Yelping dogs and neighing horses,
Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,
How they joyously re-echoed!
On in front by way of vanguard
Ran the wondrous game they hunted,
Stag and sow, in herds enormous,
With the pack of hounds behind them.
Huntsmen out of every region
And of every age were gather’d;
Hard by Nimrod of Assyria,
For example, rode Charles X--.
High upon their snowy horses
On they rush’d; on foot there follow’d
The piqueurs, the leashes holding,
And the pages with the torches.
Many in the wild procession
Seem’d to me well-known. The horseman
In the golden glist’ning armour,--
Was he not the great King Arthur?
And Sir Ogier, he of Denmark,
Wore he not his green and glancing
Coat of ringèd mail, that gave him
All the’ appearance of a frog?
In the long train also saw I
Many intellectual heroes;
There I recognized our Wolfgang,
By his eyes’ exceeding lustre.
Being damn’d by Hengstenberg,
In his grave he cannot slumber,
But his earthly love for hunting
With the heathen throng continues.
By his mouth’s sweet smile I also
Knew again the worthy William,[32]
Whom the Puritans had likewise
Cursed with bitterness; this sinner
Needs must join at night that savage
Army, on a black steed mounted;
On an ass, and close beside him
Rode a man,--and, O good heavens,
By his weary, praying gestures,
By his pious snow-white nightcap,
By his grief of soul, I straightway
Knew our old friend, Francis Horn!
Just for writing commentaries
On the world-child Shakespear, must he
After death, poor fellow, with him
Ride amidst the wild hunt’s tumult!
Ah! he now must ride, poor Francis,
Who to walk was well-nigh frighten’d;
Who ne’er moved, except when praying,
Or when chatting o’er the tea-tray!
Would not all the aged maidens,
Long accustomed to caress him,
Shudder if they came to hear that
Francis was a savage huntsman!
When he breaks into a gallop,
The great William with derision
Looks on his poor commentator
Who at donkey’s pace goes after,
Helplessly and wildly clinging
To the pommel of his donkey,
Yet in death as well as lifetime
Following faithfully his author.
Many ladies saw I also
In the spirits’ wild procession,
Many beauteous nymphs amongst them
With their slender, youthful figures.
They astraddle sat their horses,
Mythologically naked;
Yet their long and curling tresses
Fell low down, like golden mantles.
Garlands on their heads they carried,
And with saucy backward-bending
Supercilious wanton postures
Leafy wands kept ever swinging.
Hard beside them saw I certain
Closely-button’d dames on horseback
On their ladies’ saddles sitting
With their falcons on their fists.
As in parody behind them
On their knackers, lanky ponies,
Rode a troop of gay bedizen’d
Women, looking like comedians.
Full of beauty were their features,
But perchance a little bold;
Madly were they shouting with their
Cheeks so full and wanton-painted.
How they joyously re-echoed,
Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,
Yelping dogs and neighing horses,
Cracking whips and shouts and halloing.
CAPUT XIX.
But, resembling beauty’s trefoil,
In the midst of the procession
Figures three I noticed; ne’er I
Can forget those lovely women.
Easily the first one knew I
By the crescent on her forehead;
Like a statue pure, all-proudly
Onward rode the mighty goddess.
High up-turn’d appear’d her tunic,
Half her breast and hip disclosing;
Torchlight, moonlight both were playing
Gaily round her snowy members.
White as marble were her features,
Cold as marble too; and fearful
Was the numbness and the paleness
Of that face, so stern and noble.
Yet within her black eye plainly
Terribly but sweetly sparkled
A mysterious, glowing fire,
Spirit-dazzling and consuming.
O, how alter’d was Diana
Who, with haughty chastity,
To a stag once turn’d Acteon,
And as prey to dogs abandon’d!
Does she expiate this crime now
Join’d to these gallant companions?
Like a wretched spectral creature
Nightly through the air she travels.
Late, indeed, but all the stronger
She to thoughts of lust awakens,
And within her eyes ’tis burning,
Like a very brand of hell.
All the lost time now laments she,
When mankind were far more handsome
And by quantity perchance she
Now makes up for quality.
Close beside her rode a beauty
Whose fair features were not chisell’d
In such Grecian mould, yet glisten’d
With the Celtic race’s charms.
This one was the fay Abunde,
Whom I easily distinguish’d
By the sweetness of her smile,
And her mad and hearty laughter!
Hale and rosy were her features,
As though limn’d by Master Greuze;
Heart-shaped was her mouth, and open,
Showing teeth of dazzling whiteness.
Night-dress blue and flutt’ring wore she,
That the wind to lift attempted;
Even in my brightest visions
Never saw I such fair shoulders!
Scarcely could I keep from springing
Out of window to embrace them;
Ill should I have fared, however,
For my neck should I have broken.
She, alas! would but have titter’d
If before her feet, all-bleeding,
In the deep abyss I tumbled,--
Ah! a laugh like this well know I!
And the third of those fair women,
Who so deeply stirr’d thy bosom,--
Was she but a female devil
Like the other two first mention’d?
Whether devil she or angel,
Know I not; in case of women
One knows never where the angel
Ceases, and the deuce commences.
On her glowing sickly features
Lay an oriental charm,
And her costly robes reminded
Of Schehezerade’s sweet stories.
Soft her lips, just like pomegranates,
And her nose a bending lily,
And her members cool and slender
As the palms in the oasis.
On a snowy palfrey sat she,
Whose gold bridle by two negroes
Was conducted, who on foot
By the princess’ side were walking.
And in truth she was a princess,
Was the queen of far Judæa,
Was the lovely wife of Herod,
Who the Baptist’s head demanded.
For this deed of blood she also
Was accurs’d, and as a spectre
With the wild hunt must keep riding,
Even to the day of judgment.
In her hands she evermore
Bears the charger with the Baptist’s
Head upon it, which she kisses,--
Yes, the head she kisses wildly.
For she once loved John the Baptist;
In the Bible ’tis not written,
Yet in popular tradition
Lives Herodias’ bloody love.
Otherwise there’s no explaining
That strange fancy of the lady,--
Would a woman ever ask for
That man’s head for whom she cared not?
She was somewhat angry, may be,
With him,--had him, too, beheaded;
But when she upon the charger
Saw the much-loved head lie lifeless,
Sore she wept, and lost her senses,
And she died of love’s delirium.
(Love’s delirium! Pleonasm!
Love must always be delirium!)
Every night arising, bears she
As I’ve said, the bloody head
In her hand as she goes hunting,
Yet with foolish woman’s fancy
She at times the head hurls from her
Through the air, with childish laughter,
And then catches it again
Very nimbly, like a plaything.
And as she was riding by me,
On me look’d she, and she nodded
So coquettishly and fondly,
That my inmost heart was shaken.
Three times up and downward moving
The procession pass’d, and three times
Did the lovely apparition
Greet me, as she rode before me.
When the train at last had faded,
And the tumult was extinguish’d,
Still that loving salutation
Glow’d within my inmost brain.
And throughout the livelong night
I my weary limbs kept tossing
On the straw (for feather beds
Were not in Uraca’s cottage),
And methought: What meaning was there
In that strange, mysterious nodding?
Wherefore didst thou gaze upon me
With such tenderness, Herodias?
CAPUT XX.
’Twas the sunrise. Golden arrows
Shot against the white mist fiercely,
Which turn’d red, as though sore wounded,
And in light and glory melted.
Finally the victory’s won,
And the day, the triumphator,
Stood, in full and beaming splendour,
On the summit of the mountain.
All the birds in noisy chorus
Twitter’d in their secret nests,
And a smell of herbs arose too,
Like a concert of sweet odours.
At the earliest dawn of morning
To the valley we descended,
And whilst friend Lascaro follow’d
On the traces of the bear,
I the time to kill attempted
With my thoughts, and yet this thinking
Made me at the last quite weary,
And a little mournful even.
Weary, then, and mournful sank I
On the soft moss-bank beside me.
Under yonder mighty ash-tree,
Where the little streamlet flow’d,
Which, with its mysterious plashing
So mysteriously befool’d me,
That all thoughts and power of thinking
From my spirit pass’d away.
And a raging yearning seized me
For a dream, for death, for madness,
For that woman-rider, whom I
In the spirit-march had seen.
O ye lovely nightly faces,
Scared away by beams of morning,
Tell me, whither have ye fleeted?
Tell me, where ye dwell at daytime?
Under olden temples’ ruins,
Far away in the Romagna
(So ’tis said) Diana refuge
Seeks by day from Christ’s dominion.
Only in the midnight darkness
From her hiding place she ventures,
And rejoices in the chase
With her heathenish companions.
And the beauteous fay Abunde
Of the Nazarenes is fearful,
And throughout the day she lingers
Safe within her Avalun.
This fair island lies deep-hidden
Far off, in the silent ocean
Of romance, that none can reach save
On the fabled horse’s pinions.
Never there casts care its anchor,
Never there appears a steamer,
Full of wonder-seeking blockheads,
With tobacco-pipes in mouth.
Never reaches there the languid
Sound of bells, so dull and tedious,--
That incessant bim-bom clatter
Which the fairies so detest.
There, in never-troubled pleasure,
And in youth eternal blooming,
Still resides the joyous lady,
Our blond dame, the fay Abunde.
Laughingly her walks there takes she
Under lofty heliotropes,
With her talking train beside her,
World-departed Paladins.
Well, and thou, Herodias, prythee
Say where art thou? Ah, I know it,
Thou art dead, and liest buried
By the town Jerusalem!
Stiffly sleeps by day thy body,
In its marble coffin prison’d;
Yet the cracking whips and halloing
Waken thee at midnight’s hour,
And the wild array thou followest
With Diana and Abunde,
With thy merry hunting comrades,
Who hold cross and pain detested.
O what sweet society!
Could I hunt with you by night-time
Through the forests! By thy side
Always would I ride, Herodias!
For ’tis thee I love the dearest!
More than yonder Grecian goddess,
More than yonder Northern fairy,
Love I thee, thou Jewess dead!
Yes, I love thee! Well I know it
By the trembling of my spirit;
Love thou me, and be my darling,
Sweet Herodias, beauteous woman.
I’m the very knight thou wantest!
Little truly it concerns me
That thou’rt dead and damn’d already,
For I’m free from prejudices.
My own happiness ’tis only
That concerns me, and at times I
Feel inclined to doubt if truly
To the living I belong!
Take me as thy knight, I pray thee,
As thy Cavalier servente,
And thy mantle will I carry
And e’en all thy whims put up with.
Every night I’ll ride beside thee,
With the army wild careering;
Merrily we’ll talk and laugh then
At my frenzied conversation.
Thus the time I’ll shorten for thee
In the night; but yet by day-time
All our joy will fly, and weeping
On that grave I’ll take my seat.
Yes, I’ll sit by day-time weeping
On the regal vault’s sad ruins,
On the grave of thee, my loved one,
By the town Jerusalem.
Aged Jews, who chance to pass me,
Then will surely think I’m sorrowing
For the temple’s desolation,
And the town Jerusalem.
CAPUT XXI.
Argonauts without a ship,
Who on foot the mountain visit,
And instead of golden fleeces
Aim at nothing but a bear’s skin,--
We’re, alas! poor devils only,
Heroes of a modern fashion,
And no classic poet ever
Will in song immortalize us.
Yet we notwithstanding suffer’d
Serious hardships! O what rain
Fell upon us on the summit,
Where no tree or hackney-coach was!
Fierce the storm, its bonds were broken,
And in buckets it descended;
Jason surely was at Colchis
Never drench’d in such a show’r-bath!
“An umbrella! Gladly would I
“Give you six-and-thirty kings[33]
“For the loan of one umbrella!”
“Cried I,--and the water dripp’d still.
Fagg’d to death, and out of temper,
We return’d, like half-drown’d puppies
Late at night, as best we could,
To the witch’s lofty cottage.
There beside the glowing fire-place
Sat Uraca, busy combing
Her great fat and ugly pug-dog;
Quickly she dismiss’d the latter,
To attend to us instead,
And my bed she soon got ready,
Loosening first my espardillas,
That uncomfortable foot-gear--
Help’d me to undress, my stockings
Pulling off; I found them sticking
To my legs, as close and faithful
As the friendship of a blockhead.
“Quick! a dressing-gown! I’d give you
“Six-and-thirty kings for only
“One dry dressing-gown!” exclaim’d I,
As my wet shirt steam’d upon me.
Freezing and with chattering teeth, I
Stood awhile upon the hearth;
By the fire then driven senseless
On the straw at length I sank.
But I slept not. Blinking look’d I
On the witch, who by the chimney
Sat, and held the head and shoulders
Of her son upon her lap,
Helping to undress him. Near her
Stood upright her ugly pug-dog,
And he in his front paw managed
Cleverly to hold a pot.
From the pot Uraca took some
Reddish fat, and with it rubb’d the
Ribs and bosom of her son,
Rubbing hastily, with trembling.
And while rubbing him and salving,
She a cradle-song was humming
Through her nose, whilst strangely crackled
On the hearth the ruddy flames.
Like a corpse, all yellow, bony,
On his mother’s lap the son lay,
Sorrowful as death, wide open
Stared his hollow, pallid eyes.
Is he truly but a dead man
Who each night by love maternal
Hath a life enchanted giv’n him
By the aid of strongest witch-salve?
