No More Learning

The Chinamen then asked to have a house assigned
For their especial use; and one for Rome designed.
Th' allotted houses stood on either side one street;
In one the Chinese, one the Roman artists meet.
The Chinese asked a hundred paints for their art's use:
The sovereign his resources would not them refuse.
Each morning from the treasury, rich colors' store
Was served out to the Chinese till they asked no more.
The Romans argued, "Color or design is vain:
We simply have to banish soil and filth amain. "
They closed their gate. To burnish then they set them-
selves;
As heaven's vault, simplicity filled all their shelves:
Vast difference there is 'twixt colors and not one.
The colors are as clouds; simplicity's the moon.
Whatever tinge you see embellishing the clouds,
You know comes from the sun, the moon, or stars in
crowds.
At length the Chinamen their task had quite fulfilled;
With joy intense their hearts did beat, their bosoms
thrilled.
The sovereign came, inspected all their rich designs,
And lost his heart with wonder at their talents' signs.


## p. 12494 (#552) ##########################################

12494
JALĀL-AD-DİN RŪMİ
He then passed to the Romans, that his eyes might see;
The curtains were withdrawn to show whate'er might be.
The Chinese paintings all, their whole designs in full,
Reflected truly were on that high-burnished wall.
Whatever was depicted by the Chinese art
Was reproduced by mirrors, perfect every part.
Those Romans are our mystics, know, my worthy friend:
No art, no learning; study, none: but gain their end.
They polish well their bosoms, burnish bright their hearts,
Remove all stain of lust, of self, pride, hate's deep smarts.
That mirror's purity prefigures their hearts' trust;
With endless images reflections it incrust.
Translation of J. W. Redhouse.


## p. 12495 (#553) ##########################################

12495
YOCK
JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
(1804-1877)
BY WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE
HE Grand Duchy of Finland, "torn like a bloody shield from
the heart of Sweden" in 1809, by the ruthless despot who
was then all-powerful in Europe, and who now, by the irony
of fate, lies buried in Paris beneath a sarcophagus of Finnish por-
phyry, has not become Russianized to any considerable extent, and still
looks to the old mother-country for its social and intellectual ideals.
This fact is due in part to the force of his-
torical association upon the mind of a sim-
ple and conservative race, and in part to
the fact that the Russian treatment of the
conquered province has been fairly lenient,
and most strikingly contrasted with the
repressive policy pursued toward Russian
Poland. It is not, then, as surprising as
might at first sight appear, that the greatest
name in Swedish literature should belong
to a native of Finland, who was but five
years of age at the time of the Russian
annexation.

JOHAN RUNEBERG
Johan Ludvig Runeberg was born Febru-
ary 5th, 1804, at Jakobsstad, a small sea-
port town on the Gulf of Bothnia. He was the oldest of the six
children of a merchant captain in reduced circumstances. He went
to school at Vasa, and in 1822 to the university at Åbo, supporting
himself in part by tutoring. He was so poor that he literally lived on
potatoes for months at a time. He took his doctor's degree in 1827,
and soon thereafter was betrothed to Fredrika Tengström, a woman
who afterwards attained some celebrity as a writer on her own
account. The year that Runeberg left the university was also the
year of the great fire that destroyed the greater part of the capital,
and led to the transfer of both university and seat of government to
Helsingfors. The years immediately following were decisive for the
poet's development, since they took him to Sarkijarvi, a town far to
the north in the heart of Finland, where he came into close contact


## p. 12496 (#554) ##########################################

12496
JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
with the purest type of the Finnish peasantry.
In this poverty-
stricken wilderness, where men toiled incessantly for a subsistence so
precarious that those were deemed fortunate who did not have to live
upon bread made in large part from the bark of trees, the young
scholar learned really to know his fellow-countrymen, to enter inti-
mately into their humble lives, and to collect a wealth of first-hand
impressions that were afterwards to be turned to literary account.
The years at Sarkijarvi were devoted to earnest study, and to the com-
position of poems that showed his powers to be steadily ripening; so
that when, in 1830, he received a university appointment at Helsing-,
fors, he was able to bring back with him to civilization the material
for the volume of poems that saw the light in that year.
The publication of this volume was coincident with a stirring of
the Finnish national consciousness that promised much for the future.
The Russian yoke turned out to be no very heavy burden, since Fin-
land was left a considerable degree of autonomy, and since the Rus-
sian censorship was disposed to deal very leniently with the literary
expressions of national aspiration, and even with the most passionate
assertions of spiritual allegiance to the Swedish tradition.
This was
also the time when the consciousness of Finland was quickened by
the restoration of the 'Kalevala. ' Dr. Lönnrot, a physician and pro-
fessor at the university, had been traveling through the country for
the purpose of collecting fragments of folk-song and popular tradi-
tion, and had made the great discovery that there still existed on
the lips of the people a popular epic that had been transmitted from
generation to generation through the centuries,- an epic which was
comparable with, let us say, the 'Nibelungenlied,' and which the dis-
coverer pieced together and reconstructed into substantial unity.
This was clearly an opportune time for the appearance of a na-
tional poet; and in Runeberg the man of the hour was found. For-
tunately for the history of culture, he realized that the aspirations of
Finland were best to be furthered by an adherence to the Swedish
tongue, and so it came about that Sweden as well as Finland gained
a new poet of the first rank. The influence of Runeberg's appear-
ance upon Swedish literature in the narrower sense was also of the
utmost importance. Swedish poetry up to this time had been
divided into the two camps of Phosphorists and Gothics. The former
were the torch-bearers of the German romantic movement; and had,
if anything, made its mysticism more exaggerated and its extrava-
gance more unreal. If they had lived in New England, they would
have been called transcendentalists. The Gothics, on the other
hand, had sought to bring about a more strictly national revival of
letters; and as represented by Geijer and Tegnér, had endeavored to
reproduce the spirit of the past. But even Tegnér, great and true


