CHAPTER IX.

At evening some guests were present; the grandfather drank the health

of the young bridal pair, and promised to give them soon a splendid

marriage feast. "Of what use is long waiting?" said the old man. "Early

marriages make long love. I have always observed that marriages early

contracted were the happiest. In latter years there is no longer such a

devotion in the marriage relation as in youth. Youth, enjoyed in

common, forms an inseparable tie. Memory is the safest ground of love."

After the meal more people came in. Henry asked his new father to

fulfil his promise. Klingsohr said to the company, "I have promised

Henry to-day to relate a tale. If it would please you I am ready to do

so."

"That was a wise idea of Henry's," said Swaning. "We have heard nothing

from you for a long time."

All seated themselves by the fire, which was sparkling on the hearth.

Henry sat by Matilda, and stole his arm around her. Klingsohr began.

"The long night had just set in. The old hero struck his shield, so

that it resounded far through the solitary streets of the city. Thrice

he repeated the signal. Then the lofty, many-colored windows of the

palace began to shed abroad their light, and their figures were put in

motion. They moved the more quickly, as the ruddy stream which began to

illumine the streets became stronger. Also by degrees the immense

pillars and walls began to shine. At length they stood in the purest

milk-blue glimmer, and flickered with the softest colors. The whole

region was now visible, and the reflection of the figures, the clashing

of the spears, swords, shields, and helmets, which bowed from all sides

towards crowns appearing here and there, and finally closed round a

simple green garland in a wide circle, as the crowns vanished before

it; all this was reflected from the frozen sea that surrounded the hill

on which the city stood,--and even the far distant mountain range,

which girdled the sea, was half enwrapped with a mildly reflected

splendor. Nothing could be plainly distinguished; yet a strange sound

was heard, as if from an immense workshop in the distance. The city, on

the contrary, was light and clear. Its smooth transparent walls

reflected the beautiful beams; and the perfect symmetry, the noble

style, and fine arrangement of all the buildings were well defined.

Before every window stood earthern pots with ornaments, full of every

variety of ice and snow flowers, which sparkled most brilliantly.

"But fairest of all appeared the garden upon the great square in front

of the palace, consisting of metal plants and crystal trees, hung with

varied jewel-blossoms and fruits. The manifold and delicate shapes, the

lively lights and colors, formed a lordly spectacle, made still more

magnificent by a lofty fountain, frozen in the midst of the garden. The

old hero walked slowly past the palace doors. A voice from within

called his name. He turned towards the door, which opened with a gentle

sound, and stepped into the hall. His shield was held before his eyes.

"'Hast thou yet discovered nothing,' plaintively cried the beautiful

daughter of Arcturus. She lay on silken cushions, upon a throne

artfully fashioned from a huge pyrite-crystal, and some maidens were

assiduously chafing her tender limbs, which seemed a rare union of milk

and purple. On all sides streamed from beneath the hands of the maidens

that charming light, which so wondrously illuminated the palace. A

perfumed breeze was waving through the hall. The hero was silent.

"'Let me touch thy shield,' said she softly.

"He approached the throne and stepped upon the costly carpet. She

seized his hand, pressed it with tenderness to her heavenly bosom, and

touched his shield. His armor resounded, and a penetrating force

inspired his frame. His eyes flashed, and the heart beat loudly against

his breastplate. The beautiful Freya appeared more serene, and the

light that streamed from her became more brilliant.

"'The king is coming,' cried a splendid bird that was perched behind

the throne. The attendants threw an azure veil over the princess, which

concealed her heaving bosom. The hero lowered his shield, and looked

upward to the dome, whither two broad staircases wound from each side

of the hall. Soft music preceded the king, who soon appeared in the

dome, and descended with a numerous train.

"The beautiful bird unfolded its shining wings, and gently fluttering,

sang to the king as with a thousand voices:

"The stranger fair delay no longer maketh.

Warmth draweth near, Eternity begins.

From long and tedious dreams the Queen awaketh,

When land in eddying love with ocean spins.

Her farewell hence the chilly midnight taketh,

When Fable first the ancient title wins.

The world will kindle upon Freya's breast,

And every longing in its longing rest."

The King embraced his daughter with tenderness. The spirits of the

stars surrounded the throne, and the hero took his place in the order.

A numerous crowd of stars filled the hall in splendid groups. The

attendants brought a table and a little casket, containing a heap of

leaves, upon which were inscribed mystic figures of deep significance,

constructed of constellations. The king reverently kissed these leaves,

mixed them carefully together, and handed some to his daughter; the

rest he kept. The princess placed them in a row upon the table; then

the king closely examined his own, and chose with much reflection

before he added one to them. At times he seemed forced to choose this

or that leaf. But often his joy was evident, when he could complete by

a lucky leaf a beautiful harmony of signs and figures. As the play

commenced, tokens of the liveliest sympathy were visible among all the

by-standers, accompanied by peculiar looks and gestures, as if each one

had an invisible instrument in his hands which he plied diligently. At

the same time a gentle but deeply moving music was heard in the air,

seeming to arise from the stars gliding past each other in a wondrous

motion, and from the other movements so peculiar. The stars floated

round, now slowly, now quickly, in continually changing lines, and

curiously imitated, to the swell of the music, the figures on the

leaves. The music changed incessantly with the images upon the table;

and though the transitions were often strange and intricate, yet a

simple theme seemed to unite the whole. With incredible adroitness the

stars flew together according to the images. Now in great confusion,

but now again beautifully arranged in single clusters, and now the long

train was suddenly scattered, like a ray, into innumerable sparks, but

soon came together, through smaller circles and patterns ever

increasing, into one great figure of surprising beauty. The varied

shapes in the windows remained all this time at rest. The bird

unceasingly ruffled its costly plumage in every variety of form.

Hitherto the old hero had also pursued an unseen occupation, when

suddenly the king full of joy exclaimed, "all is well. Iron, throw thy

sword into the world, that it may know where peace rests."

The hero snatched the sword from his thigh, raised it with the point to

heaven, and hurled it from the window over the city and the icy sea. It

flew through the air like a comet, and seemed to penetrate the mountain

chain with a clear report, as it fell downward in brilliant flakes of

fire.

At this time the beautiful child Eros lay in his cradle and slumbered

gently, whilst Ginnistan his nurse rocked him, and held out her breast

to his foster-sister Fable. She had spread her variegated wimple over

the cradle, so that the bright lamp which stood before the scribe might

not trouble the child. Busily he wrote, at times looking morosely at

the children, and gloomily towards the nurse, who smiled upon him

kindly and kept silence.

The father of the children walked in and out continually, at each turn

gazing upon them, and greeting Ginnistan kindly. He always had

something to dictate to the scribe. The latter observed his words

exactly, and when he had written, handed them to an aged and venerable

woman, who was leaning on an altar, where stood a dark bowl of clear

water, into which she looked with serene smiles. When she dipped the

leaves in the water, and found on withdrawing them, that some of the

writing remained still glittering, she gave them to the scribe, who

fastened them in a great book, and seemed much out of humor when his

labor had been in vain, and all the writing had been obliterated. The

woman turned at times towards Ginnistan and the children, and dipping

her finger in the bowl, sprinkled some drops upon them, which, as soon

as they touched the nurse, the child, or the cradle, dissolved into a

blue vapor, exhibiting a thousand strange images, and floating and

changing constantly around them. If one of these by chance touched the

scribe, many figures and geometrical diagrams fell down, which he

strung with much diligence upon a thread, and hung them for an ornament

around his meagre neck. The child's mother, who was sweetness and

loveliness itself, often came in. She seemed to be constantly occupied,

always carrying with her some domestic utensil. If the prying scribe

observed it, he began a long reproof, of which no one took any notice.

