myself:-“This must be an abandoned street ! ” and try another
one, in which the houses are white, the windows closed, and
there is nothing but silence and solitude around me. “Why,
where am I? ” I ask myself. I go on; the street, which is so
narrow that a carriage could not pass, begins to wind; on the
right and left I see other deserted streets, white houses, and
closed windows. My step resounds as if in a corridor. The
whiteness of the walls is so vivid that even the reflection is
trying, and I am obliged to walk with my eyes half closed, for
it really seems as if I were making my way through the snow.
I reach a small square; everything is closed, and no one is to
be seen.
At this point a vague feeling of melancholy seizes
me, such as I have never experienced before; a mixture of


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pleasure and sadness, similar to that which comes to children
when, after a long run, they reach a lonely rural spot and
rejoice in their discovery, but with a certain trepidation lest
they should be too far from home. Above many roofs rise the
palm-trees of inner gardens. Oh, fantastic legends of Odalisk
and Caliph! On I go from street to street, and square to
square; I begin to meet some people, but they pass and disap-
pear like phantoms. All the streets resemble each other; the
houses have only three or four windows; and not a spot, scrawl,
or crack is to be seen on the walls, which are as smooth and
white as a sheet of paper. From time to time I hear a whisper
behind a blind, and see, almost at the same moment, a dark
head, with a flower in the hair, appear and disappear. I look
in at a door.
A patio! How shall I describe a patio ? It is not a court,
nor a garden, nor a room; but it is all three things combined.
Between the patio and the street there is a vestibule. On the
four sides of the patio rise slender columns, which support, up
to a level with the first floor, a species of gallery inclosed in
glass; above the gallery is stretched a canvas, which shades the
court. The vestibule is paved with marble, the door flanked
by columns, surmounted by bas-reliefs, and closed by a slender
iron gate of graceful design. At the end of the patio there is
a fountain; and all around are scattered chairs, work-tables,
pictures, and vases of flowers. I run to another door: there is
another patio, with its walls covered with ivy, and a number of
niches holding little statues, busts, and urns. I look in at a third
door: here is another patio, with its walls worked in mosaics, a
palm in the centre, and a mass of flowers all around. I stop at
a fourth door: after the patio there is another vestibule, after this
a second patio, in which one sees other statues, columns, and
fountains. All these rooms and gardens are so neat and clean
that one could pass his hand over the walls and on the ground
without leaving a trace; and they are fresh, odorous, and lighted
by an uncertain light, which increases their beauty and mysterious
appearance.
On I go at random from street to street. As I walk, my
curiosity increases and I quicken my pace, It seems impossible
that a whole city can be like this; I am afraid of stumbling
across some house or coming into some street that will remind
me of other cities, and disturb my beautiful dream. But no, the


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dream lasts; for everything is small, lovely, and mysterious. At
every hundred steps I reach a deserted square, in which I stop
and hold my breath; from time to time there appears a cross-
road, and not a living soul is to be seen; everything is white,
the windows closed, and silence reigns on all sides. At each
door there is a new spectacle; there are arches, columns, flowers,
jets of water, and palms; a marvelous variety of design, tints,
light, and perfume; here the odor of roses, there of oranges,
farther on of pinks; and with this perfume a whiff of fresh air,
and with the air a subdued sound of women's voices, the rustling
of leaves, and the singing of birds. It is a sweet and varied
harmony, that without disturbing the silence of the streets,
soothes the ear like the echo of distant music. Ah! it is not a
dream! Madrid, Italy, Europe, are indeed far away!
Here one
lives another life, and breathes the air of a different world, for
I am in the East.
THE LAND OF PLUCK
From (Holland and Its People'
W*
HOEVER looks for the first time at a large map of Holland
wonders that a country so constituted can continue to
exist. At the first glance it is difficult to see whether
land or water predominates, or whether Holland belongs most to
the continent or to the sea. Those broken and compressed
coasts; those deep bays; those great rivers that, losing the aspect
of rivers, seem bringing new seas to the sea; that sea which,
changing itself into rivers, penetrates the land and breaks it into
archipelagoes; the lakes, the vast morasses, the canals crossing
and recrossing each other, all combine to give the idea of a
country that may at any moment disintegrate and disappear.
Seals and beavers would seem to be its rightful inhabitants; but
since there are men bold enough to live in it, they surely cannot
ever sleep in peace.
What sort of a country Holland is, has been told by many in
few words. Napoleon said it was an alluvion of French rivers, -
.
the Rhine, the Scheldt, and the Meuse, -- and with this pretext he
added it to the Empire. One writer has defined it as a sort of
transition between land and sea. Another, as an immense crust
of earth floating on the water. Others, an annex of the old


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continent, the China of Europe, .