## p. 12497 (#555) ##########################################

JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
12497
poet as he was, could not escape from the prevailing artificiality of
an essentially rhetorical age; and so the work of Runeberg, with its
vivid realism, its direct simplicity, and its fidelity to the facts of
nature and human life, came into Swedish poetry with a new note,
and helped to accomplish a sort of Wordsworthian revolution in lit-
erary standards.
The 'Poems' of 1830 were well received, and were followed in
the same year by a collection of Servian folk-songs, translated from
Goetze's German version. A certain kinship between the popular
poetry of Finland and Servia has been more than once pointed out.
In both cases the utterance of races that failed to reach the front in
the struggle for existence, the resemblance of the two bodies of folk-
song is noticeable when we consider their spirit alone, and is made
still more noticeable by their common employment of an unrhymed
trochaic verse. This work in Servian poetry is also significant be-
cause it was the direct inspiration of Runeberg's 'Idyll och Epigram,'
a collection of short original pieces in the same manner. In 1831 the
poet received a prize from the Swedish Academy for an epic com-
position called 'Grafven i Perrho' (The Grave in Perrho), and in
the same year married the woman to whom he had so long been
engaged. A university promotion also came to him, and he felt him-
self to be on the high-road to success. He soon became editor of a
newspaper as well; and for it he wrote most of the critical essays
and prose tales that occupy an honorable place among his collected
writings. His stay in Helsingfors lasted until 1837; and during this.
period he published, besides the works already mentioned, 'Elgskyt-
tarne (The Elk Hunters),-a beautiful epic in hexameters, which
more than once suggests Goethe's 'Hermann and Dorothea'; a sec-
ond collection of 'Poems'; a comedy in verse entitled 'Friaren från
Landet' (The Country Suitor); and the village idyl Hanna,' a love
story in hexameters, with an exquisitely beautiful dedication to
"the first love. " In 1837, Runeberg's friends obtained for him a pro-
fessorial appointment at the gymnasium of Borgå, a quiet country.
town on the Gulf of Finland, about thirty miles from Helsingfors.
Here he remained for the last forty years of his life, and his biogra-
phy from this time on is little more than an account of his successive
publications. Externally, there is almost nothing to record beyond.
the promotions which finally gave to him the rectorship of the gym-
nasium (followed after a few years of service by a pension for life),
and the trip to Sweden in 1851, which was the only occasion upon
which the poet ever left his native Finland. He died May 6th, 1877,
after having been in precarious health for several years.
Four years after his removal to Borgå, Runeberg published Jul-
qvällen (Christmas Eve), the last of his hexameter narratives,—a
XXI-782


## p. 12498 (#556) ##########################################

12498
JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
somewhat less successful idyl than its predecessors. A more import-
ant work, also produced in 1841, is the narrative poem 'Nadeschda,'
a study of Russian character and manners. It is written in a variety
of unrhymed measures, and tells of the love of a nobleman for a
beautiful serf. In this work, and those that follow, the powers of
the poet have outgrown the somewhat close limitations of the idyl,
and seek to bring deeper and more tragic themes within their grasp.
In 'Nadeschda' we have for essential subject-matter the struggle
between the institution of serfdom and the freedom of the individ-
ual. In a still nobler poem, 'Kung Fjalar' (1845), we have the conflict
between the will of man and the inscrutable purposes of the gods,
presented in the spirit, although not in the form, of a Greek tragedy:
an 'Antigone' or an Edipus Rex. ' It is a poem in five cantos of
four-line unrhymed stanzas, telling how the king, defiant of the gods,
orders his infant daughter to be thrown into the sea, that he may
avert the doom that has been prophesied to come upon his race
through the child. But the child is rescued, and taken to the Ossi-
anic kingdom of Morven, where she grows to be a beautiful woman.
Twenty years later, King Fjalar's son conquers Morven, and bears
away the maiden as his bride. On the voyage homeward she tells
him the story of her rescue from the sea: and he, filled with horror
when he realizes that his bride is his sister, slays both her and him-
self. The old king, conquered at last by fate, puts an end to his life,
finally recognizing the existence of a power higher than his own.
"
The poems thus far described, together with a third volume of
short pieces, bring us to the year 1848, when was published the first
part of 'Fänrik Stål's Sägner' (the Tales of Ensign Stål), Runeberg's
greatest work. The second part bears the date of 1860. This collec-
tion of poems, thirty-four in number (besides one that was suppressed
for personal reasons), deals with episodes of the war which ended
with the annexation of Finland to Russia. The several poems are
supposed to be related by a veteran of the war to an eager youth
who comes day after day and hangs upon the lips of the story-teller.
They are tales of a heroic age still fresh in the recollection of the
poet's hearers, tales of famous battles and individual exploits, of his-
torical personages and obscure peasants united by a common devotion
and a common sacrifice, of the maiden who is consoled for her lover's
death by the thought that his life was given for his fatherland, and
of the boy who is impatient to grow up that he too may give him-
self to his country's cause. The poems are dramatic, pathetic, even
humorous by turn; breathing a strain of the purest patriotism, and
flowing in numbers so musical that they fix themselves forever in the
memory.
And besides all this, they are so simple in form and vocab-
ulary that they reach the heart of the unlettered as well as of the


