Project Gutenberg's The Trumpeter of Saekkingen, by Joseph Victor von Scheffel This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Trumpeter of Saekkingen A Song from the Upper Rhine. Author: Joseph Victor von Scheffel Translator: Francis Bruennow Release Date: February 18, 2010 [EBook #31314] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRUMPETER OF SAeKKINGEN *** Produced by Charles Bowen, from scans obtained from The Internet Archive. Transcriber's notes: 1. This book is derived from the Web Archive, http://www.archive.org/details/trumpeterskking00schegoog. 2. The oe diphthong is represented by [oe]. THE TRUMPETER OF SAeKKINGEN. THE THE TRUMPETER OF SAeKKINGEN A Song from the Upper Rhine. BY JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL. TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY MRS. FRANCIS BRUeNNOW. _Translation authorised by the Poet._ London: CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. NEW YORK: SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG, & CO. 1877. CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS. CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS. O Song, at home well known to fame, That German hearts hath deeply stirred And long hath made of Scheffel's name A dear and honoured household word, Go forth in thy first foreign dress, Go forth to Albion's noble land! Will she not greetings kind express, And warmly clasp the stranger's hand? The Emerald Isle will surely give A welcome neither cold nor faint; For on thy pages still doth live The name of Erin's ancient Saint. Across the sea my country's shores As Hope's bright star before me rise; Will she not open wide her doors To one who on her heart relies? Farewell, oh work of vanished hours; When suffering rent my weary heart, Thy breath of fragrant woodland flowers Did life renew, fresh strength impart. Oh Scheffel! may thy years be long! And may'st thou live to see the time, When this thy genial Schwarzwald song Will find a home in every clime. _Basel_, _June_, 1877. CONTENTS. DEDICATION PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION PREFACE TO THE FIFTIETH EDITION FIRST PART. HOW YOUNG WERNER RODE INTO THE SCHWARZWALD SECOND PART. YOUNG WERNER WITH THE SCHWARZWALD PASTOR THIRD PART. ST. FRIDOLIN'S DAY FOURTH PART. YOUNG WERNER'S ADVENTURES ON THE RHINE FIFTH PART. THE BARON AND HIS DAUGHTER SIXTH PART. HOW YOUNG WERNER BECAME THE BARON'S TRUMPETER SEVENTH PART. THE EXCURSION TO THE MOUNTAIN LAKE EIGHTH PART. THE CONCERT IN THE GARDEN PAVILION NINTH PART. TEACHING AND LEARNING TENTH PART. YOUNG WERNER IN THE GNOME'S CAVE ELEVENTH PART. THE HAUENSTEIN RIOT TWELFTH PART. YOUNG WERNER AND MARGARETTA THIRTEENTH PART. WERNER SUES FOR MARGARETTA FOURTEENTH PART. THE BOOK OF SONGS YOUNG WERNER'S SONGS SONGS OF THE CAT HIDDIGEIGEI SONGS OF THE SILENT MAN SOME OF MARGARETTA'S SONGS WERNER'S SONGS. FIVE YEARS LATER FIFTEENTH PART. THE MEETING IN ROME SIXTEENTH PART. SOLUTION AND END NOTES. DEDICATION. "Who is yonder light-haired stranger Who there like a cat is roaming O'er the roof of Don Pagano?"-- Thus asked many honest burghers, Dwellers on the Isle of Capri, When they from the market turning Looked up at the palm-tree and the Low-arched roof of moorish fashion. And the worthy Don Pagano Said: "That is a strange queer fellow, And most strange his occupation. Came here with but little luggage, Lives here quite alone but happy, Clambers up the steepest mountains, Over cliffs, through surf is strolling, Loves to steal along the sea-shore. Also lately 'mid the ruins Of the villa of Tiberius With the hermits there caroused. What's his business?--He's a German, And who knows what they are doing? But I saw upon his table Heaps of paper written over, Leaving very wasteful margins; I believe he is half crazy, I believe he's making verses." Thus he spoke.--And I myself was This queer stranger. Solitary I had on this rocky island Sung this song of my dear Schwarzwald. I went as a wand'ring scholar To far countries, to Italia; With much art became acquainted, Also with bad vetturinos, And with many burning flea-bites; But the sweet fruit of the lotus, Which doth banish love of country And the longing to return there, I have never found here growing. 'Twas in Rome. Hard lay the winter On th' eternal sev'n-hilled city: Hard? for even Marcus Brutus Would have caught a bad catarrh then; And the rain seemed never-ending. Like a dream then rose the vision Of the Schwarzwald, and the story Of the young musician Werner And the lovely Margaretta. In my youth I have stood often By their graves close to the Rhine shore; Many things which lie there buried Are, however, long forgotten. But like one to whom a sudden Ringing in his ears betokens That at home of him they're thinking, So I heard young Werner's trumpet Through the Roman Winter, through the Carnival's gay flower-show-- Heard it from afar, then nearer, Like the crystal which of vap'rous Fine materials is condensing And increases radiating; So the figures of this song grew-- Even followed me to Naples. In the halls of the Museum Who should meet me but the Baron Shaking his big cane and smiling, And before Pompeii's gate sat The black tom-cat Hiddigeigei. Purring, quoth he: "Leave all study; What is all this ancient rubbish, E'en that dog there in mosaic In the tragic Poet's dwelling, In comparison with me--the Epic type of all cat-nature?" This I could no longer stand, so Now began this ghost to banish. From the brother of the lovely Luisella, from the crooked Cunning druggist of Sorrento Quantities of ink I ordered, And sailed o'er the bay to Capri. Here began my exorcisms. Many pale-gold coloured sea-fish, Many lobsters, many oysters, I ate up without compassion; Drank the red wine like Tiberius, Without mercy poetising; On the roof went up and down till All resounded metrically, And the charm was then accomplished: Chained up in four-measured trochees Lay those figures which so long now From my couch sweet sleep had banished. 'Twas high time, too; Spring already Now gave signal of his coming-- Buds were sprouting on the fig-trees; Shots were cracking, for with guns and Nets they were the quails pursuing, Who towards home their flight were taking; And the minstrel was in peril Then of seeing feathered colleagues Set upon the table roasted. This dread o'er him, pen and inkstand Flew against the wall together. Ready now and newly soled were My strong boots which old Vesuvius Had much damaged with his sulphur. Farther now I journey onward. Up, my good old Marinaro! Off from land! the waves with pleasure Bear light hearts and weightless freightage. But the song, which with such happy Spring-born feelings from my heart welled, Bears my greetings to my country And to you, my honoured parents. Many faults are in it, truly: Tragic pathos may be wanting, And a racy tendance; also, As in Amaranth, the fragrant Incense of a pious soul, its Sober but pretentious colouring. Take him, as he is, this ruddy. Rough, uncouth son of the mountains, With a pine branch on his straw hat. What he's wanting in, pray, cover With the veil of kind indulgence. Take him not as thanks, for always In your Book of Love I'm debtor, But as greeting and as witness, That a man whom worldly fortune Has not placed 'mid smiling verdure, Yet can, happy as a lark pour Out his song on leafless branches. Capri, _May 1st_, 1853. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. Five years, my merry song, have now rolled by Since thou didst venture thy first course to run, A simple strolling minstrel's chance to try, But no great laurels so far hast thou won. In circles of prosaic breathing mortals No praise was given thee of any kind-- Where formal stiffness bars life's glowing portals, Thou and thy kindred can no quarter find. And in the coteries of hoops and laces Few were the readers, fewer still the praises. Not everything suits everyone: the hill Grows different flowers than the vale and lea: But here and there in German homes there will Be found some hearts who fondly turn to thee; Where merry fellows are their wine enjoying With cheerful songs, thy praises will resound; Near landscape-painters' easels thou art lying, And in a huntsman's bag thou oft art found, And e'en of pastors it has been reported To thee as to their prayer-books they've resorted. And many who have taken a young bride To spend the honeymoon 'midst rural scenes, Do like to read thee, sitting side by side; Of happy hours thou often art the means. Then Saekkingen, the fair Black Forest's treasure, Which found at first in thee not much delight, Has by degrees derived from thee great pleasure, And to her heart with love has pressed thee tight. Upon the whole, success outweighs detraction, And thou canst view thy fate with satisfaction. Now that thou wilt a second course begin, I should for thee a better dress prepare, With finer threads the verses' measure spin, Here lengthen out, there shorten with more care, I know it well, right often have I faltered, Some of thy trochees sound a little lame; But the old humour now, alas! is altered, The mood which gave thee birth is not the same. O rosy dreams of youth, when joy abounded, Wherefore so soon by gloomy clouds surrounded! Once more in my dear Schwarzwald I now rest, And near me rush the healing waters out, On high a bird of prey soars o'er his nest, And in the brook are sporting tiny trout. From charcoal kilns the smoke clouds are ascending, With iris-coloured hues the sun embrace, And stately giant pines in rows unending, Like wreaths of evergreens, the mountains grace. A spicy hay-scent rises from the meadow, And honest folk dwell 'neath their thatched roof's shadow. And yet--should I now try new songs to sing, The old accustomed tone I could not find; Too often grief my soul with pangs doth wring, Instead of mirth, scorn filleth now my mind. The world serves idols now, the good ignoring, And truth is silent, beauty hides her face; What is unnatural men are adoring, God is forgotten. Mammon takes his place! The Poet, now, should be a prophet warning, Like those of old, reproving, praying, mourning! 'Tis not _my_ sphere; a mighty stirring song Requires another man, a different art; But though so much prevails that's sad and wrong. One may not quite disdain a merry heart. Go forth, my song, then, as thou didst before, A cheerful memory of life's fresh spring; Cheer up those hearts, which grief made sad and sore, And to friends far and near my greeting bring. Whenever men to nobler aims aspire, Then higher too will ring the poet's lyre. Rippoldsau, September, 1858. PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. Hiddigeigei, his opinion: "Strange, perverse, are all mankind, Who, when discord holds dominion, In such ditties pleasure find.... Questions which the world are shaking, Now the thinker's mind assail, And no light as yet is breaking, Which solution shall prevail. "Yet our song unto perdition Has not been condemned, I hear-- What a marvel!--an edition For the third time will appear. Which in new dress, not inferior (Of the old nought has been spared), And, with quite unchanged interior, For its third trip is prepared. "I regret that I'm declining, And I fear I have the mange; And I show now, by my whining, When the wind and weather change. Coming storms, when brewing, ever My keen senses do betray; And the atmosphere was never Sultry as it is to-day. "Doubly thus I feel this parting, But thy course must onward lead; Take my blessing, song, on starting, And the cat's well-meant good speed! The green Rhine, the Schwarzwald breezes, Bring with them health, peace, and rest; Such a merry fellow pleases, And is hailed a welcome guest. "Golden Spring, thee still I'm praising; When the trumpet-notes rang out, Then my bristling fur seemed blazing, And bright sparks flew all about; And the trumpet with my growling Then defied Fate's evil doom; Gentle is to-day my howling O'er the hidden future's gloom." _Summer_, 1862. PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION. The Boezberg for the Rhine I have been leaving, A home-sick longing stirred my heart within, Once more that fragrant air I would be breathing Again would see the town of Fridolin, As if at my return with joy elated, She lay there basking in the autumn sun, Her minster's towers lately renovated, Reflected in the river, brightly shone; Far to the North, through bluish vapour breaking, The Hozzenwald, a stately background making. From the Gallus-Thurm on the Roman wall erected, To where the ancient convent buildings lie, The well-known gable roofs I all detected, Where often my light skiff had glided by; And where the shore by gravel banks is bounded, A sunny garden's blooming face doth smile; Half hidden by the chestnuts which surround it Lies cosily the castle's graceful pile. To it my hat in greeting I am tossing, As o'er the ancient covered bridge I'm crossing. Unto the dead my steps at first were tending, Unto the graveyard where the Rhine flows by, For many had been called to rest unending, Who once with me enjoyed this balmy sky. The old stone wall I neared with deep emotion, Inscribed with Werner Kirchhof s name and arms, And of his wife a record of devotion, Which, though long past, e'en now attracts and charms. And Heaven's blessing on the pair alighted. By death the same year they were re-united. To the market then I turned. "Are ghosts here wandering. Or is it you yourself who meets mine eyes?" So said the mayor by the court-house standing, Who slowly did the stranger recognise.... Long years have passed since friends were often going To hear my judgments in the dusky court; But though now many heads gray locks are showing, Their hearts are fresh, their memory is not short; And as we never shunned good cheer and drinking, From foaming bumpers we'll not now be shrinking. 'Tis true the Button landlord has been moving Out of his cosy tavern on the Square, But still retains his former skill in brewing, And in his new inn keeps the same good fare. And as around the table we sat cheering Our hearts with kindly memories of old, From many lips I these glad news was hearing, Which please the Poet more than heaps of gold: The Trumpeter, whose story I'd been singing, To young and old more joy was daily bringing. As a vignette the weekly paper gracing He's blowing politics instead of music now; And even more, somebody has been placing My hero on the stage--but ask not how. Could I but see the walls of the new tower, Which now is rising in the old one's place, Embellished by an artist of great power-- The figures of my song devised with grace! Thus might an artist's hand make expiation For the abuse by stage-representation. However, let that go, I am not fearing Whatever purpose thou mayst serve my song; Now that a new edition is appearing, I send my greeting home with it along. On thy fourth tour thou Schwarzwald-child be hieing, Where truth and goodness dwell, there enter in, And preach to those who with _ennui_ are sighing, How innocent amusement they may win. As often as there comes a new edition, "Preserve thee, God!" be ever my petition. Seon in the Aargau, _November_, 1864. PREFACE TO THE FIFTIETH EDITION. The Trumpeter now, all alive and refreshed, To the Jubilee loudly is blowing; The present year has both of us blessed, Great favour and lustre bestowing. I have my fiftieth year attained, Through joy and through sorrow surviving, And his editions--such fame has he gained-- At the fiftieth are now arriving. It may be that I a part of my youth And joy with him have been leaving; But still from these scenes--to tell the truth-- Great pleasure I now am receiving. To the Eggberg I climbed, where on high are seen The homes of the Hauenstein peasant; Their straw-thatched roofs with mosses still green, But no more quaint costumes at present. Through gaps in the forest I see shining bright The snow-peaks of Switzerland's Giants, The steep Finsteraarhorn's towering height The Jungfrau dazzling with diamonds; And as to the west I turn my gaze, Blue ridge above ridge is unfolding: And, in the evening's golden haze, I'm the Vosges' great Belchen beholding. When now to Saekkingen downward I hie, Through the dark green forest is gleaming The silvery lake, like the earth's clear eye, Looking upward, invitingly beaming. Gneiss rocks high o'er the grassy shore rise; And placed so as best to show it, Inscribed on a rock this meets mine eyes: "Saekkingen, the town, to her Poet!" And now, as by Bally's castle I stand, There my Trumpeter also stands blowing, Cast finely in bronze by a master's hand. That they know us well here all are showing; For, when I was going to pay at the inn, The kind hostess refused quite indignant. 'Tis clear, in the town of St. Fridolin, O'er us a bright star shines benignant. The Trumpeter bravely has blown his way Through much that his patience was tasking; And the publisher also his joy doth betray: For the author's likeness he's asking. Accept then this book, my friends, as before, With kind and growing affection; When the Schwarzwald's Poet shall be no more, Still hold him in fond recollection. Carlsruhe, _October_, 1876. THE TRUMPETER OF SAeKKINGEN. FIRST PART. HOW YOUNG WERNER RODE INTO THE SCHWARZWALD. To the Schwarzwald soars my song, up To the Feldberg, where the last small Cluster of its comrade mountains Toward the south are boldly looking, And, all mailed in fir-tree armour, Keep good watch there on the Rhine. Be thou greeted, peaceful forest! Be ye greeted, ancient pine-trees, Ye, who oft beneath your shadow Me, the weary one, have sheltered. Oddly twisted, spread your roots down Deep within the earth's vast bowels, Strength from out those depths imbibing, While to us is closed the entrance. And you envy not a transient Human being's transient doings. Only smile;--his feast at Christmas You adorn with your young scions. In your sturdy trunks lives also Conscious life-sustaining power. Resin through your veins is coursing; And your dreamy thoughts are surging Slow and heavy, upward, downward. Oft I saw the clear and gummy Tears which from your bark were oozing, When a woodman's wanton axe-stroke Rudely felled some loved companion. Oft I heard your topmost summits Spirit-like together whisper. Then there breathed throughout my soul a Sweet mysterious solemn dreaming. Don't find fault then, if my song now Soars within the forest shades. 'Twas in March: still played the Winter Masquerade; the branches, laden With fantastical ice-crystals, To the ground were lowly drooping; Here and there, out of Earth's bosom Tender plants their heads were thrusting-- Wood-anemones and cowslips. As the patriarch, old Noah, At the time of the great Deluge, Sent the dove to reconnoitre: So with winter's ice sore burdened, With impatience sends the Earth forth These first flowers with a question, Asking, whether the oppressor Has not come to his last gasp yet. Blustering from the Feldberg's summit Now old Master Storm is rushing, And rejoices, through the dark dense Forest he again is blowing; Says: "I greet you, ancient comrades; Why I come, you know the reason-- They believe, poor mortal children, When they see me tearing, snatching Roughly some old hat away, I am only there to frighten. That would be a pretty business, Breaking chimneys, smashing windows, Scattering through the air some thatchings, Tearing some old woman's clothing Till she signs the cross in praying! But you fir-trees know me better, Me, the fair Spring's thorough cleaner, Who what's mouldy sweeps afar off-- Who what's rotten blows to pieces-- Who the earth's domain well cleanses, That his radiant Lord and Master Worthily may make his entrance. And you, noble forest comrades, Who so oft, with bronze-like foreheads, Bravely have withstood my rudeness, Ye whose trunks I have to thank for Many knocks against my skull-bone, Ye alone shall hear my secret: Soon the Spring himself he cometh, And then, when the buds are bursting, Lark and blackbird sing their carols, And with fervent heat the Spring sun Brightly on your heads is shining, Then remember me, the Storm-wind, Who to-day, with boisterous fury As his harbinger swept past." Speaking thus, he shook the tree-tops With great roughness; boughs are snapping, Branches falling, and a thick, fine Rain of pine-leaves crackles downward. But the fir-trees, quite indignant, Took small notice of this homage. From their summits rang the answer, Rather scolding, I should call it: "You unmannerly rude fellow! We will have no business with you, And regret much that the finest Lords have oft the rudest servants. To the Alps begone directly, There is sport fit for your humour; There stand walls of rock all barren; Entertain yourself with them there." Now, while thus the storm and fir-trees Held such converse with each other, Could be heard a horse's footfall. Toiling through the snow-piled wood-path Seeks his way a weary horseman; Gaily flutters in the storm-wind, To and fro, his long gray mantle, His fair curling locks are waving, And, from out the cocked-up hat there Boldly nods a heron's feather. On his lips was just appearing Such a downy beard as ladies Much admire, because it showeth That its bearer is a man, still One whose kisses will not wound them. But not many pretty lips had Felt the soft touch of this beard yet. Which, as if for fun and mischief, Snow and ice now decked with crystals. In his clear blue eyes were glowing Warmth and mildness, earnest meaning, And you could not doubt his fist would Strike a valiant blow, when needed, With the heavy basket-hilted Sword, which, worn suspended by a Black belt from his shoulder, well-nigh Grazed the ground as he was riding. Wound around his riding-doublet Was a sash, to which was tied the Richly-gilded shining trumpet, Which he often with his mantle Sheltered from the falling snow-flakes; But, whene'er the wind pierced through it, Bringing forth tones shrill and wailing; Then around his mouth there played a Sweet strange smile of melancholy. Silent through the forest's thicket On he rode, while often roving Were his glances--as the case is, When a wanderer for the first time Over unknown roads is travelling. Rough the path--the poor horse often In the snow was nearly sinking, And o'er gnarl'd and tangled branches Of the knotted pine-roots stumbling. And the rider, in ill-humour, Said: "Sometimes it is quite tedious, Through the world alone to travel. There are times, 'mid gloomy forests, When one longeth for companions. Since I bade farewell this morning To the good monks of St. Blasien, Lonely was the road and dreary. Scattered here and there, a peasant, Through the snow-storm running swiftly, Hardly did my greeting notice. Then a pair of coal-black ravens, Who with hoarse discordant croakings, O'er a dead mole fiercely quarrelled; For the past two hours, however, I not once have had the honour To behold one living being. And in this lone forest district, Where the lofty snow-clad pine-trees Look as if in shrouds enveloped, I should like to have some comrades. Were they even rogues or gipsies, Or those two suspicious fellows Who escorted the old knight once Through the forest's gloom and thicket; Then appeared as Death and Devil, Grinning in his face with scorn! I should rather ride with them now-- Rather fight them, or play lively Dances for them, than so lonely Thus to trot through this dense forest." All comes to an end, however, Even riding through the forests. Round the trunks it grew much lighter, Storm and snow-clouds were receding, And the blue sky smiled benignant Through the dense shade of the pine-woods. Thus the miner, looking upward. Sees, far at the pit's mouth shining. Like a star, the distant daylight, Which he greets with joyful shouting. Likewise such a cheerful feeling Brightens up our riders face. So he reached the forest's border, And his eyes, so long restricted By dark woods to narrow prospects, Gladly swept the wide horizon. O how lovely woods and fields lay! Green meads in the narrow valley, Straw-thatched huts, low-roofed and mossy. And the modest village steeple; Deep below, where dusky forests Stretch along unto the lowlands, Like a long bright streak of silver, Takes the Rhine his westward course. Far off from the island glisten Battlements and lofty houses, And the minster's two tall spires; While beyond, in misty distance Shining, rise up unto Heaven Snowy peaks of giant mountains, Guardians of Helvetia's soil. As the pallid ardent thinker's Eye doth glow and cheek doth redden, When a thought, new and creative, Through his brain has flashed like lightning, So the golden light of evening Glows upon the Alpine Giants. (Do they dream of throes of labour Which their mother-earth of old felt, When they from her womb were bursting?) From the horse got off our rider, To a pine-tree stump he bound it, Gazed in wonder at the landscape, Spoke no word, but shouting tossed up In the air his pointed cocked hat, And began to blow a cheering Joyous tune upon his trumpet. To the Rhine it bore a greeting, Over toward the Alps it floated, Merry now, then full of feeling, Like a prayer devout and solemn, Then again quite roguish, joyful. Now trari-trara resounded, Echo's voice her plaudits sending From the bosom of the forest. Fair it was o'er hill and valley, But fair also to behold him, As he in the deep snow standing Lightly on his horse was leaning; Now and then a golden sunbeam Glory shed on man and trumpet, In the background gloomy fir-trees, Farther down among the meadows Rang his tunes out not unheeded! There was walking then the worthy Pastor of the neighbouring village, Who the snow-drifts was examining, Which, fast melting with the surging Waters rising o'er the meadows, Threatened to destroy the grass there. Plunged in thought, he deeply pondered How to ward off this great danger. Round him bounded, loudly barking, His two white and shaggy dogs. You who live in smoky cities, And are separated wholly From the simple life of nature, Shrug your shoulders! for my muse will Joyfully now sing the praises Of a pastor in the country. Simple is his life, and narrow: Where the village ends, end also All his labours and endeavours. While men slaughtered one another, In the bloody Thirty Years' War, For God's honour, the calm grandeur Of the Schwarzwald's solemn pine-woods Breathed its peace into his soul. Spider-webs spread o'er his book-shelves; And, 'mid all the theologians' Squabbles, he most likely never Had read one polemic treatise. With dogmatics altogether, Science in her heavy armour, He possessed but slight acquaintance. But, whenever 'mongst his people Could some discord be adjusted-- When the spiteful neighbours quarrelled; When the demon of dissension Marriage marred and children's duty; When the daily load of sorrow Heavily weighed down some poor man, And the needy longing soul looked Eagerly for consolation-- Then, as messenger from Heaven, To his flock the old man hastened; From the depths of his heart's treasure Gave to each advice and comfort. And if, in a distant village, Someone lay upon a sick-bed, With grim Death hard battle waging, Then--at midnight--at each hour, When a knock came at his hall-door-- E'en if snow the pathway covered-- Undismayed he went to comfort And bestow the sacred blessing. Solitary was his own life, For his nearest friends were only His two noble dogs (St. Bernards). His reward: a little child oft Bashfully approached him, kissing His old hand with timid reverence; Also oft a grateful smile played O'er the features of the dying, Which was meant for the old priest. Unperceived the old man came now By the border of the forest, To the Trumpeter whose last notes Rang resounding in the distance, Tapped him friendly on the shoulder: "My young master, may God bless you, 'Twas a fine tune you were playing! Since the horsemen of the emperor Buried here their serjeant-major, Whom a Swedish cannon-ball had Wounded mortally at Rhinefeld, And they blew as a farewell then The Reveille for their dead comrade-- Though 'tis long since it has happened, I have never heard such sounds here. Only on the organ plays my Organist, and that quite poorly; Therefore I am struck with wonder To encounter such an Orpheus. Will you treat to such fine music The wild beasts here of our forest, Stag and doe, and fox and badger? Or, perhaps, was it a signal, Like the call of the lost huntsman? I can see that you are strange here, By your long sword and your doublet; It is far still to the town there, And the road impracticable. Look, the Rhine-fog mounts already High up towards these upland forests, And it seems to me but prudent That with me you take your lodging; In the vale there stands my glebe-house, Plain, 'tis true, yet horse and rider Find sufficient shelter there." Then the horseman quickly answered: "Yes, I'm strange in a strange country, And I have not much reflected Where to-night shall be my lodging. To be sure, in these free forests A free heart can sleep if need be; But your courteous invitation I most gratefully accept." Then unfastened he his horse and Led it gently by the bridle, And the Pastor and the rider Like old friends walked to the village In the twilight of the evening. By the window of the glebe-house The old cook stood, looking serious; Mournfully her hands she lifted, Took a pinch of snuff and cried out: "Good St. Agnes! good St. Agnes! Stand by me in this my trouble! Thoughtlessly my kind old master Brings again a guest to stay here; What a thorough devastation Will he make in my good larder! Now farewell, you lovely brook-trout, Which I had reserved for Sunday, When the Dean of Wehr will dine here. Now farewell, thou hough of bacon! The old clucking hen, I fear much, Also now must fall a victim, And the stranger's hungry horse will Revel in our store of oats." SECOND PART. YOUNG WERNER WITH THE SCHWARZWALD PASTOR. Snugly in the well-warmed chamber, Now before the supper table, Sat the Trumpeter and Pastor, On the dish, right hot and steaming Had a roasted fowl paraded, But it had completely vanished; Only now a spicy fragrance Floated gently through the chamber, Like the songs by which the minstrel Still lives on through after ages; And the empty plates bore witness That a great and healthy hunger Lately here had been appeased. Now the Pastor raised a brimming Jug of wine, then filled the glasses And began, his guest accosting: "After supper 'tis the duty Of the host, his guest to question: Who he is, from whence he cometh? Where his country and his parents? In old Homer I have read oft That the King of the Phaeacians Thus the noble hero questioned; And I hope you can relate me Just as many strange adventures As Ulysses. Take your comfort, Seat yourself in that warm corner, Yonder by the stove, which is a Hatching nest of solid thinking; 'Tis according to our custom The narrator's seat of honour. And I'll listen with attention. Still the old man hears with pleasure Of the storms of youth's wild passions." Then the young man: "I am sorry Not to be a proven hero, Neither have I conquered Ilium, Nor have blinded Polyphemus, Neither have I ever thus far Met with any Royal Princess, Who when spreading out the linen Felt for me a soft compassion. But with pleasure I obey you." On the bench he took his seat now By the stove all covered over With glazed tiles much ornamented. From the stove streamed out warm comfort, And the Pastor kindly told him To stretch out his weary legs there. He, however, would not do so; Took a swallow of the red wine, And began to tell his story: "Know, my name is Werner Kirchhof; I was born and grew to manhood, In the Pfalz, at Heidelberg." Old Heidelberg, thou beauty. With many honours crowned; Along the Rhine and Neckar, No town like thee is found. Thou town of merry fellows, Of wisdom full and wine, Clear flows thy placid river, Blue eyes therein do shine. When from the south is spreading Spring's smile o'er hill and lea, He out of blossoms weaveth A bridal robe for thee. Thee as a bride I fondly Enshrine within my heart; Like early love's sweet echoes, Thy name doth joy impart. Become life's cares too burning, And all abroad looks bare, I'll spur my good horse homeward To the Neckar vale so fair. "On the borders of the Neckar I