Wondrous the half-sleep of fever,
Where the leaden limbs feel weary
As though fetter’d, and the senses
O’er-excited, wide awake!
How the herb-smell in the chamber
Troubled me! With painful effort
Thought I where I had already
Smelt the same, but vain my thoughts were.
How the wind a-down the chimney
Gave me pain! Like sighs it sounded
Of dejected dried-up spirits,--
Like the sound of well-known voices.
Most of all was I tormented
By the stuff’d birds, which were standing
On a shelf above my head,
Near the place where I was lying.
They their wings were slowly flapping
And with awful motion, bending
Downward tow’rd me, forward pushing
Their long beaks, like human noses.
Ah! where have I seen already
Noses such as these? At Hamburg,
Or at Frankfort, in the Jews’ street?
Sad the glimmering recollection!
I at last was overpower’d
Quite by sleep, and in the place of
Wakeful, terrible phantasmas,
Came a healthful, steady dream.
And I dreamt that this poor cottage
Suddenly became a ball-room
Which by columns was supported,
And by candelabra lighted.
Some invisible musicians
Play’d from out Robert-le-Diable
That fine crazy dance of nuns;
All alone I walk’d about there.
But at length the doors were open’d,
Open’d wide and then advanced
With a step both slow and stately
Guests of wonderful appearance.
They were solely bears and spirits!
Walking bolt upright, each bear
Led a spirit as his partner,
In a snow-white grave-cloth hidden.
In this manner pair’d, began they
Waltzing up and down with vigour
In the hall. The sight was curious,
Laughable, but also fearful!
For the awkward bears soon found it
Difficult to keep in step
With the white and airy figures,
Who whirl’d round with easy motion.
But those poor unhappy creatures
Were inexorably driven,
And their snorting overpower’d
E’en the’ orchestral double bass.
Oftentimes one couple jostled
’Gainst another, and the bear
Gave the spirit that had push’d him
Some hard kicks on his hind quarters.
Often in the dance’s bustle
Would a bear tear off the shroud
From the head of his companion,
And a death’s head was disclosed then.
But at length with joyous uproar
Crash’d the trumpets and the cymbals,
And the kettle-drums loud thunder’d,
And there came the gallopade.
To the end of this I dreamt not,--
For a stupid clumsy bear
Trod upon my corns, and made me
Cry aloud, and so awoke me.
CAPUT XXII.
Phœbus in his sunny droschka
Lash’d his flaming horses onwards,
And had half his course already
Through the spacious heavens completed,
Whilst I still in slumber lay,
And of bears and spirits, strangely
Intertwining with each other
In quaint arabesque, was dreaming.
Midday ’twas ere I awaken’d,
And I found myself alone;
Both my hostess and Lascaro
For the chase had started early.
In the hut the pug-dog only
Still remain’d. Beside the hearth he
Stood upright before the kettle,
While his paws a spoon were holding.
Admirably had they taught him
Whensoe’er the broth boil’d over
Hastily to stir it round,
And to skim away the bubbles.
But am I myself bewitch’d?
Or still blazes there the fever
In my head? I scarce can credit
My own ears--the pug-dog’s talking!
Yes, he’s talking, and his accent
Gentle is and Swabian; dreaming,
As though buried in deep thought,
Speaks he in the foll’wing fashion:
“Poor unhappy Swabian poet!
“In a foreign land I sadly
“Languish, as a dog enchanted,
“And a witch’s kettle watch!
“What a shameful sin is witchcraft!
“O how sad, how deeply tragic
“Is my fate,--with human feelings
“Underneath a dog’s exterior!
“Would that I at home had tarried
“With my trusty school companions!
“They’re at any rate no wizards,--
“Ne’er bewitch’d a single being!
“Would that I at home had tarried
“With Charles Mayer, with the fragrant
“Wallflow’rs of my native country,
“With its pudding-broth delicious!
“I’m half dead now with nostalgia--
“Would that I could see the smoke
“Rising from the chimneys where they
“Vermicelli cook at Stukkert!”
When I heard this, deep emotion
Came across me; quickly sprang I
From the couch, approach’d the fireplace,
And address’d him with compassion:
“Noble bard, say how it happens
“That thou’rt in this witch’s cottage?
“Tell me wherefore have they changed thee
“Cruelly into a pug-dog?”
But with joy exclaim’d the other:
“Then thou’rt really not a Frenchman,
“But a German, understanding
“All my silent monologue?
“Ah, dear countryman! how sad that
“Counc’llor-of-legation Kölle,
“When we o’er our pipes and glasses
“Held discussions in the beershop,
“Always harp’d upon the thesis
“That by travelling alone we
“Could obtain that polish, which he
“Had from foreign lands imported!
“So, that I might wipe away all
“That raw crust which stuck upon me,
“And like Kölle might acquire
“Elegant and polish’d manners,
“From my country I departed,
“And while thus the grand tour making,
“Came I to the Pyrenees,
“To the cottage of Uraca.
“I an introduction brought her
“From Justinus Kerner[34], never
“Thinking that this so-called friend
“Was in wicked league with witches.
“Kindly welcomed me Uraca,
“Yet, to my alarm, her friendship
“Kept on growing, till converted
“At the last to sensual passion.
“Yes, immodesty still flicker’d
“Wildly in the wither’d bosom
“Of this wretched, worthless woman,
“And she now must needs seduce me!
“Yet implored I: ‘Ah, excuse me,
“‘Worthy madam! I’m no friv’lous
“‘Goethe’s pupil, but belong
“‘To the poet-school of Swabia.
“‘Modesty’s the muse we worship,
“‘And the drawers she wears are made of
“‘Thickest leather--Ah, good madam,
“‘Do not violate my virtue!
“‘Other poets boast of genius,
“‘Others fancy, others passion,
“‘But the pride of Swabian poets
“‘Is especially their virtue.
“‘That’s the only wealth we boast of!
“‘Do not rob me of the modest
“‘And religious simple garment
“‘Which my nakedness doth cover!’
“Thus I spoke, and yet the woman
“Smiled ironically; smiling
“She a switch of mistletoe
“Took, and then my head touch’d with it.
“Thereupon I felt a chilly
“Strange sensation, like a goose-skin
“Being o’er my members drawn;
“Yet in truth a goose-skin ’twas not--
“On the contrary, a dog-skin
“Was it rather; since that fearful
“Moment have I been converted
“As thou see’st me, to a pug-dog!”
Poor young fellow! Through his sobbing
Not a word more could he utter;
And he wept with so much fervour,
That in tears wellnigh dissolved he.
“Listen now,” I said with pity:
“Can I possibly relieve you
“Of your dog-skin, and restore you
“To humanity and verses?”
But the other raised his paws up
In the air disconsolately
And despairingly; at length he
Spake with sighing and with groaning:
“Till the Judgment Day, alas! I
“In this dog-skin must be prison’d,
“If I’m freed not from enchantment
“By a virgin’s self-devotion.
“Yes, a pure unsullied virgin,
“Who ne’er touch’d a human being,
“And the following condition
“Truly keeps, alone can free me.
“This unsullied virgin must,
“In the night of Saint Sylvester,
“Read Gustavus Pfizer’s[35] poems,
“And not go to sleep one moment!
“If she keeps awake while reading,
“And her modest eye ne’er closes,--
“Then shall I be disenchanted,
“Be a man,--yes, be undogg’d!”
“In that case, good friend,” replied I,
“I at any rate can never
“Undertake to disenchant you,
“For I’m no unsullied virgin;
“And still less should I be able
“To fulfil the task of reading
“All Gustavus Pfizer’s poems,
“And not fall asleep instanter!”
CAPUT XXIII.
From the witch’s entertainment
To the valley we descended,
And our footsteps to the region
Of the Positive return’d.
Hence, ye spirits! Nightly spectres!
Airy figures! Fev’rish visions!
We find rational employment
Once again with Atta Troll.
In the cavern, by his young ones,
Lies the old bear, soundly sleeping,
With the snore of conscious virtue,
And at length he wakes with gaping.
Near him squats young Master One-ear
And his head he’s gently scratching.
Like a bard whose rhyme is wanting,
And upon his paws he’s scanning.
Likewise by their father’s side
On their backs are dreaming lying
Innocent four-footed lilies,
Atta Troll’s belovèd daughters.
Say, what tender thoughts are pining
In the softly blooming spirits
Of these snowy young bear-virgins?
Moist with tears their eyes are glist’ning.
Most of all appears the youngest
Deeply moved. Within her bosom
She a blissful twinge is feeling,
And to Cupid’s might succumbs she.
Yes, that little god’s sharp arrow
Through her thick skin penetrated
When she saw Him--O, good heavens
Him she loves, a living man is!
Is a man, yclept Schnapphahnski;--
Whilst before his foes retreating
He arrived by chance one morning
At the mountain in his flight.
Woes of heroes touch all women,
And within our hero’s features
Were depicted want of money,
Pale distress and gloomy sorrow.
All his military chest,
Two-and-twenty silver groschen,
Which he had when Spain he enter’d,
Was the prey of Espartero.
E’en his watch was not preserved him,
But remain’d at Pampeluna
In a pawn-shop. ’Twas an heirloom,
Costly and of genuine silver.
And with long legs swiftly ran he,
But unconsciously whilst running
Won he something that’s far better
Than the best of fights,--a heart!
Yes, she loves him, him, the archfoe!
O thou most unhappy bearess!
If thy father knew the secret,
He would growl in frightful fashion.
As the aged Odoardo[36]
Stabb’d Emilia Galotti
In his pride of citizenship,
So would also Atta Troll
Sooner have destroy’d his daughter,
Yes, with his own paws destroy’d her
Than permitted her to tumble
In the arms of any monarch
Yet he at this very moment
Is of tender disposition,
With no wish to crush a rosebud
Ere the hurricane has stripp’d it.[37]
Tenderly lies Atta Troll
In the cavern, by his young ones.
O’er him creep, like death’s forebodings,
Mournful yearnings for the future.
“Children,” sigh’d he, as his great eyes
“Suddenly ’gan dripping, “children,
“All my earthly pilgrimage
“Is accomplish’d, we must part now.
“For to-day at noon whilst sleeping
“Came a vision full of meaning,
“And my soul enjoy’d the blissful
“Foretaste of an early death.
“Now, I’m far from superstitious,
“I’m no giddy bear,--yet are there
“Certain things ’twixt earth and heaven
“Unaccountable to thinkers.
“Over world and fate whilst poring,
“Fell I fast asleep, with yawning,
“And I dreamt that I was lying
“Underneath a mighty tree.
“From the branches of this tree there
“Trickled down some whitish honey,
“Gliding in my open muzzle,
“And I felt a sweet enjoyment.
“As I blissfully peer’d upwards,
“Saw I on the very tree-top
“Seven tiny little bears
“Sliding up and down the branches.
“Tender, pretty little creatures,
“With a skin of rose-red colour,
“While, like silk, from their dear shoulders
“Hung a something, like two pinions.
“Yes, those rose-red little bears
“Were adorn’d with silken pinions,
“And with sweet celestial voices,
“Sounding like a flute’s notes, sang they!
“As they sang, my skin turn’d ice-cold,
“And from out my skin there mounted,
“Like a soaring flame, my spirit,
“Radiantly to heaven ascending.”--
Thus spake Atta Troll in quivering
Tender grunting tones; a moment
Paused he, full of melancholy--
But his ears with sudden impulse
Prick’d he up, and strangely shook they,
Whilst from off his couch upsprang he,
Trembling, bellowing with rapture:
“Do ye hear that sound, my children?
“Is it not the darling accents
“Of your mother? O, well know I,
“’Tis the roaring of my Mumma!
“Mumma! Yes, my swarthy Mumma!”
Atta Troll, these words pronouncing,
Hasten’d, like a crazy being,
From the cavern to destruction!
Ah, he rush’d to meet his doom!
CAPUT XXI
In the vale of Ronceval
On the very spot where whilome
Charlemagne’s unhappy nephew
To the foe his life surrender’d,
There, too, fell poor Atta Troll,
And he fell by cunning, like him
Whom the base equestrian Judas,
Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.
Ah! that noblest bear’s-emotion,
Namely his uxorious feelings,
Was a snare which old Uraca
Cunningly avail’d herself of.
She the growl of swarthy Mumma
Copied with such great perfection,
That poor Atta Troll was tempted
Out of his secure bear’s-cavern.
On the wings of yearning ran he
Through the vale,--oft stood he, gently
Snuffing at a rock in silence,
Thinking Mumma was conceal’d there.
Ah! conceal’d there was Lascaro
With his musket, and he shot him
Through the middle of his heart, whence
Gush’d a ruddy stream of blood.
Once or twice his head he waggled,
But at last with heavy groaning
Fell he down, and wildly gasp’d he,
And his latest sigh was--“Mumma.”
Thus the noble hero fell;
Thus he died. And yet immortal
Will he in the poet’s numbers
After death arise in glory.
Yes, he’ll rise again in numbers,
And his glory, grown colossal,
On four-footed solemn trochees
O’er the face of earth stride proudly.
And his tomb Bavaria’s monarch
Will erect in the Walhalla,
Writing on it this inscription,
In true lapidary style:
“Atta Troll; a bear of impulse;
“Devotee; a loving husband;
“Full of sans-culottic notions,
“Thanks to the prevailing fashion.
