No More Learning

Oh, you're the flower o'womankind in country or in town;
The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.
If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty
bright,
And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.
Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall,
Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress:
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less.
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low:
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!
From Ballads and Songs. '


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439
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
(1793-1866)
LMQUIST, one of the most versatile writers of Sweden, was a
man of strange contrasts, a genius as uncertain as a will-o'-
the-wisp. His contemporary, the famous poet and critic
Atterbom, writes:-
«What did the great poets of past times possess which upheld them under
even the bitterest worldly circumstances ? Two things: one a strong and
conscientious will, the other a single — not double, much less manifold - deter-
mination for their work, oneness. They were not self-seekers; they sought,
they worshiped something better than themselves. The aim which stood
dimly before their inmost souls was not the enjoyment of flattered vanity; it
was a high, heroic symbol of love of honor and love of country, of heavenly
wisdom. For this they thought it worth while to fight, for this they even
thought it worth while to suffer, without finding the suffering in itself strange,
or calling earth to witness thereof.
The writer of (Törnrosens Bok)
[The Book of the Rose) is one of these few; he does therefore already reign
over a number of youthful hearts, and out of them will rise his time of honor,
a time when many of the celebrities of the present moment will have faded
away. ”
Almquist was born in Stockholm in 1793.
When still a very
young man he obtained a good official position, but gave it up in
1823 to lead a colony of friends into the forests of Värmland, where
they intended to return to a primitive life close to the heart of
nature. He called this colony a «Man's-home Association, and
ordained that in the primeval forest the members should live in turf-
covered huts, wear homespun, eat porridge with a wooden spoon,
and enact the ancient freeholder. The experiment was not successfui,
he tired of the manual work, and returning to Stockholm, became
master of the new Elementary School, and began to write text-books
and educational works. His publication of a number of epics,
dramas, lyrics, and romances made him suddenly famous. Viewed
a whole, this collection is generally called The Book of the
Rose, but at times "En Irrande Hind' (A Stray Deer). Of this, the
two dramas, “Signora Luna' and Ramido Marinesco,' contain some
of the pearls of Swedish literature. Uneven in the plan and execu-
tion, they are yet masterly in dialogue, and their dramatic and
tragic force is great. Almquist's imagination showed itself as indi-
vidual as it is fantastic. Coming from a man hitherto known as the
writer of text-books and the advocate of popular social ideas, the
as


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KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
volumes aroused extraordinary interest. The author revealed himself
as akin to Novalis and Victor Hugo, with a power of language like
that of Atterbom, and a richness of color resembling Tegnér's. At-
terbom himself wrote of (Törnrosens Bok) that it was a work whose
« faults were exceedingly easy to overlook and whose beauties ex-
ceedingly difficult to match. ”
After this appeared in rapid succession, and written with equal
ease, lyrical, dramatic, educational, poetical, æsthetical, philosophical,
moral, and religious treatises, as well as lectures and studies in his-
tory and law; for Almquist now gave all his time to literary labors.
His novels showed socialistic sympathies, and he put forth news-
paper articles and pamphlets on Socialism which aroused considerable
opposition. Moreover, he delighted in contradictions. One day he
wrote as an avowed Christian, extolling virtue, piety, and Christian
knowledge; the next, he abrogated religion as entirely unnecessary:
and his own explanation of this variability was merely –“I paint so
because it pleases me to paint so, and life is not otherwise. ”
In 1851 was heard the startling rumor that he was accused of
forgery and charged with murder. He fled from Sweden and disap-
peared from the knowledge of men. Going to America, he earned
under a fictitious name a scanty living, and became, it is said, the
private secretary of Abraham Lincoln. In 1866 he found himself
again under the ban of the law, his papers were destroyed, and he
escaped with difficulty to Bremen, where he died.
One of his latest works was his excellent modern novel, Det Går
An' (It's All Right), a forerunner of the problem novel of the day.
It is an attack upon conventional marriage, and pictures the helpless-
ness of a woman in the hands of a depraved man. Its extreme
views called out violent criticism.
He was a romanticist through and through, with a strong leaning
toward the French school. Among the best of his tales are (Ara-
minta May,' (Skällnora Quarn' (Skällnora's Mill), and “Grimstahamns
Nybygge (Grimstahamn's Settlement). His idyl Kapellet' (The
Chapel) is wonderfully true to nature, and his novel 'Palatset" (The
Palace) is rich in humor and true poesy. His literary fame will
probably rest on his romances, which are the best of their kind in
Swedish literature.


