No More Learning

But in a minute I see she was jest countin' her stitches to set
her seam, an' I was r'lieved. An' when he got through talkin
he handed her a prayer-book-jest a common one, he called it
-an' a little cat'chism. Coretty took 'em, perlite 's ye please, an'
she looked 't the covers, an' she says very p'lite, 'Much obleeged
to ye, sir; but they don't seem ter int'rest me, someway.
I can
make up prayers for myself, 'f it's all the same to you,' she says,
still dreffle p'lite; 'an' this cat'chism don't seem to go t' the right
spot, 's fur as I'm consarned,' says she, not openin' it 't all: 'but
I'm jest 's much obleeged to ye;'-an' she went on knittin'.
“Then Elder Day he opened the subjeck o' Baptistry. Fust,
sister Coretty listened p'litely 's she had afore: but he hadn't.
hardly got to his sec'ndly afore she pricked up her ears an'
jumped 's if suthin' 'd hit her, an' she lay down her stockin' an'
stiffened up, an' she looked him right in the eye; an' 'fore he


## p. 13503 (#317) ##########################################

ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON
13503
was half-way to the thirdly she broke out, an' she says: 'Elder
Day, I don't want to be imp'lite to comp'ny in my sister's house,
an' me jest arriv; but there's suthin' in me that reely can't stand
them doctrines o' yourn another minute, they rile me so.
No, I
won't stand it! ' she says, with her face all red, an' her eyes
snappin'; an' she b'gun to gether up her things, an' git up outer
her cheer for a run. But I went up ter her, an' whispered to
her, an' sorter smoothed her down; for I see what 'twas, an'
't the old Knapp feelin' 'gainst Baptists that'd ben growin' up
an' 'ncreasin' for cent'ries was all comin' inside on her t' wunst.
an' tearin' her up: but Elder Day he jest said, 's pleasant 's pie-
crust, he says, 'Let her 'lone, Miss Knapp, an' I'll read her a
soothin' varse or two,' an' he up with a little leather-covered
book, an' he read out:
"A few drops o' water dropped from a man's han',-
They call it baptissum, an' think it will stan'
On the head of a child that is under the cuss;
But that has no warrant in Scriptur' for us. '
"He was goin' on; but Coretty she jest jumped up, makin
her cheer fall over with a bang, an' she slat her work down an'
run outer the room, her knittin' bobbin' a'ter her,- for the
ball o' yarn was in her pocket. I went a'ter her to coax her
back, but she kep' a-sayin', 'O Loretty, what's the matter o' me!
I'm jest bilin' an' bubblin' an' swellin' up inside, an' I feel 's if
nothin' could help me but burnin' up a few Baptists,' she says.
An' I says, 'Keep 's quiet 's you can, sister: it's dreffle tryin', I
know, an' it's all come on you t' wunst,- the strong Knapp feelin'
ag'in 'em, but come back to the keepin'-room an' we'll change
the subjeck. ' An' she come. An' then Priest O'Conner, the
Cath'lic, he begun at her; an' he was jest 's smooth 's silk, an'
he talked reel fluent 'bout the saints, an' purg't'ry, an' Fridays,
an' the bach'lor state for min'sters, an' penances, an' I d' know
what-all. An' Coretty she was hard at work at her knittin'; an'
when he stopped to take breath, an' pull out some beads an'
medals an' jingly trinkets o' that sort, she kinder started 's if
she'd jest waked up, an' she says, "Xcuse me, Mr. O'Conner, I
lost the thread o' what you was sayin' for a minute, but I won't
trouble ye to go over 't ag'in: I don't seem ter take to Cath'lics,
an' I never wear beads. ' An' she went on knittin'.
―


