No More Learning

Silence; above, around, no sound, no
speech. The very cry of a jackal, the howl of a wolf, would
come friendly to the ear, but none is heard; as though all life
had disappeared forever from the face of the land. Silent every-
where. A dark line stretches thwart before us: you might take
it for a ledge, a trench, a precipice - what you will. It is none
of these: it is only a broad streak of brown withered herb, drawn
across the faintly gleaming flat. Far off on the dim right rises
something like a black giant wall. It is not that: it is a thick-
planted grove of palms; silent they also, and motionless in the
night. On the left glimmers a range of white ghost-like shapes:
they are the rapid slopes of sand-hills shelving off into the plain;
no life is there.
Some men are silenced by entering a place of worship, a
grave-yard, a large and lonely hall, a deep forest; and in each.
and all of these there is what brings silence, though from differ-
ent motives, varying in the influence they exert over the mind.
But that man must be strangely destitute of the sympathies
which link the microcosm of our individual existence with the
macrocosm around us, who can find heart for a word more than
needful, were it only a passing word, in the desert at night.
Silent we go on; the eyes and thoughts of the Bedouins are
fixed, now on the tracks,- for there are many, barely distinguish-
able to a few yards before them through the gloom,- now on
the pebble-strewn surface beneath their horses' hoofs; at times
on some bright particular star near the horizon; while occasion-
ally they turn an uneasy glance to right or left, as though half
anticipating some unfriendly figure about to start out of the
gloom. Moharib rode generally alongside of Ja'ad, with whom
he exchanged, but not often, signs or low whispers; Aman kept
close to me. I, who had long before made a separate astral cal-
culation for each successive night of the year (a useful amuse-
ment in my frequent journeys), and for whom almost every star
has a tale to tell of so many hours elapsed since sunset, so many
remaining to the dawn, continue gazing on the vault above, also
thinking. Our horses' pace never varies; no new object breaks
the monotonous gloom of our narrow horizon; the night seems as
though it had no end; we all grow drowsy, and go on as if in an
evil dream.


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WILLIAM GIFFORD PALGRAVE
11007
Aman draws forth from the loose breast-folds of his dress a
small clay pipe. The elegant workmanship of the bowl, and the
blue ornaments of its rim, declare it to be of Mosool manufacture.
Aided more by feeling than by sight, he proceeds deliberately to
fill it from a large tobacco pouch, made of cloth, once gayly em-
broidered, now sadly stained and tarnished; carefully arranging
the yellow 'Irak tobacco (the only quality obtainable south of
Bagdad, and of which we had laid in the necessary store at
Showey'rat) with the coarse broken stalks undermost, and the fine
dust-like leaf particles for a covering above. Next, with a single
blow on the flint, he strikes a light, lays it delicately on the top,
replaces the wire-work cupola over the pipe's mouth, and smokes
like a man who intends to make the most of his enjoyment, and
who economizes his pleasure that it may last the longer.
He is not long alone in this proceeding; for whether seeking
a remedy against sleepiness, or ennui, or perhaps both, Musa'ab
quickens his pace a little, and bringing his horse alongside of
Aman's, asks for a light in his turn. But his pipe is not all for
himself, Howeyrith claiming a share in it; whilst the negro,
Shebeeb, considers his complexion sufficient warrant for taking a
pull in company with Aman. I myself, though a minute before
absent, or nearly so, from everything around in thought, am
aroused from my revery by the pleasant smell of the smoke,
and ask also for a light, which Aman gives me. All the others,
Ja'ad and Moharib alone excepted, follow the example.
The night air freshens, it blows from the east. Looking round
somewhat backward on our left, we see a faint yellow gauze of
light, a spear-shaped ray; it is the zodiacal harbinger of the sun.
It widens, it deepens,- for brighten that dull ray does not, and
the hope it permits of a nearer halt arouses us one and all from
our still recurring torpor. The air grows cooler yet; the kaf-
feeyehs are rearranged around each chin, and the mantles-some
black, some striped, some dusky red are wrapt closer to every
form.
Suddenly, almost startling in that suddenness, the morning-
star flashes up, exactly in the central base of the dim eastern
pyramid of nebulous outline. Sa'ad, Doheym, Musa'ab, myself ——
all of us instinctively look first at the pure silver drop, glistening
over the dark desert marge; and then at Ja'ad, as though entreat-
ing him to notice it also, and to take the hint it gives. He rides
on and makes no sign. Yet half an hour more of march; during


## p. 11008 (#220) ##########################################

11008
WILLIAM GIFFORD PALGRAVE
which time the planet of my love has risen higher and higher,
with a rapidity seemingly disproportionate to the other stars;
and through the doubtful twilight I see Harith and Modarrib, our
night-long outriders, nearing and falling in with the rest of our
party. They know we have not much farther to go. Before us
a low range of sand-heaps, already tinged above with something
of a reddish reflect, on which the feathery ghada grows in large
dusky patches, points out the spot where Ja'ad had determined
hours before should be our brief morning rest. Once arrived
among the hillocks, Ja'ad reconnoitres them closely, then draws.
rein and dismounts; we all do the same; I, mechanically.
The horses are soon picketed, one close by the other; there is
no fear of vicious kicking or biting among these high-bred ani-
mals. Next, leaving only the cloths that have served for saddles
on their backs, we lighten them of their remaining loads: an easy
task; for except two pair of small water-skins, and a few almost
empty saddle-bags, more tassel than contents, there is not much.
to relieve them of.
Aman, thoroughly tired with the night's march, and little
troubled by cares either for the future or the present, had
quickly scooped away the soft cool sand into a comfortable hol-
low, arranged a heap of it for a pillow, and in half a minute.
lay there asleep and motionless like one dead. The other Benoo-
Riahees did the same. Ja'ad and Moharib first made up for their
previous abstinence by smoking each a half-filled pipe, then fol-
lowed the general example. For a few minutes longer I sat, the
unbidden watchman of the party, looking at them; sighed; looked
again; soon I felt my ideas growing confused, and hastily clear-
ing away in my turn somewhat of the sand, took my saddle-bags,
folded them, laid them under my head, and almost instantly fell
into dreamless slumber.
My sleep could not have lasted a full hour when with a
shiver, so freshly blew the easterly breeze of the morning, I
awoke. Rising I drew round me the woolen cloak which had
fallen away on one side, leaving me partly uncovered in my
uneasy though heavy sleep, and sat up. I looked about me, first
at my comrades: they all lay yet slumbering, every one his spear
stuck into the sand at his head, rolled up in their cloaks, some
one way, some another; then at the narrow belt of sand-hills,
among which he had alighted in the gloaming. They circled us
in at forty or fifty yards distant on every side. The clear rays


