THE DESOLATE HOUSE[38] (1842)

Deep in a dell a woodsman's house

Has sunk in wild dilapidation;

There buried under vines and boughs

I often sit in contemplation.

So dense the tangle that the day

Through heavy lashes can but glimmer;

The rocky cleft is rendered dimmer

By overshadowing tree-trunks gray.

Within that dell I love to hear

The flies with their tumultuous humming,

And solitary beetles near

Amid the bushes softly drumming.

And when the trickling cliffs of slate

The color from the sunset borrow,

Methinks an eye all red with sorrow

Looks down on me disconsolate.

The arbor peak with jagged edge

Wears many a vine-shoot long and meagre

And from the moss beneath the hedge

Creep forth carnations, nowise eager.

There from the moist cliff overhead

The muddy drippings oft bedew them,

Then creep in lazy streamlets through them

To sink within a fennel-bed.

Along the roof o'ergrown with moss

Has many a tuft of thatch projected,

A spider-web is built across

The window-jamb, else unprotected;

The wing of a gleaming dragon-fly

Hangs in it like some petal tender,

The body armed in golden splendor

Lies headless on the sill near-by.

A butterfly sometimes may chance

In heedless play to flutter hither

And stop in momentary trance

Where the narcissus blossoms wither;

A dove that through the grove has flown

Above this dell no more will utter

Her coo, one can but hear her flutter

And see her shadow on the stone.

And in the fireplace where the snow

Each winter down the chimney dashes

A mass of bell-capped toad-stools grow

On viscid heaps of moldering ashes.

High on a peg above the rest

A hank of rope-yarn limply dangles

Like rotted hair, and in the tangles

The swallow built her last year's nest.

An old dog-collar set with bells

Swings from a hook by clasp and tether,

With rude embroidery that spells

"Diana" worked upon the leather.

A flute too, when the woodsman died,

The men who dug his grave forgot here;

The dog, his only friend, they shot here

And laid her by her master's side.

But while I sit in reverie,

A field-mouse near me shrilly crying,

The squirrel barking from his tree,

And from the marsh the frogs replying--

Then eerie shudders o'er me shoot,

As if I caught from out the dingle

Diana's bells once more a-jingle

And echoes of the dead man's flute.

* * * * *

THE JEW'S BEECH-TREE (1841)

BY ANNETTE ELIZABETH VON DROSTE-HÜLSHOFF

TRANSLATED BY LILLIE WINTER, A.B.

Frederick Mergel, born in 1738, was the son of a so-called _Halbmeier_

or property holder of low station in the village of B., which, however

badly built and smoky it may be, still engrosses the eye of every

traveler by the extremely picturesque beauty of its situation in a green

woody ravine of an important and historically noteworthy mountain chain.

The little country to which it belonged was, at that time, one of those

secluded corners of the earth, without trade or manufacturing, without

highways, where a strange face still excited interest and a journey of

thirty miles made even one of the more important inhabitants the Ulysses

of his vicinage--in short, a spot, as so many more that once could be

found in Germany, with all the failings and the virtues, all the

originality and the narrowness that can flourish only under such

conditions.

Under very simple and often inadequate laws the inhabitants' ideas of

right and wrong had, in some measure, become confused, or, rather, a

second law had grown up beside the official, a law of public opinion, of

custom, and of long uncontested privilege. The property holders, who sat

as judges in the lower courts, meted out punishments or rewards in

accordance with their own notions, which were, in most cases, honest.

The common people did what seemed to them practicable and compatible

with a somewhat lax conscience, and it was only the loser to whom it

sometimes occurred to look up dusty old documents. It is hard to view

that period without prejudice; since it has passed away it has been

either haughtily criticised or foolishly praised; for those who lived

through it are blinded by too many precious recollections, and the newer

generation does not understand it. This much, however, one may assert,

that the shell was weaker, the kernel stronger, crime more frequent,

want of principle rarer. For he who acts according to his convictions,

be they ever so faulty, can never be entirely debased; whereas nothing

kills the soul more surely than appealing to the written law when it is

at variance with one's own sense of what is right.

The inhabitants of the little country of which we speak, being more

restless and enterprising than their neighbors, certain features of life

came out more sharply here than would have been the case elsewhere under

like conditions. Wood stealing and poaching were every-day occurrences,

and in the numerous fights which ensued each one had to seek his own

consolation if his head was bruised. Since great and productive forests

constituted the chief wealth of the country, these forests were of

course vigilantly watched over, less, however, by legal means than by

continually renewed efforts to defeat violence and trickery with like

weapons.

The village of B. was reputed to be the most arrogant, most cunning, and

most daring community in the entire principality. Perhaps its situation

in the midst of the deep and proud solitude of the forest had early

strengthened the innate obstinacy of its inhabitants. The proximity of a

river which flowed into the sea and bore covered vessels large enough to

transport shipbuilding timber conveniently and safely to foreign ports,

helped much in encouraging the natural boldness of the wood-thieves; and

the fact that the entire neighborhood swarmed with foresters served only

to aggravate matters, since in the oft-recurring skirmishes the peasants

usually had the advantage. Thirty or forty wagons would start off

together on beautiful moonlight nights with about twice as many men of

every age, from the half-grown boy to the seventy-year-old village

magistrate, who, as an experienced bell-wether, led the procession

as proudly and self-consciously as when he took his seat in the

court-room. Those who were left behind listened unconcernedly to the

grinding and pounding of the wheels dying away in the narrow passes, and

slept calmly on. Now and then an occasional shot, a faint scream,

startled perhaps a young wife or an engaged girl; no one else paid any

attention to it. At the first gray light of dawn the procession returned

just as silently--every face bronzed, and here and there a bandaged

head, which did not matter. A few hours later the neighborhood would be

alive with talk about the misfortune of one or more foresters, who were

being carried out of the woods, beaten, blinded with snuff, and rendered

unable to attend to their business for some time.

In this community Frederick Mergel was born, in a house which attested

the pretensions of its builder by the proud addition of a chimney and

somewhat less diminutive window panes, but at the same time bespoke the

miserable circumstances of its owner by its present state of

dilapidation. What had once been a hedge around the yard and the garden

had given way to a neglected fence; the roof was damaged; other people's

cattle grazed in the pastures; other people's corn grew in the field

adjoining the yard; and the garden contained, with the exception of a

few woody rose bushes of a better time, more weeds than useful plants.

Strokes of misfortune had, it is true, brought on much of this, but

disorder and mismanagement had played their part. Frederick's father,

old Herman Mergel, was, in his bachelor days, a so-called orderly

drinker--that is, one who lay in the gutter on Sundays and holidays, but

during the week was as well behaved as any one, and so he had had no

difficulty in wooing and winning a right pretty and wealthy girl. There

was great merrymaking at the wedding. Mergel did not get so very drunk,

and the bride's parents went home in the evening satisfied; but the next

Sunday the young wife, screaming and bloody, was seen running through

the village to her family, leaving behind all her good clothes and new

household furniture. Of course that meant great scandal and vexation for

Mergel, who naturally needed consolation; by afternoon therefore there

was not an unbroken pane of glass in his house and he was seen late at

night still lying on his threshold, raising, from time to time, the neck

of a broken bottle to his mouth and pitifully lacerating his face and

hands. The young wife remained with her parents, where she soon pined

away and died. Whether it was remorse or shame that tormented Mergel, no

matter; he seemed to grow more and more in need of "spiritual"

bolstering up, and soon began to be counted among the completely

demoralized good-for-nothings.

The household went to pieces, hired girls caused disgrace and damage; so

year after year passed. Mergel was and remained a distressed and finally

rather pitiable widower, until all of a sudden he again appeared as a

bridegroom. If the event itself was unexpected, the personality of the

bride added still more to the general astonishment. Margaret Semmler was

a good, respectable person, in her forties, a village belle in her

youth, still respected for her good sense and thrift, and at the same

time not without some money. What had induced her to take this step was

consequently incomprehensible to every one. We think the reason is to be

found in her very consciousness of perfection. On the evening before the

wedding she is reported to have said: "A woman who is badly treated by

her husband is either stupid or good-for-nothing; if I am unhappy, put

it down as my fault." The result proved, unfortunately, that she had

overestimated her strength. At first she impressed her husband; if he

had taken too much, he would not come home, or would creep into the

barn. But the yoke was too oppressive to be borne long, and soon they

saw him quite often staggering across the street right into his house,

heard his wild shouting within, and saw Margaret hastily closing doors

and windows. On one such day--it was no longer a Sunday now--they saw

her rush out of the house in the evening, without hood or Shawl, with

her hair flying wildly about her head. They saw her throw herself down

in the garden beside a vegetable bed and dig up the earth with her

hands, then, anxiously looking about her, quickly pick off some

vegetables and slowly return with them in the direction of the house,

but, instead of entering it, go into the barn. It was said that this was

the first time that Mergel had struck her, although she never let such

an admission pass her lips. The second year of this unhappy marriage was

marked by the coming of a son--one cannot say gladdened, for Margaret is

reported to have wept bitterly when the child was handed to her.

Nevertheless, although born beneath a heart full of grief, Frederick was

a healthy, pretty child who grew strong in the fresh air. His father

loved him dearly, never came home without bringing him a roll or

something of that sort, and it was even thought he had become more

temperate since the birth of the boy; at least the noise in the house

decreased.

Frederick was in his ninth year. It was about the Feast of the Three

Kings, a raw and stormy winter night. Herman had gone to a wedding, and

had started out early because the bride's house was three miles away.

Although he had promised to return in the evening, Mistress Mergel

hardly counted on it because a heavy snowfall had set in after sunset.

About ten o'clock she banked the fire and made ready to go to bed.

Frederick stood beside her, already half undressed, and listened, to the

howling of the wind and the rattling of the garret windows.

"Mother, isn't father coming home tonight?" he asked.

"No, child; tomorrow."

"But why not, mother? He promised to."

"Oh, God, if he only kept every promise he makes!--Hurry now, hurry and

get ready."

They had hardly gone to bed when a gale started to rage as though it

would carry the house along with it. The bed-stead quivered, and the

chimney-stack rattled as if there were goblins in it.

"Mother, some one's knocking outside!"

"Quiet, Fritzy; that's the loose board on the gable being shaken by the

wind."

"No; mother, it's at the door."

"It does not lock; the latch is broken. Heavens, go to sleep! Don't

deprive me of my bit of rest at night!"

"But what if father should come now!"

His mother turned angrily in her bed. "The devil holds him tight

enough!"

"Where is the devil, mother?

"Wait, you restless boy! He's standing at the door, ready to get you if

you don't keep quiet!"

Frederick became quiet. A little while longer he listened, and then fell

asleep. A few hours later he awoke. The wind had changed, and hissed

like a snake through the cracks in the window near his ear. His shoulder

was stiff; he crept clear under his quilt and lay still and trembling

with fear. After a while he noticed that his mother was not asleep

either. He heard her weep and moan between sobs: "Hail, Mary!" and "Pray

for us poor sinners!" The beads of the rosary slid by his face. An

involuntary sigh escaped him. "Frederick, are you awake?

"Yes, mother."

"Child, pray a little--you know half of the Paternoster already, don't

you?-that God protect us from flood and fire."

Frederick thought of the devil, and wondered how he looked, anyway. The

confused noise and rumbling in the house seemed strange to him. He

thought there must be something alive within and without. "Listen,

mother! I am sure I hear people knocking."

"Oh, no, child; but there's not an old board in the house that isn't

rattling."

"Hark! Don't you hear? Someone's calling! Listen!"

His mother sat up; the raging of the storm subsided a moment. Knocking

on the shutters, was distinctly audible, and several voices called:

"Margaret!. Mistress Margaret! Hey there! Open the door!" Margaret

ejaculated violently, "There, they're again bringing the swine home to

me!"

The rosary flew clattering down on the wooden chair; hastily she

snatched her clothes; she rushed to the hearth, and soon Frederick heard

her walk across the hall with defiant steps. Margaret did not return;

but in the kitchen there was a loud murmuring of strange voices. Twice a

strange man came into the bedroom and seemed to be nervously searching

for something. Suddenly a lamp was brought in; two men were supporting

his mother. She was white as chalk and her eyes were closed; Frederick

thought she was dead. He emitted a fearful scream, whereupon some one

boxed his ear. That silenced him; and now he gradually gleaned from the

remarks of the bystanders that his father had been found dead in the

woods by his Uncle Franz Semmler and by Huelsmeyer, and was now lying in

the kitchen.

As soon as Margaret regained consciousness she tried to get rid of the

strangers. Her brother remained with her, and Frederick, who was

threatened with severe punishment if he got out of bed, heard the fire

crackling in the kitchen all night and a noise like stroking something

back and forth, and brushing it. There was little spoken and that

quietly, but now and then sobs broke out that went through and through

the child, young as he was. Once he understood his uncle to say,

"Margaret, don't take it so badly; we will all have three masses read,

and at Eastertide we'll make together a pilgrimage to the Holy Virgin of

Werl."

When the body was carried away two days later, Margaret sat on the

hearth and covered her face with her apron. After a few minutes, when

everything had become quiet, she mumbled, "Ten years, ten crosses! But

we carried them together, after all, and now I am alone!" Then louder,

"Fritzy, come here!"

Frederick approached her timidly; his mother had become quite uncanny to

him with her black ribbons and her haggard, troubled face. "Fritzy," she

said, "will you now really be good and make me happy, or will you be

naughty and lie, or drink and steal?"

"Mother, Huelsmeyer steals."

"Huelsmeyer? God forbid! Must I spank you? Who tells you such wicked

things?"

"The other day he beat Aaron and took six groschen from him."

"If he took money from Aaron, no doubt the accursed Jew had first

cheated him out of it. Huelsmeyer is a respectable householder, and the

Jews are all rascals!"

"But, mother, Brandes also says that he steals wood and deer."

"Child, Brandes is a forester."

"Mother, do foresters tell lies?"

Margaret was silent a moment, and then said, "Listen, Fritz! Our Lord

makes the wood grow free and the wild game moves from one landowner's

property into another's. They can belong to no one. But you do not

understand that yet. Now go into the shed and get me some fagots."

Frederick had seen his father lying on the straw, where he was said to

have looked blue and fearful; but the boy never spoke of it and seemed

indisposed to think of it. On the whole, the recollection of his father

had left behind a feeling of tenderness mingled with horror, for nothing

so engrosses one as love and devotion on the part of a person who seems

hardened against everything else; and in Frederick's case this sentiment

grew with the years, through the experience of many slights on the part

of others. As a child he was very sensitive about having any one mention

his deceased father in a tone not altogether flattering to him--a cause

for grief that the none too delicate neighbors did not spare him. There

is a tradition in those parts which denies rest in the grave to a person

killed by accident. Old Mergel had thus become the ghost of the forest

of Brede; as a will o' the wisp he led a drunken man into the pond by a

hair; the shepherd boys, when they crouched by their fires at night and

the owls screeched in the hollows, sometimes heard quite clearly in

broken accents his "Just listen, sweet Lizzie;" and an unprivileged

woodman who had fallen asleep under the broad oak and been overtaken by

nightfall, had, upon awakening, seen his swollen blue face peeping

through the branches. Frederick was obliged to hear much of this from

other boys; then he would howl and strike any one who was near; once he

even cut some one with his little knife and was, on this occasion,

pitilessly thrashed. After that he drove his mother's cows alone to the

other end of the valley, where one could often see him lie in the grass

for hours in the same position, pulling up the thyme.

He was twelve years old when his mother received a visit from her

younger brother who lived in Brede and had not crossed his sister's

threshold since her foolish marriage.