## p. 13504 (#318) ##########################################

13504
ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON
"An' so 'twas with 'em all,-'Piscople, Baptist, Meth'dist: every
livin' soul on 'em, they done their best, an' never p'duced any
impression 't all. But bimeby P'fessor Phelps o' the Congr'a-
tion'l Sem'nary, he got his turn an' b'gun. Oh, how she did jest
drink it in! She dropped her knittin' an' set up an' leaned for-
rud, an' she smiled, an' nodded her head, an' beat her hands up
an' down, an' tapped her foot, 's if she was hearin' the takin'est
music; she 'most purred, she seemed so comf't'ble an' sat'sfied.
Wunst in a while she'd up an' say suthin' herself 'fore he could
say it.
F'rinstance, when he come to foreord'nation an' says,
'My good woman, I hope soon ter 'xplain to you 'bout the won'
ful decrees o' God, an' how they are his etarnal purpose, an”—
'Don't put yourself out to do that, p'fessor,' she says. 'O'
course I know 't accordin' to the couns' of his own will he 'th
foreordained whats'ever cometh to pass; but I'd jest like to hear
you preach on that subjeck. ' An' when he alluded to some hav-
in' ben 'lected to everlastin' life, she says, kinder low, to herself
like, 'Out of his mere good pleasure from all etarnity, I s'pose. '
The very words o' the cat'chism, ye see; an' she never goin'
to weekly cat'chism or monthly r'view! An' when he stopped a
minute she says, all 'xcited like, 'Now I call that talk, an' it's
the very fust I've heerd to-night. ' Then he took a book out of
his pocket. 'Twas a copy of the old New England Primer, with
whity-blue covers outside an' the cat'chism inside, an' he says,
'Miss Knapp, p'raps you ain't f'miliar with this little book, but—'
She ketched it right outer his hand, an' the tears they come
right up inter her eyes, an' she says in a shaky voice, 'I don't
think I ever see 't afore, p'fessor, but it 'pears to be the West-
minster Shorter. ' Then she jest give way an' cried all over it
till 'twas soppin'. An' she did jest hang on ter his words when
he come to the prob'ble futur' o' most folks, an' how the cat'-
chism says they're 'under His wrath an' cuss, an' so made li'ble
to all the mis'ries o' this life, to death itself, an' the pains o'
hell f'rever. ' She jest kep' time to them words with her head
an' her hands an' her feet, 's if 'twas an old toon she'd knowed
all her born days.
"An' so 'twas, right straight through: they tried her on every-
thing, an' 'twas allus the same come-out; she picked an' kep' all
the Knappses had allus stood to, an' throwed away what the
Knappses 'd disliked. She 'most pitched her knittin', ball an'
all, at the Dem'cratic newspaper man; an' when the Connet'cut


## p. 13505 (#319) ##########################################

ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON
13505
Cour'nt ed❜tor laid down the Whig platform, she called out loud:
'I'm on that; that's my pol'cy. Who's our can'date? ' Poor
Mr. Gallagher, he didn't make out to c'mmunicate with her 's he
'xpected. He tried her on a Bible story in signs, but a'ter look-
in' at him a minute she turned away an' says: 'Poor creatur',
can't he talk any? He must 'a' ben cast away some time, I
guess, an' 'tis sorter dumb'in' to the speech, as I orter know. But
he'll pick it up agin. ' An' the doctor from the crazies, an' the
p'fessor from Wash'n't'n College, they tried all kinds o' brainy
tricks on her; but her head was 's sound as their own, and made
on the good old Knapp patt'n. An'-oh, I wish you could 'a'
seen how foolish Dr. Barnes looked when she says to him, a'ter
he'd opened out his infiddle b'liefs or unb'liefs, says she: 'Now
you jest hush up. I sh'd think you'd be ashamed, a'ter livin'
here in a Christian land 'mong Congr'ation'lists all your days, an'
not know who made you, an' what your chief eend is, an' what
the Scriptur's princ'p'ly teach. Even I knowed that,' she says,
'an' me in a heath'n land o' graven im'ges. '
"I'm spinnin' out my story in reel Knappy way,-they're a
long-winded lot, but I'll try to bind off now. But fust I must
tell ye 'bout the time I showed Coretty my garden. She'd ben
anxious to see 't; said she lotted on flowers, an' had dreffle pretty
ones on th' island, kinder tropicky an' queer, but she wanted ter
see some hum ones. So I took her out an' showed her my beds.
'Twas July, an' my garden was like a rainbow or a patchwork
comf'ter,— all colors. She walked round an' looked at the roses
an' pinks an' all, and smelt at 'em, an' seemed pleased.
"But somehow I'm kinder dis'p'inted too,' she says: 'I d'
know why, but there's suthin' lackin'. ' I jest kep' still, an'
kinder led her 'long down the walk to the corner 'hind the row
o' box, an' fust she knowed she was standin' by the bed o' but-
terneggs. She stood stock-still a minute; then she held up both
hands an' cried out, 'Oh, C'rinthians! '
'Twas the fust time she'd ever used the 'xpression; there
never 'd ben any 'casion for 't, for she'd had sech a quiet sorter
life. A'ter that she was allus hangin' round that bed like a cat
round a valerium patch, 'tendin' them posies, weedin' 'em, wat'r
in', tyin' 'em up, pickin' 'em, wearin' 'em, an' keepin' 'em in her
room. 'Twas a dreffle comfort to have her with me; but 'twa'n't
to last; I see that 'most 's soon 's she got settled down with
She b'gun to droop an' wilt down, an' to look pindlin' an'
XXIII-845
me.
________