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WILLIAM GIFFORD PALGRAVE
11009
of the early sun entered the hollow here and there through gaps
between the hillocks; but on most points they were still shut out,
and the level light silvered rather than gilded the sand margin
around. Except my own, not an eye was open, not a limb
stirred; the very horses were silent and motionless as their
* masters.
"Am I nearer to or further than ever from my hopes? " said
I to myself, as I gazed at the pure blue sky above me, the
heaped-up sand below, the tufted ghada on the slopes, the sleep-
ing men, and the patient, drooping horses; "and to what purpose
is all this? Fool! and a fool's errand! No: anyhow, love is love,
and life life; better to attempt and lose than never to attempt at
all. Poor Moharib, too! on a venture not his own. I wonder
what his presentiments betoken; I feel none. No hint of to-day's
future or to-morrow's. And she meanwhile-where is she at
this very moment? near or far? and does she expect me now?
Has she any information of our intent? any guess? and how shall
I find her when we meet? But shall we indeed meet? and how?
If this attempt fail, what remains? Lucky fellows," thought I,
with a look on the heavy-breathing Aman and Harith where they
lay side by side. "They at least have all the excitement of
the enterprise without any of the distressful anxieties; or rather,
without that one great, miserable anxiety, What is the end? "
THE LAST MEETING
From Hermann Agha'
[The pursuit accomplished, Hermann Agha reaches at night the encamp-
ment of his rival, who is carrying away Zahra. As Hermann and his followers
purpose an immediate attack and rescue, the young lover audaciously decides
to steal to the tent in which his betrothed is lodged, to have a first interview
with her, and perhaps to bring about by stealth an immediate flight, to the
avoidance of a battle. ]
REACHED hollow. Not a sound was heard. Had the
Wencampment been twenty miles away the quiet could not
have been more complete. Softly we dismounted, Mo-
harib, Harith, Aman, and I; gave our horses and our spears in
charge of Doheym and Ja'ad; took off our cloaks and laid them
on the sand; and in our undergarments, with no arms but sword
and knife, prepared ourselves for the decisive attempt.
XIX-689
--


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11010
WILLIAM GIFFORD PALGRAVE
I did not think, I had no leisure to think, as we clambered up
the loose bank, half earth, half sand; the position required the
fullest attention every moment: an incautious movement, a slip, a
sound, and the whole encampment would be on foot, to the for-
feit not of my life, not of all our lives only, that I should have
reckoned a light thing,- but of my love also. One by one we
reached the summit: before us stood the tents, just visible in
dark outline; all around was open shadow; no moving figure
broke its stillness, no voice or cry anywhere; nor did any light
appear at first in the tents. The entire absence of precaution.
showed how unexpected was our visit: so far was well; my cour-
age rose, my hope also.
Following the plan we had agreed on, we laid ourselves flat on
the sand, and so dragged ourselves forward on and on, hardly
lifting our heads a little to look round from time to time, till
we found ourselves near the front tent furthest on the left. No
one had stirred without, and the tent itself was silent as a grave.
Round it, and round the tent that stood next behind it, we
crawled slowly on, stopping now and then, and carefully avoiding
the getting entangled among the pegs and outstretched ropes.
Above all, we gave the widest berth possible to what appeared in
the darkness like four or five blackish mounds on the sand, and
which were in fact guards, wrapped up in their cloaks; and for-
tunately for us, fast asleep.
When he had arrived at the outside corner of the encamp-
ment, Harith stopped, and remained crouched on the ground
where the shade was deepest; it was his place of watch. Twenty
or twenty-five paces further on, Aman at my order did the same.
Moharib accompanied me till, having fairly turned the camp, we
came close behind Zahra's tent, in which I now observed for the
first time that a light was burning. Here Moharib also stretched
himself flat on his face, to await me when I should issue forth
from among the curtains.
And now, as if on purpose to second our undertaking, arrived
unsought-for the most efficacious help that we could have desired
to our concealment. While crossing the sandy patch, I had felt
on my face a light puff of air, unusually damp and chill. Look-
ing up, I perceived a vapory wreath, as of thin smoke, blown
along the ground. It was the mist; and accustomed to the desert
and its phenomena, I knew that in less than half an hour more
the dense autumn fog would have set in, veiling earth and every-


