Section 46 of Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 1. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Ken Sterry. Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 1. Section 46. Selected Poems by William Allingham. 1828-1889 Each 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 and 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 closed each verse which falls upon the ear like a soft and final chord ending a musical composition. 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 a 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 literary vocation. And he justified his ambitions by pluckily studying alone till he had mastered Greek, Latin, French, and German. 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 Ballishannon, 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 and 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 and glens or cluster near the river. Gray rocks and boulders lie scattered about the windy pastures. The sky arches wide overall, giving room to multitudes of stars by night, and long processions of clouds blown from the sea. But also, in the childish memory 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 neighbor's 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 in 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. Kalarney, 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 eighty pounds 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 customs bookkeeping, 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 proportion 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 songwriting, his friend Arthur Hughes says, Resetti, and I think Allingham himself, told me, in the early days of our acquaintance, how in remote ballet shannon, where he was a clerk in the customs, in evening walks he would hear the Irish girls at their cottage door singing old ballads which he would pick up. If they were broken or incomplete, 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 Knoch 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 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 freshness and delicacy seemed to announce a new singer, and four years later, his day and night songs strengthened this impression. Stationed as a revenue officer in various parts of England, he wrote much verse, and published also 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 tenetry, 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 Frude, whom he afterwards succeeded as editor. He was now a member of a brilliant literary circle, New Tennyson, Ruskin, and Carlisle, 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 meters and rhythm of medieval France. He is as oblivious of Rondeau, ballads, and roundels as he is of fair damsels, with signet necks, and full pomegranate 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 airs 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 different 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. The Ruined Chapel from Day and Night Songs By 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 mourns to stiller evening's 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. The Winter Pair from Ballads and Songs Is 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 rhyme, thought like a winter pair, stone cold in summer's prime, may turn from harsh to sweet. Song from Day and Night Songs O spirit of the summer time, bring back the roses to the dells, the swallow from her distant climb, the honeybee 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 metal lands at dewy prime, O bring again my heart's content, thou spirit of the summer time. The Bubble from Ballads and Songs 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. St. Margaret's Eve From Ballads and Songs Half on the land and half in the tide, love me true. Within was silk, without was stone, the waves roll so gaily-o, it lacks a queen and that alone. Love me true. The gray old Harper sang to me, the waves roll so gaily-o, beware the damsel of the sea, love me true. St. Margaret's Eve it did befall, the waves roll so gaily-o, the tide came creeping up the wall, love me true. I opened my gate, who there should stand, the waves roll so gaily-o, 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 gaily-o, drink, said the lady, and I will be thine, love me true. Enter my castle, Lady Fair, the waves roll so gaily-o, you shall be queen of all that's there, love me true. A gray old Harper sang to me, the waves roll so gaily-o, beware the damsel of the sea, love me true. In Hall he harpeth many a year, the waves roll so gaily-o, and we will sit his song to hear, love me true. I love thee deep, I love thee true, the waves roll so gaily-o, but ah, I know not how to woo, love me true. Down dashed the cup with sudden shock, the waves roll so gaily-o, the wine like blood ran over the rock, love me true. She said no word, but shrieked aloud, the waves roll so gaily-o, and vanished away from where she stood, love me true. I locked and barred my castle door, the waves roll so gaily-o, three summer days I grieved soar, love me true. For myself a day and night, the waves roll so gaily-o, and two to moan that lady bright, love me true. The fairies, a child song, from ballads and songs. Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we daren't go a-hunting, for fear of little men. We 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 watchdogs, all night awake. High on the hilltop, the old king sits. He is now so old and gray, he's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist, column kill he crosses, on his stately journeys from Slive League to Rosses.  They stole little Bridget for seven years long. When she came down again, her friends were all gone. They were 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. In the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we dare not go hunting for fear of little men. We folk, good folk, trooping all together, green jacket, red cap, and white owl's feather. Robin Redbreast, a child's song, from ballads and songs. Good-bye, good-bye, to summer, for summer's nearly done. The gardens smiling faintly, cool breezes in the sun. Our thrushes now are silent, our swallows flown away.  