## p. 13506 (#320) ##########################################

13506
ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON
lean-like, an' bleached out. I tried not to see it, an' talked 's if
'twas change o' air, an' givin' up her r'tired life, an' 's if she'd
soon pick up an' grow to a good old Knapp age. But when she
b'gun to c'mplain o' feelin' creepy an' goose-fleshy an' shiv'ry, to
say her head was het up an' her feet 'most froze, I couldn't shet
my eyes to 't no longer; I knowed the sympt'ms too well: it
was the old Knapp enemy, dumb ager.
She was awful young
for that; not forty yit, an' the Knappses mostly lived to eighty or
ninety. But I'll tell you how I reasoned 't out to myself. The
fam'ly the rest on 'em- was all their lives takin' in gradjal-
-
like — stronger an' stronger 's they could bear 'em-the Knapp
b'liefs. One a'ter t'other they got 'em, like teeth, an' so they
could stand it. But jest think on 't a minnit: that poor dear
gal took in all them b'liefs-an' strong ones they was, too,
the strongest goin'-in jest a few days' time. Foreord'nation,
'lection, etarnal punishment, the Whig platform, Congr'ation'l s'ci-
ety gov'ment, United States language, white-oak cheese, butter-
neggs, in short, the hull set o' Knapp ways, she took 'em all,
's you might say, 't one big swaller. No wonder they disagreed
with her, an' left her nothin' for 't but to take the only one left
't she hadn't took a'ready, the Knapp shakes!
"I didn't say nothin' 'bout it to her; I never spoke o' the
fam❜ly trouble 't all, an' I knowed she'd never heerd on 't in her
life. She kep' up an' 'bout for a spell; but one day she come to
see mc, an' she says, very quiet an' carm, 'Loretty, 'f ye'll give
me the sarcepan I'll jest set some cam'mile an' hardhack to
steep, an' put a strip o' red flannel round my neck an' go to
bed. ' My heart sunk 'way down 's I heerd her; but I see 't
she'd left out some o' the receipt, so I hoped 'twa'n't so bad 's I
feared. But jest 's she was goin' inter her bedroom she turned
round an' says, 'An' mebbe a peppergrass poult'ce on the bottoms
o' my feet would be a good an' drawin' thing,' she says. There
was a lump in my throat, but I thinks to myself, 'Never mind,
'f she don't 'lude to the piller. ' An' I was pickin' the pepper-
grass an' wond'rin' if 'twas the smell o' that 't made my eyes so
wet an' smarty, when she calls me softly, an' she says, 'Sister,
I'm dreffle sorry to trouble ye, but 'f you could give me another
piller,—a hard, thin one,—I'd be 'bleeged. ' Then I knowed
'twas all over, an' I never had a grain o' hope agin.
"You'll 'xcuse me, ladies, from talkin' much more 'bout that
time. I think on 't 'nough, dear knows; I dream on 't, an' wake
-
-


## p. 13507 (#321) ##########################################

ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON
13507
with my piller all wet: but 'tain't good for me to say too much
'bout it. She wa'n't sick long: her dumb ager wa'n't very
chronic, 's the doctors says, but sharp an' quick. An' jest three
weeks from the day she come home to me she'd added one more
to the long list o' things she'd had to larn in such a lim'ted
per'od, poor gal, an' took in the Knapp way o' dyin'.
"An' 'twas a quiet way; peace'ble, still-like, not makin' no
great fuss 'bout it, but ready an' willin'. She didn't want much
waitin' on, only fresh posies-butterneggs o' course-in the
wineglass on the stand by her bed; an' ye may be sure she allus
had 'em there. An' I picked all I had, an' stuck 'em in pitchers
an' mugs an' bowls, an' stood 'em on the mantel-shelf, an' on the
chest o' drawers, an' any place 't would hold 'em, an' the room
was all lit up with 'em-an' with her hope an' faith an' patient
ways too; an' so she seemed to pass right through a shinin'
yeller path, till we lost sight on her where it ended, I 'a'n't the
leastest doubt, in the golden streets o' heaven.
"But I 'xpect to see her agin 'fore very long. There's more
o' the fam'ly t'other side than there is here now, an' when I
think o' all the tribe o' Knappses in that land 'cross the river,
why, I think I'd be kinder glad to go there myself: 'twould be
'most like goin' to Thanksgivin' 't the old homestid. An' I was
sayin' to Marthy Hustid yist'day—she looks a'ter me now, ye
know't I had a kinder creepy, goose-fleshy, shiv'ry feelin' some-
times, 't my head was all het up an' my feet 'most froze, an' I
guessed she better be lookin' at the yarb bags up garr't, an'
layin' in a little red flann'l, in case o' any sickness in the fam'ly.
'An' Marthy,' I says, 'I s'pose there's a harder piller in the
house 'n the one I'm usin',- a thin one, you know. ' An' I am
glad the butterneggs is comin' in season. "
As we
came away from the little brown house and drove
along towards Greenwich, we were silent for a little. Then I
exclaimed: "Jane Benedict, how much truth is there in that wild
tale? Was her sister shipwrecked, and did she appear after many
days? For pity's sake enlighten me, for my head is 'all het up,'
as Aunt Loretty would say! "
"She was
an only child," answered Jane calmly, as she
touched Billy lightly with the whip. "I believe her father was
a sailor, and was lost at sea. She herself lived as housekeeper
for many years with Dr. Lounsbury of Stamford, who wrote that
queer book on heredity,-'Heirship,' I think he called it. Per-
haps she imbibed some of his ideas. "