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WILLIAM GIFFORD PALGRAVE
IIOII
thing on it till sunrise. This time, however, the change in the
atmosphere was quicker than usual; so that before I had got
behind the tent range, the thickness of the air would hardly have
allowed any object to be seen at a few yards' distance, even. had
it been daylight. As it was, the darkness was complete.
Creeping forward, I gradually loosened one of the side pegs
that made the tent-wall between the ropes fast to the ground.
Through the opened chink a yellow ray of light shot forth into
the fog; the whole tent seemed to be lighted up within. Hastily
I reclosed the space, while a sudden thrill of dread ran through
me: some maid, some slave might be watching. Or what if I
had been mistaken in the tent itself? What if not she but others
were there? Still there was no help for it now; the time of
deliberation had gone by: proceed I must and I would, whatever
the consequences.
Once more I raised the goat's-hair hangings, and peeped in.
I could see the light itself, a lamp placed on the floor in front,
and burning: but nothing moved; no sound was heard. I crawled
further on my hands and knees, till the whole interior of the
tent came into view. It was partly covered with red strips of
curtain, and the ground itself was covered with carpets. Near
the light a low couch, formed by two mat'resses one upon the
other, had been spread; some one lay on it;-O God! she lay
there!
The stillness of the night, the hour, the tent, of her sleep,
her presence, her very unconsciousness, awed, overpowered me.
For a moment I forgot my own purpose, everything. To venture
in seemed profanation; to arouse her, brutal, impious. Yet how
had I come, and for what? Then in sudden view all that had
been since that last night of meeting at Diar-Bekr stood distinct
before me; more yet, I saw my comrades on their watch outside,
the horses in the hollow; I saw the morrow's sun shine bright
on our haven of refuge, on our security of happiness. Self-
possessed and resolute again, I armed myself with the conscience
of pure love, with the memory and assurance of hers, and en-
tered.
Letting the hangings drop behind me, I rose to my feet;
my sword was unsheathed, my knife and dagger were ready in
my belt; my pistols, more likely to prove dangerous than useful
at this stage of the enterprise, I had left below with my horse.
Then, barefoot and on tiptoe, I gently approached the mattress


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IIOI2
WILLIAM GIFFORD PALGRAVE
couch. It was covered all over with a thin sheet of silken gauze;
upon this a second somewhat thicker covering, also of silk, had
been cast: and there, her head on a silken rose-colored pillow,
she lay, quiet as a child.
I can see her now,- thus continued Hermann, gazing fixedly
on the air before him, and speaking not as though to his friend
but to some one far off,- I can see her even now. She was
robed from head to foot in a light white dress, part silk, part
cotton, and ungirdled; she rested half turning to her right side;
her long black hair, loosened from its bands, spread in heavy
masses of glossy waviness, some on her pillow, some on her
naked arm and shoulder, ebony on ivory; one arm was folded
under her head, the other hung loosely over the edge of the
mattress, till the finger-tips almost touched the carpet. Her face
was pale,- paler, I thought, than before; but her breathing came
low, calm, and even, and she smiled in her sleep.
Standing thus by her side, I remained awhile without move-
ment, and almost without breath. I could have been happy so
to remain for ever. To be with her, even though she neither
stirred nor spoke, was Paradise: I needed neither sign nor speech
to tell me her thoughts; I knew them to be all of love for me,
-love not rash nor hasty, but pure, deep, unaltered, unalter-
able as the stars in heaven. It was enough: could this last, I
had no more to seek. But a slight noise outside the tent, as if
of some one walking about the camp, roused me to the sense of
where I was, and what was next to be done. I must awaken
her; yet how could I do so without startling or alarming her?
Kneeling softly by the couch, I took in mine the hand that
even in sleep seemed as if offered to me, gently raised it to my
lips, and kissed it. She slumbered quietly on. I pressed her
fingers, and kissed them again and yet again with increasing
warmth and earnestness. Then at last becoming conscious, she
made a slight movement, opened her eyes, and awoke.
"What! you, Ahmed! " she said, half rising from the bed: “I
was just now dreaming about you. Is it really you? and how
came you here? - who is with you? - are you alone? " These
words she accompanied with a look of love full as intense as my
own; but not unmixed with anxiety, as she glanced quickly round
the tent.
"Dearest Zahra! sister! my heart! my life! " I whispered, and
at once caught her in my arms. For a moment she rested in


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WILLIAM GIFFORD PALGRAVE
11013
my embrace; then recollecting herself, the place, the time, drew
herself free again.
"Did you not expect me, Zahra ? " I added; "had you no
foreknowledge, no anticipation, of this meeting? or could you
think that I should so easily resign you to another? "
The tears stood in her eyes. "Not so," she answered; "but
I thought, I had intended, that the risk should be all my own. I
knew you were on our track, but did not imagine you so near;
none else in the caravan guessed anything. You have anticipated
me by a night, one night only; and-O God! — at what peril to
yourself! Are you aware that sixty chosen swordsmen of Benoo-
Sheyban are at this moment around the tent? O Ahmed! O my
brother! What have you ventured? Where are you come? "
In a few words, as few as possible, I strove to allay her
fears. I explained all to her: told her of the measures we had
taken, the preparations we had made, the horse waiting, the
arms ready to escort and defend her; and implored her to avail
herself of them without delay.
Calmly she listened; then, blushing deeply, "It is well, my
brother," she said; "I am ready. " Thus saying, she caught up
her girdle from the couch, and began to gather her loosened
garments about her, and to fasten them for the journey. No
sign of hesitation now appeared, hardly even of haste. Her eye
was bright, but steady; her color heightened; her hand free from
tremor.
But even as she stooped to gather up her veil from the pil-
low on which she had laid it, and prepared to cast it over her
head, she suddenly started, hearkened, raised herself upright,
stood still an instant, and then, putting her hand on my arm,
whispered, "We are betrayed: listen! "
Before she had finished speaking I heard a rustle outside, a
sound of steps, as of three or four persons, barefoot and cau-
tious in their advance, coming towards the front of the tent. I
looked at Zahra: she had now turned deadly pale; her eyes were
fixed on the curtained entrance: yet in her look I read no fear,
only settled, almost desperate resolution. My face was, I do not
doubt, paler even than hers; my blood chilled in my veins. In-
stinctively we each made to the other a sign for silence-a sign
indeed superfluous in such circumstances-and remained attentive
to the noise without. The steps drew nearer; we could even
distinguish the murmur of voices, apparently as of several people


