No More Learning

« Thirteen ! ” she laughed, too, but her eyes flashed.
« You are bidding against a niggah,” whispered the student's
companion in his ear.
«So I am; let's be off," answered the other, with a hot flush
on his proud face.
Thus the sale was ended, and the crowd variously dispersed.
In a distant corner of the courtyard the ragged urchins were
devouring their unexpected booty. The old negress drew a red
handkerchief out of her bosom, untied a knot in a corner of it,
and counted out the money to the sheriff. Only she and the
vagrant were now left on the spot.
« You have bought me. What do you want me to do? ” he
asked quietly.
“Lohd, honey! ” she answered, in a low tone of affectionate
chiding, "I don'wan' you to do nothin'! I wuzn' gwine t' 'low
dem white folks to buy you. Dey'd wuk you till you dropped
dead. You go 'long en do ez you please. ”
a cunning chuckle of triumph in thus setting at
naught the ends of justice, and in a voice rich and musical
with affection, she said, as she gave him a little push:-
“You bettah be gittin' out o' dis blazin' sun. G' on home! I
be 'long by-en-by. ”
He turned and moved slowly away in the direction of Water
Street, where she lived; and she, taking up her basket, shuffled
across the market place toward Cheapside, muttering to herself
the while:-
"I come mighty nigh gittin' dar too late, foolin' 'long wid
dese pies. Sellin' him 'ca'se he don' wuk! Umph! if all de men
in dis town dat don' wuk wuz to be tuk up en sole, d' wouldn'
be 'nough money in de town to buy em! Don' I see 'em settin'
'roun' dese taverns f'om mohnin' till night ? ”
She gave


## p. 426 (#460) ############################################

426
JAMES LANE ALLEN
Nature soon smiles upon her own ravages and strews our
graves with flowers, not as memories, but for other flowers when
the spring returns.
It was one cool, brilliant morning late in that autumn. The
air blew fresh and invigorating, as though on the earth there
were no corruption, no death. Far southward had flown the
plague. A spectator in the open court square might have seen
many signs of life returning to the town. Students hurried
along, talking eagerly. Merchants met for the first time and
spoke of the winter trade. An old negress, gayly and neatly
dressed, came into the market place, and sitting down on a side-
walk displayed her yellow and red apples and fragrant ginger-
bread. She hummed to herself an old cradle-song, and in
her soft, motherly black eyes shone a mild, happy radiance. A
group of young ragamuffins eyed her longingly from a distance.
Court was to open for the first time since the spring. The
hour was early, and one by one the lawyers passed slowly in.
On the steps of the court-house three men were standing:
Thomas Brown, the sheriff; old Peter Leuba, who had just
walked over from his music store on Main Street; and little
M. Giron, the French confectioner. Each wore mourning on his
hat, and their voices were low and grave.
«Gentlemen,” the sheriff was saying, “it was on this very
spot the day befoah the cholera broke out that I sole 'im as a
An' I did the meanes' thing a man can evah do. I
hel' 'im up to public ridicule foh his weakness an' made spoht
of 'is infirmities. I laughed at 'is povahty an' 'is ole clo'es. I
delivahed on 'im as complete an oration of sarcastic detraction
as I could prepare on the spot, out of my own meanness an'
with the vulgah sympathies of the crowd. Gentlemen, if I only
had that crowd heah now, an' ole King Sol'mon standin' in the
midst of it, that I might ask 'im to accept a humble public
apology, offahed from the heaht of one who feels himself un-
worthy to shake 'is han'! But gentlemen, that crowd will nevah
reassemble. Neahly ev'ry man of them is dead, an' ole King
Sol'mon buried them. ”
« He buried my friend Adolphe Xaupi,” said François Giron,
touching his eyes with his handkerchief.
“There is a case of my best Jamaica rum for him whenever
he comes for it,” said old Leuba, clearing his throat.
“But, gentlemen, while we are speakin' of ole King Sol'mon
vagrant.