All seemed accustomed to his fruitless fault-finding. The mother

sometimes gave the breast to little Fable, but was soon called away,

and Ginnistan took the child back again, for it seemed to love her

best. Suddenly the father brought in a small slender rod of iron, which

he had found in the court. The scribe looked at it, twirled it round

quickly, and soon discovered, that being suspended from the middle by a

thread, it turned of itself to the north. Ginnistan also took it in her

hand, bent it, pressed it, breathed upon it, and soon gave it the form

of a serpent biting, its own tail. The scribe was soon weary of looking

at it. He wrote down everything that had occurred, and was very diffuse

about the utility of such a discovery. But how vexed was he when all he

had written did not stand the proof, and when the paper came blank from

the bowl. The nurse continued to play with it. She chanced to touch

with it the cradle; the child awoke, threw off his covering, and

holding one hand towards the light, reached after the serpent with the

other. As soon as he received it, he leaped so quickly from the cradle

that Ginnistan was frightened, and the scribe fell nearly out of his

chair from wonder; the child stood in the chamber, covered only by his

long golden hair, and gazed with speechless joy upon the prize, which

pointed in his hands, towards the North, and seemed to awake within him

deep emotion. He grew visibly.

"Sophia," said he with a touching voice to the woman, "let me drink

from the bowl."

She gave it him without delay, and he could not cease drinking; yet the

bowl continued full. At last he returned it, while embracing the good

woman heartily. He pressed Ginnistan to his heart, and asked her for

the variegated cloth, which he bound becomingly around his thigh. He

took little Fable in his arms. She appeared greatly to delight in him,

and began to prattle. Ginnistan devoted all her attention to him. She

looked exceedingly charming and gay, and pressed him to herself with

the tenderness of a bride. She led him with whispered words to the

chamber door, but Sophia nodded earnestly and pointed to the serpent.

Just then the mother entered, to whom he immediately flew, and with

warm tears welcomed her. The scribe had departed in anger. The father

entered: and as he saw mother and son in silent embrace, he approached

the charming Ginnistan behind them and caressed her. Sophia ascended

the stairs. Little Fable took the scribe's pen and began to write.

Mother and son were deeply engaged in conversation. The father availed

himself of the opportunity, and lavished many a tender word and look

upon Ginnistan, who returned them willingly; and in their sweet

interchange of love, both the presence or absence of any was forgotten.

After some time Sophia returned, and the scribe entered. He drove

little Fable with many rebukes from his seat, and took a long time to

put his things in order. He handed to Sophia the leaves that Fable had

written over, that they might be returned clean; but his displeasure

was extreme, when Sophia drew the writing brilliant and uneffaced from

the bowl, and laid it before him. Fable clang to her mother, who took

her to her breast, and put the chamber in order, opened the windows for

the fresh air, and made preparations for a costly meal. A beautiful

landscape was visible from the windows, and a serene sky overarched the

earth. The father was busily employed in the court. When he was weary,

he looked up towards the window, where Ginnistan stood and threw to him

all sorts of sweetmeats. Mother and son went out in order to assist in

any manner, and to prepare for the resolution they had taken. The

scribe twitched his pen, and always made a wry face, when he was forced

to ask any information of Ginnistan, who had a good memory and

recollected everything that transpired. Eros soon returned, clad in

beautiful armor, round which the varigated cloth was wound like a

scarf. He asked Sophia's advice as to when and how he should commence

his journey. The scribe was very troublesome, and wanted to furnish him

with a complete traveller's guide, but his instructions were not

regarded.

"You can commence your journey immediately," said Sophia, "Ginnistan

can guide you. She knows the road and is acquainted everywhere. She

will take the form of your mother, that she may not lead you into

temptation. If you find the king, think of me; for then I shall soon

come to assist you."

Ginnistan exchanged forms with the mother, whereat the father seemed

much pleased. The scribe was rejoiced that they were both going away;

particularly when Ginnistan on taking leave presented him with a

pocket-book, in which the chronicles of the house were circumstantially

recorded. Yet the little Fable remained a thorn in his eye, and he

desired nothing more for his peace and content, than that she might

also be among the number of the travellers. Sophia pronounced a

blessing upon the two who knelt down before her, and gave them a vessel

full of water from the bowl. The mother was very sad. Little Fable,

would willingly have gone with them; the father was too much occupied

out of doors, to concern himself much about it. It was night when they

left, and the moon stood high in the sky.

"Dear Eros," said Ginnistan, "we must hasten, that we may come to my

father, who has not seen me for a long time, and has fought for me

anxiously everywhere upon earth. Do you not see his emaciated face?

Your testimony will cause him to recognise me in this strange form."

Love hies along in dusky ways,

The moon his only light;

The shadow-realm itself displays,

And all uncouthly dight.

An azure mist with golden rim

Around him floats in play,

And quickly Fancy hurries him

O'er stream and land away.

His teeming bosom beating is

In wondrous spirit-flow;

A presagement of future bliss

Bespeaks the ardent glow.

And Longing sat and wept aloud,

Nor knew that Love was near;

And deeper in her visage ploughed

The hopeless sorrow's tear.

The little snake remaineth true,

It pointeth to the North,

And both in trust and courage new

Their leader follow forth.

Love hieth through the hot Simoon,

And through the vapor-land,

Enters the halo of the moon,

The daughter in his hand.

He sat upon his silver throne,

Alone with his unrest;

When heareth he his daughter's tone,

And sinketh on her breast.

Eros stood deeply moved by their tender embrace. At length the

tottering old man collected himself and bade his guest welcome. He

seized his great horn and blew a mighty blast. The ringing echo

vibrated through the ancient castle. The pointed towers with their

shining balls, and the deep black roofs, trembled.

The castle stood firm, for it had settled upon the mountain from beyond

the deep sea.

Servants were gathering from every quarter; their peculiar forms and

dresses delighted Ginnistan infinitely, and did not frighten the brave

Eros. They first greeted her old acquaintances, and all appeared before

them in new strength, and in all the glory of their natures. The

impetuous spirit of the flood followed the gentle ebb. The old

hurricanes rested upon the beating breast of the hot, passionate

earthquake. The gentle showers looked around for the many-colored bow

which stood so pallid, far from the sun that most attracts it. The rude

thunder resounded through the play of the lightning, behind the

innumerable clouds which stood in a thousand charms, and allured the

fiery youth. The two sisters Morning and Evening were especially

delighted by their arrival. Tears of tenderness were mingled in their

embraces. Indescribable was the appearance of this wonderful court. The

old king could not gaze long enough upon his daughter. She was tenfold

happy in her father's castle, and could not grow weary of looking at

the well known wonders and rarities. Her joy was unspeakable, when the

king gave her the key to the treasure-chamber, and permission to

arrange there a spectacle for Eros, which could entertain him until the

signal for breaking up. The treasure-place was a large garden, the

variety and richness of which surpassed all description. Between the

immense cloud-trees lay innumerable air-castles of surprising

architecture, each succeeding one more costly than the others. Large

herds of little sheep with silver-white, golden, and rose-colored wool,

were wandering about, and the most singular animals enlivened the

grove. Remarkable pictures stood here and there, and the festive

processions, the strange carriages which met the eye on every side,

continually occupied the attention. The beds were filled with

many-colored flowers. The buildings were crowded with every species of

weapon, and furnished with the most beautiful carpets, tapestry,

curtains, drinking-cups, and all kinds of furniture and utensils

arranged in an endless order. From the hill they saw a romantic region

overspread with cities and castles, temples and sepulchres; every

delight of inhabited plains united to the fertile charms of the

wilderness and the mountain steep. The fairest colors were most happily

blended. The mountain peaks shone like pyramids of fire in their hoods

of ice and snow. The plain lay smiling in the freshest green. The

distance was arrayed in every shade of blue, and from the sombre bosom

of the sea waved countless pennons of varied hue from numerous fleets.