have dreamt sweet dreams of childhood, Also have a school attended, Greek and Latin there have studied; And a thirsty old musician Taught me how to blow the trumpet. When I reached my eighteenth birthday, Said my guardian: 'You, young Werner, With a clever head are gifted, And are somewhat of a genius, And cut out of right material; You must now become a lawyer. That brings office and great honours, Gathers also golden ducats. And already I do see you As the well-appointed bailiff Of His Grace the Grand Elector; And I then must pay you homage. I will venture the prediction, If you act quite circumspectly, Then a seat may yet await you In th' Imperial Court at Wetzlar.' Thus I then became a lawyer; Bought myself a great big inkstand, Also bought a huge portfolio, And a heavy Corpus Juris, And the lecture-room frequented, Where, with yellow mummy visage, Samuel Brunnquell, the professor, Roman law to us expounded. Roman law, when I recall it, On my heart it lies like nightmare, Like a millstone on my stomach, And my head feels dull and stupid. To much nonsense did I listen, How they in the Roman Forum Snarling, quarrelled with each other; How Sir Gaius stuck to his point, And to his Sir Ulpianus; How then later comers dabbled. Till the Emperor Justinianus, He of all the greatest dabbler, Sent them home about their business. And I often asked the question: 'Must it really be our fate then These dry bones to gnaw forever, Which were flung to us as remnants From their banquets by the Romans? Why should not, from soil Germanic, Spring the flower of her own law, Simple, full of forest fragrance-- No luxuriant southern climber? Sad fate of the late-born races! Must read till their brows are sweating, And must try to disentangle Knotty twisted skeins forever. Can't we have a sword to cut them?' "Often, nightly, by the lamp-light I sat poring o'er the Codex, Read the Glossary and Cujacius Till my weary brain was racking; But this zeal brought me no blessing. Merrily would then my thoughts fly From my studies to that time when Old Cujacius' lovely daughter Mounted in her father's rostrum, With her voice sweet and melodious, Read for him his written lectures To the lucky youth of Paris. Usucaption and inheritance, And Novella hundred and eighteen, Changed into a dark-haired maiden Peeping from the Corpus Juris. From my trembling hands the pen fell, Overturned were sand and inkstand, And I caught hold of the trumpet: Usucaption and inheritance, And Novella hundred and eighteen, Wailing in adagio tempo. Flew forth from the study window Far into the starry night. "Yes, this zeal brought me no blessing. I one day went from my lodging, 'Neath my arm the Corpus Juris ('Twas the Elzevir edition, Which at Rotterdam was published) To the Heugass', to the pawn-house, Where the Jew, Levi Ben Machol, With his squinting eyes rapacious, Took it in his arms paternal, Paid me then two golden ducats-- Someone else may now redeem it! I became a saucy fellow, Wandered much o'er hill and valley Clinking spurs and serenading. If I ever caught one sneering, Quickly grasped my hand the rapier: 'Fight a duel! draw your weapons! Now advance!' That whistled nicely Through the air; on many smooth cheeks Wrote my sword so sharp and steady A memento everlasting. I, however, must confess here, That I did not choose the finest Company to wander round with. What I liked, was to sit drinking Up in the Elector's Castle, By our age's greatest marvel Which the German mind has wrought out, By the tun of Heidelberg. A most worthy hermit dwelt there, Who was the Elector's court fool, Was my dear old friend Perkeo; Who had out of life's wild whirlpool Peacefully withdrawn himself where He could meditate while drinking, And the cellar was his refuge. Here he lived, his care dividing 'Twixt himself and the big wine-tun; And he loved it--truer friendship Never has the world yet witnessed; 'Twas as if it were his bride. With a broom he swept it shining, Chased away the ugly spiders, And whenever came a feast-day, Hung it o'er with wreaths of ivy; Sang to it the morning greeting, Also sang the song of evening, And he carved in wood the image Of himself as his best offering. But when sipping his reward then From the big tun's mouth with kisses, Forth he launched in flights of fancy. Often at his feet I listened To his odd and comic speeches: 'There above, they call me foolish, Let them gossip, my dear fellow, Gossip never doth annoy me. Oh, the world has grown quite stupid! How they grope, and how they stumble, Over paths, to find what Truth is; Still in fog they are enveloped. To the first cause of all being We must needs go back, and bring the Last result of our researches In a concrete form together. Thus we comprehend the world well; For this purpose I am drinking Truly cosmogonically. Mundane space to me is nothing But a roomy vaulted cellar, Where as first and central wine-tun, Firmly stands the sun erected! Next to him the rank and file of Smaller casks, fixed stars and planets. As the divers casks are holding Wines of various sorts and flavours, So comprise the heavenly bodies Various spiritual natures. Land-wine this--that Ruedesheimer; But the earth-cask holds a mixture; Fermentation has half clouded And half volatilised the spirit The antagony of matter And of spirit is, by thinking, Blended into higher union. Thus soars my creative genius Far on high, while I am drinking. And when through my brain are rushing Revelations from the wine-fumes, And when then my feeble body Tottering sinks down by the wine-tun, 'Tis the triumph of the spirit, 'Tis the act of self-deliverance From the narrow bounds of being. Thus my solitude doth teach me Nature's everlasting system. With mankind it would be better, Had the great Germanic race but Understood their high vocation, And throughout the world had carried High the standard of the wine-cask, Made of drinking a devotion-- As the Persians worship fire!' O Perkeo! better were it Now with me, if to thy wisdom I had never, never listened! 'Twas a sharp cold winter morning, When down in the cosy cellar We were taking a potation, Talking philosophically; But when I stepped out at midday, The whole world and everybody Looked most strangely queer and funny. Rosy hues lit up all Nature, Angel-voices I heard plainly. On the balcony of the castle Stood surrounded by her ladies, Full of grace, of all the fairest, The Electress Leonora, Up to her start my bold glances, Up to her my daring longing; Clouded was my understanding. Quickly I approached the terrace And began to sing the wild air Which the Palsgrave Frederic once sang, As a love-sick serenader, To his lovely English bride." I kneel to thee as thy faithful true knight, Fair Princess, of women the pearl! Command, and I fight the Emperor's host, Command, and I hold the most dangerous post, To atoms the world I will hurl. I'll fetch thee from Heaven the sun and the moon. Fair Princess, of women the crown! I'll fetch countless stars from yon azure height, Spit them like frogs on my spear sharp and bright, And low at your feet lay them down. Command, I will even become a fool, Fair Princess, of women the prize! Indeed, I am one already I see, The light is far too dazzling for me, Which streams from thy sunny blue eyes. * * * * * * * "Do you hear the trumpets blowing? Do you hear the cannon roaring? There, near Prague, at Weissenberg, now For Bohemia's throne they're fighting. Palsgrave, 'twas a short sad winter! Palsgrave, thou wast sore defeated! Spur thy horse and seek a refuge! "O thou fairest of all women, From my dream what an awaking! For there came to me the Beadle, Summoned me before the Rector. Grimly wrinkled he his forehead, Wild with rage his locks were shaking; Sternly he pronounced my sentence-- His Magnificence the Rector: 'For your unpermitted blowing, For your unpermitted sing-song In the Castle's sacred precincts, You must quit the town and college In three days; by special favour Of our gracious sovereign princess, Further punishment is spared.' "Leave the town now--was I dreaming? No, it was a fact well founded. But before I left the city, All my debts I fully settled, In such cases quite unusual; And I rode on the third morning Out of Heidelberg; the fourth day Out of the Elector's country Unoffended; though my home had Thrust me out--the bolts drawn on me-- Yet I will not cease to love her. And the trumpet, cause of mischief, I hung gaily on my shoulder. And I augur it shall yet peal Joyful tunes to help me onward. I don't know now to what haven Horse and tempest may yet bear me, Still I look not backward more. Cheerful heart and courage daring Knows no sorrow, nor despairing, Fortune has good luck in store. Thus I came into the Schwarzwald.-- My kind host, pray tell me frankly Whether my long tale has made you Feel a heavy sleep approaching. But if not, I'll be most grateful If you'll give me some advice." Smiling rang the good old Pastor Glass to glass, and smiling said he: "Your tale has a lucky ending. I remember quite another, Of a young and handsome carpenter, And a Margravine's allurements. But it ended on the gallows. In this case, I am much puzzled How to give you good advice. In my code it is not written How to counsel such a person, Who with songs insults fair ladies, Leaves his law books in the pawn-house, With his trumpet loudly bloweth To himself a rosy future. But when human knowledge faileth, Heaven graciously doth help us. Way down in the forest-city, There in Saekkingen is a worthy Patron saint of all young people, Is the holy Fridolinus, And to-morrow is his feast-day. Never has he yet forsaken Him who prays for help in trouble; Therefore ask Saint Fridolinus." THIRD PART. ST. FRIDOLIN'S DAY. Lo! a ship comes o'er the ocean, Near Franconia's coast approaching, Foreign sails and foreign pendant. At the rudder sits a pale man, Clad in black and monkish robes. Hollow, like a mournful wailing, Sounds the strange speech of the pilgrims, Sound their prayers, and cries of sailors. 'Tis the ancient Celtic language From the Emerald Isle of Erin; And the vessel bears the pious Missionary Fridolinus. "Cease thy grieving, dearest mother; Not with sword nor with the war-axe Shall thy son gain fame and honour: Other ages, other weapons-- Faith and Love are my sole armour. For the love I bear my Saviour I go forth unto the heathen; Celtic blood impels me onward. And in dreams I've seen a vision-- A strange land and pine-clad mountains, A clear stream with a green island, Most as fair as my own country; Thither points the Lord His finger, Thither sails now Fridolinus." With a few choice Irish comrades, Filled with earnest, calm devotion, Fridolin sailed o'er the ocean; Came into the Frankish Empire, Where at Paris reigned King Clovis. Smiling spake he to the pilgrims: "I had never great affection For the saints and monkish orders; Since, however, the accursed Allemanic lances whistled Nearer me than I thought pleasant On the battlefield of Zulpich, I have changed my mind entirely-- Even kings will pray in danger. Where you wander I'll protect you. And unto your special notice Recommend the Allemanni: They are stubborn and thick-headed, They are still most dogged heathen; Try to make them good and pious." Farther on the little band went, To the land of the Helvetians; There began their serious labour, And the holy cross was planted At the foot of snow-clad Saentis, Planted by the Bodensee. When descending from the Jura Fridolinus saw the ruins Of Augusta Rauracorum-- Roman walls--there still projected From the rubbish mighty columns Of the Temple of Serapis. But the Altar and the Cella Were o'ergrown with tangled brambles; And the ox-head of Serapis Had been built in o'er the stable By an Allemanic peasant, Whose forefathers had most likely Killed the last priest of Serapis. Seeing this then, Fridolinus Crossed himself and travelled onward, By the green banks of the river. Evening came, and far already Had the pious man now wandered. There beheld he, how the river Flowed in two divided branches; And in the green waters smiling Rose before him a small island, Sack like lying in the river. (Hence the peasants, who are never Over squeamish in comparing, Called the isle Sacconium.) Evening came; the larks were singing Fish sprang snapping from the water; Through the heart of Fridolinus Thrilled a thankful pious gladness. On his knees he sank down praying, For he recognised the island As the vision of his dreaming-- And he praised the Lord in Heaven. Oft, 'tis true, have many of us Mortals in these modern ages Also dreamt of tranquil islands, Where we happily might nestle, And the weary heart refresh with Forest calm and Sabbath quiet. Many also go with ardent Longing on the journey, but when Nearing as they hope their island, Suddenly it fades before them, As in southern climes the airy Image of the fay Morgana. Full of wonder, a wild native Sculled the stranger to the island, On a raft made of rough pine logs. Wild the island: limes and alders In low marshes here were growing; On the shore with pebbles covered, Also stood huge ancient willows; And some scattered huts with thatched roofs. Here in summer, when the salmon Are migrating up the river, Eager fishermen stand waiting With their long sharp pikes to spear them. Unremitting to his labour Went the saint--soon stood his log-house On the solid ground erected; Near the house the cross he planted. When the bell at dusk of evening Rang out far, Ave Maria! And he prayed devoutly kneeling; From the Rhine vale, many people Timidly looked at the island. Fierce and stubborn were these Almains. Once the Roman gods they hated; Now Franconia's God they hated, Who at Zulpich, like a tempest, Had o'erthrown their mighty host. When the lazy master idly Took his rest on winter evenings, And, with eager zest, the women Set their tongues in busy motion, And of this and that they gossiped-- How the jug of milk had curdled, How the hut was struck by lightning, How a youth was badly injured By a boar's sharp tusk when hunting-- Then in warning spoke the crafty Aged Allemanic grandam: "No one else have we to blame but Him who dwells on yonder island-- That old pallid, praying stranger. Trust ye not, I pray, the new God Of the Franks, nor false King Clovis!" And they feared the pious stranger. Once, upon the summer solstice, They all came unto his island, Drank there--after ancient custom-- Mead from their enormous tankards; And they tried to seize the stranger, But he had gone down the river. "We will leave this pallid man, then, Tokens that we've held our feast here!" Soon some lighted brands were flying In the hut of Fridolinus; And they sprang rejoicing through the Flames in singing, "Praised be Woden!" From the distance gazed with pleasure The old grandam, and her face shone Ghastly in the lurid light. Fridolinus, when returning, Saw his hut laid waste in ashes; And he said, then smiling sadly: "Lord, I thank thee for these trials, As they but increase my courage." Then he built anew his dwelling, And soon found an entrance open To the rough hearts of his neighbours. First the children, then the women, Listened to his gentle language; And some of the stubborn fellows Looked approval, when he showed them How in Erin, his own country, They could spear the salmon better; When he sang them ancient legends-- How, upon the Caledonian Cliffs, had raged a mighty battle With the Romans; and how Fingal Overthrew young Caracalla. Then they said: "A strong and mighty God has sent this man here to us; And a good God, for this stranger Bringeth blessing on our fishing." And in vain the grandam warned them: "Trust ye not, I pray, the new God Of the Franks and false King Clovis!" Yes, he touched these hearts so rugged Taught to them the Christian doctrine; And they understood that giving Is more blessed than receiving; That it was the Son of God who On the cross for men did suffer. Hardly had a year passed over-- 'Twas Palm-Sunday--when descended, From the slopes of all the mountains, A great throng, who then rowed over To the isle of Fridolinus. Peacefully there on the island, Sword, and shield, and axe they laid down; And the children gaily gathered For themselves the willow blossoms And sweet violets by the river. From his hut came Fridolinus, Fully robed in priestly vestments; By his side walked his companions Who had come from distant places: Gallas from Helvetia; also From the Bodensee Columban. And they led down to the shore then The great throng of the converted, And baptised them in the name of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. She alone did not come with them To the isle of Fridolinus, She the old and stubborn grandam; And she said: "No new gods need I, As my life is fast declining. I'm contented with the old ones, Who to me are kind and gracious, Who once gave me my dear husband-- My good, noble Siegebert. When'er Death from here should take me, I could never hope to find him; And for him my heart is yearning. In the woods I must be buried, Where the mandrake grows 'neath fir-trees Which with mistletoe are covered. I don't wish a cross on my grave, Shall not envy it to others." On that very day, however, Fridolin laid the foundations Of the cloister and the city; And his work waxed ever greater, And afar throughout the country Was the holy man revered. When again he paid a visit To King Clovis' court, in Paris, On his right the king did place him, And then solemnly donated The whole island to his cloister, And, besides, large tracts of country; Even a great saint became he. Have ye never heard the legend Of the court-day, and Count Ursus, Which the statues o'er the church door Have preserved e'en to the present? A great saint, indeed, became he, And is still the Rhineland's patron. To this day prevails the custom That the peasants have their first-born By the name of Fridli christened. * * * * On the sixth of March young Werner Gaily parted from the glebe-house; Gratefully he shook the hand of The good pastor, who sincerely Wished him a most pleasant journey. And the old cook was completely Reconciled unto the stranger; Bashfully she cast her eyes down To the ground, while deeply blushing, When young Werner, out of mischief, Kissed his hand to her, when leaving. Barking ran the two St. Bernards A long distance with our rider. Bright and warm the sun was shining On the town of Fridolinus; Solemn peals afar resounded, From the organ of the minster, As young Werner through the gate rode. Quickly found he first good shelter For his horse, and then he walked on To the crowded lively market, Went up to the old Cathedral, And he stood with head uncovered By the portal, where was passing Then the festive long procession. Through the war the precious relics Of the Saint had been well hidden In old Laufenburg's strong castle. They had often in the city Missed their presence with much sorrow. Now that peace once more was settled, They were striving with fresh ardour To do honour to their saint. At the head of the procession Came gay troops of merry children. But when they too loudly prattled, Then their old and gray-haired teacher Pulled them by the ear and scolded: "Keep quite still, my little people! Take great care, for Fridolinus May be listening to your gabbling. He, a Saint severe and holy, Will complain of you in Heaven." Twelve young men came next, who bore the Coffin, rich with gold and silver, Which enclosed the Saint's remains. Bearing it they chanted softly: Thou who dwellest high in Heaven, Bless thy people and thy city, Stretch o'er us thy arms of mercy, Fridolinus, Fridolinus! Grant us further thy protection; From all danger mayst thou guard us, War and pestilence keep from us, Fridolinus, Fridolinus! Then the Dean and all the Chaplains Followed after--bearing tapers Came the youthful Burgomaster, Came the town's wise Corporation And the other dignitaries: Bailiff, Revenue-receiver, Syndic, Notary, Attorney, And the old Chief Ranger also. (He came only for decorum, For with Mother Church and Saints' Days He was not upon good footing, Prayed much rather in the forest.) E'en the Messenger and Sergeant Did not then, as was their custom, Take a morning draught together, But joined gravely the procession. Then in dusky Spanish mantles, Ornamented with white crosses, Came the great Teutonic Order, All the Knights and their Commander. Down the river stood in Beuggen The Teutonic Order's Castle Whence at early dawn of morning All these knights had come on horseback. Then came black-robed, grave and aged, Noble ladies of the Convent, And in front by the blue standard Walked the aged Lady Abbess, And her thoughts were: "Fridolinus, Though thou art so full of kindness, One thing thou canst ne'er restore me, 'Tis my youth, so fair and golden. It was charming fifty years since, When my cheeks were red like roses, And when many knights were captured In the meshes of my glances! Long have I done penance for this, And I hope it is forgiven. Deeply wrinkled is my forehead, While the cheeks and lips are faded. And the sunken mouth is toothless." Next the train of noble ladies Came the burghers' comely housewives, At the end the elder matrons. Only one in work-day garments Kept aloof from the procession, 'Twas the hostess from the ancient Tavern of the "Golden Button;" So demanded ancient custom. There--so learn we from the legend-- Stood once in those heathen ages An old tavern; Fridolinus, When he first upon the island Set his foot, had there sought shelter; But the landlord, a rude heathen, Spoke unto the holy man thus: "All you priests are good for nothing, But to vilify our old gods; And you seldom carry even One red farthing in your pocket. So begone from off my threshold!" Now the purse of Fridolinus Had indeed but little in it, And he had to take his night's rest Underneath the shady lindens In the meadow. But the angels Cared well for him, and he found out, On awaking, that his purse was Filled with golden Roman pieces. Then again the Saint did visit The inhospitable tavern, Took a meal, and paid in shining Money what the host demanded; And to shame him left moreover Seven gold coins as a present. Thus for an eternal warning To all landlords void of pity, Although ages had elapsed since, No one from the "Golden Button" Could join in the Saint's procession. As the flowers in the mown field Gaily bloom 'mid dried up stubble, So close by the elder matrons Walked the lovely group of maidens, Clad in snow-white festive garments. Many old men, as they saw them Passing by in youthful beauty, Thought: "Upon our guard we must be, For these maidens are as dangerous As a Swedish regiment." In the front they bore a statue Of Our Lady, dress'd most richly, In a purple velvet garment, Which they had presented to her, As a grateful holy offering, When the weary war was ended. In that lovely file the fourth one Was a slender, light-haired maiden; On her curls, a wreath of violets, Over which the white veil floated, And it covered half her features, Like the hoar-frost in the Spring-time Glistening on the early rosebud. With her eyes cast down she passed by Where young Werner now was standing. He beheld her. Had the sun then Blinded suddenly his eyesight, Or the fair young maiden's beauty? Although others still came past him, Rooted to the spot he stood there, Looking only at the fourth one, Gazed, and gazed; when the procession Turned the corner of a side street Still he gazed, as if the fourth one In the file he must discover. "He is caught!" so goes the saying In that country, when one's soul is By the wand of love enchanted; Love can never be our captive, We are wholly conquered by him. So beware, my young friend Werner! Joy and sorrow hides the saying: "He is caught!" I need not say more. FOURTH PART. YOUNG WERNER'S ADVENTURES ON THE RHINE. Mirth now reigned within the city. Those who early had united In the honoured Saint's procession, Now sat, equally united, Drinking the good wine before them, Or the golden foaming beer. Corks were popping, glasses ringing; Many huge and mighty goblets By the guests were emptied quickly, In St Fridolinus' honour. Simpering with delight, the landlord Counted all the empty barrels, And, with a devout expression, Chalked them all upon the blackboard. From the inn outside the gate, which By the peasants was frequented, Came gay music; for, with legs crossed, There sat, playing on his fiddle, Schwefelhans, the violinist; And in wild and boisterous dances Were the Hauenstein young peasants Twirling round their buxom partners. Groaning was the floor, and shaking 'Neath their feet and heavy stamping, From the walls the plaster falling, So uproarious was their shouting. From afar, with turned-up noses, Many dandies looked on sneering; Yet, within themselves were thinking: "Better, after all, than nothing." The sedate and older people Sat together in the tap-room. As their ancestors delighted To get drunk in Woden's honour, So, in true historic spirit. They for Fridolin got tipsy. Many troubled faithful consorts Pulled their husbands by the coat-tail, When the second and the third piece Of hard money here was squandered; But the husband said quite coolly: "Dearest wife, control thy humour, For to-day all must be spent here!" And he left not till the watchman With the halberd came and ordered That 'twas time to close the tavern. With uncertain steps, ill-humoured, To his mountain-home he totters: And the silent night is witness Of some sudden headlong tumbles. But she covers them with darkness-- Kindly--as she does the beating Which, as finish to the feasting, He bestows on his poor consort. Lonely, far-off from the bustle, Walked young Werner toward the Rhine-strand, Without thinking where he wandered. Still before his eyes there hovered Those sweet features of the maiden Which he had beheld that morning, But now seemed a dream's fair vision. Burning was his brow; his eyes now Restlessly strayed up to heaven, Then he cast them meekly downward, As if asking where to find her; And he did not mind the north wind, Which his locks dishevelled sadly. Through his heart hot glowing thoughts ran Wildly chasing one another, Like the mist, which in the autumn Moves around the tops of mountains In most oddly-changing shapes; And it rang and surged within him, Like the first germ of a poem Growing in the mind's recesses. Also, thus, in bygone ages, By the Arno strolled another Child of man, plunged in deep musing; And he also blew the trumpet, Which, like that of the last judgment, Rang aloud, in piercing notes, through His benighted rotten age. But when he, upon that feast-day, First beheld the wondrous maiden Who his leading star through life was, And to Paradise did lead him; He then wandered by the river, Under shady oaks and myrtles; And, for all the joyful feelings Which within his heart were ringing, He could only find the utterance: "Beatrice! Beatrice!" And thus, after many thousand And still thousand years have rolled by, Others, who with love are stricken, Dreamily will walk the same way. And whenever the last scion Of the Germans on the Rhine-shore Has been gathered to his fathers, Then will others walk and muse there, And in gentle foreign language Murmur the sweet words: "I love thee!" Do you know them? They have noses Somewhat flattened out and ugly; By the Aral and the Irtish, Now their ancestors drink whisky, But to them belongs the future. Youthful love, thou pearl so precious, To the wounded heart a balsam, To life's tossing ship an anchor, Oasis in sandy deserts; Never would I venture singing Any new song to thy honour. I'm one of the Epigoni; And great hosts of valiant people Lived before King Agamemnon. I know also wise King Solomon, And the petty German poets. Bashful only, and most grateful, I recall thy gentle magic. As a golden light it shineth Through the mists of youth, and clearly To our view unveils life's outlines; Shows us where to plant our footsteps, And gives courage to the wanderer. Lofty hopes and timid longing, Dauntless thoughts and stubborn courage, All these do we owe to Love; And the cheerful heart that helps us, Like a mountain-staff, to spring o'er Rocks which lie upon our pathway. Happy, therefore, is the heart which Love triumphantly has entered! But young Werner seemed unconscious Why he thus to-day was strolling Idly here along the river. Dreamily he walked close by it, Heedless of the waves which often Gave his boots a thorough wetting. From the river's depths gazed at him Then the Rhine, who just the battle Of two aged crabs was watching, And with noisy, ringing laughter, Nodded praises, when in rage they Crossed their horny claws together. Yes, the Rhine--he is a handsome Youthful man, and not alone a Geographical conception-- For young Werner he felt pity. Rustling rose he from the water, In his locks a wreath of rushes, And a reed-staff in his right hand. Werner, like all Sunday children, Saw much more than other mortals; So he quickly recognised him, And made him a low obeisance. Smiling then to him the Rhine said: "Have no fear, my dear young dreamer, For I know where thy shoe pinches. Ye are strange and odd, ye mortals; Ye believe ye bear a secret Through the world in lonely musing, And each chafer understands it; E'en the gnats and the mosquitoes See it on your heated foreheads, See it in your tearful glances, That Love holds you in his meshes. Have no fear, I know what love is; I have heard upon my journeys Many false and many true vows Whispered in Romansh and German, Also in the Low Dutch language (In the last oft most insipid). Nightly likewise have I listened Near the shores to much flirtation And much kissing, yet kept silent. Many a poor devil also, In whose heart deep grief was gnawing, In my waves found peace and comfort. When the water-nymphs had gently Lulled him there to sleep, I bore him Off with care to shores far distant. Under willows, under rushes, Far from tongues of deadly malice, Rest is sweet to false Love's victims. Many thus have I so buried; I have also harboured many On the river's deep cool bottom In my crystal water-palace; Lodged them well so that they never Longed for man, nor for returning. "Have no fear, I know what love is. I myself feel something tightening Round my heart, when I the Schwarzwald's Mountains greet, and jump rejoicing O'er Schaffhausen's precipices, Force my way with courage, rushing Through the straits of Laufenburg. For I know that soon my lovely Schwarzwald child, the youthful Wiese, Comes to meet me, bashful, timid; And she prattles, in the rough speech Of the Almains, of the Feldberg, Of the ghosts beheld at midnight, Of sweet mountain flowers, and huge Caps and thirsty throats at Schopfheim. Yes, I love her, I have never Gazed enough at her blue eyes yet. Yes, I love her, I have never Kissed enough her rosy cheeks yet. Oft I rush, like thee, a dreamer, Wildly past old sober Basel, Get quite tired of the tedious Old town-councillors, and ruin Now and then a wall in passing. And they think, it was in anger, What was only done in frolic. Yes, I love her. Many other Charming women much pursue me; None, however,--e'en the stately, Richly vine-clad, blue-eyed Mosel-- Ever from my heart can banish Thee, the Feldberg's lovely daughter. When I through the sands of Holland Weary drag my sluggish waters, And I hear the wind-mills clapper, Tender longings oft steal o'er me For my early lovely sweetheart. Then with deep dull sound my waves roll Onward through the tedious meadows, Roll out far into the North Sea, But not one there understands me. "Have no fear; I know what love is. Ye I know, ye German dreamers Who on my fair shores are dwelling. I, indeed, am your true likeness, Am the history of your nation; Storm and passion, bitter ending, All are pictured in my course. Most romantic is my birthplace, And weird Alpine spirits watched well By my glittering icy cradle, And conducted me to daylight. Strong and wild was I in childhood; Never can the rocks be counted, Which I roaring dashed to pieces, And hurled up like balls at tennis. Fresh and gay I then float onward, Through the Swabian sea, and carry, Unimpaired, my youthful powers Farther to the German country. And once more come up before me All