## p. 427 (#461) ############################################

JAMES LANE ALLEN
427
on
we ought not to forget who it is that has suppohted 'im. Yon-
dah she sits on the sidewalk, sellin' 'er apples an' gingerbread. ”
The three men looked in the direction indicated.
“Heah comes ole King Sol'mon now,” exclaimed the sheriff.
Across the open square the vagrant was seen walking slowly
along with his habitual air of quiet, unobtrusive preoccupation.
A minute more and he had come over and passed into the court-
house by a side door.
"Is Mr. Clay to be in court to-day? ”
“He is expected, I think. ”
“Then let's go in: there will be a crowd. ”
“I don't know: so many are dead. ”
They turned and entered and found seats as quietly as pos-
sible; for a strange and sorrowful hush brooded over the court-
room. Until the bar assembled, it had not been realized how
many were gone.
The silence was that of a common over-
whelming disaster. No one spoke with his neighbor; no one
observed the vagrant as he entered and made his way to a seat
one of the meanest benches, a little apart from the others.
He had not sat there since the day of his indictment for
vagrancy. The judge took his seat, and making a great effort
to control himself, passed his eyes slowly over the court-room.
All at once he caught sight of old King Solomon sitting against
the wall in an obscure corner; and before any one could know
what he was doing, he had hurried down and walked up to the
vagrant and grasped his hand. He tried to speak, but could not.
Old King Solomon had buried his wife and daughter, - buried
them one clouded midnight, with no one present but himself.
Then the oldest member of the bar started up and followed
the example; and then the other members, rising by a common
impulse, filed slowly back and one by one wrung that hard and
powerful hand. After them came the other persons in the court-
room. The vagrant, t12 gravedigger, had risen and stood
against the wall, at first with a white face and a dazed express-
ion, not knowing what it meant; afterwards, when he under-
stood it, his head dropped suddenly forward and his tears fell
thick and hot upon the hands that he could not see. And his
were not the only tears. Not a man in the long file but paid
his tribute of emotion as he stepped forward to honor that
image of sadly eclipsed but still effulgent humanity. It was not
grief, it was not gratitude, nor any sense of making reparation


## p. 428 (#462) ############################################

428
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
for the past. It was the softening influence of an act of hero-
ism, which makes every man feel himself a brother hand in
hand with every other;— such power has a single act of moral
greatness to reverse the relations of men, lifting up one, and
bringing all others to do him homage.
It was the coronation scene in the life of Ole King Solo-
mon of Kentucky.
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
(1828-1889)
ACH form of verse has, in addition to its laws of structure, a
subtle quality as difficult to define as the perfume of a
flower. The poem, An Evening,' given below, may be
classified both as a song and as a lyric; yet it needs no music other
than its own rhythms, and the full close to each verse which falls
upon the ear like a soft and final chord ending a musical composi-
tion. A light touch and a feeling for shades of meaning are required
to execute such dainty verse. In (St. Margaret's Eve,' and in many
other ballads, Allingham expresses the broader, more dramatic sweep
of the ballad, and reveals his Celtic ancestry.
The lovable Irishman, William Allingham, worked hard to enter
the brotherhood of poets. When he was only fourteen his father
took him from school to become clerk in the town bank of which he
himself was manager. «The books which he had to keep for the
next seven years were not those on which his heart was set,” says
Mr. George Birkbeck Hill. But this fortune is almost an inevitable
part, and probably not the worst part, of the training for a literary
vocation; and he justified his ambitions by pluckily studying alone
till he had mastered Greek, Latin, French, and Germån.
Mr. Hill, in his Letters of D. G. Rossetti? (Atlantic Monthly,
May, 1896), thus quotes Allingham's own delightful description of his
early home at Ballyshannon, County Donegal:-
(The little old town where I was born has a voice of its own, low, solemn,
persistent, humming through the air day and night, summer and winter.
Whenever I think of that town I seem to hear the voice. The river which
makes it rolls over rocky ledges into the tide. Before spreads a great ocean in
sunshine or storm; behind stretches a many-islanded lake. On the south runs
a wavy line of blue mountains; and on the north, over green rocky hills rise
peaks of a more distant range. The trees hide in glens or cluster near the
river; gray rocks and bowlders lie scattered about the windy pastures. The