## p. 13508 (#322) ##########################################

13508
JULIUS SLOWACKI
(1809-1849)
HE poetic genius of Poland put forth its fairest flower in the
trefoil of Mickiewicz, Krasinski, and Slowacki. Strongly con-
trasted in individuality, the three were united by their love
of country; in their lives as in their works the controlling motive is
an ardent patriotism. All were exiles from the land they loved; and
their works, which constitute the glory of Polish literature, were writ-
ten on an alien soil. They all strove to keep alive the pride of their
countrymen in Poland's ancient greatness; but in Slowacki a certain
temperamental pessimism, in sharp contrast
to the national optimism of his brother
poets, held his patriotic hopes restrained.
An intense love of freedom, and a hatred of
the régime of the Czar, glow in his impas-
sioned verse. He was a patriot of the
people. Krasinski, allied with the highest
families, and Mickiewicz, the favorite of the
great, were patriots of a more aristocratic
mold. Upon them all fell the mighty
shadow of Byron; and in none was the
Byronic spirit more perfectly reincarnated
than in Slowacki. He surpassed his master;
and although he outgrew this influence, and
drew loftier inspiration from Shakespeare
JULIUS SLOWACKI
and Calderon, he retained to the end the traces of "Satanic" pessi-
mism. In a rough classification of the members of this brilliant triad,
Mickiewicz, the master of the epic and lyric, may be called the poet
of the present; Krasinski, the prophet and seer, the poet through
whom the future spoke; while Slowacki, the dramatist, was the pan-
egyrist of the past.

Julius Slowacki was born at Krzemieniec on August 23d, 1809.
His father was a professor of some note at the University of Vilna,
where the lad received his education. His mother idolized and
spoiled him, sowing the seeds of that supreme self-love which became
in him a moral malady. From the first he had the conscious resolve
to become a great poet. Upon leaving the university in 1828 he
entered the uncongenial service of the State. Two years later he


## p. 13509 (#323) ##########################################

JULIUS SLOWACKI
13509
abandoned his post; and left Poland to be thenceforth a homeless
wanderer. During the period of his official bondage in Warsaw he
produced his early Byronic tales in verse: 'Hugo,' a romance of
the Crusades, 'Mnich' (The Monk), 'Jan Bielecki,' 'The Arab,' etc.
They are distinguished by boldness of fancy and great beauty of
diction; but their gloomy pessimistic tone ran counter to the prevail-
ing taste of that still hopeful time, and the day of their popularity
was deferred until renewed misfortunes had chastened the public
heart. Two dramas belong to the same period,-'Mindowe and
'Mary Stuart. › The scene of the former is laid in the ancient days
before Christianity had been established in Lithuania; the latter chal-
lenges comparison with Schiller's play, and surpasses it in dramatic
vigor. It is still a favorite in the repertoire of the Polish theatres.
Slowacki delighted in powerful overmastering natures: it was the
demonic in man that most appealed to him; and that element in
his own nature during the turbulent days of 1830 and 1831 burst
forth into revolutionary song. His fine 'Ode to Freedom,' the fer-
vid Hymn to the Mother of God,' and the ringing martial spirit of
his 'Song of the Lithuanian Legion,' stirred all hearts, and raised
Slowacki at once to the front rank among the poetic exponents of
the Polish national idea.
When in 1832 Slowacki settled in Geneva, a new period in his
literary career began: he emerged from the shadow of Byron, and
his treatment of life became more robust and earnest. Unconsciously
his Kordjan came to resemble Conrad in the third part of Mickie-
wicz's 'Dziady' (In Honor of our Ancestors). The first two acts of
this powerful drama are still somewhat in the Byronic manner, but
the last three acts are among the finest in the whole range of
Polish dramatic literature. The theme is patriotic: the hero plunges
into a conspiracy at Warsaw to overthrow the Czar; but at the criti-
cal moment the man is found wanting, and because he puts forth
no adequate effort he miserably fails. This dramatically impressive
but morally impotent conclusion reveals the ineradicable pessimism
of the poet's mind. Kordjan is of that irresolute Slavic type which
Sienkiewicz has so mercilessly analyzed in 'Without Dogma. ' To
this same period of Slowacki's greatest productivity belong the two
splendid tragedies Mazepa' and 'Balladyna. ' In 'Mazepa is all
the fresh vigor of the wind-swept plains; it has a dramatic quality
that reminds of Calderon, and maintains itself with unabated popu-
larity upon the Polish stage. 'Balladyna' is the most original of all
the poet's creations. Shakespeare superseded Byron; but the master
now inspired and no longer dominated. Lilla Weneda,' of later
date, was the second part of an unfinished trilogy, of which Balla-
dyna' was the first: the design of the whole was to recreate the