“Wretched dancer; strong opinions
“Bearing in his shaggy bosom;
“Often stinking very badly;
“Talentless; a character!”
CAPUT XXV.
Three-and-thirty aged women,
Wearing on their heads the scarlet
Old Biscayan caps we read of,
Stood around the village entrance.
One, like Deborah, amongst them
Beat the tambourine, and danced too,
And she sang a song of triumph
O’er Lascaro, the bear-slayer.
Four strong men upon their shoulders
Bore the vanquish’d bear in triumph;
Upright sat he on the seat,
Like a sickly bathing patient.
And behind, as if related
To the dead bear, went Lascaro
With Uraca; right and left she
Bow’d her thanks, though much embarrass’d.
And the Mayor’s Assistant gave them
Quite a speech before the town hall,
When the grand procession got there,
And he spoke on many subjects,--
As, for instance, on the increase
Of the navy, on the press,
On the weighty beetroot question,
On the curse of party spirit.
After fully illustrating
Louis Philippe’s special merits,
He proceeded to the bear,
And Lascaro’s great achievement.
“Thou, Lascaro!” cried the speaker,
As with his tricolour’d sash he
Wiped the sweat from off his forehead,
“Thou, Lascaro! Thou, Lascaro!
“Thou who bravely hast deliver’d
“France and Spain from Atta Troll,
“Thou’rt the hero of both countries,
“Pyrenean Lafayette!”
When Lascaro in this manner
Heard officially his praises,
In his beard with pleasure laugh’d he,
And quite blush’d with satisfaction,
And in very broken accents,
One word o’er another stumbling,
Gave he utt’rance to his thanks
For this most exceeding honour!
Every one with deep amazement
Gazed upon this sight unwonted,
And the aged women mutter’d
In alarm, beneath their breath:
“Why, Lascaro has been laughing!
“Why, Lascaro has been blushing!
“Why, Lascaro has been speaking!
“He, the dead son of the witch!”--
Atta Troll that very day was
Flay’d, and then they sold by auction
His poor skin. A furrier bought it
For one hundred francs, hard money.
He most beautifully trimm’d it
With a lovely scarlet border,
And then sold it for just double
What it cost him in the first place.
Juliet then became its owner
At third hand, and in her bedroom
Lies it now in Paris, serving
As a rug beside her bed.
O, with naked feet how often
Have I stood at night upon this
Earthly brown coat of my hero,
On the skin of Atta Troll!
And o’ercome by sad reflections,
Schiller’s words I then remember’d:
“What in song shall be immortal
“Must in actual life first die!”[38]
CAPUT XXVI.
Well, and Mumma? Ah, poor Mumma
Is a woman! Frailty
Is her name! Alas! all women
Are as frail as any porcelain.
When by fate’s hand she was parted
From her glorious noble husband,
She by no means died of sorrow,
Nor succumb’d to her affliction.
On the contrary, she gaily
Went on living, went on dancing
As before, with ardour wooing
For the public’s daily plaudits.
Finally she found a solid
Situation, and provision
For the whole of life, at Paris
In the famed _Jardin des Plantes_.
When I chanced the other Sunday
With my Juliet to go thither
And expounded Nature to her,
Of the plants and beasts conversing,
Showing the giraffes and cedars
Of Mount Lebanon, the mighty
Dromedary, the gold pheasants,
And the zebra,--as we chatted
It so happen’d that at length we
Stood before the pit’s close railing
Where the bears are all collected,--
Gracious heavens, what saw we there!
An enormous desert-bear
From Siberia, white and hairy,
With a lady-bear was playing
A too-tender game of love there.
And the latter was our Mumma!
Was the wife of Atta Troll!
Well I knew her by the tender
Humid glances of her eye.
Yes, ’twas she! the South’s black daughter!
She it was,--yes, Madame Mumma
With a Russian is now living,
With a Northern wild barbarian!
With a simp’ring face a negro
Who approach’d us, thus address’d me:
“Is there any sight more pleasing
“Than to see two lovers happy?”
I replied: “Pray tell me whom, Sir,
“I’ve the honour of addressing?”
But the other cried with wonder:
“Don’t you really recollect me?
“Why, the Moorish prince am I
“Who in Freiligrath was drumming;
“Things in Germany went badly,
“I was far too isolated.
“Here, however, where as keeper
I am station’d, where I’m living
’Mongst the lions, plants, and tigers
Of my home within the tropics,
“Here I find it much more pleasant
Than your German fairs attending,
Where I day by day was drumming
And was fed so very badly.
“I quite recently was married
To a fair cook from Alsatia;
When within her arms reposing
Feel I then at home completely.
“Her dear feet remind me closely
Of our darling elephants;
When she speaks in French, her language
My black mother-tongue resembles.
“Oft she scolds me, and I think then
Of the rattling of that drum
Which had skulls around it hanging;
Snake and lion fled before it.
“Yet with feeling in the moonlight
Weeps she, like a crocodile
Peeping from the tepid river
To enjoy a little coolness.
“And she gives me charming tit-bits,
And I thrive upon them, eating
Once again, as on the Niger,
With old African enjoyment.
“I am getting fat; my belly’s
Grown quite round, and from my shirt it
Is projecting, like a black moon
From the snow-white clouds advancing.”
CAPUT XXVII.
(To Augustus Varnhagen Von Ense.)
“Where in heaven, Master Louis,
Did you pick up all this crazy
Nonsense?”--these the very words were
hich the Card’nal d’Este made use of.
When he read the well-known poem
Of Orlando’s frantic doings,
Which politely Ariosto
To his Eminence inscribed.
Yes, my good old friend Varnhagen,
Yes, I round thy lips see plainly
Hov’ring those exact expressions,
By the same sly smile attended.
Often dost thou laugh whilst reading,
Yet at intervals thy forehead
Solemnly is wrinkled over,
And these thoughts then steal across thee:
“Sounds it not like those young visions
That I dreamt once with Chamisso,
And Brentano and Fouqué,
In the blue and moonlight evenings?[39]
“Is it not the dear notes rising
From the long-lost forest chapel?
Sound the well-known cap and bells not
Roguishly at intervals?
“In the nightingale’s sweet chorus
Breaks the bear’s deep double-bass,
Dull and growling, interchanging
In its turn with spirit-whispers!
“Nonsense, which pretends to wisdom!
Wisdom, which has turn’d quite crazy!
Dying sighs, which suddenly
Into laughter are converted!”--
Yes, my friend, the sounds indeed ’tis
From the long departed dream-time;
Save that modern quavers often
’Midst the olden keynotes jingle.
Signs of trembling thou’lt discover
Here and there, despite the boasting;
I commend this little poem
To thy well-proved gentleness!
Ah! perchance it is the last free
Forest-song of the Romantic;
In the daytime’s wild confusion
Will it sadly die away.
Other times and other birds too!
Other birds and other music!
What a crackling, like the geese’s
Who preserved the Capitol!
What a twitt’ring! ’Tis the sparrows,.
While their claws hold farthing rushlights;
Yet they’re strutting like Jove’s eagle
With the mighty thunderbolt!
What a cooing! Turtledoves ’tis;
Sick of love, they now are hating,
And henceforward, ’stead of Venus,
Draw the chariot of Bellona!
What a humming, world-convulsing!
’Tis in fact the big cock-chafers
Of the springtime of the people,
Smitten with a sudden frenzy!
Other times and other birds too!
Other birds and other music!
They perchance could give me pleasure
Had I only other ears!
GERMANY.[40]
A WINTER TALE.
CAPUT I.
In the mournful month of November ’twas,
The winter days had returnèd,
The wind from the trees the foliage tore,
When I tow’rds Germany journied.
And when at length to the frontier I came
I felt a mightier throbbing
Within my breast, tears fill’d my eyes,
And I wellnigh broke into sobbing.
And when I the German language heard,
Strange feelings each other succeeding,
I felt precisely as though my heart
Right pleasantly were bleeding.
A little maiden sang to the harp;
Real feeling her song was conveying,
Though false was her voice, and yet I felt
Deep moved at hearing her playing.
She sang of love, and she sang of love’s woes,
Of sacrifices, and meeting
Again on high, in yon better world
Where vanish our sorrows so fleeting.
She sang of this earthly valley of tears,
Of joys which so soon have vanish’d,
Of yonder, where revels the glorified soul
In eternal bliss, grief being banish’d.
The song of renunciation she sang,
The heavenly eiapopeia,
Wherewith the people, the booby throng,
Are hush’d when they soothing require.
I know the tune, and I know the text,
I know the people who wrote it;
I know that in secret they drink but wine,
And in public a wickedness vote it.
A song, friends, that’s new, and a better one, too,
Shall be now for your benefit given!
Our object is, that here on earth
We may mount to the realms of heaven.
On earth we fain would happy be,
Nor starve for the sake of the stronger;
The idle stomach shall gorge itself
With the fruit of hard labour no longer.
Bread grows on the earth for every one,
Enough, and e’en in redundance,
And roses and myrtles, beauty and joy,
And sugarplums too in abundance.
Yes, sugarplums for every one,
As soon as the plums are provided;
To angels and sparrows we’re quite content
That heaven should be confided.
If after death our pinions should grow,
We’ll pay you a visit auspicious
In regions above, and with you we’ll eat
Sweet tarts and cakes delicious.
A song that’s new, and a better one, too,
Resounds like fiddle and flute now;
The Miserere’s at last at an end,
The funeral bells are mute now.
The maiden Europe has been betroth’d
To the handsome Genius Freedom;
They clasp and kiss each other with warmth,
As their newborn passions lead ’em.
The priestly blessing may absent be,
But the wedding is still a wedding;
So here’s long life to the bridegroom and bride,
And the future fruit of their bedding!
An epithalamium is my song,
My latest and best creation;
Within my soul are shooting the stars
That proclaim its inauguration.
Those stars inspired blaze wildly on
In torrents of flame, and with wonder
I feel myself full of unearthly strength,
I could rend e’en oaks asunder!
Since I on Germany’s ground have trod,
I’m pervaded by magical juices;
The giant has touch’d his mother once more,
And the contact new vigour produces.
CAPUT II.
Whilst heavenly joys were warbled thus
And sung by the little maiden,
The Prussian douaniers search’d my trunk,
As soon as the coach was unladen.
They poked their noses in every thing,
Each handkerchief, shirt, and stocking;
They sought for jewels, prohibited books,
And lace, with a rudeness quite shocking.
Ye fools, so closely to search my trunk!
Ye will find in it really nothing;
My contraband goods I carry about
In my head, not hid in my clothing.
Point lace is there, that’s finer far
Than Brussels or Mechlin laces;
If once I unpack my point, ’twill prick
And cruelly scratch your faces.
In my head I carry my jewelry all,
The Future’s crown-diamonds splendid,
The new god’s temple-ornaments rich,
The god as yet not comprehended.
And many books also you’d see in my head,
If the top were only off it!
My head is a twittering bird’s nest, full
Of books that they gladly would forfeit.
Believe me that matters are no worse off
In the library e’en of the devil;
E’en Hoffmann of Fallersleben[41] ne’er wrote
Any works that were half so evil.
A passenger who stood by my side
Remark’d that we now had before us
The famous Prussian Zollverein,
The customhouses’ vast chorus.
“The Zollverein”--thus he observed,--
“Will found our nationality,
“And join our scatter’d fatherland
“In bonds of cordiality.
“’Twill give us external unity,--
“That kind that’s material and real:
“The censorship gives us the other kind,
“That’s ghostly and ideal.
“It gives us internal unity,
“In thought as well as in feelings;
“A united Germany need we to rule
“Our outward and inward dealings.”
CAPUT III.
In the old cathedral at Aix-la-Chapelle
Lie buried great Charlemagne’s ashes;
(Not the living Charles Mayer in Swabia born,
Who the writer of so much trash is!)
As the smallest of poets I’d sooner live
At Stukkert, by Neckar’s fair river,
Than be buried as Emp’ror at Aix-la-Chapelle,
And so be extinguish’d for ever.
In the streets of Aix-la-Chapelle the dogs
Are ennui’d, and humbly implore us:
“O stranger, prythee give us a kick,
And to life for a time thus restore us.”
I saunter’d along in this tedious place
For an hour, with great perseverance,
And saw that the Prussian soldiery
Are not the least changed in appearance.
The high red collar still they wear,
With the same grey mantle below it--
(The Red betokens the blood of the French,
Sang Körner the youthful poet).
They are still the wooden pedantic race,
In every motion displaying
The same right angle, and every face
A frigid conceit still betraying.
They walk about stiffly, as though upon stilts,
Stuck up as straight as a needle,
Appearing as if they had swallow’d the stick
Once used as the best means to wheedle.
Yes, ne’er has entirely vanish’d the rod,
They carry it now inside them;
Familiar _Du_ will recall the old _Er_
Wherein they were wont to pride them.
The long mustachio nothing more
Than the pigtail of old discloses
The tail that formerly hung behind
Is hanging right under their noses.
I was not displeased with the new costume
Of the cavalry, I must confess it;
And chiefly the headpiece, the helmet in fact
With the steel point above it, to dress it.
It seems so knightly, and takes one back
To the sweet romance of past ages,
To the Countess Johanna of Mountfaucon,
Tieck, Uhland, Fouqué, and such sages.