## p. 12499 (#557) ##########################################

JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
12499
cultured; so deep in their sympathy with the elementary joys and
griefs of human-kind that they found a widely responsive echo from
the beginning, and still constitute the most treasured possession of
Swedish literature. Indeed, the first poem of them all, Vårt Land'
(Our Country) became at once, and has ever since remained, the
national song of both Finn and Swede, bound together by the gen-
ius of the poet in a closer union than the old political tie. A close
reproduction of the form of this poem, and perhaps something of
its beauty as well, may be found in the following translation of its
closing stanzas:-
-
"Here all about us lies this land,
Our eyes may see it here;
We have but to stretch forth our hand,
And blithely point to sea and strand,
And say, Behold this land so near,
Our fatherland so dear.
"And were we called to dwell on high,
Of heaven's own blue made free,
To dance with stars that deck the sky,
Where falls no tear, and breathes no sigh,—
We still should yearn, poor though it be,
This land of ours to see.
"O land! thou thousand-lakèd land,
•
With song and virtue clad,
On life's wild sea our own safe strand,
Land of our past, our future's land,
If thou art poor, yet be not sad,—
Be joyous, blithe, and glad.
"Yet shall thy flower in beauty ope
Its petals without stain;
Our love shall with thy darkness cope,
And be thy light, thy joy, thy hope,
And this our patriotic strain
To nobler heights attain. "
This song Mr. Gosse declares to be "one of the noblest strains of
patriotic verse ever indited; it lifts Runeberg at once to the level
of Callinus or Campbell,-to the first rank of poets in whom art
and ardor, national sentiment and power of utterance, are equally
blended. "
The works remaining to be mentioned include a volume of
'Smärre Berättelser (Short Stories: 1854), the sixty-odd hymns writ-
ten for the official Lutheran hymn-book of Finland, and the two
plays, 'Kan Ej' (Cannot: 1862) and 'Kungarne på Salamis' (The


## p. 12500 (#558) ##########################################

12500
JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
Kings at Salamis: 1863). The former of these plays is a senti-
mental domestic comedy in two acts, and in rhymed verse. The lat-
ter is a five-act tragedy written upon a Greek theme in the classical
manner, and in iambic hexameter verse. It was the last work of any
importance published by Runeberg, and one of the noblest of all
his works, worthily crowning a great career.
Etta laye
ENSIGN STÅL
I
TOOK such books as first I found,
Merely to while the time along;
Which written by no name renowned,
Treated of Finland's war and wrong;·
'Twas simply stitched, and as by grace,
Had 'mid bound volumes found a place; -
And in my room, with little heed,
The pages carelessly surveyed,
And all by chance began to read
Of noble Savolak's Brigade.
I read a page, then word by word,
My heart unto its depths was stirred.
I saw a people who could hold
The loss of all, save honor, light;
A troop, 'mid hunger-pangs and cold,
Yet still victorious in the fight.
On, on from page to page I sped,
I could have kissed the words I read.
In danger's hour, in battle's scathe,
What courage showed this little band;
What patriot love, what matchless faith
Didst thou inspire, poor native land;
What generous, steadfast love was born
In those thou fed'st on bark and corn!
Into new realms my fancy broke
Where all a magic influence bore,
And in my heart a life awoke
Whose rapture was unknown before.
·


## p. 12501 (#559) ##########################################

JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
12501
As if on wings the day careered,
But oh! how short the book appeared!
With close of day the book was done,
Yet was my spirit all aglow:
Much yet remained to ponder on,
Much to inquire about and know,
Much yet of darkness wrapped the whole;
I went to seek old Cornet Stål.
He sat, as oft he sat before,
Busily bending o'er his net
And at the opening of the door,
A glance displeased my coming met;
It seemed as though his thought might say,
"Is there no peace by night or day! "
But mischief from my mind was far,-
I came in very different mood:
"I've read of Finland's latest war-
-
And in my veins runs Finnish blood!
To hear yet more I am on fire:
Pray can you tell what I desire ? »
Thus spoke I, and the aged man
Amazed his netting laid aside;
A flush passed o'er his features wan
As if of ancient martial pride:
"Yes," said he, "I can witness bear,
If so you will, for I was there! »
His bed of straw my seat became,
And he began with joy to tell
Of Malm and Duncker's soul of flame,
And even deeds which theirs excel.
Bright was his eye and clear his brow,
His noble look is with me now.
Full many a bloody day he'd seen;
Had shared much peril and much woe;
In conquest, in defeat, had been,-
Defeat whose wounds no cure can know.
Much which the world doth quite forget
Lay in his faithful memory yet.
I listening sat, but naught I said,
And every word fell on my heart;


## p. 12501 (#560) ##########################################

12500
JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
Kings at Salamis: 1863). The former of these plays
mental domestic comedy in two acts, and in rhymed ve
ter is a five-act tragedy written upon a Greek theme
manner, and in iambic hexameter verse. It was the
importance published by Runeberg, and one
his works, worthily crowning a great career.
ENSIGN
TOOK such books
Merely to wh
Which writte
Treated
'Twas simply
Had 'mid b
And in m
The
And a'
Of
ht or day! "
my coming met;
thought might say,
was far,-
I re
M▾
of the door,
६
sat before,
ser his net
of
t remained to ponder on,
was my spirit all aglow:
inquire about and know,
close of day the book was done,
old Cornet Stål.
darkness wrapped the whole;
But oh! how short the book appeared!
As if on wings the day careered,
JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
newly;
une forth to fight,
e fall of night.
uly!
day long the hard hot strife was raging,
ue stood, half-desolate and aging;
w steps there sat a silent girl, and mused
ne troop come slowly by, in weary line confused.
aed like one who sought a friend,- she scanned each man's
face nearly;
high burned the color in her cheek, too high for sunset merely;
She sat so quiet, looked so warm, so flushed with secret heat,
It seemed she listened as she gazed, and felt her own heart beat.