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11014
WILLIAM GIFFORD PALGRAVE
talking together in an undertone, though not the words them-
selves. When just before the entrance of the tent, the footfall
ceased; silence followed. The curtains which formed the door
were drawn together, one a little overlapping the other, so as to
preclude all view from the outside; but they were in no way
fastened within; and to have attempted thus to close them at that
moment would have been worse than useless.
Zahra and I threw our arms, she round me, I round her; and
our lips met in the mute assurance that whatever was to be the
fate of one should also be the fate of the other. But she blushed
more deeply than ever, crimson-red. I could see that by the light
of the lamp which we longed to, but at that moment dared not,
extinguish. Its ray fell on the door-hangings, outside which stood
those whom their entire silence, more eloquent then than words,
proclaimed to be listeners and spies. Who they were, and what
precisely had brought them there, and with what intent they
waited, we could not tell.
Half a minute - it could not have been more passed thus in
breathless stillness; it was a long half-minute to Zahra and me.
At last we heard a sort of movement taking place in the group
without it seemed as though they first made a step or two for-
wards; then returned again, talking all the while among them-
selves in the same undertone; then slowly moved away towards
the line of tents in front. No further sound was heard: all
was hushed. Zahra and I loosed our hold, and stood looking at
each other. How much had been guessed, how much actually
detected, I could not tell; she however knew.
"Fly, Ahmed," she whispered; "fly! That was the Emeer
himself. They are on the alert: you are almost discovered; in a
few minutes more the alarm will be given throughout the camp.
For your life, fly! "
I stood there like one entranced; the horror of that moment
had numbed me, brain and limb. And how could I go? Her
voice, her face, her presence were, God knows, all on earth to
me. How then could I leave them to save a life valueless to me
without them?
"In God's name," she urged, "haste. Your only hope, brother,
lies in getting away from here quickly and unperceived; in the
darkness you can yet manage it: tell me, how is it outside ? »
"Thick mist," I answered: "it was coming on before I
reached the tent. "


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WILLIAM GIFFORD PALGRAVE
11015
"Thank God!
" she said with a half-sob of relief, and a tone
the like of which I never heard before or after: "that it is
has saved you; that has prevented your companions from being
discovered. Dearest Ahmed," she continued, kissing me in her
earnestness, as you love me, for my sake, for your own sake,
for both of us, fly, it is the only chance left. "
"Fly, Zahra! Zahra, my life! " I answered, almost with a
laugh; "fly, and leave you here behind? Never! "
"As you have any love for me, Ahmed," she replied in a
low, hurried, choking voice; "as you would not expose me to
certain dishonor and death; as you hope ever to meet me again;
-O Ahmed! my brother, my only love! it is their reluctance
alone to shame me by their haste while yet a doubt remains,
that has screened you thus far; but they will return. Alone,
I shall be able to extricate myself; I shall have time and means:
but you-oh, save yourself, my love-save me! "
"Dearest Zahra," replied I, pressing her to my breast, "and
what will you do? "
you
―
-
"Fear not for me," she answered, her eye sparkling as she
spoke. "I am Sheykh Asa'ad's daughter; and all the Emeers in
Arabia, with all Sheyban to aid, cannot detain me a prisoner, or
put force on my will. God lives, and we shall meet again; till
then take and keep this token. " She drew a ring from her fin-
ger, and gave it to me. "By this ring, and God to witness, I am
yours, Ahmed, yours only, yours forever. Now ask no more: fly. "
"One kiss, Zahra. " One-many; she was in tears; then, for-
cing a smile to give me courage,-"Under the protection of
the best Protector," she said, "to Him I commit you in pledge:
Ahmed, brother, love, go in safety. "
What could I do but obey? As I slipped out between the
curtains, I gave one backward look: I saw her face turned to-
wards me, her eye fixed on me with an expression that not even
in death can I forget; it was love stronger than any death. An
instant more, and I was without the tent. That moment the
light within it disappeared.
Hermann dropped his voice, and put his hand up to his face.
As he did so, the moonlight glittered on an emerald, set in a
gold ring, on the little finger. Tantawee looked at it.
"That is the ring, I suppose, Ahmed Beg," he said. "I have
often noticed it before; and she, I hope, will see it yet again one