In the distance a shipwreck was to be seen; here in the foreground a

rustic cheerful meal of country people; there the terribly grand

eruption of a volcano, the desolating earthquake; and in front beneath

shady trees a loving couple in sweet caresses. Further on was a fearful

battle, and beyond it a theatre full of the most ludicrous masks. In

another spot of the foreground was a youthful corpse upon its bier, to

which an inconsolable lover clung, and the weeping parents at its side;

beyond was seen a lovely mother with her child at her breast, and

angels sitting at her feet, and gazing from the branches over head. The

series were continually shifting, and at last all flowed together into

one mysterious picture. Heaven and earth were in complete uproar. All

terrors had broken loose. A mighty voice cried, "to arms!" A terrible

host of skeletons, with black standards, rushed like a tempest from the

dark mountain, and attacked the life which was feasting merrily in

youthful bands among the open plains, anticipating no danger. Terrible

tumults arose, the earth trembled, the tempest howled, fearful meteors

lighted the gloom. With unheard of cruelty, the host of phantoms tore

the tender limbs of the living. A funeral pyre towered on high, and

amid shrieks which made the blood run cold, the children of life were

consumed by the flames. Suddenly a milk-blue stream broke on all sides

from the dark heap of ashes. The phantoms hastened to fly, but the

flood visibly swelled and swallowed up the detestable brood. Soon all

fear was allayed. Heaven and earth flowed together in sweet music. A

flower, wonderful in beauty, floated glittering upon the gentle

billows. A shining bow half circled the flood, and on both sides of it

sat celestial shapes on splendid thrones. Sophia sat highest with the

bowl in her hands, near a majestic man, whose locks were bound by a

garland of oak leaves, and who bore in his right hand a palm of peace

instead of a sceptre. A lily leaf bent over the chalice of the floating

flower. The little Fable sat upon it, and sang to the harp the sweetest

song. In the chalice sat Eros himself, bending over a beautiful,

slumbering maiden who held him fast embraced. A smaller blossom closed

around them both, so that from the thighs they seemed changed to a

flower.

Eros thanked Ginnistan with thousand fold rapture. He embraced her

tenderly, and she returned his caresses. Wearied by the fatigues of the

journey, and by the manifold objects he had seen, he longed for quiet

and rest. Ginnistan, who felt deeply attracted by the beautiful youth,

took good care not to mention the draught which Sophia had given him.

She led him to a retired bath, and removed his armor. Eros dipped

himself in the dangerous waves, and came out again in rapture.

Ginnistan chafed dry his strong limbs knit with youthful vigor. He

thought with ardent longing of his beloved, and embraced the charming

Ginnistan in sweet delusion. He surrendered himself carelessly to his

tenderness, and fell asleep on the fair bosom of his guide.

In the mean time a sad change had taken place at home. The scribe had

involved the domestics in a dangerous conspiracy. His fiendish mind had

long sought occasion to obtain possession of the government of the

house, and to shake off his yoke. Such an occasion he had found. His

party first seized the mother and put her in irons. The father also was

deprived of everything but bread and water. The little Fable heard the

noise in the chamber. She hid herself behind the altar; and observing

that there was a concealed door on its farther side, she opened it

quickly, and discovered a staircase leading from it. She closed the

door behind her, and descended the stairs in the dark. The scribe

rushed furiously into the chamber, in order to revenge himself on the

little Fable, and to take Sophia captive. Neither of them was to be

found. The bowl was also missing, and in his wrath he broke the altar

into a thousand pieces, without, however, discovering the secret

staircase.

Fable continued to descend for a considerable time. At length she

reached an open space adorned with splendid colonnades, and closed by a

great door. All objects there were dark. The air was like one immense

shadow; and a darkly beaming body stood in the sky. One could easily

distinguish objects, because each figure exhibited a peculiar shade of

black, and cast behind a pale glimmer; light and shade seemed to have

changed their respective offices. Fable rejoiced to find herself in a

new world. She regarded everything with childish curiosity. At length

she reached the door, before which upon a massive pedestal reclined a

beautiful Sphinx.

"What dost thou seek?" said the Sphinx.

"My possession," replied Fable.

"Whence comest thou hither?"

"From olden times."

"Thou art yet a child."

"And will be a child forever."

"Who wilt assist thee?"

"I will assist myself. Where are my sisters?" asked Fable.

"Everywhere, and yet nowhere," answered the Sphinx.

"Dost thou know me?"

"Not as yet."

"Where is Love?"

"In the imagination."

"And Sophia?"

The Sphinx murmured inaudibly to itself, and rustled its wings.

"Sophia and Love!" cried Fable triumphantly, and passed the door. She

stepped into an immense cave, and joyfully reached the aged sisters,

who were pursuing their wonderful occupation, by the poor light of a

dimly burning lamp. They seemed not to notice their little guest, who

busily hovered around them with artless caresses. At last one of them

with a crabbed face roughly rebuked her.

"What wouldst thou here, idler? Who has admitted thee? Thy childish

steps disturb the quiet flame. The oil is burning to waste. Canst thou

not be seated, and occupy thyself usefully?"

"Beautiful aunt," said Fable, "I am no idler. But I cannot help

laughing at your door-keeper. She would have taken me to her breast;

but seemed to have eaten too much to rise. Let me sit before the door,

and give me something to spin. I cannot see well here; and when I am

spinning I must be suffered to sing and talk, which might disturb your

serious cogitations."

"Thou shalt not go outside; but through a cleft of the rock a beam from

the upper world pierces into a side-chamber, there thou mayest spin if

thou knowest how. Here lie great heaps of old ends, spin them together.

But have a care; for if thou spin lazily or break the threads, they

will wind round and choke thee."

The old woman laughed maliciously and resumed her labor. Fable gathered

up an armful of the threads, took distaff and spindle, and tripped

singing into the chamber. She looked out through the cleft, and saw the

constellation of Phoenix. Rejoicing at the happy omen, she began to

spin industriously, leaving the chamber door ajar, and sang in subdued

tones:--

Within your cells awaken,

Children of olden time;

Be every bed forsaken,

The morn begins to climb.

Your threadlets I am weaving

Into a single thread:

In _one_ life be ye cleaving,--

The times of strife are sped.

Each one in all is living,

And all in each beside;

_One_ heart its pulses giving.

From _one_ impelling tide.

Yet spirits only are ye.

But dream and witchery.

Into the cavern fare ye,

And vex the holy Three.

The spindle turned with incredible velocity between her little feet,

while she twisted the thread with both her hands. During the song,

innumerable little lights became visible, which passed through the

chink of the door, and spread through the cave in hideous masks. The

elders continued spinning gloomily, and in expectation of the cries of

distress of little Fable. But how terrified were they when a horrible

nose appeared over their shoulders, and when upon looking around they

beheld the whole cave filled with fearful forms, engaged in a thousand

fantastic tricks. They shrunk together, howled with frightful voices,

and would have turned to stone through fear, had not the scribe entered

the cave bearing with him a mandrake root. The lights concealed

themselves in the rocky cleft, and the cave became entirely

illuminated, while the black lamp was extinguished, having been

overturned in the confusion. The old hags were glad when they heard the

scribe approaching; but were full of wrath against the little Fable.

They called her forth, rebuked her terribly, and forbade her spinning

longer. The scribe smiled grimly; because he supposed that now the

little Fable was in his power, and said,

"It is good that thou art here, and art kept employed. I hope that thou

receivest thy share of punishment. Thy good spirit has guided me

hither. I wish thee a long life and many pleasures."

"I thank thee for thy good will," said Fable; "lo, what a good age is

approaching thee. The hourglass and sickle only are wanting to make

thee like in looks to the brother of my beautiful aunts. If thou

needest quills, only pluck a handful of soft down from their cheeks."

The scribe threatened to attack her. She smiled and said,

"If thy beautiful locks and spiritual eyes are dear to thee, beware!

think of my nails, thou hast not much more to loose."