Simon Semmler was a short, restless, lean man with bulging fishlike eyes

and a face altogether like a pike--an uncanny fellow, in whom

exaggerated reserve often alternated with affability no less

affected--who would have liked to pass for a shrewd intellect but was

considered disagreeable instead. He was a quarrelsome chap, and

everybody grew more anxious to avoid him the farther he advanced toward

that age when persons of limited intellect are apt to make up in

pretensions for what they lose in usefulness. Nevertheless poor Margaret

was glad to see him, as she had no other relatives living.

"Simon, is that you?" she asked, trembling so that she had to steady

herself on a chair. "You want to see how I am getting along with my

dirty boy?"

Simon looked at her earnestly and clasped her hand. "You have grown old,

Margaret."

Margaret sighed. "I've had much sorrow and all kinds of bad luck since I

saw you."

"Yes, girl, marry at leisure, repent in haste! Now you are old and the

child is small. Everything has its time. But when an old house is

burning nothing will quench the fire." A flame, red as blood, flashed

across Margaret's care-worn face.

"But I hear your son is cunning and smart," Simon continued.

"Well, rather, but good withal," replied Margaret.

"H'm, some one once stole a cow; he was called 'good' too. But he is

quiet and thoughtful, isn't he? He doesn't run around with the other

boys?"

"He is a peculiar child," said Margaret, as though to herself; "it's not

a good thing."

Simon laughed aloud. "Your boy is timid because the others have given

him a few good thrashings. Don't worry, the lad will repay them!

Huelsmeyer came to see me lately; said the boy was like a deer."

What mother's heart does not rejoice when she hears her child praised?

Poor Margaret seldom had this pleasure; every one called her boy

malicious and close-mouthed. Tears started to her eyes. "Yes, thank God,

his limbs are straight!"

"What does he look like?" continued Simon.

"He's a good deal like you, Simon, a good deal." Simon laughed. "Indeed,

he must be a rare fellow; I'm getting better-looking every day. Of

course he shouldn't be wasting his time at school. You let him pasture

the cows? Just as well; what the teacher says isn't half true anyway.

But where does he pasture? In the Telgen glen? In the Roder woods? In

the Teutoburg forest? At night and early in the morning, too?"

"All through the night; but what do you mean?"

Simon seemed not to hear this. He craned his neck toward the door.

"Look, there comes the youngster! His father's son! He swings his arms

like your departed husband. And just see! The lad actually has my light

hair!"

A proud smile spread secretly over the mother's face; her Frederick's

blond curls and Simon's reddish bristles! Without answering she broke a

branch from the hedge near-by and went to meet her son, apparently to

hurry on a lazy cow, in reality, however, to whisper a few hasty, half

threatening words into his ear; for she knew his obstinate disposition,

and Simon's manner today had seemed to her more intimidating than ever.

But everything ran smoothly beyond expectation; Frederick showed himself

neither obdurate nor insolent-rather, somewhat embarrassed and anxious

to please his uncle. And so matters progressed until, after half an

hour's discussion, Simon proposed a kind of adoption of the boy, by

virtue of which he was not to take him entirely away from his mother but

was, nevertheless, to command the greater part of his time. And for this

the boy was eventually to inherit the old bachelor's fortune, which, to

be sure, couldn't have escaped him anyway. Margaret patiently allowed

her brother to explain how great the advantages of the arrangement would

be to her, how slight the loss. She knew best what a sickly widow misses

in the help of a twelve-year-old boy whom she has trained practically to

replace a daughter. But she kept silent and yielded to everything. She

only begged her brother to be firm, but not harsh, with the boy.

"He is good," she said, "but I am a lonely woman; my son is not like one

who has been ruled by a father's hand."

Simon nodded slyly. "Leave it to me; we'll get along all right; and, do

you know what?--let me have the boy right now; I have two bags to fetch

from the mill; the smallest is just right for him and that's how he'll

learn to help me. Come, Fritzy, put your wooden shoes on!" And presently

Margaret was watching them both as they walked away, Simon ahead with

his face set forward and the tails of his red coat flying out behind him

like flames, looking a good deal like a man of fire doing penance

beneath the sack he has stolen. Frederick followed him, tall and slender

for his age, with delicate, almost noble, features and long blond curls

that were better cared for than the rest of his exterior appearance

would have led one to expect; for the rest, ragged, sunburnt, with a

look of neglect and a certain hard melancholy in his countenance.

Nevertheless a strong family resemblance between the two could not be

mistaken, and as Frederick slowly followed his leader, with his eyes

riveted on the man who attracted him by the very strangeness of his

appearance, involuntarily he reminded one of a person who with anxious

interest gazes on the picture of his future in a magic mirror.

They were now approaching the place in the Teutoburg Forest where the

Forest of Brede extends down the slope of the mountain and fills a very

dark ravine. Until now they had spoken little. Simon seemed pensive, the

boy absent-minded, and both were panting under their sacks. Suddenly

Simon asked, "Do you like whiskey?" The boy did not answer. "I say, do

you like whiskey? Does your mother give you some once in a while?"

"Mother hasn't any herself," answered Frederick.

"Well, well, so much the better! Do you know the woods before us?"

"It is the Forest of Brede."

"Do you know what happened here?" Frederick remained silent. Meanwhile

they came nearer and nearer to the gloomy ravine.

"Does your mother still pray much?" Simon began again.

"Yes, she tells her beads twice every evening."

"Really? And you pray with her?"

Somewhat ill at ease, the boy looked aside slyly and laughed. "At

twilight before supper she tells her beads once--then I have not yet

returned with the cows; and again in bed--then I usually fall asleep."

"Well, well, my boy!" These last words were spoken under the sheltering

branches of a broad beech-tree which arched the entrance to the glen. It

was now quite dark and the new, moon shone in the sky, but its weak rays

served only to lend a strange appearance to the objects they

occasionally touched through an aperture between the branches. Frederick

followed close behind his uncle; his breath came fast and, if one could

have distinguished his features, one would have noticed in them an

expression of tremendous agitation caused by imagination rather than

terror. Thus both trudged ahead sturdily, Simon with the firm step of

the hardened wanderer, Frederick unsteadily and as if in a dream. It

seemed to him that everything was in motion, and that the trees swayed

in the lonely rays of the moon now towards one another, now away. Roots

of trees and slippery places where water had gathered made his steps

uncertain; several times he came near falling. Now some distance ahead

the darkness seemed to break, and presently both entered a rather large

clearing. The moon shone down brightly and showed that only a short

while ago the axe had raged here mercilessly. Everywhere stumps of trees

jutted up, some many feet above the ground, just as it had been most

convenient to cut through them in haste; the forbidden work must have

been interrupted unexpectedly, for directly across the path lay a

beech-tree with its branches rising high above it, and its leaves, still

fresh, trembling in the evening breeze. Simon stopped a moment and

surveyed the fallen tree-trunk with interest. In the centre of the open

space stood an old oak, broad in proportion to its height. A pale ray of

light that fell on its trunk through the branches showed that it was

hollow, a fact that had probably saved it from the general destruction.

Here Simon suddenly clutched the boy's arm. "Frederick, do you know that

tree? That is the broad oak." Frederick started, and with his cold hands

clung to his uncle. "See," Simon continued, "here Uncle Franz and

Huelsmeyer found your father, when without confession and extreme

unction he had gone to the Devil in his drunkenness."

"Uncle, uncle!" gasped Frederick.

"What's coming over you? I should hope you are not afraid? Devil of a

boy, you're pinching my arm! Let go, let go!" He tried to shake the boy

off. "On the whole your father was a good soul; God won't be too strict

with him. I loved him as well as my own brother." Frederick let go his

uncle's arm; both walked the rest of the way through the forest in

silence, and soon the village of Brede lay before them with its mud

houses and its few better brick houses, one of which belonged to Simon.

The next evening Margaret sat at the door with her flax for fully an

hour, awaiting her boy. It had been the first night she had passed

without hearing her child's breathing beside her, and still Frederick

did not come. She was vexed and anxious, and yet knew that there was no

reason for being so. The clock in the tower struck seven; the cattle

returned home; still he was not there, and she had to get up to look

after the cows.

When she reëntered the dark kitchen, Frederick was standing on the

hearth; he was bending forward and warming his hands over the coal fire.

The light played on his features and gave him an unpleasant look of

leanness and nervous twitching. Margaret stopped at the door; the child

seemed to her so strangely changed.

"Frederick, how's your uncle?" The boy muttered a few unintelligible

words and leaned close against the chimney.

"Frederick, have you forgotten how to talk? Boy, open your mouth! Don't

you know I do not hear well with my right ear?" The child raised his

voice and began to stammer so that Margaret failed to understand

anything.

"What are you saying? Greeting from Master Semmler? Away again? Where?

The cows are at home already. You bad boy, I can't understand you. Wait,

I'll have to see if you have no tongue in your mouth!" She made a few

angry steps forward. The child looked up to her with the pitiful

expression of a poor, half-grown dog that is learning to sit up on his

hind legs. In his fear he began to stamp his feet and rub his back

against the chimney.

Margaret stood still; her glances became anxious. The boy looked as

though he had shrunk together. His clothes were not the same either; no,

that was not her child! And. yet--"Frederick, Frederick!" she cried.

A closet door in the bedroom slammed and the real Frederick came out,

with a so-called clog-violin in one hand, that is, a wooden shoe strung

with three or four resined strings, and in his other hand a bow, quite

befitting the instrument. Then he went right up to his sorry double,

with an attitude of conscious dignity and independence on his part,

which at that moment revealed distinctly the difference between the two

boys who otherwise resembled each other so remarkably.

"Here, John!" he said, and handed him the work of art with a patronizing

air; "here is the violin that I promised you. My play-days are over; now

I must earn money."

John cast another timid glance at Margaret, slowly stretched out his

hand until he had tightly grasped the present, and then hid it

stealthily under the flaps of his shabby coat.

Margaret stood perfectly still and let the children do as they liked.

Her thoughts had taken another, very serious, turn, and she looked

restlessly from one to the other. The strange boy had again bent over

the coals with an expression of momentary comfort which bordered on

simple-mindedness, while Frederick's features showed the alternating

play of a sympathy evidently more selfish than good-humored, and his

eyes, in almost glassy clearness, for the first time distinctly showed

the expression of that unrestrained ambition and tendency to swagger

which afterwards revealed itself as so strong a motive in most of his

actions.

His mother's call aroused him from his thoughts which were as new as

they were pleasant to him; again she was sitting at her spinning-wheel.

"Frederick," she said, hesitating, "tell me--" and then stopped.

Frederick looked up and, hearing nothing more, again turned to his

charge. "No, listen!" And then, more softly: "Who is that boy I What is

his name?"

Frederick answered, just as softly: "That is Uncle Simon's swineherd; he

has a message for Huelsmeyer. Uncle gave me a pair of shoes and a

huckaback vest which the boy carried for me; in return I promised him my

violin; you see, he's a poor child. His name is John."

"Well?" said Margaret.

"What do you want, mother?"

"What's his other name?"

"Well--he has none, but, wait--yes, Nobody, John Nobody is his name. He

has no father," he added under his breath.

Margaret arose and went into the bedroom. After a while she came out

with a harsh, gloomy expression on her countenance. "Well, Frederick,"

she said, "let the boy go, so that he may attend to his errand. Boy, why

do you lie there in the ashes? Have you nothing to do at home?" With the

air of one who is persecuted the boy roused himself so hastily that all

his limbs got in his way, and the clog-violin almost fell into the fire.

"Wait, John," said Frederick proudly, "I'll give you half of my bread

and butter; it's too much for me anyhow. Mother always gives me a whole

slice."

"Never mind," said Margaret, "he is going home."

"Yes, but he won't get anything to eat now. Uncle Simon eats at seven

o'clock."

Margaret turned to the boy. "Won't they save anything for you? Tell me!

Who takes care of you?"

"Nobody," stuttered the child.

"Nobody?" she repeated; "then take it, take it!" she added nervously;

"your name is Nobody and nobody takes care of you. May God have pity on

you! And now see that you get away! Frederick, do not go with him, do

you hear? Do not go through the village together."

"Why, I only want to get wood out of the shed," answered Frederick. When

both boys had gone Margaret sank down in a chair and clasped her hands

with an expression of the deepest grief. Her face was as white as a

sheet. "A false oath, a false oath!" she groaned. "Simon, Simon, how

will you acquit yourself before God!"

Thus she sat for a while, motionless, with her lips shut tight, as if

completely unconscious. Frederick stood before her and had already

spoken to her twice.

"What's the matter? What do you want?" she cried, starting up.

"I have some money for you," he said, more astonished than frightened.

"Money? Where?" She moved and the little coin fell jingling to the

floor. Frederick picked it up.

"Money from Uncle Simon, because I helped him work. Now I can earn

something for myself."

"Money from Simon! Throw it away, away!--No, give it to the poor. But

no, keep it!" she whispered, scarcely audibly. "We are poor ourselves;

who knows whether we won't be reduced to begging!"

"I am to go back to Uncle Monday and help him with the sowing."

"You go back to him? No, no, never!" She embraced her child wildly.

"Yet," she added, and a stream of tears suddenly rushed down her sunken

cheeks, "go; he is the only brother I have, and slander is great! But

keep God before your eyes, and do not forget your daily prayers!"

Margaret pressed her face against the wall and wept aloud. She had borne

many a heavy burden--her husband's harsh treatment, and, worse than

that, his death; and it was a bitter moment when the widow was compelled

top give over to a creditor the usufruct of her last piece of arable

land, and her own plow stood useless in front of her house. But as badly

as this she had never felt before; nevertheless, after she had wept

through an evening and lain awake a whole night, she made herself

believe that her brother Simon could not be so godless, that the boy

certainly did not belong to him; for resemblances can prove nothing.

Why, had she not herself lost a little sister forty years ago who looked

exactly like the strange peddler! One is willing to believe almost

anything when one has so little, and is liable to lose that little by

unbelief!

From this time on Frederick was seldom at home. Simon seemed to have

lavished on his nephew all the more tender sentiments of which he was

capable; at least he missed him greatly and never ceased sending

messages if some business at home kept him at his mother's house for any

length of time. The boy was as if transformed since that time; his

dreamy nature had left him entirely; he walked firmly, began to care for

his external appearance, and soon to have the reputation of being a

handsome, clever youth. His uncle, who could not be happy without

schemes, sometimes undertook important public works--for example, road

building, at which Frederick was everywhere considered one of his best

workmen and his right-hand man; for although the boy's physical strength

had not yet attained its fullest development, scarcely any one could

equal him in endurance. Heretofore Margaret had only loved her son; now

she began to be proud of him and even feel a kind of respect for him,

seeing the young fellow develop so entirely without her aid, even

without her advice, which she, like most people, considered invaluable;

for that reason she could not think highly enough of the boy's

capabilities which could dispense with such a precious means of

furtherance.

In his eighteenth year Frederick had already secured for himself an

important reputation among the village youth by the successful execution

of a wager that he could carry a wild boar for a distance of more than

two miles without resting. Meanwhile participation in his glory was

about the only advantage that Margaret derived from these favorable

circumstances, since Frederick spent more and more on his external

appearance and gradually began, to take it to heart if want of money

compelled him to be second to any one in that respect. Moreover, all his

powers were directed toward making his living outside; quite in

contrast to his reputation all steady work around the house seemed

irksome to him now, and he preferred to submit to a hard but short

exertion which soon permitted him to follow his former occupation of

herding the cattle, although it was beginning to be unsuitable for his

age and at times drew upon him ridicule. That he silenced, however, by a

few blunt reprimands with his fist. So people grew accustomed to seeing

him, now dressed up and jolly as a recognized village beau and leader of

the young folks, and again as a ragged boy slinking along, lonely and

dreamily, behind his cows, or lying in a forest clearing, apparently

thoughtless, scratching the moss from the trees.