Robin, Robin, Redbreast, oh, Robin dear! Robin's 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 bow. It's autumn, autumn, autumn late, twill soon be winter now. Robin, Robin, Redbreast, oh, Robin dear! And well away, my Robin, for pinching times are near. The fireside for the cricket, the wheat-stack 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. An evening from day and night songs, sunsets mounted 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. Daffodil from Flower Pieces Gold tassel upon March's bugle horn, whose blithe revelry blows from hill to hill, and every valley rings. Oh, Daffodil! What promise for the season newly born? Shall wave on wave of flowers, full tide of corn, or flow the world, then fruited autumn fill hedgerow and garth? Shall tempest, blight, or chill, turn all felicity to scathe and scorn? Tan terara, the 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, will dance and sing, or Oberon's, for hill and valley ring to March's bugle horn. Earth's blood is stirred. Lovely Mary Donnelly to an Irish tune from Ballads and Songs Oh 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 Rowan's warm and sunshine, and wetted with a shower, could narexpress the charming lip that has me in its power. 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 rollin' down upon her neck and gathered in a twine. The dance-o last-wit Monday night exceeded all before. No pretty girls from miles about was missin' 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 dance-in, 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 was raised. And evermore I'm whistlein' or liltin' what you sung. Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue. But you've as many sweethearts as you could count on both their hands, and for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower of womankind and 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, we might live together in a cottage mean and small, with sighs of grass the only roof and mud the only wall. Oh, lovely Mary, donnelly, your beauty's my distress. It's far too beautyous to me, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor but low. But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go. Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 1 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bill Cisna. Library of the World's Best Literature, Ancient and Modern, Volume 1. Section 47. Selected Works by Karl-Junis Lüwe Amkvist, 1793-1866 Amkvist, one of the most versatile writers of Sweden, was a man of strange contrasts, a genius as uncertain as a will of the wisp. His contemporary, the famous poet and critic Atterbaum writes, What did the great poets of pastimes possess which upheld them even under the bitterest worldly circumstances? Two things. One, a strong and conscientious will. The other, a single, not double, much less manifold, determination 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 worthwhile to fight. For this they even thought it worthwhile to suffer. Without finding the suffering in itself strange, or calling earth to witness thereof. The writer of Tunaralsen's book, 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. Amkvist 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 Farmland, where they intended to return to a primitive life close to the heart of nature. He called this colony a, quote, man's home association, end quote, and ordained that in the primeval forest the members should live in turf-covered huts where homespun, eat porridge with a wooden spoon, and enact the ancient freeholder. The experiment was not successful. He tired of the manual work and returning to Stockholm became master of the new elementary school and began to write textbooks and educational works. His publication of a number of epics, dramas, lyrics, and romances made him suddenly famous. Viewed as a whole, this collection is generally called The Book of the Rose, but at times an erinda hind astray dear. Of this, the two dramas, Senora Luna and Ramedo Marinesco, contain some of the pearls of Swedish literature. On even in the plan and execution, they are yet masterly in dialogue, and their dramatic and tragic force is great. Amkvist's imagination showed itself as individual as it is fantastic. Following from a man hitherto known as the writer of textbooks and the advocate of popular social ideas, the volumes aroused extraordinary interest. The author revealed himself as akin to Novalis and Victor Hugo, with the power of language like that of Atterbaum and a richness of color resembling ten years. Atterbaum himself wrote of Tom Rosenbach that it was a work whose, quote, faults were exceedingly easy to overlook and whose beauties exceedingly difficult to match, end quote. After this appeared in Rapid Succession and written with equal ease, lyrical, dramatic, educational, poetical, aesthetical, philosophical, moral, and religious treatises, as well as lectures and studies in history and law. For Amkvist now gave all his time to literary labors. His novel showed socialistic sympathies, and he put forth newspaper 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 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 disappeared 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, that gore on, in English, It's All Right, a forerunner of the problem novel of the day. It is an attack upon conventional marriage, and pictures the helplessness 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 Arminta May, Chal Nora Quine, or Scal Norris Mill, Grimstamon's Nebugga, or Grimstamon's Settlement. His ittle cabelet, the chapel, is wonderfully true to nature, and his novel Palazzo, The Palace, is rich in humor and true poetry. His literary fame will probably rest on his romances, which are the best of their kind in Swedish literature. Characteristics of cattle Anyone 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 joyful 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 looking, 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 naive 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 dignified, steady, conventional, and middle-aged. That is to say, neither youthful nor stricken in years.  But which will you 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 gays us into space with a most sensible expression. 