## p. 12501 (#561) ##########################################

JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
12503
|
rt the book appeared!
the day careered,
HAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
Her on,
aglow:
book was done,
know,
whole;
aw the troop march by, and darkness round them steal-
g.
› every man, her anxious eye appealing
g in a shy distress a question without speech,
sigh itself, too anguished to beseech.
12501
d all gone
re failed
past, and not a word was spoken,
at last, and all her strength was
her hand her weary forehead fell,
e by one as from a burning well.
hope may break just where the gloom
ice: a needless tear thou weepest;
for, whose face thou couldst not
nd still he lives for thee.
shield himself from danger;
ve them like a stranger;
--but weep not, rave not
'fe and us. "
awful dreams awaken,—
ul in her had shaken:
place where late had raged the fight,
ued and vanished out of sight.
other hour; the night had closed around her;
clouds were silver-white, but darkness hung below
chem.
gers long: O daughter, come; thy toil is all in vain :
norrow, ere the dawn is red, thy bridegroom's here again! »
The daughter came; with silent steps she came to meet her mother:
The pallid eyelids strained no more with tears she fain would
smother;
But colder than the wind at night the hand that mother pressed,
And whiter than a winter cloud the maiden's cheek and breast.
"Make me a grave, O mother dear: my days on earth are over!
The only man that fled to-day-that coward - was my lover:
He thought of me and of himself, the battle-field he scanned,
And then betrayed his brothers' hope and shamed his father's land.


## p. 12502 (#562) ##########################################

12502
JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
And half the night away had fled,
Before rose from him to part.
The threshold reached, he made a stand,
And pressed with joy my willing hand.
Since then, no better joy he had,
Than when he saw me by his side;
Together mourned we or were glad,
Together smoked as friends long tried.
He was in years, I in life's spring;
A student I, he more than king!
The tales which now I tell in song,
Through many a long and silent night,
Fell from the old man's faltering tongue
Beside the peat-fire's feeble light.
They speak what all may understand:
Receive them, thou dear native land.
Howitt's Translation.
THE VILLAGE GIRL
From Fänrik Ståls Sägner >
TH
HE sun went down and evening came, the quiet summer even;
A mass of glowing purple lay between the farms and heaven;
A weary troop of men went by, their day's hard labor done,-
Tired and contented, towards their home they wended one by one.
Their work was done, their harvest reaped, a goodly harvest truly!
A well-appointed band of foes all slain or captured newly;
At dawn against this armèd band they had gone forth to fight,
And all had closed in victory before the fall of night.
Close by the field where all day long the hard hot strife was raging,
A cottage by the wayside stood, half-desolate and aging;
And on its worn low steps there sat a silent girl, and mused
And watched the troop come slowly by, in weary line confused.
She looked like one who sought a friend,—she scanned each man's
face nearly;
High burned the color in her cheek, too high for sunset merely;
She sat so quiet, looked so warm, so flushed with secret heat,
It seemed she listened as she gazed, and felt her own heart beat.


## p. 12503 (#563) ##########################################

JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
12503
But as she saw the troop march by, and darkness round them steal-
ing,
To every file, to every man, her anxious eye appealing
Seemed muttering in a shy distress a question without speech,
More silent than a sigh itself, too anguished to beseech.
But when the men had all gone past, and not a word was spoken,
The poor girl's courage failed at last, and all her strength was
broken.
She wept not loud, but on her hand her weary forehead fell,
And large tears followed one by one as from a burning well.
"Why dost thou weep? For hope may break just where the gloom.
is deepest!
O daughter, hear thy mother's voice: a needless tear thou weepest;
He whom thy eyes were seeking for, whose face thou couldst not
see,
He is not dead: he thought of love, and still he lives for thee.
"He thought of love: I counseled him to shield himself from danger;
I taught him how to slip the fight, and leave them like a stranger;
By force they made him march with them,- but weep not, rave not
thus:
I know he will not choose to die from happy life and us. "
Shivering the maiden rose like one whom awful dreams awaken,—
As if some grim foreboding all her soul in her had shaken:
She lingered not; she sought the place where late had raged the fight,
And stole away and swiftly fled and vanished out of sight.
An hour went by, another hour; the night had closed around her;
The moon-shot clouds were silver-white, but darkness hung below
them.
"She lingers long: O daughter, come; thy toil is all in vain:
To-morrow, ere the dawn is red, thy bridegroom's here again! "
The daughter came; with silent steps she came to meet her mother:
The pallid eyelids strained no more with tears she fain would
smother;
But colder than the wind at night the hand that mother pressed,
And whiter than a winter cloud the maiden's cheek and breast.
"Make me a grave, O mother dear: my days on earth are over!
The only man that fled to-day-that coward—was my lover:
He thought of me and of himself, the battle-field he scanned,
And then betrayed his brothers' hope and shamed his father's land.