## p. 13510 (#324) ##########################################

13510
JULIUS SLOWACKI
mythical traditions of Poland. On this ancient background is por-
trayed the conflict of two peoples; and it is characteristic of the poet
that he allows the nobler race to succumb to the ruder.
It was during Slowacki's Swiss sojourn also that he wrote one
of the finest lyric gems of Polish poetry, 'In Switzerland. ' In it he
immortalized the Polish maiden who for too short a time ruled his
wayward nature in a brief but beautiful dream of love. In Rome
in 1836 he met Krasinski, to whose lofty inspiration his own soul
responded. During a trip in the Orient he wrote his deeply pathetic
poem Ojciec Zadzumionych' (The Father of the Plague-Stricken).
Upon this doomed man, as upon Job, is heaped misfortune on mis-
fortune until human capacity for suffering is exhausted, and the man
becomes a stony monument of misery. There is an overwhelming
directness of presentation in this poem that suggests the agony of the
marble Laocoön. It surpasses Byron at his best.
In 1837 Slowacki rejoined Krasinski in Florence, and under his in-
fluence wrote in Biblical style the allegory of 'Anhelli. ' It is a song
of sorrow for the sufferings of Poland and her exiled patriots; but it
loses itself at last in the marsh of mystic Messianism into which the
masterful but vulgar Towianski lured many of the nobler spirits of
Poland, including Mickiewicz. Krasinski resisted, and the two friends
were separated. Slowacki and his greater rival were stranded on the
shoal of Towianism. The works which he had written in Switzer-
land he began to publish in Paris in 1838; but 'Beniowski' was the
only work of art that he wrote after that time. This is a lyric-epic
of self-criticism. His works thenceforth were water-logged with
mysticism, and do not belong to the domain of art. In 'Król Duch'
(King Mind) this madness reaches its height. Embittered and out of
touch with the world, he died in Paris on April 3d, 1849.
Slowacki surpassed all his contemporaries in the magnificent
flights of his imagination, and in the glowing richness of his language
and imagery. His dramas are among the chief ornaments of Polish
literature; and his beautiful letters to his mother should be men-
tioned as perfect gems of epistolary style. His contempt for details
of form and composition seems sometimes like a conscious defiance
of the recognized requirements of art; but the splendid exuberance of
his thought and fancy ranks him among the great poets of the nine-
teenth century. He was keenly alive to the faults and failings of
his countrymen, as is shown in his 'Incorrigibles'; but in the temple
of Polish fame his place is secure at the left of Mickiewicz, at whose
right stands Krasinski with the 'Psalm of Sorrow' in his hand.


## p. 13511 (#325) ##########################################

JULIUS SLOWACKI
13511
FROM MINDOWE'
In 'Poets and Poetry of Poland. ' Copyright 1881, by Paul Soboleski
[Mindowe, king of Litwania, having embraced the Christian religion, his
blind mother Ronelva and his nephew Troinace conspire to effect his death.
Mindowe has banished Lawski, the prince of Nalzhaski, and essayed to win
the affections of his wife. Lawski, not having been heard of for some time,
is supposed to be dead. The scene opens just after the baptismal rites of the
monarch. ]
Scene: The royal presence chamber. Enter Casimir and Basil, from dif-
ferent sides
Casimir
Basil
Casimir
――――――
Troinace
Ronelva
Beneath a-
Basil [interrupting him] — Hold! knowest thou not
B
Ronelva
ASIL
Saw you the rites to-day, my Casimir?
Casimir
I saw what may I never see again,-
The altars of our ancient faith torn down,
Our king a base apostate, groveling
-
-
-
The ancient saw that "Palace walls have ears"?
The priests throng round us like intruding flies,
And latitude of speech is fatal.
True
I should speak cautiously. But hast seen
The prince?
Who? Troinace?
―――――
The same.
Ha! here he comes, and with the queen-mother;
It is not safe to parley in their presence.
Along with me: I've secrets for thine ear.
Hence
Ronelva enters, leaning upon the arm of Troinace, and engaged with
him in conversation.
Thou hast a son, Ronelva, crowned a king!
Is he alive? with sight my memory fails.
Once I beheld the world, but now 'tis dark-
My soul is locked in sleep-O God! O God!
My son hast seen my royal son- the King,
Thy uncle, Troinace? How is he arrayed?
Troinace In regal robes, and with a jeweled cross
Sparkling upon his breast.
[Exit Casimir and Basil.
A cross! -what cross?
'Tis not a symbol of his sovereignty-