The middle ages it calls to mind,
With their squires and noble inferiors,
Who in their bosoms fidelity bore,
And escutcheons upon their posteriors.
Crusades and tourneys it brings back too,
And love, and respect at a distance,
And times of faith, ere printing was known,
When newspapers had no existence.
Yes, yes, I admire the helmet, it shows
An intellect truly enchanting!
Right royal indeed the invention was,
The _point_ is really not wanting!
If a storm should arise, a peak like this
(The thought is terribly fright’ning)
On your romantic head might attract
The heavens’ most modern lightning!
At Aix-la-Chapelle, on the posthouse arms,
I saw the bird detested
Yet once again. With poisonous glare
His eyes upon me rested.
Detestable bird! If e’er thou should’st fall
In my hands, thou creature perfidious,
I would tear thy feathers from off thy back,
And hack off thy talons so hideous!
And then I would stick thee high up on a pole
In the air, thou wicked freebooter,
And then to the joyful shooting match
Invite each Rhenish sharpshooter.
As for him who succeeds in shooting thee down,
The crown and sceptre shall proudly
Reward the worthy; the trumpets we’ll blow,
“Long life to the king,” shouting loudly.[42]
CAPUT IV.
’Twas late at night when I reach’d Cologne,
The Rhine was past me rushing,
The air of Germany on me breath’d,
And I felt its influence gushing
Upon my appetite. I ate
Some omelets, together with bacon;
And as they were salt, some Rhenish wine
Was by me also taken.
The Rhenish wine gleams like very gold,
When quaff’d from out a green rummer;
If thou drink’st a few pints in excess, ’twill give
Thy nose the colour of summer.
So sweet a tickling attacks the nose,
One’s sensations grow fonder and fonder;
It drove me out in the darkening night,
Through the echoing streets to wander.
The houses of stone upon me gazed,
As if wishing to tell me the mysteries
And legends of times that have long gone by,--
The town of Cologne’s old histories.
Yes, here it was that the clergy of yore
Dragg’d on their pious existence;
Here ruled the dark men, whose story’s preserved
By Ulrich von Hutten’s[43] assistance.
’Twas here that the nuns and monks once danced
In mediæval gyrations,
Here Cologne’s own Menzel, Hoogstraaten[44] by name,
Wrote his bitter denunciations.
’Twas here that the flames of the funeral pile
Both books and men once swallow’d;
The bells rang merrily all the while,
And Kyrie Eleison follow’d.
Stupidity here and spitefulness
Like dogs in the street coquetted;
In religious hatred the brood still exists,
Though greatly to be regretted,
But see, where the moonlight yonder gleams,
A form of a monstrous sort is!
As black as the devil it rears its head,--
Cologne Cathedral in short ’tis.
’Twas meant a bastile of the spirit to be,
And the cunning papists bethought them:
“In this prison gigantic shall pine away
German intellects, when we have caught them.”
Then Luther appear’d, and soon by his mouth
A thundering “Halt!” was spoken.
Since then the Cathedral no progress has made
In building, the charm being broken.
It never was finish’d, and this is as well,
For its very non-termination
A monument makes it of German strength
And Protestant reformation.
Ye Cathedral-Society’s members vain,
With powerless hands have ye risen
To continue the work that so long has been stopp’d,
And complete the ancient prison.
O foolish delusion! In vain will ye shake
The money-boxes so bootless,
And beg of the Jews and heretics too,--
Your labour is idle and fruitless.
In vain will Liszt on behalf of the fund
Make concerts all the fashion,
And all in vain will a talented king
Declaim with impetuous passion.
Cologne Cathedral will finish’d be ne’er,
Although the Swabian Solons
Have sent a shipload full of stones
To help it, nolens volens.
’Twill ne’er be completed, despite all the cries
Of the ravens and owls without number,
Who, full of antiquarian lore,
In high church-steeples slumber.
Indeed, the time will by-and-by come,
When instead of completing it rightly,
The inner space as a stable will serve
For horses,--a change but unsightly.
“And if the cathedral a stable becomes,
“Pray tell us how they will then tackle
“The three holy kings who rest there now,
“Within the tabernacle?”
Thus ask they. But why should we, in these days,
Stand up as their supporters?
The three holy kings from the Eastern land
Must find some other quarters.
Take my advice, and place them all
In those three iron cages
That high upon St. Lambert’s tower
At Münster have hung for ages.
If one of the three should missing be,
Select in his stead some other;
Replace the king of the Eastern land
By some regal Western brother.[45]
The king of the tailors[46] sat therein
With his two advisers by him;
But we will employ the cages now
For monarchs who greatly outvie him.
On the right Balthasar shall have his place,
On the left shall be Melchior’s station,
In the midst shall be Gaspar. I know not what
When alive, was their right situation.
The Holy Alliance from out of the East,
Now canonised so duly,
Perchance has not always its mission fulfill’d
Quite properly and truly.
Balthasar perchance and Melchior too
Were men of but weak resolution,
Who promised, when sorely press’d from without,
Their kingdom a constitution,
And afterwards broke their word.--Perchance
King Gaspar, who reign’d o’er the Moormen,
Rewarded with black ingratitude
His foolish fond subjects, the poor men!
CAPUT V.
And when I came to the bridge o’er the Rhine,
Where the bastion its corner advances,
There saw I Father Rhine flowing on
In the silent moonbeam’s glances.
“All hail to thee, good Father Rhine,
Now that I’m home returning!
Full often have I on thee thought,
With longing and deep yearning.”
Thus spake I, and heard in the waters deep
A voice at once strange and moaning,
Like the wheezing cough of an aged man,
With grumbling and feeble groaning:
“Thou’rt welcome, and as thou rememberest me,
I see thee, good youth, again gladly;
’Tis thirteen long years since I saw thee last,
My affairs have meanwhile gone badly.
“At Biberich many a stone I’ve gulp’d down,
“My digestion in consequence worse is;
“Yet heavier far on my stomach, alas,
“Lie Nicholas Becker’s[47] verses!
“My praises he chants, as though I were now
“The purest and best-behaved maiden,
“Who never allow’d any mortal to steal
“The crown with her purity laden.
“Whenever I hear the stupid song,
“I could tear my beard in a passion,
“And feel inclined to drown myself
“In myself, in a curious fashion!
“That I am a virgin pure no more
“The French know better than any;
“For they with my waters have mingled oft
“Their floods of victory many.
“The stupid song and the stupid man!
“Indeed he has treated me badly;
“To a certain extent he has compromised me
“In matters political sadly.
“For if the French should ever come back,
“I must blush at their reappearance,
“Though I’ve pray’d with tears for their return
“To heaven with perseverance.
“I always have loved full well the French,
“So tiny yet full of sinew;
“Still wear they white breeches as formerly?
“Does their singing and springing continue?
“Right glad should I be to see them again,
“And yet I’m afraid to be twitted
“On account of the words of that cursèd song;
“And the sneers of its author half-witted!
“That Alfred de Musset[48], that lad upon town,
“Perchance will come as their drummer,
“And march at their head, and his wretched wit
“Play off on me all through the summer.”
Poor Father Rhine thus made his complaints,
And discontentedly splutter’d.--
In order to raise his sinking heart,
These comforting words I utter’d:
“O do not dread, good Father Rhine,
“The laugh of a Frenchman, which is
“Worth little, for he is no longer the same,
“And they also have alter’d their breeches.
“Their breeches are red, and no longer are white,
“They also have alter’d the button;
“No longer they sing and no longer they spring,
“But hang their heads like dead mutton.
“They now are philosophers all, and quote
“Hegel, Fichte, Kant, over their victuals;
“Tobacco they smoke, and beer they drink,
“And many play also at skittles.
“They’re all, like us Germans, becoming mere snobs,
“But carry it even farther;
“No longer they follow in Voltaire’s steps,
“But believe in Hengstenberg[49] rather.
“As for Alfred de Musset, indeed it is true
“That he still to abuse gives a handle;
“But be not afraid, and we’ll soon chain down
“His tongue so devoted to scandal.
“And if he should play off his wretched wit,
“We’ll punish him most severely,
“Proclaiming aloud the adventures he meets
“With the women he loves most dearly.
“Then be contented, good Father Rhine,
“Bad songs treat only with laughter;
“A better song ere long thou shalt hear,--
“Farewell, we shall meet hereafter.”
CAPUT VI.
On Paganini used always to wait
A Spiritus Familiaris,
Ofttimes as a dog, ofttimes in the shape
Of the late lamented George Harris.
Napoleon, before each important event,
Saw a man in red, as they mention,
And Socrates he had his Dæmon too,
No fanciful mere invention.
E’en I, when I sat at my table to write,
When the darkness of night had entwined me,
Have sometimes seen a muffled form,
Mysteriously standing behind me.
Hid under his mantle, a Something he held,
And when the light happen’d to catch it,
It strangely gleam’d, and methought ’twas an axe,
An executioner’s hatchet.
His stature appear’d to be under the mean,
His eyes like very stars glisten’d;
He never disturb’d me as I wrote,
But quietly stood there, and listen’d.
For many a year I had ceased to see
This very singular fellow,
But found him here suddenly at Cologne,
In the moonlight silent and mellow.
I saunter’d thoughtfully through the streets,
And saw him behind me stalking,
Just like my shadow, and when I stood still,
He also left off walking.
He stood, as if he were waiting for me,
And when I onward hurried,
He follow’d again, and thus I reach’d
The Cathedral yard, quite flurried.
I could not bear it, so turn’d sharp round,
And said: “I insist on an answer;
“Why follow me thus in the silent night,
“And lead me this wandering dance, Sir?
“I come across thee just at the time
“When world-wide feelings are dashing
“Across my breast, and through my brain
“The spirit-lightnings are flashing.
“Thou gazest upon me so fixedly--
“Now answer me, what is there hidden
“Beneath thy mantle that secretly gleams?
“Thy business say, when thou’rt bidden.”
“The other replied in a somewhat dry tone,
“If not a little phlegmatic:
“I pray thee, exorcise me not,
“And be not quite so emphatic!
“No ghost am I from the days gone by,
“No grave-arisen spectre;
“I have no affection for rhetoric,
“I’m no philosophic projector.
“I am of a practical nature in fact,
“And of silent resolution;
“But know, that whatever thy spirit conceives,
“I put into execution.
“And even when years have pass’d away,
“I rest not, nor suffer distraction,
“Till I’ve changed to reality all thy thoughts;
“Thine’s the thinking, and mine is the action.
“The judge art thou, and the jailer am I,
“And, like a servant obedient,
“The judgments execute pleasing to thee,
“Whether right or inexpedient.
“Before the Consul they carried an axe
“In Rome of old, let me remind thee
“And thou hast also thy lictor, but he
“Now carries the axe behind thee.
“Thy lictor am I, and follow behind,
“And carry in all its splendour
“The polish’d executioner’s axe--
“I’m the deed which thy thoughts engender.”
CAPUT VII.
I homeward went, and as soundly I slept
As if by the angels tended;
In German beds one cosily rests,
For they are all featherbeds splendid.
How often I’ve yearn’d for the sweet repose
Of my own native country’s pillows,
While I lay on hard mattresses, sleepless all night,
In my exile far over the billows!
One sleeps so well, and one dreams so well
In our featherbeds delicious;
The German spirit here feels itself free
From all earth’s fetters pernicious.
It feels itself free, and upward soars
To the highest regions Elysian;
O German Spirit, how proud is the flight
Thou takest in nightly vision!
The gods turn pale, when thou drawest nigh;
When soaring tow’rds heaven’s dominions,
Thou hast snuff’d out the light of many a star,
With the strokes of thine eager pinions.
The land belongs to the Russians and French,
In the British the ocean is vested,
But we in dream’s airy regions possess
The mastery uncontested.
The art of ruling practise we here,
And here we are never dissever’d,
While other nations on earth’s flat face
To develop themselves have endeavour’d.--
And as I slumber’d, methought in my dream
I was once more sauntering slowly
In the moonlight clear through the echoing streets
Of Cologne’s ancient city so holy.
Behind me once again my black
And mask’d attendant speeded;
I felt so weary, my knees wellnigh broke,
Yet on, still on, we proceeded.
We onward went. My heart in my breast
Gaped open, and parted in sunder,
And the red drops glided out of the wound
In my heart,--a sight of wonder.
I oftentimes dipp’d my finger therein,
And often the fancy came o’er me
To streak with the blood, as I onward pass’d,
Each doorpost lying before me.
And every time that I mark’d a house
In this very peculiar fashion,
A funeral bell was heard in a tone
Of mournful and soft compassion.
But now in the heavens the moon grew pale,
And darkness came over me thickly,
And over her face, like horses black,
The stormy clouds sped quickly.
And still behind me onward went
My dark companion ever,
His hidden axe grasping,--on, still on,
And pausing and resting never.
We went and went, till we reach’d at length
The Cathedral precincts’ centre;
The doors of the church wide open stood,
And straightway did we enter.
Within its capacious expanse but death
And night and silence hover’d,
While here and there a glimmering lamp
The darkness plainly discover’d.
I wander’d long the pillars among,
And heard the footsteps only
Of my attendant, who follow’d me still
E’en here in the silence lonely.
At length we came to a certain place,
With gold and jewels quite glorious,
And illumed by the tapers’ sparkling light,--
’Twas the three kings’ chapel notorious.