## p. 429 (#463) ############################################

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
429
sky arches wide over all, giving room to multitudes of stars by night, and
long processions of clouds blown from the sea; but also, in the childish mem-
ory where these pictures live, to deeps of celestial blue in the endless days of
summer. An odd, out-of-the-way little town, ours, on the extreme western
edge of Europe; our next neighbors, sunset way, being citizens of the great
new republic, which indeed, to our imagination, seemed little if at all farther
off than England in the opposite direction. ”
of the cottage in which he spent most of his childhood and
youth he writes:-
«Opposite the hall door a good-sized walnut-tree leaned its wrinkled stem
towards the house, and brushed some of the second-story panes with its
broad, fragrant leaves. To sit at that little upper window when it was open to
a summer twilight, and the great tree rustled gently, and sent one leafy spray
so far that it even touched my face, was an enchantment beyond all telling.
Killarney, Switzerland, Venice, could not, in later life, come near it. On three
sides the cottage looked on flowers and branches, which I count as one of the
fortunate chances of my childhood; the sense of natural beauty thus receiving
its due share of nourishment, and of a kind suitable to those early years. ”
At last a position in the Customs presented itself:-
«In the spring of 1846 I gladly took leave forever of discount ledgers
and current accounts, and went to Belfast for two months' instruction in the
duties of Principal Coast Officer of Customs; a tolerably well-sounding title,
but which carried' with it a salary of but £80 a year. I trudged daily about
the docks and timber-yards, learning to measure logs, piles of planks, and,
more troublesome, ships for tonnage; indoors, part of the time practiced cus-
toms book-keeping, and talked to the clerks about literature and poetry in a
way that excited some astonishment, but on the whole, as I found at parting,
a certain degree of curiosity and respect. I preached Tennyson to them.
My spare time was mostly spent in reading and haunting booksellers' shops
where, I venture to say, I laid out a good deal more than most people, in pro-
portion to my income, and managed to get glimpses of many books which I
could not afford or did not care to buy. I enjoyed my new position, on the
whole, without analysis, as a great improvement on the bank; and for the
rest, my inner mind was brimful of love and poetry, and usually all external
things appeared trivial save in their relation to it. ”
Of Allingham's early song-writing, his friend Arthur Hughes
says:-
« Rossetti, and I think Allingham himself, told me, in the early days of our
acquaintance, how in remote Ballyshannon, where he was a clerk in the Cus-
toms, in evening walks he would hear the Irish girls at their cottage doors
singing old ballads, which he would pick up. If they were broken or incom-
plete, he would add to them or finish them; if they were improper he would
refine them. He could not get them sung till he got the Dublin Catnach of
that day to print them, on long strips of blue paper, like old songs, and if
about the sea, with the old rough woodcut of a ship on the top. He either