## p. 12504 (#564) ##########################################

12504
JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
"When past our door the troop marched by, and I their ranks had
numbered,
I wept to think that like a man among the dead he slumbered;
I sorrowed, but my grief was mild-it had no bitter weight—
I would have lived a thousand years to mourn his noble fate.
"O mother, I have looked for him where'er the dead are lying,
But none of all the stricken bears his features, calm in dying.
Now will I live no more on earth in shame to sit and sigh;
He lies not there among the dead, and therefore I will die. "
Translation of Edmund W. Gosse.
THE OLD MAN'S RETURN
LIK
IKE birds of passage, after winter's days returning
To lake-land home and rest,
I come now unto thee, my foster-valley, yearning
For long-lost childhood's rest.
Full many a sea since then from thy dear strands has torn me,
And many a chilly year;
Full many a joy since then those far-off lands have borne me,
And many a bitter tear.
Here am I back once more. - Great heaven! there stands the
dwelling
Which erst my cradle bore,
The selfsame sound, bay, grove, and hilly range upswelling:
My world in days of yore.
All as before.
Trees in the selfsame verdant dresses
With the same crowns are crowned;
The tracts of heaven, and all the woodland's far recesses
With well-known songs resound.
There with the crowd of flower-nymphs still the wave is playing,
As erst so light and sweet;
And from dim wooded aits I hear the echoes straying
Glad youthful tones repeat.
All as before. But my own self no more remaineth,
Glad valley! as of old;
My passion quenched long since, no flame my cheek retaineth,
My pulse now beateth cold.


## p. 12505 (#565) ##########################################

JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
12505
I know not how to prize the charms that thou possessest,
Thy lavish gifts of yore;
What thou through whispering brooks or through thy flowers
expressest,
I understand no more.
Dead is mine ear to harp-strings which thy gods are ringing
From out thy streamlet clear;
No more the elfin hosts, all frolicsome and singing,
Upon the meads appear.
I went so rich, so rich from thee, my cottage lowly,
So full of hopes untold;
And with me feelings, nourished in thy shadows holy,
That promised days of gold.
The memory of thy wondrous springtimes went beside me,
And of thy peaceful ways,
And thy good spirits, borne within me, seemed to guide me,
E'en from my earliest days.
And what have I brought back from yon world wide and dreary?
A snow-incumbered head,
A heart with sorrow sickened and with falsehood weary,
And longing to be dead.
I crave no more of all that once was in my keeping,
Dear mother! but one thing:
Grant me a grave, where still thy fountain fair is weeping,
And where thy poplars spring!
So shall I dream on, mother! to thy calm breast owing
A faithful shelter then,
And live in every floweret, from mine ashes growing,
A guiltless life again.
Translation of Palmer and Magnusson.
THE SWAN
F
ROM cloud with purple-sprinkled rim,
A swan, in calm delight,
Sank down upon the river's brim,
And sang in June, one night.
Of Northlands' beauty was his song,
How glad their skies, their air;


## p. 12506 (#566) ##########################################

12506
JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
How day forgets, the whole night long,
To go to rest out there;
How shadows there, both rich and deep,
'Neath birch and alder fall;
How gold-beams o'er each inlet sweep,
How cool the billows all;
How fair it is, how passing fair,
To own there one true friend!
How faithfulness is home-bred there,
And thither longs to wend!
When thus from wave to wave his note,
His simple praise-song rang,
Swift fawned he on his fond mate's throat,
And thus, methought, he sang:-
What more? though of thy life's short dream
No tales the ages bring,
Yet hast thou loved on Northlands' stream,
And sung songs there in spring!
Translation of Palmer and Magnusson.
THE WORK-GIRL
Ο"
H, IF with church bells ringing clear,
I did but stand in feast-day gear,
And saw the night and darkness fly,
And Sunday's lovely dawn draw nigh!
For then my weekly toil were past;
To matins I might go at last,
And meet him by the church-yard, too,
Who missed his friend the whole week through.
There long beforehand does he bide
Alone upon the church bank's side,
And scans across the marshes long
The sledges' and the people's throng.
And she for whom he looks am I;
The crowds increase, the troop draws nigh,
When 'midst them I am seen to stand,
And gladly reach to him my hand.


## p. 12507 (#567) ##########################################

JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
12507
Now, merry cricket, sing thy lay
Until the wick is burnt away,
And I may to my bed repair
And dream about my sweetheart there.
I sit and spin, but cannot get
Half through the skein of wool as yet;
When I shall spin it out, God knows,
Or when the tardy eve will close!
Translation of Palmer and Magnusson.
MY LIFE
TRUGGLING o'er an open grave,
S Sailing o'er an angry wave,
Toiling on with aimless aim,
Oh, my life, I name thy name!
Longing fills the sailor's soul,
Seas before his eyesight roll,-
"Lo, behind yon purple haze
Higher sights shall meet my gaze.
"I shall near a better strand,
Light and freedom's happy land. ”.
Swelled the sail, expectance laughed,
Towards the boundless sped the craft.
Struggling o'er an open grave,
Sailing o'er an angry wave,
Toiling on with aimless aim,—
O my life, I name thy name!
Ah, the haven calm and clear,
Peace of heart in bygone year,
Hope's gold coast, ah! hidden spot,
Never reached, and ne'er forgot!
Billows check the sailor's course,
Overhead the tempest hoarse:
Still is yonder purple haze
Far as ever from his gaze!
Translation of Palmer and Magnusson.


## p. 12508 (#568) ##########################################

12508
JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
IDYLL
H
OME the maid came from her lover's meeting,
Came with reddened hands. The mother questioned,
"Wherewith have thy hands got reddened, Maiden? »
Said the maiden, "I have plucked some roses,
And upon the thorns my hands have wounded. "
She again came from her lover's meeting,
Came with crimson lips. The mother questioned.
"Wherewith have thy lips got crimson, Maiden ? »
Said the maiden, “I have eaten strawberries,
And my lips I with their juice have painted. "
She again came from her lover's meeting,
Came with pallid cheeks. The mother questioned,
"Wherewith are thy cheeks so pallid, Maiden ? »
Said the maiden, “Make a grave, O mother!
Hide me there, and place a cross thereover,
And cut on the cross what now I tell thee:-
-
"Once she came home, and her hands were reddened,
For betwixt her lover's hands they reddened.
Once she came home, and her lips were crimson,
'Neath her lover's lips they had grown crimson.
Last she came home, and her cheeks were pallid,
For they blanched beneath her lover's treason. "
Translation of Palmer and Magnusson.
COUNSELS
C
OUNSELS three the mother gave her daughter:
Not to sigh, and not be discontented,
And to kiss no young man whatsoever.
Mother, if thy daughter trespass never,
Trespass never 'gainst your last-named counsel,
She will trespass 'gainst the first two, surely.
Translation of Palmer and Magnusson.