About this time, however, the slumbering laws were roused somewhat by a

band of forest thieves which, under the name of the "Blue Smocks,"

surpassed all its predecessors in cunning and boldness to such an extent

that even the most indulgent would have lost patience. Absolutely

contrary to the usual state of affairs, when the leading bucks of the

herd could always be pointed out, it had thus far been impossible, in

spite of all watchfulness, to specify even one member of this company of

thieves. Their name they derived from their uniform clothing which made

recognition more difficult if a forester happened by chance to see a few

stragglers disappear in the thicket. Like caterpillars they destroyed

everything; whole tracts of forest-land would be cut down in a single

night and immediately made away with, leaving nothing to be found next

morning but chips and disordered heaps of brushwood. The fact that there

were never any wagon tracks leading towards a village, but always to and

from the river, proved that the work was carried on under the

protection, perhaps with the coöperation, of the shipowners. There must

have been some very skilful spies in the band, for the foresters could

watch in vain for weeks at a time; nevertheless, the first night they

failed, from sheer fatigue, to watch, the devastation began again,

whether it was a stormy night or moonlight. It was strange that the

country folk in the vicinity seemed just as ignorant and excited as the

foresters themselves.

Of several villages it could be asserted with certainty that they did

not belong to the "Blue Smocks," while no strong suspicion could be

attached to a single one, since the most suspected of all, the village

of B., had to be acquitted. An accident had brought this about--a

wedding, at which almost every resident of this village had notoriously

passed the night, while during this very time the "Blue Smocks" had

carried out one of their most successful expeditions.

The damage to the forest, in the meanwhile, was so enormous that

preventive measures were made more stringent than ever before; the

forest was patrolled day and night; head-servants and domestics were

provided with firearms and sent to help the forest officers.

Nevertheless, their success was but slight, for the guards had often

scarcely left one end of the forest when the "Blue Smocks" were already

entering the other. This lasted more than a whole year; guards and "Blue

Smocks," "Blue Smocks" and guards, like sun and moon, ever alternating

in the possession of the land and never meeting each other.

It was July, 1756, at three o'clock in the morning; the moon shone

brightly in the sky, but its light had begun to grow dim; and in the

East there was beginning to appear a narrow, yellow streak which

bordered the horizon and closed the entrance to the narrow dale as with

a hand of gold. Frederick was lying in the grass in his accustomed

position, whittling a willow stick, the knotty end of which he was

trying to form roughly into the shape of an animal. He seemed to be very

tired, yawned, rested his head against a weather-beaten stump and cast

glances, more sleepy than the horizon, over the entrance of the glen

which was almost overgrown with shrubbery and underbrush. Now and then

his eyes manifested life and assumed their characteristic glassy

glitter, but immediately afterwards be half shut them again, and

yawned, and stretched, as only lazy shepherds may. His dog lay some

distance away near the cows which, unconcerned by forest laws, feasted

indiscriminately on tender saplings and the grass, and snuffed the fresh

morning air.

Out of the forest there sounded from time to time a muffled, crashing

noise; it lasted but a few seconds, accompanied by a long echo on the

mountain sides, and was repeated about every five or eight minutes.

Frederick paid no attention to it; only at times, when the noise was

exceptionally loud or long continued, he lifted his head and glanced

slowly down the several paths which led to the valley.

Day was already dawning; the birds were beginning to twitter softly and

the dew was rising noticeably from the ground. Frederick had slid down

the trunk and was staring, with his arms crossed back of his head, into

the rosy morning light softly stealing in. Suddenly he started, a light

flashed across his face, and he listened a few moments with his body

bent forward like a hunting dog which scents something in the air. Then

he quickly put two fingers in his mouth and gave a long, shrill whistle.

"Fido, you cursed beast!" He threw a stone and hit the unsuspecting dog

which, frightened out of his sleep, first snarled and then, limping on

three feet and howling, went in search of consolation to the very place

from which the hurt had come.

At the same moment the branches of a near-by bush were pushed back

almost without a rustle, and a man stepped out, dressed in a green

hunting jacket, with a silver shield on his arm and his rifle cocked in

his hand. He cast a hurried glance over the glen and stared sharply at

the boy, then stepped forward, nodded toward the shrubbery, and

gradually seven or eight men came into sight, all in the same costume,

with hunting knives in their belts and cocked weapons in their hands.

"Frederick, what was that?" asked the one who had first appeared. "I

wish the cur would die on the spot. For all he knows, the cows could

chew the ears off my head."

"The scoundrel has seen us," said another. "Tomorrow you'll go on a trip

with a stone about your neck," Frederick went on, and kicked at the dog.

"Frederick, don't act like a fool! You know me, and you understand me

too!" A look accompanied these words, which had an immediate effect.

"Mr. Brandes, think of my mother!"

"That's what I'm doing. Didn't you hear anything in the forest?"

"In the forest?" The boy threw a hasty glance at the forester's face.

"Your woodchoppers--nothing else."

"My woodchoppers!" The naturally dark complexion of the forester changed

to a deep brownish red. "How many of them are there, and where are they

doing their job?"

"Wherever you have sent them; I don't know."

Brandes turned to his comrades. "Go ahead; I'll follow directly." When

one by one they had disappeared in the thicket, Brandes stepped close up

to the boy. "Frederick," he said in tones of suppressed rage, "my

patience is worn out; I'd like to thrash you like a dog, and that's no

worse than you deserve. You bundle of rags, without a tile in your roof

to call your own! Thank God, you'll soon find yourself begging; and at

my door, your mother, the old witch, shan't get as much as a moldy

crust! But first both of you'll go to the dungeon!"

Frederick clutched a branch convulsively. He was pale as death, and his

eyes looked as if they would shoot out of his head like crystal

bullets--but only for a moment. Then the greatest calmness, bordering on

complete relaxation, returned. "Sir," he said firmly, in an almost

gentle voice, "you have said something that you cannot defend, and so,

perhaps, have I. Let us call it quits; and now I will tell you what you

wish. If you did not engage the woodchoppers yourself, they must be the

'Blue Smocks,' for not a wagon has come from the village; why, the road

is right before me, and there are four wagons. I did not see them, but

I heard them drive up the pass." He faltered a moment. "Can you say that

I have ever hewn a tree on your land, or even that I ever raised my axe

in any other place but where I was ordered to? Think it over, whether

you can say that?" A confused muttering was the forester's only answer;

like most blunt people, he repented easily. He turned, exasperated, and

started toward the shrubbery. "No, sir," called Frederick, "if you want

to follow the other foresters, they've gone up yonder by the

beech-tree."

"By the beech-tree!" exclaimed Brandes doubtfully. "No, across there,

toward Mast Gorge."

"I tell you, by the beech-tree; long Heinrich's gun-sling even caught on

the crooked branch; why, I saw it!"

The forester turned into the path designated. Frederick had not changed

his position the whole time; half reclining, with his arm wound about a

dry branch, he gazed immovably after the departing man, as he glided

through the thickly wooded path with the long cautious steps

characteristic of his profession, as noiseless as a lynx climbing into

the hen-roost. Here and there a branch sank behind him; the outlines of

his body became fainter and fainter. Then there was one final flash

through the foliage; it was a steel button on his hunting jacket; and

now he was gone. During this gradual disappearance Frederick's face had

lost its expression of coldness, and his features had finally become

anxious and restless. Was he sorry, perhaps, that he had not asked the

forester to keep his information secret? He took a few steps forward,

then stopped. "It is too late," he mused, and reached for his hat. There

was a soft pecking in the thicket, not twenty paces from him. It was the

forester sharpening his flint-stone. Frederick listened. "No!" he said

in a decisive tone, gathered up his belongings, and hastily drove the

cattle down into the hollow.

About noon, Margaret was sitting by the hearth, boiling tea. Frederick

had come home sick; he had complained of a violent headache and had told

her, upon her anxious questioning, how he had become deeply provoked

with the forester--in short, all about the incident just described, with

the exception of several details which he considered wiser to keep to

himself. Margaret gazed into the boiling water, silent and sad. She was

not unaccustomed to hear her son complain at times, but today he seemed

more shaken than ever. Was this perhaps the symptom of some illness?

She, sighed deeply and dropped a log of wood she had just lifted.

"Mother!" called Frederick from the bedroom. "What is it? Was that a

shot?"

"Oh, no! I don't know what you mean."

"I suppose it's the throbbing in my head," he replied. A neighbor

stepped in and related in a low whisper some bit of unimportant gossip

which Margaret listened to without interest. Then she went. "Mother!"

called Frederick. Margaret went in to him. "What did Huelsmeyer's wife

say?"

"Oh, nothing at all--lies, nonsense!" Frederick sat up. "About Gretchen

Siemers; you know the old story well enough!--there isn't a word of

truth in it either."

Frederick lay down again. "I'll see if I can sleep," he said.

Margaret was sitting by the hearth. She was spinning and thinking of

rather unpleasant things. The village clock struck half-past eleven; the

door opened and the court-clerk, Kapp, came in. "Good day, Mrs. Mergel,"

he said. "Can you give me a drink of milk? I'm on my way from M." When

Mrs. Mergel brought what he wished, he asked "Where is Frederick?" She

was just then busy getting a plate out and did not hear the question. He

drank hesitatingly and in short draughts. Then he asked, "Do you know

that last night the 'Blue Smocks' again cleared away a whole tract in

the Mast forest as bare as my hand?"

"Oh, you don't mean it!" she replied indifferently.

"The scoundrels!" continued the clerk. "They ruin everything; if only

they had a little regard at least for the young trees; but they go after

little oaks of the thickness of my arm, too small even to make oars of!

It looks as if loss on the part of other people were just as gratifying

to them as gain on their own part!"

"It's a shame!" said Margaret.

The clerk had finished his milk, but still he did not go. He seemed to

have something on his mind. "Have you heard nothing about Brandes?" he

asked suddenly.

"Nothing; he never enters this house."

"Then you don't know what has happened to him?"

"Why, what?" asked Margaret, agitated.

"He is dead!"

"Dead!" she cried. "What, dead? For God's sake! Why, only this morning

he passed by here, perfectly well, with his gun on his back!"

"He is dead," repeated the clerk, eyeing her sharply, "killed by the

'Blue Smocks.' The body was brought into the village fifteen minutes

ago."

Margaret clasped her hands. "God in Heaven, do not judge him! He did not

know what he was doing!"

"Him!" cried the clerk--"the cursèd murderer you mean?"

A heavy groan came from the bedroom. Margaret hurried there and the

clerk followed her. Frederick was sitting upright in bed, with his face

buried in his hands, and moaning like one dying. "Frederick, how do you

feel?" asked his mother.

"How do you feel?" repeated the clerk.

"Oh, my body, my head!" he wailed.

"What's the matter with him?" inquired the clerk.

"Oh, God knows," she replied; "he came home with the cows as early as

four o'clock because he felt sick." "Frederick, Frederick, answer me!

Shall I go for the doctor?"

"No, no," he groaned; "it is only the colic; I'll be better soon." He

lay down again; his face twitched convulsively with pain; then his color

returned. "Go," he said, feebly; "I must sleep; then it will pass away."

"Mistress Mergel," asked the clerk earnestly, "are you sure that

Frederick came home at four and did not go away again?"

She stared in his face. "Ask any child on the street. And go away?--I

wish to God he could!"

"Didn't he tell you anything about Brandes?"

"In the name of God, yes--that Brandes had reviled him in the woods and

reproached him with our poverty, the rascal! But God forgive me, he is

dead! Go!" she continued; "have you come to insult honest people? Go!"

She turned to her son again, as the clerk went out. "Frederick, how do

you feel?" asked his mother. "Did you hear? Terrible, terrible--without

confession or absolution!"

"Mother, mother, for God's sake, let me sleep. I can stand no more!"

At this moment John Nobody entered the room; tall and thin like a

bean-pole, but ragged and shy, as we had seen him five years before. His

face was even paler than usual. "Frederick," he stuttered, "you are to

come to your Uncle immediately; he has work for you; without delay,

now!"

Frederick turned toward the wall. "I won't come," he snapped, "I am

sick."

"But you must come," gasped John; "he said I must bring you back."

Frederick laughed scornfully. "I'd like to see you!"

"Let him alone; he can't," sighed Margaret; "you see how it is." She

went out for a few minutes; when she returned, Frederick was already

dressed. "What are you thinking of?" she cried. "You cannot, you shall

not go!"

"What must be, must," he replied, and was gone through the door with

John.

"Oh, God," sobbed the mother, "when children are small they trample our

laps, and when they are grown, our hearts!"

The judicial investigation had begun, the deed was as clear as day; but

the evidence concerning the perpetrator was so scanty that, although all

circumstances pointed strongly towards the "Blue Smocks," nothing but

conjectures could be risked. One clue seemed to throw some light

upon the matter; there were reasons, however, why but little dependence

could be placed on it. The absence of the owner of the estate had made

it necessary for the clerk of the court to start the case himself. He

was sitting at his table; the room was crowded with peasants, partly

those who came out of curiosity, and partly those from whom the court

hoped to receive some information, since actual witnesses were

lacking--shepherds who had been watching their flocks that night,

laborers who had been working in near-by fields; all stood erect and

firm,, with their hands in their pockets, as if thus silently

manifesting their intention not to interfere.

Eight forest officers were heard; their evidence was entirely identical.

Brandes, on the tenth day of the month, had ordered them to go the

rounds because he had evidently secured information concerning a plan of

the "Blue Smocks"; he had, however, expressed himself but vaguely

regarding the matter. At about two o'clock at night they had gone out

and had come upon many traces of destruction, which put the

head-forester in a very bad humor; otherwise, everything had been quiet.

About four o'clock Brandes had said, "We have been led astray; let us go

home." When they had come around Bremer mountain and the wind had

changed at the same time, they had distinctly heard chopping in the Mast

forest and concluded from the quick succession of the strokes that the

"Blue Smocks" were at work. They had deliberated a while whether it were

practical to attack the bold band with such a small force, and then had

slowly approached the source of the sound without any fixed

determination. Then followed the scene with Frederick. Finally, after

Brandes had sent them away without instructions they had gone forward a

while and then, when they noticed that the noise in the woods, still

rather far away, had entirely ceased, they had stopped to wait for the

head-forester.

They had grown tired of waiting, and after about ten minutes had

gone on toward the scene of devastation. It was all over; not another

sound was to be heard in the forest; of twenty fallen trees eight were

still left, the rest had been made way with. It was incomprehensible to

them how this had been accomplished, since no wagon tracks were to be

found. Moreover, the dryness of the season and the fact that the earth

was strewn with pine-needles had prevented their distinguishing any

footprints, although the ground in the vicinity looked as if it had been

firmly stamped down. Then, having come to the conclusion that there was

no point in waiting for the head-forester, they had quickly walked to

the other side of the wood in the hope of perhaps catching a glimpse of

the thieves. Here one of them had caught his bottle-string in the

brambles on the way out of the wood, and when he had looked around he

had seen something flash in the shrubbery; it was the belt-buckle of the

head-forester whom they then found lying behind the brambles, stretched

out, with his right hand clutching the barrel of his gun, the other

clenched, and his forehead split with an axe.

These were the statements of the foresters. It was then the peasants'

turn, but no evidence could be obtained from them. Some declared they

had been at home or busy somewhere else at four o'clock, and they were

all decent people, not to be suspected. The court had to content itself

with their negative testimonies.

Frederick was called in. He entered with a manner in no respect

different from his usual one, neither strained nor bold. His hearing

lasted some time, and some of the questions were rather shrewdly framed;

however, he answered them frankly and decisively and related the

incident between himself and the forester truthfully, on the whole,

except the end, which he deemed expedient to keep to himself. His alibi

at the time of the murder was easily proved. The forester lay at the end

of the Mast forest more than three-quarters of an hour's walk from the

ravine where he had spoken with Frederick at four o'clock, and whence

the latter had driven his cows only ten minutes later. Every one had

seen this; all the peasants present did their utmost to confirm it; to

this one he had spoken, to that one, nodded.