## p. 13512 (#326) ##########################################

13512
JULIUS SLOWACKI
Troinace
Ronelva
A pause. Then enter Mindowe, crowned, and arrayed in purple, with a
diamond cross upon his breast, and accompanied by Heidenric, the Pope's
legate. Herman precedes them bearing a golden cross. Lawski, dis-
guised as a Teutonic Knight, with a rose upon his helmet, and his visor
down, bearing a casket. Lutuver attending the King. Lawski stands
apart.
Mindowe -
It is a gift made by his new ally,
The Pope.
Ronelva I feel that kindred blood is near, Mindowe!
Thy mother speaks! approach!
The Pope! - The Pope! I know none such!
Who is this Pope! - Is't he who sends new gods
To old Litwania? Yes - I've heard of him.
Mindowe -
My mother! why
These tones and words sarcastic? Knowest thou not
That victory perches on another's helm ?
I am at peace, and am — a Christian king.
Ronelva Foul shame on thee, blasphemer! Hast thou fallen
As low as this? Where is thy bold ambition?
To what base use hast placed thy ancient fame?
Is't cast aside like to some foolish toy
Ronelva-
[He approaches.
Hast thou returned
From some new expedition. Is thy brow
Covered with laurels, and thy stores
Replete with plunder? Do I hear the shouts,
Th' applause of the Litwanians, hailing thee
As conqueror? Returnest thou from Zmudie,
From Dwina's shores triumphant? Has the Russian Bear
Trembled before thy sword? Does Halicz fear
Thy angry frown? Speak! with a mother's tears
I'll hail the conqueror.
No longer worth the hoarding? Shame upon
Thy craven spirit! Canst thou live without
That glorious food, which e'en a peasant craves,
Holding it worthless as thy mother's love,
And thy brave father's faith?
Nay, mother, nay!
Dismiss these foolish fancies from thy brain.
Behold! my jeweled brow is bent before thee.
Oh, bless thy son!
Thou vile apostate! Thou
Dare ask for approbation? Thou! -I curse thee!


## p. 13513 (#327) ##########################################

JULIUS SLOWACKI
13513
Mindowe-
Ronelva
Mindowe
Sorrow and hate pursue thy faltering steps.
Still may thy foes prove victors; subjects false;
Thy drink be venom, and thy joy be woe.
Thy mind filled with remorse, still mayst thou live,
Seeking for death, but wooing it in vain,—
A foul, detested, blasted renegade.
――――
I have bestowed to earth a viper; but
From thee shall vipers spring, who like their sire
Shall traitors be unto their native land,
Heidenric
And eager plunge them into ruin's stream!
Depart! and bear thy mother's curse!
Mindowe [speaking as though awe-stricken] -
Heard ye that curse?
Heidenric-
-
My mother-
Call me not mother, viper!
I do disclaim thee;- thee and all thy seed!
[Exit Ronelva, leaning on Troinace.
-
What are the frantic words
Of a revengeful woman? Empty air-
A mother's curse! It carries pestilence,
Blight, misery, and sorrow in its train.
No matter! It is, as the legate says,
But "empty air. »
[To Heidenric]— What message do you bear?
Thus to the great Litwanian king, Pope Innocent
(Fourth of the name who've worn the papal crown)
Sends greeting: Thou whose power extends
From farthest Baltic to the shores of Crim,
Go on and prosper. Though unto thy creed
He thinks thy heart is true, still would he prove -
[Mindowe starts, and exclaims "Ha! "]
Send thou to him as neighboring monarchs do
An annual tribute. So he'll bless thy arms
That ere another year elapses Russ' shall yield,
And Halicz fall before thy conquering sword.
Mindowe Thanks to the Pope. I'll profit by his leave;
I'll throw my troops in Muscovy, and scourge
The hordes of Halicz, move in every place
Like an avenging brand, and say The Pope
Hath given me power. But, hark ye! legate,
What needs so great a priest as he of Rome
Mother,
―――――


## p. 13514 (#328) ##########################################

13514
JULIUS SLOWACKI
With my red gold to buy him corn and oil?
Explain! I do not understand the riddle.
Heidenric-He merely asks it as a pledge of friendship,
But nothing more. The proudest kings of Europe
Yield him such tribute.
Mindowe
Heidenric-
A gift-
A precious relic of most potent virtue.
Thou'st heard of St. Sebastian? holy man!
He died a martyr. This which brought him death
Is sent unto thee by his Holiness
[Presents a rusty spear-head. ]
Mindowe - Fie on such relics! I could give thy Pope
A thousand such! This dagger by my side
Had hung from childhood. It has drunk the blood
Of many a foe that vexed my wrath; and oft
Among them there were men, and holy men,
As holy, sir, as e'er was St. Sebastian.
Heidenric-Peace, thou blasphemer!
Mindowe [angrily]-
How! dost thou wish thy head
To stand in safety on thy shoulders?
What means this insolence, sir legate?
Think'st thou that I shall kneel, and bow, and fawn,
And put thy master's iron yoke upon me?
They act not freely whom the fetters bind,
And none shall forge such galling chains for me!
There's not one more Mindowe in the world,
Nor is your Pope a crowned Litwanian king.
Heidenric-I speak but as the representative
Of power supreme o'er earthly monarchs.
Mindowe Thou doest well to shelter thus thyself
Under the shield of thy legation. Hast
Aught more to utter of thy master's words,
Aught more to give?
I have a gift to make
Unto thy queen.
The queen hath lain, sir prince,
In cold corruption for a twelvemonth back.
What means this mockery?
Heidenric
Tribute! -base priest!
Whene'er thy master asks for tribute, this-
[Striking his sword. ]
Is my reply. What hast thou there?
Mindowe —
—