## p. 430 (#464) ############################################

430
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
gave them away or they were sold in the neighborhood. Then, in his evening
walks, he had at last the pleasure of hearing some of his own ballads sung at
the cottage doors by the blooming lasses, who were quite unaware that it was
the author who was passing by. ”
In 1850 Allingham published a small volume of lyrics whose fresh-
ness and delicacy seemed to announce a new singer, and four years
later his Day and Night Songs' strengthened this impression.
Stationed as revenue officer in various parts of England, he wrote
much verse, and published also the “The Rambles of Patricius Walker,'
a collection of essays upon his walks through England; Lawrence
Bloomfield in Ireland, the tale of a young landlord's efforts to
improve the condition of his tenantry; an anthology, Nightingale
Valley' (1862), and an excellent collection of English ballads, "The
Ballad Book) (1865).
In 1870 he gladly embraced an opportunity to leave the Customs
for the position of assistant editor of Fraser's Magazine under Froude,
whom he afterward succeeded as editor. He was now a member of
a brilliant literary circle, knew Tennyson, Ruskin, and Carlyle, and
was admitted into the warm friendship of the Pre-Raphaelites. But
in no way does he reflect the Pre-Raphaelite spirit by which he was
surrounded; nor does he write his lyrics in the metres and rhythms
of mediæval France. He is as oblivious of rondeaux, ballades, and
roundels, as he is of fair damosels with cygnet necks and full pome-
granate lips. He is a child of nature, whose verse is free from all
artificial inspiration or expression, and seems to flow easily, clearly,
and tenderly from his pen. Some of it errs in being too fanciful.
In the Flower-Songs, indeed, he sometimes becomes trivial in his
comparison of each English poet to a special flower; but his poetry
is usually sincere with an undercurrent of pathos, as in “The Ruined
Chapel,' 'The Winter Pear, and the Song. ' For lightness of touch
and aerial grace, 'The Bubble) will bear comparison with any verse
of its own genre.
(Robin Redbreast has many delightful lines; and
in "The Fairies' one is taken into the realm of Celtic folklore, which
is Allingham's inheritance, where the Brownies, the Pixies, and the
Leprechauns trip over the dew-spangled meadows, or dance on the
yellow sands, and then vanish away in fantastic mists. Quite differ-
ent is Lovely Mary Donnelly, which is a sample of the popular songs
that made him a favorite in his own country.
After his death at Hampstead in 1889, his body was cremated
according to his wish, when these lines of his own were read:
Body to purifying flame,
Soul to the Great Deep whence it came,
Leaving a song on earth below,
An urn of ashes white as snow. ”


## p. 431 (#465) ############################################

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
431
THE RUINED CHAPEL
B ,
Y THE shore, a plot of ground
Clips a ruined chapel round,
Buttressed with a grassy mound;
Where Day and Night and Day go by
And bring no touch of human sound.
Washing of the lonely seas,
Shaking of the guardian trees,
Piping of the salted breeze;
Day and Night and Day go by
To the endless tune of these.
Or when, as winds and waters keep
A hush more dead than any sleep,
Still morns to stiller evenings creep,
And Day and Night and Day go by;
Here the silence is most deep.
The empty ruins, lapsed again
Into Nature's wide domain,
Sow themselves with seed and grain
As Day and Night and Day go by;
And hoard June's sun and April's rain.
Here fresh funeral tears were shed;
Now the graves are also dead;
And suckers from the ash-tree spread,
While Day and Night and Day go by;
And stars move calmly overhead.
From Day and Night Songs. "
THE WINTER PEAR
IS
S ALWAYS Age severe?
Is never Youth austere ?
Spring-fruits are sour to eat;
Autumn's the mellow time.
Nay, very late in the year,
Short day and frosty rime,
Thought, like a winter pear,
Stone-cold in summer's prime,
May turn from harsh to sweet.
From Ballads and Songs. .


## p. 432 (#466) ############################################

432
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
SONG
O
SPIRIT of the Summer-time!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.
Bring back the friendship of the sun;
The gilded evenings calm and late,
When weary children homeward run,
And peeping stars bid lovers wait.
Bring back the singing; and the scent
Of meadow-lands at dewy prime;
Oh, bring again my heart's content,
Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!
From Day and Night Songs. >
THE BUBBLE
SEF
EE the pretty planet!
Floating sphere!
Faintest breeze will fan it
Far or near;
World as light as feather;
Moonshine rays,
Rainbow tints together,
As it plays.
Drooping, sinking, failing,
Nigh to earth,
Mounting, whirling, sailing,
Full of mirth;
Life there, welling, flowing,
Waving round;
Pictures coming, going,
Without sound.
Quick now, be this airy
Globe repelled!
Never can the fairy
Star be held.
Touched - it in a twinkle
Disappears!
Leaving but a sprinkle,
As of tears.
From (Ballads and Songs,