He turned with stifled rage towards the old women, who were rubbing

their eyes, and searching for their distaffs. They could not find them

because the lamp was extinguished; but they vented their rage against

Fable.

"Do let her go," said he spitefully, "that she may catch tarantulas to

prepare your oil. I will tell you for your consolation that Eros is

restlessly on the wing, and by his industry will keep your scissors

busy. His mother, who has so often compelled you to spin the lengthened

threads, will become a prey to the flames to-morrow."

He laughed with joy, when he saw that Fable wept at this news, and

giving a piece of the root to the old people, departed chuckling. The

sisters, though supplied with oil, angrily ordered Fable to go in

search of tarantulas, and Fable hastened away. She pretended to open

the door, slammed it noisily, and crept stealthily to the back of the

cave, where a ladder was hanging down. She ascended quickly, and soon

came to an aperture, which opened into the apartment of Arcturus.

The king sat surrounded by his counsellors when Fable appeared. The

Northern Crown adorned his head. He held the lily in his left hand, the

balance in his right. The eagle and the lion sat at his feet.

"Monarch," said Fable, bending reverently before him, "Hail to thine

eternal throne! Joyful news for thy wounded heart! An early return of

wisdom! Awakening to eternal peace! Rest to the restless love!

Glorification of the heart! Life to antiquity and form to the future!"

The king touched her open forehead with the lily, "Whatever thou

demandest shall be granted thee."

"Three times shall I petition, and when I come the fourth time, Love

will be before the door. Now give me the lyre."

"Eridanus," cried the king, "bring the lyre hither."

Eridanus streamed forth murmuring from his concealment, and Fable

snatched the lyre from his boiling flood.

Fable played a few prophetic strains. She sipped from the cup which the

king ordered to be handed her, and hastened away with many thanks. She

glided with a sweet, elastic motion over the icy sea, drawing joyful

music from the strings.

The ice resounded melodiously beneath her step. She fancied the voices

of the rocks of sorrow were the voices of her children seeking her, and

she answered in a thousand echoes.

Fable soon reached the shore. She met her mother who appeared wasted

and pale; she had grown thin and sad, and her noble features revealed

the traces of a hopeless sorrow and of touching constancy.

"What has happened to thee, dear mother?" asked Fable; "thou seemest to

me entirely changed; I should not know thee except by internal signs. I

hoped once more to refresh myself at thy breast; I have pined after

thee for a long time."

Ginnistan caressed her tenderly, and became calm and serene.

"I thought from the first," said she, "that the scribe would not take

thee captive. It refreshes me to see thee. Poor and pinched are my

affairs now; but I console myself with hoping that it will soon end.

Perhaps I am about to have a moment of rest. Eros is near; and when he

sees thee and thou speakest with him, he may tarry some time. In the

mean time come to my bosom. I will give thee what I have."

She took Fable upon her lap, proffered her breast, and while smiling

upon the little one who was enjoying her feast, continued, "I am myself

the cause that Eros has become so wild and inconstant. But yet I repent

it not, for those hours have made me immortal. I believe that his fiery

caresses have strangely transformed him. Long, silver-white wings

covered his glittering shoulders, and the charming fulness of his form.

The strength, which swelling forth had so suddenly changed him from a

youth to a man, seemed entirely to have withdrawn into his wings, and

he had become again a boy. The silent glow of his face became like the

dazzling fire of a will-o'-the-wisp, his holy seriousness had changed

to dissembled roguishness, the significant calm to childish

irresolution, the noble carriage to a droll agility. I felt

irresistibly attracted to the wanton boy by an ardent passion, and

suffered with pain his sneering scorn, and his indifference to my most

touching prayers. I perceived that my form was changed. My careless

serenity had fled, and its place filled with sorrowful anxiety and

shrinking timidity. I would have hidden myself with Eros from all eyes.

I had not the heart to meet his offending eye, and was overwhelmed with

shame and humility. I had no thoughts but for him; and would have given

my life to free him from his wantonness. Deeply as he had hurt my

feelings, I was compelled to worship him.

"Since the time when he discovered himself and escaped me, I have

continually been in pursuit of him, though I have conjured him

touchingly and with hot tears to remain with me. He seems really intent

on persecuting me. As often as I reach him, he flies away again. On

every side his bow deals destruction. I have nought to do but to

console the unhappy, and yet I myself need consolation. The voices of

those who call me point out to me his path, and their mournful

complaints, when I am compelled to leave them, deeply cut my heart. The

scribe pursues us in a terrible rage, and revenges himself upon the

poor wounded ones. The fruit of that mysterious night was a multitude

of strange children, who look like their grandfather, and are named

after him. Being winged like their father, they ever accompany him, to

torment the poor ones whom his arrow wounds. But there comes the

joyous procession. I must away. Farewell, sweet child. His presence

excites my passion. Be happy in thy designs."

Eros passed on without Ginnistan, who hastened near him, beseeching but

one look of tenderness. But he turned kindly towards Fable, and his

little companions danced joyously around her. Fable was glad to see her

foster-brother again, and sang a merry song to her lyre. Eros seemed as

if desiring to recall some recollections of the past, and let fall his

bow upon the ground. Ginnistan could now embrace him, and he suffered

her tender caresses. At last Eros began to nod; he clung to Ginnistan's

bosom and fell asleep, spreading over her his wings. The weary

Ginnistan full of rejoicing turned not her eye from the graceful

sleeper. During the song, tarantulas came forth from all sides, which

drew a shining net over the blades of grass, and with sprightly

movements accompanied the music upon the threads. Fable now consoled

her mother, and promised to her speedy assistance. From the rocks fell

back the soft echo of the music, and lulled the sleeper. From the

carefully preserved vessel Ginnistan sprinkled some drops into the air,

and the most delightful dreams descended upon them. Fable took the

vessel and continued her journey. Her strings never were at rest, and

the tarantulas followed the enchanting sounds upon their fast-woven

threads.

She soon saw from afar the lofty flame of a funeral pile, which rose

high above the green forest. Mournfully she gazed towards heaven; yet

rejoiced when she saw Sophia's blue veil which was waving over the

earth, forever covering the unsightly tomb. The sun stood in heaven,

fiery-red with rage. The powerful flame imbibed its stolen light; and

the more fiercely the sun strove to preserve itself, ever more pale and

spotted it became. The flame grew whiter and more intense, as the sun

faded. It attracted the light more and more strongly; the glory around

the star of day was soon consumed, and it stood there a pale,

glimmering disk, every new agitation of spite and rage aiding the

escape of the flying light-waves. Finally, nought of the sun remained

but a black, exhausted dross, which fell into the sea. The splendor of

the flame was beyond description. It slowly ascended, and bore towards

the North. Fable entered the court, which was desolate; the house had

fallen. Briars were growing in the crevices of the window frames, and

vermin of every kind were creeping about on the broken staircase. She

heard a terrible noise in the chamber; the scribe and his associates

had been devoting her mother to the flames, but had been greatly

terrified by the sudden destruction of the sun.

They had in vain struggled to extinguish the flame, and had not escaped

unhurt. They vented their pain and anxiety in fearful curses and

wailings. But more terrified were they, when Fable entered the chamber,

and rushed upon them with a furious cry, letting her anger loose upon

them. She stepped behind the cradle, and her pursuers rushed madly into

the web of the tarantulas, which revenged themselves by a thousand

wounds. The whole crowd commenced a frantic dance, to which Fable

played a merry tune. With much laughter at their ludicrous

performances, she approached the fragments of the altar, and cleared

them away, in order to find the hidden staircase, which she descended

with her train of tarantulas.

The Sphinx asked, "what comes more suddenly than the lightning?"

"Revenge," said Fable.

"What is most transient?"

"Wrongful possession."

"Who knows the world?"

"He who knows himself."

"What is the eternal mystery?"

"Love."

"With whom does it rest?"

"With Sophia."

The Sphinx bowed herself mournfully, and Fable entered the cave.