the fragrant recollections Of romance; my youthful dreaming Sweetly then returns transfigured: Foam and surging, strong-walled cities, Rocks and castles, quiet cloisters, Smiling vineyards on the hillside; From the tower calls the watchman, And the pennon gaily flutters, And from yonder cliff is ringing Wondrously the Lurley's song. But, alas! the good time passes; Nought but grief is then my portion; I devote myself to drinking, Pray at Coeln in the Cathedral, And become a beast of burden. Shabby tradesmen must I serve then, On my ill-used back must carry All the Dutchman's clumsy tow-boats. In the sand, to me so hateful, Wearily my way I drag on, And I've long been dead already, Ere my grave, the sea, receives me. So beware of such stagnation! "Yes, I can much more relate thee; I to-day am in good humour, And I love all jovial fellows, Who like thee and like myself face, Gaily with light hearts, the Future. But I'll end this long discourse now, And will give thee my best counsel. I know well that thou art love-struck, Know, thou lovest Margaretta, The old Baron's lovely daughter, Whose old castle standing yonder Is in my green waves reflected. Oft I see with joy the maiden Standing there upon the terrace, And I'll gladly take thee near her. There's the boat and there's the rudder; All the rest may well be trusted To thy own instinctive wisdom." Saying this, he shook his locks, and Dived beneath the water's surface; And the foaming surging waves then Closed the whirlpool where he vanished. And afar rang out his laughter, For, the battle of the crab had Ended now, one lay there bleeding, Of the tail bereft the other. Werner did as he was counselled. An old tower was there standing By the shore, half in the river; And where through a secret wicket To the strand came down the fisher, Was a quiet hidden inlet, Where lay boat and rudder ready. As the boatman kept the feast-day, So without permission Werner Took possession of the boat there. In the meantime evening crept on: Here and there rang from the mountains Clear and sharp, a shouting from some Tipsy peasant going homeward. O'er those distant pine-tree forests Streamed the moonlight through the valley; Bashfully some stars already From the clear blue sky were peeping. From the shore shoved off young Werner. As a horse, when in his stable Long imprisoned, gaily prances, Neighs with joy, when he can carry Through the fields again his master: So shot boldly swiftly downward, On the water gaily bounding, The light boat, and speeding onward Passed the walls of the old city. Soon it gained the ancient Rhine bridge, Which with timber-covered arches Boldly spans from shore to shore. And courageously young Werner Steered right through below the third pier, Laughing, when, as if to vex him, Three times up and three times downward Danced his boat, seized by the whirlpool Soon he now beheld the castle With its gable-roofs and turrets, Shining through the lofty chestnuts, All illumined by the moonlight. Yonder rose up from the river By the shore a bank of gravel, Bare and barren; it was often Flooded over by the river. Out of fun the country people Called it field of Fridolinus. Thither now the frail boat drifted; There it halted on the shelving Pebbly ground. Out jumped young Werner, And he looked with eager glances Whether he could not descry her. He could only see a distant Twinkling light up in the turret; But this wholly satisfied him. Often doth a distant vision More delight bestow upon us Than the fulness of possession; Hence our Song dwells on his pleasure, As he stands there on the sand-bank At that light in rapture gazing. Spread before his dreamy eyes lay Rosy visions of the future; Neither sun nor stars shone in them, Nothing but that light's faint glimmer. From the turret, where it flickered, Love flew forth, on rapid pinions, Noiselessly to him descended, And unseen stood there beside him On the field of Fridolinus; And he handed him the trumpet Which from Werner's neck was hanging, Saying: Blow your trumpet, blow it! And he blew until his blowing Filled with melody the night air. In the depths the Rhine was listening, Salmon, trout, and pike were listening, Water-nymphs were listening also, And the wind the ringing tones bore To the castle tenderly. FIFTH PART. THE BARON AND HIS DAUGHTER. Now, my Muse, thy powers summon! For thy path leads to the Baron And the lovely Margaretta. Now be circumspect and courteous; For, an aged trooper-colonel Might with thee and others like thee Not be very ceremonious; But might throw thee down the staircase, Which is steep and very slippery, And might prove injurious to thee. Now, my Muse, mount upward to the Castle gate, behold there sculptured The three balls upon the scutcheon. As in the armorial bearings Of the Medici in Florence-- Signs of ancient, noble lineage; Now ascend the steps of sandstone, Loudly knock at the great hall door, Then step in and give report of What thou there hast slyly noticed. In the spacious, lofty knights' hall, With its walls of panelled oak-wood. And with rows of old ancestral Dusty portraits decorated, There the Baron took his comfort, Seated in his easy arm-chair By the cheerful blazing fire. His mustache was gray already; On his forehead, which a Swedish Troopers sword had deeply scarred once, Many wrinkles had been furrowed Also by the hand of Time. And a most unpleasant guest had Taken quarters uninvited In the left foot of the Baron. Gout 'tis called in vulgar parlance, But if any learned person Rather podagra should call it, I shall offer no objection; Not the less will be its torments. Just this day the pangs were milder, Only now and then increasing, When the Baron, smiling, spoke thus: "Zounds! 'tis evident that in the Long and dreadful Thirty Years' war. E'en this plaguy gout adopted Something of the art of tactics. The attack begins in order; First the skirmishers go forward, Then the flying columns follow. Oh, I wish the devil had them, This whole reconnoitring party! But not even this sufficeth. Just as if I had a fortress In my heart--like guns 'tis roaring. Then it throbs like storming parties, Piif! paif! I capitulate." But just then there was a truce held. So the Baron took his comfort As he filled out of the stone jug His large goblet brimming over. Up by Hallau where the last spurs Of the Hohe-Randen's ridges To the Rhine are sloping downward, Where the vintner, while at labour, Hears the ceaseless mighty roaring Of the Rhine-fall by Schaffhausen: Had the sun with fervent glowing Ripened well the spicy red wine Which the Baron had selected As his usual evening beverage. And, to heighten his enjoyment, He puffed out clouds of tobacco. In his red and simple clay-pipe Burned the weed from foreign countries, Which he smoked through a long pipe-stem Made of fragrant cherry-wood. At the Baron's feet was lying Gracefully the worthy tom-cat, Hiddigeigei, with the coal-black Velvet fur and mighty tail. 'Twas an heirloom from his long-lost, Much-beloved, and stately consort, Leonore Monfort du Plessys. Hiddigeigei's native country Was Hungaria, and his mother, Who was of the race Angora, Bore him to a Puszta tom-cat. In his early youth to Paris He was sent as a fond token Of the love of an Hungarian, Who, though far in Debreczin, still With due reverence had remembered The blue eyes of Leonora, And the rats in her old palace. With the stately Leonora To the Rhine came Hiddigeigei. A true house-pet, somewhat lonesome Did he while away his life there; For, he hated to consort with Any of the German cat-tribe. "They may have," thus he was thinking In his consequential cat-pride, "Right good hearts, and may possess too At the bottom some good feeling, But 'tis polish that is wanting; A fine culture and high breeding, I miss sorely in these vulgar Natives of this forest-city. And a cat who won his knight spurs In fair Paris, and who often In the quarter of Montfaucon Has enjoyed a racy rat-hunt, Misses in this little town here All that is to him congenial, Any intercourse with equals." Isolated, therefore, but still Ever dignified and solemn Lived he in this lonely castle. Graceful through the halls he glided, Most melodious was his purring; And in fits of passion even, When he curved his back in anger, And his hair stood bristling backward, Never did he fail to mingle Dignity with graceful bearing. But when over roof and gable Up he softly clambered, starting On a hunting expedition. Then mysteriously by moonlight His green eyes like emeralds glistened; Then, indeed, he looked imposing This majestic Hiddigeigei. Near his cat sat the old Baron. In his eyes were often flashes, Now like lightning--then more softened Like the mellow rays of sunset, As he thought of bygone times. To old age belongs the solace Of recalling days of yore. Thus the aged ne'er are lonely. The dear shades are floating round them, Of the dead, in quaint old garments, Gorgeous once, now sadly faded. But fond memory blots decay out, And the skulls once more with beauty Are arrayed in youthful freshness. Then they talk of days long vanished, And the aged heart is beating, And the fist oft clinches tightly. As he passes by her turret, Once again she smiling greets him; Once again resound the trumpets, And the fiery charger bears him Neighing to the throng of battle. So the Baron with good humour Of the Past review was holding-- And, when oft he stretched his hand out, Suddenly grasped at his goblet, And a deep long draught then swallowed: Probably a dear and lovely Vision rose up bright before him. Oft it seemed as if his memory Clung to things which gave less pleasure; For sometimes, without a reason, Down there came on Hiddigeigei's Back a kick with cruel rudeness. And the cat thought it more prudent Then his resting-place to alter. Now into the hall stepped lightly The old Baron's lovely daughter Margaretta,--and her father Nodded kindly as she entered. Hiddigeigei's suffering face too Showed delight as cats express it. She had changed her festal white robe For a garment of black velvet. On her long and golden tresses, A black cap sat most coquettish, 'Neath which her blue eyes were smiling With a matron-like expression; To the girdle was attached the Bunch of keys and leather-pocket, German housewife's badge of honour. And she kissed the Baron's forehead, Saying: "Dear papa, don't blame me, If to-day I kept you waiting. The old Lady Abbess yonder In the convent did detain me, Told me many things of import, Wisely of old age discoursing, And of Time, the great destroyer. The Commander too of Beuggen Said such sweet things, just as if they Came right from the comfit-maker. I was glad, when I could leave them. For your lordship's further pleasure Here I am, all due attention. I am ready, from your favourite Theuerdank to read aloud now; For, I know, you like the rougher Tales of hunting and adventure, Better than the mawkish sweetness Of our present pastoral poets. "But, O wherefore, dearest father, Are you ever, ever smoking This bad poisonous tobacco? I am frightened when I see you Sitting there in clouds enveloped As in times of fog the Eggberg. And I'm sorry for the gilded Picture-frames hung on the walls there, And the pretty snow-white curtains. Don't you hear their low complaining, How the smoke from your red-clay pipe Makes them faded, gray and rusty? 'Tis most truly a fine country, That America which once the Spanish admiral discovered. I myself take great delight in The gay plumage of the parrots, And the pink and scarlet corals; Dream at times also of lofty Graceful palm-groves, lonely log-huts, Cocoa-nuts, gigantic flowers, And of mischievous wild monkeys. I wish almost it were lying In the sea still undiscovered; All because of this tobacco Which has been imported hither. I can grant a man forgiveness, Who more often than is needed Draws his red wine from the barrel, And could get, if necessary, Reconciled unto his red nose; Never to this horrid smoking." Smiling had the Baron listened, Smiling he puffed many smoke-clouds From his clay-pipe, and then answered: "Dearest child, you women always Thoughtlessly do talk of many Things beyond your comprehension. It is true that soldiers often Take up many evil habits, Not adapted to the boudoir. But my daughter finds with smoking Too much fault; for through this habit I have won my wife and household. And because to-day so many Old campaign tales through my head run, Do not read to-night. Sit down here; I will now relate thee something Of this much-abused tobacco, And of thy blest angel mother." Sceptically, Margaretta With her large blue eyes looked at him, Took her work up to embroider, Coloured worsted and her needle, Moved her stool then near the Baron's Arm-chair, and sat down beside him. Charming picture! In the forest, Round the knotty oak thus climbeth The wild rose in youthful beauty. Then the Baron at one swallow Drank his wine, and thus related: "When the wicked war was raging, I once roved with some few German Troopers yonder in fair Alsace; Hans von Weerth was our good colonel. Swedes and French laid siege to Breisach, And their camp was all alive with Stories of our daring ventures. But who e'er can stand 'gainst numbers? So one day the hounds attacked us, Just as if wild beasts they hunted; And at last, when bleeding freely From the wounds their fangs inflicted, We were forced to lay our arms down. Afterwards the French transported Us as prisoners to Paris, Caged us in Vincennes' strong fortress. 'Damn them!' said our valiant colonel, Hans von Weerth, 'it was much nicer, Galloping, with shining sabres Hostile lines to charge with fury, Than on this hard bench to sit here, And to battle with ennui thus. For this foe there is no weapon, Neither wine nor even dice-box, Nothing but tobacco. I once Tried it in the country of the Dull Mynheers, and here it also Will do service; let us smoke then!' The commander of the fortress Got a keg of best Varinas For us from a Dutch retailer, Got us also well-burnt clay-pipes. In the prisoners' room commenced now Such a smoking, such a puffing Of dense clouds of strong tobacco As no mortal eyes had seen yet In the gallant Frenchmen's country. Full of wonder gazed our jailors, And the news spread to the king's ears, And the king himself in person Came to see this latest marvel. Soon all Paris rang with stories Of the wild and boorish Germans, And of their, as yet unheard of, Truly wondrous feats in smoking. Coaches drove up, pages sprang down, All came to the narrow guard-room, Cavaliers and stately ladies; She came also, she the noble Leonore Montfort du Plessys. Even now I see her slight foot Stepping on our rough bare stone-floor, Hear her satin train still rustling, And my soldier's heart is beating As if in the thick of battle. Like the smoke from the big cannons Came the smoke out of my clay-pipe; And 'twas well so. On the same cloud Which I puffed there in the presence Of the proud one, sat god Cupid, Gaily shooting off his arrows, And he knew well how to hit right. Out of wonder grew deep interest, Then the interest fast to love changed, And the German bear appeared soon Finer far and nobler than the Paris lions altogether. "When, at last, the gates were opened Of our dungeon, and the herald Brought us tidings of our freedom, I was then still more a captive Bound in Leonora's fetters; And remained thus, and the wedding Which soon took us home to Rhine-land Only made the rivets stronger. When I think of this, I feel that Tears on my mustache are rolling. For what now to me remaineth Of the past so fair, but memory, And the black cat, Hiddigeigei, And my Leonora's image. Thou my child. God give her soul rest!" Speaking thus, he knocked the ashes From his pipe, and patted gently Hiddigeigei; but his daughter Roguishly knelt down before him. Saying: "Dearest father, grant me Your entire absolution. Never shall you hear in future From my lips an observation On account of this vile smoking." Graciously the Baron said then: "Thou hast also been sarcastic At my drinking oft too freely; And I have a mind to tell thee Still a most instructive story, How in Rheinau in the cloister, As the guest of the Lord Abbot I went through a bout of drinking In the famous wine of Hallau. But"--the Baron stopped and listened. "Zounds!" he said, "what's that I hear there? Whence doth come that trumpet-blowing?" Werner's music through the March night, Plaintive soared up to the castle, Begging entrance like a pet-dove, Which, returning to its mistress, Finds the window closed and fastened, And begins to peck and hammer. To the terrace went the Baron And his daughter; Hiddigeigei Followed both with step majestic. Through the cat's heart then swept omens Of a great, eventful future. All around they looked--but vainly. For the turret's gloomy shadow Covered both the bank and Werner. Like the blowing of the moot, then Like the clanging charge of horsemen, Up it mounted to the terrace, Then died out;--a small boat dimly They saw moving up the river. Backward stepped the Baron quickly, Pulled the bell and called his servant Anton, who came in directly. "Gain immediate information Who was blowing here the trumpet On the Rhine at this late hour. If a spirit, sign the cross thrice; If a mortal, greet him kindly, And command his presence hither, For with him I must hold converse." Soldier-like, saluting, turned then Right about face good old Anton: "I'll fulfil your lordship's orders." Meanwhile, silently descended Midnight over vale and city; And in Margaretta's slumbers Came a dream most sweet and wondrous: As she walked to the old minster Once again in festal garments, Fridolinus came to meet her; By his side there walked another, But 'twas not the dead man who once Followed him to Glarus court-house; 'Twas a youth, fair, tall, and slender; Like a trumpeter he looked, and Greeted her with lowly reverence; While Saint Fridolin was smiling. SIXTH PART. HOW YOUNG WERNER BECAME THE BARON'S TRUMPETER. Master Anton started early The next morning for the city, To find out that trumpet blower. By St. Fridolin's cathedral He turned off into a side-street. From the other side there came with Rapid steps the boatman Martin, And they met just at the corner, Bumping up against each other. "'Pon my soul," cried out the worthy Anton, as he rubbed his forehead; "Your thick skull is hard as iron." "Yours is not upholstered either With soft wool or springy sea-weed," Was the boatman's ready answer. "And what business have you running Through the city's streets thus early?" "I can ask the same," said Anton. "I seek someone who last evening From the shore my boat unfastened," Answered him the boatman Martin. "He may be my man," said Anton. "When I came down to the river, There I found my boat turned over On the shore--the rudder broken, And the fastening cut asunder. If a thunderstorm would only Sweep away these wicked people, Who like thieves at night are roving On the Rhine in borrowed vessels." "And the trumpet blow," said Anton.-- "But whenever I shall find him, To the justice I shall take him. He must pay me; even for the Black and blue mark which you gave me, I shall bring a heavy reckoning. It is shameful how this fellow Gives me such vexation!" Thus the Boatman scolding went on farther. "And I do not see myself, why I should take such extra trouble To hunt up this mischief-maker," Said old Anton to himself then. "Seems to me it is already Just the time when honest people For their morning draught are longing." To the "Golden Button's" shady Tap-room turned the worthy Anton Now his steps, and through a side-door In he stepped: he deemed it wiser Thus to hide before the public Such an early morning visit. Many worthy folks already Had there quietly assembled O'er their brimming foaming bumpers. Like red roses shone their faces, And like radishes their noses. "Want a big glass?" asked the waitress Our old Anton, who assented: "To be sure! hot is the weather, And when I woke up, already In my throat I felt a dryness." So good Anton soon was drinking From his large Bohemian bumper, Turning over in his mind well, How he should despatch his business. In the private room was sitting, Just then Werner with the landlord, Who had served for his guest's breakfast A fine slice of red smoked salmon, And commenced with the young stranger An instructive conversation: On the vintage in the Rhine-Pfalz, How the price of hops was standing, How they fared in time of war there. Now and then, to sound the stranger, He threw slyly out some questions, Whence he came and what his business. Still he gained no satisfaction; But quite shrewdly thus he reasoned: "He's no bookworm, for he seemeth Much too martial--nor a soldier Either, as he looks too modest; He may be a necromancer, An adept in all dark witchcraft, Alchemy, and other black arts. Wait, I'll catch thee;" and he turned their Talk to hidden buried treasures, And to midnight exorcisms. "Yes, my friend, here near the city Lies a sandbank in the river. At the time of Fridolinus Heaps of gold coin there were buried. One who knows, a clever fellow, Could there dig and make his fortune." "I already saw the sandbank," Said young Werner, "when I rowed there On the Rhine last night by moonlight." "What, you know it then already?" Said the landlord much astonished. "Have I caught thee?" he thought, keenly Looking at young Werner's pockets, If he could not hear a jingling Of great lots of golden money. "Have I caught thee?" also gladly To himself said worthy Anton. "It is, after all, the right thing Thus to take an early potion." From the spot where he was seated He had heard their conversation; And besides upon the table. By the stranger's sword and cocked hat, Also lay the sought-for trumpet. Drawing near, then, he said gravely: "With your leave, if you're no spirit-- And that seems to me unlikely. As you've just enjoyed your breakfast-- Then the Baron sends you greeting, And invites you to his castle. I will take you there with pleasure." Thus he spoke. Young Werner listened, Half astonished, and went with him. Smirking, thought the cunning landlord: "You will get it, my young master; You believed you had full freedom Thus to rove about the river, Spying out long-buried treasures. But the Baron found you out soon, And will stop your bold proceedings. Now you'll get it, when he treats you, From his amply-furnished stores, to Some of his well-seasoned curses. Like a top your head will spin then, And your ears buzz like a beehive. But this will concern you solely. If he keep you in a dungeon Of your horse I'll take possession; It will well score off your reckoning." Once more in the hall together Were the Baron and his daughter, And again he smoked his pipe there, When the ponderous folding-doors were Opened, and, with modest reverence, Werner entered. "If you only," Said the faithful Anton, "only Knew, your gracious lordship, what a Heavy task it was to find him!" Keenly did the Baron's eyes rest On young Werner, passing muster; By her father, lightly leaning On his arm-chair, Margaretta Bashfully looked at the stranger, And with both the first impression Of each other was most happy. "It is you, then," said the Baron, "Who last night have startled us here With your trumpet-blowing, therefore I should like to speak to you now." "This commences well," thought Werner, And, embarrassed, cast his eyes down To the ground. But the old Baron, Kindly smiling, thus continued: "You believe, perhaps, I shall now Call you to account for having Made loud music near the castle? You are wrong, 'tis not my business; For no license is here needed On the Rhine; if anybody Wants to catch a cold by playing Late at night there, he may do so. No, I only wish to ask you, Whether you would like here often As last night to blow the trumpet? But I fear I am mistaken. You are not by trade a player, May be one of those damned scribblers, Secretary to a foreign Embassy, as many are now Coaching all about the country, Just to spoil all that the soldier's Ready sword had once accomplished?" "Not bad either," thought young Werner; Still he liked the Baron's manner. "I am no professional player," Said he, "and still less a scribbler. As for my part, all the inkstands In the Holy Roman Empire Might dry up without my caring. I am not in any service, But as my own lord and master I am travelling for my pleasure, And await whatever fortune On my pathway may be blooming." "Very good, then," said the Baron. "If it stands thus, you may well hear Everything I have to tell you; But before we go on farther, With old wine it must be seasoned." Cleverly his thoughts divining, Margaretta, from the cellar, Now brought up two dusty bottles Which, with spider-webs all covered, In the sand had lain half-buried; Brought with them two fine-cut goblets, Which she filled and then presented. "This wine ripened long before the War raged in our German country," Said the Baron. "'Tis a famous Choice old wine which grew at Grenzach. Brightly in the glass it sparkles, Like pure gold its colour shineth, And a fragrance rises from it Like the finest greenhouse flowers. Master Trumpeter, ring glasses!" Loudly then rang both their goblets. Emptying his, the Baron spun out Farther still the conversation. "My young friend, you know, as long as This world lasts, there will be people Who are fond of hobby-horses. Some are mystics and ascetics, Others love old wine or brandy. Some, antiquities are seeking, Others are for chafers craving; Many others make bad verses. 'Tis a curious joke that each one Much prefers to choose a calling Most unsuited to his nature. I thus also ride my hobby, And this hobby is the noble Muse of music who regales me. As King Saul's deep sorrow vanished At the sound of David's harp once, So with cheering sounds of music Do I banish age's inroads And the gout, my old disturber. When sometimes in _tempo presto_ I an orchestra am leading, Oft I think I'm once more riding At the head of my brave squadrons. Right wing, charge the enemy! charge! At them now you piercing violins! Fire away you kettle-drums now! In the town here there are many Skilful players--though among them Is a want of sense artistic, And of connoisseurship, only Their good will doth hide their failings. Violin, flute, also viol, All these parts are well supported And the contrabass is perfect. But _one_ player still is wanting; And, my friend, what is a general Without orderlies, without a Fugleman the line of battle, And a band without the trumpet? "Once 'twas different These old walls can Hear him still, the valiant Rassmann, The chief trumpeter of my squadrons. Ha! that was a noble blowing! Rassmann, wherefore didst thou die? "Still as clear as on his last day, Do I see him at the shooting Festival at Laufenburg. His mustache was fiercely twisted, Bright and glistening was his trumpet, And his riding-boots were shining Like a mirror; I was chuckling. ''Tis a point of honour,' said he. 'I must all these Swiss astonish With myself and with my trumpet.' "Clear and cheerful rang out yonder Bugle-horns and trumpets; but as O'er the choir of forest singers Sounds the nightingale's sweet warbling, So above all rang out loudly Rassmann's wondrous trumpet-blowing. When we met, his cheeks were scarlet, And fatigued appeared his breathing. ''Tis a point of honour,' said he; And blew on still. Then were silenced All the trumpeters from Frickthal, Those from Solothurn and Aarau, By the trumpeter great Rassmann. Once again we met, 'twas evening. In the 'Golden Swan' he sat then; Like a giant 'mid the pigmies Looked he in this crowd of players. Many were the goblets emptied By the trumpeters from Frickthal, And from Solothurn and Aarau, But the most capacious goblet Was drank out by my brave Rassmann. And with fiery Castelberger, Which grows on the Aar by Schinznach, He at last filled up his trumpet. ''Tis a point of honour,' said he; Drank it out at one long swallow. 