## p. 12509 (#569) ##########################################

12509
JOHN RUSKIN
(1819-)
BY JOHN C. VAN DYKE
T IS not given every man to date an epoch from himself, to'
turn aside old conceptions, and to swing the whole current
of thought into a new channel. The epoch-making men are
few in any century; they themselves seldom realize the value of the
work they are doing, and the public recognizes it perhaps last of all.
Each one of them, as he appears, undergoes the usual misunderstand-
ing at the hands of both friends and foes. There are assertions and
denials, attacks and defenses, adulation and abuse; until at last it has
passed into a proverb that a man cannot be summed up justly by
contemporary thought. Perhaps no one in the nineteenth century has
suffered so much from misunderstanding and indiscriminate criticism
as John Ruskin. His work is done, though he himself is living out a
quiet old age at Brantwood; but the value of that work and the place
of the worker are far from being accurately estimated. The world
persists in considering him only as an art critic; while he himself
thought his best endeavor to have been in the field of political econ-
omy. It is not impossible that both of these conclusions are wide of
the mark. One may venture to think that his greatest service to
mankind has been his revelation of the beauties of nature; and that
his enduring fame will rest upon no theories of art or of human
well-being, but upon his masterful handling of the English language.
Whatever feature of his activity may be thought the best, it cannot
be denied that he has been a powerful force in many departments:
a prophet with a denunciatory and enunciatory creed, a leader who
has counted his followers by the thousands, a writer who has left
a deeper stamp upon the language than almost any Englishman of
this century.
Mr. Ruskin's parentage, early training, and education are recorded
in 'Præterita' (1885-9),- his fascinating but incomplete autobiogra-
phy. In his childhood his Scotch mother made him read the Bible
again and again; and to this he thinks was due his habit of taking
pains, and his literary taste. Peace, obedience, and faith, with fixed
attention in both mind and eye, were the virtues inculcated by his
early training. The defects of that training he puts down as-


## p. 12510 (#570) ##########################################

12510
JOHN RUSKIN
nothing to love, nothing to endure of either pain, patience, or misery,
nothing taught him in a social way, no independence of action, and
no responsibility. At fourteen Mr. Telford, one of his father's part-
ners in the wine trade, gave him a copy of Rogers's 'Italy' with
Turner's illustrations; and his parents forever after held Mr. Telford
personally responsible for the art tastes of the son. They had pre-
destined him to the Church. "He might have been a bishop," was
the elder Ruskin's sigh.
His study of art practically began with an admiration for Turner.
He knew a great deal about nature, and had met his great passion,
the Alps, before he was twenty; and he had also studied drawing
under Runciman, Copley Fielding, and Harding. His earliest writings
were poetical; and as an Oxford student he wrote the pretty story,
'The King of the Golden River' (1841), besides making some contri-
butions to magazine literature: but his first important effort was when
as the Oxford graduate he put forth the first volume of 'Modern
Painters (1843). Ostensibly this was an inquiry into the object and
means of landscape painting, the spirit which should govern its pro-
duction, the appearances of nature, the discussion of what is true in
art as revealed by nature; but in reality it was a defense of Turner
at the expense of almost every other landscape painter, ancient or
modern. It came at a time when people knew very little about art,
and thought it a mystery understood only by the priests of the craft;
but Mr. Ruskin burst the door wide open, and talked about the con-
tents of the high altar in a language that any one could understand.
It was an energetic and eloquent statement of what he believed to
be truth. From his studies of nature he came to think that truth was
the one and only desideratum in art; and the whole argument and
illustration of 'Modern Painters' is hinged upon nature-truth and its
appearance in the works of Turner. It was nearly twenty years
before the five volumes of the work were completed, and during that
time Mr. Ruskin's views had broadened and changed, so that there is
something of contradiction in the volumes; but it to-day stands as his
most forceful work. Philosophical it is not, because lacking in sys-
tem; scientific it is not, because lacking in fundamental principles.
The logic of it is often weak, the positiveness of statement often
annoying, the digressions and side issues often wearisome; yet with
all this it contains some of his keenest observations on nature, his
most suggestive conceits, and his most brilliant prose passages. It
made something of a sensation, and Mr. Ruskin came into prominence
at once.
While 'Modern Painters' was being written, he made frequent
journeys to Switzerland to study the Alps, and to Italy to study the
old Italian masters. From being at first a naturalist and a prophet