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 confessed that she possesses not a single trait of grace, not a particle of vivacity, and none of that quick characteristic retreating 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 lowering of cattle 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 authoritatively announces himself as if nobody else had any right to udder a syllable in his presence. A New Undean from the Book of the Rose Miss Rudensgold and her companion sat in one of the pews in the cheerful church at Normallum, 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. Azuras did not speak a single word, neither did she sing, for she did not know a whole hymn through, nor did Miss Rudensgold sing, because it was not her custom to sing in church. During the organ solo, however, Miss Rudensgold ventured 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 looking ahead with large almost motionless eyes, as people stare without looking at anything in particular, she changed her subject. At one of the organ tones, which finished a cadence, Azuras 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. Everything indescribable, very sad, shone in her eyes, and made them almost black. And with a childlike look at Miss Rudensgold, she asked, tell me what that large painting over there represents? The Altarpiece. Don't you know? The Altarpiece in Clara is one of the most beautiful we possess. What is going on there? asked Azuras. Miss Rudensgold gave her a side glance. She did not know that her neighbor in the pew was a girl without baptism, without Christianity, without the slightest knowledge of holy religion, a heathen, and knew less than a heathen, for such a one has his teachings, although they are not Christian. Miss Rudensgold 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 Azuras to herself with wondering eyes? Yes, I believe that. It must be so.  Miss Rudensgold 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 altarpiece. For all the persons who are human beings, like ourselves, 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 Rudensgold took leave of her, went out of the church and over the churchyard to the eastern gate, which faces Odin's lane. The girl, meanwhile, stayed inside, came to a corner in the organ stairs, saw people go out little by little, remained unobserved, and finally heard the sexton and the churchkeeper go away. When the last door was closed, Azuras 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 customs, 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 churchgoing was not practiced much during this time. No wonder, then, that a child who was not a member of any religious body, and who 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 feeling 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 alter railing. 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 thought 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 remembered that when she had seen so many gathered here, two ministers' investments had moved about inside of the railing, and had offered the kneeling worshippers 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. 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 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. Porazurus, she whispered low to herself. She wept much. There was no one who said, Porazurus 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 forward, 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, Azurus 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. God's war. His mighty weapon drawing God smites the world he loves. Thus worthy of him growing, she his reflection proves. God's warlight 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 peeling, in Kindle's life's deep flame water clear up welleth, flowing unto its goal, God's grand cross standing telleth his truth unto the soul. Sing God's war, earth that shakes, sing sing the peace he makes. This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Library of the World's Best Literature Ancient and Modern, Volume 1. Section 48. Selected works by Johanna Ambrosius. Johanna Ambrosius 1854-1939. Before the year 1895, the name of the German peasant Johanna Ambrosius was hardly known even within her own country. Now, her melodious verse has made her one of the most popular writers in Germany. Her genius found its way from the humble farm in eastern Prussia where she worked in the field beside her husband to the very heart of the great literary circles. She was born in Lengveten, a parish village in eastern Prussia on the 3rd of August, 1854. She received only the commonest education and every day was filled with the courses toil. But her mind and soul were uplifted by the gift of poetry, to which she gave voice in her rare moments of leisure.  Her work became known by the first chance. She sent a poem to a German weekly where it attracted the attention of a Viennese gentleman, Dr. Schratental, who collected her verses and sent the little volume into the world with a preface by himself. This work has already gone through twenty-six editions. The short sketch cited, written some years ago, is the only prose of hers that has been published. The distinguishing characteristics of the poetry of this singularly human are the deep, almost painfully intense earnestness pervading its every line, the fine sense of harmony and rhythmic felicity attending the comparatively few attempts she has thus far made, and her tender touch when dwelling upon themes of the heart and home, when cannot predict what her success will be when she attempts more ambitious flights, but thus far she seems to have probed the aesthetic heart of Germany to its center.  The first snow of the year speaks both of joy and sadness. It is so comfortable to sit in a warm room and watch the falling flakes eternally pure and lovely. There are neither flowers nor birds about to make you see and hear the beautiful great world. Now, the busy peasant has time to read the stories in his calendar. And I, too, stopped my spinning wheel, the holy Christ child's gift on my thirteenth birthday, to fold my hands and to look through the calendar of my thoughts. I did not hear a knock at the door, but a little man came in with a cordial, good morning, little sister. I knew him well enough that we were not acquaintances. Half familiar, half strange, this little time-worn figure looked. His queer face seemed stamp out of rubber.  