'To your health my worthy colleagues! Thus drinks trumpet-blower Rassmann.' Midnight had already passed by, Under tables lay some snoring, But with steady step and upright Started Rassmann from the tavern. On the Rhine with mocking humour He poured forth a roguish tune yet, Then a misstep! Poor, poor Rassmann! Straight he fell into the river, And the Rhine's tremendous whirlpool Thundered foaming and engulfed him, Him the bravest trumpet-blower. Ha! that was a noble blowing! Rassmann, wherefore didst thou die?" Deeply moved the Baron told this; Then continued after pausing: "My young friend, and think, last evening On the Rhine a trumpet rang out Like a greeting from his spirit, And a tune I heard performed there, Such a wilderness of sounds, and Played in Rassmann's finest manner. If we only had that trumpet, Then the gap would be filled up well. And once more I'd lead a full band, As it were to frays of music. Therefore hear now my proposal: Stay with us here in my castle. Paralysed is now the music In the forest-city, blow then New life into her old bones." Thoughtfully spoke then young Werner: "Noble lord, you do me honour, But I nourish a misgiving. Slim and straight have I thus grown up, Have not learnt the art of bending My proud back in any service." Said the Baron: "Take no trouble On that head; because the service Of the arts enslaves nobody. Only want of understanding Makes one lose one's independence. Be assured, nought is required Of you but some merry music. Only, if in idle moments You would write for me a letter, Or with my accounts would help me, I should thank you; for an ancient Soldier finds the pen a burden." Still young Werner hesitated; But a glance at Margaretta, And the clouds of doubt all vanished. "Noble lord," he said, "I'll stay then, On the Rhine shall be my home now!" "Bravo!" said the Baron kindly. "From the prompting of the moment Have the best results proceeded; Evil springs from hesitation. Master Trumpeter ring glasses! With the golden wine of Grenzach, With a hearty grasp of hands thus Let us seal our new-made contract." Turning then to Margaretta: "I present to you, my daughter, This new member of our household." Then young Werner's silent greeting Was returned by Margaretta. "Follow me now through the castle, My young friend, that I may show you Where you will abide in future. In the tower there I have the Very room for a musician, O'er the Rhine and mountains looking; And the radiant morning sun will Wake you early from your slumber. There you cosily can nestle. And the trumpet will sound well there." From the hall they both proceeded. From the hall the Baron's daughter Also went, and in the garden Gathered cowslips and sweet violets, Also other fragrant flowers, Speaking to herself: "How lonely Must the young man feel here, coming Thus to dwell with utter strangers! And, besides, the tower-room looks With its whitewashed walls so naked, That I think my pretty nosegay Will do much for its adornment." SEVENTH PART. THE EXCURSION TO THE MOUNTAIN LAKE. Azure heavens, glowing sunlight, Bees' low humming, larks' gay carols, Clear as glass the Rhine's green waters. On the mountains snow is melting, In the valleys blossom fruit trees, May begins his reign at last. In the path before the hall door Hiddigeigei took his comfort, Caring only that the sun's rays On his fur should fall and warm him. Through the garden walked the Baron With his daughter, and with pleasure He beheld the trees in blossom. "If my life should be preserved still For a hundred years or longer, I should always be delighted With this wonder-breathing May-time. True, indeed, I set no value On the May-dew, though the women Like to wet with it their faces. I have never seen a soul yet Who by it improved her beauty; Have no faith in arts of witchcraft In the night of St. Walpurgis, Nor in broomstick-riding squadrons. Notwithstanding there belongs a Magic to the month of May. My old weary bones have suffered Many painful gouty twinges From the chilly winds of April. Now these pains are quite forgotten, And I feel as if the old strength Of my youth were through me streaming, And as if I were once more a Beardless trim and gay young ensign, In those days when at Noerdlingen I fought fiercely, in close combat With those brave blue Swedish horseman. So I think, it would be pleasant To agree, this is a feast-day, Though no Saint has ever claimed it. Let us saunter through the forest. I will breathe the balmy pine air, And the young folks may try whether Fortune favours them at fishing. Yes, to-day I yearn for pleasure. Anton, get the horses ready." So 'twas done as he had ordered. In the court, filled with impatience, Pawed and neighed the fiery horses. Full of joyful expectation For the sport were the young people. Bent on fishing they had carried The great net up from the river. Worthy Anton had invited Many friends of the old Baron, Also had communicated With the ladies of the convent; And, besides, some uninvited Guests had also here assembled. When the landlord of the "Button" Heard the news, he to his wife said: "To thy care I trust entirely All the business of the tavern; In thy hands I lay the keys now Of the cellar and the larder, I must join the fishing-party." Speaking thus he stole off quickly; Ne'er he missed a hunt or fishing. Strong and hearty looked the Baron, On his charger firmly seated Like a bronze equestrian statue. By his side on her white palfrey Rode the lovely Margaretta. Gracefully to her slim figure Clung in folds her riding-habit; Gracefully the blue veil floated From her riding-hat of velvet. With a steady hand she boldly Reined her palfrey, who was bearing With delight so fair a burden. Watchfully good Anton followed His fair mistress; also Werner After them was gaily trotting, Though at a respectful distance. For, behind, in solemn grandeur, Came the big old-fashioned carriage Of the Lady Princess Abbess, With three ladies of the convent, Likewise old and venerable. They by Werner were escorted. He made many courtly speeches To these old and noble ladies, And broke many flowering branches From the trees, and most politely Handed them into the carriage; So that, struck with his fine manners, They unto each other whispered: "What a pity he's not noble!" Up hill steep the road ascended, And the forest of dark pine-trees Now received the long procession. Soon then through the dusky branches Silver like the mountain-lake shone, And already merry shouting Came from thence; for the young people Of the town had gained the lake-shore By a shorter steeper path. At the summit, where the main-road Took a different direction, Carriages and riders halted, And the vehicles and horses To the servants' care were left. Full of vigour, through the forest, Down the hill-slope walked the Baron, And the ladies followed bravely. Mosses like the softest velvet Thickly covered all the ground there, And descending was not dangerous. On a ridge, which wide and sunny, Far into the lake protruded, Numerous blocks of rock lay scattered. There the Baron rested, and the Ladies followed his example. Deep green lake, dense shade of fir-trees, Many thousand times I greet you. I who now this song am singing Of the past, rejoice in you still. Oh, how oft ye have refreshed me, When escaping from the daily Narrowness of petty town life, Out to you I used to wander. Often on the rock I've rested, Which the roots of the old pine-trees Cling to, while beneath the lake lies With its gently rippled surface. In deep shade the shores lie buried, But the glittering rays of sunlight Gaily dance across the water. All around reigned holy silence, Only heard there was the hammering Of the pecker on the pine-trees. Through the fallen leaves and mosses Rustled softly emerald lizards, And with clever questioning glances Curiously they eyed the stranger. Yes, I often lay there dreaming; And when often still at night-fall I sat there, I heard a rustling Through the reeds, the water-lilies Whispered softly to each other. Then arose from the deep water Mermaids, whose fair pallid faces Brightly shone in the soft moonlight. Heart overwhelming, mind bewildering, Were their gliding graceful motions; And they beckoned me to come there. But the fir-tree held and warned me: "Stay thou here on terra firma, Hast no business in the water." Deep green lake, dense shade of fir-trees, Oft I think of you quite sadly. Since those days I've been a wanderer: I have climbed up many mountains, And through many lands have travelled, Looked upon the restless ocean, And have heard the Sirens singing; But yet often through my memory Steal the lake's sweet soothing murmurs, And soft whispers from the fir-trees, Home, and love, and youth recalling. Now there was a noisy thronging, Running, shouting, laughing, joking, Down beneath there on the shore. Like a general, stood the cunning, Skilful landlord of the "Button," 'Mid the crowd of younger people, And on every side was giving His wise counsels, how they might now Have a good successful fishing. There behind the rocks a boat lay In the reeds with brushwood covered, And with chains securely fastened, That no poachers should disturb it, Who might come along at midnight, And employ it for their fishing. From its hiding-place they dragged it Onward to the lake-shore, and there Placed the heavy net within it. Closely netted were the meshes Of the coarsest twine, while many Leaden weights thereon were fastened. When they tried the boat for leakage, Although somewhat out of order, They pronounced it quite seaworthy. Now the landlord and five comrades, Gay and hopeful, took their places, And one end of the great net threw To some friends on shore remaining, With the charge to hold it tightly. From the shore they pushed away now, Rowing stoutly as the net sank Slowly down in a wide curve; Then returned with speed much lessened, Always dragging on the heavy Bulky net, so that the fishes Might therein become entangled. On the shore they sprang out quickly, And drew after them the netting, Till they nigh approached those friends who Still upon the shore were waiting. Stoutly pulling back the ends, they Raised the net out of the water, In great hopes of lots of booty. But within itself entangled It came slowly to the surface Empty: some unskilful rower Had prevented it from sinking, And the dwellers of the lake laughed To have just escaped such danger. Now the landlord cast sharp glances Over all the meshes. Nothing Met his anxious gaze but water; Not the smallest fish was caught there; Only an old boot half rotten, And a toad half crushed and flattened, Which with eyes protruding oddly Looked upon the sunlit forest, And the human faces round him, And he thought: "It is most truly Wonderful, how anybody Ever can enjoy existence, With this sky and this bright sunlight! Well, it seems to me no one here E'er can have the slightest notion Of the mud and all its splendour. Would I were in my own element!" Those who stood upon the lake-shore Raised a long and roaring laughter At these first-fruits of the fishing. But in rage broke out the landlord, O'er their laughter rang his scolding: "Stupid fellows, bunglers, numskulls!" And with angry kicks he sent then All the booty flying swiftly, Boot and toad in peace together To the water where they came from. Loudly splashing they sank downward. But the disappointed fishers Would again now try their fortune, Loosened all the tangled meshes, And with greatest care they lowered Then the net and raised it slowly. And to do so there were needed Many sturdy pulls and struggles. Ringing shouts and cries of triumph Greeted this successful fishing. From the rock came down the Baron To the fishers, and the ladies Eagerly made haste to follow. Over rocks and thorny brambles To the shore they found a pathway. Margaretta followed also, Notwithstanding her long habit. When young Werner saw her coming, Bashfully his arm he offered, And bewildered were his senses. So Sir Walter Raleigh's heart once Must have beaten, when his mantle He made use of as a carpet For his gracious royal mistress. Yet with thanks fair Margaretta Werner's arm and aid accepted. Out there in the verdant forest Many useless scruples vanish, Which oft elsewhere greatly trouble Masters of the ceremonies. The descent there was not easy, And no other arm was near her. By the lake they gaily looked now At the fishing booty struggling. Flapping in the net's strong meshes Were the captives. Many snapping Sought a way still for escaping, But on the bare sand were landed; And thus fruitless was their trial. Those who felt toward each other In the depths such bitter hatred, Now as captives were quite peaceful: Snake-like eels, so smooth and slippery, Well-fed carps with huge broad noses, And the pirate-fish, the slender Pike with jaws large and voracious. As in war, the harmless peasants Often to stray shots fall victims, So the fate of being captured Many others overtook: Handsome barbels, spotted gudgeons; Tiny bleaks, the river-swallow; And through all this crowd of fishes Sluggishly the crab was creeping; Inwardly he sadly grumbled: "Caught together, hung together." Well contented said the Baron: "After labour comes amusement. Seems to me, that our fresh booty Will taste better in the forest. Therefore let us now make ready For ourselves a rustic dinner." To these words they all assented, And the landlord of the "Button" Sent out two fleet-footed fellows To the city with the order: "Two large pans bring quickly hither; Bring me golden fresh-made butter, Also bread, and salt sufficient, And a keg of fine old wine. Bring me lemons too, and sugar; For I feel a premonition As if May-drink would be wanted." Off they started. Under shelter Of a rock with a tall pine-tree, Some the hearth were getting ready, Bringing there dry boughs and fagots, Loads of furze and moss together. Others now prepared the fishes For the feast, and all the ladies Gathered herbs of spicy fragrance, Such as thyme and leaves of strawberries; Also gathered for the May-wine The white-blooming fragrant woodroof. Which rejoiced at being broken By such tender hands, and thought thus: "Sweet it was in these dark pine-woods, To be blooming, 'mid the rocks here, But still sweeter in the May-time 'Tis to die, and with the last breath Highly then to spice the May-wine For the joy of human beings. Death in general is corruption, But the woodroof's death is like that Of the morning-dew on blossoms, Sweetly, without sighs, exhaling." From the town returning quickly Came the two fleet-footed fellows, Bringing stores, as had been ordered. And soon crackled on the stone-hearth Cheerfully a blazing fire. In the pans were frying briskly What had recently been swimming. First a mighty pike was served up To the ladies by the landlord, As a show of rustic cooking; And a solemn earnest silence Soon gave evidence that all were Very busy with the banquet. Only the confused low sounds of Gnawing fish-bones, munching crab-claws, Now disturbed the forest quiet. Meanwhile, farther up, delicious Fragrant May-wine was preparing. In a bowl of size capacious Margaretta's taste artistic Well had brewed it; mild and spicy, As sweet May himself the drink was. Every glass she filled up, kindly Helping all with graceful bearing. Everybody got his share, and All were merry round the fire. There the city-teacher also Stretched himself upon the grass-bank. From the school he had absconded, Also to enjoy the fishing. In his heart he bore a secret, Had to-day composed a song. May-wine, May-wine, drink of magic! Suddenly his cheeks were glowing, And his eyes were shining brightly. On the rock he sprang courageous, Saying: "I will sing you something." Smiling now, the others listened, And young Werner stepping forward, On his trumpet low and softly Blew a piece first as a prelude. Then upon the rock the teacher Raised his voice and sang with fervour. Werner joined him on the trumpet Clear and joyful, and the chorus Also fell in--clear and joyful Through the forest rang the MAY SONG. "A wondrous youth of lovely mien Rich gifts of joy is strewing; O'er hill and vale, where'er are seen His footsteps, light is glowing. The fresh young green decks hill and lea, The birds are singing merrily, While falls in gentle showers A rain of snow-white flowers. So in the woods we sing and shout, Heigh-tralala loud ringing; We sing, while all things bud and sprout, To May our welcome bringing. "Young May in humming sounds delights, Is full of merry capers; So through the fir-trees swarm great flights Of golden buzzing chafers. And from the moss white lilies rise, Of spring the fairest sweetest prize; Their bells in tuneful measure Ring in the May with pleasure. So in the woods we sing and shout, Heigh-tralala loud ringing; We sing, while all things bud and sprout, To May our welcome bringing. "Now everyone may think, who can, Of mirth, and love that burneth; To many an old and worthy man His youth again returneth. His shouts resound across the Rhine: 'O let me in, thou sweetheart mine!' And voices loud are crying; Love's darts in May are flying. So in the woods we sing and shout Heigh-tralala loud ringing; We sing, while all things bud and sprout, To May our welcome bringing." Long the plaudits, loud the clapping, When it ended. And the ladies Also seemed delighted with it; As, indeed, in the loud chorus Many gentle female voices Readily could be distinguished. Margaret in playful humour, Out of hazel-leaves and holly, And of violets and crowfoot, Wound a garland, and said archly: "This wreath to the most deserving! But I'm puzzled who shall get it-- Whether he who sang the May-song, Or else he who on the trumpet Played the fine accompaniment." Said the Baron: "In this matter I will give a just decision. Ever the first prize is given To the poet; but a garland Or a laurel-crown, what are they? I agree with the old Grecians Who awarded to the singer Just the victim's fattest portion, As the saddle or the buttock. And I fancy that the teacher's Stores are not so well provided, That he'll offer an objection. Therefore I make him a present Of the largest pike and carp, which Still are left among our booty. But as my young friend, the trumpeter, Seems disposed less practically, So you may, in my opinion, Honour him with your fair garland; For, indeed, he played not badly." Simpering now the happy singer Rubbed his hands and blessed the May-time, As he saw a glowing vision Of the pan with fishes frying. But young Werner to the maiden Bashfully approached, and lowly Bending on his knee, he hardly Dared to gaze at her blue eyes. But with grace placed Margaretta On his brow the blooming garland, While a weird and lurid fire-light Suddenly in fitful flashes Fell upon the group assembled. For the embers on the hearth-stone Had ignited the old pine-tree. Flaming fiery tongues now glided Through the branches full of resin; And the sparks flew crackling upward Wildly to the evening sky. Margaretta, Margaretta! Were they fireworks which the pine woods Fondly burned to do thee honour? Or did Cupid with his flaming Love-torch wander through the forest? But the flames were soon extinguished. And the Baron now gave orders That the party should break up; and Fishers, riders, noble ladies, All went homeward in the twilight. Faintly glimmering fell the last bright Sparks from out the pine-tree branches, Sinking in the mountain-lake. EIGHTH PART. THE CONCERT IN THE GARDEN PAVILION. In the garden of the castle Mighty chestnut trees are standing, And a pretty gay pavilion. In the Rhine are deeply sunken The foundations of the terrace. 'Tis a quiet cosy corner, Hidden by a mass of foliage. While below the waves are murmuring. For the last two months, mysterious Business has been going on here. Pots of colours, painting brushes, Lime and mortar, masons' trowels And high scaffoldings are rising To the dome of the pavilion. Is't some evil spirit's workshop?-- 'Tis no evil spirit's workshop. Frescoes here are being painted, And the legs which there are dangling From the lofty wooden scaffold, Are the legs of the illustrious Fresco-painter Fludribus, Who returning from Italia Had been living in the Rhine-land. He was pleased with the fair country, And the rosy happy faces, And the cellars full of wine. All the people wondered at him As they would at an enchanter; For he told them marvellous stories. In his youth he had been travelling, And by chance once in Bologna Came upon the school of artists. In the studio of Albini He became a colour-mixer; And from this most graceful master He found out with ready cunning How to paint both gods and heroes, And the airy little cupids. Yes, he even helped the master, Making easy light gradations, Or preparing the dead colouring. On the Rhine, far round the country Fludribus was the sole artist. Painted many tavern sign-boards, Pictures also for the chapels, Portraits e'en of brides of peasants. Stable was his reputation; For if any criticisers Would find fault with his great paintings, That an arm or nose was crooked, Or a cheek looked too much swollen, Then he would overwhelm his critics With the big high-sounding phrases He had learnt when at Bologna. Hearing nothing but perspective, Colouring and soft gradation, Modelling and bold foreshortening, Soon they lost their wits entirely. Margaretta, who with faithful Love had long the matter pondered, How she would surprise her father With a pleasure on his birthday, Spoke to Master Fludribus: "I have heard it oft related How in France in lordly castles They adorn the walls with frescoes. Therefore try to paint now something Like them here in my pavilion. From the world secluded, I know Naught about such compositions; Therefore to your taste I leave all, Only you must work in secret, As the Baron must know nothing." Fludribus looked consequential: "Though but trifling is the order, Still I coincide with Caesar, And am rather here considered First than at great Rome the second. And besides, there all is finished. Even in the Pope's own palace All those thoughts high and aesthetic, Which I in my bosom cherished, Has a man by name of Raphael Painted on the walls already. But I shall great things achieve, And shall do like Buffamalco, Who with rich red wine imparted Glowing warmth to the cold colours. Therefore, furnish me with red wine First; of course, good eating with it. Rich reward I do not care for, Since the thought is my enjoyment, That I shall be made immortal Through the efforts of my genius. Thus I'll paint for almost nothing, Just the square foot seven shillings." Since two months he had been painting On the walls beneath the arched roof; Imitated Buffamalco; But he drank himself the red wine. And his compositions truly Were artistic, highly proper, And of elegant conception. To begin with: there paraded Perseus and Andromeda; At their feet lay deadly wounded The great Hydra, with a handsome Face, much like a human being, Who in dying still coquetted With the lovely rock-bound captive. Then the Judgment came of Paris; And in order that the dazzling Beauty of those heavenly ladies Should not quite eclipse the hero, They looked off toward the landscape, With their backs to the spectator. Similar were the other pictures: As Diana and Actaeon, Orpheus and Eurydice. For the man of genius chooses From mythology his subjects; And he thinks, in nudeness only, Is revealed the highest beauty. Now the work was all accomplished, And with feeling, said the master: "Happy can I go to Hades, As my works are my memorial. In the history of this Rhine-land A new epoch of the fine arts Will begin with Fludribus." 'Twas the wish of Margaretta To inaugurate with music This so beautified pavilion. Ha! how Werner's heart was beating, When he heard the maid's desire. He directly went to Basel To select the new productions Of the musical composers; And he brought the scores back with him Of the great Venetian master, Claudio di Monteverde, Whose sweet pastoral composition Carried off the prize in music. Then there was a noisy bustle 'Mongst the artists of the city; And a most increasing practice In the frequent long rehearsals, All unnoticed by the Baron. Now, at last, the long-expected Day had come, the Baron's birthday. At the table he was chatting With his friend and pleasant neighbour, The good prelate of St. Blasien, Who had driven hither early, To express his heartfelt wishes. Meanwhile many hands were busy Decorating the pavilion With fresh garlands, and were placing Rows of music-desks in order. By degrees there came now gliding Through the side-gate by the river All the musical performers. First, the youthful burgomaster Bending under the unwieldy Contra-bass, whose sounds sonorous Often from his thoughts did banish All the cares of his high office, And the council's stupid blunders. Next there came the bloated chaplain Who played finely on the violin, Drawing from it such shrill wailings, As if wishing to give utterance To his lonely bachelor's heart. With his horn beneath his arm came The receiver's clerk, who often, A great bore to his superior, With his playing did enliven All the dry accounts he summed up, And the dulness of subtraction. There came also stepping slowly, Dressed in black, but shabby looking, With a hat the worse for usage, He the lank assistant-teacher, Who by Art consoled himself for What was wanting in his income, And instead of wine and roast beef Lived upon his flute's sweet music. Then came--Who can count, however, All these instrumental players? All the talent of the city For this concert had united. From the ironworks of Albbruck Even came the superintendent; He alone played the viola. Like a troop of mounted warriors Who the enemy expecting, Lurk in safe and hidden ambush, So they waited for the Baron To arrive. And like good marksmen Who with care before the battle Try their weapons, if their powder By the dew has not been damaged, If the flint is good for striking; So by blowing, scraping, tuning, They their instruments were trying. Margaretta led the Baron And his guest now to the garden. Women never are in want of A good pretext, when some fun or Some surprise they are preparing. So she praised the shady coolness And the view from the pavilion, Till the two old friends were turning Toward that spot without suspicion. Like a volley then resounded At their entrance a loud flourish, Every instrument saluting; And like roaring torrents bursting Wildly through the gaping sluice-gate, So the overture let loose now Its loud storming floods of music On the much astonished hearers. With the greatest skill young Werner Led the orchestra, whose chorus Gladly yielded to his baton. Ha! that was a splendid bowing, Such a fiddling, such a pealing! Hopping lightly, like a locust, Through the din the clarinet flew, And the contra-bass kept groaning, As if wailing for its soul, While the player's brow was sweating From his arduous performance. There behind in the orchestra Fludribus the drum was beating; As a many-sided genius, During pauses, he was also To the triangle attending. But his heart o'erflowed with sadness; And the drum's dull sound re-echoed His complaints, as dull and grumbling: "Dilettanti, happy people! Merrily they suck the honey From the flowers which with heavy Throes the Master's mind created; And they spice well their enjoyment With their mutual frequent blunders. Genuine Art is a titanic Heaven-storming strife and struggle For a Beauty still receding, While the soul is gnawed with longing For the unattained Ideal. But these bunglers are quite happy." Now the din of sound subsided. As oft after heavy tempests, When the thunder ceases pealing, Mildly shineth forth the rainbow 'Gainst the canopy of heaven; So now the full band is followed By the trumpet's dulcet solo. Werner blew it: low and melting Rang the tunes forth from the trumpet. Full of wonder some were staring At the score, in wonder also The fat chaplain nudged the teacher On the arm, and whispered softly: "Hear'st thou what he's playing? Nothing Like it in the score is written. Has he read perhaps his music In the fair young lady's eyes?" Splendidly the concert came thus To an end, and the musicians Sat exhausted and yet happy That they had so well succeeded. Now the prelate of St. Blasien Stepped forth bowing quite politely To the band, and as a clever Connoisseur and statesman spoke thus: "Heavy wounds have been inflicted On our land while war was raging, And throughout our German country Rudeness was predominating. Therefore it deserves great praise, thus With the Muses to take refuge. This refreshes and ennobles, Civilises human beings, So that war and strife are silenced. All these frescoes on the walls here Show no ordinary talent; And still more this feast of music Makes me think well of the players Who my ears have thus delighted, Brought my happy youth before me, Took me back to fair Italia, When in Rome I listened to the Tones of Cavalieri's Daphne, And idyllic pastoral longing Filled my heart to overflowing. Therefore, my dear friends, continue Thus to worship at Art's altar. Let the harmony of sound keep Far from you all strife and discord. Oh how pleasant it would be, if Such a spirit were but common!" Deeply moved by these high praises From a man of such rich knowledge, The whole orchestra, delighted, Bowed to him when he had finished. Highly pleased, the Baron also Walked around, gave hearty greetings; And to testify his thanks--for Words alone don't suit a Baron-- Ordered from his well-stocked cellars A huge cask of beer brought up there. "'Twas well done, my good musicians, Most efficient chapel-master! Where the devil have you picked up All these pretty compositions? And you, Fludribus, have also Painted well; suits me exactly. Other times, 'tis true, may come yet When our goddesses must wear more Draperies than you have painted; But a gray old soldier does not Blame you for a little nudeness. Therefore, let us ring our glasses To our noble guest's good health, and To the excellent musicians. Yes, for aught I care, we'll drink to The fair shivering painted deities, That the winter in the Rhine-land May not prove too rigorous for them." Margaretta thought it wiser Now to leave the room, well knowing That the party might get noisy. On the threshold she gave Werner Her fair hand with grateful feeling. 'Tis most likely that the pressure Of the hand was full of meaning; But no chronicle doth tell us: Was it homage to the artist, Or a sign of deeper interest? Glasses rang and foaming bumpers, And there was some heavy drinking; But my song must keep the secret Of the fate of late returners; Also hide the sudden drowning Which the hat of the lank teacher Suffered in the Rhine that night. But at midnight, when the last guest For his home long since had started, Low the chestnut trees were whispering. Said the one: "Oh fresco paintings!" Said the other: "Oh thou ding dong!" Then the first: "I see the future-- See there two remorseless workmen, See two monstrous painting-brushes, See two buckets full of whitewash. And they quietly daub over, With a heavy coating, heroes, Deities, and Fludribus. Other ages--other pictures!" Said the other: "In the far-off Future I hear from the same place Glees resounding from male voices. Rising to our lofty summits, Simple touching German music. Other ages--other music!" Both together added: "True love Will endure throughout all ages!" NINTH PART. TEACHING AND LEARNING. Winds and the swift river's current Hardly had swept off the dulcet Melodies of Monteverde, When the people in the city Held no other conversation Than of this great feast of music. Not, however, of the spirit Of the melodies they'd heard then, Neither of the deep emotion Which was in their souls awakened, Were they speaking; they disputed Who received the Baron's thanks first At the end of the performance; Whom the Abbot had distinguished Most that evening by his praises; And what finally was served up From the kitchen and the cellar. As the tail of a dead lizard Still, when life has long departed, With spasmodic jerks is writhing: So the memory of great actions Still lives on in daily gossip. But with thoughts above such nonsense Margaretta took an early Solitary walk next morning To the honeysuckle arbour, There to dream of last night's music, Specially of Werner's solo, Which still through her soul was thrilling Like a message of sweet love. But what saw she? In the arbour On the little rustic table She beheld the very trumpet. Like the magic horn of Huon, Wondrous mysteries containing; Dumb, but full of deep expression, Like a star it sparkled there. Margaretta stood confounded At the arbour's shady entrance: "Came he here? And now, where is he? Wherefore has he left his trumpet Here so wholly unprotected? Easily a worm might crawl in, Or a thief might come and steal it. Shall I take it to the castle, Take it in my careful keeping? No, I'll go, do nothing with it, Should indeed have gone before." But she tarried, for her eyes were Held in durance by the trumpet, Like a shad caught by the fish-hook. "Oh, I wonder," she was thinking, "Whether my breath would be able From its depths a tone to waken. Oh I much should like to know this! No one sees what I am doing, All around no living being. Only my old Hiddigeigei Licks the dew from off the box-tree; Only insects in the sand here Follow out their digging instinct, And the caterpillars gently Up and down the arbour crawl." So the maiden shyly entered, Shyly she took up the trumpet, To her rosy lips she pressed it; But with fright she well-nigh trembled At her breath to sound transforming In the trumpet's golden calyx. Which the air was bearing farther, Farther--ah, who knoweth where? But she cannot stop the fun now, And with sounds discordant, horrid, Fit to rend the ears to pieces, So disturbed the morning stillness, That the poor cat Hiddigeigei's Long black hair stood up like bristles, Like the sharp quills of a hedgehog. Raising then his paw to cover His offended ear, he spoke thus: "Suffer on, my valiant cat-heart, Which so much has borne already, Also bear this maiden's music! We, we understand the laws well, Which do regulate and govern Sound, enigma of creation. And we know the charm mysterious Which invisibly through space floats, And, intangible a phantom, Penetrates our hearing organs, And in beasts' as well as men's hearts Wakes up love, delight and longing, Raving madness and wild frenzy. And yet, we must bear this insult, That when nightly in sweet mewing We our love-pangs are outpouring, Men will only laugh and mock us, And our finest compositions Rudely brand as caterwauling. And in spite of this we witness That these same fault-finding beings Can produce such horrid sounds as Those which I have just now heard. Are such tones not like a nosegay Made of straw, and thorns, and nettles, In the midst a prickly thistle? And in presence of this maiden Who the trumpet there is blowing, Can a man then without blushing E'er sneer at our caterwauling? But, thou valiant heart, be patient! Suffer now, the time will yet come When this self-sufficient monster, Man, will steal from us the true art Of expressing all his feelings; When the whole world in its struggle For the highest form of culture Will adopt our style of music. For in history, there is justice. She redresses every wrong." But besides old Hiddigeigei, Standing far down by the river There was still another listener To these first attempts at blowing, Who felt anger more than pleasure. It was Werner. He came early With his trumpet to the garden, Wanted to compose a song there In that quiet morning-hour. First, however, his dear trumpet He laid on the rustic table. Then stood musing by the stone-wall Gazing at the rapid river. "Yes, I see, your waves preserve still Their old course and disposition, Ever toward the ocean rushing, As my heart for my love striveth. Who now from the goal is farthest, Clear green river, thou or I?" All this train of thought was broken By the stork from the old tower, Who, full of a father's pride, had Taken his young brood to ramble On the Rhine-shore for the first time. 