"Here I bring you tarantulas," said she to the old sisters, who again

had lighted their lamp and were busily employed. They were overwhelmed

with fear, and one of them rushed upon her with the shears to murder

her. Unwarily she stepped upon a tarantula, which stung her in the

foot. She cried piteously; the others came to her assistance, and were

likewise stung by the irritated reptiles. They could not now attack

Fable, and danced wildly about.

"Spin directly for us," cried they angrily to the little one, "some

light dancing dresses. We cannot move in this stiff raiment, and are

nearly melted with heat. Thou must soak the thread in spider's juice

that it may not break, and interweave flowers, which have grown in

fire; otherwise thou shalt die."

"Right willingly," said Fable, and retired to the side-chamber.

"I will get you three fine large flies," said she to the spiders, which

had fixed their airy web about the ceiling and the walls; "but you must

spin for me immediately three beautiful light dresses. I will bring you

directly the flowers which must be worked upon them."

The spiders were ready and began to weave busily. Fable glided up the

ladder, and proceeded to Arcturus.

"Monarch," said she, "the wicked dance, the good rest. Has the flame

arrived?"

"It has come," said the King. "Night is passed and the ice melts. My

spouse appears in the distance. My enemy is overwhelmed. All things

begin to exist. As yet I do not dare to show myself, for I am not alone

King. Ask what thou wilt."

"I need," said Fable, "some flowers that have grown in fire. I know

thou hast a skilful gardener, who understands rearing them."

"Zinc," cried the King, "give us flowers."

The flower gardener stepped from the ranks, bringing at vessel full of

fire, and sowed shining seeds therein. Soon flowers sprang up. Fable

gathered them in her apron, and returned. The spiders had been

industrious, and nothing more was needed but to attach the flowers,

which they immediately began to do with much taste and skill. Fable

took good care not to pull off the ends which were yet hanging to the

weavers.

She carried the dresses to the wearied dancers, who had sunk down

dripping with perspiration, and were taking a moment's breath after

their unwonted exertions. She dextrously undressed the haggard

beauties, who were not backward in scolding their little servant, and

put on the new dresses, which fitted excellently. While thus employed,

she praised the charms and lovely character of her mistresses, who

seemed really pleased with her flatteries, and the splendor of their

new appearance. Having in the mean time rested themselves, they

recommenced their mazy whirl, whilst they deceitfully promised little

Fable a long life and great rewards. Fable returned to the chamber, and

said to the spiders, "you can now eat in peace the flies which I have

brought to your web."

The spiders were soon impatient at being pulled back and forth by the

distracted movements of the dancers, for the ends of the threads were

still in them. They therefore ran out and attacked the dancers, who

would have defended themselves with the shears, had not Fable quietly

removed them. They therefore submitted to their hungry companions; who

for a long time had not tasted so rich a feast, and who sucked them to

the marrow. Fable looked out from the cleft in the rock, and saw

Perseus with his great shield of iron. The shears flew to it, and Fable

asked him to trim with them the wings of Eros, and then with his shield

to immortalize the sisters, and finish the great work.

She now left the subterraneous kingdom, and flew rejoicing to

Arcturus's palace.

"The flax is spun. The lifeless are again unsouled. The living will

govern, the dead will shape and use. The Inmost is revealed, and the

Outermost is hidden. The curtain will soon be lifted, and the play

commence. Once more I petition thee; then will I spin days of

eternity."

"Happy child," cried the monarch with emotion, "thou art our

deliverer."

"I am only Sophia's god-daughter," said the little one. "Permit

Turmaline, the flower gardener, and Gold to accompany me. I must gather

up the ashes of my foster-mother; the old Bearer must again arise, that

the earth may not lie in chaos, but renew her motion."

The king called all three, and commanded them to accompany the little

Fable. The city was light, and in the streets was the bustle of

business. The sea broke roaring upon the high cliff, and Fable went

over in the king's chariot with her companions. Turmaline carefully

gathered the dispersing ashes. They traversed the earth till they came

to the old giant, upon whose shoulders they descended. He seemed lamed

by the touch, and could not move a limb. Gold placed a coin in his

mouth, and the flower-gardener pushed a dish under his loins. Fable

touched his eyes and poured out her vessel upon his forehead. Soon as

the water flowed from his eyes into his mouth, and over his body into

the dish, a flash of life made all his muscles quiver. He opened his

eyes and rose vigorously. Fable jumped up to her companion on the

swelling ground, and kindly bade him good morning.

"Art thou again here, dear child?" said the old man, "thou of whom I

have so continually dreamed? I always thought that thou wouldst appear

before the earth and my eyes became too heavy. I have indeed been

sleeping long."

"The earth is again light, as it always was for the good," said Fable.

"Old times are returning. Shortly thou wilt again be among thine old

acquaintances. I will spin out for thee joyous days, nor shalt thou

want an help-meet. Where are our old guests, the Hesperides?"

"With Sophia. Their garden will soon bloom again, its golden fruits

send forth their odor. They are now busy gathering together the fading

plants."

Fable departed, and hastened to the house. It was entirely in ruins.

Ivy was winding round the walls. Tall bushes shaded the ancient court,

and the soft moss enwrapt the old steps. She entered the chamber.

Sophia stood by the altar which had been rebuilt. Eros was lying at her

feet in full armor, more grave and noble than ever. A splendid lustre

hung from the ceiling. The floor was paved with variegated stones,

describing a great circle around the altar, which was graced with noble

and significant figures. Ginnistan bent weeping over a couch, on which

the father appeared lying in deep slumber. Her blooming grace was

infinitely enhanced by an expression of devotion and love. Fable handed

to the holy Sophia, who tenderly embraced her, the urn in which the

ashes were gathered.

"Lovely child," said she, "thy faithfulness and assiduity have earned

for thee a place among the stars. Thou hast elected the immortal within

thee. Ph[oe]nix is thine. Thou wilt be the soul of our life. Now arouse

the bridegroom. The herald calls, and Eros shall seek and awaken

Freya."

Fable rejoiced unspeakably at these words. She called her companions

Gold and Zinc, and approached the couch. Ginnistan awaited full of

expectation the issue of her enterprise. Gold melted coin, and filled

with a glittering flood the space in which the father was lying. Zinc

wound a chain around Ginnistan's bosom. The body floated upon the

trembling waves. "Bow thyself, dear mother," said Fable, "and lay thy

hand upon the heart of thy beloved."

Ginnistan bowed. She saw her image many times reflected. The chain

touched the flood, her hand his heart; he awoke and drew the enraptured

bride to his bosom. The metal became a clear and liquid mirror. The

father arose; his eyes flashed lightning; and though his shape was

speakingly beautiful, yet his whole frame appeared a highly susceptible

fluid, which betrayed every affection in manifold and enchanting

undulations.

The happy pair approached Sophia, who pronounced the words of

consecration upon them, and charged them faithfully to consult the

mirror, which reflected everything, in its real shape, destroyed every

delusion, and ever retained the primeval type of things. She now took

the urn, and shook the ashes into a bowl upon the altar. A soft

bubbling announced the dissolution, and a gentle wind waved the

garments and locks of the bystanders. Sophia handed the bowl to Eros,

who proffered it to the others. All tasted the divine draught, and

received with unspeakable joy the Mother's friendly greeting in their

soul of souls. She appeared to each one of them, and her mysterious

presence seemed to transfigure all.

Their expectations were fulfilled and surpassed. All perceived what

they had wanted, and the chamber became an abode of the blessed.

Sophia said, "the great secret is revealed to all, and remains forever

unfathomable. Out of pain is the new world born, and the ashes are

dissolved into tears for a draught of eternal life. The heavenly mother

dwells in all, that every child may be born immortal. Do you not feel

the sweet birth in the beating of your heart?"

She poured from the bowl the remainder upon the altar. The earth

trembled to its centre. Sophia said, "Eros, hasten with thy sister to

thy beloved. Soon shall ye see me again."