## p. 13515 (#329) ##########################################

JULIUS SLOWACKI
13515
Heidenric-
Mindowe-
Heidenric-
-
Mindowe-
Heidenric-
Aldona -
It was not known unto his Holiness.
The forests of Litwania are so dark
They shut her doings from her neighbor's ken.
If then the queen be dead, who shall receive
This goodly gift?
My mother
If I may judge
By what I heard e'en now, she'd not accept
Our offering.
Mindowe
Then give the gorgeous gaw
To Lawski's widow-she who soon will be
My crownèd queen.
Summon her hither, page.
Heidenric [aside] -
--
Pardon, my lord!
Mindowe [to Lawski]-
Attendants, take from hence these costly gifts,
And give them in the royal treasurer's care. -
[Exit Attendants.
Enter Aldona
Here comes my spotless pearl, the fair Aldona,
The choicest flower of the Litwanian vales.
Address thy speech to her.
Beauteous maid,
Accept these golden flowers from Tiber's banks,
Where they have grown, nursed by the beams of faith.
Nor deem them less in value that they are
By the brighter lustre of thine eyes eclipsed.
These costly jewels and the glare of gold,
Albeit they suit not my mourning weeds,
May serve as dying ornaments. As such
I will accept them.
Ay! I warrant me.
Like to most women, she accepts the gift,
Nor farther questions. Gold is always-gold.
[Motions to Lawski to approach Aldona. He does so, tremblingly. ]
Thou tremblest, Teuton!
[Exit Page.
[Lawski raises his visor as he approaches Aldona. She recognizes his feat-
ures, shrieks, and falls. Exit Lawski. ]
Without there!
Help there she swoons!
――――――


## p. 13516 (#330) ##########################################

13516
JULIUS SLOWACKI
Mindowe-
Heidenric-
Enter Attendants
Lutuver
Bear her hence. Pursue that knight.
[Exit Attendants with Aldona.
To Heidenric] - What means this mystery?
He said that he had vowed whilst in our train
For certain time to keep his visor down.
He's taciturn. This with his saddened air,
Together with the rose upon his helm,
The emblem of the factious house of York,
Bespeaks him English to my thought, at least.
Mindowe - Think ye such poor devices can deceive?
Lutuver-
-
I know not, sire.
――――
He is a spy ·
a base, deceitful spy.
Begone! for by my father's sepulchre
I see a dagger in my path. Begone!
I did so, sire,
But 'f all the group I least suspected him
Of treasonable practices. He's silent,
For no one understands his language here;
He keeps aloof from men, because he's sad;
He's sad, because he's poor: so ends that knight.
Mindowe [not heeding him]-
I tell thee that my very soul's pulse throbbed,
And my heart cast with quicker flow my blood,
When that young knight approached Aldona.
Now, by the gods, I do believe 'tis he-
The banished Lawski-here to dog my steps:
What thinkest thou, Lutuver?
[Exit Heidenric and Herman.
Approach, Lutuver. Didst thou see that knight
Who left so suddenly?
[Muses. ]
Slay him, sire!
If it be he, he's taken from my path;
If not-to slay a Teuton is no crime.
Mindowe Thou counselest zealously. But still, thy words
Fall not upon an ear which thinks them good.
I tell thee that this Lawski is my bane,
A living poison rankling 'fore mine eyes.
Men prate about the virtues of the man:
And if a timorous leaning to the right,
From fear to follow where the wrong directs,
Be virtue, then is he a paragon.
No wonder we are deadly foes. To me


## p. 13517 (#331) ##########################################

JULIUS SLOWACKI
13517
The brightness which is shed o'er all his deeds,
When placed in contact with my smothered hate,
Seems as the splendor of the noonday sun
Glancing upon some idol's horrid form,
Making its rude appearance ruder still.
One word of mine, Lutuver, might destroy
This abject snail, who crawling near my hope
Hath scared it off. But I would have him live,
And when he meets his adorable wife,--
When in th' excess of 'raptured happiness
Each fibre fills with plenitude of joy,
And naught of bliss is left to hope for, then
At fair Aldona's feet shall he expire,
And the full heart just beating 'gainst her own
Shall yield its living current for revenge.
And she-his wife-to whom I knelt in vain,
Who oft has said she courted my dislike,
And wished I'd hate her,- she shall have her wish.
[Exeunt Mindowe and Lutuver, as the curtain falls.
-
――――――――
I AM SO SAD, O GOD!
From Poets and Poetry of Poland. Copyright 1881, by Paul Soboleski
AM SO sad, O God! Thou hast before me
I
Spread a bright rainbow in the western skies,
But thou hast quenched in darkness cold and stormy
The brighter stars tha rise;
Clear grows the heaven 'neath thy transforming rod:
Still I am sad, O God!
Like empty ears of grain, with heads erected,
Have I delighted stood amid the crowd,
My face the while to stranger eyes reflected
The calm of summer's cloud;
But thou dost know the ways that I have trod,
And why I grieve, O God!
I am like to a weary infant fretting
Whene'er its mother leaves it for a while:
And grieving watch the sun, whose light in setting
Throws back a parting smile;
Though it will bathe anew the morning sod,
Still I am sad, O God!