'Twas amusing to young Werner How just then the old stork gravely, On the sand with stealthy cunning, Closely a poor eel was watching, Who of various worms was making There a comfortable meal. He, however, who was wielding O'er the little worms the strand-law, Soon himself will serve as breakfast. For the greater eats the lesser, And the greatest eats the great ones. In this simple manner nature Solves the knotty social question. No more did his smoothness help him, No more his sleek body's wriggling, No more his spasmodic beating With his tail so strong and supple. Tightly held in the indented Beak of the determined parent, He was given to the hopeful Stork-brood, now to be divided; And they held with noisy clatter Solemnly their morning-feast. Nearer to observe this, Werner Had descended to the Rhine-bank, And he seemed in no great hurry To commence his composition. There he sat himself down gently On the insect-covered moss-bank. Shaded by a silvery willow, And it gave him much amusement Thus to be a silent witness Of this banquet of the storks. Pleasures, yet, of all descriptions Are but fleeting on our planet. Even to the most contented Doth it happen that fate often Like a meteor bursts upon them. Only a short time had Werner Viewed this scene when he was startled By the tones of his own trumpet, Which like keen-edged Pandour daggers Deep into his soul were cutting. "'Tis the gardener's saucy youngster Who my trumpet thus is blowing," Said young Werner, in his anger Starting from his seat so quickly That the storks thereby much frightened, Fluttering upward sought the tower; And so quickly that they even Had no time to take the eel off. Like a poor old torso lay he On the sand so pitifully; And the chronicles are silent Whether the old father stork came Ever back to take his booty. Werner meanwhile to the garden Climbed up; to the shady arbour On the soft green sward he's walking, That the pebbly footpath may not By the noise betray his coming. In the very act of sinning Doth he wish to catch the rascal, And to beat time to his music On his back without relenting. Thus he comes up to the arbour, With his hand raised high in anger. But, as if 'twere struck by lightning, To his side it dropped down quickly, And the stroke remained, like German Unity and other projects, Only an ideal dream. Then beheld he Margaretta Pressing to her lips the trumpet, And her rosy cheeks are puffed out Like those trumpet-blowing angels' In the church of Fridolinus. Up she starts now as a thief would In the neighbour's yard detected, And the trumpet drops abruptly From the touch of her soft lips. Werner covered her confusion Through a clever maze of language; And with ardour he commences On the spot to teach the maiden The first steps in trumpet-blowing In strict order, with due method; Shows the instrument's construction, How to use the lips in blowing, That true tones may be forthcoming. Margaretta listened docile. And before she is aware, new Tones she finds she is awaking From the trumpet which young Werner With low bows had handed to her. Easily from him she learneth What her father's cuirassiers blew As the call to charge in battle; Only a few notes and simple, But most pithy and inspiring. Love is, there can be no question, Of all teachers the most skilful; And what years of earnest study Do not conquer, he is winning With the charm of an entreaty, With the magic of a look. E'en a common Flemish blacksmith Once became through love's sweet passion In advanced age a great painter. Happy teacher, happy scholar, In the honeysuckle arbour! 'Twas as if the only safety Of the German empire rested On this trumpet-call's performance. But within their souls was stirring Quite a different melody: That sweet song, old as creation, Of the bliss of youthful lovers; True, a song without the words yet, But they had divined its meaning, And beneath a playful manner Hid the blissful consciousness, Startled by this trumpet-blowing Came the Baron reconnoitring, Tried to frown, but soon his anger Was converted into pleasure, When he heard his child there blowing The old fanfar of his horsemen. Friendly spoke he to young Werner: "You are truly in your office A most ardent zeal unfolding. If you go on in this manner, We shall see most wondrous things yet. The old stable-door which harshly Creaks and groans upon its hinges, Even in the pond the bull-frogs May perhaps change for the better, Through your trumpet's magic charm." Werner held, however, henceforth His dear trumpet as a jewel, Which the richest Basel merchant, With the fullest bag of money, Could not ever purchase from him; For the lips of Margaretta Made it sacred by their touch. TENTH PART. YOUNG WERNER IN THE GNOME'S CAVE. From the Feldberg tears a raging Foaming torrent through the forests To the Rhine--its name is Wehra. In the narrow valley standeth 'Midst the rocks a single fir-tree; In the branches sat the haggard Wicked wood-sprite Meysenhartus, Who to-day behaved quite badly: Showing his sharp teeth and grinning, Tore a branch off from the fir-tree, And kept gnawing at a pine-cone; Clambered often quite indignant Up and down just like a squirrel; From the wings of a poor night-owl Roughly plucked out several feathers; And while mocking the old fir-tree Rocked himself upon its summit. "High old fir-tree, green old fir-tree! I with thee would ne'er my lot change. Firmly rooted must thou stand there, And take everything that happens; Never canst thou quit thy station. And if ever Fate ordaineth. Thou to far-off lands shalt wander, Men have first to come with axes; With hard strokes they hack and cut thee, Deep into thy flesh, till falling; And then strip unmercifully All thy skin from off thy body; Throw thee next into the Rhine, and Make thee swim as far as Holland. And if e'er they pay the honour On a frigate to erect thee As a proud and stately mast, still Thou art but a smooth-skinned fir-tree, Without roots there lonely standing; And thou yearnest on the ocean For thy old home in the forest, Till at last a flash of lightning Mast and ship and all destroyeth. High old fir-tree, green old fir-tree! I with thee would ne'er my lot change!" Said the fir-tree: "Everybody Must accept the sphere he's born in, And fulfil his duties fully. So we think here in the forest; And 'tis well so, at least better Than to hop will-o'-the-wisp like, Playing pranks and doing mischief, Men and cattle oft misleading, And the stupid wanderer's curses As reward home with thee taking. Anyhow, no one cares for thee. For, at best, a peasant sayeth, Devil take this Meysenhartus! But they're others who write volumes Proving thou hast no existence; That to lose one's way at night-time Comes from fogs and drunken frolics. Oh the spirit-shares stand badly! On the highway I would rather As a paving-stone be lying, Than to be a third-class spirit, Like the wood-sprite Meysenhartus." Said the spirit: "Thou knowest nothing Of all this, my noble fir-tree. Meysenhartus and his brothers O'er the globe rule powerfully; Everywhere throughout creation Are wrong tracks, and also people Who upon these same paths wander. And whenever, gay or mournful, Someone goes upon a wrong track, He has been by us deluded. Let them doubt if there are spirits; Still they are in our dominion. And to-day you'll see me leading Someone far astray to show him That the spirits are in numbers." From the hill came Master Werner. Deeply musing o'er his love-dream He had wandered through the forest, And as far as man is happy Here below, he was; and buoyant Hope and joy his heart were filling. Many burning thoughts were passing Through his brain, as if they shortly Into love-songs might be growing, Just as caterpillars later Into butterflies develop. Homeward now he would be turning; But the wood-sprite Meysenhartus Hid with dust the right path from him, And young Werner, absent-minded, 'Stead of river-ward went inland. Now again the wood-sprite grinning Clambered to the fir-tree's summit, Rocking gaily in the branches. "He is caught!" so said he, mocking. Werner paying no attention, Went up through the Hasel valley, Till he came to a steep mountain, To a corner cool and shady. Holly, sloe, and climbing ivy Grew around the rocks luxuriant, While near by a clear spring rippled. Through the bushes stepped young Werner To refresh himself by drinking. Strongly tangled was the brushwood, And upon it he trod firmly. Then upon his ear broke squeaking Wailing tones, as from a mole which At his subterranean labour Caught in traps and now detected, Roughly is jerked up to daylight. From the grass rose something crackling; Lo, there stood a gray-clad pygmy, Hardly three feet high, and hunchbacked; But his face was clear and gentle, And his odd small eyes looked clever. Gracefully he let the long ends Of his garment on the ground trail, And said, limping: "Sir, you have been Treading on my foot most rudely." Said young Werner: "I am sorry." Now the pygmy: "And what business Have you in our vale at all?" Said young Werner: "I by no means Wish to seek for the acquaintance Of such injudicious pygmies, Who like grasshoppers are skipping, And are asking silly questions." Said the pygmy: "Thus ye all speak, All ye rude and clumsy mortals; Ever with your big feet tramping Till the ground beneath you trembles. And yet you are only clinging To the surface like the chafers Which are nestling in the tree-bark; Thinking that you rule creation, But entirely ignoring All those spirits which, though silent, On the heights, in depths, are working. Oh ye rude and clumsy mortals! Shut up proudly in your houses, You are groaning with hard labour. In the hot-house of your noddles Are some plants called art and science, And you even brag of such weeds. By the lime-spar and rock-crystal! You have much to learn, I tell you, Ere the truth you will see dawning!" Said young Werner: "It is lucky That to-day I feel so peaceful, Else I should have taken pleasure By your long gray beard to hang you On the holly bushes yonder! But my heart to-day is glowing With the sunshine of my love-dreams, Which you with your spars and crystals Never can be comprehending. Oh, to-day I could embrace all, And be kind to everybody. Say then who you are, and whether I can be of any service." Then the dwarf said: "This sounds better. To your questions I will answer. To the race of gnomes belong I, Who in crevices are living; Down in subterranean caverns, Watch there gold and silver treasures, Grind and polish bright the crystals, Carry coals to the eternal Fire in the earth's deep centre; And we heat there well. Without us You here would have long since frozen. From Vesuvius and Mount Etna You can see our furnace smoking. E'en for you ungrateful mortals, Though unseen, we're ever working; And sweet lullabies are singing In the mountains to your rivers, That no harm they may be doing; Keep the crumbling rocks from falling, Chain the ice up in the glaciers; Boil for you the pungent rock-salt, Also mix much healing matter With the springs from which you're drinking. Never ceasing, and enormous Is the gray gnomes' daily labour In the bowels of the earth. Formerly they used to know us; Wise and clever men and women, Grave old priests descended to us In the depths, where to our labour They oft listened, and they spoke thus: "In the caves the gods are dwelling." But you have become estranged since; Still, we willingly will open To your gaze our hidden treasures; And we hold in great affection All the travelling German scholars; For their hearts are kind and generous, And they see much more than others. You seem also one, so follow! Here my cave is, in this valley; If you can but stoop a little, I will show you where to enter." Said young Werner: "I am ready." Thereupon the little pygmy From the rock pushed back some brushwood, When appeared a small low passage. "Light is needed here for mortals," Said the gnome, who now was rubbing Two hard flints, and soon had lighted By the sparks a piece of pine-wood. With this torch he went ahead then; Werner followed, often stooping, Often even well-nigh creeping, For the rocks were nearly meeting. Soon, however, widely opened At the passage end a cavern Of gigantic height and grandeur. Slender columns there supported Lofty arches of the ceiling; From the walls the gray stalactites Hung in various patterns twining, Marvellous, yet graceful textures; Some like tears which from the walls dropped, Others like the richly twisted Branches of gigantic corals. An unearthly bluish colour All throughout the space was glowing, Mingled with the glaring torch-light From the sharp-edged stones reflected. From the depths a rushing sound rose As from distant mountain-streams. Werner gazed at all this splendour, Felt as in a dream transported To some strange and lofty temple, And his heart was filled with awe. "My young friend," now said the pygmy, "Tell me, pray, what are you thinking Of the gnome's secluded dwelling? This is but a place for work-days. Fairer ones far in the North lie, Also in the Alpine caverns; But Italia owns the fairest, On the rocky shore of Capri, In the Mediterranean Sea. O'er the sea's blue waters rise up The stalactites' lofty arches, And the waves in the dark cavern With blue magic light are gleaming, And the tide protects the entrance. The Italian gnomes there often Bathe and frolic with the daughters Of old Nereus, the sea-god, And the sailor shuns the grotto. But perhaps in later ages May a sunday-child look in there, Like thyself a travelling minstrel, Or a merry-hearted artist. But now, come, we must go farther!" Downward stepped he with the torch-light Ever farther, Werner saw how Huge chaotic rocky masses Lay in heaps of wild confusion, Over which was rushing foaming, To the bottomless abyss, a river. Over steep and high rocks clambering, They now entered a new passage. It looked home-like, a large square-room, Of high rocky walls constructed, Fitted for a hermitage; Round about stood slender columns. Ever dropping from the ceiling And through centuries increasing Had stalactites slowly formed them; And some others stood half finished In the process of formation. Now the gnome knocked on the columns, And mysterious solemn tones rang Out in deep harmonious rhythm. "They are tuned," he said, "according To the harmony of the spheres." In this room a rock was lying. Smooth and round, just like a table; And there motionless and silent Sat a man--looked as if sleeping, Leaned his head upon his right hand. Stony were his lordly features, And the flame of life no longer Played o'er them; and doubtless many Tears had his sad eyes been shedding. Petrified they now were hanging In his beard and from his robes. Werner gazed at him with terror And he asked: "Is this a statue, Or a man of flesh and blood?" Said the gnome: "This is my guest here, 'Tis the _silent man_, whom many Years I've comfortably sheltered. Once he was a proud old mortal, And I found him in the valley, And I offered then to show him Where to find the nearest village. But he shook his head and broke out In a mocking scornful laughter. Marvellously grand his words were, Now like prayers devout and pious, Like a psalm, such as we gnomes sing Often in the earth's vast bowels; Then like curses unto heaven. Much I could not understand. But it woke the recollections Of the days of time primeval, When the wild ferocious Titans Rocks and mountains tore up o'er us From their firm and deep foundations, And we fled to greater depths. For the man I felt great pity, And I took him to my cavern; And he liked it, when I showed him All the gnomes' incessant labours; And directly felt at home here. Oft together have we listened To the growing of stalactites, Chatted also many evenings Of the things below us hidden; Only when my conversation Turned to men, he grew quite angry; Dark his frowns were, and he broke once Seven columns in his fury. When I wished to praise the sunlight And the skies, he stopped me, saying: 'Speak not of the sky or sunlight! In the sunlight there above us Snakes are creeping, and they sting one; Men are living and they hate one; Up there in the starry heavens We see questions which are waiting For an answer; who can give it?' So he stayed here in the cavern, And the grief which overwhelmed him Was dissolved in tender sadness. Oft I saw him gently weeping; Oft, when a melodious wailing Through the columns' hollow shafts rang, He sat there, his sweet songs singing. But he gradually grew silent. Did I ask him what he wanted, Then he smiling took my hand: 'Gnome, I many songs can sing thee, But the best I have not sung yet. Will you know its name? 'Tis silence. Silence--silence! oh how well one Learns it here in thy deep cavern; Depth creates true modesty. But the cold is o'er me creeping; Gnome! 'tis true, my poor heart freezes. Gnome! dost thou know what true love is? If for diamonds thou art digging, And dost find them, take them with thee, Guard them safely in thy cavern. Gnome, thy heart will never freeze then!' "These the last words he has spoken. Now for years he has been silent In this spot. He has not died yet Nor is living, but his body Slowly into stone is changing; And I nurse him; heartfelt pity For my silent guest I cherish, Often try to cheer his spirit With the columns' solemn music, And I know it pleases him. Without taking any freedom, I think you too are a minstrel; And the service you can do me Is to play before my guest here." Then young Werner took his trumpet And began to play; his mournful Strains were ringing through the cavern As if breathing forth deep pity. Then in thinking of his own love, Through the sadness now there mingled Strains of joy--first faint and distant, Then came nearer--fresher, fuller, And the last notes sounded like a Glorious hymn on Easter morning. And the silent man then listened, Nodded gently with his head. Fare-thee-well, dream on in peace, thou Silent man, in thy still cavern, Till the fulness comes of knowledge And of love, to wake the sleeper. Through the winding cave young Werner With the gnome was now returning. As the spacious dome they entered A great rock the gnome uplifted. Underneath a shrine was hidden, And within were sparkling jewels, Also writings and old parchments. One pale amethyst, and papers Which by age had turned quite yellow, Gave the gnome now to young Werner, Saying: "Take these as mementoes! If the world above doth vex thee, Here thou e'er wilt find a refuge. But when wicked men are saying That gnomes' feet are webbed like geese-feet, Then, by lime-spar and rock-crystal! Say that they are dreadful liars. True, our soles are somewhat flattened; But 'tis only a rude peasant Who so cruelly maligns us. Now good-bye, there is the outlet; Take the pine-torch, light thyself now, I have other things to do."-- Spoke and crept into a crevice. Musing through the narrow passage Went young Werner, and his head struck Oft against the rocky ceiling Ere he reached again the daylight. Peacefully the evening-bell rang Through the vale as he went homeward. ELEVENTH PART. THE HAUENSTEIN RIOT. Through the Schwarzwald spreads a buzzing. Buzzing as of bees when swarming, As of the approaching storm-wind. In the tavern savage fellows Meet: their heavy fists are striking On the table: "Bring me wine here! Better times are now approaching For this land of Hauenstein." From the corn-loft brings the peasant His old-fashioned rusty musket, Which below the floor was hidden; Fetches also the long halberd. On the walnut-tree the raven Harshly croaks: "Long have I fasted; Soon I'll have meat for my dinner, I shall relish thee, poor peasant!" Now the people from the mountains. Throng at Herrischried the market; There the seat is of their union, There they hold their union-meeting. But to-day the Hauenstein peasants Came not in black velvet doublets, With red stomachers and white frills, As was usually their custom. Some had buckled on cuirasses, Others wore their leather doublets; In the breeze the flag was waving, And the morning sun was shining On their spears and thick spiked clubs. Near the old church in the market Stood the village elders, with the Union-leader and mace-bearer. "Silence, men!" the beadle shouted. Silence reigned, and on the church-steps Mounted then the peasants' speaker, Holding an official paper, Stroked his long gray beard, and said: "Inasmuch as the hard war-time Has much injured town and country, And the debt is much augmented; So to meet increased expenses Our most gracious rulers hereby Do exact new contributions; Seven florins from each household, And from all the bachelors two. And next week the tax-collector Comes to gather these new taxes. So 'tis written in this paper." --"Death upon the tax-collector! May God damn him!" cried the people.-- "Now as we ourselves have suffered Quite enough by this sad war, and Many lost their goods and chattels; And because 'tis pledged in writing As one of our privileges, That there shall be no new taxes E'er imposed upon this country, Many this demand consider As a most unjust extortion, Think we should stand up most firmly For our ancient rights by charter, And should never pay a farthing." --"Not a farthing!" cried the people.-- "So we summoned you together For your final resolution." Like the distant surf their voices Loudly roared in wild confusion: "Come! stand up! speak out! We must now Hear the Bergalingen Fridli. He knows best--and all we others Always are of his opinion." Then stepped out the man thus called for, And upon a big log mounting, Spoke thus with a shrewd expression: "Do you see at last, dull peasants, What the end will be? Your fathers Once gave up their little finger; Now they want to seize the whole hand. Only give it, and you'll soon see, How they'll flay your very skin off! Who can really thus compel us? In his woods free lives the peasant, Nothing but the sun above him. So it stands in our old records, In the statutes of our union: Nothing there of rent and socage, Nothing of a bondman's service! But there's danger we shall have them. Do you know what will protect us? Yonder there the Swiss can tell you, And the valiant Appenzellers. This here!"--and he brandished fiercely O'er his head his thick spiked club.-- "On the fir-tree I heard piping Lately a white bird at midnight: Good old time, that bygone time, Peasants, freemen in their forests; If with spears and guns you seek it, You will see it soon returning. Now, Amen! my speech is ended." Then wild cries rose from the people-- "He is right" were many saying; "To the devil with our rulers! Burn these damned taxation-papers! All these scribblers may look out soon If this flame can be extinguished With the fluid in their inkstands." Said another: "Thou, oh governor, Didst consign me to a dungeon; Poor my fare, with only water! Thou hast wine within thy cellar, And I hope we now shall try it. Yes, with thee I'll square accounts soon!" Said a third one: "Thee my musket, Which has brought down many woodcocks, I shall use for nobler sport soon. Then hit well! For we'll be shooting At the great black double eagle." Thus a murmur through the crowd went. Just as when the plague is raging, Everywhere infection spreadeth, So were all the peasants' hearts now Filled with passion and blind wrath. And in vain spoke the experienced Villaringen elder, Balthes: "If a horse's tail is bridled, Not his mouth, no one can drive him. If the peasant seeks for justice By revolt, all will go badly; In the end he gets a thrashing. Hence of old we were commanded To obey the ruling powers, And--" but now in voluntary Was he stopped in his sage counsels: "Turn him out, this old fool Balthes! May God damn him! He is faithless; He's a traitor to his country!" Thus they howled out, stones were flying, Spears were threatening, and his friends could Hardly get him off in safety. "To be short, what use of speaking?" Fridli said, of Bergalingen. "Who are faithful to our old rights And will go for them to battle, Raise their hands high!" And they raised them All, while loud hurrahs they shouted. Arms are clanking, flags are waving, Battle-cries--the drums are beating. And that day large bands were marching From the hills toward the river To attack the forest-cities. In the forest from the fir-tree Looked the wood-sprite Meysenhartus, Mocking at the peasants' army, Said: "A lucky journey to you! No need I should now mislead you, As you choose yourselves the wrong track!" Scouts are riding, watchmen blowing, Women wailing, children crying; Through the vale rings the alarm-bell. Burghers through the streets are running: "Close the gates! Defend the town-walls! Bring the guns up to the tower!" From the terrace saw the Baron This commotion in the forest, How the mountain-paths were darkened By the peasant-bands descending. "Am I dreaming," said he, "or have All these men indeed forgotten, How a hundred and fifty years since Such mad peasants' jokes were punished? Yes, indeed, the forest glitters With their helmets and their halberds. Well devised, you cunning peasants! While below there on the Danube The proud eagle of the emperor Lets the Turks feel his sharp talons, You think that it will be easy, On the Rhine to pluck his feathers! Look out well that this your reckoning Won't deceive you; and I swear here, The old Baron will not fail to Greet you with a warm reception." Turned and went into the castle, And he donned his leathern doublet, Buckled on the heavy broadsword, And gave orders to the household: "Quickly get your weapons ready, Keep good watch upon the towers, Raise the drawbridge, and let no one, While I am away, here enter! Master Werner, you may order All the rest. Protect my castle, And my daughter, my chief treasure! Have no fear, dear Margaretta; Brave must be a soldier's child. Only some few coal-black ravens Come there flying from the forest, Want to get their skulls well battered 'Gainst the walls of this good city. God preserve you! I myself go To my post, up to the town-hall." Margaretta threw herself now In the Baron's arms, who kindly Pressed upon her brow fond kisses. Shaking Werner's hand then warmly He walked off unto the square. There the ladies of the convent Wailing went up to the minster: "Show us mercy, Fridolinus!" By his door the "Button" landlord Asked the Baron: "Is it time now, That we put our gold and silver In the cellar's deepest places?" Said the Baron: "Shame upon you! It is time to take your weapons And to help defend the city. Show the same zeal as when fishing!" In the town-hall were assembled Councillors and burgomaster. Many of the city-fathers Made wry faces, as though fearing The last judgment-day was coming. On their hearts their sins were pressing Like a hundredweight; they cried out: "Save us, God, from this great evil, And we'll promise all our lifetime Ne'er to take unlawful interest, Never to defraud the orphan, Ne'er to mix sand with our spices." Even one proposed this motion: "Let us send out to these peasants Meat and wine in great abundance, Also of doubloons some dozens, That from hence they may depart; They in Waldshut may look out then, How they drive away these fellows." Now the Baron came among them: "My good sirs! I do believe you Hang your heads. To work now bravely! When the Swedes the town beleagured, Then 'twas grave, but this is only Child's play. Surely you have always Liked to hear and make good music; So the booming guns will please you. Let the orchestra strike up now! And these fellows, when they hear you, Homeward soon will all go dancing, E'er the emperor's own detachment Plays for them the grand finale." Thus he spoke. In times of terror Oft a brave word at the right time Can work wonders; many cowards From example drink in courage; And one single iron will leads Oft along the wavering masses. Thus the council looked up strengthened To the Baron's gray moustaches. "Yes, this is just our opinion, We'll defend our city bravely, And the Baron shall command us; For he knows well how to do it. Death to all these cursed peasants!" Through the streets th' alarm is sounded To the town-gate, where a narrow Dam leads on to terra firma, Ran well armed the younger people. On the bastion stood commanding Fludribus, the fresco-painter, Who had there assembled round him Some young lads who with great effort An old gun were hauling up there. Smiling looked at them the Baron, But great Fludribus said gravely: "Devotees of art can boast of Stores of universal knowledge. Let them have a chance, and they will Rule the state as well as armies. My keen eye sees well there's danger In this spot; and as Cellini From the Castle of St Angelo Shot the constable of France once. So--alas at foes inferior-- Cannonades here Fludribus." "Only do not kill them all off!" Said the Baron; "and be sure first To get balls enough and powder; For, the gun you there are dragging Will not be of use without them!" To the Rhine-bank came the peasants In great crowds, and looked up growling At the high walls of the city And the well-closed city-gate. "In his den the fox is hiding, He has barred his hole most firmly, But the peasants will unearth him," Fridli said, of Bergalingen. "Forward! I will be your leader!" Drums were beating the assault now, Heavy muskets cracking loudly; Through the powder-smoke ran shouting All these hordes against the town-gate. On the walls to best advantage Had the Baron placed his forces; And was tranquilly then looking At the crowd of wild assaulters. "'Tis to be regretted," thought he, "That such strength is idly wasted. Out of these strong country lubbers One might form a splendid regiment." His command is heard: "Now fire!" The assaulters then were welcomed With a well-aimed thundering volley, And they fled in all directions; Like a swarm of crows dispersing, When the hail-shot flies among them. And not few of them had fallen. 'Neath an apple-tree was lying By the shore one who spoke feebly To a comrade passing by him: "Greet from me my poor old mother, Also my Verena Frommherz. Say, she can with a good conscience Marry the tall Uickerhans now. For, poor Seppli here is staining The white sand with his true heart's blood!" Whilst this happened by the town-gate, Some were trying if the city Could be entered by a back-way. On the Rhine below were lying Fishing-boats beside a cabin, Where in traps they caught the salmon. There another crowd streamed onward. An audacious lad from Karsau Led them; for, he knew each byway Near the river, and had often Many fish at night-time stolen From the nets of other people. In three fishing-boats, well manned, thence Were they rowing up the river. Willow-trees and heavy brushwood, And a bend there in the river Saved them from discovery. Where the garden of the castle On arched walls is far projecting O'er the Rhine, they stopped their barges, And quite easy was the landing. On the roof of the pavilion Which once Fludribus had painted Sat the black cat Hiddigeigei. With surprise the worthy cat saw Spear-heads far below him glistening; Saw a man, too, upward climbing On the stone wall, tightly holding With his teeth a shining sabre; And how others followed after. Growling said then Hiddigeigei: "Best for a wise cat it would be Ever to remain quite neutral To man's foolish acts of daring; But I hate these boorish peasants, Hate the smell of cows and stables. If they triumph, woe to Europe; For, it would destroy completely The fine atmosphere of culture. Now look out below, you fellows! Since the geese by cries of warning Saved the Capitol of Rome once, Animals are taking interest In the history of the world." Up he sprang in furious anger, Curved his back, his hair all bristling, And commenced a caterwauling Fit to take away one's hearing. On the jutting turret standing. Faithful Anton heard this wauling, And involuntarily looking Toward that way: "Good heaven!" said he, "In the garden is the enemy." Quick his signal-shot brought other Men-at-arms, along with Werner, Who placed quickly his few fighters: "Stand thou here--thou there--don't hurry With your fire!" His heart beat wildly: "Ha, my sword, maintain thy valour!" Shallow was the castle's moat then, Well-nigh dry, and 'mid the rushes Glisten many swords and spear-heads. Daring men are climbing upward O'er the tower's crumbling stone-work. Muskets cracking, arrows flying. Axe-strokes 'gainst the gate are ringing, Everywhere attack, and shouting: "Castle thou wilt soon be taken!" And between, the fall of bodies In the moat is heard--much blood flows. By the gate cries out young Werner: "Well done, Anton! Now take aim at That dark fellow on thy left hand; I'll attend unto the other. Steady now! They are retreating!" Thus the first attack proved fruitless, And with bloody heads drew back now The assaulters, seeking shelter, 'Midst the chestnut-trees' dense thicket. Scornful words now reach the castle: "Coward knights, faint-hearted servants, Keep behind the walls, protected. Just come out to honest combat If you've courage." "Death and Devil!" Werner shouted. "Let the bridge down! Spears at rest! Now onward!