But his address surprised me, for we were not in the least related. I shook his horny hand, responding, hearty thanks, little brother.  It is easier talking when there are two, for the third is always in the way. The old man amused me immensely. I sat down on the bench beside him and asked after his wife and family. Thanks, thanks, he nodded, all well and happy except our nestling ille. She leaves home to eat her bread as a dressmaker in bee. And the other children, where are they? Flown away long ago. Do you suppose, little sister, to keep all fifteen at home like so many cabbages in a single bed? Fifteen children. Almost triumphantly, little brother watched me. I owned almost as many brothers and sisters myself, and fifteen children were no marvel to me. So I asked if you were a grandfather too. Of course, he answered gravely. But I am going to tell you how I came by fifteen children. You know how we peasant folk give house and land to the eldest son, and only a few coppers to the youngest children. A bad custom that leads to quarrels and ends sometimes in murder. Fathers and mothers can't bring themselves to part with the property, and so they live with the eldest son who doles out food and shelter and gets the farm in the end. So, in time, a family has some rich members and more poppers. Now, we'd better sell the land and let the children share alike, but then that way breaks the states too.  I didn't know anything but field work.  So I had to look about for a family where a son was needed.  When you go courting among us, you pretend to mean to buy a horse, that's the fashion. With us, a lie doesn't wear French rouge. The parents of Mariana, that was her name, made me welcome. Brown Bess was brought from the stable and her neck, legs and teeth examined. I showed my willingness to buy her which meant as much to say, your daughter pleases me. As proud as you please I walked through the buildings, everything in plenty all right, not a nail wanting on the harrow, not a cord missing from the harness. This strutted. I saw myself master and I was tickled to death to be as rich as my brother. But I reckoned without my host. On tiptoe I stole into the kitchen where my sweetheart was frying ham and eggs. I thought I might snatch a kiss. Above the noise of the sizzling frying pan and the crackling wood I plainly heard the voice of my well let us say it, bride weeping and complaining to an old house servant. It's a shame and a sin to enter matrimony with a lie. I can't wed this Michael not because he is ugly. That doesn't matter in a man, but he comes too late. My heart belongs to poor Joseph the woodcutter and I'd sooner be turned out of doors than to make a false promise. Money blinds my mother's eyes. Don't be surprised, little sister, that I remember these words so well.  This was my sentence to poverty and single blessedness. I sent word to Mariana that she should be happy and so she was. But now to my own story I worked six years as farmhand for my rich brother and then love overtook me. The little housemaid caught me in the net of her golden locks. What a fuss it made in our family. A peasant's pride is as stiff as that of your vues and zoos. My girl had only a pair of willing hands and a good heart to give to an ugly pockmarked being like me. My mother, God grant her peace, caused her many a tear and when I brought home my latte she wouldn't keep the peace until at last she found out that happiness depends on kindness more than money. On the patch of land that I bought my wife and I lived as happily as people live when there's love in the house and a bit of bread to spare. We worked hard and spent little. A long scoured table, a wooden bench or so, a chest or two of course linen and a few pots and pans that was our furniture. The walls had never tasted whitewash, but Latta kept them scoured. She went to church barefoot and put on her shoes at the door. Good things such as coffee and plums that the poorest hut has nowadays we never saw. We didn't save much for crops sold cheap, but I didn't speculate nor squeeze money from the sweat of the poor. In time five pretty little chatterboxes arrived, all flaxen-haired girls with blue eyes or brown. I was satisfied with girls, but the mother hankered after a boy. That's a poor father that prefers a son to a daughter.  I was glad enough to work for my girls, and I didn't worry about their future, nor build castles in the air for them to live in. After fifteen years the boy arrived, but he took himself quickly out of the world and coasted his mother away with him. Little brother was silent and bowed his snow-white head. My heart felt as if the dead wife flitted through the room and gently touched the old fellow's thin locks. I saw him kneeling at her deathbed, heard the little girl sobbing and waited in silence till he drew himself up sighing deeply. My lot had died. She left me alone. What didn't I promise the dear lord in those black hours? My life, my savings, yay, all my children if he would but leave her to me. My thoughts are not thy thoughts, saith the lord, and my ways are not thy ways. It was night in my soul. I cried over my children, and I only hafted my work. At night I tumbled into bed tearless and prayerless. Oh, sad time! God vainly knocked at my heart's door until the children fell ill. Oh, what would become of me if these flowers were gathered? What wealth these rosy mouths meant to me? How gladly would they smile away my sorrow? I had set myself up above the lord. But by my children's bedside I prayed for grace. They all recovered. I took my motherless brood to God's temple to thank him there.  But I am forgetting, little sister. I started to tell you about my fifteen children.  