Fable and Eros quickly departed with their train. Then was scattered

over, the earth a mighty spring. Everything arose and stirred with

life. The earth floated farther beneath the veil. The moon and the

clouds were trailing with joyous tumult towards the North. The king's

castle beamed with a lordly splendor over the sea, and upon its

battlements stood the king in full majesty with all his suite. On every

side they saw dust-whirls, in which familiar shapes seemed represented.

Numerous bands of young men and maidens appeared hastening to the

castle, whom they welcomed with exaltation. Upon many a hill sat happy

couples but just awakened, in long-lost embraces; and they thought the

new world was a dream, nor could they cease assuring themselves of its

reality.

Flowers and trees sprang up in verdant vigor. All things seemed

inspired. All spoke and sang. Fable saluted on all sides her old

acquaintances. With friendly greeting animals approached awakened men.

The plants welcomed them with fruits and odor, and arrayed themselves

most tastefully. No weight lay longer on any human bosom, and all

burdens became the solid ground on which men trod. They came to the

sea. A ship of polished steel lay fastened to the shore. They stepped

aboard, and cast off the rope. The prow turned to the north, and the

ship cleaved the amorous waves as if on pinions, The sighing sedge

ceased its murmur, as it glides gently to the shore. They hastened up

the broad stairs. Love admired the royal city and its opulence. In the

court the living fountain was sparkling; the grove swayed to and fro in

sweetest tones, and a wondrous life seemed to gush and thrive in its

swelling foliage, its twinkling fruits and blossoms. The old hero

received them at the door of the palace.

"Venerable man," said Fable, "Eros needs thy sword. Gold has given him

a chain, one end of which reaches down to the sea, the other encircles

his breast. Take it in thy hand, and lead us to the hall where the

princess rests." Eros took the sword from the hand of the old man,

pressed the handle to his breast, and pointed the blade before him. The

folding doors of the hall flew open, and enraptured Eros approached the

slumbering Freya. Suddenly a mighty shock was felt. A bright spark sped

from the princess to the sword, the sword and the chain were illumined;

the hero supported the little Fable who was almost sinking. The crest

of Eros waved on high. "Throw away thy sword," exclaimed Fable, "and

awake thy beloved."

Eros dropped the sword, flew to the princess and kissed her sweet lips

vehemently. She opened her full, dark eyes, and recognised the loved

one. A long kiss sealed their eternal alliance.

The king descended from the dome, hand in hand with Sophia. The stars

and the spirits of nature followed in glittering ranks. A day

unspeakably serene filled the hall, the palace, the city, and the sky.

An innumerable multitude poured into the spacious, royal hall, and with

silent devotion saw the lovers kneel before the king and the queen, who

solemnly blessed them. The king took the diadem from his head, and

bound it round the golden locks of Eros, The old hero relieved him of

his armor, and the king threw his mantle around him. Then he gave him

the lily from his left hand, and Sophia fastened a costly bracelet

around the clasped hands of the lovers, and placed her crown upon the

brown locks of Freya.

"Hail to our ancient rulers!" exclaimed the people. "They have always

dwelt among us, and we have not known them! All hail! They will ever

rule over us. Bless us also!"

Sophia said to the new queen, "Throw the bracelet of your alliance into

the air, that the people and world may remain devoted to you." The

bracelet dissolved in the air, and light halos were soon seen around

every head; and a shining band encircled city, sea, and earth, which

were celebrating an eternal Spring-festival. Perseus entered, bearing a

spindle and a little basket. He carried the latter to the new king.

"Here," said he, "are the remains of thine enemies."

A stone slab chequered with white and black squares lay in the basket,

with a number of figures of alabaster and black marble.

"It is the game of chess," said Sophia; "all war is confined to this

slab and to these figures. It is a memento of the olden, mournful

times."

Perseus turned to Fable and gave her the spindle. "In thy hands shall

this spindle make us eternally rejoice, and out of thyself shalt thou

spin an indissoluble, golden thread."

Phoenix flew with melodious rustling to her feet, and spread his wings

before her; she placed herself upon them, and hovered over the throne,

without again descending. She sang a heavenly song and began to spin,

whilst the thread seemed to wind forth from her breast. The people fell

into new raptures, and all eyes were fastened on the lovely child. New

shouts of exultation came from the door.

The old Moon entered with her wonderful court, and behind her the

people bore in triumph Ginnistan and her bridegroom. Garlands of

flowers were wound around them; The royal family received them with the

most hearty tenderness, and the new royal pair proclaimed them their

viceregents upon earth.

"Grant me," said the Moon, "the Kingdom of the Fates, whose wondrous

mansions have arisen from the earth, even in the court of the palace. I

will delight you therein with spectacles, in which the little Fable

will assist me."

The king granted the prayer; the little Fable nodded pleasantly, and

the people rejoiced at the novel and entertaining pastime. The

Hesperides congratulated them upon the new accession, and prayed that

their garden might be protected. The king gave them welcome; and so

followed joyful events in rapid succession. In the mean while, the

throne had imperceptibly changed to a splendid marriage-bed, over which

Ph[oe]nix and the little Fable were hovering in the air. Three

Caryatides of dark porphyry supported the head, while its foot rested

upon a Sphinx of basalt. The king embraced his blushing bride. The

people followed his example, and kissed each other. Nothing was heard

but tender names and a noise of kisses.

At length Sophia said, "The Mother is among us. Her presence will

render us eternally happy. Follow us into our dwelling. In the temple

will we dwell forever, and treasure up the secret of the world."

Fable spun diligently, and sang with a clear voice:

Established is Eternity's domain,

In Love and Gladness melts the strifeful pain;

The tedious dream of grief returneth never;

Priestess of hearts Sophia is forever.

HENRY OF OFTERDINGEN.

PART SECOND.

THE FULFILMENT.

THE FULFILLMENT.

THE CLOISTER, OR FORE-COURT.

ASTRALIS.

Upon a summer morning was I young;

Then felt I for the first my own life-pulse,

And while in deeper raptures Love dissolved,

My sense of life unfolded; and my longing

For more entire and inward dissolution,

Was every moment more importunate.

My being's plastic power is delight;

I am the central point, the holy source,

Whence every longing stormfully outflows,

And where again, though broken and dispersed,

Each longing calmly mingles into one.

Ye know me not, ye saw me not becoming.--

Who witnessed me upon that happy eve,

When, a night-wanderer yet, I found at length

For the first time myself? Then flowed there not

A shudder of sweet rapture over you?

Entirely hid in honey-cups I lay;

I breathed a fragrance, calmly waved the flowers

In golden morning air. An inner gushing

Was I, a gentle striving, all things flowed

Through me and over me, and light I rose.

Then sank the first dust-seed within the shell,--

That glowing kiss when risen from the feast!

Backward I ebbed upon my inmost life--

It was a flash,--my powers already swell,

And move the tender petals and the bell,

And swiftly, from beneath my being's spring,

To earthly senses thoughts were blossoming.

Yet was I blind, but stars began to sweep

In light across my being's wondrous deep;

Myself I found as of a distant clime,

Echo of olden as of future time.

From sadness, love and hopefulness created,

The growth of memory was but a flight,

And mid the dashing billows of delight,

Then too the deepest sorrow penetrated.--

The world in bloom around the hillock clings,--

The Prophet's words were changed to double wings;

Matilde and Henry were alone united

Into one form, into one rapture plighted;

New-born I rose, to Heaven gladly leaping,

For then the earthly destinies were blent

In one bright moment of transfigurement;

And Time, no more his ancient title keeping,

Again demanded what it once had lent.

Forth breaks the new creation here,

Eclipsing the glow of the brightest sphere.

Behold through ruins ivy-streaming

A new and wondrous future gleaming,

And what was common hitherto,

Appeareth marvellous and new.