--Mock us? In the Rhine with these damned scoundrels!" Down the bridge fell rattling loudly; Far ahead went Werner rushing, Right into the crowd; ran over Just the fellow who did guide them. "When the sword gets dull, thou rascal, With my fist alone I'll kill thee." In the crowd he sees a sturdy Soldier, with a weather-beaten Face, bold and defiant-looking. He had served with Wallenstein once, And now fought for these mean peasants From mere love of strife and bloodshed. "Taste my steel now, gray old warrior," Cried young Werner, as his sword swung Whizzing through the air to strike him. But the soldier's halberd parried Werner's stroke: "Not badly done, lad! Here my answer!" Blood was dripping From young Werner's locks; his forehead Showed a deep wound from the halberd. But the one who swung it, never Gave a second stroke; his own throat, Where by armour not protected, Being cut by Werner's weapon. Three steps backward then he staggered Sinking: "Devil, stir thy fire! Hast me now!" Dead lay the soldier. Werner, thy young life guard well now! Raging were the peasants, thronging In great crowds around this handful. 'Gainst a chestnut-tree now leaning Weak, but still his life defending, Stood young Werner; round him rallied, Brave and faithful, all the servants. Save him, God! The wound is bleeding, From his hand the sword falls slowly, Dimmed his eyes are, and the enemy At his gory breast is aiming. Then--all may go well yet-- From the castle rings distinctly, As if for a charge, the trumpet; Then a shot--one falls; a volley Follows. "Onward!" so the Baron Now commands, and wildly flying Tear the peasants to the Rhine. Cheer up, Werner, friends are coming, And with them comes Margaretta! When the fight below was raging, To the terrace she ascended, And she blew--herself not knowing Why she did it--in the anguish Of her soul, the battle signal Used in the Imperial army. Which she'd learned in happy moments In the honeysuckle-arbour. It was heard by those returning With the Baron from the town-gate; And the maiden's war-cry made them Hurry quickly to the rescue Of those fighting in the garden. Woman's heart, so gentle, timid, What gave thee such courage then? "God, he lives!" she bent now softly Over him who 'neath the chestnuts There on the green sward was lying, Stroked the fair locks, lank and bloody, From his brow: "Hast fought right bravely!" Half unconscious gazed young Werner; Did he then behold a vision? Closed his eyes, and on two muskets To the castle he was borne. TWELFTH PART. YOUNG WERNER AND MARGARETTA. In the castle's chapel dimly Was a flickering lamp-light burning, Shining on the altar-picture, Whence the Queen of Heaven looked down With a gracious pitying smile, 'Neath the picture hung fresh gathered Roses and geranium-garlands. Kneeling there prayed Margaretta: "Sorely tried one, full of mercy! Thou who givest us protection, Care for him who badly wounded Lies now on a bed of anguish; And bestow on me forgiveness If thou thinkst it very sinful That he fills my thoughts alone." Hope and trust their light were shedding In her heart as thus she prayed. And more cheerful Margaretta Now ascended up the staircase. On the threshold of the sick-room Was the gray old doctor standing, And he beckoned her to come there. Judging what most likely would be The first question she would ask him, He then said with voice half muffled: "Fear no more, my gracious lady; Fresh young blood and youthful vigour From such wounds not long can suffer, And already gentle slumber, Messenger of health, doth soothe him. He to-day can take an airing." Spoke and left; for, his attention Many wounded men were craving, And he hated useless gossip. Softly entered Margaretta Now the sick-room of young Werner, Bashful and yet curious whether All was true the doctor told her. Gently slumbering lay young Werner, Pale in youthful beauty, looking Like a statue. As if dreaming, He lay holding, o'er his forehead And his healing wound, his right hand, As one who from glaring sunlight Wishes to protect his eyes; Round his lips a smile was playing. Long on him gazed Margaretta-- Long and longer. Thus in old times In the forest of Mount Ida Gazed the goddess, fair Diana, On Endymion the sleeper. Pity held her eye a captive; Ah, and pity is a fruitful Soil for love's sweet plant to grow in. From a tiny seed 'tis spreading In this ground so rich and fertile, Which it permeates completely With its thousand fibrous rootlets. Thrice already Margaretta To the door her way had wended, But as many times returning She at last approached the bedside. On the table stood a cooling Potion, medicines in bottles; But she neither touched the cooling Potion nor the other bottles. Timidly she bent there o'er him, Timidly and hardly breathing, Lest her breath might wake the sleeper. Long she gazed at his closed eyelids And involuntarily stooping, With her lips--But who interprets All the strange mysterious actions Of a first sweet loving passion? Well-nigh can my song conjecture That she really wished to kiss him; But she did not; startled sighing, Turned abruptly--like a timid Fawn she hurried from the chamber. Like a man who, long accustomed To the gloom and damp of dungeons, Seems bewildered when beholding, For the first time free fair Nature: "Hast thou not, O sun, grown brighter? Has the sky not deeper colours?" And his eyes are nearly dazzled By the light so long denied him: Thus returns the convalescent Once again to life and vigour. Fresher, warmer, rosier visions Rise before his raptured glances, Which he greets with fond rejoicing. "World, how fair thou art!" was also Dropping from the lips of Werner, As on the broad steps he slowly Now descended to the garden. Leaning on his staff, he stood long Quiet, basking in the sunbeams Playing o'er the fragrant flowers, Drew a long breath, and then slowly Stepped upon the garden-terrace. On the stone-seat in the sunshine He sat down now. Bees were humming, Butterflies were lightly flying 'Mid the verdant chestnut-branches, Out and in, like tavern-goers. Green, pellucid, gently rushing, Bore the Rhine its waters onward; And a pine-raft filled with people, Snake-like, swiftly sped toward Basel. Near the shore, up to his knees stood In the river there a fisher, Singing gently to himself thus: "Peasant comes with spears and muskets, Peasant storms the forest-city, Peasant will now fight with Austria: Peasant! you will find that will Make much heavier the bill; Take your purse and pay the joke! Seven florins seemed too much then, One-and-twenty must thou pay now. Soldiers quartered are dear guests too; Then the plaisters from the surgeons: Peasant! you will find that will Make much heavier the bill; Take your purse and pay the joke!" Gaily gazed young Werner o'er the Lovely landscape and the river; But he stopped his contemplations. On the wall with sunlight flooded He beheld a shadow gliding, As of curls and flowing garments-- Well did Werner know this shadow. Through the shrubbery came smiling Margaretta; she was watching Hiddigeigei's graceful gambols, Who then in the garden-arbour With a wee white mouse was playing. With his velvet paws he held it Tight, and like a gracious sovereign Looked down on his trembling captive. From his seat rose up young Werner Bowing lowly and with reverence. Over Margaretta's cheeks spread Ever-changing rosy blushes. "Master Werner, may God bless you, And how are you? You were silent Such a long time, so with pleasure Shall I hear your voice once more." "Since my forehead made acquaintance Lately with the enemy's halberd, Hardly knew I," answered Werner, "Where my life and thoughts had flown to. O'er me lay thick clouds of darkness; But to-day in dreams an angel To my side descended, saying: Thou art well, arise, be happy That thou hast thy health recovered And it was so. With a firm step Thus far have I come already." Now again fair Margaretta's Cheeks were like the blush of morning. When the dream young Werner mentioned, Bashfully she turned her head; then Playfully she interrupted: "I suppose you are now looking At the battle-field; indeed it Proved a hot day, and I fancy Still I hear the roar of battle: Do you still recall, you stood there By yon tree, and there a dead man Lay beneath those blooming elders? Where the gossamer so lightly Through the air in threads is flying, Spears and halberds then were glittering. There, where still you see the traces Of fresh plaster on the stone-wall, Broke those peasants through when flying. And, my good sir, over yonder Then my father loudly scolded, That a certain person headlong Had into such danger plunged." "Death and--but forgive, my lady. That well-nigh I swore," said Werner. "They were mocking us; and others, If they please, may keep their temper. When I hear such stinging speeches, Then my heart burns, my fist clenches: Fight! no other means I know of; Fight I must, e'en should the whole world Go to atoms with a crash. Through my veins there flows no fish-blood; And to-day, though somewhat feeble, In the same case, I should stand there By the chestnut-tree again." "Wicked man," said Margaretta, "That a fresh stroke from a halberd Should be crossing your old scar, and That--but do you know who suffered Keenly for your daring conduct? Do you know whose tears were flowing? Would you once more give the order: Lower drawbridge! if I begged you: Werner stay and do remember The poor suffering Margaretta? If I--," but she was not able Further to spin out her sentence. What the mouth spoke not, the eyes said; What the eyes said not, the heart did. Dreamily young Werner lifted Unto her his raptured gaze: "Am I dying, or is doubly My young life to me now given?" In each other's arms they flew then, Sought each other's lips with ardour, And transported, pressed upon them Love's first kiss, so sweet and blissful. Golden-purple streamed the sunlight Through the shady trees' high summits, Down upon two happy beings-- On young Werner's pallid features, On the lovely blushing maiden. Love's first kiss so sweet and blissful! Thinking of thee, joy and sorrow Both steal o'er me; joy, that also I have once thy nectar tasted, Sorrow, that but once we taste it! For thy sake I wished to cull from Language, all the fairest flowers, For a wreath unto thine honour; But, instead of words rose visions Clear before me, and they led me Far to float o'er time and space. First I soared to Eden's garden, When the new-born world was lying In its pristine youthful freshness, When its age by days was reckoned. Evening came, a rosy light spread O'er the sky, while in the river's Waves the sun to rest sank slowly; On the shore, in merry frolic, Graceful animals were playing. Through the shady paths 'neath palm-trees The first human couple walked. Wide through space they gazed in silence, 'Mid the holy peace of evening; In each other's eyes they looked then, And their lips did meet. Then I saw before me rising. Visions of quite different aspect; Dark the sky, rain-storm and lightning, Mountains bursting, from the dark depths Foaming waters rushing upward. Flooded over is the ancient Mother Earth, and she is dying. To the cliffs the waves are rolling, To the old man and his consort, To the two last living mortals. Now a flash--I saw them smiling, Then embracing, without speaking, Ever kissing. Night then--roaring, Did the flood engulf these beings. This I saw, and well I know now, That a kiss outweighs all language, Is, though mute, love's song of songs. And when words fail, then the singer Should be silent; therefore silent He returns now to the garden. On the stone steps of the terrace Lay the worthy Hiddigeigei; And with great amazement saw he, How his mistress and young Werner Were each other fondly kissing. Grumbling said he to himself then: "Often have I meditated On great problems hard to settle, Which my cat-heart fully fathomed; But there's one which yet remaineth Quite unsolved, uncomprehended: Why do people kiss each other? Not from hatred, not from hunger, Else they'd bite and eat each other; Neither can it be an aimless Nonsense, for they are in general Wise, and know well what they're doing. Why then is it, I ask vainly, Why do people kiss each other? Why do mostly so the youthful? And why mostly so in Spring-time? Over all these knotty questions, I intend to ponder further, On the gable-roof to-morrow." Margaretta plucked some roses, Took then Werner's hat, and gaily With the fairest ones adorned it. "Poor pale man, till there are blooming On your own cheeks just such roses, On your hat you'll have to wear them. But now tell me, wherefore is it That I do so dearly love you? Not a word you ere have spoken, That could show me that you loved me. Sometimes only shy and bashful Did you raise at me your glances, And sometimes you played before me. Is it, then, your country's custom, That a woman's love is won there, Without words by trumpet-blowing?" "Margaretta, sweetest darling," Said young Werner, "could I venture? You appeared to me so saint-like, In your flowing, snow-white garments. At the feast of Fridolinus. 'Twas your glance which made me enter In your noble father's service; And your favour was the sunshine Which my daily life illumined. Ah! there by the mountain-lake once, On my head was placed a garland. 'Twas love's crown of thorns you gave me, And in silence I have worn it. Could I speak, O could the homeless Trumpeter his yearnings utter Boldly to fair Margaretta? Unto you as to an angel, Who is guarding us poor mortals Did I look in silent worship, And I wished in your dear service Here to die beneath the chestnuts. From that fate you have preserved me, Unto life and health restored me, Made my life now doubly precious, As I know your love adorns it. Take me then! Since you did give me That first burning kiss, I only Live through you, belong to you now, Margaretta--ever thine!" "Thine, yes, thine," said Margaretta; "What stiff barriers are erected By our words! Belong to you now-- What a solemn cold expression. Ever thine! 'tis thus love speaketh. No more you; _thou_, heart to heart pressed, Lips to lips, that is his language; Therefore, Werner, let another Kiss now seal it"--and their lips met. In the sky the moon first shineth, Then by countless stars is followed; So the first kiss, when once given, Is by hosts of others followed. But how many were by stealth robbed And paid duly back with interest, All this doth my song keep secret. Poetry and dry statistics Are, alas, not on good terms. Also Anton came now hurrying Through the garden with a message: "The three ladies from the convent, Who the first of May went with us To the fishing, send their greeting To your gracious ladyship, and Also make most kind inquiries For the health of Master Werner, Who, they trust, will soon amend." THIRTEENTH PART. WERNER SUES FOR MARGARETTA. Night, how long and full of terror! When thou bring'st not to the weary With thy shades refreshing slumber, And sweet dreams to comfort him. Restlessly his thoughts are delving In the past's great heaps of rubbish, Where they rake up many fragments Of his former life, and nowhere Can his eyes abide with pleasure; Only gloomy spectres rise up, Which the sunlight soon would banish. Unrefreshed, next to the future Roves the mind from which sweet sleep flies; Forges plans, takes resolutions, Builds up proud and airy castles; But like owls and bats are flying All around them hosts of doubts which Drive away all hope and courage. From the tower-clock struck midnight. On his couch was lying sleepless Werner in the turret-chamber; Through the window beaming faintly Fell a narrow ray of moonlight, While beneath the Rhine did rush. And the sleepless brain of Werner Is by dream-like visions haunted. Once it seemed to him like Sunday; Bells are pealing, horses neighing, Toward the Schwarzwald goes a wedding, He walks at the head as bridegroom, By his side is Margaretta; And she wears a wreath of myrtle. In the village loud rejoicings, And the roads and village street are All with flowers overstrewn. In his priestly robes is standing By the church-door the old Pastor Blessing, beckoning him to enter-- But the vision's thread broke off here For a new one: He imagined At the door there was a knocking; And now enters the odd figure Of his dear old friend Perkeo, With his red nose shining brightly In the dimly-lighted chamber; And he speaks with husky voice thus: "Oh, my lad, with love don't meddle! Love's a fire which consumeth Him who kindles it, completely; And thou art no charcoal-burner! Come then home to the clear Neckar, Come with me to my old wine-tun, Which contains good stuff sufficient All thy love-flames to put out." Next he seems to be transported To an Eastern field of battle. Cries of Allah, sabres whirring; And he soon strikes down a Pashaw From his horse, and brings the crescent To the general, Prince Eugene, Who then claps him on the shoulder: "Well done, my Imperial captain!" From the battle-field his dreaming Flies back to the days of childhood, And his nurse sings in the garden: "Squirrel climbs up on the blackthorn, Squirrel goes up to the tree-top, Squirrel falls into his grave. Had he not so high ascended, Then his fall had been less heavy, Had not broken then his leg." Thus disturbed by all this dreaming, Werner sprang up of a sudden, With long strides walked through his chamber; And his mind was troubled always By the same portentous question: "Shall I ask the Baron for her?" Love well-nigh appeared to him now Just like stolen fruit; he felt that, Like a thief, before the day broke, He had better leave the castle. But just then the sun was rising, With the beauty of a bridegroom In the blush of early morning. "Be ashamed, my heart, great coward! Yes, I'll ask him," cried young Werner. At his breakfast sat the Baron Poring deeply o'er a letter Which the day before was brought him By a messenger from Suabia, From the Danube; where through narrow Valleys the young stream is flowing, And steep limestone rocks are rising From the water which reflects them With their verdant crowns of beech-trees; Thence the man had come on horseback. And the letter read as follows: "Does my comrade still remember His old Hans von Wildenstein? Down the Rhine and Danube many Drops of water have been flowing, Since we in that war together Lay before the bivouac-fire; And I see it by my son's growth, Who is now a strapping fellow-- Four-and-twenty years he reckons. First a page unto his highness The Grand Duke of Wuertemberg; Then to Tuebingen I sent him. If I by his debts can judge well, Which I had to pay for him there, He must have vast stores of knowledge. Now he stays with me at home, at Wildenstein; is hunting stags here, Hunting foxes, hares and rabbits; But sometimes the rascal even Hunts the peasants' pretty daughters. So 'tis time to think of taming Him beneath the yoke of marriage. If I err not, you, my friend, have Just a daughter suited for him. With old comrades 'tis the custom Not to beat around the bush, but Go straight forward to the business. So I ask you, shall my Damian Start upon a tour of courtship To your castle on the Rhine? Answer soon. Receive the greetings Of thy Hans von Wildenstein! "Postscript: Do you still remember That great brawl we had at Augsburg, And the rage of wealthy Fugger, The ill-humour of his ladies, Two-and-thirty years ago?" With great effort tried the Baron His friend's writing to decipher. Spent a good half-hour upon it Ere he came to its conclusion. Smiling said he then: "A Suabian Is a devil of a fellow. One and all they are unpolished. And coarse-grained is their whole nature; But within their square-built noddles Lie rich stores of clever cunning. Many stupid brainless fellows Might from them obtain supplies. Truly my old Hans now even In old age is calculating Like the best diplomatist. For, his much encumbered, rotten Owl's-nest out there on the Danube, Would be well propped up and rescued By a good rich marriage-portion. Still his plan is worth considering; For, the name of Wildenstein is Well known all throughout the Empire, Since they followed as crusaders In the train of Barbarossa. Let the younker try his chance then!" Werner with most solemn aspect, Dressed in black, the room now entered; Sadness lay on his pale features. In good humour spoke the Baron: "I was wishing just to see you, For I want you to be ready With your pen, and as my faithful Secretary write a letter, And a letter of importance. There's a knight who lives in Suabia Questioning me about my daughter; Asks her hand from me in marriage For his son, the younker Damian. Write him then, how Margaretta Daily grows in grace and beauty; How she--but I need not tell you. Think you are an artist--sketch then With your pen a life-like, faithful Portrait, not a jot forgetting. Also write, to his proposal I do offer no objection, And the younker, if he pleases, May come here and try his fortune." "May come here and try his fortune," Said young Werner, as if dreaming, Mumbling to himself--when grimly Said the Baron: "What's the matter? You have now as long a visage As a protestant old preacher On Good Friday. Is the fever Coming once again to plague you?" Gravely answered him young Werner: "I, my lord, can't write that letter, You must find another penman; For, I come myself as suitor, Come to ask you for your daughter." "Come--to ask you--for your daughter!" In his turn now said the Baron To himself--he made a wry mouth As one playing on the Jew's-harp, And he felt a sudden twitching In his foot from his old enemy Podagra, and gravely said: "My young friend, your brain is truly Still affected with the fever. Hurry quickly to the garden; There stands in the shade a fountain, There is flowing clear cool water; If you dip your head thrice in it Then your fever soon will cool." "Noble lord," now answered Werner, "Spare your jokes, for you may better Use them, when the noble younker Comes here from the land of Suabia. Calm and free from any fever Have I on this step decided, And to Margaretta's father I repeat the same petition." Darkly frowning said the Baron: "Do you want to hear from me then What your own good sense should tell you? Most unwillingly I hurt you With harsh words; I've not forgotten That the wound upon your forehead, Hardly healed yet, you received here By your ardour in my service. He who ventures as a suitor For my daughter first must show me That he comes of noble lineage. Nature has set up strict barriers Round us all with prescient wisdom, To us all our sphere assigning, Wherein we the best may prosper. In the Holy Roman Empire Is each rank defined most clearly-- Nobles, commoners, and peasants. If they keep within their circle, From themselves their race renewing, They'll remain then strong and healthy. Each is then just like a column, Which supports the whole; but never Should these classes mix together. Do you know the consequences? Our descendants would have something Of each class, and yet be nothing-- Shallow, good-for-nothing mongrels, Tossed about, because uprooted From the soil of old tradition. Firm, exclusive must a man be; And his course of life already Must be inborn, an inheritance Coming down through generations. Hence our custom does require Equal rank when people marry; And I hold as law this custom; I shall not allow a stranger To o'erleap this solid barrier, And no trumpeter shall therefore Ever woo a noble lady." Thus the Baron. With great labour Had he put the words together Of this solemn and unusual Theoretical discourse. Meanwhile Hiddigeigei lying There, behind the stove, was listening. At the end assent he nodded, But in thoughtful meditation Raised his paw up to his forehead, Reasoning to himself as follows: "Why do people kiss each other? Never shall I solve this question! I did think at last I'd solved it, Thought that kisses might be useful As a means to stop one's talking, And prevent one from declaiming Bitter stinging words of truth. But, alas, now this solution Seems, I must confess, erroneous; Else young Werner long before this Would have kissed my good old master." To the Baron said young Werner, And his voice was growing hollow: "Much I thank you for this lesson. 'Midst the fir-trees of the mountains, By the green waves of the river, In the sunlight of the May-time, Has my eye been overlooking All these barriers of custom. Thanks, that you have thus recalled them. Also, thanks for all your kindness, Shown to me while on the Rhine. Now my time is up, the meaning Of your words I thus interpret: 'Right about face!' I go gladly. As a suitor fully equal I shall here return, or never. Be not angry then--farewell!" Spoke, and from the room departed, And he knew what must be done now. At the door with troubled glances Still a long while gazed the Baron: "I am really sad," he muttered, "Wherefore is this brave youth's name not Damian von Wildenstein?" Parting, parting, dismal moment! Who first ever did invent it? Surely 'twas a wicked man, far In the Polar Sea, and freezing Round his nose the polar wind blew; And his shaggy, jealous consort, Plagued him, so he no more relished The sweet comfort of the train-oil. O'er his head he drew a yellow, Furry sealskin, and then waving With his fur-protected right hand, To his Ylaleyka spoke he First this harsh and mournful sentence: "Fare-thee-well, from thee I'm parting!" Parting, parting, dismal moment! In his turret-chamber Werner, Was now tying bag and baggage. Fastening up his travelling knapsack: Greets the walls of his snug chamber For the last time, for they seemed then Just like good old friends and comrades. Only these he took farewell of; Margaretta's eyes he could not For the world then have encountered. To the court-yard he descended, Quickly his good horse he saddled. Hoofs then clatter; a sad rider Rode forth from the castle's precincts. In the low ground by the river Stood a walnut-tree; once more there Now he halted with his horse, And once more took up his trumpet; From his overburdened soul then His farewell rang to the castle-- Rang out; don't you know the swan's song, When with death's foreboding o'er him Out into the lake he's swimming? Through the rushes, through the snow-white Water-lilies, rings his death-song: "Lovely world, I now must leave thee; Lovely world I die reluctant!" Thus he blew there. Were those tears which Glistened brightly on his trumpet, Or some rain-drops which had fallen? Onward now; the sharp spurs quickly In the horse's flanks he presses, And is flying at full gallop Round the forest's farthest edge. FOURTEENTH PART. THE BOOK OF SONGS. Werner went to distant countries, Margaretta's heart was blighted; Some few years will now pass over Ere the two are reunited. But, meanwhile, abrupt transitions Are not to my taste, I own; So with songs, like wreaths of flowers, Shall this gap be overstrewn. YOUNG WERNER'S SONGS. I. The moment when I saw thee first, Struck dumb, I stood there dreaming, My thoughts ran into harmonies, Which through my heart were streaming. So here I stand, poor trumpeter, And on the sward am blowing; In words I cannot tell my love, In music it is flowing. II. The moment when I saw thee first, The sixth of March, like lightning, Came quickly from the azure sky A flash, my heart igniting. It burn'd up all that dwelt therein, A dire destruction bringing, But from the ruins, ivy-like, My loved one's name was springing. III. Turn not thy timid glance away, To hide what there doth glisten; Come to the terrace, while I play, And to my music listen. In vain your efforts to escape, I still continue blowing; With magic speed my tunes take shape Into a ladder growing. On these sweet tones' melodious rounds Love gently is ascending; Through bolt and lock still pierce the sounds Which I to thee am sending. Turn not thy timid glance away, To hide what there doth glisten; Come to the terrace while I play, And to my music listen. IV. A merry piece I blew on the shore, How clear my trumpet was pealing! Above the storm the tones did soar Up to the castle stealing. The water-nymph on her crystal couch Hears music through the wild roaring; She rises up to listen well To a human heart's outpouring. And when she dives to her home below, With laughter the fishes she's telling, "O River-children, one doth see Strange things where mortals are dwelling. "There stands someone on shore, in the storm: What do you think he's doing? Blows evermore the same old tune-- The tune of Love's soft wooing." V. Thou Muse of Music, take my thanks, Be praise to thee forever, For teaching me thy Art divine, That Art which faileth never. Though language is a noble thing, There are limits to what it expresses; No speech has uttered yet what lives In the soul's most hidden recesses. It matters not that there are times, When words to us are wanting; For then, within, mysterious sounds Our spell-bound hearts are haunting. It murmurs, hums, it swells and rings, Our hearts seem well-nigh breaking, Till music's glorious hosts burst forth, To forms of life awaking. Oft I should stand before my love A stupid bashful fellow, Were not my trumpet there at hand, And love-songs sweet and mellow. Thou Muse of Music, take my thanks, Be praise to thee forever, For teaching me thy Art divine, That Art which faileth never. VI. The skylark and the raven Are of a different tribe; I feel as if in heaven! That I am not a scribe. The world is not so prosy, The woods with mirth o'erflow, To me life seems all rosy, My trumpet rings hallo. And merry tunes 'tis sending Forth in a constant flow; Who finds these sounds offending May to the cloister go. When ink it shall be raining, Sand fall instead of snow, Then, from my sin abstaining, I nevermore will blow. VII. Where 'neath the bridge the waters foam, Dame Trout was swimming downward, And met her cousin Salmon there: "How are you, river-comrade?" "I'm well," quoth he, "but thought just now: If only lightning flashing, Down there, would strike that stripling dead, Him and his trumpet smashing! The live-long day my fine young sir On shore is promenading; Rhine up, Rhine down, and never stops His hateful serenading." Dame Trout, then smiling, answered him; "Dear cousin, you are spiteful, I, on the contrary, do find The Trumpeter delightful. "If you, like him, could but enjoy Fair Margaretta's favour, To learn the trumpet even now, You would not deem much labour." VIII. I pray that no fair rose for me, By thy dear hands, be broken; A slip of holly evergreen, Be of our love the token. The chaplet green with glossy sheen O'er the fruit good watch is keeping; And all will prick who try to pick What's for another's reaping. The gaudy rose, when Autumn comes, Finds that her beauty waneth; The holly leaf her modest green Through cold and snow retaineth. IX. Her fragrant balm the sweet May night O'er hill and vale is breathing, When through the shrubs with footsteps light To the castle I am stealing. In the garden waves the linden-tree, I climb to its green bower, And from the leafy canopy My song soars to the tower: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling. Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!" With joyous trills the nightingale On the topmost bough is singing, While far o'er mountain and o'er vale The thrilling notes are ringing. The birds are looking all about, Awaking from their slumber; From branch, and bush, and hedge burst out Glad voices without number: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling. Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!" The sounds are heard, are borne along By the river downward flowing; And from afar echoes the song, Fainter and fainter growing. And through the air of rosy morn I see two angels winging, Like a harp's sweet tones, from Heaven borne, I hear their voices singing: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling. Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!" X. Who's clattering from the tower To me a greeting queer? 'Tis, in his nest so cosy, My friend the stork I hear. He's preparing for a journey, O'er sea and land will hie; The Autumn is coming quickly, So now he says good-bye. Art right, that thou dost travel Where warmer skies do smile; From me greet fair Italia, And also Father Nile. There in the south are waiting Far better meals for thee, Than German frogs and paddocks, Poor chafers and ennui! Old fellow, God preserve thee, My blessing take along; For thou, at peaceful night-time, Hast often heard my song. And if perchance thou wert not Asleep within thy nest, Thou must have seen how often With kisses I was blest. But be not, pray, a tell-tale, Be still, old comrade mine, What business have the Moors there With lovers on the Rhine? XI. A settled life I did despise, And so to wandering took; When soon I found, to my surprise, A comfortable nook. But as I lay in rest's soft lap, And hoped for long repose, There broke o'er me a thunder-clap, My stay came to a close. Each year a different plant I see Spring up, with beauty clad; A fool's mad dance this world would be, If 'twere not quite so sad. XII. To life belongs a most unpleasant feature: That not a rose without sharp thorns doth grow, Much as love's yearning stirs our human nature, Through pangs of parting we at last must go. From thy dear eyes, when I my fate was trying, A gleam of love and joy streamed forth to me: Preserve thee God! my joy seemed then undying, Preserve thee God! such joy was not to be. I've suffered much from envy, hatred, sorrow, A weather-beaten wanderer sad and worn; I dreamt of peace and of a happy morrow, When I to thee by angel-guides was borne. To thy dear arms for comfort I was flying, In grateful thanks I vowed my life to thee: Preserve thee God! my joy seemed then undying, Preserve thee God! such joy was not to be. The clouds fly fast, the wind the leaves is sweeping, A heavy shower falls o'er woods and meads: The weather with my parting is in keeping, Gray as the sky my path before me leads. Whatever may come, joy's smile or bitter sighing, Thou lovely maid! I'll think of naught but thee! Preserve thee God! my joy seemed once undying, Preserve thee God! such joy was not for me. SONGS OF THE CAT HIDDIGEIGEI. I. Honest folks are turning lately Their attention to the Muses, And with ease compose their own songs For their daily household uses. Therefore I shall also try it, On light pinions freely winging; For, who dares deny our talent, Takes from cats the right of singing? If I always run to book-stores I shall find it too expensive; And their gaudy books contain oft Naught but trash, weak and offensive. II. When through vales and on the mountains Roars the storm at midnight drear, Clambering over ridge and chimney Hiddigeigei doth appear. Like a spirit he stands up there, Never looked he half so fair; Fire from his eyes is streaming, Fire from his bristling hair. And he howls in fierce wild measure, An old war-cry caterwauling, Which is borne off by the storm-wind, Like the distant thunder rolling. Not a soul then ever sees him, Each is sleeping in his house; But far down, deep in the cellar, Listens the poor trembling mouse. For his voice she recognises, And she knows that, when in rage, Most ferocious is the aspect Of this valiant feline sage. III. From the tower's highest summit Gaze I at the world below; From my lofty seat I'm able To observe life's ceaseless flow. And the cat's green eyes are staring, And he laughs within his sleeve, That those pygmies there are trying Such great follies to achieve. What's the use? Up to my level Never can I raise mankind. Let them follow their devices, Small their loss is, to my mind. For perverted are men's actions, And their work is woe and crash. Conscious of his own great value, Grins the cat down on this trash! IV. O the world does us injustice, And for thanks I look quite vainly; For the finest chords of feline Nature, it mistakes so plainly. Thus, if some one falls down drunken, And a throbbing like a hammer Racks his heavy head on waking, Germans call it _Katzenjammer_. Katzenjammer, oh great insult! Gentle is our caterwauling; Only men I hear too often Through the streets at night-time bawling. Yes! they do us great injustice, Never can be comprehending All the deep and morbid sorrow Which a poor cat's heart is rending. V. Hiddigeigei often has raved with delight, The true, good, and beautiful seeking; Hiddigeigei often felt grief's deadly blight, And with tender sad yearnings was weeping. Hiddigeigei once has felt his heart glow, When the fairest of cats he was wooing; And just as a troubadour's love-songs flow, Rang nightly his spirited mewing. Hiddigeigei many a valiant fight, Like the Paladin Roland, was waging; But men have often belaboured his hide, And with dropping hot pitch made him raging. Hiddigeigei to his sorrow found out, That his fair one was false and deceiving That from a poor insignificant lout She was secretly visits receiving. Hiddigeigei then did open his eyes, Left off his pining and yearning; The world henceforth he learned to despise, To his inner self earnestly turning. VI. Lovely month of May, how hateful To a cat you are, and dreary Ne'er I thought such din of music Could a cat's heart make so weary. From the branches, from the bushes Birds their warbling notes are ringing; Far and wide, as if for money, Men I hear forever singing. There the cook sings in the kitchen-- Is love also her head turning? In falsetto she now screameth, That with rage my soul is burning. Farther upward will I clamber, To the terrace slowly wending. Woe to me, for from the garden Are my neighbour's songs ascending. Even next the roof I cannot Find the rest for which I'm pining; Near me dwells a crazy poet, His own verses ever whining. When despairing to the cellar Down I rush the noise escaping; Ah, above me they are dancing, To the pipes, and fiddles' scraping. Harmless tribe! Your lyric madness You'll continue, while there yonder, In the East, the clouds are gathering, Soon to burst in tragic thunder. VII. May has come now. To the thinker, Who the causes of phenomena Searches, 'tis a natural sequence: In the centre of creation Are two aged white cats standing, Who the world turn on its axis; And their labour there produces The recurring change of seasons. But why is it in the May month That my eyes are ever ogling, That my heart is so impassioned? And why is it that I daily Must be leering sixteen hours From the terrace, as if nailed there, At the fair cat Apollonia, At the black-haired Jewess Rachel? VIII. A strong bulwark 'gainst enticements I have built on good foundations; But to the most virtuous even Sometimes come unsought temptations. And more ardent than in youth's time, The old dream comes o'er me stealing; I on memory's pinions soar up, Filled with burning amorous feeling. Oh fair Naples, land of beauty, With thy nectar-cup thou cheerest! To Sorrento I'd be flying. To a roof to me the dearest. Old Vesuvius and the white sails On the bay are greeting bringing, And the olive-woods are gladdened By the spring-birds' joyous singing. To the Loggia slinks Carmela, Strokes my beard with soft caresses; Of all cats by far the fairest, Lovingly my paw she presses. And she looks on me with longing, But now hark! there is a howling; Is the surf thus loudly roaring? Or is old Vesuvius growling? 'Tis not old Vesuvius growling, For he holds now his vacation. In the yard, destruction vowing, Barks the worst dog in creation-- Barks the worst dog in creation-- Barks Francesco, loudly yelling; And my lovely dream's enchantment He thus rudely is dispelling. IX. Hiddigeigei strictly shunneth What his conscience might be hurting; But he oft connives benignly At his fellow-cats' gay flirting. Hiddigeigei with great ardour Makes the mice-hunt his chief duty; And he frets not if another With sweet music worships beauty. Quoth the wise cat Hiddigeigei: Ere it rots, the fruit be plucking; So, if years should come of famine, Memory's paws remain for sucking. X. Even a God-fearing conduct, Cannot keep us from declining; With despair I see already In my fur some gray hairs shining. Yes, unpitying Time destroyeth All for which we've boldly striven; For against the sharp-toothed tyrant Nature has no weapons given. Unadmired and forgotten We fall victims to this power. Wish I could, with fury raging, Eat both clock-hands of the tower. XI. Long past is the time, ere man in his might O'er the earth his dominion was spreading; When the mammoth roamed in his ancient right Through the forests which crashed 'neath his treading. In vain may'st thou search now far and near For the Lion, the desert's great ruler; But we must remember, that we live here In a climate decidedly cooler. In life and in fiction is given no praise To the great and the highly gifted; And ever weaker is growing the race Till genius to nothing is sifted. When cats disappear the mice raise their voice, Till they like the others skedaddle; At last in mad frolic we hear _them_ rejoice-- The infusoria rabble. XII. Hiddigeigei sees with sorrow To a close his days are drawing; Death may come at any moment, So deep grief his heart is gnawing. O how gladly I the riches Of my wisdom would be preaching, That in joy as well as sorrow Cats might profit from my teaching. Ah! the road of life is rugged; On it rough sharp stones are lying. Stumbling o'er this path so dreary, Sprained and bruised we limp on crying. Life oft useless wounds is giving. For 'tis full of brawls and knavery; Vainly many cats have fallen Victims to an empty bravery. But for what this constant fretting? The young cats are laughing ever, No advice from me accepting-- Only suffering makes them clever. Let us see what they'll accomplish; History's teachings are derided: His sage maxims ne'er to publish, Hiddigeigei has decided. XIII. Growing weaker, breathing harder, Soon I'll feel Death's shadow o'er me: Make my grave there in the store-house, In my former field of glory. Valiantly all round me slaying Fought I like a raging lion: In his armour clad then bury Of his race the last brave scion. Yes the last, because the offspring Win their parents equal never! They are good but wooden people, Not so witty nor as clever. Wooden are they, thinking solely Of the moment, hollow hearted; Only few still hold as sacred The bequests of the departed. But sometime, when years have passed by, In my grave I've long been sleeping, Then will come the angry cat's howl Nightly down upon you sweeping. Hiddigeigei's solemn warning Will you from your slumber waken: Ever fear the coils of dulness! Save yourselves, ye God-forsaken! SONGS OF THE SILENT MAN. FROM THE CAVE OF THE GNOMES. I. Quiet heart! O ponder lonely, Valiant, by no fears assailed; Only in calm meditation Lofty secrets are unveiled. While the storms of life are raging, While mean souls for trifles fight. Thou on wings of song art soaring O'er the mob in purer light. Leave the dusty road to others, And thy soul unsullied keep, A clear mirror, like the ocean, Where the sun has sunk to sleep. O'er the world's loud bustle rising, Soars the eagle lone on high; Cranes and storks, they flock together, But close to the earth do fly. Quiet heart! O ponder lonely, Valiant, by no fears assailed; Only in calm meditation Lofty secrets are unveiled. II. Leave all commonplace forever, Digging deeply, upward soaring; For rich Nibelungen-treasures Lie all ready for exploring. From the mountains we see shining Distant seas and shores of beauty; While beneath we hear the booming Of the gnomes hard at their duty. Manna-like is spread around us Spiritual food abundant; And before our vision rises The old truth with light redundant-- As coarse threads and fine together In _one_ net are intertwisting, So the same laws are forever For the small and great existing. But a point comes,--sad confession?-- Where to pause, our thoughts restraining; At the limit of perception Is mysterious silence reigning. III. Past me wander beings pallid, Fill the air with words of anguish: All our doings are invalid, Sick and old, we slowly languish. Have you ne'er the wondrous story Found in ancient books related, Of the spring, wherein the hoary Plunged, then rose rejuvenated? And this fountain is no fiction, Within reach of all 'tis flowing; But you've lost the true direction, Farther from its traces going. In the forests' verdant bowers, Where deep calm the soul entrances, Where on graceful ferns and flowers Elves sweep through their nightly dances: There by stones and moss well hidden, Rush the waters from the mountain; From Earth's bosom springs unbidden, Ever fresh, this magic fountain. There with peace the soul is ravished; There the mind regains its powers; And the wealth of Spring is lavished O'er old wounds in blossom-showers. IV. Wilt thou know the world more clearly, See then what before thee lies; How from matter and from forces The whole fabric doth arise. Of the fixed forms of creation Thou the moving cause must see; In the changes of phenomena Find what lasts eternally. In presumptuous opinions Fresh pure seeds ne'er germinate; By deep meditation only Human minds explore, create. V. With the eagle's piercing sight endowed, And the heart with hope o'erflowing, I found myself with a mounted crowd To thought's fierce battle going. The banners high, the lance in rest, The enemy's ranks were broken. On their broad backs, O what a jest, To mark a nice blue token! We came at last to the end of our course, O'er our failure in knowledge repining; Then slowly I turned my gallant horse, Myself to silence resigning; Too proud to believe--my thoughts all free,-- To the cave as a refuge flying. The world is far too shallow for me, The core is deeper lying. I for my weapons no longer care, In the corner there they lie rusting. No priggish fool to provoke me shall dare, To my valour alone I am trusting. These owls and bats a look alone Suffices to abolish; Still serveth well an ass's bone, The Philistines to demolish. VI. Be proud, and thy lot nobly bear, From tears and sighs desisting; Like thee will many others fare, While thinkers are existing. There are many problems left unsolved By former speculations; But when thou art to dust resolved, Come other generations. The wrinkles on thy lofty brow Let them go on increasing, They are the scars which show us how Thought's struggle was unceasing. And if no laurel-crown to thee To deck thy brow be given; Still be thou proud; thy soul so free For thought alone has striven. SOME OF MARGARETTA'S SONGS. I. How proud he is and stately! How noble is his air! A trumpeter he's only, Yet I for him do care. And owned he castles seven, He could not look more fair. O would to him were given Another name to bear! Ah, were he but a noble, A knight of the Golden Fleece! Love, thou art full of trouble, Love, thou art full of peace. II. Two days now have passed already, Since I gave him that first kiss; Ever since that fatal hour All with me has gone amiss. My dear little room, so pretty, Where so nice a life I led, Is now in such dire confusion. That it almost turns my head. My sweet roses and carnations, Withered now, for care ye pine! Oh, I think, instead of water, I have deluged you with wine. My dear lovely snow-white pigeon Has no water and no bread; And the goldfinch in his cage there Looks as if he were half dead. I am putting blue and red yarn In my white net as I knit; And I work in my embroidery White wool where it doth not fit. Where are Parcival and Theuerdank? If I only, only knew! I believe that I those poets In the kitchen-pantry threw. And the kitchen plates are standing On the book-case--what a shame! Ah, for all these many blunders I my love, my love must blame! III. Away he is gone in the wide wide world; No word of farewell has he spoken. Thou fresh young player in wood and mead, Thou sun whose light is my daily need, When wilt thou send me a token? I hardly had time in his eyes to gaze, When the dream already had vanished; Oh Love, why dost thou two lovers unite, With thy burning torch their hearts ignite, When their bliss so soon must be banished? And where does he go? The world is so large, So full of deep snares for a rover. He even may go to Italia, where The women, I hear, are so false and so fair! May Heaven protect my dear lover. FIVE YEARS LATER. WERNER'S SONGS FROM ITALY. I. Too well were all things going, Therefore it could not last; My cheeks my grief are showing, Misfortune came too fast. The violet and clover, The flowers all are gone. 'Mid frost and snow, a rover I wander sad alone. Good luck will never favour The man who nothing dares; But he who does not waver The smile of fortune shares. II. A lonely rock juts upward Just by the craggy strand; The angry foaming waters Have torn it from the land. Now in green waves half sunken Defiantly it lies; The snow-white gulls are flying Around it with shrill cries. There on the heaving billows Is dancing a light boat; The sounds of plaintive singing Up to the lone rock float: "O that I to my country, And to my love were borne; O home in dear old Rhine-land, For thee my heart is torn!" III. Bewitched I am by the summer night, In silent thought I am riding; Bright glow-worms through the thicket fly Like happy dreams, which in times gone by My longing heart were delighting. Bewitched I am by the summer night. In silent thought I am riding; The golden stars shine so far and bright, In the water's fair bosom is mirrored their light, As, in Time's deep sea, love abiding. Bewitched I am by the summer night, In silent thought I am riding; The nightingale sings from the myrtle tree, He warbles so meltingly, tenderly, As if Fate his heart had been blighting. Bewitched I am by the summer night, In silent thought I am riding; The sea rises high, the waves do frown; Wherefore these useless tears which down The rider's wan cheeks are gliding? IV. 'Neath the waves the sun is going, With bright hues the sky is glowing, Twilight o'er the earth is stealing, Far-off evening bells are pealing: Thee I think of, Margaretta. On the rocky crag I'm lying, Stranger in a strange land sighing; Round my feet the waves are dancing, Through my soul float dreams entrancing: Thee I think of, Margaretta. V. Oh Roman girl, why lookest thou At me with burning glances? Thine eye, though beautiful it be, The stranger ne'er entrances. Beyond the Alps there is a grave, The Rhine watch o'er it keepeth; And three wild roses bloom thereon; Therein my love-dream sleepeth. Oh Roman girl, why lookest thou At me with burning glances? Thine eye, though beautiful it be, The stranger ne'er entrances. VI. Outside the gates when walking, I see of life no trace; There is the wide-spread graveyard Of the ancient Roman race. They rest from love and hatred, From pleasure, strife, and guilt; There in the Appian Way are Their tombs of marble built A tower greets me, gilded By the setting sun's last rays-- Caecilia Metella, At thy proud tomb I gaze. My eyes are turning northward, As 'mid this pile I stand; My thoughts are swiftly flying Far from this southern land, On to another tower, With stones of smaller size; By the shady vine-clad window I see my love's sweet eyes. VII. The world lies now encircled By the frosty winter night. No use that by the hearth-stone I think of love's sad flight. The logs will soon be burnt out, To ashes all will fall; The embers will cease glowing, That is the end of all. It is the same old story, I think of nothing more But silence and forgetting-- Forget what I adore? VIII. The crowd it frolics, shouts and sings, Disturbs Rome's usual quiet; Mad folly high her banner swings, And thronging masks run riot. Now up and down the Corso pace Gay coaches 'mid wild showers; The Carnival's great sport takes place, The fight with chalk and flowers. Confetti and fair roses fly, Bouquets are thickly raining. That hit--good luck! how glows her eye! Thou art the victory gaining. And thou, my heart, mirth also show, Forget what thou hast suffered; Let bygone times and bygone woe With flowers sweet be covered. IX. By the clear green Lake of Nemi An old maple-tree doth grow; Through its lofty leafy summit The breezes sadly blow. By the clear green Lake of Nemi A young musician lies, He hums a song, while many Tears glisten in his eyes. On the clear green Lake of Nemi The waves so gently flow; The maple and musician Their own minds do not know. By the clear green Lake of Nemi Is the best inn of the land; Praiseworthy macaroni, And wine of famous brand. The maple and musician Are crazy both, I think; Else they would go there yonder, Grow sane by honest drink. X. My heart is filled with rancour, The storm howls all around; Thou art the man I want now, Thou false Italian hound. Thy dagger's thrust I parried; Now, worthy friend, beware How from a German sword's stroke Thy Italian skull will fare. The sun's last rays had vanished Far from the Vatican; It rose to shine next morning Upon a lifeless man. XI. Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge of renown, Near thee many draughts have I swallowed down, From bottles in wicker-work braided. Oh Ponte Molle, what is the cause That I between my glasses now pause, Can hardly to drink be persuaded? Oh Ponte Molle, 'tis strange in truth, That the lovely days of my vanished youth And love's old dream are recurring. Through the land the hot sirocco blows, And within my heart the old flame glows, Sweet music within me is stirring. Oh Tiber-stream, oh St. Peter's dome, Oh thou all-powerful ancient Rome, Naught care I for all thou containest. Where'er in my restless wanderings I rove, My gentle and lovely Schwarzwald-love, The fairest on earth thou remainest! Oh Ponte Molle, how lovely was she! And if I thousands of girls should see, To love but the one I am willing. And if ever thy solid pile should bear The weight of her footsteps, I will swear, Even thy cold frame would be thrilling. But useless the longing and useless the woe, The sun is too ardent so far to go, And flying is not yet invented. Padrone, another bottle of wine! This Orvieto so pearly and fine Makes even a sad heart contented. Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge of renown, Hast thou on my head called witchcraft down For my love-sick and dreamy talking? A cloud of dust whirls up to the sky, A herd of oxen now passing by Blocks up the way I am walking. XII. (_Monte testaccio._) I do not know what the end will be; O'er the low ground spreads the gloaming, The ominous bat already I see As she starts on her nightly roaming. On Ponte Molle all is still, I think the good old hostess will Very soon the inn be closing. A little owl I hear there screech In the cypress grove 'tis hiding; Campagna fogs up there now reach, Over gate and city gliding. They roll and float like ghostly troops Round Cestius' Pyramid in groups; What are the dead there wanting? Now bursts a light around the hill, The leaden gray clouds are fast going; The full moon's face rises slow and still, With envy's yellow hue glowing. She shines so pale, she shines so cold, Right into the goblet which I hold; That cannot be a good omen. He who from his sweetheart is torn away, Will love her more dearly than ever; And who doth long in the night-air stay, Will catch most surely a fever. And now the hostess the light puts out, Felice notte! I back to her shout; The bill I'll settle to-morrow. XIII. Awaking from my slumber I hear the skylark sing; The rosy morning greets me, The fresh young day of Spring. In the garden waves the palm-tree Mysteriously its crown, And on the distant sea-shore The surf rolls up and down; And azure-blue the heavens, The golden sun so bright; My heart, what more is wanting? Chime in with all thy might! And now pour out thy praises To God, who oft gave proof, He never would forsake thee-- 'Tis thou who kept aloof. XIV. To serve, to serve! an evil ring, Has this word so harsh and frigid; My love is gone, my life's sweet Spring; My heart, become not rigid. My trumpet looks so sad to-day, With crape around it winding; In a cage they put the player gay, Lay on him fetters binding. Deep grief and pain infest his way, His heart with arrows stinging; For his daily bread he has to play, He can no more be singing. Who on the Rhine sang to his lyre. Of all save joy unheeding, Is now--sad fate--the Pope's great choir In the Sistine Chapel leading. FIFTEENTH PART. THE MEETING IN ROME. Scorching lay the heat of summer Over Rome, th' Eternal City; Sluggishly his yellow waters Rolls the Tiber, rolls them seaward, Through the sultry air; however, Not so much from choice, but rather From a sense of duty, knowing That it is a river's business. Deep down at the river's bottom, Sat old Tiber, and he muttered: "Oh how slowly time is dragging! I am weary! Would the end were Of this dull monotonous motion! Will no storm ere raise a flood-tide, To engulf this little country, And drag all the brooks and rivers, Also me--the river veteran-- And embrace us all together In the ocean's mighty bosom? E'en to wash the walls forever Of old Rome I find most tedious. And what matter that this region And myself are held as classic? Vanished, turned to dust and ashes, Are those genial Roman poets, Who, their brows adorned with laurel, And their hearts imbued with rhythm, Formerly have sung my praises. Then came others, long since vanished, Others followed in their stead, like Pictures in a magic lantern. Well! to me 'tis all the same, if Only they would not disturb me. Oh what have these busy mortals Thrown into my quiet waters, Quite regardless of my comfort! Where my nymphs with sacred rushes Had arranged for me a pillow, For my usual siesta, There now lie great heaps of rubbish, Roman helmets, Gaulish weapons, Old utensils of Etruria, And the lovely marble statues Which once from the tomb of Hadrian Down upon thick-headed Goths fell; And the bones all mixed together Of defenders and aggressors; Just as if my river-bed were An historic lumber chamber. Oh how sick I am and weary! Worn-out world, when wilt thou die?" Whilst now thus the worthy Tiber Gave full vent unto his anger By this discontented grumbling, There above gay life was surging, And arrayed in festal garments Crowds went toward the Vatican. On St. Angelo's Bridge was hardly Room enough for all the passers. Crowding came in Spanish mantles, Wigs and swords, the grand Signori; Then some black Franciscan friars, Also Capuchins, and common Roman burghers. Here and there a Sun-burnt and wild-looking shepherd Of the near Campagna wore with Classic grace his tattered garment; And among them, with light footsteps, Walked the lovely Roman maidens, With black veils, although this covering Did not hide their fervent glances. (O how can the glowing sunshine, Even when its rays are gathered By adepts in their reflectors, E'er compare with Roman glances? Heart which felt their flames, be silent!) From the castle of St. Angelo Flutter gaily many banners, Bearing all the Pope's insignia, Both the mitre and the crossed keys, Giving notice of the feast-day Kept in honour of St. Peter. There before the proud cathedral Were the sparkling fountains playing; Through the spray the vivid rainbow Glitters o'er the granite basins. And the obelisk gigantic Of Rameses, King of Egypt, Looked upon the crowd of people, In his native tongue lamenting: "Most perplexing are these Romans! In the time of Nero hardly Did I comprehend their doings; Now still less I understand them. But this much I have discovered, That the climate here is chilly. Amun-Re, thou god of sunlight, Take me home to my old friends there, To the Sphinx, and let me once more Hear the prayer of Memnon's column Through the glowing desert ringing!" On the broad steps of the Vatican And beneath the marble columns Tall Swiss halberdiers are walking To and fro in keeping watch there. Clanging through the hall the echo Of their heavy tread is ringing. To the gray old corporal turning Speaks a youthful soldier sadly: "Fine, indeed, and proud we Swiss are, And I see no other soldiers In the streets of Rome as jaunty As we look with our cuirasses, In the black, red, yellow doublet. Many burning glances shyly From the windows fall upon us; But the heart is wildly yearning Homeward, homeward for the mountains, As at Strasburg on the bulwarks When the Alpine horn was blowing. Willingly would I give up all, Earnest money, silver scudi, E'en the Holy Father's blessing, E'en the wine of Orvieto Which pearls sweetly in the goblet, Could I once again be chasing Boldly on their tracks the chamois O'er the rocks, near avalanches, On the craggy steep Pilatus; Or steal gently in the moonlight Over fragrant Alpine meadows To the faintly-lighted cottage, To the dairy-maid, the light-haired Kunigund of Appenzell; And then greet the golden sunrise With a joyful heartfelt jodel. Oh Saint Peter, thy fine music I should miss without regretting, Could I hear again the well-known Sharp shrill whistle of the marmot In its lonely Alpine cave!" On the steps of the cathedral Stood in crowds close packed together Elegant and idle dandies, Holding muster over all the Carriages and great state coaches Which came quickly driving up there. "Do you see the Eminenza With that round face like the full moon, With the double chin, he's leaning On the servant in rich livery? 