I wouldn't chain a young thing to my bonds even if she understood housekeeping. I held to the saying, equal wealth, equal birth, equal years make a good match. When an old widow records a young girl he looks at her faults with a hundred eyes when he measures her with his first wife. But a home without a wife is like a spring without blossoms. So thinking this way I chose a widow with ten children. Twirling his thumbs, little brother held gaily as he looked at me. Five and ten make fifteen, I thought, and when fifteen prayers rise to heaven the Lord must hear. My two eldest sep sons entered military service.  I put three sons to trades. But my girls were my pride. They learned every kind of work. When they could cook, wash, and spin we sent them into good households to learn more. Two married young. Two seamstresses and housekeepers. One is a secretary. And our golden-haired Mies is ladies made to the Countess H. Both these girls are betrothed. Mies is the brightest, and she managed to learn even at the village school. So much is written about education nowadays. Little brother drew himself up proudly as he added, I take a newspaper. But the real education is to keep children at work and make them unselfish. They must love their work. I pray these were my rules. And thank heaven all my children are good and industrious. Just think, last summer my dear girl sent me a suit of fine city clothes and money to go on a journey begging their old father to make them a visit. Oh how pretty they looked when they showed me round the city in spite of my homespun. For I couldn't bring myself to wear the fine clothes after all. The best dressed one was our little ladies made who had a gold watch in her belt.  But she only laughed. Indeed it is little father. If my gracious lady makes me a present I'm not likely to be mistaken for her on that account. And girls are you contented to be in service? Certainly father unless there are both masters and servants the world would go out of its grooves. My good countess makes service so light that we love her and serve her. Yes little father added Mies mistress chose Gustav for me and is going to pay for the wedding and start us in housekeeping God bless her. Now see what good such a woman does if people would but learn that it takes wits to command as well as to obey they would get along well enough in these new times of equality. Thank heaven we country folks shan't be ruined by idleness. When I saw my thatched roof again among the fir trees I felt as solemn as if I were going to prayers. The blue smoke looked like incense. I folded my hands I thanked God. Little brother arose his eyes bright with tears. He cast a wistful look toward the apples in the chimney. My old wife little sister certainly take them all little brother you are heartily welcome to them. We are like children my wife and I we carry tidbits to each other now that our birds have all flown away. That is right old boy and God keep thee I said. From the threshold the words echoed back God keep thee struggle and peace a quarter century warfare woke no saber clash nor powder smoke no triumph song nor battle cry their shields no template nights stood by though fought were many battles hot of any fight the world knew not how great the perils often grew God only knew within my deepest soul depths born in hands and feet wounds bleeding born trodden beneath the chargers tread how I endured felt suffered bled how wept and groaned I in my woe when scoffed the malice breathing foe how pierced his scorn my spirit through God only knew. The evening nears cool zephyr's blow the struggle wild doth weaker grow the air with scarcity is filled from the pale mouth the blood is stilled quieted now my bitter pain a faint star lights the heavenly plain peace cometh after want and woe my God doth know do thou love too the waves they whisper in luna's glance entrancing music for the nixie's dance they beckon smiling and wave wise woe while softly plashing do thou love too in blossoming linden's doves fondly rear their tender fledglings from year to year with never a pausing they bill and coo and twitter gently do thou love too invitation how long wilt stand outside and cower come straight within beloved guest the winds are fierce this wintry hour come stay a while with me and rest you wander begging shelter vainly every time from door to door I see what you have suffered plainly come rest with me and stray no more I nestle by me trusting hearted lay in my loving hands your head then back shall come your peace departed though the world's baseness long since fled and deep from out your heart upspringing love's downy wings will sort of you the darling smiles like magic bringing around your gloomy lips anew come rest I dare detain you so long as pulse of mind shall beat nor shall my heart grow cold and pain you till carried to your last retreat you gaze at me in doubting fashion before they offered rapture dumb tears and still tears your soul expression bid you my bosom with them come end of section 48 section 49 of library of the world's best literature ancient and modern volume 1 this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Mario Pinera library of the world's best literature ancient and modern volume 1 section 49 selections from Constantinople and Spain by Edmondo Diamisis Edmondo Diamisis 1846-1908 in 1869 Vita Military Military Life a collection of short stories was perhaps the most popular Italian volume of the year read a like in Kurt and Courage it was everywhere discussed and enthusiastically praised its prime quality was that quibering sympathy which ensures some success to any imaginative work however crudely written but these sketches of all the grim and amusing phases of Italian soldier life are drawn with an exquisite precision the reader fails the breathless discouragement of the tire soldiers when new dusty pistas are revealed by a sudden turn on the road at mid-submit march understands a strong silent love between officer and orderly suppressed by military etiquette the orderly the smiles with the soldiers had a pretty runaway boy idol of the regiment the son of the regiment pities the humiliations of the conspired novice the conscript fails with the proud sorrow of the old man whose son's colonel tells the story of his heroic death dead on the fatal battle when I have finished reading it said an Italian workman I would gladly have pressed the hand of the first soldier whom I happened to meet the author was only 23 and has since given the world many delightful