The court clerk sat ill-humored and embarrassed. Suddenly he reached

behind him and, presenting something gleaming to Frederick's gaze,

cried: "To whom does this belong?" Frederick jumped back three paces,

exclaiming, "Lord Jesus! I thought you were going to brain me."

His eyes had quickly passed across the deadly tool and seemed to fix

themselves for a moment on a splinter broken out of the handle. "I do

not know," he added firmly. It was the axe which they had found plunged

in the head-forester's skull.

"Look at it carefully," continued the clerk. Frederick took it in his

hand, looked at the top, the bottom, turned it over. "One axe looks like

another," he then said, and laid it unconcernedly on the table. A

blood-stain was visible; he seemed to shudder, but he repeated once more

with decision: "I do not know it." The clerk of the court sighed with

displeasure. He himself knew of nothing more, and had only sought to

bring about a possible disclosure through surprise. There was nothing

left to do but to close the hearing.

To those who are perhaps interested in the outcome of this affair, I

must say that the story was never cleared up, although much effort was

made to throw light upon it and several other judicial examinations

followed. The sensation which the incident had caused and the more

stringent measures adopted in consequence of it, seemed to have broken

the courage of the "Blue Smocks"; from now on it looked as though they

had entirely disappeared, and although many a wood-thief was caught

after that, they never found cause to connect him with the notorious

band. Twenty years afterwards the axe lay as a useless _corpus delicti_

in the archives of the court, where it is probably resting yet with its

rust spots. In a made-up story it would be wrong thus to disappoint the

curiosity of the reader, but all this actually happened; I can add or

detract nothing. The next Sunday Frederick rose very early to go to

confession. It was the day of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin and

the parish priests were in the confessionals before dawn. He dressed in

the dark, and as quietly as possible left the narrow closet which had

been consigned to him in Simon's house. His prayer-book, he thought,

would be lying on the mantelpiece in the kitchen, and he hoped to find

it with the help of the faint moonlight. It was not there. He glanced

searchingly around, and started; at the bedroom door stood Simon,

half-dressed; his rough figure, his uncombed, tangled hair, and the

paleness of his face in the moonlight, gave him a horribly changed

appearance. "Can he possibly be walking in his sleep?" thought

Frederick, and kept quite still. "Frederick, where are you going?"

whispered the old man.

"Uncle, is that you? I am on my way to confession."

"That's what I thought; go, in the name of God, but confess like a good

Christian."

"That I will," said Frederick.

Think of the Ten Commandments: 'Thou shalt not bear witness against thy

neighbor.'"

"Not _false_ witness!"

"No, none at all; you have been badly taught; he who accuses another in

his confession is unworthy to receive the Sacrament."

Both were silent. "Uncle, what makes you think of this?" Frederick

finally asked. "Your conscience is not clear; you have lied to me."

"I? How?"

"Where is your axe?"

"My axe? On the barn-floor."

"Did you make a new handle for it? Where is the old one?"

"You'll find it at daylight in the woodshed."

"Go," he continued scornfully. "I thought you were a man; but you are

like an old woman who thinks the house must be on fire as soon as she

sees smoke rising from her pot. See," he went on, "if I know anything

more about this story than that doorpost there, may I never hope for

salvation. I was at home long before," he added. Frederick stood still,

oppressed and doubtful. He would have given much to be able to see his

uncle's face. But while they were whispering, the sky had clouded over.

"I am very guilty," sighed Frederick, "because I sent him the wrong way;

although--but still, I never thought it would come to this, no,

certainly not! Uncle, I have you to thank for a troubled conscience."

"Well, go and confess!" whispered Simon in a trembling voice. "Desecrate

the Sacrament by tale-bearing, and set a spy on poor people who will

manage to find a way to snatch their bit of bread from between their

teeth, even if he is not permitted to talk--go!" Frederick stood,

undecided; he heard a soft noise; the clouds cleared away, the moonlight

again fell on the bedroom door; it was closed. Frederick did not go to

confession that morning.

The impression which this incident had made on Frederick wore off only

too soon. Who doubts that Simon did everything to lead his adopted son

down the same paths that he was following? And Frederick possessed

qualities which made this only too easy: carelessness, excitability,

and, above all, boundless pride, which did not always scorn pretense and

ended by doing its utmost to escape possible disgrace, by trying to

realize what it first had pretended to possess. He was not naturally

ignoble, but he fell into the habit of preferring inward to outward

shame. One need only say that he habitually made a display while his

mother starved.

This unfortunate change in his character was, however, the work of many

years, during which it was noticed that Margaret became more and more

quiet on the subject of her son, and gradually came to a state of

demoralization which once would have been thought impossible. She became

timid, negligent, even slovenly, and many thought her brain had

suffered. Frederick, on the other hand, grew all the more

self-assertive; he missed no fair or wedding, and since his irritable

sense of honor would not permit him to overlook the secret

disapprobation of many, he was, so to speak, up in arms, not so much to

defy public opinion as to direct it into the channel which pleased him.

Externally he was neat, sober, apparently affable, but crafty, boastful,

and often coarse--a man in whom no one could take delight, least of all

his mother, and who, nevertheless, through his audacity, which every one

feared, and through his cunning, which they dreaded even more, had

attained a certain preeminence in the village. The preëminence came to

be acknowledged more and more as people became conscious of the fact

that they neither knew him nor could guess of what he might be capable.

Only one young fellow in the village, Will Huelsmeyer, who realized his

own strength and good circumstances, dared to defy him. Since he was

also readier with his tongue than Frederick, and could always make a

pointed joke, he was the only one whom Frederick did not like to meet.

Four years had passed. It was the month of October; the open autumn of

1760, which filled every barn with corn and every cellar with wine, had

also lavished its riches on this corner of the earth, and more

intoxicated people were seen and more fights and stupid tricks were

heard of than ever before. Everywhere there were festivities; Blue

Mondays were the fashion, and whoever had laid aside a few dollars

quickly wanted also a wife to help him feast today and starve tomorrow.

A big, noteworthy wedding took place in the village, and the guests

could expect more than the one violin, generally out of tune, than the

single glass of whiskey, and higher spirits than they themselves brought

along. Since the early morning all had been astir; clothing had been

aired in front of every door, and all day B. had looked like a

frippery-stall. Since many outsiders were expected, everybody was

anxious to uphold the honor of the village.

It was seven o'clock in the evening and everything was in full swing;

fun and laughter were rampant on every side, and the low rooms were

crowded to suffocation with blue, red, and yellow figures, like

pen-folds into which too large a herd had been huddled. On the barn

floor there was dancing--that is, whoever succeeded in capturing a

two-foot space twirled around on it and tried to make up by shouting for

what was lacking in motion. The orchestra was brilliant, the first

violinist as a recognized artist drowned out the second, and a great

bass-viol with three strings was sounded _ad libitum_ by dilettantes,

whiskey and coffee flowed in abundance, all the guests were dripping

with perspiration--in short, it was a glorious affair.

Frederick strutted about like a cock in his new sky-blue jacket and

asserted his position as the first beau of the village. When the lord of

the manor and his family arrived he happened to be sitting behind the

bass-viol, sounding the lowest string with great strength and much

decorum. "John," he called imperiously, and up stepped his protégé from

the dancing-floor, where he too had tried to swing his awkward legs and

shout a cheer. Frederick handed him the bow, made his wishes known by a

proud nod, and joined the dancers. "Now, strike up, musician, the 'Pape

van Istrup!'" The favorite dance was played, and Frederick cut such

capers before the company that the cows in the barn drew back their

horns and a lowing and a rattling of chains sounded from their stalls. A

foot high above the others, his blond head bobbed up and down like a

pike diving out of the waters, on every side girls screamed as he dashed

his long flaxen hair, by a quick movement of the head, into their faces

as a sign of admiration.

"Now is the time," he said finally, and stepped up to the refreshment

table, dripping with perspiration. "Here's to the gracious lords and

ladies and all the noble princes and princesses; and whoever doesn't

join in the toast will get such a boxing on the ears from me that he'll

hear the angels singing!" A loud _Vivat_ responded to the gallant toast.

Frederick bowed. "Take nothing amiss, gracious lords and ladies; we are

but ignorant peasant people." At this moment a disturbance arose at the

end of the floor--shouting, scolding, laughter, all in confusion.

"Butter-thief, butter-thief!" called a few children; and John Nobody

pushed his way, or rather was pushed, through the crowd, his head sunk

between his shoulders and pressing with all his might toward the door.

"What's the matter? What are you doing to our John!" called Frederick

imperiously.

"You'll find out soon enough," coughed an old woman in a kitchen apron

and with a dish-rag in her hand. "Shame!" John, the poor devil, who had

to put up with the worst at home, had tried to secure for himself a

paltry half pound of butter for the coming time of scarcity, and,

without remembering that he had concealed it in his pocket, neatly

wrapped in his handkerchief, had stepped near the kitchen fire, and now

the grease was disgracing him by running down his coat.

There was general excitement; the girls sprang back from fear of soiling

their clothes, or pushed the culprit forward. Others made room as much

out of pity as of caution. But Frederick stepped forward. "Rogue!" he

cried; and a few hard slaps struck his patient protégé; then he pushed

him toward the door and gave him a good kick on the way. The gallant

came back dejected; his dignity was injured; the general laughter cut

him to the quick, although he tried to bring himself into the swing

again by a bold huzza!--It did not work. He was on the point of taking

refuge behind the bass-viol again, but before that he wanted to produce

still another brilliant effect; he drew out his silver watch, at that

time a rare and precious ornament. "It is almost ten o'clock," he said.

"Now the Bride's Minuet! I will strike up."

"A beautiful watch!" said the swineherd, and leaned forward in

reverential curiosity.

"What did it cost?" cried Will Huelsmeyer, Frederick's rival.

"Will you pay for it?" asked Frederick. "Have you paid for it?"

retorted Will. Frederick threw him a haughty glance and seized the bow

in silent majesty. "Well, well," Huelsmeyer went on, "such things have

happened. As you know well enough, Franz Ebel had a beautiful watch too,

till Aaron the Jew took it away from him." Frederick did not answer, but

nodded proudly to the first violin and they began to play with all their

might and main.

Meanwhile the lord of the manor had stepped into the room where the

women of the neighborhood were investing the bride with the white head

band, the insignia of her new position. The young girl was crying

bitterly, partly because custom so decreed, partly from honest

nervousness. She was to manage a run-down household, under the eye of a

peevish old man, whom, moreover, she was expected to love. He stood

beside her, by no means like the groom in the Song of Solomon who "steps

into the chamber like the morning sun." "You've cried enough now," he

said crossly; "remember, it isn't you who are making me happy; I am

making you happy!" She looked up to him humbly and seemed to feel that

he was right. The business was ended; the young wife had drunk to her

husband's health, some young wags had looked through the tripod to see

if the bride's head band was straight, and they were all crowding again

toward the dancing-floor, whence there still resounded inextinguishable

laughter and noise. Frederick was no longer there. He had met with a

great unbearable disgrace, when Aaron the Jew, a butcher and casual

second-hand dealer from the nearest town, had suddenly appeared, and,

after a short unsatisfactory conversation, had dunned him before the

whole company for the sum of ten thalers in payment of a watch delivered

at Eastertide. Frederick had gone away, as if annihilated, and the Jew

followed him, shouting all the while: "Oh, woe is me! Why didn't I

listen to sensible people! Didn't they tell me a hundred times you had

all your possessions on your back and no bread in your cupboard!" The

room shook with laughter. Some had pushed after them into the yard.

"Catch the Jew! Balance him against a pig!" called some; others had

become serious. "Frederick looked as white as a sheet," said an old

woman, and the crowd separated as the carriage of the lord of the estate

turned into the yard. Herr von S. was out of sorts on the way home, the

usual and inevitable effect when the desire to maintain popularity

induced him to attend such feasts. He looked out of the carriage

silently. "What two figures are those?" He pointed to two dark forms

running ahead of the wagon like two ostriches. Now they sneaked into the

castle. "Another blessed pair of swine out of our own pen!" sighed Herr

von S. Having arrived at home, he found the corridor crowded with all

the domestics standing around two lower-servants, who had sunk down pale

and breathless on the steps.

They declared that they had been chased by old Mergel's ghost, when they

were coming home through the forest of Brede. First they had heard a

rustling and crackling high above them, and then, up in the air, a

rattling noise like sticks beating against one another; then suddenly

had sounded a shrieking yell and quite distinctly the words, "O, my poor

soul!" coming down from on high. One of them even claimed to have seen

fiery eyes gleaming through the branches, and both had run as fast as

their legs could carry them.

"Stupid nonsense!" exclaimed the lord of the estate crossly, and went

into his room to change his clothes. The next morning the fountain in

the garden would not play, and it was discovered that some one had

removed a pipe, apparently to look for the head of a horse's skeleton

which had the reputation of being an attested instrument against any

wiles of witches or ghosts. "H'm," said Baron von S.; "what rogues do

not steal, fools destroy."

Three days later a frightful storm was raging. It was midnight, but

every one in the castle was out of bed. The Baron stood at the window

and looked anxiously out into the dark toward his fields. Leaves and

twigs flew against the panes; now and, then a brick fell and was dashed

to pieces on the pavement of the courtyard. "Terrible weather!" said

Herr von S. His wife looked out anxiously. "Are you sure the fire is

well banked?" she asked; "Gretchen, look again; if not, put it all out

with water! Come, let us read the Gospel of St. John." They all knelt

down and the lady of the house began: "In the beginning was the Word,

and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." There was a terrible

clap of thunder. All started; then there was a terrible scream and noise

up the stairs. "For God's sake! Is something burning?" cried Frau von

S., and sank down with her face on the chair. The door burst open and in

rushed the wife of Aaron the Jew, pale as death, with her hair wildly

disheveled, dripping with rain. She threw herself on her knees before

the Baron. "Justice!" she cried, "Justice! My husband is murdered!" and

she fell in a faint.

It was only too true, and the ensuing investigation proved that Aaron

the Jew had lost his life by a single blow on the temples delivered by

some blunt instrument, probably a staff. On his left temple was the blue

mark; beyond that there was no other injury. The statement of the Jewess

and her servant, Samuel, ran thus: Three days ago Aaron had gone out in

the afternoon to buy cattle and had said at the time that he would

probably be gone overnight, because there were still several bad debtors

in B. and S., on whom he would call for payment; in this case he would

spend the night with the butcher, Solomon, in B. When he did not return

home the next day his wife had become greatly worried and had finally

set out at three o'clock in the afternoon with her servant and the big

butcher dog. At the house of Solomon the Jew, no one knew anything about

Aaron; he had not been there at all. Then they had gone to all the

peasants with whom they knew Aaron had intended to transact some

business. Only two had seen him, and those on the very day when he had

left home. Meanwhile it had become very late. Her great anxiety drove

the woman back home, where she cherished a faint hope of finding

her husband after all. They had been overtaken by the storm in the

Forest of Brede and had sought shelter under a great beech on the

mountain side. In the meantime the dog had been running about and acting

strangely, and had, in spite of repeated calling, finally run off into

the woods. Suddenly, during a lightning flash, the woman had seen

something white beside her on the moss. It was her husband's staff, and

almost at the same moment the dog had broken through the shrubbery with

something in his mouth; it was her husband's shoe. Before long they

found the Jew's body in a trench filled with dry leaves.

This was the report of the servant, supported only in general by the

wife; her intense agitation had subsided and her senses now seemed half

confused or, rather, blunted. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!"