Love's realm beginneth to reveal,

And busy Fable plies her wheel.

To its olden play each nature returns,

And a mighty spell in each one burns;

And so the Soul of the world doth hover

And move through all, and bloom forever.

For each other all must strive,

One through the other must ripen and thrive;

Each is shadowed forth in all,

While itself with them is blending,

And eagerly into their deeps doth fall,

Its own peculiar essence mending,

And myriad thoughts to life doth call.

The dream is World, the world is Dream,

And what already past may seem,

Itself is yet in distance moulding;

But Fancy first her court is holding,

Freely the threads at her pleasure weaving,

Much veiling here, much there unfolding,

And then in magical vapor leaving.

Life and death, rapture and sadness,

Are here in inmost sympathy,--

Who yieldeth himself to love's deep madness,

From its wounds is never free.

In pain must every bond be riven

That winds around the inner eye,

The orphaned heart with woe have striven,

Ere it the sullen world can fly.

The body melteth in its weeping,

Its bitter sighs the bosom burn;

The world a grave becometh, keeping

The heart, like ashes in an urn.

In deep thought a pilgrim was walking along a narrow foot-path which

ran up the mountain side. Noon had passed. A strong wind whistled

through the blue air. Its dull and ever-changing sounds lost themselves

as they came. Had it perhaps flown through the regions of childhood, or

through other whispering lands? They were voices whose echo sounded in

his heart; yet the pilgrim did not appear to recognise them. He had now

reached the mountain where he hoped to find a limit to his journey.

Hoped? No longer did he cherish hope. Terrible anxiety, the sterile

coldness of indifferent despair, urged him to seek the wild horrors of

the mountains; the most toilsome path soothed the tumult of his soul.

He was weary and silent. He noticed not the gradual accumulation of

nature around him, as he sat upon a stone and cast his eye backward. It

seemed as if he were or had been dreaming. A splendor whose limit he

could not define opened before him. His cheeks were soon wet with

tears, as his feelings suddenly broke loose; he would have wept himself

away in the distance, that no trace of his existence might remain. Amid

his deep-drawn sighs he seemed to recover; the soft, serene air

penetrated him. The world was again present to his senses, and thoughts

of other times began to speak to him consolation.

In the distance lay Augsburg with its towers; far on the horizon

glimmered the mirror of the fearful, mysterious stream. The mighty

forest bowed with grave sympathy towards the wanderer; the notched

mountain rested meaningly upon the plain, and both seemed to say,

"Hasten on, O stream, thou dost not escape us. I will follow thee with

winged ships. I will break thee, restrain thee, and swallow thee up in

my bosom! O pilgrim, confide in us! Even he is our enemy whom we

ourselves begat; let him make haste with his booty, he escapes us not."

The poor pilgrim thought of olden times and their unspeakable delights;

but how heavily did those dear recollections pass through his mind. The

broad hat concealed a youthful face; it was pale as a night-flower. The

balmy sap of youthful life had changed to tears, his swelling breath to

deep sighs; an ashy paleness had usurped all color.

On one side upon the declivity of the hill, he thought he saw a monk

kneeling under an old oak tree. "Might not that possibly be the old

chaplain?" he conjectured, without much surprise at the idea. The monk

appeared larger and more unshapely the nearer he approached. He now

discovered his mistake. It was an isolated rock, over which a tree was

bending. With silent emotion he clasped the stone in his arms, and with

loud sobbing pressed it to his breast. "O that yet your speech was

preserved, and that the Holy Mother would give me some token! Am I then

entirely miserable and abandoned? Dwells there then in this desert no

holy one who would lend me his prayer? Dear father, at this time pray

thou for me!"

As he so thought to himself, the tree began to wave; the rock emitted a

hollow sounds and as from a great depth beneath the earth, clear, sweet

voices were heard singing:--

Her heart was full of gladness,

For gladness knew she best;

She nothing knew of sadness,

With darling at her breast.

She showered him with kisses,

She kissed his cheek so warm,--

Encircled was with blisses

Through darling's fairy form.

The soft voices seemed to sing with infinite pleasure. They repeated

the verse several times. All was quiet again, when the astonished

pilgrim heard some one speaking to him from the tree:--

"If thou wilt play a song in honor of me upon thy lute, a little maiden

will come for it; take her with thee and leave her not. Think of me

when thou comest to the emperor. I have chosen this abode, that I may

remain with my little child; let a strong, warm dwelling be built for

me here. My little one has conquered death; trouble not thyself, I am

with thee. Yet a while thou wilt remain upon earth, but the little girl

will console thee, until thou also diest and enterest into our joy."

"It is Matilda's voice!" exclaimed the pilgrim, and fell upon his knees

in prayer. Then pierced through the branches a lengthened ray unto his

eyes, and through it in the distance he beheld a small but wonderful

splendor, not to be described, only to be depicted with a skilful

pencil. It was composed of extremely delicate figures; and the most

intense pleasure and joy, even a heavenly happiness, everywhere rayed

forth from it, so that even the inanimate vessels, the chiselled

capitals, the drapery, the ornaments, everything visible, seemed not so

much like works of art, as to have grown and sprung up together like

the full-juiced herb. Most beautiful human forms were passing to and

fro, and appeared kind and gracious to each other beyond measure.

Before all was standing the pilgrim's beloved one, and it seemed as if

she would have spoken to him; yet nothing could be heard, and the

pilgrim only regarded with ardent longing her pleasant features, as she

beckoned to him so kindly and smilingly, and laid her hand upon her

heart. The sight was infinitely consoling and refreshing, and the

pilgrim remained a long while steeped in holy rapture, until the vision

disappeared. The sacred beam had drawn up all pain and trouble from his

heart, so that his mind was again clear and cheerful, his spirit free

and buoyant as before. Nought remained but a silent, inward longing,

and a sound of sadness in the spirit's depths; but the wild torments of

solitude, the sharp anguish of unspeakable loss, the terrible sense of

a mournful void, had passed away with all earthly faintness, and the

pilgrim again looked forth upon a world teeming with expression. Voice

and language renewed their life within him, all things seemed more

known and prophetic than before, so that death appeared to him a high

revelation of life, and he viewed his own fleeting existence with

child-like and serene emotion. The future and the past had met within

him, and formed an eternal union. He stood far from the present, and

the world was now for the first time dear to him, when he had lost it,

and was there only as a stranger, who would yet wander but a while

through its diversified and spacious halls. It was now evening, and the

earth lay before him like an old beloved dwelling, which he had found

again after long absence. A thousand recollections recurred to him;

every stone, every tree, every hillock, made itself recognised. Each

was the memorial of a former history.

The pilgrim snatched his lute, and sang:--

Love's tears, love's glowing,

Together flowing,

Hallow every place for me,

Where Elysium quenched my longing,

And in countless prayers are thronging,

Like the bees around this tree.

Gladly is it o'er them bending,

Thither wending,

Them protecting from the storm;

Gratefully its leaves bedewing,

And its tender life renewing,

Wonders will the prayers perform.

E'en the rugged rock is sunken,

Joy-drunken,

At the Holy Mother's feet.

Are the stones devotion keeping,

Should not man for her be weeping

Tears and blood in homage meet?

The afflicted hither stealing

Should be kneeling;

Here will all obtain relief.

Sorrow will no more be preying,

Joyfully will all be saying:

Long ago we were in grief.

On the mountain, walls commanding

Will be standing;

In the vales will voices cry,

When the bitter times are waking:

Let the heart of none be aching,

Thither to those places fly!

Oh, thou Holy Virgin Mother!

With another

Heart the sorrowing wanders hence.

Thou, Matilda, art revealing

Love eternal to my feeling,

Thou, the goal of every sense.

Thou, without my questions daring,

Art declaring

When I shall attain to thee.

Gaily in a thousand measures

Will I praise creation's treasures,

Till thou dost encircle me.

Things unwonted, wonders olden!