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11016
WILLIAM GIFFORD PALGRAVE
day, and know it for your sake; so take heart, brother,—perhaps
the day is nearer than you think. "
"She will recognize it on me," answered Hermann in a low
sad voice, "either alive or dead; it will remain with me to the
last, though if there be hope in it, I know not. " Then he added,
"She has no like token from me: I did not then think of offer-
ing any; nor did she ask; there was no need. "
Issuing from the tent, I came at once into the dense mist;
through its pitchy darkness no shape could be discerned at ten
yards of distance. Instinctively, for I was scarcely aware of
my own movements, I crept to where Moharib lay crouched on
the ground, and touched him; he looked up, half rose, and fol-
lowed. Passing Aman and Harith, we roused them too in their
turn; there was no time for question or explanation then; all
knew that something had gone wrong, but no one said a word.
Nor was there yet any sign around us that our attempt had
been perceived; no one seemed to be on the alert or moving.
began almost to hope that the sounds heard while in the tent
might have been imaginary, or at least that suspicion, if awak-
ened, had by this time been quieted again.
But only a few paces before we reached the brink of the
hollow, something dark started up between it and us, and I felt
myself touched by a hand. I leaped to my feet; and while I
did so a blow was aimed at me, I think with a knife. It missed
its intent, but ripped my sleeve open from shoulder to elbow,
and slightly scratched my arm. At the same moment Harith's
sword came down on the head of the figure now close beside me;
it uttered a cry and fell.
Instantly that cry was repeated and echoed on every side, as
if the whole night had burst out at once into voice and fury.
We ran towards the hollow. When on its verge, I turned to
look back a moment; and even through the thick mist could
see the hurry and confusion of dark shapes; while the shout,
"Sheyban! " "Help, Sheyban! " "Help, Rabee'ah! " rose behind,
around, coming nearer and nearer, mixed with the tramp of feet.
"Quick! quick! " exclaimed Harith: we rolled down rather than
descended into the hollow; there stood Ja'ad and Doheym, ready
by the horses, who, conscious of danger, neighed and stamped
violently; but before we could mount and ride, the enemy was
upon us.


## p. 11017 (#229) ##########################################

11017
FREDERIK PALUDAN-MÜLLER
(1809-1876)
BY WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE
MONG the Danish poets who made their appearance in liter-
ature during the closing period of Oehlenschläger's life, and
who carried on the poetical tradition that his half-century
of unremitting activity had so firmly established, Frederik Paludan-
Müller is the most important. A son of the Bishop of Aarhus, he
was born at Kjerteminde, February 7th, 1809 (that annus mirabilis of
literary chronology), and was educated at
Odense and Copenhagen. His life was sin-
gularly uneventful; being, after the flush of
youth was over, almost that of a recluse.
journey of two years abroad, undertaken in
1838-40, upon the occasion of his marriage,
offers the one conspicuous interruption to
the monotonous story of his external career.
The greater part of his life was spent in
Copenhagen, and in his quiet country home
at Fredensborg; and it was at the latter
place that he died, on the 28th of Decem-
ber, 1876.
A

PALUDAN-MÜLLER
What this life, so externally uneventful,
must have been, viewed from within, may
be faintly surmised when we examine the long list of Paludan-
Müller's writings in verse and prose. They include poems of many
sorts, plays and tales; and are astonishing in their variety, their
imaginative exuberance, their free rich fantasy, and the technical
virtuosity of their execution. They move, for the most part, in an
ideal world of the poet's own creation; or rather of his own assimi-
lation from the storehouse of mythology and literary tradition, since
creative power in the highest sense may hardly be accorded him.
The one noteworthy exception to the prevalent and persistent ideal-
ism of his work as a whole is to be found in 'Adam Homo,' the
poem which is usually reckoned his masterpiece. In this work, which
stands about midway in his career, he came down from the clouds in
which his youthful fancy had disported itself, and took a firm grasp


## p. 11018 (#230) ##########################################

11018
FREDERIK PALUDAN-MÜLLER
of the realities of modern society and the every-day world. The
composition of this remarkable poem was, however, little more than
an episode in his activity; and having done with it, his imagination
once more took refuge upon the early higher plane. It is to be noted
however that, Antæus-like, he had gained strength from his contact
with earth; and that the works of the later period are distinguished
from those of the earlier by an even finer idealism, a deeper sense
of spiritual beauty, and a more marked degree of formal excellence.
The works of Paludan-Müller's first period include 'Fire Roman-
zer' (Four Romances); Kjærlighed ved Hoffet' (Love at Court), a
five-act comedy in verse and prose, inspired by Shakespeare and
Gozzi; Dandserinden' (The Dancing Girl), a long poem in eight-line
stanzas; 'Luft og Jord; eller Eventyr i Skoven' (Air and Earth; or
A Forest Tale), a second romantic comedy; and the poems 'Amor
og Psyche, Zuleimas Flugt' (Zuleima's Flight), 'Alf og Rose,' and
(Venus. ' These works were published between 1832 and 1841, and
are characterized by delicate fancy, tender melancholy, a sweetness
that is almost cloying, and an almost Swinburnian mastery of metri-
cal form. They won for the poet a high place in the esteem of his
fellow-countrymen; but their readers were hardly prepared for the
abrupt change in both the manner and the matter of the poet that
was displayed in 'Adam Homo,' the work that next followed.
No European poet of the thirties could hope entirely to escape
from the Byronic influence, and traces of that influence are percepti-
ble in some of the earlier works above mentioned. In reading 'Adam
Homo' (begun in 1841 and completed in 1848), it is impossible not to
think of Byron, and particularly of Don Juan,' nearly all the time.
The work is in ottava rima, and is by far the longest of Paludan-
Müller's poems.
The author set himself the task of showing, says
Dr. Brandes, "how a man of the masses, having neither the best nor
the poorest of endowments, a man from youth up as full of ideal
hopes and resolutions as any of his betters, can so demean himself as
to squander his entire intellectual inheritance, forgetting the prayers
of childhood and the aspirations of youth, and finally wrecking his life
after the fashion of the veriest Philistine. " Adam Homo (how typ-
ical the name! ) enters upon life as a naïve and ardent youth, carry-
ing with him our best sympathies; he develops into a character so
despicable that even the author cannot treat him fairly, and he ends
in the slough of sheer stupidity. The story of his career is a brill-
iant but painful performance, in which episodes of satirical bitterness
alternate with tender and graceful scenes. It is a work of powerful
grasp, of minute ethical observation, and of so deep and subtle an
irony that its readers find it difficult to realize that it can be the
work of the poet of 'Amor og Psyche' and 'Kalanus. '