## p. 13518 (#332) ##########################################

13518
JULIUS SLOWACKI
To-day o'er the wide waste of ocean sweeping,
Hundreds of miles away from shore or rock,
I saw the cranes fly on, together keeping
In one unbroken flock;
Their feet with soil from Poland's hills were shod,
And I was sad, O God!
Often by strangers' tombs I've lingered weary,
Since, grown a stranger to my native ways,
I walk a pilgrim through a desert dreary,
Lit but by lightning's blaze,
Knowing not where shall fall the burial clod
Upon my bier, O God!
Some time hereafter will my bones lie whitened,
Somewhere on strangers' soil, I know not where:
I envy those whose dying hours are lightened,
Fanned by their native air;
But flowers of some strange land will spring and nod
Above my grave, O God!
When, but a guileless child at home, they bade me
To pray each day for home restored, I found
My bark was steering-how the thought dismayed me—
The whole wide world around!
Those prayers unanswered, wearily I plod
Through rugged ways, O God!
Upon the rainbow, whose resplendent rafter
Thy angels rear above us in the sky,
Others will look a hundred years hereafter,
And pass away as I;
Exiled and hopeless 'neath thy chastening rod,
And sad as I, O God!


## p. 13519 (#333) ##########################################

13519
ADAM SMITH
(1723-1790)
BY RICHARD T. ELY
SPEAK of Adam Smith as the author of The Wealth of
Nations' brings before us at once his chief claim to a
place among the immortals in literature. The significance
of this work is so overwhelming that it casts into a dark shadow all
that he wrote in addition to this masterpiece. His other writings are
chiefly valued in so far as they may throw additional light upon the
doctrines of this one book. Few books in
the world's history have exerted a greater
influence on the course of human affairs;
and on account of this one work, Adam
Smith's name is familiar to all well-educated
persons in every civilized land.

Rarely does a man occupy so prominent
a position in human thought, whose person-
ality is so vague and elusive. He is gen-
erally so described that the impression is
produced of a dull and uninteresting man.
Quite the opposite must have been the
case, however; for even the few incidents
recorded of his life are sufficient to show
us, when we think about it, that he must
have been a delightful friend and companion. Adam Smith is gener-
ally associated in the popular mind with weighty disquisitions on free
trade, on labor, on value, and other economic topics; but his life was
by no means devoid of romantic touches.
ADAM SMITH
Adam Smith was born of respectable parents-his father being
a well-connected lawyer- at Kirkcaldy, Scotland, on June 5th, 1723.
His father had died three months before his birth; but he was
brought up and well educated by his mother, to whom he was most
devotedly attached. It is said, indeed, that he never recovered from
his mother's death, which took place when he was sixty years of age.
After attending a school in his native town, he was sent to the
University of Glasgow at the age of fourteen; and three years later,
obtaining an "exhibition," - or, as we say in the United States, a
scholarship, he went to Balliol College, Oxford, where he remained


## p. 13520 (#334) ##########################################

13520
ADAM SMITH
for more than six years. In 1748 he moved to Edinburgh, and deliv-
ered public lectures on rhetoric and belles-lettres. Three years later
he was appointed professor of logic in Glasgow University, and four
years later he exchanged his professorship for that of moral philoso-
phy. In 1763 he resigned his professorship, and traveled for three
years on the Continent of Europe as tutor to the Duke of Buccleuch.
From 1766 to 1776 he lived in retirement, engaged in the prepara-
tion of his great work, 'The Wealth of Nations,' which appeared in
the latter year and very soon made him famous. During the years
1776 to 1778 he lived in London, mingling with the best literary
society of the time. The year last named witnessed his return to
his native Scotland, where he chose Edinburgh as his home for the
rest of his life. Three years before his death, which occurred in
1790, he was elected Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow, and
was highly gratified by the honor conferred upon him.
Adam Smith was a bachelor; but we are told by Dugald Stewart,
his biographer, that he had once been warmly attached to a beautiful
and accomplished young lady. It is not known why it was that their
union was never consummated: neither one ever married. Dugald
Stewart saw the lady after the death of Adam Smith, when she was
upwards of eighty; and he stated that she "still retained evident
traces of her former beauty. The power of her understanding and
the gayety of her temper seemed to have suffered nothing from the
hand of time. "
Adam Smith was not a voluminous writer, and some of the MSS.