These were her only words, which she at intervals ejaculated.

The same night the guards were summoned to take Frederick into custody.

They needed no warrant, because Herr von S. himself had been witness to

a scene which inevitably threw the strongest suspicion on him;

furthermore there was the ghost story of that night, the beating

together of the sticks in the forest of Brede, the scream from above.

Since the clerk of the court was at that time absent, Herr von S.

hastened everything faster than would otherwise have been done.

Nevertheless dawn was already breaking when the riflemen as quietly as

possible surrounded poor Margaret's house. The Baron himself knocked; it

was hardly a minute before the door was opened, and Margaret appeared,

fully dressed. Herr von S. started; he scarcely recognized her, so pale

and stony did she look. "Where is Frederick?" he asked in an unsteady

voice.

"Search for him!" she answered, and sat down on a chair. The Baron

hesitated a moment longer.

"Come in, come in," he then said roughly to the guards; "what are we

waiting for?" They stepped into Frederick's room. He was not there, but

the bed was still warm. They climbed to the garret, down the cellar,

examined the straw, looked behind every barrel, even into the oven; he

was not there. Some of them went into the garden, looked behind the

fence and up into the apple trees; he was not to be found.

"Escaped!" said the Baron with conflicting feelings; the sight of the

old woman made a strong impression on him. "Give me the key to that

trunk!" Margaret did not answer. "Give me the key," he repeated, and

noticed now for the first time that the key was already in the lock. The

contents of the trunk were brought into view--the fugitive's best Sunday

clothes and his mother's poor finery, then two shrouds with black

ribbons, one made for a man, the other for a woman. Herr von S. was

deeply affected. Under everything else, at the very bottom of the trunk,

lay the silver watch and some documents in a very legible hand, one of

these signed by a man who was strongly suspected of alliance with the

forest-thieves. Herr von S. took them along to examine them, and the

guards left the house without Margaret's giving another sign of life

than that of incessantly biting her lips and blinking her eyes.

Having arrived at the castle, the Baron found the court clerk, who had

returned the night before and declared he had slept through the whole

affair because his Honor had not sent for him. "You always come too

late," said Herr von S. crossly; "wasn't there any old woman in the

village to tell your maid about it? And why didn't they wake you up

then?"

"Your Honor," replied Kapp, "of course my Anne Marie learned of the

incident an hour before I did; but she knew that your Honor was

directing the matter yourself--and then," he added in a plaintive tone,

"that I was deathly tired!"

"A fine police force!" muttered the Baron. "Every old hag in the village

knows about a thing whenever it's supposed to be conducted in absolute

secrecy." Then he continued angrily: "He'd have indeed to be a stupid

devil of a criminal who would let himself be caught!"

Both were silent a moment. "My driver lost his way in the dark," began

the clerk again; "we were delayed over an hour in the wood; the weather

was awful; I thought the wind would blow the wagon over. At last, when

the rain slackened, we drove on in the name of God, heading toward the

Zellerfeld, unable to see our hands before our eyes. Then the coachman

said: 'If only we don't get too near the stone-quarries!' I was

frightened myself; I had him stop, and struck a light, to find some

comfort at least in my pipe. Suddenly we heard a bell ring very near,

perpendicularly under us. Your Honor will realize that I felt

dreadfully. I jumped out of the wagon, for one can trust one's own

limbs, but not those of a horse. So I stood in the mud and rain without

moving, until presently, thank God, it began to dawn. And where had we

stopped? Right near the Heerse ravine with the tower of Heerse directly

under us! If we had driven on twenty paces farther, we should all have

been children of Death."

"That was indeed no joke!" exclaimed the Baron, half conciliated.

Meanwhile he had examined the papers that he had taken along. They were

dunning letters for money lent, most of them from usurers. "I had not

thought," he muttered, "that the Mergels were so deeply in debt." "Yes,

and that it must come to light in this way," replied Kapp; "that will be

no little cause for vexation to Mistress Margaret."

"Oh, dear me, she does not think of that now!" With these words the

Baron arose and left the room to proceed together with Kapp to the

judicial examination of the body. The examination was short--death by

violence evident; the suspected criminal escaped; the evidence against

him very strong indeed, but not sufficient to establish his guilt

without a personal confession; his flight at all events very suspicious.

So the judicial investigation had to be closed without satisfactory

results.

The Jews in the vicinity had manifested great interest. The widow's

house was never empty of mourners and advisers. Within the memory of man

never had so many Jews been seen together in L. Extremely embittered by

the murder of their co-religionist they had spared neither pains nor

money to trace the criminal. It is even known that one of them, commonly

called "Joel the Usurer," offered one of his customers, who owed him

many hundreds and whom he considered an especially sly fellow, remission

of the entire sum if he could help him to arrest Mergel; for the belief

was general among the Jews that the murderer could not have escaped

without efficient assistance, and was probably still in the vicinity.

When, nevertheless, all this did no good, and the judicial investigation

had been declared closed, a number of the most prominent Israelites

appeared in the castle the next morning to make a business proposition

to the gracious lord. The object was the beech-tree, under which Aaron's

staff had been found and where the murder had probably been committed.

"Do you want to hew it down, now that it is in full leaf?" asked the

Baron.

"No, gracious Sir, it must remain standing winter and summer, as long as

there is a chip of it left."

"But then, if I should have the forest cut down, it would injure the

young trees."

"Well, we do not want it for any ordinary price." They offered two

hundred thalers. The deal was made, and all the foresters were strictly

forbidden to injure the "Jew's Beech" in any way.

Soon after, about sixty Jews with a Rabbi at their head were seen going

toward the Forest of Brede, all silent, with their eyes cast down. They

stayed in the woods over an hour, and then returned just as seriously

and ceremoniously through the village of B. up to the Zellerfeld, where

they separated and each went his own way. The next morning there was a

Hebrew inscription carved on the oak with an axe:[Hebrew:]

And where was Frederick? Without doubt, gone, and far enough away to

find it no longer necessary to fear the short arms of such a weak

police force. Soon he was completely forgotten. His Uncle Simon seldom

spoke of him, and then ill. The Jew's wife finally consoled herself and

took another husband. Only poor Margaret remained without consolation.

About half a year afterward the lord of the estate read in the presence

of the court clerk some letters just received. "Remarkable, remarkable!"

he exclaimed. "Just think, Kapp, perhaps Mergel is innocent of the

murder. The chairman of the court of P. has just written me: 'Le vrai

n'est pas toujours vraisemblable' (Truth does not always bear the marks

of probability). I often find this out in my profession, and now I have

a new proof of it. Do you know that it is possible that your dear trusty

Frederick Mergel killed the Jew no more than you or I? Unfortunately

proofs are lacking, but the probability is great. A member of the

Schlemming band (which, by-the-by, we now have, for the most part, under

lock and key), named Ragged Moses, alleged in the last hearing that he

repented of nothing so much as of murdering one of his co-religionists,

Aaron, whom he had beaten to death in the woods, and had found only six

groschen on him.

"Unfortunately the examination was interrupted by the noon recess and,

while we were at lunch, the dog of a Jew hanged himself with a garter.

What do you say to that? Aaron is a common name, to be sure," etc.

"What do you say to that?" repeated the Baron; "and what reason then did

the fool of a fellow have for running away?"

The court clerk reflected. "Well, perhaps on account of the forest

thefts which we were just then investigating. Isn't it said: 'The wicked

man flees from his own shadow?' Mergel's conscience was dirty enough,

even without this spot."

With these considerations they let the matter drop. Frederick had gone,

disappeared; and John Nobody--poor, neglected John--with him on the same

day. A long, long time had passed--twenty-eight years, almost half a

lifetime. The Baron was grown very old and gray, and his good-natured

assistant, Kapp, had been long since buried. People, animals, and plants

had arisen, matured, passed away; only Castle B., gray and dignified as

of old, still looked down on the cottages which, like palsied old

people, always seemed about to fall, yet always kept their balance.

It was Christmas Eve, December 24, 1788.

The narrow passes were covered with snow, probably about twelve feet

deep, and the penetrating, frosty air froze the window panes in the

heated room. It was almost midnight, and yet faint lights flickered from

the snow mounds everywhere, and in every house the inmates were on their

knees awaiting in prayer the advent of the holy Christmas festival, as

is the custom in Catholic countries, or, at least, as was general in

those times. That night a figure moved slowly down from the heights of

Brede toward the village. The wanderer seemed to be very tired or sick;

he groaned heavily and dragged himself with extreme difficulty through

the snow.

Half the way down he stopped, leaned on his staff, and gazed fixedly at

the lights. Everything was so quiet, so dead and cold; one could not

have helped thinking of will o' the wisps in cemeteries. At that moment

the clock struck twelve in the tower; as the last stroke died slowly

away, soft singing arose in the nearest house and, spreading from house

to house, ran through the whole village:

A little babe, a worthy child,

Was born to us today,

Of Mary Virgin undefiled;

We all rejoice and say:

Yea, had the Christ-child ne'er been born,

To lasting woe we'd all been sworn,

For He is our salvation.

O, thou our Jesus Christ adored,

A man in form but yet our Lord,

From Hell grant us Redemption.

The man on the mountain slope had sunk to his knees and with a trembling

voice made an effort to join in the song; it turned into nothing but

loud sobbing, and large hot drops fell on the snow. The second verse

began; he prayed along silently; then the third and the fourth. The song

was ended and the lights in the houses began to move. Then the man rose

laboriously and slunk slowly down to the village. He panted past several

houses, then stopped in front of one and knocked on the door softly.

"I wonder what that is!" said a woman's voice inside. "The door is

rattling, and there's no wind blowing!"

He knocked louder. "For God's sake, let in a half-frozen man, who comes

out of Turkish slavery!"

There was whispering in the kitchen. "Go to the inn," answered another

voice, "the fifth house from here!"

"In the name of our merciful God, let me in! I have no money."

After some delay the door opened. A man came out with a lighted lamp.

"Come right in," he then said; "you won't cut our heads off." In the

kitchen there were, besides the man, a middle-aged woman, an old mother,

and five children. All crowded around the newcomer and scrutinized him

with timid curiosity. A wretched figure! Wry-necked, with his back bent,

his whole body broken and powerless; long hair, white as snow, fell

about his face, which bore the distorted expression of long suffering.

The woman went silently to the hearth and added some fresh fagots. "A

bed we cannot give you," she said, "but I will make a good litter of

straw here; you'll have to make the best of that."

"God reward you!" answered the stranger; "indeed I am used to worse than

that."

The man who had returned home was recognized as John Nobody, and he

himself avowed that it was he who had once fled with Frederick Mergel.

The next day the village was full of the adventures of the man who had

so long been forgotten. Everybody wanted to see the man from Turkey,

and they were almost surprised that he should still look like other

people. The young folks, to be sure, did not remember him, but the old

could still recognize his features perfectly, wretchedly disfigured

though he was.

"John, John, how gray you've grown!" said an old woman; "and where did

you get your wry neck?"

"From carrying wood and water in slavery," he replied. "And what has

become of Mergel? You ran away together, didn't you?"

"Yes, indeed; but I do not know where he is; we got separated. If you

think of him, pray for him," he added; "he probably needs it."

They asked him why Frederick had disappeared, inasmuch as he had not

murdered the Jew. "Not killed him!" said John, and listened intently

when they told him what the lord of the estate had purposely spread

abroad in order to erase the spot from Mergel's name. "So all was in

vain," he said musing, "all in vain--so much suffering!"

He sighed deeply and asked, on his part, about many things. He was told

that Simon had been dead a long while, but had first fallen into

complete poverty through lawsuits and bad debtors whom he could not sue

because, it was said, the business relations between them had been

questionable. Finally he had been reduced to begging and had died on the

straw in a strange barn. Margaret had lived longer, but in absolute

mental torpor. The people in the village had soon grown tired of helping

her, because she let everything that they gave her go to ruin; for it

is, after all, characteristic of people to abandon the most helpless,

those whom assistance does not relieve for any length of time and who

are and always will be in need of aid. Nevertheless she had not suffered

any actual want; the family of the Baron had cared for her, sent her

meals daily, and even provided medical treatment for her, when her

pitiable condition had developed into complete emaciation. In her house

now lived the son of the former swineherd, who had so admired

Frederick's watch on that unfortunate night.

"All gone, all dead!" sighed John.

In the evening, when it had grown dark and the moon was shining, he was

seen limping about the cemetery in the snow; he did not pray over any

one grave, nor did he go very close to any, but he seemed to gaze

fixedly at some of them from a distance. Thus he was found by Forester

Brandes, the son of the murdered forester, whom the Baron had sent to

bring John to the castle. Upon entering the living-room he looked about

him timidly, as though dazed by the light, and then at the Baron who was

sitting in his armchair; he had aged greatly but still had his old

bright eyes, and the little red cap was still on his head, as it had

been twenty-eight years ago; beside him was the Baroness, his wife, also

grown old, very old.

"Now, John," said the Baron, "do tell me all about your adventures.

But," as he surveyed him through his glasses, "you wasted away terribly

there in Turkey, didn't you?" John began telling how Mergel had called

him away from the hearth at night and said he must go away with him.

"But why did the foolish fellow ever run away?--I suppose you know that

he was innocent?"

John looked down.

"I don't know exactly; I think it was on account of some forest affairs.

Simon had all kinds of dealings, you know; they never told me anything

about it, but I do not believe everything was as it should have been."

"But what did Frederick tell you?"

"Nothing but that we must run away, that they were at our heels. So we

ran to Heerse; it was still dark then and we hid behind the big cross in

the churchyard until it grew somewhat lighter, because we were afraid of

the stone-quarries at Bellerfeld; and after we had been sitting a while

we suddenly heard snorting and stamping over us and saw long streaks of

fire in the air directly over the church-tower of Heerse. We jumped up

and ran straight ahead in the name of God as fast as we could, and, when

dawn arose, we were actually on the right road to P." John seemed to

shudder at the remembrance even now, and the Baron thought of his

departed Kapp and his adventures on the slope of Heerse.

"Remarkable!" he mused; "you were so near each other! But go ahead."

John now related how they had successfully passed through P. and across

the border, telling how, from that point, they had begged their way

through to Freiburg in Breisgau as itinerant workmen. "I had my

haversack with me, and Frederick a little bundle; so they believed us,"

he went on. In Freiburg they had been induced to enlist in the Austrian

army; he had not been wanted, but Frederick had insisted. So he was put

with the commissariat. "We stayed over the winter in Freiburg," he

continued, "and we got along pretty well; I did, too, because Frederick

often advised me and helped me when I did something wrong. In the spring

we had to march to Hungary, and in the fall the war with the Turks broke

out. I can't repeat very much about it because I was taken prisoner in

the very first encounter and from that time was a Turkish slave for

twenty-six years!"

"God in Heaven, but that is terrible!" exclaimed Frau von S.

"Bad enough! The Turks consider us Christians no better than dogs; the

worst of it was that my strength left me with the hard work; I grew

older, too, and was still expected to do as in former years." He was

silent for a moment. "Yes," he then said, "it was beyond human strength

and human patience, and I was unable to endure it. From there I got on a

Dutch vessel."

"But how did you get there?" asked the Baron.

"They fished me out of the Bosphorus," replied John. The Baron looked at

him in astonishment and raised his finger in warning; but John

continued. "On the vessel I did not fare much better. The scurvy broke

out; whoever was not absolutely helpless was compelled to work beyond

his strength, and the ship's tow ruled as severely as the Turkish whip.

At last," he concluded, "when we arrived in Holland, at Amsterdam, they

let me go free because I was useless, and the merchant to whom the ship

belonged sympathized with me, too, and wanted to make me his porter.

But," he shook his head, "I preferred to beg my way along back here."

"That was foolish enough!" said the Baron.