## p. 11019 (#231) ##########################################

FREDERIK PALUDAN-MÜLLER
11019
The purely poetic genius of the author, thus held in abeyance for
a time, soon reasserted itself in the series of noble works that mark
the closing years of his life. Even the composition of 'Adam Homo'
was interrupted long enough for the production of such ideal works
as Tithon' and 'Abels Död' (The Death of Abel). In 1854 the
splendid powers of the poet, now fully ripened, burst forth in the
drama of 'Kalanus,' which deals with the familiar story of the Indian
mystic who thought to discern in Alexander the Great the reincarna-
tion of Brahma; and who, undeceived, and learning that his deity is
but a man, immolated himself upon a funeral pyre. Other works
dating from the author's later period are the poems 'Ahasuerus,'
'Kain,' 'Pygmalion,' and 'Adonis,' the lyrical drama 'Paradiset,' the
prose play Tiderne Skifte (The Times Change), the prose tale
'Ungdomskilden' (The Fountain of Youth), and the three-volume
novel 'Ivar Lykkes Historie' (The Story of Ivar Lykke). The stand-
ard edition of his poetical writings fills eight volumes, and no other
Danish poet since Oehlenschläger has made so weighty a contribution
to the national literature.
It Payser
HYMN TO THE SUN
From Kalanus
H
AIL to thee in thy uprising bright,
Sun, of all believing souls adored;
Conqueror by thy flaming splendor poured
Over all the darkness of the night.
Welcome, heaven's great watchman, to our sight;
Brahma's servant, to thy master proffer
This our prayer, which here our lips do offer,
And our praise of his eternal might.
Wake the tired heart from slothful sleep
And dispel the shadows of the soul.
As thou dost upon thy pathway roll,
Bear us also upward from the deep.
Be our minds uplifted that they keep
Thee in view, while ever mounting higher
Toward the light to which our souls aspire
From the gloom in which on earth they creep.
Translation of William Morton Payne.


## p. 11020 (#232) ##########################################

11020
FREDERIK PALUDAN-MÜLLER
I
ADAM AND HIS MOTHER
From Adam Homo'>
S IT a dream?
A dream-ah no, for there
She sits, and fondles him with tender hand,
Her gaze revealing all a mother's care,
And all a mother's love, the twofold band
That, aye unbroken, every wrench can bear,
Until the invalid, at length unmanned
By shame and sorrow, yet supremely blest,
Sank, as in boyhood, on that sacred breast.
"Thou here!
and wherefore? " scarcely words are needed
To solve the secret,- for her watchful eye
Each step of his career had closely heeded,
And through his letters clearly could descry,
Veiled though they were, the dangers he should fly;
So, by affection's wings upborne she speeded
From the last rites beside a father's grave,
Her darling's life and soul alike to save.
"But" — thus she stopped his questions with a smile-
"Spend not thy strength in further words, for rest
Is what thou lackest-so sleep on a while "
She smoothed his pillow while she spoke, and pressed
Her lips on his in the old childish style, —
Then left him to fulfill her sweet behest,
And take his way through Dreamland's mazes, folden
In clouds no longer black, but rosy-golden.
O reader, if thou ever hast been near
Destruction's brink, experience must have taught thee,
When Providence from such dread peril caught thee,
How sweet a thing existence is; how dear
The life to which that friendly arm has brought thee
Back from the verge of death; -I need not fear
But thou wilt know the blessedness that lapped
Our hero's spirit, thus in slumber wrapped.
For thine own heart has then all gladly tasted
The fairest fruit of time, when from its grave-
Where earthly elements their booty crave —
The new-born soul once more has upward hasted
To heaven, where its wings so worn and wasted
Fresh in immortal life and beauty wave;
When, bird-like, soaring on replumaged pinions,
It suns itself again in God's dominions.
---


## p. 11021 (#233) ##########################################

FREDERIK PALUDAN-MÜLLER
11021
After earth's bondage, what emancipation!
After earth's midnight, what a glorious morn!
After the agonizing aspiration
Breathed for deliverance, lo! the spirit borne
Above its prison-house to contemplation
Of all the former life it led forlorn!
How poor each earthly pleasure in our eyes,
Contrasted with the new-found Paradise!
And from this Paradise a ray descended.
Now into Adam's heart, as by degrees
It gathered something of the ancient ease,
While from the Tree of Life that o'er him bended-
Bough fair as those the eye of boyhood sees
Ere dimmed by manhood's scales - the fruit extended
Within his grasp he plucked, and found it give
New vigor to his soul, new power to live.
Whole hours beside the window he would sit,
And follow with his gaze along the sky
The clouds that o'er its azure chanced to flit,
Or on the street would mark the passer-by.
The world lay fresh before him, and from it
He drew enjoyment, as in infancy;
If but at night a neighbor's lamp were gleaming,
With childlike interest he watched it beaming.
For all creation now appeared quite other
Than it to him had ever been before;
Men, as of old, were enemies no more,
But taught by love, he saw in each a brother;
Like music from some far celestial shore
Thrilled through his soul the accents of his mother;
Till at their tones the spectres of the past
Fell back, and melted in thin air at last.
He saw each arrow aimed against his weal
Glance harmless by when her embrace was round him,
And that sweet voice of hers would fondly steal
Into his soul, and break the spell that bound him:
So, step by step, the state in which she found him
Changed for the better; he began to feel,
To speak, to act anew, and from their tomb
Youth's blasted hopes commenced again to bloom.