But the three holy kings, who were wont to lie
Quite still, and in order befitting--
O sight of wonder!--were now upright
Upon their sarcophagi sitting.
Three skeletons, deck’d in fantastic array,
With crowns on their skulls dry and yellow,
And each one held in his bony hand
A sceptre, beside his fellow.
Like dancing puppets they moved about
Their bones which so long had perish’d;
They smelt of mould, and they also smelt
Of incense fragrant and cherish’d.
One ’mongst the number soon moved his mouth,
And utter’d a lengthy oration,
Explaining the reasons why he claim’d
My respectful salutation.
The first, because he was a corpse,
Because a monarch, the second;
Because a saint, the third,--but the whole
Of little account I reckon’d.
I gave him an answer in laughing mood:
“In vain is all thy endeavour!
“I see that thou’rt still in ev’ry respect
“As strange and old-fashion’d as ever!
“Away! away! In the deep grave alone
“Your lengths ye ought to measure!
“Real life will shortly confiscate
“This chapel’s mighty treasure.
“Hereafter the merry cavalry
“Shall make the Cathedral their dwelling;
“If ye will not go gently, then force shall be used,
“With clubs your exit compelling!”
When thus I had spoken, I turn’d me round,
And saw where was glimmering brightly
My silent attendant’s terrible axe,
And he read my meaning rightly.
So he quickly approach’d, and with the axe
Remorselessly he shatter’d
Those skeletons poor of bigotry,
And into atoms scatter’d.
The echoing blows from the vaulted roof
Rang wildly, in countless numbers;
While streams of blood pour’d out from my breast,
And I awoke from my slumbers.
CAPUT VIII.
From Cologne to Hagen it costs to post
Five Prussian dollars, six groschen;
The diligence chanced to be full, so I came
In a chaise, though rough was the motion.
’Twas a late autumn morning, both damp and grey
The coach in the mud groan’d sadly;
Yet despite the bad weather, despite the bad road,
Sweet thoughts pervaded me gladly.
’Tis my own native air, and the glow on my cheek
Could bear no other construction;
The very dirt in the highway itself
Is my fatherland’s production!
The horses wagg’d their tails like old friends,
As they went along in a canter;
Their very dung appear’d to me fair
As the apples of Atalanta!
We pass’d through Mühlheim. The people are dull
And busy, the town far from dirty;
I last was there in the merry month
Of May, in the year one and thirty.
All things then stood in blooming attire,
And the sunlight sweetly was blinking;
The birds were singing their yearning song,
While the men were hoping and thinking.
Thus thought they: “The lanky order of knights
“Will depart from amongst us shortly;
“Their farewell draught they shall drink from long flasks
“Of iron, in fashion not courtly!
“And freedom shall come with sport and with dance,
“With the banner, the white-blue-red one;
“Perchance she will fetch from out of the grave
“E’en Bonaparte, even the dead one!”
Alas! the knights remain as before;
More than one of those fools so derided
Who enter’d the country as thin as a lath
Are now with fat bellies provided.
The pallid canaille, who used to look
The pictures of faith, hope, charity,
Have got red noses by tippling our wine
With the utmost regularity.
And Freedom has sprain’d her foot, and has lost
For springing and raving all power;
In Paris itself the tricolour flag
Looks mournfully down from each tower.
The Emperor truly arose again,
Yet the English, fearing a riot,
Converted him into a peaceable man,
And he let them inter him in quiet.
Yes, I myself his funeral saw,
The golden carriage so splendid,
And victory’s golden goddesses,
Who the golden coffin attended.
Along the famous Champs Elysées,
Through the Arc de Triomphe stately,
Across the mist and over the snow
The procession wended sedately.
The music was painful and out of tune,
And frozen was every musician;
The eagles perch’d over the standards look’d down
Upon me in woeful condition.
In ghostly fashion the men all appear’d,
All lost in old recollections,--
The wondrous imperial dream revived,
Awakening olden affections.
I wept on that day. Tears rose in my eyes,
And down my cheeks fast fleeted,
When I heard the long-vanish’d loving shout
Of “Vive l’Empereur!” repeated.
CAPUT IX.
I left Cologne on my onward road
At a quarter to eight precisely;
We got to Hagen at three o’clock,
And there had our dinners nicely.
The table was cover’d. Here found I all
The old-fashion’d German dishes;
All hail, thou savoury sour-krout, hail,
The reward of my utmost wishes!
Stuff’d chestnuts all in green cabbages dress’d!
My food when I was a baby!
All hail, ye native stockfish, ye swim
In the butter as nicely as may be!
One’s native country to each fond heart
Grows ever dearer and dearer--
Its eggs and bloaters, when nicely brown’d,
Come home to one’s feelings still nearer.
How the sausages sang in the spluttering fat.
The fieldfares, those very delicious
And roasted angels with apple sauce,
All warbled a welcome propitious.
“Thou’rt welcome, countryman,” warbled they,
“Full long hast thou been delaying!
“Full long hast thou with foreign birds
“In foreign lands been straying!”
Upon the table stood also a goose,
A silent, kindhearted being;
Perchance she loved me in younger days,
When our tastes were nearer agreeing.
Full of meaning she eyed me, cordial but sad,
And fond, like the rest of her gender;
She surely possess’d an excellent soul,
But her flesh was by no means tender.
A boar’s head they also brought in the room,
On a pewter dish, for me to guzzle;
The _bores_ with us are always deck’d out
With laurel leaves round their muzzle.
CAPUT X.
On leaving Hagen the night came on,
And I felt a chilly sensation
Inside. At the inn at Unna I first
Recover’d my animation.
A pretty maiden found I there,
Who pour’d out my punch discreetly;
Like yellow silk were her comely locks,
Her eyes like the moonlight gleam’d sweetly.
Her lisping Westphalian accents I heard
With joy, as she utter’d them clearly;
The punch with sweet recollections smoked,
I thought of my brethren loved dearly;
The dear Westphalians, with whom I oft drank
At Göttingen, while we were able,
Till we sank in emotion on each other’s necks,
And also sank under the table.
That loveable, worthy, Westphalian race!
I ever have loved it extremely;
A nation so firm, so faithful, so true,
Ne’er given to boasting unseemly.
How proudly they stand, with their lion-like hearts,
In the noble science of fencing!
Their quarts and their tierces, so honestly meant,
With vigorous arm dispensing.
Right well they fight, and right well they drink;
When they give thee their hand so gentle
To strike up a friendship, they needs must weep,
Like oaks turn’d sentimental.
May heaven watch over thee, worthy race,
On thy seed shower down benefactions,
Preserve thee from war and empty renown,
From heroes and heroes’ actions!
May it evermore grant to thy excellent sons
An easy examination,
And give thy daughters marriages good,--
So Amen to my invocation!
CAPUT XI.
Behold the wood of Teutoburg,
Described in Tacitus’ pages;
Behold the classical marsh, wherein
Stuck Varus, in past ages.
Here vanquish’d him the Cheruscian prince,
The noble giant, named Hermann;[50]
’Twas in this mire that triumph’d first
Our nationality German.
Had Hermann with his light-hair’d hordes
Not triumph’d here over the foeman,
Then German freedom had come to an end,
We had each been turn’d to a Roman!
Nought but Roman language and manners had now
Our native country ruled over,
In Munich lived Vestals, the Swabians e’en
As Quirites have flourish’d in clover!
An harúspex had Hengstenberg surely been,
And groped about in the bowels
Of oxen; Neander[51] an Augur, and based
On flights of birds his avowals.
Birch-Pfeifer[52] had tippled her turpentine,
Like the Roman ladies admired.
(’Tis said that they, by its frequent use,
A pleasing odour acquired).
Friend Raumer[53] had been no German scamp,
But a regular Roman Scampatius,
And Freiligrath written without using rhyme,
Like worthy Flaccus Horatius.
The clumsy beggar, Father Jahn,[54]
Had then been call’d Clumsianus;
Me Hercule! Massmann[55] would Latin have talk’d,
As Marcus Tullius Massmanus!
The friends of truth, instead of with curs
In the papers, would in the arena
Have had to wage a mortal fight
With the lion, jackal, hyena.
One single Nero we now should have had,
’Stead of three dozen pieces of knavery;
Our veins should we have open’d, and so
Defied the bailiffs of slavery.
Thank heaven! The Romans were driven away,
A glorious triumph was Hermann’s;
Both Varus and all his legions succumb’d,
And we remain’d still Germans!
We Germans remain, and German we speak,
As we before times have spoken;
An ass is an ass, not asinus,
The Swabian line is unbroken.
Friend Raumer remain’d a German scamp
In our northern German climate;
And Freiligrath no Horace became,
But in verse is accustom’d to rhyme it.
Thank heaven that Massmann no Latin e’er writes,
Birch-Pfeifer writes nothing but dramas,
And drinks no nasty turpentine
Like those lovely Roman charmers.
O Hermann, for this we’re indebted to thee!
So at Dettmoldt[56] thy friends and extollers
A monument proud of late have design’d,
And towards it I gave a few dollars.
CAPUT XII.
Through the wood in the dark the postchaise bump’d on,
When a crash took place, sudden and frightful--
A wheel came off, and we came to a stand,
An occurrence by no means delightful.
The postilion dismounted, and made all haste
To the village for help, and I found me
At midnight alone in the darksome wood,
While a howling I heard all around me.
The wolves it was, who wildly howl’d
With half-starv’d voices all wiry;
Like lights in the darkness brightly gleam’d
Their eyes so fierce and fiery.
Of my arrival certainly knew
The beasts, and to honour me, proudly
They lighted up the forest thus,
And sang in chorus loudly.
I soon observed ’twas a real serenade,
Design’d for my glorification,
So threw myself in an attitude fit,
And spoke with extreme animation:
“Brother wolves! it gives me great pleasure to-day
“To tarry awhile ’midst your growling,
“Where so many noble spirits have met,
“Around me lovingly howling.
“My feelings just at the moment I speak
“Are truly beyond all measure;
“This present hour I ne’er shall forget,
“So fraught with exceeding pleasure.
“I thank you for the confidence thus
“Evinced beyond denial,
“And which by the clearest proofs ye have shown
“In every period of trial.
“Brother wolves! ye ne’er doubted that true I remain’d,
“Ye set all the rogues at defiance,
“Who falsely asserted that I had of late,
“Struck up with the dogs an alliance,
“And turn’d an apostate, and e’en in the fold
“As a Councillor soon they would show me--
“To answer such base assertions as these
“I feel to be really below me.
“The sheepskin that I for a time had on
“As a piece of warm clothing merely,
“Believe me, will never make me love
“The sheep’s race an atom more dearly.
“No sheep am I, and no dog am I,
“No Councillor, or such like;
“A wolf am I, and my heart and teeth
“A wolf’s are very much like.
“A wolf am I, and with the wolves
“I ever will be a yelper;
“Yes, reckon upon me, and help yourselves,
“And God will be your helper!”
This was the speech deliver’d by me,
Without the least preparation;
In the Allgemeine Zeitung, I’m told,
It appear’d, though with much mutilation.
CAPUT XIII.
The sun arose near Paderborn,
With a look by no means bright’ning
In fact he leads but a sorry life,
This wretched earth enlight’ning.
As soon as he has lighted one side,
And hastens with beams all sparkling
To lighten the other, already the first
Is getting gloomy and darkling.
Poor Sisyphus’ stone keeps rolling down,
The Danaids’ bucket never
Gets fill’d, and to lighten this earthly ball
In vain is the sun’s endeavour.
And when the mist of morning dispersed,
I saw by the wayside projecting
In the early glow, His figure, who died
On the cross a death so affecting.
I’m filled with dejection every time
That I see Thee, my poor Relation,
Whose mission was to redeem the world,
And be mankind’s salvation.
A sorry trick they play’d Thee indeed,
The lords of the Council stately;
O why didst Thou speak of Church and State
In a manner to wound them greatly?
To Thy misfortune the printing art
To mortals had then not been given,
Or else a book had been written by Thee
On the subjects relating to heaven.
The Censor would then have erased whate’er
Satirical seem’d in its diction,
And so the loving censorship
Have saved Thee from crucifixion.
Ah! if for Thy sermon on the mount
Another text Thou hadst taken!
Sufficient genius and talent were Thine,
And the pious Thou need’st not have shaken.
Money-changers and bankers Thou drov’st with the scourge
From the temple, in just indignation--
Unhappy Enthusiast! Now on the cross
Thou dost suffer a sad expiation.
CAPUT XIV.
The wind was humid, and barren the land,
The chaise floundered on in the mire,
Yet a singing and ringing were filling my ears:
“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”
The burden is this of the olden song
That my nurse so often was singing--
“O Sun, thou accusing fire!” was then
Like the note of the forest horn ringing.
This song of a murderer tells the tale,
Who lived a life joyous and splendid;
Hung up in the forest at last he was found,
From a grey old willow suspended.
The murderer’s sentence of death was nail’d
On the willow’s stem, written entire;
The Vehm-gericht’s avengers’ work ’twas--
O Sun, thou accusing fire!
The Sun was accuser,--’twas he who condemn’d
The murderer foul, in his ire.
Ottilia had cried, as she gave up the ghost:
“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”
When the song I recall, the remembrance too
Of my dear old nurse never ceases
I see once more her swarthy face,
With all its wrinkles and creases.