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KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
441
CHARACTERISTICS OF CATTLE
A
NY one with a taste for physiognomy should carefully observe
the features of the ox and the cow; their demeanor and
the expression of their eyes. They are figures which bear
an extraordinary stamp of respectability. They look neither joy.
ful nor melancholy. They are seldom evilly disposed, but never
sportive. They are full of gravity, and always seem to be going
about their business. They are not merely of great economic
service, but their whole persons carry the look of it. They are
the very models of earthly carefulness.
Nothing is ever to be seen more dignified, more official-look-,
ing, than the whole behavior of the ox; his way of carrying his
head, and looking around him. If anybody thinks I mean these
words for a sarcasm, he is mistaken: no slur on official life, or
on what the world calls a man's vocation, is intended. I hold
them all in as much respect as could be asked. And though I
have an eye for contours, no feeling of ridicule is connected in
my mind with any of these. On the contrary, I regard the ox
and the cow with the warmest feelings of esteem. I admire in
them a naïve and striking picture of one who minds his own
business; who submits to the claims of duty, not using the
word in its highest sense; who in the world's estimate is dig-
nified, steady, conventional, and middle-aged,—that is to say,
neither youthful nor stricken in years.
Look at that ox which stands before you, chewing his cud
and gazing around him with such unspeakable thoughtfulness -
but which you will find, when you look more closely into his
eyes, is thinking about nothing at all. Look at that discreet,
excellent Dutch cow, which, gifted with an inexhaustible udder,
stands quietly and allows herself to be milked as a matter of
course, while she gazes into space with a most sensible express-
ion. Whatever she does, she does with the same imperturbable
calmness, and as when a person leaves an important trust to his
own time and to posterity. If the worth of this creature is
thus great on the one side, yet on the other it must be con-
fessed that she possesses not a single trait of grace, not a
particle of vivacity, and none of that quick characteristic retreat-
ing from an object which indicates an internal buoyancy, an
elastic temperament, such as we see in a bird or fish.
There is something very agreeable in the varied lowing of cattle


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442
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
when heard in the distant country, and when replied to by a
large herd, especially toward evening and amid echoes. On the
other hand, nothing is more unpleasant than to hear all at once,
and just beside one, the bellowing of a bull, who thus authori.
tatively announces himself, as if nobody else had any right to
utter a syllable in his presence.
A NEW UNDINE
From The Book of the Rose)
M
ISS RUDENSKÖLD and her companion sat in one of the pews
in the cheerful and beautiful church of Normalm, which
is all that is left of the once famous cloister of St. Clara,
and still bears the saint's name. The sermon was finished, and
the strong full tones of the organ, called out by the skillful
hands of an excellent organist, hovered like the voices of unseen
angel choirs in the high vaults of the church, floated down to
the listeners, and sank deep into their hearts.
Azouras did not speak a single word; neither did she sing,
for she did not know a whole hymn through. Nor did Miss
Rudensköld sing, because it was not her custom to sing in
church. During the organ solo, however, Miss Rudensköld vent-
ured to make some remarks about Dr. Asplund's sermon which
was so beautiful, and about the notices afterward which were so
tiresome. But when her neighbor did not answer, but sat look-
ing ahead with large, almost motionless eyes, as people stare
without looking at anything in particular, she changed her sub-
ject.
At one of the organ tones which finished a cadence, Azouras
started, and blinked quickly with her eyelids, and a light sigh
showed that she came back to herself and her friend, from her
vague contemplative state of mind. Something indescribable,
very sad, shone in her eyes, and made them almost black; and
with a childlike look at Miss Rudensköld she asked, "Tell me
what that large painting over there represents. ”
«The altar-piece? Don't you know? The altar-piece in Clara
is one of the most beautiful we possess. ”
"What is going on there ? ” asked Azouras.
Miss Rudensköld gave her a side glance; she did not know
that her neighbor in the pew was a girl without baptism, with.
out Christianity, without the slightest knowledge of holy religion,