## p. 12511 (#571) ##########################################

JOHN RUSKIN
12511
art.
of modernity, he soon became an admirer of Gothic and Renaissance
Turner and Fra Angelico were almost antithetical. He tried to
reconcile them on the principle of their truthfulness; but one had put
forth an individual truth, the other a symbolic truth, and Mr. Ruskin
never brought them together without the appearance of incongruity.
The more he studied Italian painting, the more he became impreg-
nated with the moral and the religious in art. In a letter he puts it
down that what is wanted in English art is a "total change of char-
acter. It is Giotto and Ghirlandajo and Angelico that you want and
must want until this disgusting nineteenth century has—I can't say
breathed, but steamed, its last. " The moral element and the sincerity
of fifteenth-century work quite captivated him, and he began to fail
in sympathy for modern products. He started the hopeless task of
turning the art world backward, and reviving the truth and faith of
the early Italians. But the world never turns backward successfully.
Italian art was good art because it did not turn backward; because it
revealed its own time and people, and was imbued with the spirit of
its age.
That spirit died with the Renaissance. The nineteenth cen-
tury could not revive it. It had a spirit of its own which it revealed,
and which Mr. Ruskin opposed all his life. It was not moral enough
or reverent enough or true enough; in short, it was not like the old,
and therefore it was wrong.
About 1850 the Pre-Raphaelites began to attract attention. They
were not followers of Mr. Ruskin, though they were a part of the
new movement which he more than any other man had started.
His advice to go to nature-selecting nothing, rejecting nothing,
scorning nothing-had been accepted by many landscapists, and it
undoubtedly somewhat affected the Pre-Raphaelites. He defended
their work against popular ridicule in his spirited 'Pre-Raphaelitism'
(1851); and tried to show that they and Turner were on the same
naturalistic basis, and that his old ideas of nature and his new ideas
of Italian art were not contradictory. In principle he seemed to have
eliminated the personal equation (the dominant factor in nineteenth-
century art); and what really attracted him in Pre-Raphaelitism was
the combination of literal detail with the imitated sincerity of the
early Italians. The Pre-Raphaelites as a body soon drifted apart;
and Mr. Ruskin's teaching, as regards their work, was condemned as
impractical and impossible. It did not reckon with the nineteenth-
century spirit.
Painting alone was not sufficient to occupy so active and many-
sided an intellect; and Mr. Ruskin's first twenty years of authorship
produced many books on many subjects. He wrote on the Alps,
published his 'Poems (1850), reviewed books, issued 'Notes on the
Construction of Sheepfolds' (1851), — the misleading title of a plea for


## p. 12512 (#572) ##########################################

12512
JOHN RUSKIN
church unity in England, and wrote his 'Seven Lamps of Archi-
tecture' (1849) and his 'Stones of Venice' (1850-53). The last-named
work is not a manual of history or a traveler's guide; but the expres-
sion of Mr. Ruskin's ideas of life, society, and nationality as shown
in architecture. The ideas are somewhat smothered by beautiful
language, and many side issues in parenthesis; but they are at least
original, and the result of his own observations. He spent much
time and labor in Venice taking measurements and trying to recon-
cile conflicting styles on a single basis; but the task was too colossal.
Venetian architecture is a medley of all styles. Mr. Ruskin did what
he could, and the 'Stones of Venice' was the result. It excited
opposition and was sharply attacked. He had been too erratic, too
rhetorical, too violently independent of architectural laws; but at
least he had explained Gothic architecture in a new way, and made
an impression on the lay mind. Other works on art came out one
by one: the Elements of Drawing' (1857), the 'Political Economy of
Art' (1857), the 'Elements of Perspective' (1859), and yearly 'Notes
n the Royal Academy'; but Mr. Ruskin's art teaching was practi-
cally summed up in 'Modern Painters,' the 'Seven Lamps,' and the
'Stones of Venice. ' His other art writings have been desultory,
scattered, lacking in plan and unity. At forty years of age his career
as an art critic closed, though he never ceased to write about art
until he ceased writing altogether; but after 1860 he became inter-
ested in the human problem, and his mind turned to political economy.
As an art critic Mr. Ruskin has never been unreservedly accepted.
He felt aggrieved that his readers cared more for the "pretty pass-
ages" in the second volume of 'Modern Painters' than for the ideas;
but his readers were more than half right. Criticism calls for more
of the calm philosophical spirit than Mr. Ruskin ever possessed. All
his life he has been not so much a judge as a partisan advocate, an
enthusiast, a man praising indiscriminately where he admired, and
condemning indiscriminately where he lacked sympathy. His passion
of praise, his vehemence of attack, his brilliancy of style, have at-
tracted and still attract attention; but the feeling that they are too
brilliant to be true underlies all. Nevertheless, the multiplicity and
clearness of his ideas are astonishing, and their stimulating power
incalculable. To-day one may disagree with him at every page and
yet be the gainer by the opposition excited. No writer of our times
has been quite so helpful by suggestion. Moreover, many of his ideas
are true and sound. It is only his art teaching as a whole to which
objection may be taken. This is thought to be too erratic, too
inconsiderate of existing conditions,-in other words, too impractical.
The services which Mr. Ruskin has rendered humanity as an
art writer should not, however, be overlooked. First, he brought art
----