In the district of Münster she was born,
And knew, in all their glory,
Many popular songs and wondrous tales,
And many a wild ghost-story.
How my heart used to beat when the old nurse told how
The king’s daughter, in days now olden,
Sat all alone on the desert heath,
While glisten’d her tresses so golden.
Her business was to tend the geese
As a goosegirl, and when at nightfall
She drove the geese home again through the gate,
Her tears would in piteous plight fall.
For nail’d up on high, above the gate,
She saw a horse’s head o’er her;
The head it was of the dear old horse
Who to foreign countries bore her.
The king’s poor daughter deeply sigh’d:
“O Falada! hangest thou yonder?”
The horse’s head from above replied:
“Alas that from home thou did’st wander!”
The king’s poor daughter deeply sigh’d:
“O would that my mother knew it!”
The horse’s head from above replied:
“Full sorely she would rue it!”
With gasping breath I used to attend
When my nurse, with a voice soft and serious,
Of Barbarossa began to speak,
Our Emperor so mysterious.
She assured me that he was not dead, as to think
By learned men we were bidden,
But with his comrades in arms still lived
In a mountain’s recesses safe hidden.
Kyffhauser is the mountain’s name,
With a cave in its depths benighted;
By lamps its high and vaulted rooms
In ghostly fashion are lighted.
The first of the halls is a stable vast,
Where in glittering harness the stranger
Who enters may see many thousand steeds,
Each standing at his manger.
They all are saddled, and bridled all,
Yet amongst these thousands of creatures,
No single one neighs, no single one stamps,
Like statues of iron their features.
Upon the straw in the second hall
The soldiers are seen in their places;
Many thousand soldiers, a bearded race,
With warlike and insolent faces.
They all are full arm’d from top to toe,
Yet out of this countless number,
Not one of them moves, not one of them stirs,
They all are wrapp’d in slumber.
In the third of the halls in lofty piles
Swords, spears, and axes are lying,
And armour and helmets of silver and steel,
With old-fashion’d fire-arms vying.
The cannons are few, but yet are enough
To build up a trophy olden.
A standard projects from out of the heap,
Its colour is black-red-golden.
In the fourth of the halls the Emperor lives,
For many a century dosing
On a seat made of stone near a table of stone,
His head on his arm reposing.
His beard, which has grown right down to the ground,
Is red as a fiery ocean;
At times his eye to blink may be seen,
And his eyebrows are ever in motion.
But whether he sleeps or whether he thinks
For the present we cannot discover;
Yet when the proper hour has come,
He’ll shake himself all over.
His trusty banner he then will seize,
And “To horse! Quick to horse!” shout proudly;
His cavalry straight will awake and spring
From the earth, all rattling loudly.
Each man will forthwith leap on his horse,
Each stamping his hoofs and neighing;
They’ll ride abroad in the clattering world,
While their trumpets are merrily playing.
Right well they ride, and right well they fight,
No longer they slumber supinely;
In terrible judgment the Emperor sits,
To punish the murd’rers condignly,--
The murderers foul, who murder’d erst
Her whose beauty such awe did inspire,
The golden-hair’d maiden Germania hight,--
O Sun, thou accusing fire!
Full many who deem’d themselves safely hid,
And sat in their castles cheerful,
Shall then not escape Barbarossa’s fierce wrath,
And the cord of vengeance fearful.
My old nurse’s tales, how sweetly they ring,
How dear are the thoughts they inspire!
My heart superstitiously shouts with joy:
“O Sun, thou accusing fire!”
CAPUT XV.
A fine and prickly rain now descends,
Like needle-tops cold, and wetting;
The horses mournfully waggle their tails,
And wade through the mud with sweating.
Upon his horn the postilion blows
The old tune loved so dearly:
“Three horsemen are riding out at the gate”--
Its memory crosses me clearly.
I sleepy grew, and at length went to sleep,
And as for my dream, this is it:
To the Emperor Barbarossa I
In the wondrous mount paid a visit.
On his stony seat by the table of stone
Like an image no longer I saw him,
Nor had he that very respectable look
With which for the most part they draw him.
He waddled about with me round the halls
Discoursing with much affection,
Like an antiquarian pointing out
The gems of his precious collection.
In the hall of armour he show’d with a club
How the strength of a blow to determine,
And rubb’d off the dust from a few of the swords
With his own imperial ermine.
He took in his hand a peacock’s fan,
And clean’d full many a dusty
Old piece of armour, and many a helm,
And many a morion rusty.
The standard he carefully dusted too,
And said, “My greatest pride is,
“That not e’en one moth hath eaten the silk,
“And not e’en one insect inside is.”
And when we came to the second hall,
Where asleep on the ground were lying
Many thousand arm’d warriors, the old man said,
Their forms with contentment eyeing:
“We must take care, while here, not to waken the men,
“And make no noise in the gallery;
“A hundred years have again passed away,
“And to-day I must pay them their salary.”
And see! the Emperor softly approach’d,
While he held in his hand a ducat,
And quietly into the pocket of each
Of the sleeping soldiery stuck it.
And then he remark’d with a simpering face,
When I observ’d him with wonder:
“I give them a ducat apiece as their pay,
“At periods a century asunder.”
In the hall wherein the horses were ranged,
And drawn out in rows long and silent,
Together the Emperor rubb’d his hands
While his pleasure seem’d getting quite vi’lent.
He counted the horses, one by one,
And poked their ribs approving;
He counted and counted, and all the while
His lips were eagerly moving.
“The proper number is not complete,”--
Thus angrily he discourses:
“Of soldiers and weapons I’ve quite enough,
“But still am deficient in horses.
“Horse-jockeys I’ve sent to every place
“In all the world, to supply me
“With the very best horses that they can find
“And now I’ve a good number by me.
“I only wait till the number’s complete,
“Then, making a regular clearance,
“I’ll free my country, my German folk,
“Who trustingly wait my appearance.”--
Thus spake the Emperor, while I cried:
“Old fellow! seize time as it passes;
“Set to work, and hast thou not horses enough,
“Then fill up their places with asses.”
Then Barbarossa smiling replied:
“For the battle there need be no hurry;
“Rome certainly never was built in one day,
“Nothing’s gained by bustle and flurry.
“Who comes not to-day, to-morrow will come,
“The oak’s slow growth might shame us;
“_Chi va piano va sano_ wisely says
“The Roman proverb famous.”
CAPUT XVI.
The carriage’s jolting woke me up
From my dream, yet vainly sought I
To keep awake, so I slumber’d again,
And of Barbarossa thought I.
Again we went through the echoing halls,
And talked of great and small things;
He ask’d me this, and he ask’d me that,
And wish’d to know about all things.
He told me that not one mortal word
From the world above had descended
For many a year,--in fact not since
The Seven-years’ war had ended.
With interest he for Karschin[57] ask’d,
For Mendelssohn (Moses the glorious),
For Louis the Fifteenth’s mistress frail,
The Countess Du Barry notorious.
“O Emperor,” cried I, “how backward thou art!
Old Moses is dead and forgotten,
With his Rebecca; and Abraham too,
The son, is dead and rotten.
“This Abraham and Leah, his wife, gave birth
“To Felix[58], who proved very steady;
“His fame through Christendom far has spread,
“He’s a Chapel-master already.
“Old Karschin likewise has long been dead,
“And Klenke, her daughter, is dead too;
“Helmine Chezy, the granddaughter, though,
“Still lives--at least she is said to.
“Du Barry lived merrily, keeping afloat,
“For Louis the Fifteenth screen’d her
“As long as he lived, but when she was old
“They cruelly guillotined her.
“King Louis the Fifteenth died in his bed,
“By the doctors attended and seen to;
“But Louis the Sixteenth was guillotined,
“And Antoinette the Queen too.
“The Queen the greatest courage display’d,
“And died like a monarch, proudly;
“But Madame Du Barry, when guillotined,
“Kept weeping and screaming loudly.”--
The Emperor suddenly came to a stand,
And stared, as if doubting my meaning,
And said: “For the sake of heaven explain
“What is meant by that word guillotining?”
“Why, guillotining,” I briefly replied,
“Is a method newly constructed,
“By means of which people of every rank
“From life to death are conducted.
“For this purpose, a new machine is employ’d”--
“I continued, while closely he listen’d;
“Invented by Monsieur Guillotin,
“And ‘guillotine’ after him christen’d.
“You first are fasten’d to a board;
“’Tis lower’d; then quickly they shove you
“Between two posts; meanwhile there hangs
“A triangular axe just above you.
“They pull a string, and downward shoots
“The axe, quite lively and merry;
“And so your head falls into a bag,
“And nothing remains but to bury.”
The Emperor here interrupted my speech:
“Be silent! May heaven confuse it,
“That foul machine! and God forbid
“That I should ever use it!
“The King and Queen! What? To a board
“Both fasten’d! What a position!
“’Tis contrary to all respect,
“And etiquette in addition!
“And who art thou, that darest to speak
“So coolly and so much, man?
“Just wait a while, and I’ll soon clip
“Thy wings, or I’m a Dutchman!
“My inmost bile is deeply stirr’d
“At words so out of season;
“Thy very breath is full of crime
“And guilty of high treason!”
When in his zeal the old man rail’d,
And treated me thus cavalierly,
Surpassing all bounds,--I sharply replied,
And told him my mind quite clearly.
“Barbarossa!” I cried, “thou’rt just as absurd
“As an old woman’s silly fable;
“Go, lie down and sleep! without thy aid
“To free ourselves we are able.
“The republicans all would scoff and jeer,
“And shake their sides with laughter
“To see such a spectre, with sceptre and crown
“Act as leader, while we went after.
“Thy standard, too, no more I respect;
“My love for the black-red-golden
“Has been quench’d by the fools of the _Burschenschaft_,
“With their rage for the so-call’d olden.
“In Old Kyffhauser ’twere better that thou
“Shouldst pass thy days morosely;
“In truth, we’ve no need of an Emperor now,
“When I view the matter closely.”
CAPUT XVII.
I wrangled in dream with the Emperor thus,--
In dream,--I say it advisedly;
In waking hours we never dare talk
To princes so undisguisedly.
The Germans only venture to speak
When asleep, in a dream ideal,
The thoughts that they bear in their faithful hearts,
So German and yet so real.
When I awoke, I was passing a wood,
And the sight of the trees in such numbers,
And their naked wooden reality,
Soon scared away my slumbers.
The oaks with solemnity shook their heads;
The twigs of the birch-trees, in token
Of warning, nodded,--and I exclaim’d:
“Dear monarch, forgive what I’ve spoken!
“Forgive, Barbarossa, my headstrong speech,
“I know that thou art far wiser
“Than I, for impatient by nature I am--
“Yet hasten thy coming, my Kaiser!
“If guillotining contents thee not,
“Retain the old plan for the present:
“The sword for the nobleman, keeping the rope
“For the townsman and vulgar peasant.
“But frequently change the order, and let
“The nobles be hang’d, beheading
“The townsmen and peasants, for God cares alike
“For all who life’s pathways are treading.
“Restore again the Criminal Court
“That Charles the Fifth invented;
“With orders, corporations, and guilds
“Let the people again be contented.
“To the sacred old Roman Empire again
“In all its integrity yoke us;
“Its musty frippery give us once more,
“And all its hocus-pocus.
“The middle ages, if you like,
“The genuine middle ages
“I’ll gladly endure,--but free us, I pray,
“From the nonsense that now all the rage is,--
“From all that mongrel chivalry
“That such a nauseous dish is
“Of Gothic fancies and modern deceit,
“And neither flesh nor fish is.
“The troops of Comedians drive away,
“And close the theatres sickly,
“Wherein they parody former times,--
“O Emperor, come thou quickly!”
CAPUT XVIII.
The town of Minden’s a fortress strong,
With arms and stores well provided;
But Prussian fortresses, truth to say,
I never have abided.
We got there just as evening fell;
The planks of the drawbridge sadly
Beneath us groan’d, as over we roll’d,
And the dark moat gaped on us madly.
The lofty bastions on me gazed
With threat’ning and sulky wonder;
The heavy gate open’d with rattling loud,
And closed with a noise like thunder.
Alas! my soul felt as sad as the soul
Of Odysseus, the world-renown’d warrior,
When he heard Polyphemus rolling a rock
In front of the cave as a barrier.
A Corporal came to the door of the coach
For our names; I replied to this latter act:
“I’m Nobody call’d; I an oculist am,
“Who couch the giants for cataract!”
At the inn I found my discomfort increase,
My victuals fill’d me with loathing;
I straight went to bed, but slept not a wink,
So heavy I found the bed-clothing.
The bed was a large, broad featherbed,
Red damask curtains around it,
The canopy wrought with faded gold,
While a dirty tassel crown’d it.
Accursèd tassel! of all my repose
It robb’d me all the night through;
It hung over head, like Damocles’ sword,
And threaten’d to pierce me right through!
A serpent’s head it often appear’d,
And I heard its hissing mysterious:
“In the fortress thou art, and canst not escape”--
A position especially serious!
“O would that I were”--I thought with a sigh,--
“Of my peaceable home a sharer,
“With my own dear wife in Paris once more,
“In the Faubourg-Poissonière!”