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KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQVIST
443
a heathen -and knew less than a heathen, for such a one has
his teachings, although they are not Christian. Miss Rudensköld
thought the girl's question came of a momentary forgetfulness,
and answered, to remind her:-
“Well, you see, it is one of the usual subjects, but unusually
well painted, that is all. High up among the other figures in
the painting you will see the half-reclining figure of one that is
dead - see what an expression the painter has put into the face!
- That is the Saviour. ”
« The Saviour ? »
“Yes, God's son, you know; or God Himself. ”
“And he is dead ? » repeated Azouras to herself with wonder-
ing eyes. «Yes, I believe that; it must be so: it is godlike to
die !
Miss Rudensköld looked at her neighbor with wide-opened
eyes. “You must not misunderstand this subject,” she said. It
is human to live and want to live; you can see that, too, in the
altar-piece, for all the persons who are human beings, like our-
selves, are alive. ”
“Let us go out! I feel oppressed by fear - no, I will tarry
here until my fear passes away. Go, dearest, I will send you
word. ”
Miss Rudensköld took leave of her; went out of the church
and over the churchyard to the Eastern Gate, which faces Oden's
lane.
The girl meanwhile stayed inside; came to a corner in the
organ stairs; saw people go out little by little; remained unob-
served, and finally heard the sexton and the church-keeper go
away. When the last door was closed, Azouras stepped out of
her hiding-place. Shut out from the entire world, severed from
all human beings, she found herself the only occupant of the
large, light building, into which the sun lavishly poured his gold.
Although she was entirely ignorant of our holy church cus-
toms and the meaning of the things she saw around her, she had
nevertheless, sometimes in the past, when her mother was in
better health, been present at the church service as a pastime,
and so remembered one thing and another. The persons with
whom she lived, in the halls and corridors of the opera, hardly
ever went to God's house; and generally speaking, church-going
was not practiced much during this time. No wonder, then, that
a child who was not a member of any religious body, and who


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444
KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST
had never received an enlightening word from any minister,
should neglect what the initiated themselves did not attend to
assiduously.
She walked up the aisle, and never had the sad, strange feel-
ing of utter loneliness taken hold of her as it did now; it was
coupled with the apprehension of a great, overhanging danger.
Her heart beat wildly; she longed unspeakably - but for what?
for her wild free forest out there, where she ran around quick as
a deer? or for what ?
She walked up toward the choir and approached the altar rail-
ing. "Here at least — I remember that once — but that was long
ago, and it stands like a shadow before my memory- I saw many
people kneel here: it must have been of some use to them?
Suppose I did likewise ? »
Nevertheless she thought it would be improper for her to
kneel down on the decorated cushions around the chancel. She
folded her hands and knelt outside of the choir on the bare stone
floor. But what more was she to do or say now? Of what use
was it all ? Where was she to turn ?
She knew nothing. She looked down into her own thoughts
as into an immense, silent dwelling. Feelings of sorrow and a
sense of transiency moved in slow swells, like shining, breaking
waves, through her consciousness. “Oh — something to lean on-
a help— where? where? where ? »
She looked quietly about her; she saw nobody. She was sure
to meet the most awful danger when the door was opened, if
help did not come first.
She turned her eyes
back toward the organ, and in her
thoughts she besought grace of the straight, long, shining pipes.
But all their mouths were silent now.
She looked up to the pulpit; nobody was standing there. In
the pews nobody. She had sent everybody away from here and
from herself.
She turned her head again toward the choir.
She remem-
bered that when she had seen so many gathered here, two min-
isters in vestments had moved about inside of the railing and
had offered the kneeling worshipers something. No doubt to
help them! But now—there was nobody inside there. To be
sure she was kneeling here with folded hands and praying eyes;
but there was nobody, nobody, nobody who offered her the least
little thing. She wept.
(


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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,


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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


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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 ! »


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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


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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.

(


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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.