volumes but nothing finer these sketches were founded upon personal knowledge for the amnesties began life as a soldier after his early education at Connie and Turin he entered the military school at Modena from which he was sent out as sub lieutenant in the third regiment of the line he saw active service in various expeditions against Sicilian brigands and in the war with Austria he fought at the ballot of Custozza his literary power seems to have been early manifest for in 1867 he became manager of a newspaper L'Italia Militarie at Florence and in 1871 gilding to his friends' persuasions he settled down to authorship at Turin his second book was The Recording memorials dedicated to the youth of Italy of national events which had come within his experience half a dozen later stories published together were also very popular especially Giamichi di Collegio college friends Fortetza and La Casa Paterna the paternal home he has written some graceful verses as well but the amesis soon craved the stimulus of noble environments of different personalities and he set out upon the troubles which he has so delightfully recounted this ardent Italian longed for the repose of a grey sky a critic tells us he went first to Holland and experienced a judge's satisfaction in a careful art of that trim little land later a visit to North Africa in the suite of the Italian ambassador prompted a brilliant volume, morocco which glitters and flashes like a Damascus blade among his other well-known books the descriptive of other trips are Holland and its people Spain, London, Paris and Constantinople which translated into many languages have been widely read that unfortunate though not uncommon traveler who finds ennui everywhere must abide the amesis his inexhaustible enthusiasm his power of Epicurean enjoyment and the color and glory of everland his is a curiously optimistic nature always perceiving the beautiful and picturesque in art and nature he treats other aspects hopefully and ignores he catches what is characteristic in every nation as inevitably as he catches the physiognomy of the land with its skies and its waters, its flowers and its atmosphere he is a realism transfigured by poetic imagination which combines essential things and places them in high relief very early in life the amesis announced his love and admiration of Banzoni of whom he called himself a disciple but he is a very different mind this Italian born and onigia of Genoese parents has inherited the emotional nature of his country he sees everything with feeling penetrating below the surface with sympathetic insight it only gives him his sensuous zest in life but from France through his love of her vigor and grace his cordial admiration of her literature he has gained a refining and a strengthening influence she has taught him that direct diction that joy simplicity which forsakes the stilted talent of literary tradition for a style of fire, simpler, stronger and more natural the light from Constantinople and first of all the light there is the light side, Constantinople was to see the sunrise and set standing upon the bridge of the Sultana Balide at dawn, in autumn, the golden horn is almost always covered by a light fog behind which the city is seen vaguely like those gaze, cartons that descend upon the stage to conceal the preparations for a scenic spectacle Scutari is quite hidden, nothing is to be seen but there are a certain outline of her hills the bridge and the shores are deserted Constantinople sleeps the solitude and silence render this spectacle more solemn, the sky begins to grow golden behind the hills of Scutari upon that luminous strip are drawn one by one, black and clear the tops of the cypress trees in the bass cemetery like an army of giants ranged upon the heights and from one cape of the golden horn to the order that there shines a tremulous light faint as the first murmur of the awakening city then behind the cypresses of the Asiatic shore comes forth an eye of fire and suddenly the white tops of the four merits of Saint Sophia are tinted with deep rose in a few minutes from hill to hill from mosque to mosque down to the end of the golden horn all the minarets one after the other turn rose color all the domes one by one are silvered the flush descends from terrace to terrace the tremulous light spreads the great bile mates and all stumble appears rosy and resplendent upon her heights blue and violet along the shores fresh and young as if just rising from the wars as the zone rises the delicacy of the first tints vanishes in an immense enumeration and everything remains bathed in white light until toward evening then the divine spectacle begins again the air is so limpid that from Galata one can see clearly every distant tree as far as Cady Coy the hall of the immense profile of Istanbul stands out against the sky with such a clearness of line and ring of color that every minaret, obelisk and cypress tree can be counted one by one from Sirajah point to the cemetery of Iov the golden horn and the bosphorus assume a wonderful ultramarine color the heavens, the color of amethyst in the east are a fire behind Istanbul tinting the horizon with infinite lights of rose and carbon cull that make one think of the first day of the creation Istanbul darkens the Galata becomes golden and the scotary is struck by the last rays of the setting sun with every pane of glass giving black the glow looks like a city on fire and this is the moment to contemplate Constantinople there is one rapid succession of the softest plants pallid gold, rose and lilac which quiber and float over the sides of the hills and the water every moment giving and taking away the prize of beauty from each part of the city and revealing the thousand modest graces of the landscape that have not dared to shove themselves in the full light great melancholy suburbs are lost in the shadow of the valleys little purple cities smile upon the heights villages faint as if about to die others die at once like extinguished flames others that seem already dead revive and glow and quiber yet a moment longer under the last ray of the sun then there is nothing left but two resplendent points upon the Asiatic shore the summit of Mount Bulgurlu and