John sighed deeply. "Oh, sir, I had to spend my life among Turks and

heretics; should I not at least go to rest in a Catholic cemetery?"

The lord of the estate had taken out his purse. "Here, John, now go and

come back soon. You must tell me the whole story more in detail; today

it was a bit confused. I suppose you are still very tired."

"Very tired," replied John; "and"--he pointed to his forehead--"my

thoughts are at times so curious I cannot exactly tell how things are."

"I understand," said the baron; "that is an old story. Now, go.

Huelsmeyer will probably put you up for another night; come again

tomorrow."

Herr von S. felt the deepest sympathy with the poor chap; by the next

day he had decided where to lodge him; he should take his meals in the

castle and his clothing could, of course, be provided for too. "Sir,"

said John, "I can still do something; I can make wooden spoons and you

can also send me on errands."

Herr von S. shook his head sympathetically. "But that wouldn't work so

remarkably well."

"Oh, yes, sir, if once I get started--I can't move very fast, but I'll

get there somehow, and it won't be as hard as you might think, either."

"Well," said the Baron, doubtfully, "do you want to try it? Here is a

letter to P. There is no particular hurry." The next day John moved into

his little room in the house of a widow in the village. He carved

spoons, ate at the castle, and did errands for the Baron. On the whole

he was getting along tolerably well; the Baron's family was very kind,

and Herr von S. often conversed with him about Turkey, service in

Austria, and the ocean. "John could tell many things," he said to his

wife, "if he wasn't so downright simple."

"More melancholic than simple," she replied; "I am always afraid he'll

lose his wits some day."

"Not a bit of it," answered the Baron; "he's been a simpleton all his

life; simple people never go crazy." Some time after, John stayed away

much longer than usual on an errand. The good Frau von S. was greatly

worried and was already on the point of sending out people, when they

heard him limping up the stairs.

"You stayed out a long time, John," she said; "I was beginning to think

you had lost your way in the forest of Brede."

"I went through Fir-tree Hollow."

"Why, that's a long roundabout way! Why didn't you go through the Brede

Woods?"

He looked up at her sadly. "People told me the woods were cut down and

there were now so many paths this way and that way that I was afraid I

would not find my way out. I am growing old and shaky," he added slowly.

"Did you see," Frau von S. said afterwards to her husband, "what a

queer, squinting look there was in his eyes? I tell you, Ernest, there's

a bad ending in store for him!"

Meanwhile September was approaching. The fields were empty, the leaves

were beginning to fall, and many a hectic person felt the scissors on his

life's thread. John, too, seemed to be suffering under the influence of

the approaching equinox; those who saw him at this time said he looked

particularly disturbed and talked to himself incessantly--something which

he used to do at times, but not very often. At last one evening he did

not come home. It was thought the Baron had sent him somewhere. The

second day he was still not there. On the third his housekeeper grew

anxious. She went to the castle and inquired. "God forbid!" said the

Baron, "I know nothing of him; but, quick!--call the forester and his

son William! If the poor cripple," he added, in agitation, "has fallen

even into a dry pit, he cannot get out again. Who knows if he may not

even have broken one of his distorted limbs! Take the dogs along," he

called to the foresters on their way, "and, first of all, search in the

quarries; look among the stone-quarries," he called out louder.

The foresters returned home after a few hours; no trace had been found.

Herr von S. was restless. "When I think of such a man, forced to lie

like a stone and unable to help himself, I--but he may still be alive; a

man can surely hold out three days without food." He set out himself;

inquiry was made at every house, horns were blown everywhere, alarms

were sent out, and dogs set on the trail--in vain! A child had seen him

sitting at the edge of the forest of Brede, carving a spoon. "But he cut

it right in two," said the little girl. That had happened two days

before. In the afternoon there was another clue. Again a child had seen

him on the other side of the woods, where he had been sitting in the

shrubbery, with his face resting on his knees as though he were asleep.

That was only the day before. It seemed he had kept rambling about the

forest of Brede.

"If only that damned shrubbery weren't so dense! Not a soul can get

through it," said the Baron. The dogs were driven to the place where the

woods had just been cut down; the searching-party blew their horns and

hallooed, but finally returned home, dissatisfied, when they had

convinced themselves that the animals had made a thorough search of the

whole forest. "Don't give up! Don't give up!" begged Frau von S. "It's

better to take a few steps in vain than to leave anything undone." The

Baron was almost as worried as she; his restlessness even drove him to

John's room, although he was sure not to find him there. He had the room

of the lost man opened. Here stood his bed still in disorder as he had

left it; there hung his good coat which the Baroness had had made for

him out of the Baron's old hunting-suit; on the table lay a bowl, six

new wooden spoons, and a box. Herr von S. opened the box; five groschen

lay in it, neatly wrapped in paper, and four silver vest-buttons. The

Baron examined them with interest. "A remembrance from Mergel," he

muttered, and stepped out, for he felt quite oppressed in the musty,

close room. The search was continued until they had convinced themselves

that John was no longer in the vicinity--at least, not alive.

So, then, he had disappeared for the second time! Would they ever find

him again--perhaps some time, after many years, find his bones in a dry

pit? There was little hope of seeing him again alive, or, at all events,

certainly not after another twenty-eight years.

One morning two weeks later young Brandes was passing through the forest

of Brede, on his way from inspecting his preserve. The day was unusually

warm for that time of the year; the air quivered; not a bird was

singing; only the ravens croaked monotonously in the branches and opened

their beaks to the air. Brandes was very tired. He took off his cap,

heated through by the sun; and then he put it on again; but one way was

as unbearable as another, and working his way through the knee-high

underbrush was very laborious. Round about there was not a single tree

save the "Jew's beech"; for that he made, therefore, with all his might,

and stretched himself on the shady moss under it, tired to death. The

coolness penetrated to his limbs so soothingly that he closed his eyes.

"Foul mushrooms!" he muttered, half asleep. There is, you must know, in

that region a species of very juicy mushrooms which live only a few days

and then shrivel up and emit an insufferable odor. Brandes thought he

smelt some of these unpleasant neighbors; he looked around him several

times, but did not feel like getting up; meanwhile his dog leaped about,

scratched at the trunk of the beech, and barked at the tree. "What have

you there, Bello? A cat?" muttered Brandes. He half opened his lids and

the Hebrew inscription met his eye, much distorted but still quite

legible. He shut his eyes again; the dog kept on barking and finally put

his cold nose against his master's face.

"Let me alone! What's the matter with you, anyway?" Brandes was lying on

his back, looking up; suddenly he jumped up with a bound and sprang into

the thicket like one possessed.

Pale as death he reached the castle; a man was hanging in the "Jew's

Beech-tree"; he had seen his limbs suspended directly above his face.

"And you did not cut him down, you fool?" cried the Baron.

"Sir," gasped Brandes, "if Your Honor had been there you would have

realized that the man is no longer alive. At first I thought it was the

mushrooms!" Nevertheless Herr von S. urged the greatest haste, and went

out there himself.

They had arrived beneath the beech. "I see nothing," said Herr von S.

"You must step over there, right here on this spot!" Yes, it was true;

the Baron recognized his own old shoes. "God, it is John! Prop up the

ladder!--so--now down--gently, gently! Don't let him fall! Good heaven,

the worms are at him already! But loose the knot anyway, and his

necktie!" A broad scar was visible; the Baron drew back. "Good God!" he

said; he bent over the body again, examined the scar with great care,

and in his intense agitation was silent for some time. Then he turned to

the foresters. "It is not right that the innocent should suffer for the

guilty; just tell everybody this man here"--he pointed to the dead

body--"was Frederick Mergel."

The body was buried in the potter's field.

As far as all main events are concerned, this actually happened during

the month of September in the year 1789.

The Hebrew inscription on the tree read: "When thou comest near this

spot, thou wilt suffer what thou didst to me."

* * * * *

FERDINAND FREILIGRATH

THE DURATION OF LOVE[39] (1831)

Oh! love while Love is left to thee;

Oh! love while Love is yet thine own;

The hour will come when bitterly

Thou'lt mourn by silent graves, alone!

And let thy breast with kindness glow,

And gentle thoughts within thee move,

While yet a heart, through weal and woe,

Beats to thine own in faithful love.

And who to thee his heart doth bare,

Take heed thou fondly cherish him;

And gladden thou his every hour,

And not an hour with sorrow dim!

And guard thy lips and keep them still;

Too soon escapes an angry word.

"O God! I did not mean it ill!"

But yet he sorrowed as he heard.

Oh! love while Love is left to thee;

Oh! love while Love is yet thine own;

The hour will come when bitterly

Thou'lt mourn by silent graves, alone.

Unheard, unheeded then, alas!

Kneeling, thou'lt hide thy streaming eyes

Amid the long, damp, churchyard grass,

Where, cold and low, thy loved one lies,

And murmur: "Oh, look down on me,

Mourning my causeless anger still;

Forgive my hasty word to thee--

O God! I did not mean it ill!"

He hears not now thy voice to bless,

In vain thine arms are flung to heaven!

And, hushed the loved lip's fond caress,

It answers not: "I _have_ forgiven!"

He _did_ forgive--long, long ago!

But many a burning tear he shed

O'er thine unkindness--softly now!

He slumbers with the silent dead.

Oh! love while Love is left to thee;

Oh! love while Love is yet thine own;

The hour will come when bitterly

Thou'lt mourn by silent graves--alone!

* * * * *

THE EMIGRANTS[40] (1832)

I cannot take my eyes away

From you, ye busy, bustling band,

Your little all to see you lay

Each in the waiting boatman's hand.

Ye men, that from your necks set down

Your heavy baskets on the earth,

Of bread, from German corn baked brown,

By German wives, on German hearth.

And you, with braided tresses neat,

Black Forest maidens, slim and brown,

How careful, on the sloop's green seat,

You set your pails and pitchers down.

[Illustration: J.P. HASENCLEVER FERDINAND FREILIGRATH]

Ah! oft have home's cool shady tanks

Those pails and pitchers filled for you;

By far Missouri's silent banks

Shall these the scenes of home renew--

The stone-rimmed fount, in village street,

Where oft ye stooped to chat and draw--

The hearth, and each familiar seat--

The pictured tiles your childhood saw.

Soon, in the far and wooded West

Shall log-house walls therewith be graced;

Soon, many a tired, tawny guest

Shall sweet refreshment from them taste.

From them shall drink the Cherokee,

Faint with the hot and dusty chase;

No more from German vintage, ye

Shall bear them home, in leaf-crowned grace.

Oh say, why seek ye other lands?

The Neckar's vale hath wine and corn;

Full of dark firs the Schwarzwald stands;

In Spessart rings the Alp-herd's horn.

Ah, in strange forests you will yearn

For the green mountains of your home;

To Deutschland's yellow wheat-fields turn;

In spirit o'er her vine-hills roam.

How will the form of days grown pale

In golden dreams float softly by,

Like some old legendary tale,

Before fond memory's moistened eye!

The boatman calls--go hence in peace!

God bless you, wife and child, and sire!

Bless all your fields with rich increase,

And crown each faithful heart's desire!

* * * * *

THE LION'S RIDE [41] (1834)

King of deserts reigns the lion; will he through his realm go riding,

Down to the lagoon he paces, in the tall sedge there lies hiding.

Where gazelles and camelopards drink, he crouches by the shore;

Ominous, above the monster, moans the quivering sycamore.

When, at dusk, the ruddy hearth-fires in the Hottentot kraals are

glowing,

And the motley, changeful signals on the Table Mountain growing

Dim and distant--when the Caffre sweeps along the lone karroo--

When in the bush the antelope slumbers, and beside the stream the gnu--

Lo! majestically stalking, yonder comes the tall giraffe,

Hot with thirst, the gloomy waters of the dull lagoon to quaff;

O'er the naked waste behold her, with parched tongue, all panting

hasten--

Now she sucks the cool draught, kneeling, from the stagnant, slimy basin.

Hark, a rustling in the sedges! with a roar, the lion springs

On her back now. What a race-horse! Say, in proudest stalls of kings,

Saw one ever richer housings than the courser's motley hide,

On whose back the tawny monarch of the beasts tonight will ride?

Fixed his teeth are in the muscles of the nape, with greedy strain;

Round the giant courser's withers waves the rider's yellow mane.

With a hollow cry of anguish, leaps and flies the tortured steed;

See her, how with skin of leopard she combines the camel's speed!

See, with lightly beating footsteps, how she scours the moonlit plains!

From their sockets start the eyeballs; from the torn and bleeding veins,

Fast the thick, black drops come trickling, o'er the brown and dappled

neck,

And the flying beast's heart-beatings audible the stillness make.

Like the cloud, that, guiding Israel through the land of Yemen, shone,

Like a spirit of the desert, like a phantom, pale and wan,

O'er the desert's sandy ocean, like a waterspout at sea,

Whirls a yellow, cloudy column, tracking them where'er they flee.

On their track the vulture follows, flapping, croaking, through the air,

And the terrible hyena, plunderer of tombs, is there;

Follows them the stealthy panther--Cape-town's folds have known him well;

Them their monarch's dreadful pathway, blood and sweat full plainly tell.

On his living throne, they, quaking, see their ruler sitting there,

With sharp claw the painted cushion of his seat they see him tear.

Restless the giraffe must bear him on, till strength and life-blood fail

her;

Mastered by such daring rider, rearing, plunging, naught avail her.

To the desert's verge she staggers--sinks--one groan--and all is o'er.

Now the steed shall feast the rider, dead, and smeared with dust and

gore.

Far across, o'er Madagascar, faintly now the morning breaks;

Thus the king of beasts his journey nightly through his empire makes.

* * * * *

THE SPECTRE-CARAVAN[42] (1835)

'Twas at midnight, in the Desert, where we rested on the ground;

There my Bedouins were sleeping, and their steeds were stretched around;

In the farness lay the moonlight on the mountains of the Nile,

And the camel-bones that strewed the sands for many an arid mile.

With my saddle for a pillow did I prop my weary head,

And my caftan-cloth unfolded o'er my limbs was lightly spread,

While beside me, both as Captain and as watchman of my band,

Lay my Bazra sword and pistols twain a-shimmering on the sand.

And the stillness was unbroken, save at moments by a cry

From some stray belated vulture sailing blackly down the sky,

Or the snortings of a sleeping steed at waters fancy-seen,

Or the hurried warlike mutterings of some dreaming Bedouin.

When, behold!--a sudden sandquake--and atween the earth and moon

Rose a mighty Host of Shadows, as from out some dim lagoon;

Then our coursers gasped with terror, and a thrill shook every man,

And the cry was "_Allah Akbar_!--'tis the Spectre-Caravan!"

On they came, their hueless faces toward Mecca evermore;

On they came, long files of camels, and of women whom they bore;

Guides and merchants, youthful maidens, bearing pitchers like Rebecca,

And behind them troops of horsemen, dashing, hurrying on to Mecca!

More and more! the phantom-pageant overshadowed all the Plains,

Yea, the ghastly camel-bones arose, and grew to camel-trains;

And the whirling column-clouds of sand to forms in dusky garbs,

Here, afoot as Hadjee pilgrims--there, as warriors on their barbs!

Whence we knew the Night was come when all whom Death had sought and

found,

Long ago amid the sands whereon their bones yet bleach around,

Rise by legions from the darkness of their prisons low and lone,

And in dim procession march to kiss the Kaaba's Holy Stone.

More and more! the last in order have not passed across the plain,

Ere the first with slackened bridle fast are flying back again.

From Cape Verde's palmy summits, even to Bab-el-Mandeb's sands,

They have sped ere yet my charger, wildly rearing, breaks his bands!

Courage! hold the plunging horses; each man to his charger's head!

Tremble not as timid sheep-flocks tremble at the lion's tread.