'Tis the Cardinal Borghese. He would rather now be sitting Quiet in the Sabine mountains In the airy villa by the Rural beauty Donna Baldi. He's a man of taste, a scholar, Loves the classics, and especially Doth he love the true Bucolic." "Who is that?" now asked another, "That imposing-looking person? Don't you see there what a splendid Chain of honour he is wearing; How he shakes his periwig now Like th' Olympian Jupiter?" "What, you do not known him?" answered Then loquaciously another, "Him, the Chevalier Bernini? Who has just restored the Pantheon, Who upon St. Peter's also Has bestowed such rich adornments, And the golden tabernacle Built o'er Peter's grave, which cost more Than a hundred thousand scudi. Take your hat off! Since the world was, Has she seen no greater master, Nor--" He was then interrupted By a man with gray moustaches, Who his shoulder tapped and scornful Said: "You are mistaken; never Saw the world a greater bungler! I say this, Salvator Rosa." Coaches come, in front postilions; Splendid uniforms are glittering And with retinue attended Steps an aged lady onward To the portal of the Dome. "How she's fading," said then someone, "The illustrious Queen of Sweden! Do you still recall her lovely Looks when first she made her entrance? Then the Gate del Popolo looked Just as if built out of flowers; And as far as Ponte Molle Came the Romans out to greet her. Down the long street of the Corso Unto the Venetian Palace Were the shouts of joy unending. Do you see that little hunchback Standing there, who now is sneezing? He stands high in grace and favour As one of the queen's attendants. He's a scholar of deep learning, The philologist Naudaeus. He knows everything that happened, And sometime ago he even, Over there at Prince Corsini's, Danced an ancient Saltarello To instruct the royal party, Whose loud laughter was heard plainly Even far off by the Tiber." In the throng now quite unnoticed Came a heavy lumbering carriage; In it were two black-robed ladies; On the box sat worthy Anton As their coachman, calling loudly: "Room ye people for the gracious Lady Abbess and my mistress!" Called in German, which roused laughter. With bewildered eyes he looked round At the foreign scene, and just then Passing by the queen's attendants, He beheld a gray old coachman, And he muttered from his coach-box: "Don't I know thee, Swedish rascal? Didst thou not belong once to the Regiment of Sudermanland? Do you now expect my thanks here For the cut you had the kindness To bestow upon my arm once In the fight at Nuremberg? A most marvellous place is truly This old Rome, for long-forgotten Friends and foes meet here again!" On the classic soil of Italy Now my song greets Margaretta. Gladly would it strew its fairest Blossoms on the path to welcome And to cheer this pallid maiden, So that smiles might light her features; For, since Werner left the castle, Pleasure had become a stranger. Only once they saw her laughing, When the Suabian younker came there; But it was a bitter laughter, Harsh, discordant as a string sounds On a mandolin when snapping; And the younker then returned thence Single, as from home he started. Silently the maiden sorrowed As the months and years sped onward; Till at last the Princess Abbess, Filled with pity, told the Baron: "On our soil your child no longer Thrives as heretofore, but slowly Her poor heart from grief is withering. Change of air oft worketh wonders. Let me take then Margaretta With me to the Holy City, Where in spite of age I'm going; For, in Chur the wicked bishop Threatens to deprive our convent Of our fairest Swiss possessions, And I shall complain of him there, Saying to the Holy Father: 'Show me mercy, justly punish The harsh bishop of the Grisons.'" Said the Baron: "Take her with you; And may Heaven grant its blessing, That you may bring back my daughter Rosy-cheeked and happy-hearted." Thus to Italy they travelled With old Anton as their coachman. Now the carriage-door he opened, And alighting, the old Abbess, Followed by fair Margaretta, Walked up to the church and entered. Margaretta gazed in wonder At the vastness of the building, Where man seems reduced to nothing; At the giant marble columns, And the dome with gold overladen. In the niche of the great nave stands The bronze statue of St. Peter, Which this day in papal vestments Was arrayed, the gold brocade robe Hanging stiffly on the statue; On the head the Bishop's mitre. And they saw how many people Kissed the foot of this bronze statue. Then a papal chamberlain led Both the German ladies forward To a seat close by the altar, Place of honour kept for strangers. Now was heard the sound of music; And the Holy Father coming Through the side-door from the Vatican Made his entrance to St. Peter's. Stout Swiss halberdiers were marching At the head of the procession, Followed by the celebrated Singers of the papal choir. Heavy music-books were carried By the choristers, some hardly Strong enough to bear the folios. Then there came in motley order Monsignori robed in violet; Abbots followed then and prelates, And the canons of St. Peter's, Heavy looking, their fat figures Corresponding to their livings. Leaning on his staff the General Of the Capuchins walked slowly For a load of more than ninety Years was resting on his shoulders; But his brain was working out still Many plans with youthful vigour. With Franciscans from the cloister Ara c[oe]li also came the Prior of Pallazuola. By the shores of Lake Albano, 'Neath the shade of Monte Cavo, Stands his little monastery, Peaceful spot for idle dreamers. On he walked in deep thought buried; And who knows wherefore his mutterings Did not sound like prayer, but more like "Fare-thee-well, Amalia." After them the choicest portion, All the cardinals, were walking, Their long robes of scarlet colour On the marble pavement trailing. "Heart, be patient," so was thinking Cardinal di Ottoboni; "Now I'm second to the Pope yet, But in seven years most likely I shall mount St Peter's chair." Then a train of cavaliers came With their shining swords, and followed In strict military order; 'Twas the Pope's own guard of honour. And at last the Holy Father Made his entrance, being carried On a throne by eight strong bearers. O'er his head were held by pages The great fans of peacock-feathers. Snow-white were his festal garments; And his right hand, raised in blessing, Wore the signet-ring of Peter. Low the crowd knelt down in silence. At the foot of the High Altar The procession had arrived now, And the Pope held solemn service Over the Apostle's grave. Solemnly and gravely sounded The peculiar choral measures Which old Master Palestrina Had in his strict style composed. And the aged Lady Abbess Prayed with fervent deep devotion. But fair Margaretta's glances Were directed up to heaven, Whence these solemn strains of music Seemed to her to be descending. But her eye was then attracted To the singers' box--she trembled: For, amid the group of singers, Though half hidden by a column, Stood a stately light-haired figure. And again she looked now upward; From her sight the Pope had vanished, All the Cardinals had vanished, Likewise all the nine-and-eighty Burning lamps o'er Peter's grave. "My old dream, dost thou return then? My old dream, why dost thou haunt me Even in these sacred precincts?" The last notes had died out softly, And the Holy Mass was ended. "Oh how pale you look, dear lady!" Said the aged Lady Abbess. "Take my vial, it will help you, It contains the finest essence Which I bought myself in Florence At the cloister of San Marco." The procession of the singers Passed just then before the ladies. "God in heaven! oh have mercy! Yes, 'tis he! I know the scar there On his brow--it is my Werner!" Dark before her eyes it grew now, And her heart was beating wildly. No more could her feet support her, And the maiden sank down fainting On the hard cold floor of marble. SIXTEENTH PART. SOLUTION AND END. Innocentius the Eleventh Was kind-hearted; and his dinner He had just now greatly relished. At dessert he still was sitting, And while luscious fruit enjoying, Said to Cardinal Albani: "Who was that young pallid lady, Who this morning in St. Peter's Fell upon the floor and fainted?" Answered Cardinal Albani: "On this subject just at present I can give no information; But the Monsignor Venusto I will ask, for he knows always What in Rome is daily happening; Knows what in salons is gossiped, What the senators are doing, What is drunk by Flemish artists, What is sung by Prima Donnas, Even what the puppet-show is Playing on the Square Navona. There is naught the Monsignore Can't unravel and discover." E'en before was served the coffee (At that time this was a novel Beverage and rarely taken, Only on the highest feast-days) Had the Cardinal already Learnt the facts. He thus related: "This pale maiden is a noble Lady, who has travelled hither With that German Princess Abbess; And she saw--most marvellously-- In the church a man this morning, Whom she once had lost her heart with, And whom, still more marvellously, She unto this day is loving, Notwithstanding and in spite of Want of noble birth and titles, And her father's stem refusal. And the cause of this her fainting Is, again most marvellously, No one else but Signor Werner, Chapel-master to your Holiness. This the Monsignor Venusto Heard to-day, when on a visit To the Abbess who related Confidentially these facts." Then the Pope said: "This is truly A most strange and touching meeting. Were the subject not too modern, And the actors of the drama Not such semi-barbarous Germans, Then some poet might win laurels In the sweet groves of Arcadia, Should he sing this wondrous meeting. But I truly take an interest In the grave young Signor Werner. Greatly has improved the singing Of my choir, since he leads it, And the taste for solemn music; While my own Italian singers Care too much for operatic Tunes of lighter character. Quietly he does his duty, Of his own accord ne'er speaking; Never begs of me a favour; Never was his hand extended To receive the gifts of bribery. Yet examples of corruption Are more frequent with us, surely, Than the fleas in sultry summer. Monsignor Venusto knows this! Seems to me that this grave German Is consumed by secret sorrow. I should really like to know now, If he's thinking of his love yet?" Said the Cardinal Albani: "I well-nigh may answer for this. In the books kept on the conduct Of all high and low officials In the State and Church departments, It is mentioned as a wonder That he strictly shuns all women. First we nourished a suspicion That his heart had fallen victim To the charms of the fair hostess Of the inn near Vale Egeria. He was seen each evening strolling Through the Porta Sebastiano, And outside there is no dwelling But the tavern just now mentioned. Thus such nightly promenading Of one yet in early manhood Could not but arouse suspicion. Therefore we once sent two persons Carefully to track his footsteps, But they found him 'mid the ruined Tombs along the Appian Way. There had once a great patrician Built a tomb to his freed woman, Whom he'd brought as a remembrance From Judaea, at the time of The destruction of the Temple. She was called Zatcha Achyba. There he sat, the spies related; 'Twas a subject for an artist: The Campagna's sombre landscape; Moonlight on the marble tombstone; He his mantle wrapped around him; Mournfully he blew his trumpet Through the gloomy lonely silence. This had brought upon him later Many mocking jeers like this one: 'Signor Werner is composing For the Jewess there a requiem.'" At this smiled the Holy Father, And the Cardinals did likewise; Following these high examples, All the chamberlains smiled also; Even Carlo Dolci's features Now relaxed their gloomy sadness. And the Pope said: "We must all have Great respect for this young German. It were well if many others Who at night away are stealing, To the Appian Way were going. Signor Werner, I assure you, Stands most high in my good graces, And to-morrow he shall see it; For, I recollect, I've granted Then an audience to the Abbess." On the first day of July in Sixteen hundred seventy-nine, there Rose the sun with special glory. Cooling blew the tramontana Through the cypresses and myrtles In the Vatican's fair garden; And the half-parched flowers gladly Raised their heads, breathed out fresh fragrance, O'er the bronze gigantic pine-cone,-- Which once Hadrian's museum Had adorned, and now was living 'Mid the jessamines and roses, As a pensioner contented,-- Lively lizards swiftly glided, Snapping at the tiny insects Ever dancing in the sunshine. Fountains played, and birds were singing; E'en the pale old marble statues With warm life became imbued. And the satyr, with his reed flute, Raised his foot as if intending To go dancing round the garden; But Apollo's hand waved warning: "Friend, those times have passed forever; Thou wouldst only raise a scandal." Bathed in sunlight, Rome looks smiling O'er the river at the Vatican; From the sea of houses, churches, And fair palaces, the Quirinal Proudly rises; in the distance Towers up the Capitolium In the violet autumn haze. Through the Boscareccio's verdant Alleys swept the shining white robe Of His Holiness, who kindly To the Abbess and the maiden Here had granted audience. And the Abbess gained assurance, That her lawsuit would be taken Into prompt consideration. Then to Margaretta turning. Said the Pope: "None of the pilgrims Ever leave Rome without comfort; So I, as the soul's physician, Must prevent another fainting." And he whispered to a servant: "Go and fetch the chapel-master." Werner came: to stately manhood In this southern clime he'd ripened Since he left, a hopeless suitor, The old castle in the Rhine-land. Life's wild whirlpool, since that morning, Had well tossed him hither thither. Willingly I would relate here, How he went to many countries; How o'er land and sea he travelled; How he with the Knights of Malta Cruised against the Turkish corsairs; Till at last a fate mysterious Unto Rome had duly brought him. But my song becomes impatient; Like a driver who is snapping At the door his whip, 'tis calling: "Onward! On to the conclusion!" Werner came; bewildered gazed he Twice, yes thrice, at Margaretta, Gazed at her in utter silence; But his glances did express more Than a printed folio volume. 'Twas the glance with which Ulysses Sitting by the suitors' corpses Gazed upon his consort, from whom He by twenty years of wandering And of suffering had been parted. Innocentius the Eleventh Was kind-hearted, a discerner Of men's hearts. Most kindly said he: "Those whom Providence united In His goodness and His wisdom, Shall no more be separated. Yesterday when in St. Peter's, And to-day here in the garden, I have come to the conviction, That there is a case here waiting For my papal interference. "'Tis indeed a mighty power Love, a power all subduing; Than light even more ethereal, Doth it penetrate all barriers, And the chair of Peter also Is not safe from its invasion When it asks us for our help. "But it is a pleasant duty Of the head of Christendom, To make smooth the path of lovers, Every obstacle removing, That true love may be victorious. And of all the various nations, 'Tis the Germans who beyond all Keep us busy with such matters. So the Count of Gleichen brought here With him a fair Turkish consort From the Holy Land, though knowing His own consort still was living. And our annals make full mention Of our predecessor's troubles Brought about by this wild action. So likewise the most unhappy Of all knights came here, Tannhauser: "'Pope Urbano, Pope Urbano, Heal the sick man held as captive Seven years within the mountain Of the wicked goddess Venus!' But to-day the case is different And more pleasing; there is nothing Which conflicts with any canon. There is only a slight scruple-- If I've heard right--with the Baron. You, my Werner, have been faithful, But I read 'neath all this quiet Resignation to your duty, That reluctantly you sang here, As a caged-up bird is singing. Oft you've asked for your dismission, Which I ever did deny you, And to-day would never grant you, If it only were the custom, That the papal chapel-master Could like other mortals marry. But in Rome we must keep always, As you know, traditions sacred; Palestrina for this reason Went himself to foreign lands. "Therefore go with my full favour; And because the lady's father Thinks the name of Werner Kirchhof Much too simple, so I grant you Knighthood by my sovereign power. You, I know, care naught about it; For you by your art ennobled Think such titles of no moment. But perhaps the gracious lady May consider it more proper, To bestow her hand in marriage On the Marquis Camposanto Rather than on Master Werner. And because I hold the power Both to bind as well as loosen, I now solemnly betroth you. E'en this loveless age rejoices At examples of devotion. You have shown one--be then happy, And receive my papal blessing." This he spoke with much emotion. And overwhelmed with grateful feelings Werner knelt with Margaretta Down before the Holy Father; And the Abbess wept so freely That the grass thought it was raining. With the tears of the good Abbess Closes now the touching story Of the young musician Werner And the lovely Margaretta. But who's wandering late at night-time Through the Corso, who is stealing Through that dark and narrow side-street? 'Tis the faithful coachman Anton; Filled with joy is his whole being. To give vent unto this feeling He is going to the wine-house, To the tavern del Fachino. And to-night he is not drinking Country wine in fogliette; He has ordered a straw-covered Bottle of good Orvieto And of Monte Porzio. Panes are crashing, fragments flying; For he throws each empty bottle In his rapture through the window. Though indignant at the oil-drops Which upon the wine are floating, Just like comets in the ether, Still he drinks and drinks with ardour; Only while the tavern-keeper Went to fetch him the sixth bottle From the cellar, thus he spoke out: "Thou, oh heart of an old coachman, Now rejoice, for soon thou'lt harness Thy good horses and drive homeward. From the standpoint of a coachman Italy is but a mournful Land, behind in every comfort. Horrid roads, and frequent toll-gates, Musty stalls, and oats quite meagre, Coaches rough! I feel insulted Every time I see those waggons Drawn by oxen yoked together. The first element is wanting Of a coachman's daily comfort, 'Tis the handy German hostler. Oh how much I miss those worthies! Oh how gladly I will welcome One in pointed cap and apron! In my joy again to see him I will hug and even kiss him. And at home what great surprises Are in store! Oh never was I So impressed with the grave duties Of a coachman as at present At a proud trot, such as never Has been seen in this whole country, Shall I drive my lord and ladies Home through Florence and Milan. "At Schaffhausen, the last station For our night's rest, I must promptly Send a messenger on horseback, And he must alarm the city: 'Put up quickly all your banners, Load your cannons for saluting, And erect an arch of honour!' Then we enter the next evening Through the ancient gate in triumph, And my whip I'll crack so loudly That the town-house windows rattle. Then I hear the aged Baron Asking sharply: 'What's the meaning Of these banners and this uproar?' From afar I shout already: 'Heaven's blessing rests upon us; Here a bridal pair are coming, And, my lord, they are your children.' This day ne'er shall be forgotten! In remembrance shall the tom-cat Hiddigeigei have a genuine Whole well-smoked Italian sausage. For the sake of after ages Must the good schoolmaster make me A fine poem on this subject; I don't care, e'en should it cost me The amount of two whole thalers, And it must conclude as follows: 'From true love and trumpet-blowing Many useful things are springing; For true love and trumpet-blowing E'en a noble wife are winning. May true love and trumpet-blowing Each one find good fortune bringing, As our trumpeter young Werner, On the Rhine at old Saekkingen.'" THE END. NOTES. The town of Saekkingen, where the scene of this poem is laid, is situated amid beautiful scenery on the outskirts of the Schwarzwald (Black Forest), on the right bank of the Rhine, and on the road from Basel to Constance, about 30 miles above the former place. The town owes its origin to the settlement of St. Fridolinus (as related in the Third Part of the poem), who came here from Ireland in the 6th century, and founded a monastery, afterwards converted into a convent for noble ladies. The settlement was made on an island in the Rhine. In the poem the town is still considered as lying on an island, but according to the legend, St. Fridolinus altered the course of the Rhine, leading its waters entirely to the west side of the island. The castle of Schoenau, on the site of the old castle of the Baron, the father of the heroine of the story, stands close to the Rhine, and is now the seat of Mr. Theodore Bally, the well-known wealthy and benevolent proprietor of large silk manufactories. He has caused the old tower of the castle to be restored, and intends to adorn its walls with frescoes, representing scenes from the poem. _Page_ 1.--Michele Pagano, a very popular hotel-keeper in Capri, whose hotel was mostly frequented by German artists. He died only very recently, universally regretted. _Page_ 3.--The cat Hiddigeigei, the old Baron's cat, with which the reader will become better acquainted as a philosophising cat in the course of the poem. _Page_ 5.--Amaranth, a poem by Oscar von Redwitz, published a few years before "The Trumpeter of Saekkingen," and at that time very popular, especially with certain classes in Germany. _Page_ 13.--The Boezberg, a mountain in the Jura, over which the old road from Basel to Zuerich led. Now the railroad between the two places pierces it with a tunnel. --The Hozzenwald, the Hauenstein mountains. See note to page 15. --The Gallus Tower, an old tower at the upper extremity of Saekkingen, properly called after St. Gallus, now used as a house of refuge for homeless people. _Page_ 14.--The graveyard of Saekkingen contains still the tombstone of the hero and heroine of the poem. Their names, as given there, are Franz Werner Kirchhofer and Marie Ursula von Schoenau. The first died in May, 1690, the latter in March of the following year. _Page_ 15.--The Eggberg is one of the mountains in the Hauenstein country, to the north of Saekkingen. The inhabitants of this country were formerly remarkable for their quaint costumes coming down from the 15th century. The men wore shirts with large frills around the neck, red stomachers, long black jackets, and wide trousers reaching below the knee, and called hozen. Hence the land was called Hozzenland. The dress of the women was also very peculiar, and of many bright colours. These old costumes are now rarely seen. _Page_ 17.--"The silvery lake," a romantic small lake, half an hour N.W. from Saekkingen. It lies in a hollow on the hills, surrounded by rocks and splendid fir-woods. The lake, which is known by the name of Berg See (mountain lake), is now also called Scheffel See. It is a favourite spot for excursions from far and near, and abounds in fish. _Page_ 19.--The Feldberg, the highest point of the Schwarzwald. _Page_ 20.--St. Blasien, formerly a very ancient monastery of Benedictine monks, called thus after St. Blasius, Bishop of Sebaste, whose relics were brought here by one of the early abbots. _Page_ 21.--"Then appeared as Death and Devil." This is the subject of one of Albrecht Duerer's most celebrated engravings, called Ritter, Tod, and Teufel (the Knight, Death, and the Devil), where the knight rides quietly and unmoved through a gloomy mountain glen, smiling at Death, who holds up an hourglass before him, and taking no notice at all of the droll Devil, who tries to grasp him from behind. The knight is evidently an embodiment of the freer spirit which began to reign then in Germany. The engraving is of the year 1513. _Page_ 26.--"Far off on the island glisten." The town of Saekkingen with its minster. _Page_ 30.--Rheinfeld, or rather Rheinfelden, a town on the left bank of the Rhine, about halfway between Saekkingen and Basel, where, during the Thirty Years' War, in the year 1638 several actions took place. _Page_ 32.--Wehr, a village about six miles from Saekkingen, on the road to Schopfheim, in the neighbourhood of a stalactite cave (Hasler Hoehle) mentioned in the Tenth Part. _Page_ 38.--Cujacius (Jacques de Cujas), a very distinguished jurist and professor of law in the university of Bourges (d. 1590). His only daughter, Susanna, became known by her profligate life. But the stories told of her by Catherinot cannot have happened during her father's lifetime, as he died when she was only three years old. _Page_ 43--Palsgrave Frederic married the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James the First of England, in 1613. He was afterwards made king of Bohemia by the Protestant princes of Germany, and moved to Prague in 1619. In the year following his army was routed near Prague by the forces of the Catholic League, and he had to fly with his family. _Page_ 46.--"Of a young and handsome carpenter." The pastor refers here to a popular German song, still often sung by students: War einst ein jung, jung Zimmergesell, Der hatte zu bauen ein Schloss, etc. It is the story of a young carpenter who built a castle for a Margrave. During the absence of the latter the Margravine falls in love with the carpenter. The lovers are afterwards surprised by the Margrave, who has a gallows built on which the carpenter is hung. _Page_ 49.--Clovis (465-511), king of the Franks, was married, while he was still a heathen, to Clotilde, a Christian princess of Burgundy. During the battle at Tolbiac (Zuelpich), near Cologne, when sorely pressed by the enemy, the Allemanni, he vowed to become a Christian, if he should gain the victory. After routing and subjugating the Allemanni, the king and many thousands of his people were baptised by the Bishop of Rheims, on the 23rd of December of the same year (496). _Page_ 50.--"Augusta Rauracorum," Colonia Raurica, afterwards called Augusta Rauracorum, a Roman colony founded in the year 44 B.C., by L. Munatius Plancus. On the site of the Roman town are now two villages, Basel-Augst and Kaiser-Augst, the latter a station on the railroad from Basel to Zurich. Near Basel-Augst the remains of a Roman amphitheatre and of a temple can still be seen. _Page_ 56.--Count Ursus of Glarus had been converted to Christianity by St. Fridolinus, and, with the consent of his brother Landolph, donated, a short time before his death, all his estates to the new cloister at Saekkingen. When Landolph, after the death of his brother refused to acknowledge his will, Fridolinus was obliged to go to law in order to make good his claim, and after a long litigation was at last notified by the government of Glarus that he would not be able to have his claims settled, unless he could bring the dead Count Ursus himself in court as a witness. Then, the legend says, Fridolinus went, on the day appointed for the court, to Glarus, raised Ursus from his grave, and walked with him to Rankweil (the seat of the court, ten hours from Glarus), where the count gave testimony in regard to his donation. Landolph then not only gave up his brother's estates, but added also a large portion of his own. After that Fridolinus walked back to Glarus with Count Ursus, and committed him again to his grave. The saint, on account of this miracle, is visually portrayed in company with the skeleton of Count Ursus. _Page_ 58.--Laufenburg, a town six miles above Saekkingen, and situated on the beautiful rapids of the Rhine. A tower of the old strong castle on the Swiss side is still standing. _Page_ 59.--Beuggen, a town on the Rhine below Saekkingen. The ancient building of the Teutonic order is still standing, and is used now by the Moravians as an institute for children. _Page_ 71.--The Wiese, a river coming from the Feldberg and flowing into the Rhine a little below Basel. The beautiful valley of the clear rapid river is now much visited, as there is a railroad as far as the town of Zell. This region has become classic through the poet Hebel, who wrote in the Allemannic idiom, still generally spoken in this whole region. At Hausen, the station before Zell, where he was born, a monument has been erected to him. There is also at Schopfheim, the station below Hausen, on a hill called Hebelshoehe, a bust of the poet The women of this region are remarkable for their large singular-looking caps, to which Scheffel alludes. _Page_ 76.--This gravel bank, called Field of Fridolinus, is still seen in the Rhine, opposite the castle Schoenau. _Page_ 80.--Hallau, a village not far from the railroad station Neuhausen, the stopping-place for visiting the falls of the Rhine. The red wine grown there is still very celebrated. --The Hohe-Randen, a mountain to the north of Schapfhausen. _Page_ 85.--Theuerdank, a German poem of the beginning of the 16th century, written by Melchior Pfinzing, the secretary of the Emperor Maximilian, who had planned and sketched the poem himself. _Page_ 101.--Grenzach, the first German village going from Basel, on the railroad to Saekkingen and Constanz. It is celebrated for the wine grown there. _Page_ 104.--The Frickthal, in the Swiss canton Aargau, nearly south of Saekkingen. _Page_ 105.--Schinznach, a village in the canton Aargau, much visited on account of its hot sulphur springs. In the neighbourhood are the ruins of the castle of Hapsburg, the cradle of the imperial house of Austria. _Page_ 109.--The mountain lake. See note to page 17. _Page_ 120.--May drink, or May wine, a favourite drink in Germany for the spring-time, made by steeping the leaves of woodroof in the light white wine of the country, and sweetening it with sugar. It is an old custom prevailing already in the 16th century, when the woodroof was added to the wine not only to cheer the heart with its fine aroma, but also for medicinal purposes, as acting on the liver. _Page_ 135.--Albbruck, a place above Laufenburg on the Rhine, at the mouth of the little river Alb, the valley of which is the most beautiful in the Schwarzwald. Formerly there were here quite important ironworks. _Page_ 151.--"E'en a common Flemish blacksmith." Quentin Massys (1466-1530), a celebrated Flemish painter, said to have been originally a blacksmith. While such, he fell in love, and in order to gain the maiden's consent as well as her father's (who was an artist) he forsook his trade, devoted himself to painting, and became a great master in his art. On the tombstone which his admirers placed on his grave a hundred years after his death, stands the Latin hexameter: Connubialis amor ex mulcibre fecit Apellem! _Page_ 152.--The Gnome's cave (Die Erdmannshoehle), a stalactite cave near the village of Hasel (whence the cave is called also Haselhoehle), between Wehr and Schopfheim. It can be reached from the former by a walk of half an hour, and is often visited with guides. The first cave, which one reaches through a low passage, is 13 feet high, the next contains a small lake. There is also a little river rushing along under steps, over which one walks. The cave contains, like all caves of this kind, most fantastic stalactite structures, which popular fancy has called the organ, the chancel, the skeleton, &c. Some columns when struck give out tones which sound as thirds. The most interesting part of the cave is called Die Fuerstengruft (The Prince's Sepulchre), a large room, 16 feet high, with a stalactite structure resembling a large coffin. Popular superstition has from times immemorial made this cave the haunt of gnomes. _Page_ 169.--The ancient county of Hauenstein lies between two spurs of the Feldberg, the eastern one coming down to the town of Waldshut on the Rhine, the western one to Saekkingen. It is also called Hozzenland (see note to page 15). The early history of the country is somewhat obscure until the time of the Emperor Rudolph of Hapsburg, when it acknowledged the sovereignty of Austria. In the times of the fight for the German throne between Albrecht of Austria and Adolphe of Nassau, and between Frederick the Beautiful and Ludwig of Bavaria, when Suabia was without a duke and Germany without an emperor, the different villages of the country founded a union (Einung) for their protection. There is still in existence such a union document drawn up in the year 1433. The entire union was divided into eight smaller ones, each of which stood under an elected leader (Einungsmeister). All these eight leaders elected one of their body as speaker (Redmann), who held the leadership of the entire union. By this the Hauenstein peasants were greatly protected in their ancient rights; still the oppression of the Austrian governors (Waldvoegte) often incited revolutions, the most important of which occurred during the Peasants' War in 1525. Others lasted from 1589 to 1614, arising from an impost laid on wine. The poet introduces such a rising here in the course of his story. _Page_ 206.--The Fuggers are an Augsburg family, who, by their linen-trade and weaving, and afterwards by the purchase of mines in Austria, amassed an enormous fortune, and were raised to the rank of nobles by the Emperor Maximilian. The family attained their greatest splendour under the Emperor Charles the Fifth, who, at the time of the Diet at Augsburg, raised the two brothers then living to the rank of counts. _Page_ 235.--Katzenjammer, literally translated, cats' misery, the vulgar German expression for the indisposition after a drunken debauch. _Page_ 255.--Parcival, written by Wolfram von Eschenbach about the year 1200. Theuerdank, a German poem of the 16th century. See note to page 85. _Page_ 277.--"As at Strasburg on the bulwarks." The Swiss soldier refers here to a popular song: Zu Strasburg auf der Schanz, Da ging mein Trauern an, etc. The simple but touching story of a soldier who stands guard on the bulwarks of Strasburg and hears the Alpine horn blown on the other side of the Rhine. Seized with home sickness he swims across the Rhine, but is taken afterwards and shot as a deserter. _Page_ 278.--The villa of the Cardinal Borghese, Casa Baldi, near Olevano, in the Sabine country, is still in existence, and is now an inn much frequented by artists. It has become celebrated by Scheffel's humorous song, "Abschied von Olevano" (Farewell to Olevano), which he wrote on the spot when leaving there after a long sojourn. It is published in Scheffers collection of songs, "Gaudeamus." _Page_ 285.--Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni of Venice, who in 1689 became the successor of Innocent XI. as Alexander VIII. CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS. 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