I felt that a Something oftentimes
Was over my forehead stealing,
Just like a Censor’s chilly hand,
And all my thoughts congealing.
Gendarmes, in the dresses of corpses conceal’d,
In white and ghostly confusion
Surrounded my bed, while a rattling of chains
I heard, to swell the illusion.
Alas! the spectres carried me off,
And at length with amazement I found me
Beside a precipitous wall of rocks,
And there they firmly had bound me.
Detestable tassel, so dirty and foul!
Again it appear’d before me,
But now in the shape of a vulture with claws
And black wings hovering o’er me.
And now like the well-known eagle it seem’d
And grasp’d me, and breathing prevented;
It ate the liver out of my breast,
While sadly I groan’d and lamented.
Long time I lamented, when crow’d the cock,
And the feverish vision faded;
Perspiring in bed at Minden I lay,
To a tassel the bird was degraded.
I travell’d with post-horses on,
And free breath presently drew I
On the domain of Bückeburg,
As by my feelings knew I.
CAPUT XIX.
O Danton, great was thy mistake,
And thy error was paid for dearly!
One can carry away one’s fatherland
On the soles of one’s feet, pretty nearly.
Of the princely domain of Bückeburg
One half to my boots clung in patches;
In all my life I never have seen
A place that in filth its match is.
At the town of Bückeburg shortly I stopp’d,
To see the ancestral castle
Whence my grandfather came; my grandmother though
Of Hamburg was part and parcel.
I got to Hanover just at noon,
And there had my boots clean’d neatly,
And afterwards went to visit the town;
When I travel, I do it completely.
By heavens, how spruce the place appear’d!
No mud in its streets was lying;
Many handsome buildings there I saw,
In massive splendour vying.[59]
I was mostly charm’d by a very large square,
Surrounded by houses superior;
There lives the king and his palace there stands,
Of a really handsome exterior,--
(The palace I mean.) On each side of the door
A sentry-box had its station;
Redcoats with muskets there kept guard,
Of threat’ning and wild reputation.
My cicerone said: “Here lives
“King Ernest Augustus, a tory
“Of the olden school, and a nobleman,--
“Very sharp, though his hairs are hoary.
“In safety idyllic here he dwells,
“For he’s far more securely protected
“By the scanty courage of our dear friends
“Than his satellites ever effected.
“I see him sometimes, and then he complains
“How very tedious his post is,--
“The regal post, of which he here
“In Hanover now the boast is.
“Accustom’d to a British life,
“And plagued by spleen, to cure it
“He finds it not easy, and greatly fears
“That he cannot much longer endure it.
“T’other day I found him at early morn
“By the fireside mournfully bending;
“For his dog, who was sick, with his own royal hands
“A comforting draught he was blending.”
CAPUT XX.
In an hour from Harburg to Hamburg I went;
The shades of evening were thick’ning,
The stars in the heavens their greetings sent,
And the air was soft and quick’ning.
And when I reach’d my mother at last,
She was wellnigh frighten’d with gladness;
She cried “My darling child!” and clasp’d
Her hands together with madness.
“My darling child, full thirteen years
“Have pass’d since our last meeting;
“You surely are hungry; tell me now
“What you’ll take in the way of eating?
“I’ve here some fish, and goose-flesh too,
“And handsome oranges also!”--
“Then give me some fish, and goose-flesh too,
“And handsome oranges also!”
And whilst I ate with an appetite good,
My mother was lively and merry;
She ask’d me this, and she ask’d me that,
And her questions were awkward, very.
“My darling child, in your foreign home
“Do you get all the things you require?
“Is your wife pretty skilful at keeping house?
“Are your shirts and stockings darn’d by her?”
“The fish is good, my mother dear,
“But in silence one ought to eat it;
“’Tis easy to get a bone in one’s throat,
“Pray leave me in peace to complete it.”
And when I had finish’d the excellent fish,
The goose next made its appearance;
My mother again ask’d for this and for that,
With the same ill-timed perseverance.
“My darling child, which land do you think
“Is the best for people to dwell in,--
“This place, or France? which nation’s the best?
“What thing does each excel in?”--
“A German goose, my mother dear,
“Is good as one of the courses;
“But the French stuff geese far better than we,
“And they also have better sauces.”
And when the goose had taken its leave,
The oranges presently follow’d,
And tasted so unexpectedly nice,
That with pleasure they quickly were swallow’d.
But now my mother again began
Her questions with very much pleasure;
She ask’d me a thousand things, but some
Were awkward beyond all measure.
“My darling child, pray tell me now,
“If politics still you’re inclined to?
“Which party in the state to support
“Have you the greatest mind to?”--
“The quality, my mother dear,
“Of your oranges cannot be beaten;
“The sweet juice I swallow with much delight,
“But I leave the peel uneaten.”
CAPUT XXI.
They bit by bit are building again
The hapless half-burnt city;
Like a half-shorn poodle Hamburg now looks,
An object to waken one’s pity.[60]
Full many a street has disappear’d
That mournfully one misses--
Where is the house, wherein I kiss’d
Love’s first delicious kisses?
Where is the printing-house, where I
My _Reisebilder_ printed?
The oyster shop, where I oysters gulp’d down
With appetite unstinted?
The Dreckwall too,--where is it now?
I now should seek it vainly;
Where the pavilion, where I ate
So many cakes profanely?
Where is the town-hall, wherein sat
The senate and burghers stately?
A prey to the flames! The flames spared not
Whatever was holiest lately.
The people still were sighing with grief,
And with most mournful faces
The history sad of the great fire told,
And pointed out all its traces:--
“It burnt in every corner at once,
“All was smoke and flames fiercely flashing;
“The churches’ towers all blazed on high,
“And tumbled in with loud crashing.
“The old exchange was also burnt,
“Where our fathers in every weather
“Were wont to assemble for centuries past,
“And honestly traded together.
“The bank, the silvery soul of the town,
“And the books which have always served us
“To note the assets of every man,
“Thank heaven! have been preserved us.
“Thank heaven! In every land they made
“On our behalf large collections;
“A capital job,--we got no less
“Than eight millions in all directions.
“The money from every country flow’d
“In our hands, which were far from unwilling,
“And plenty of food they also sent,
“And we gladly accepted each shilling.
“They sent us clothes and bedding enough,
“And bread, and meat, and soups too;
“The King of Prussia, to show his regard,
“Would fain have sent us troops too.
“Our losses in property thus were replaced,
“A matter of mere valuation;
“But then the fright,--our terrible fright,
“Admits of no compensation!”
I cheeringly said: “My worthy friends,
“You should not lament and bawl so!
“A far better city than yours was Troy,
“And yet it was burnt down also.
“Rebuild your houses as fast as you can,
“And dry up every puddle;
“Get better engines and better laws,
“That are not quite such a muddle.
“Don’t put in your nice mock-turtle soup
“So very much Cayenne pepper;
“Your carp are not wholesome with so much sauce,
“Or when eaten with scales, like a leper.
“Your turkeys will not do much harm,
“But be on your guard ’gainst disaster
“From the knavish bird that lays its eggs
“In the wig of the burgomaster.
“’Tis not for me to tell you the name
“Of this bird of bad reputation;
“When thinking about him, the food in my maw
“Is stirr’d with indignation.”
CAPUT XXII.
More changed than even the city itself
Appear’d the people within it;
Like walking ruins they totter’d about,
As if ready to tumble each minute.
The thin still thinner than ever appear’d,
The fat appear’d still fatter,
The children were old, and the old were young,
(In their second childhood the latter).
Full many that I had left as calves,
As oxen were herding together,
And many a gosling had now become
A goose in fullest feather.
The aged Gudel I found be-rouged,
And dress’d with syren-like brightness;
She had procured some dark black hair,
And teeth of dazzling whiteness.
The best preserved of all was my friend
The paper-dealer, good fellow;
Like John the Baptist, round his head
Was floating his hair so yellow.
I only saw D---- a long way off,
He slipp’d away so fleetly;
I hear that his soul was burnt, but insured
For a large amount discreetly.
I also saw my old Censor again
In the fog, and lowly stooping
I met him in the goose market by chance,
And he seem’d completely drooping.
We shook each other’s hands, and some tears
In his eye appear’d collecting;
He was so pleased to see me once more!
The scene was truly affecting.
I found not all, for many a one
Had quitted this scene for ever;
My Gumpelino,[61] ’mongst others, alas!
Was gone, to appear again never.
That noble one had surrender’d his soul
To Him by whom it was given,
And now had a glorified seraph become
In the blissful realms of heaven.
In vain for the crooked Adonis I sought,
(Though I look’d in every direction,)
Who used to sell pots and pans in the street,--
A very cheap collection.
And Sarras, the trusty dog, was dead,
A loss of a serious nature;
Friend Campe[62] would sooner have lost a whole host
Of writers than this good creature.
The population of Hamburg town
Has from time immemorial consisted
Of Jews and Christians; ’tis also the case
That the latter are rather close-fisted.
The Christians all behave pretty well,
And pass their time in clover,
And promptly pay their bills of exchange,
Ere the days of grace are over.
The Jews are however divided again
Into two very different parties;
The old one goes to the synagogue,
In the temple the new one’s heart is.
The new party eat the flesh of swine,
Their manners are somewhat dogmatic;
They democrats are, but the older school
Is much more aristocratic.
I love the old, and I love the new,
Yet I swear by the prophet Jonas
That certain fish I love still more,--
Smoked sprats they are commonly known as!
CAPUT XXIII.
Though as a republic Hamburg was ne’er
As great as Venice or Florence,
Yet Hamburg has better oysters; one gets
The best in the cellar of Laurence.
I went there with Campe at evening time,
When splendid was the weather,
Intending on oysters and Rhenish wine
To have a banquet together.
I found some excellent company there,
And greatly was delighted
To see many old friends, such as Chaufepié,
And new ones, self-invited.
There Wille was, whose very face
Was an album where foes academic
Right legibly had inscribed their names
In the shape of scars polemic.
There Fucks was also, a heathen blind,
And personal foe of Jehovah,
Who believed but in Hegel, and slightly perhaps
In the Venus of Canova.
My Campe was our Amphytrion there,
And smiled and enjoy’d the honour;
His eye was beaming with happiness,
Just like an ecstatic Madonna.
I ate and drank with an appetite good,
And these thoughts then cross’d my noddle:
“This Campe is really an excellent man,
“And of publishers quite the model.
“Another publisher, I feel sure,
“Would have left me of hunger to perish;
“But he has given me drink as well,
“His name I ever shall cherish.
“I thank the mighty Lord of all
“Who this juice of the grape created,
“And Campe to me as a publisher gave,
“Whose merits can’t be overrated.
“I thank the mighty Lord of all
“Who by His own mere motion
“Created on earth the Rhenish wine,
“And the oysters in the ocean.
“Who also made the lemons to grow,
“The oyster’s flavour to sweeten,--
“O may I peacefully to-night
“Digest what I have eaten!”
The Rhenish wine makes my feelings soft,
All quarrelsome thoughts congealing
Within my breast, and kindling instead
A philanthropic feeling.
It now compell’d me to leave the room,
And through the streets to wander;
My soul sought a soul, and the sight of each dress
Of a woman made it still fonder.
In moments like this, with grief I could melt,
While my yearning makes me tremble;
The cats appear to me all too grey,
And Helens the women resemble.--
And when I came to the Drehbahn Street,
I saw in the moonbeams glancing
The noble form of a woman fair,
With stately grace advancing.
Her face was perfectly healthy and round,
Her cheek like a damask rose was,
Like a turquoise her eye, like a cherry her mouth,
While somewhat reddish her nose was.
Her head was cover’d with a cap
Of snowy stiff linen, not ragged,
But folded like a mural crown,
With turrets and battlements jagged.
She wore as her dress a tunic white
Which down to her calves descended;
And O what calves! The pedestals they
Of two Doric columns splendid.
A very worldly naïveté
Could be read in her every feature,
But her superhuman hinder parts
Betray’d a superior creature.
She now approach’d me, and straightway said:
“To the Elbe here’s a welcome hearty!
“E’en after an absence of thirteen years,
“I see that thou’rt still the same party!
“Perchance thou seekest the souls so fair
“Who so often used to meet thee,
“And all night long in this beautiful place
“With their reveries loved to greet thee.
“By that hundred-headed hydra, Life,
“That monster fierce, they were swallow’d;
“Thou’lt find those olden times no more,
“Nor those friends once lovingly follow’d.
“No longer thou’lt find those beauteous flowers,
“Which enchanted thy youthful bosom;
“’Twas here they bloom’d,--they’re wither’d now,
“And the tempest has scatter’d each blossom.
“Yes, wither’d, and stripp’d, and trampled down
“By destiny’s footsteps appalling--
“My friend, this is ever the fate upon earth
“Of all that is sweet and enthralling!”--
“Who art thou?” I cried--“like a dream of old times
“Thy appearance doth strangely beset me;
“Where is thy dwelling, enormous one?
“I’ll follow thee there, if thou’lt let me.”
The woman then smiled, and thus she replied:
“Thou art wrong, I’m a decent and quiet
“And highly moral personage too,
“By no means given to riot.
“I’m none of your foreign lorettes, my friend,
“And none of your common ladies;
“I’m Hamburg’s goddess, Hammonia by name,
“And to watch o’er its welfare my trade is!