## p. 11022 (#234) ##########################################

11022
FREDERIK PALUDAN-MÜLLER
At day's declining, often arm in arm
They paced the floor, and then the son confessed
Old sins and errors, while the mother pressed
Kind lessons home to him in accents warm.
She plied religion, not to strike alarm
Into his heart, but rather yield him rest;
And only strove to gently heal the spirit
Too long in strange and sickly torpor buried.
But when the lamp was lit at eventide,
Before the harpsichord she sat, and swept
Its keys to songs whose spirit-echoes kept
The listener fettered to the player's side;
Or else their voices would accordant glide
Into sweet childlike duets, strains that wept
And smiled by turns through all their varied plan,-
So thus one night the twofold music ran:—
World! for aye from me depart!
And thy joys to others offer;
Fairer flowers than thou canst proffer
Blossom now within my heart.
All thy roses, beauty-molded,
When I plucked them, faded fast,
And the thorn each leaf enfolded
Into me in torture passed.
Winter overwhelmed my soul;
In its icy grasp I shivered;
Aspen-like I bent and quivered
When I heard its tempests roll.
Then to dust in anguish smitten
Sank the brow I bore so high,-
On it branded, lightning-written,
That dread sentence, "Thou must die. "
Hope renews its blossoms fair,
As the spring-blooms earth are covering,
While the joyous birds are hovering
In the odor-laden air.
At the moment they were praising
All that richest life of May,
I my soul was also raising
From the dust in which it lay


## p. 11023 (#235) ##########################################

FREDERIK PALUDAN-MÜLLER
11023
In solitude how droops the soul!
A branch dissevered from the bole,
And tossed aside to perish;
It is the spirit's vital breath,
In sun and storm, in life and death,
All-clasping love to cherish.
The bees from flower to flower that roam,-
I saw them, when they wandered home,
Construct their cells in union;
The ants beneath the hillocks, too,
Are bound by harmony as true,
And labor in communion.
In heaven's vault I also saw
The stars fulfill eternal law
Accordant with each other;
Not for themselves alone they shine,
But every orb by rule divine
Irradiates his brother.
Be thine that starlike brother-mind!
To God and man thy spirit bind
In earthly joy and sorrow;
Then on His people here below
Will burst ere long in golden glow
His own celestial morrow!
In grove and glen, on hill and lea,
Each blade of grass, each stately tree,
Alike for dew is calling;
No freshness fills the summer air,
No blessed influence is there,
Without the dew-bath falling.
But vapors gather thick and fast,
Until the azure sky at last
In darkness is enshrouded;
Then breaks the tempest in its force,
And lightnings take their lurid course
Athwart the zenith clouded.
O morning prayer, the soul's sweet dew!
Thou canst alone its power renew,
And free it from its sadness;


## p. 11024 (#236) ##########################################

11024
FREDERIK PALUDAN-MÜLLER
Upwafted by our souls on high,
And homewards sent with God's reply,
That breathes celestial gladness.
Then trust no more the joys of earth!
So soon succeeded by the dearth
Of all that cheers and blesses;
Drenched with the dew that heaven bestows,
Will bloom and blossom like a rose
The spirit's wildernesses.
Oft our hopes are doomed to die in sorrow,
Oft our seed-time knows no harvest-morrow,
What the worm has spared the storms destroy;
Vainly looking earthward for assistance,
Man drags on the burden of existence,
Left-how early! by his dream of joy.
Whence, then, comfort in our time of anguish?
Skyward lift the eyes that droop and languish;
God alone gives consolation birth;
Deep in him the well of life is streaming,
Well of blessedness, forever teeming,
Vast enough for heaven and for earth.
Soon shall dawn the festal morn resplendent,
When the fullness of the Lord transcendent
Pours itself in rivers all abroad;
Then shall every fount of joy be springing,
Every soul be hallelujahs singing,
High and lowly, bathed alike in God!
Translation of J. J. , in Colburn's New Monthly Magazine, 1865.


## p. 11025 (#237) ##########################################

11025
EMILIA PARDO-BAZÁN
(1852-)
MONG European defendants and exponents of the modern real-
istic school, Emilia Pardo-Bazán is conspicuous. She is not
only a strong and subtle advocate of the methods of Zola,
Turgénieff, and other French and Russian realists, she is true to
their creed in her own novels to the point of masculinity. As a rule
the disciples of realism are booted and spurred. The quality itself
implies a total absence of feminine evasions of the actual and the
inevitable. There is no hint in it of the oblique vision of gentle
blue eyes.
It is therefore all the more sur-
prising that Señora Pardo-Bazán, a woman,
with veins full of romantic Spanish blood,
should prove a singularly perfect exponent
of her chosen creed.

She was born in 1852, in Coruña, Spain,
of a noble and ancient family. At a very
early age she was brought into friendly
relations with books, by being allowed to
browse at will in her father's library. Her
marriage in 1868 to Don José Quiroga put
an end to her systematic education under
tutors; but she was to receive later the
more liberal education of travel and inde-
pendent study. The political exile of her
father enabled her to travel through France and Italy, perfecting
her knowledge of the French and Italian language and literature.
After her return to Spain, she devoted herself to the study of Ger-
man, and of philosophy and history; thus preparing herself for the
cosmopolitan office of critic, and laying the foundations of the culture
necessary for the novelist. Her artistic creed had not been formu-
lated when she was attracted by the writings of her own country-
men,- Valera, Galdós, and Alarcón. These novelists were realists in
so far as they depicted the life and manners with which they were
most familiar. The idea came to the young Señora that she also
might write a novel which did not require romantic grandiloquence
and lofty flights of the imagination, but merely fidelity to facts.
Shortly after the publication of her first novel, her new-born recogni-
tion of the requirements of realism was enlarged by acquaintance with
XIX-690
EMILIA PARDO-BAZÁN