the extremity of the Cape that guards the entrance to the propunties they are at first two golden crowns then two purple cups then two rubies then all Constantinople is in shadow and 10,000 voices from 10,000 minorities announced the closer today resemblances from Constantinople. In the first days fresh as I was from the perusal of Oriental literature I saw everywhere the famous personages of history and legend and the figures that were called and resembled sometimes so faithfully those that were fixed in my imagination that I was constrained to stop and look at them. How many times have I seized my friend by the arm and pointing to a person passing by have exclaimed is it he? Cospero do you not recognize him? In the square of the Sultanabalidae I frequently saw the gigantic Turk who threw down millstones from the walls of Nikeia on the heads of the soldiers of Bagjón I saw in front of a mosque Um Jemil that old fury that showed brambles and nettles before Muhammad's house. I met in the book bazaar with a volume under his arm, Jemaluddin, the learned man of Brusa who knew the whole of the Arab dictionary by heart. I passed quite close to the side of Agesha, the favorite wife of the prophet and she fixed upon my face her eyes brilliant and humid like the reflection of stars in a well. I have recognized in the Ed Maidan the famous beauty of that poor Greek woman killed by a cannonball at the base of the serpentine column. I have been face to face in the fanar with Kara Abdelraman the handsome young Turk of the time of Arkhan. I have seen Kauswa the she-camel of the prophet. I have encountered Kara Bulut, Selim's black steed. I have met the poor poet Fignahi, condemned to go about Istanbul tied to an insolent distich for having pierced with an insolent distich the Grand Bezier of Ibrahim. I have been in the same cafe with Suleiman the big, the monstrous admiral whom four robust slaves hardly succeeded in lifting him from the deban. Ali, the Grand Bezier who could not find in all Arabia a horse they could carry him.  All the personages of the thousand and one knights, the aladins, the sobites, the simpads, the gonaris, the old Jewish merchants, possessors of enchanted carpets and wonderful lamps passed before me like a procession of phantoms. Birds from Constantinople Constantinople has one grace and gayity peculiar to itself that comes from an infinite number of birds of every kind for which the Turks nourish a warm sentiment and regard. Mosques, grubs, old walls, gardens, palaces on wood song, the whistling and twittering birds. Everywhere wings are fluttering and life and harmony abound. These sparrows enter the houses bodily and eat out of women's and children's hands. Swallows nest over the cafe doors and under the arches of the bazaars pigeons in innumerable swarms maintained by legacies from sultans and private individuals from garlands of black and white along the cornices of the cupolas and around the terraces of the minarets. Sea gulls dart and play over the water. Thousands of turtle doves are fabled with the lobbers, swallows keep away fire from the roofs where they build their nests. The storks majorly pilgrimage to Mecca. Halcyon scarred is also the faithful to paradise. Those he protects and feeds them through the cemetery. Crows croak about the castle of the Seven Towers Halcyon's come and go in long files between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara and a stork sit upon the cupolas of the mausoleums. For the Turk each one of these birds has a gentle meaning or a benign and virtue. Turtle doves he protects and feeds them through a sentiment of gratitude and piety and they live in the house, the sea and the sepulchre. Every quarter of a stumble is full of the noise of them bringing to the city a sense of the pleasures of country life and continually reflection in the soul with a reminder of nature. Córdoba from Spain For a long distance the country offers no new aspect to the fibrous curiosity of the tourist. At Bilges there is a bass plane and beyond there the open country of Tulosa where Alfonso the great king of Castile gained the celebrated victory the Las Navas over the Muslim army. The sky was very clear and in the distance one could see the mountains of the Sierra de Segura. Suddenly there comes over one a sensation which seems to respond to a suppressed exclamation of surprise. The first alloys with their thick leaves the unexpected horrals of tropical vegetation rise on both sides of the road. Beyond the fields studded with flowers begin to appear. The first are studded, those which follow almost covered, then come bass stretches and are entirely covered with proppies, daisies, lilies, wild mushrooms and ranunculuses so that the country as it presents itself to view looks like a succession of immense purple, gold and snowy huge carpets. In the distance among the trees are innumerable blue, white and yellow streaks as far as the eye can reach and nearer on the banks of the ditches the elevations of ground, these lobs and even on the edge of the road are flowers in beds, clumps and clusters one above the other grouped in the form of great bouquet and trembling on their stalks which one can almost touch with his hand. Then there are fields white with great blades of grain flanked by plantations of roses, orange groves, immense olive groves and hillsides buried by a thousand shades of grain surmounted by ancient Moorish towers and scattered with many color houses and between the one and the other are white on the slender branches that cross ribolets hidden by the trees. On the horizon appear these nobby caps of this year on the Bada under that white streak lightly on the laden blue ones the country becomes more barren and flourishing Arginilla lies in a grove of olives whose boundary one cannot see Pedro Abad in the midst of a plain covered with vineyards and fruit trees Ventas de Alcolea on the last hills of the Sierra Nevada, people with billows and gardens. We are approaching Cordova the train flies along, we see little stations half hidden by trees and flowers the wind carries the rose leaves into the carriages, great butterflies flying near the windows, a delicious perfume permeates the air, the trouble seen, we pass through