Fear not, though yon waving mantles fan you as they hasten on;

Call on _Allah_! and the pageant, ere you look again, is gone!

Patience! till the morning breezes wave again your turban's plume;

Morning air and rosy dawning are their heralds to the tomb.

Once again to dust shall daylight doom these Wand'rers of the night;

See, it dawns!--A joyous welcome neigh our horses to the light!

* * * * *

[Illustration: DUSK ON THE DEAD SEA EUGEN BRACHT]

HAD I AT MECCA'S GATE BEEN NOURISHED[43] (1836)

Had I at Mecca's gate been nourished,

Or dwelt on Yemen's glowing sand,

Or from my youth in Sinai flourished,

A sword were now within this hand.

Then would I ride across the mountains

Until to Jethro's land I came,

And rest my flock beside the fountains

Where once the bush broke forth in flame.

And ever with the evening's coolness

My kindred to the tent would throng,

When verses with impassioned fulness

Would stream from me in glowing song.

The treasure of my lips would dower

A mighty tribe, a mighty land,

And as with a magician's power

I'd rule, a monarch, 'mid the sand.

My list'ners are a nomad nation,

To whom the desert's voice is dear;

Who dread the simoon's devastation

And fall before his wrath in fear.

All day they gallop, never idle--

Save by the spring--till set of sun;

They dash with loosely swaying bridle

From Aden unto Lebanon.

At night upon the earth reclining

They watch amid their sleeping herds,

And read the scroll of heaven, shining

With golden-lettered mystic words.

They often hear strange voices mutter

From Sinai's earthquake-shattered, height,

While desert phantoms rise and flutter

In wreaths of smoke before their sight.

See!--through yon fissure deep and dim there

The demon's forehead glows amain,

For as with me so 'tis with him there--

In the skull's cavern seethes the brain.

Oh, land of tents and arrows flying!

Oh, desert people brave and wise!

Thou Arab on thy steed relying,--

A poem in fantastic guise!

Here in the dark I roam so blindly--

How cunning is the North, and cold!

Oh, for the East, the warm and kindly,

To sing and ride, a Bedouin bold!

* * * * *

WILD FLOWERS[44] (1840)

Alone I strode where the broad Rhine flowed,

The hedge with roses was covered,

And wondrous rare through all the air

The scent of the vineyards hovered.

The cornflowers blue, the poppies too,

Waved in the wheat so proudly!

From a cliff near-by the joyous cry

Of a falcon echoed loudly.

Then I thought ere long of the old love song:

Ah, would that I were a falcon!

With its melody as a falcon free,

And daring, too, as a falcon.

As I sang, thought I: Toward the sun I'll fly,

The very tune shall upbear me

To her window small with a bolt in the wall,

Where I'll beat till she shall hear me.

Where the rose is brave, and curtains wave,

And ships by the bank are lying,

Two brown eyes dream o'er the lazy stream--

Oh, thither would I be flying!

With talons long and strange wild song

I'd perch me at her feet then,

Or bold I'd spread my wings o'er her head,

And gladly we should greet then.

Though I gaily sang and gaily sprang,

No pinions had I to aid me;

I took my path through the corn in wrath--

So restless my love had made me.

Then branch and tree all ruthlessly

I stripped, nor ceased from my ranting

Till with hands all torn and heart forlorn

I sank down, weary and panting.

While I heard the sound from all around

Of frolicking lads and lasses,

Alone for hours I gathered flowers

And bound them together with grasses.

O crude bouquet, O rude bouquet!--

Though many a girl despise it,

Yet come there may the happy day

When thou, my love, shalt prize it.

In fitting place it well might grace

An honest farmer's dwelling

These cornflowers mild and poppies wild,

With others past my telling;

The osier fine, the blossoming vine,

The meadow-sweetening clover--

All vagrant stuff, and like enough

To him, thy vagrant lover.

His dark eye beams, his visage gleams,

His clenched hand--how it trembles!

His fierce blood burns, his mad heart yearns,

His brow the storm resembles.

He breathes oppressed, with laboring breast--

His weeds and he rejected!

His flowers, oh, see!--shall they and he

Lie here at thy door neglected?

* * * * *

[Illustration: DEATH ON THE BARRICADE ALFRED RETHEL]

THE DEAD TO THE LIVING[45] (July, 1848)

The bullet in the marble breast, the gash upon the brow,

You raised us on the bloody planks with wild and wrathful vow!

High in the air you lifted us, that every writhe of pain

Might be an endless curse to _him_, at whose word we were slain;

That he might see us in the gloom, or in the daylight's shine,

Whether he turns his Bible's leaf, or quaffs his foaming wine;

That the dread memory on his soul should evermore be burned,

A wasting and destroying flame within its gloom inurned;

That every mouth with pain convulsed, and every gory wound,

Be round him in the terror-hour, when his last bell shall sound;

That every sob above us heard smite shuddering on his ear;

That each pale hand be clenched to strike, despite his dying fear--

Whether his sinking head still wear its mockery of a crown,

Or he should lay it, bound, dethroned, on bloody scaffold down!

Thus, with the bullet in the breast, the gash upon the brow,

You laid us at the altar's foot, with deep and solemn vow!

"Come down!" ye cried--he trembling came--even to our bloody bed;

"Uncover!" and 'twas tamely done!--(like a mean puppet led,

Sank he whose life had been a farce, with fear unwonted shaken).

Meanwhile his army fled the field, which, dying, we had taken!

Loudly in "_Jesus, thou my trust_!" the anthem'd voices peal;

Why did the victor-crowds forget the sterner trust of steel?

That morning followed on the night when we together fell,

And when ye made our burial, there was triumph in the knell!

Though crushed behind the barricades, and scarred in every limb,

The pride of conscious Victory lay on our foreheads grim!

We thought: the price is dearly paid, but the treasures _must_ be true,

And rested calmly in the graves we swore to fill for you!

Alas! for you--we were deceived! Four moons have scarcely run,

Since cowardly you've forfeited what we so bravely won!

Squandered and cast to every wind the gain our death had brought!

Aye, all, we know--each word and deed our spirit-ears have caught!

Like waves came thundering every sound of wrong the country through:

The foolish war with Denmark! Poland betrayed anew!

The vengeance of Vendean men in many a province stern!

The calling back of banished troops! The Prince's base return!

Wherever barricades were built, the lock on press and tongue!

On the free right of all debate, the daily-practised wrong!

The groaning clang of prison-doors in North and South afar!

For all who plead the People's right, Oppression's ancient bar!

The bond with Russia's Cossacks! The slander fierce and loud,

Alas! that has become your share, instead of laurels proud--

Ye who have borne the hardest brunt, that Freedom might advance,

Victorious in defeat and death--June-warriors of France!

Yes, wrong and treason everywhere, the Elbe and Rhine beside,

And beat, oh German men! your hearts, with calm and sluggish tide?

_No war within your apron's folds_? Out with it, fierce and bold!

The second, final war with all who Freedom would withhold!

Shout: "The Republic!" till it drowns the chiming minster bells,

Whose sound this swindle of your rights by crafty Austria tells!

In vain! 'Tis time your faltering hands should disentomb us yet,

And lift us on the planks, begirt with many a bayonet;

Not to the palace-court, as then, that _he_ may near us stand--

No; to the tent, the market-place, and through the wakening land!

Out through the broad land bear us--the dead Insurgents sent,

To join, upon our ghastly biers, the German Parliament.

Oh solemn sight! there we should lie, the grave-earth on each brow,

And faces sunken in decay--the proper Regents now!

There we should lie and say to you: "Ere we could waste away,

Your Freedom-gift, ye archons brave, is rotting in decay!

The Corn is housed which burst the sod, when the March sun on us shone,

But before all other harvests was Freedom's March-seed mown!

Chance poppies, which the sickle spared, among the stubbles stand;

Oh, would that Wrath, the crimson Wrath, thus blossomed in the land!"

And yet, it _does_ remain; it springs behind the reaper's track;

Too much had been already gained, too much been stolen back;

Too much of scorn, too much of shame, heaped daily on your head--

Wrath and Revenge _must_ still be left, believe it, from the Dead!

It _does_ remain, and it awakes--it shall and must awake!

The Revolution, half complete, yet wholly forth will break.

It waits the hour to rise in power, like an up-rolling storm,

With lifted arms and streaming hair--a wild and mighty form!

It grasps the rusted gun once more, and swings the battered blade,

While the red banners flap the air from every barricade!

Those banners lead the German Guards--the armies of the Free--

Till Princes fly their blazing thrones and hasten towards the sea!

The boding eagles leave the land--the lion's claws are shorn--

The sovereign People, roused and bold, await the Future's morn!

Now, till the wakening hour shall strike, we keep our scorn and wrath

For you, ye Living! who have dared to falter on your path!

Up, and prepare--_keep watch in arms!_ Oh, make the German sod,

Above our stiffened forms, all free, and blest by Freedom's God;

That this one bitter thought no more disturb us in our graves:

"_They once were free--they fell--and now, forever they are Slaves!_"

* * * * *

HURRAH, GERMANIA![46] (July 25, 1870)

Hurrah! thou lady proud and fair,

Hurrah! Germania mine!

What fire is in thine eye, as there

Thou bendest o'er the Rhine!

How in July's full blaze dost thou

Flash forth thy sword, and go,

With heart elate and knitted brow,

To strike the invader low!

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Hurrah! Germania!

No thought hadst thou, so calm and light,

Of war or battle plain,

But on thy broad fields, waving bright,

Didst mow the golden grain,

With clashing sickles, wreaths of corn,

Thy sheaves didst garner in,

When, hark! across the Rhine War's horn

Breaks through the merry din!

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Hurrah! Germania!

Down sickle then and wreath of wheat

Amidst the corn were cast,

And, starting fiercely to thy feet,

Thy heart beat loud and fast;

Then with a shout I heard thee call:

"Well, since you will, you may!

Up, up, my children, one and all,

On to the Rhine! Away!"

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Hurrah! Germania!

From port to port the summons flew,

Rang o'er our German wave;

The Oder on her harness drew,

The Elbe girt on her glaive;

Neckar and Weser swell the tide,

Main flashes to the sun,

Old feuds, old hates are dash'd aside,

All German men are one!

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Hurrah! Germania!

Suabian and Prussian, hand in hand,

North, South, one host, one vow!

"What is the German's Fatherland?"

Who asks that question now?

One soul, one arm, one close-knit frame,

One will are we today;

Hurrah, Germania! thou proud dame,

Oh, glorious time, hurrah!

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Hurrah! Germania!

Germania now, let come what may,

Will stand unshook through all;

This is our country's festal day;

Now woe betide thee, Gaul!

Woe worth the hour a robber thrust

Thy sword into thy hand!

A curse upon him that we must

Unsheathe our German brand!

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Hurrah! Germania!

For home and hearth, for wife and child,

For all loved things that we

Are bound to keep all undefiled

From foreign ruffianry!

For German right, for German speech,

For German household ways,

For German homesteads, all and each,

Strike home through battle's blaze!

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Hurrah! Germania!

Up, Germans, up, with God! The die

Clicks loud--we wait the throw!

Oh, who may think without a sigh

What blood is doom'd to flow?

Yet, look thou up, with fearless heart!

Thou must, thou shalt prevail!

Great, glorious, free as ne'er thou wert,

All hail, Germania, hail!

Hurrah! Victoria!

Hurrah! Germania!

* * * * *

THE TRUMPET OF GRAVELOTTE[47] (Aug. 16, 1870)

Death and Destruction they belched forth in vain,

We grimly defied their thunder;

Two columns of foot and batteries twain,

We rode and cleft them asunder.

With brandished sabres, with reins all slack,

Raised standards, and low-couched lances,

Thus we Uhlans and Cuirassiers wildly drove back,

And hotly repelled their advances.

But the ride was a ride of death and of blood;

With our thrusts we forced them to sever;

But of two whole regiments, lusty and good,

Out of two men, one rose never.

With breast shot through, with brow gaping wide,

They lay pale and cold in the valley,

Snatched away in their youth, in their manhood's pride--

Now, Trumpeter, sound to the rally!

And he took the trumpet, whose angry thrill

Urged us on to the glorious battle,

And he blew a blast--but all silent and still

Was the trump, save a dull hoarse rattle,

Save a voiceless wail, save a cry of woe,

That burst forth in fitful throbbing--

A bullet had pierced its metal through,

For the Dead the wounded was sobbing!

For the faithful, the brave, for our brethren all,

For the Watch on the Rhine, true-hearted!

Oh, the sound cut into our inmost soul!--

It brokenly wailed the Departed!

And now fell the night, and we galloped past,

Watch-fires were flaring and flying,

Our chargers snorted, the rain poured fast--

And we thought of the Dead and the Dying!

* * * * *

MORITZ GRAF VON STRACHWITZ

DOUGLAS OF THE BLEEDING HEART[48] (1842)

Earl Douglas, don thy helm so bright,

And buckle thy sword with speed,

Bind on thy sharpest spurs to-night

And saddle thy swiftest steed!

"The death watch ticks in the hall of Scone,

All Scotland hears its warning,

King Robert in pains of death does groan,

He'll never see the morning."

For nigh on forty miles they sped

And spoke of words not four,

And horse and spur with blood were red

When they came to the palace door.

King Robert lay at the north tower's turn;

With death he'd begun to battle:

"I hear the sword of Bannockburn

On the stairway clatter and rattle.

"Ha! Welcome in God's name, gallant lord!

My end cometh presently,

And thou shalt harken my latest word

And write down my will for me:

"'Twas on the day of Bannockburn,

When Scotland's star rose high,

'Twas on the day of Bannockburn

That a vow to God vowed I;

"I vowed that, should He defend my right

And give me the victory there,

With a thousand lances I'd go to fight

For His holy sepulchre.

"I'm perjured, for still my heart doth stand,

'Twas broken with care and strife;

The man who would rule o'er the Scottish land

May scarce lead a pilgrim's life.

"But thou, when my voice has sunk to rest,

When grief and glory depart,

Shalt straightway cut from out my breast

My battle-o'erwearied heart.

"Then thou shalt wrap the samite red

And lock it in yellow gold,

And when o'er my bier the mass is said,

Let the flag of the cross be unrolled.

"Take a thousand steeds at thy command

And a thousand knights also,

And carry my heart to the Savior's land

That peace my soul may know."

* * * * *

"Make ready, gallants, for the start,

Let plume from helmet sway!

The Douglas bears the Bruce's heart,

And who shall bar his way?

"Now cut the ropes, ye seamen brave

And hoist the sail so free!

The king must to his dark, dark grave,

And we to the dark-blue sea."

Then into the east they sailed away

Full ninety days and nine,

And at the dawn of the hundredth day

They landed in Palestine.

Across the yellow desert they wound

As a shining river might flow,

The sun it pierced through their helmets' round

Like an arrow shot from a bow.

The desert was still, there breathed no gust,

All limply the flags were streaming,

When up to the sky rose a cloud of dust

Whence lightning of spears was gleaming.

The desert was thronged, the din grew loud,

The dust was on every side.

And thick as rain from each bursting cloud

Did the spear-armed Saracens ride.

Ten thousand lances glittered to right,

Ten thousand sparkled to left,

"Allah il Allah!" they shouted to right,

"Il Allah!" they echoed to left.

The Douglas drew his bridle rein,

And still stood earl and knight;

"By the cross on which our Lord was slain

'Twill be a deadly fight!"

A noble chain his neck embraced

In golden windings three.

The locket to his lips he placed

And kissed it fervently:

"Since thou hast ever gone before,

O heart, by night and day,

E'en so today do thou once more

Precede me in the fray.

"And now may God this boon bestow,

As I to thee have been true,

That I may strike a Christian blow

Against this heathen crew."