## p. 11026 (#238) ##########################################

11026
EMILIA PARDO-BAZÁN
In
the works of Balzac, Flaubert, Goncourt, and Daudet. Henceforth her
conceptions of her art were well defined; and she became unwavering
in her obedience to them. Of her novels, The Swan of Vilamorta
is perhaps the most perfect expression of her artistic tenets. It is
difficult to believe that it could have been written by a woman.
its merciless adherence to facts, in its pitiless logic, in its conscien-
tious portrayal of unlovely types of character, it might have come
from the brain of a clever man of the world, turned novelist for
truth's sake. The hero of the book, the Swan, is a young would-be
poet of the sentimental type, who is inclined in the cause of romance
to make love to other men's wives. The tragedy of the book, if the
arid reproduction of ugly happenings can be called tragedy, centres
itself less about the callow hero than about a woman who loves him
with an abandonment of passion,- a schoolmistress of thirty-six, pit-
ted with small-pox, hampered with a deformed child. Until the boy-
poet comes into her life, she is content to teach, that she may provide
this child with comforts. Afterwards all is changed. Her little hoard
of money dwindles away to give dainty suppers to the man she
loves; to keep him in the proper clothes, of which his unappreciative
father deprives him; to enable him to visit a Spanish grandee, to-
wards whose wife he cherishes a Werther-like devotion. Finally she
mortgages her fresh little cottage, and puts her crippled child out
to work, that she may provide him with the funds necessary for the
publication of his poems. These are not only a drug in the market,
but they fail to win for him the love of the grandee's lady, now
a marriageable widow. He sails to America, leaving behind him the
schoolmistress, destitute both of love and money. Neither her ome-
lets, her anisette cordials, nor her little loans, can compel his grati-
tude. She takes poison, and dies.
Pardo-Bazán's other novels-The Angular Stone,' 'A Christian
Woman,' 'Morrina,' 'A Wedding Journey'—are written in the same
uncompromising spirit of faithfulness to the actualities of life. Their
scenes are laid in Spain: their characters are those with which their
author is familiar. Evidences of her imaginative faculty, and of
her capacity for poetry, are not wanting in them; but she keeps her
latent romanticism strictly in check. She continually sacrifices her
sex to her art. The result is worth the sacrifice.
The same qualities which give to her distinction as a novelist,
make of her a luminous and sympathetic critic. Moreover, the reader
finds in her criticisms the charm which is sometimes lacking in her
novels, where the strength has driven out the sweetness. Her work
on 'Russia: Its People and Its Literature' is written with a certain
easy brilliancy, which almost disguises its solid merits. Pardo-Bazán
brings to her critical tasks a rare equipment, philosophical breadth of


## p. 11027 (#239) ##########################################

EMILIA PARDO-BAZÁN
11027
thought, the ability to understand the interdependence of national life
and national literature, the power of feeling the pulse of the times
in the stray novel or poem. In her life of St. Francis of Assisi she
studies the age which produced him, after the manner of the mod-
ern biographer. Whatever the nature of her work, whether history,
biography, or pure criticism, she is always conscious of that ethereal
atmosphere about persons and things, those emanations from a mill-
ion lives, which collectively are called the time-spirit. Her defense
of realism, in her essay The Burning Question,' springs as much
from her intuition concerning the nature of the zeitgeist as from her
intellectual appreciation of the reasonableness of the realistic school.
Aside from the worth of her contribution to the literature of mod-
ern Europe, Emilia Pardo-Bazán merits distinction as being a Spanish
woman who has demonstrated to her countrymen, in the face of na-
tional tradition, the most significant fact uncovered in this century,-
the power of women to learn, to understand, and to create.
THE REIGN OF TERROR
From Russia: Its People and Its Literature.
McClurg & Co.
-
Copyright 1890, by A. C.
THE
HE reign of terror was short but tragic. We have seen
that the active Nihilists were a few hundred inexperienced
youths without position or social influence, armed only with
leaflets and tracts. This handful of boys furiously threw down
the gauntlet of defiance at the government, when they saw them-
selves pursued. Resolved to risk their heads (and with such sin-
cerity that almost all the associates who bound themselves to
execute what they called "the people's will" have died in prison
or on the scaffold), they adopted as their watchword "man for
man. " When the sanguinary reprisals fell upon Russia from one
end to the other, the frightened people imagined an immense
army of terrorists-rich, strong, and in command of untold re-
sources covering the empire. In reality, the twenty offenses
committed from 1878 to 1882, the mines discovered under the two
capitals, the explosions in the station at Moscow and in the pal-
ace at St. Petersburg, the many assassinations, and the marvelous
organization which could get them performed with circumstances
so dramatic, and create a mysterious terror against which the
power of the government was broken in pieces, all this was
the work of a few dozens of men and women seemingly endowed
_______


## p. 11028 (#240) ##########################################

11028
EMILIA PARDO-BAZÁN
with ubiquitousness, so rapid and unceasing their journeys, and
so varied the disguises, names, and stratagems they made use of
to bewilder and confound the police. It was whispered that mill-
ions of money were sent in from abroad; that there were mem-
bers of the Czar's family implicated in the conspiracy; that there
was an unknown chief, living in a distant country, who managed
the threads of a terrible executive committee, which passed judg-
ment in the dark, and whose decrees were carried out instantly.
Yet there were only a few enthusiastic students,- a few young
girls ready to perform any service, like the heroine of Turgé-
nieff's 'Shadows'; a few thousand rubles, each contributing his
share; and after all, a handful of determined people, who, to use
the words of Leroy-Beaulieu, had made a covenant with death.
For a strong will, like intelligence or inspiration, is the patrimony
of a few; and so, just as ten or twelve artist heads can modify
the æsthetic tendency of an age, six or eight intrepid conspira-
tors are enough to stir up an immense empire.