## p. 12513 (#573) ##########################################

JOHN RUSKIN
12513
positively and permanently before the public, explained it to the
average intelligence, and created a universal interest in it by sub-
jecting it to inquiry. Secondly, he elevated the rank and relative
importance of the artist, and showed that he was a most useful factor
in civilization. Many of the artists who are to-day sneering at Mr.
Ruskin for some hasty opinion uttered in anger, appreciate but poorly
what a great preacher and priest for the craft he has been, and what
importance his winged words have given to art in this nineteenth
century. Thirdly, though he did not make Turner, yet he made the
public look at him; and though he did not discover Italian art, he
turned people's eyes toward it. Before Mr. Ruskin's utterances, Giotto
and Botticelli and Carpaccio and Tintoretto were practically unknown
and unseen. Mr. Ruskin was the pioneer of Renaissance art study;
and though modern critics may have much amusement over his
occasional false attribution of a picture, they should not forget that
when Mr. Ruskin went to Italy in the 1840's there was no established
body of Italian art criticism to lean upon. He stood quite alone;
and the wonder is not that he made so many mistakes, but that he
made so few. Generally speaking, his estimate of Italian art was just
enough, and his appreciations of certain men well founded.
But Mr. Ruskin's greatest discovery has been picturesque nature;
and for that, humanity is more indebted to him than for anything
else. Wordsworth, Scott, and Byron had dabbled in nature beauty
in a romantic associative way; but Ruskin, following them and in a
measure their pupil, began its elaborate study. To enforce his argu-
ment for truth in art, he drew for illustration truth in nature. With
rare knowledge, keenness of observation, and facility in description, he
displayed the wonder-world of clouds, skies, mountains, trees, grasses,
waters, holding them up in all their colors, lights, shadows, and atmo-
spheric settings. In youth his predilection for mountain forms, rock.
structure, crystals, and scientific facts was well marked; and in his
art writings his sympathy is always with the landscape at the ex-
pense of the figure composition. Indeed, it was to prove Turner true
to nature that he first began writing upon art; and his most profound
studies have been in the field of natural phenomena. Well trained
and specially equipped for this field, he pointed out the beauties of
nature in the infinitely little and the infinitely great with such mas-
terful insight and skill that people followed him willy-nilly. Almost
instantly he created a nature cult-a worship of beauty in things
inanimate. People's eyes were opened to the glories of the world
about them. They have not been closed since; and the study of
nature is with succeeding generations a growing passion and an un-
wearying source of pleasurable good. Mr. Ruskin is to be thanked
for it. This great service alone should more than counterbalance in
XXI-783


## p. 12514 (#574) ##########################################

12514
JOHN RUSKIN
popular judgment any artistic or political vagaries into which he may
have fallen.
About 1860, as already noted, his art and nature studies were
pushed aside by what he thought more urgent matter. His moral
sense and intense humanity went out to the workingmen of England,
and he courageously devoted the rest of his life to an attempt to
better their condition. This was the natural leaning of his mind. He
was always an intensely sensitive and sympathetic man, with moral
ideas of truth, justice, and righteousness opposed to the ideas of his
times. He should have been a bishop, as his parents desired, or a
preacher at least; for he had the Savonarola equipment. Denun-
ciation and invective were his most powerful weapons; and lacking a
pulpit, he now sent forth letters against the prevailing social system,
written as eloquently as though he were describing sunsets and Al-
pine peaks. His 'Unto this Last' (1860), "the truest, rightest-worded,
and most serviceable things I have ever written," was followed by
'Munera Pulveris' (1862-63), Time and Tide' (1867), and 'Fors
Clavigera (1871-84). These books contain the substance of his politi-
cal economy, which is as impossible to epitomize as his art teachings.
It was written for the workingmen of England, but it shot over their
heads; and is moreover marked by inconsistencies, the result of Mr.
Ruskin's changing views and waning strength-for much of his work
in the 1880's is hectic and spasmodic from pain of mind and body.
He believed in a mild form of socialism or collectivism,-a pooling
of interests, a stopping of competition, and a doing away of interest
upon money. So earnest was he in his beliefs that he did not write
only, but strove for practical results. He established St. George's
Guild, the Sheffield museum, an agricultural community, a tea store,
and a factory. He even had the streets of London swept clean to
show that it could be done, and lent a helping hand wherever he
could. Like Tolstoi, he tried to live his beliefs; but British material-
ism was too strong for him. After giving away his whole fortune,
upwards of £200,000, he had to stop; broken physically and mentally
as well as financially. His political economy was not a success
practically, but no one who loves his fellow-man will ever cast a
stone at him for it. It was a noble effort to benefit humanity.
During all the years of his political-economy struggles, his restless
mind and pen found many other fields in which to labor. He lect-
ured at Oxford; wrote 'Sesame and Lilies' (1865), a series of miscel-
laneous essays; 'Ethics of the Dust' (1866), lectures on crystallization;
'The Crown of Wild Olive' (1866), three lectures on work, traffic, and
war; The Queen of the Air' (1869), a study of Greek myths of cloud
and storm; 'Aratra Pentelici' (1872), on the elements of sculpture;
'Love's Meinie' (1873); 'Ariadne Florentina' (1873); 'Val d'Arno'


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JOHN RUSKIN
12515
(1874); Mornings in Florence' (1875-7); 'Proserpina' (1875-86); 'Deu-
calion' (1875-83); St. Mark's Rest' (1877-84); The Bible of Amiens'
(1880-5); The Art of England' (1883); and a vast quantity of lect-
ures, addresses, letters, catalogues, prefaces, and notes. In sheer bulk
alone this work was enormous. Finally body and mind both failed
him; and the last thing he wrote, 'Præterita,' his autobiography, was
done at intervals of returning strength after severe illnesses.
Mr. Ruskin tells us that his literary work was "always done as
quietly and methodically as a piece of tapestry. I knew exactly what
I had got to say, put the words firmly in their places like so many
stitches, hemmed the edges of chapters round with what seemed to
me graceful flourishes, and touched them finally with my cunningest
points of color. " His poems are all youthful and of small conse-
quence. His prose is marked by two styles. The first is dramatic,
vehement, rhetorical, full of imagery, some over-exuberance of lan-
guage, and long-drawn sentences. This is the style of Modern
Painters' and the Seven Lamps. ' After 1860, when he took up po-
litical writing, he strove for more simplicity; and his 'Fors Clavigera'
is an excellent example of his more moderate style. But he never
attained reserve either in thinking or in writing. It was not in
his temperament. He had almost everything else—purity, elasticity,
dramatic force, wit, passion, imagination, nobility.