He threw his shield o'er his left side,

Bound on his helm so proud,

And as to battle he did ride,

He rose and called aloud:

"Who brings this locket back to me

Be his the day's renown!"

Then 'mid the paynims mightily

He hurled the king's heart down.

Each made the cross with his left thumb,

The right hand held the lance,

No fear had they though fiends had come

To check their bold advance.

A sudden crash, a headlong flight,

And mad death raging around--

But when the sun sank in the sea's blue light

From the desert there came no sound.

For the pride of the east was there laid low

In the sweep of the death-strewed plain,

And the sand so red in the afterglow

Would never be white again.

Of all the heathen, by God's good grace

Not one had escaped that harm,

Short patience have men of the Scottish race

And ever a long sword-arm!

But where had been the fellest strife,

There lay in the moonlight clear

The good Earl Douglas, reft of life

By a hellish heathen spear.

All cleft and rent was the mail he wore,

And finished his mortal smart.

Yet under his shield he clasped once more

King Robert Bruce's heart.

* * * * *

GEORG HERWEGH

THE STIRRUP-CUP[49] (1840)

The anxious night is gone at last,

Silent and mute we gallop past

And ride to our destiny.

How keen the morning breezes blow!

Hostess, one glass more ere we go,

We go to die!

Thou soft young grass, why now so green?

Soon like the rose shall be thy sheen,

My blood thee red shall dye.

The first quick sip with sword in hand

I drink, a toast to our native land,

For our native land to die.

Now for the next, the time is short,

The next to Freedom, the queen we court,--

The fiery cup drain dry!

These dregs--to whom shall we dedicate?

To thee, Imperial German State,

For the German State to die!

My sweetheart!--But there's no more wine--

The bullets whistle, the lance heads shine--

To her the glass where the fragments lie!

Up! Like a whirlwind into the fray!

O horseman's joy, at the break of day,

At the break of day to die!

[Illustration: GEORG HERWEGH]

* * * * *

EMANUEL GEIBEL

THE WATCHMAN'S SONG[50] (1840)

Wake--awake! The cry rings out;

From the high watch-tower comes the shout.

Awake, imperial German land--

Ye by distant Danube dwelling,

And where the infant Rhine is swelling,

And where the bleak dunes pile their sand!

For hearth and home keep watch,

Sword from its scabbard snatch;

Every hour

For bitter fight

Prepare aright--

The day of combat is in sight!

Hear in the East the ominous cry

That tells a greedy foe draws nigh--

The vulture, thirsting for the strife.

Hear in the west the serpent's hiss

Whose siren-fangs are set for this,

To poison all your virtuous life.

Near is the vulture's swoop;

The serpent coils to stoop

For the stroke;

Then watch and pray

Until the day--

Your swords be sharpened for the fray!

Pure in life, in faith as strong,

Let no man do your courage wrong;

Be one, what time the trump shall sound.

Cleanse your souls by fervent prayer,

That so the Lord may find them fair

When He shall make His questioning round,

The Cross be still your pride,

Your banner and your guide

In the battle!

Who in the field

Their fealty yield

To God, victorious weapons wield.

Look Thou down from heaven above,

Thou Whom the angels praise and love--

Be gracious to our German land!

Speak from the clouds with thunder-voice;

Princes and people of Thy choice,

Unite them with a mighty hand.

Be Thou our fortress-tower,

Bring us through danger's hour.

Hallelujah!

Thine is today

And shall alway

Kingdom, and power, and glory stay!

* * * * *

[Illustration: E. HADER EMANUEL GEIBEL]

THE CALL OF THE ROAD[51] (1841)

Sweet May it is come, and the trees are in bloom--

Who wills may sit listless with sorrow at home!

As the clouds go a-roving up there in the sky,

So away for a life of adventure am I!

Kind father, dear mother, God be with you now!

Who knows what my fortune is waiting to show?

There is many a road that I never have gone,

There is many a wine that I never have known.

Then up with the sun, and away where it leads,

High over the mountains and down through the meads!

The brooks they are singing, the trees hear the call;

My heart's like a lark and sings out with them all.

And at night, when I come to a cozy old nest,

"Mine host, now a bottle--and make it your best!

And you, merry fiddler, tune up for a song,

A song of my sweetheart--I'll help it along!"

If I come to no inn, then my slumber I'll snatch

'Neath the kindly blue sky, with the stars to keep watch.

The trees with their rustling will lull me to sleep;

Dawn's kisses will wake me, and up I shall leap.

Then ho! for the road, and the life that I love,

And God's pure air to cool your hot brow as you rove.

The heart sings for joy in the sun's merry beams--

All, wherefore so lovely, wide world of my dreams?

* * * * *

AUTUMN DAYS[52] (1845)

Sunny days of the autumn,

Days that shall make me whole,

When a balm for wounds that were bleeding

Drops silently on the soul!

Now seem the hours to be brooding

In still, beneficent rest,

And with a quieter motion

Heaves now the laboring breast.

To rest from the world's endeavor,

To build on the soul's deep base--

That is my only craving,

In the stillness of love to gaze.

O'er the hills, through the dales I wander,

Where the shy sweet streamlets call,

Following each clear sunbeam,

Whether scorching or kind it fall.

There where the leaves are turning,

I harken with reverent ear;

All that is growing or dying,

Fading or blooming, I hear.

Blissful I learn my lesson--

How through the world's wide sweep

Matter and spirit together

Their concord eternal keep.

What blows in the rustling forest,

Takes life from the sun and rain,

Is a symbol of truth immortal

To the soul that can read it plain.

Each tiniest plant that blossoms

With the perfume of its birth

Holds in its cup the secret

Of the whole mysterious earth.

It looks down from the cliffs in silence,

Speaks in the waves' long swell--

But all its wonderful meaning

The poet alone can tell.

* * * * *

[Illustration: LUDWIG RICHTER JOURNEYING]

THE DEATH OF TIBERIUS[53] (1856?)

On Cape Misenum shone a palace fair

Among the laurels by the summer sea;

Long colonnades, and wondrous artistry,

And all that should a gorgeous feast prepare.

Oft saw it scenes of midnight revelry

Where moved soft boys, their brows with ivy crowned,

And silver-footed damsels, capering round,

The thyrsus swung; with merry shouts of glee

And rippling laughter, and the lyre's soft tone,

It rang till fell the dew, and night was gone.

Tonight, how still! But here and there is traced

A lighted window; in the shadowy space

About the doors, slaves throng with awestruck face.

Litters draw nigh, and men spring out in haste;

And as each comes, a question runs its round

Through all the quivering circle of the spies

"What says the leech? How goes it?" Hush--no sound!

The end is near--the fierce old tiger dies!

Up there on purple cushion, in the light

Of flickering lamps, pale Cæsar waits for morn;

His sallow face, by hideous ulcers torn,

Looks ghastlier than was e'er its wont tonight;

Hollow the eyes; the fire of fell disease

And burning fever runs through every limb;

None but the aged leech abides with him,

And Macro, trusted bearer of the keys.

And now, with stifled cry, by fears oppressed,

The sick man feebly throws his coverings off

"Let me, O Greek, a cooling potion quaff!

Ice--ice! Vesuvius burns within my breast.

Gods! how it flames! Yet in my anguished brain

The torturing thoughts burn fiercer far, and worse ...

A thousand times their tireless strength I curse,

Yet cannot find refreshment. 'Tis in vain

I cry for Lethe; where the frankincense

Sends up its smoke, from all the ancient wars

The victims lift their faces, seamed with scars,

In grim reproachful gaze to call me hence.

Germanicus--Sejanus--Drusus rise ...

Who brought you hither? Has the grave no bars?

Ah, 'tis past bearing, how with corpse-cold eyes

Ye suck the life-blood from me pitilessly!

I know I slew you--but it had to be.

Was it my fault ye threw the losing dice?

Away! Alas--when ends my misery?"

The grave physician held the cup; he drank

Its cooling at a draught, then feebly sank

Among the pillows, still with wandering eye

About the chamber, from his forehead dank

Wiping the dews: "They're gone? No more they try

To fright me? Ah, perchance 'twas but the mist ...

Yet often have they come, by night--in what dread guise

None knows but I ... Come, sit thee near me ... hist!

And let me tell of dim old memories.

"I too was young once, trusted in my star,

Had faith in men; but all the glamour of youth

Vanished too soon--and, piercing to the truth,

I found some evil each fair show to mar.

No thing I saw so high and free from blame

But worms were at its heart; each noble deed

Revealed self-seeking as its primal seed.

Love, honor, virtue--each was but a name!

Naught marked us off, vile creatures of the dust,

From ravening brutes, save on the smiling face

A honeyed falseness--in the heart so base

A craven weakness and a fiercer lust.

Where was a friend had not his friend betrayed

A brother guiltless of a brother's death,

A wife that hid no poisoned sting beneath

A fond embrace? Of one clay all were made!

Thus I became as they. Since only fear

Could tame that crew, I bade its form draw near.

It was a war I waged; I found a joy

Undreamed-of in their death-cries, and in blood

Full ankle-deep I waded--victor stood,

To find at last that horror too could cloy!

Now, grimly bearing what I may not mend,

Remorseless, unconsoled, I wait the end."

His dull voice sank to silence. Moaning low,

He met new pains: cold sweat stood on his brow.

In fearsome change his face the watchers saw

Grow like some hideous mask; till Macro came

Nearer the throne-like couch, and spoke a name

"Shall I thy nephew call--Caligula?

Thy sickness waxes--"

Hissed the prince in scorn:

"My curse upon thee, viper! What to thee

Is Caius? Still I live! And he was born

To ape the others--lies, greed, roguery,

And aught but manhood. If he had, 'twere vain;

No hero now Rome's downfall may restrain.

If gods there were, upon this ruined soil

No god could bring forth fruit; but that weak lad!

Nay, nay, not him--the spirits stern and sad

That dog my steps and mock at all my coil,

The Furies of the abyss that drive me mad,

Them--them and chaos--leave I of my toil

The heritage. For them the sceptre!"

So

Up leaped he as he was, dire agony

Twisting his features, from the window high

Tore back the curtain, cast with frenzied throw

The wand of empire far into the night--

Then, senseless, crumbled.

In the court below

A soldier stood at guard--a man of might,

Fair-haired and long of limb. Straight to his feet

It rolled, the rounded ivory, and upsprang

From off the polished marble with a clang

That seemed to say 'twas minded him to greet.

He took it up, unknowing what it meant;

And soon his thoughts pursued their former bent.

Of far-off, sombre German woods he dreamed;

He saw the waving tree-tops of the north,

He saw the comrades to their tryst go forth.

Each word true as their own sharp weapons seemed,

As much for friendship as for war their worth.

Then thought he of his wife; he saw her sit

In all the glory of her golden hair

Before their hut, whirling the spindle there

Send forth her thoughts across the leagues to flit

And reach him here. In that same woodland shrine

A merry boy was carving his first spear,

His blue eyes flashing boldly in scorn of fear,

As though he said--"A sword--the world is mine!"

Then swift he saw another vision come

Unbidden, hide the pictures of his home,

Press on his soul with irresistible might--

How once, far in the East, he stood to guard

The cross where hung a Man with visage marred--

And at His death the sun was plunged in night.

Long since, that day had faded in the West;

Yet could he ne'er the Sufferer's look forget--

The deep abyss of infinite sorrow, and yet

The fulness of all blessing it expressed.

Now (what could this portend?) to his old home

He saw that cross a conquering symbol come;

And lo, the assembled tribes of all his race

Innumerable moved, and o'er their host

On all their banners, as their proudest boast,

The same Man's image, a glory round His face ...

Sudden he started; from the halls above

Came harsh, quick shouts--the lord of the world was dead!

Awe struck the soldier stared where dawn hung red,

And saw the Future's mighty curtain move.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Permission Macmillan and Co., New York, and George Bell &

Sons, Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 2: Or in Goethe:

"Zuschlagen kann die Masse,

Da ist sie respektabel;

Urteilen gelingt ihr miserabel."]

[Footnote 3: _The Dial_, Vol. II, No. 1.]

[Footnote 4: Cf. _Fanny Tarnow_ (1835), Z. Funck (1836), and _Otto

Berdrow_, 2d Edition, 1902, p. 338 seq.]

[Footnote 5: This is Rahel's expression, the tribute of admiration

forced from the childless woman fresh from the Berlin salons, by the

spectacle of Bettina romping with her children in the nursery.]

[Footnote 6: Cf. Herman Grimm, _Briefwechsel_, 3 Aug. 1881, s. XVII:

"For her circle of relatives and friends in the descending line, Bettina

has remained a near relative of a higher order."]

[Footnote 7: James Freeman Clarke's estimate of Margaret Fuller and her

influence (_Memoirs_, I, 97) supplies interesting, though not specific

confirmation of the point of view here suggested.]

[Footnote 8: In his _Aristeia der Mutter_. Werke, Weimarer Ausgabe, Bd.

29, ss. 231-238, Goethe acknowledged Bettina's faithfulness and complete

credibility for these details. Cf. also Reinhold Steig, _Achim von Arnim

and Clemens Brentano_, Stuttgart, 1894, s. 379.]

[Footnote 9: Translator's Preface to _Eckermann's Conversations with

Goethe_.]

[Footnote 10: According to the investigations of R. Steig, _Achim von

Arnim and Clemens Brentano_ (1894), Bettina was born in the year 1788.

Internal evidence is at hand to support this view. Bettina herself

stated (_Briefwechsel_, 538) that she was sixteen when her enthusiasm

for Goethe first manifested itself as an elemental force. From another

passage we learn that this was three years before her first meeting with

the poet in 1807, "in the heyday between childhood and maidenhood." The

"Child" of the first letters of the Correspondence was, accordingly,

just nineteen. German authorities have accepted 1788 as Bettina's

birth-year, but English publications, including the Encyclopædia

Britannica (1911) still cling to 1785, the old date. Herman Grimm's

account of Bettina's interests at threescore (_Briefwechsel_, XIX, f.)

reveals the same preoccupation with Goethe, Shakespeare, and Beethoven.

She died in the year 1859.]

[Footnote 11: A mountain range between the Neckar and Main rivers.]

[Footnote 12: The reference is to the _Elective Affinities_ of Goethe,

in which Edward, the husband of Charlotte, is obsessed with a passion

for the latter's foster-daughter, Ottilie, which results in the death of

the two lovers.]

[Footnote 13: Ottilie in _Elective Affinities_.]

[Footnote 14: From _Spaziergaenge eines Wiener Poeten_. Translator:

Sarah T. Barrows.]

[Footnote 15: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 16: Translator: Kate Freiligrath Kroeker. (From _A Century of

German Lyrics_.)]

[Footnote 17: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 18: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 19: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 20: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 21: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 22: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 23: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 24: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 25: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 26: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 27: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 28: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 29: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 30: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 31: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 32: _Invocation to Calliope_, Bk. III, Ode IV.]

[Footnote 33: The friend and patron of Haydn, to whose support and

interest we owe many works of art.]

[Footnote 34: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 35: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 36: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 37: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 38: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 39: Translator: M.G. in _Chambers' Journal_. Permission

Bernhard Tauchnitz, Leipzig.]

[Footnote 40: Translator: C.T. Brooks. Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz,

Leipzig.]

[Footnote 41: Translator: J.C. Mangan. Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz,

Leipzig.]

[Footnote 42: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 43: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 44: Translator: Bayard Taylor. Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz,

Leipzig.]

[Footnote 45: _Pall Mall Gazette_, London. Permission Bernhard

Tauchnitz, Leipzig.]

[Footnote 46: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission Bernhard

Tauchnitz, Leipzig.]

[Footnote 47: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 48: Translator: William G. Howard.]

[Footnote 49: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 50: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 51: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman]

[Footnote 52: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 53: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]