“Thou art startled perchance to bear this news,
“Thou once undaunted singer?
“Art thou prepared to follow me still?
“Then quick, and no more let us linger.”
But I in reply laugh’d loudly and cried:
“I’ll follow thee instanter!
“If thou’lt go in front, I’ll go behind,--
“Yes, even to hell in a canter!”
CAPUT XXIV.
How I managed to mount the narrow stairs
I haven’t the slightest notion;
Perhaps the spirits carried me up
With some invisible motion.
But here, in Hammonia’s little room,
The hours pass’d swiftly o’er me;
The goddess confess’d the sympathy
That she had ever felt for me.
“Look here”--said she, “in former days
“The minstrel who sang the Messiah
“Was dearest to me of all the throng,
“With his piously-sounding lyre.
“To this day the bust of my Klopstock stands
“On that chest of drawers, but though on it,
“For many a year it has only served
“As a block for holding my bonnet.
“Thou’rt my favourite now, and thy likeness hangs
“At the head of my bed in due order;
“And see, a fresh laurel now surrounds
“The cherish’d portrait’s border.
“Yet thy attacks on my sons, I confess,
“Repeated by thee so often,
“Have sometimes caused me the greatest pain;
“Thy language thou must soften.
“I trust that time has cured thee now
“Of rudeness so cold-hearted,
“And somewhat greater tolerance
“For even the fools imparted.
“But say how thou camest to travel north
“At such an unclement season?
“The weather already is winterly quite,--
“I fain would know the reason.”
“O worthy goddess!” I said in reply,
“In the bosom’s inmost recesses
“Are slumbering thoughts which often awake
“At a time which rather distresses.
“Externally things went on pretty well,
“But within I was weigh’d down with anguish,
“Which every day grew worse and worse,--
“For home I ceased not to languish.
“The air of France, so usually light,
“Began to be oppressive;
“I long’d to breathe some German air,
“To relieve this burden excessive.
“I yearn’d for German tobacco-smoke,
“And the smell of German peat too;
“My foot impatiently quiver’d, the ground
“Of Germany to beat too.
“I sigh’d all night, and I long’d and long’d
“Yet once again to view her,
“The old woman who close to the Dammthor lives,
“And Lotte, who lives close to her.
“The thought of that old and worthy man
“Who always freely reproved me,
“And then his protection over me threw,
“To many a sigh now moved me.
“I fain would hear again from his mouth
“The words ‘young stupid!’ repeated,
“Which always in my younger days
“My heart like music greeted.
“I yearn’d for the blue smoke that high in the air
“From German chimneys reaches,
“For the Lower-Saxony nightingales,
“For the silent groves of beeches.
“I yearn’d for all the sorrowful spots,
“The places where once I resorted,
“Where once I trail’d my youthful cross,
“And my crown of thorns supported.
“I fain would weep where I formerly wept
“Those tears so bitter and burning;
“The love of fatherland methinks
“They call this foolish yearning.
“I love not to talk of it; ’tis nought else
“But a whim of the’ imagination;
“Shamefaced by nature, I hide my wounds
“From public observation.
“O how I detest the trumpery set
“Who, to stir men’s passion heated,
“Of patriotism make a show
“With all its ulcers fetid.
“They’re shameless and shabby beggars all,
“Who live upon people’s charity;
“For Menzel[63] and all his Swabians, here’s
“A penn’orth of popularity!
“My goddess! thou hast found me to-day
“Of a tender disposition!
“I’m rather ill, but a little care
“Will soon recruit my condition.
“Yes, I am ill, and thou canst refresh
“My spirits in a minute
“By means of a cup of excellent tea,
“With a little rum mix’d in it.”
CAPUT XXV.
Some tea the goddess quickly made,
And then the rum pour’d she in;
But she herself preferr’d the rum
Without a drop of tea in.
Against my shoulder she lean’d her head,
And rather tumbled her bonnet
Or mural crown, and gently she spake,
While I reflected upon it:
“I often have thought with much alarm
“That in Paris, that wicked city,
“With the frivolous French thou’rt living still,--
“’Tis really a very great pity.
“Without an object thou’rt passing thy time,
“And hast not even beside thee
“Some faithful German publisher who
“As a Mentor might warn and guide thee.
“And then the temptations there are so great,
“So many a sylph amuses,
“Whose health is bad, and one’s peace of mind
“One far too easily loses.
“Return not again, but stop with us,
“Here modesty reigns still, and morals;
“And here thou may’st gather, e’en in our midst,
“In silence many fair laurels.
“In Germany stay, and thou’lt relish things more
“Than thou wert formerly able;
“We’re fast advancing, and thou must have seen
“Our progress so rapid and stable.
“The censorship even less rigorous is,
“Friend Hoffmann is milder and older;
“His youthful passion for cutting up
“Thy _Reisebilder_ is colder.
“Thou too art older and milder now,
“And many things quietly takest,
“And in a better spirit than once,
“Past times thou now awakest.
“That matters in Germany used to go ill
“Is a great exaggeration;
“One could always escape, like the Romans of old,
“From serfdom, by self-immolation.
“The people enjoy’d full freedom of thought,
“For the masses it never was stinted;
“Restrictions affected nobody, save
“The limited number who printed.
“No lawless despotism then reign’d,
“The worst of demagogues never
“Were deprived of their rights of citizenship,
“Till condemn’d for some wicked endeavour.
“Things never in Germany went so ill,
“Whatever disputes may have risen;
“Believe me, no mortal was e’er starved to death
“Inside a German prison.
“In those long vanish’d days there bloom’d
“Full many a fair apparition
“Of simple faith and kindliness too,--
“Now all is doubt and sedition.
“The practical freedom that’s all outside
“Will soon destroy the Ideal
“That we bore in our bosoms,--as fair as a dream
“Of lilies, and not more real!
“Our beautiful poetry’s fading fast,
“Already ’tis somewhat faded;
“The _Moorish King_ of Freiligrath,
“Like the rest of the kings, is degraded.
“O couldst thou be silent, I soon would unseal
“The book of fate, free from all error,
“And suffer thee future ages to see
“Within my magic mirror.
“That which to mortal man I ne’er show’d,
“To thee would I gladly discover:
“The future of thy fatherland,--
“Thou wouldst tell it, though, all the world over!”
“Good heavens, dear goddess!” I cried with delight.
“It would give me most exquisite pleasure;
“O let me the future of Germany see,
“I know how a secret to treasure.
“I’m ready to swear whatever oath
“Thou soonest would have me swallow,
“As a pledge to thee of my secrecy;
“So say what form I shall follow.”
But she rejoin’d: “Thou must swear to me
“As by Father Abraham’s order
“His servant Eliezer swore,
“When starting to cross the border.
“Lift up my dress and place thy hand
“Upon my thigh below it,
“And swear that in speaking, the secret thou’lt keep,
“And in thy works as a poet!”
The moment was solemn. I felt as though fann’d
By the breath of ages long perish’d,
When I swore the oath in the manner ordain’d
By Abraham, our forefather cherish’d.
I lifted up the goddess’s dress,
And placed on her thigh below it
My hand, vowing secrecy both in my words
And in my works as a poet.
CAPUT XXVI.
The cheeks of the goddess glow’d all-red
(I think that the rum had ascended
Up into her head) and she spoke in a tone
In which sorrow was painfully blended:
“I’m fast getting old; I was born on the day
“Of Hamburg’s first foundation;
“My mother was a mermaid, who had
“At the mouth of the Elbe her station.
“My father was a monarch renown’d,
“Called Charlemagne the glorious;
“He was still more wise than Frederick the Great,
“And also still more victorious.
“At Aix-la-Chapelle is the seat where he sat
“On the day of his coronation:
“The seat where he sat at night devolved
“On my mother, as nearest relation.
“My mother left it to me in her turn,
“A common-looking article;
“And yet for the whole of Rothschild’s gold
“I wouldn’t surrender one particle.
“Behold, in yon corner stands a chair,
“Both old and weather-beaten;
“The leather that covers its arms is torn,
“And the cushion is sadly moth-eaten.
“Approach it now, and gently lift
“The cushion from the settle;
“Thou’lt see an oval opening then,
“And under it a kettle.
“That is a magic kettle wherein
“The magic forces are brewing;
“On placing thy head in the aperture, soon
“The future thou’lt clearly be viewing.
“Yes, Germany’s future there thou’lt see,
“Like wondrously rolling phantasmas;
“But shudder not, if out of the filth
“Arise any foul miasmas!”
She spoke, and she laugh’d a singular laugh
But I undauntedly hasted
To hold my head over the terrible hole,
And there I eagerly placed it.
I’ll not betray, for silence I vow’d,
The things that I saw and felt there;
I scarcely dare to utter a word,
Good heavens, of what I smelt there!
With deep disgust I think to this day
Of that smell, which blended together,
In vile and accursèd union, a stench
Of old cabbage and Russia leather.
And heavens! the stink that afterwards rose
Was still more filthy and dirty;
’Twas as though they had swept together the soil
From closets six and thirty.
I know full well what was said by Saint Just
In the famous Committee of Safety:
“Great illnesses cannot be cured by musk
“And rose-oil,” he told them with naïveté.
And yet this German futurity’s smell
Was infinitely stronger
Than aught that my nose could e’er have conceived--
In fact I could bear it no longer.--
My senses I lost, and on opening my eyes
Once more, I found myself sitting
Beside the goddess, and leaning my head
On her breast, in a manner befitting.
Her look it glisten’d, her mouth it glow’d,
Her nostrils twitched, with bacchantic
Excitement she clasp’d the poet, and sang
With ecstasy fearful and frantic:
“Stay with me in Hamburg, I love thee full well,
“And we’ll eat and drink with gladness
“The oysters and wine of present times,
“Forgetting the future’s sadness.
“Put on the cover, for fear lest the stench
“Should all our pleasure cloud over;
“I love thee no German poet had e’er
“A more affectionate lover!
“I kiss thee, and I feel myself now
“By thy genius quite inspired;
“My spirit by a wondrous kind
“Of paroxysm is fired.
“I feel as though I heard in the street
“The watchmen singing in chorus;
“’Tis wedding music and bridal songs,
“Sweet friend, that are rising o’er us.
“The attendants on horseback also approach,
“With their torches flaring brightly;
“The torch-dance they dance in dignified wise,
“And hop and spring about lightly.
“The noble and worshipful Senate is there,
“And the elders according to station;
“The burgomaster clears his throat,
“Preparing a lengthy oration.
“In glittering uniforms also appear
“The whole of the corps diplomatic,
“In the name of the neighbouring states to present
“Congratulations emphatic.
“A clerical deputation, too, comes,
“By rabbis and pastors guided;
“But, alas! here Hoffmann also draws near,
“With his scissors, as censor, provided.
“The scissors rattle in his hand,
“And eagerly he races
“To seize thy body,--he cuts thy flesh--
“Methinks it by far the best place is.”
CAPUT XXVII.
When summer’s pleasant days have come
I’ll tell you all the history
Of the other wonders that came to pass
In that long night of mystery.
The olden hypocritical race,
Thank heaven, is rapidly dying;
To the grave it is sinking, and owes its death
To its ceaseless habit of lying.
Another race is rising up fast,
By rouge and by sin untarnish’d,
Of genial humour and thoughts,--to it
I’ll tell my story unvarnish’d.
The youth which the poet’s goodness and pride
Appreciates, puts forth its blossom,
And warms itself at his radiant soul,
And against his feeling bosom.
My heart is loving as the light,
And pure and chaste as the fire;
The noblest Graces themselves have tuned
The chords of my sweet lyre.
’Tis the selfsame lyre that in his songs
My worthy father uses,--
The poet Aristophanes,
The favourite of the Muses.
In the previous chapter I tried my hand
At copying the conclusion
Of the play of the “Birds,” which certainly is
My father’s finest effusion.
The “Frogs” is also capital. This
Is now, in a German translation,
Perform’d, I am told, on the stage at Berlin
For his Majesty’s edification.
The King likes the piece. This shows his taste
For the old-fashion’d style of joking;
The late King far more amusement found
In modern frogs’ loud croaking.
The King likes the piece. But nevertheless
Were the author still living, I kindly
Would counsel him to trust himself
In Prussia not too blindly.
The genuine Aristophanes
Would find it no subject for laughter;
We should see him move, wherever he went,
With a chorus of gendarmes after.
O King, I really wish thee well
When this piece of advice I’m giving:
Due reverence pay to the poets who’re dead,
And tender be to the living.
Affront the living poets not,
With weapons and flames they are furnish’d,
More terrible far than the lightnings of Jove,
By the poets created and burnish’d.
Affront the gods in Olympus who dwell,
Regardless whether they know it;
Affront the mightiest Lord of all,
But O, affront not the poet!
The deities harshly avenge in truth
Man’s crimes, and allow him no shelter;
The fire of hell is passably hot,
And there he must roast and must swelter.
Yet pious steps can the sinner release
From the flames; for saying masses
And giving to churches with liberal hand
From torment a certain pass is.
When the days are accomplish’d, then Christ will descend,
And burst hell’s gloomy portals;
And though he may sit in judgment strict,
He still will acquit many mortals.
And yet there are hells from out of whose clutch
There’s no escape to heaven;
No prayers there avail, and powerless too
Is the Saviour’s pardon even.