## p. 433 (#467) ############################################

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
433
ST. MARGARET'S EVE
I
BUILT my castle upon the seaside,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
Half on the land and half in the tide,
Love me true!
Within was silk, without was stone,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
It lacks a queen, and that alone,
Love me true!
The gray old harper sang to me,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
«Beware of the Damsel of the Sea ! »
Love me true!
Saint Margaret's Eve it did befall,
The waves roll so gayly O,
The tide came creeping up the wall,
Love me true!
I opened my gate; who there should stand-
The waves roll so gayly 0,
But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand,
Love me true!
The cup was gold, and full of wine,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
“Drink,” said the lady, “and I will be thine,»
Love me true!
“Enter my castle, lady fair,”
The waves roll so gayly O,
« You shall be queen of all that's there,
Love me true!
A gray old harper sang to me,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
« Beware of the Damsel of the Sea! ”
Love me true!
In hall he harpeth many a year,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
And we will sit his song to hear,
Love me true!
1-28


## p. 434 (#468) ############################################

434
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
“I love thee deep, I love thee true,"
The waves roll so gayly 0,
«But ah! I know not how to woo,”
Love me true!
Down dashed the cup, with a sudden shock,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
The wine like blood ran over the rock,
Love me true!
She said no word, but shrieked aloud,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
And vanished away from where she stood,
Love me true!
I locked and barred my castle door,
The waves roll so gayly 0,
Three summer days I grieved sore,
Love me true!
For myself a day, a night,
The waves roll so gayly O,
And two to moan that lady bright,
Love me true!
From (Ballads and Songs.
THE FAIRIES
(A CHILD'S SONG)
U
P THE airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men:
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some have made their home;
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow-tide foam.
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.


## p. 435 (#469) ############################################

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
435
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Sliveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay northern lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag leaves
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall feel their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a hunting
For fear of little men:
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
From "Ballads and Songs.


## p. 436 (#470) ############################################

436
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
ROBIN REDBREAST
(A Child's SONG)
G
OOD-BY, good-by, to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away -
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear!
And welaway!
my Robin,
For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house.
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
Oh, Robin, dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
From Ballads and Songs.


## p. 437 (#471) ############################################

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
437
AN EVENING
A
SUNSET's mounded cloud;
A diamond evening-star;
Sad blue hills afar:
Love in his shroud.
Scarcely a tear to shed;
Hardly a word to say:
The end of a summer's day;
Sweet Love is dead.
From Day and Night Songs. )
DAFFODIL
G
OLD tassel upon March's bugle-horn,
Whose blithe reveille blows from hill to hill
And every valley rings - 0 Daffodil!
What promise for the season newly born ?
Shall wave on wave of flow'rs, full tide of corn,
O'erflow the world, then fruited Autumn fill
Hedgerow and garth? Shall tempest, blight, or chill
Turn all felicity to scathe and scorn ?
Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring
Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird
Of evil augury is seen or heard :
Come now, like Pan's old crew, we'll dance and sing,
Or Oberon's: for hill and valley ring
To March's bugle-horn, - Earth's blood is stirred.
From (Flower Pieces. '
LOVELY MARY DONNELLY
(To an Irish Tune)
O
LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!
If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest.
Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,
How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many
a shock.
Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower,
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.


## p. 438 (#472) ############################################

438
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up:
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup;
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine,
It's rolling down upon her neck and gathered in a twine.
The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all before;
No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor;
But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but she was gay!
She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,
The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet;
The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,
But blessed himself he wasn't deaf, when once her voice she
raised.
And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your
hands,
And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.
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. '


## p. 439 (#473) ############################################

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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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.


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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.