an enchanted garden the olives, oranges, palms and billows grow more frequent and at last we hear a cry, here is Cordova how many lovely pictures and grand recollections the sound of that name awakens in one's mind Cordova, the ancient pearl of the east as the Arabian poet calls it the city of cities, Cordova of the 30 suburbs and 3000 mosques which enclosed within her walls the greatest temple of Islam her fame extended throughout the east of the ancient Damascus, the faithful came from the most remote regions of Asia to banks of the Bodalkibir to prostrate themselves in the marbleous mirab of her mosque, in the light of the thousand bronze lamps cast from the bells of the cathedrals of Spain Kether flogged artists, sabbats, poets from every part of the Mahomedan world to her flourished schools in men's libraries and the magnificent courts of her caliphs, riches and beauty flowed in, attracted by the fame of her splendor, from here they went along the coasts of Africa, through the schools of Tunis, Cairo, Baghdad, Tufa and even to India and China in order to gather inspiration and records and the poetry song on the slopes of the Sierra Morena, flew from Lyre to Lyre as far as the valleys of the Calcosos to excite the art of old pilgrimages the beautiful, powerful and wise Cordova, crowned with 3000 villages proudly raises her white minarets in the midst of orange crops and spread around the valley, a voluptuous atmosphere of joy and glory leave the train, cross the garden, look around me I am alone the travelers who were with me disappeared here and there I still heard the noise of a carriage which is rolling off, then all is quiet it is midday, the sky is very clear and the air is suffocating I see two white houses, it is the opening of a street, I enter and go on the street is narrow, the houses are as small as little billows on the slops of artificial gardens, almost all one story in height, with windows a few feet from the ground the roof so low that one could almost touch them with a stick and the walls very white the street turns, I look see no one and hear neither a step nor boys, I say to myself this must be an abandoned street and try another one in which the houses are white, the windows closed and there is nothing but silence and solitude around me why? where am I? I ask myself I go on, the street which is so narrow that a carriage could not pass begins to wind on the right and left I see other deserted streets, white houses and closed windows, my step resounds as if in a corridor the whiteness of the walls is so pivot that even the reflection is trying and I am obliged to walk with my eyes half closed for it really seems as if I were making my way through the snow I reach a small square, everything is closed and no one is to be seen at this point a big fill in a melancholy seizes me, such as I have never experienced before it makes you a pleasure and sadness similar to that which comes to children when after a long run they reach a lonely rural spot with no joy in their discovery but with a certain trepidation lest they should be too far from home above many roofs rise the palm trees of inner gardens oh fantastic legends of what a list can call it on I go from street to street and a square to square I begin to meet some people but they pass and disappear like phantoms all these streets resemble each other the houses have only 3 or 4 windows and not a spot, scroll or crack is to be seen on the walls which are as smooth and white as a sheet of paper behind a blind and see almost at the same moment a dark head with a flower and a hair appear and disappear I look in at the door a patio, how should I describe a patio it is not a curtain, not a garden not a room, but it is all 3 things combined between the patio and the street there is a vestibule, on the 4 sides of the patio rise the slender columns which support up to a level with the first floor a specious of gallery enclosed in glass above the gallery is a stretch of canvas which shades the curtain the vestibule is paved with marble the door flanked by columns surmounted by bas-reliefs and closed by a slender iron gate of graceful design at the end of the patio there is a fountain and all around are scattered chairs, work tables pictures and vases of flowers I run to another door there is another patio with its walls covered with ivy and the number of niches holding little statues busts and urns I look in at the third door here is another patio with its walls worked in mosaics a palm in the center and a mass of flowers all around I stop at the fourth door after the patio there is another vestibule after there is a second patio in which one sees other statues, columns and fountains all these rooms and gardens are so neat and clean that one could pass his hand over the walls and on the ground without leaving a trace and they are fresh, odorous and lighted by a uncertain light which increases their beauty and mysterious appearance on I go at random from street to street as I walk my curiosity increases and I quicken my pace it seems impossible that a whole city can be like this I am afraid of a stumbling across some house or coming into some street that will remind me of other cities and disturb my beautiful dream but no, the dream lasts for everything is small, lovely and mysterious at every hundred steps I reach a deserted square in which I stop and hold my breath from time to time there appears a crossroad and not a living soul is to be seen everything is white, the windows closed and silence rines on all sides at each door there is a new spectacle oranges, columns, flowers jets of water and palms a marvelous variety of design tents, light and perfume here the order of roses, there of oranges farther on of pinks and with this perfume a wave of fresh air and with the air a subdued sound of women's voices the rustling of leaves and the singing of birds it is a sweet and bright harmony that without disturbing the silence of the streets surface the ear like the echo of distant music ah, it is not a dream Madrid, Italy, Europe are indeed far away here one lives another life and breathes the air of a different world for I am in the east end of section 49


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