To you beholden,

Ever in my heart remain.

Memory her spell is flinging,

Where light's holy fountain springing

Washed away the dream of pain.

During this song he had noticed nothing, but as he looked up, there

appeared a young girl standing upon the rock, who kindly greeted him

like an old acquaintance, and invited him to go to her dwelling, where

she had already prepared an evening meal for him. Her whole behavior

and carriage towards him were friendly. She asked him to tarry a few

moments, while she stepped under the tree, and looking up with an

indescribable smile, shook many roses from her apron upon the grass.

She knelt silently by his side, but soon arose and led the pilgrim on.

"Who has told thee about me?" asked the pilgrim.

"Our mother."

"Who is thy mother?"

"The Mother of God."

"How long hast thou been here?"

"Since I came from the tomb."

"Hast thou already been dead?"

"How could I else be living?"

"Livest thou entirely alone here?"

"An old man is at home, yet I know many more who have lived."

"Wouldst thou like to remain with me?"

"Indeed I love thee."

"How long hast thou known me?"

"O! from olden times; my former mother, too, told me about thee."

"Hast thou yet a mother?"

"Yes; but really the same."

"What is her name?"

"Maria."

"Who was thy father?"

"The Count of Hohenzollern."

"Him I also know."

"Thou shouldst know him well, for he is also thy father."

"My father is in Eisenach."

"Thou hast more parents."

"Whither are we going?"

"Ever homewards."

They had now reached a roomy spot in the wood, where some decayed

towers were standing beyond deep ravines. Early shrubbery wound about

the old walls, like a youthful garland around the silvery head of an

old man. While contemplating the gray stones, the tortuous clefts, and

the tall, ghastly, shapes of rock, one looked into immensity of time,

and saw the most distant events, collected in short but brilliant

minutes. So appears to us the infinite space of heaven, clad in dark

blue; and like a milky glimmer, stainless as an infant's cheeks,

appears the most distant array of its ponderous and mighty worlds. They

walked through an old doorway, and the pilgrim was not a little

astonished when he found himself entirely surrounded by strange plants,

and saw all the charms of the most beautiful garden hidden beneath the

ruins. A small stone house built in recent style, with large windows,

lay in the rear. There stood an old man behind the broad-leafed

shrubbery, employed in tying the drooping branches to some little

props. His female guide led the pilgrim to him, and said, "Here is

Henry, after whom you have inquired so often."

As the old man turned around, Henry fancied that he saw the miner

before him.

"This is the physician Sylvester," said the little girl.

Sylvester was glad to see him, and said, "it is a long time since I saw

your father. We were both young then. I was quite solicitous to teach

him the treasures of the Fore-time, the rich legacies bequeathed to us

by a world too early separated from us. I noticed in him the tokens of

a great artist; his eye flashed with the desire to become a correct

eye, a creative instrument; his face indicated inward constancy and

persevering industry. But the present world had already taken hold of

him too deeply; he would not listen to the call of his own nature. The

stern hardihood of his native sky had blighted in him the tender buds

of the noblest plants; he became an able mechanic, and inspiration

seemed to him but foolishness."

"Indeed," said Henry, "I often observed a silent sadness within him. He

always labored from mere habit, and not for any pleasure. He seems to

feel a want, which the peaceful quiet and comfort of his life, the

pleasure of being honored and beloved by his townsmen, and consulted in

all important affairs of the city, cannot satisfy. His friends consider

him very happy; but they know not how weary he is of life, how empty

the world appears to him, how he longs to depart from it; and that he

works so industriously not so much for the sake of gain, as to

dissipate such moods."

"What I am most surprised at," replied Sylvester, "is that he has

committed your education entirely into the hands of your mother, and

has carefully abstained from taking any part in your development, nor

has ever held you to any fixed occupation. You can happily say that you

have been permitted to grow up free from all parental restraints; for

most men are but the relics of a feast which men of different appetites

and tastes have plundered."

"I myself know not," replied Henry, "what education is, except that

derived from the life and disposition of my parents, or the instruction

of my teacher, the chaplain. My father with all his cool and sturdy

habits of thought, which leads him to regard all relations like a piece

of metal or a work of art, yet involuntarily and unconsciously exhibits

a silent reverence and godly fear before all incomprehensible and lofty

phenomena, and therefore looks upon the blooming growth of the child

with humble self-denial. A spirit is busy here, playing fresh from the

infinite fountain; and this feeling of the superiority of a child in

the loftiest matters, the irresistible thought of an intimate guidance

of the innocent being who is just entering on a course so critical, the

impress of a wondrous world, which no earthly currents have yet

obliterated, and then too the sympathizing memory of that golden age

when the world seemed to us clearer, kindlier, and more unwonted, and

the almost visible spirit of prophecy attended us,--all this has

certainly won my father to a system the most devout and discreet."

"Let us seat ourselves upon the grass among the flowers," said the old

man interrupting him. "Cyane will call us when our evening meal is

ready. I pray you continue your account of your early life. We old

people love much to hear of childhood's years, and it seems as if I

were drinking the odor of a flower, which I had not inhaled since my

infancy. Tell me first, however, how my solitude and garden please you,

for these flowers are my friends; my heart is in this garden. You see

nothing that loves me not, that is not tenderly beloved. I am here in

the midst of my children, like an old tree from whose roots, has

sprouted this merry youth."

"Happy father," said Henry, "your garden is the world. The ruins are

the mothers of these blooming children; this manifold animate creation

draws its support from the fragments of past time. But must the mother

die, that the children may thrive? Does the father remain sitting alone

at their tomb, in tears forever?"

Sylvester gave his hand to the sighing youth, and then arose to pluck a

fresh forget-me-not, which he tied to a cypress branch and brought to

him. The evening wind waved strangely in the tops of the pines which

stood beyond the ruins, and sent over their hollow murmur. Henry hid

his face bedewed with tears upon the neck of the good Sylvester, and

when he looked again, the evening star arose in full glory above the

forest.

After some silence, Sylvester began; "You would probably like to be at

Eisenach among your friends. Your parents, the excellent countess, your

father's upright neighbors, and the old chaplain make a fair social

circle. Their conversation must have produced an early influence upon

you, particularly as you were the only child. I also imagine the

country to be very striking and agreeable."

"I learn for the first time," said Henry, "to esteem my native country

properly, since my absence, and the sight of many other lands. Every

plant, every tree, every hill and mountain has its own horizon, its

peculiar landscape, which belongs to it, and explains its whole

structure and nature. Only men and animals can visit all countries; all

countries are theirs. Thus together they form one great region, one

infinite horizon, whose influence upon men and animals is just as

visible, as that of a more narrow circuit upon the plant. Hence men who

have travelled, birds of passage, and beasts of prey, are distinguished

among other faculties, for a remarkable intelligence. Yet they

certainly possess more or less susceptibility to the influence of these

circles, and of their varied contents and arrangement. The attention

and composure necessary to contemplate properly the alternation and

connexion of things, and then to reflect upon and compare them, are in

fact wanting to most men. I myself often feel how my native land has

breathed upon my earliest thoughts imperishable colors, and how its

image has become a peculiar feature of my mind, which I am ever better

explaining to myself, the deeper I perceive that fate and mind are but

names of one idea."

"Upon me," said Sylvester, "living nature, the emotive outer-garment of

a landscape, has always produced a most powerful effect. Especially I

am never tired of examining most carefully the different natures of

plants. All productions of the earth are its primitive language; every

new leaf, every particular flower, is everywhere a mystery, which

presses outward; and since it cannot move itself at love and joy, nor

come to words, becomes a mute, quiet plant. When we find such a flower

in solitude, is it not as if everything about it were glorified, and as

if the little feathered songsters loved most to linger near it? One

could weep for joy, and separated from the world, plant hand and foot

in the earth, to give it root, and never abandon the happy

neighborhood. Over all the sterile world is spread this green,

mysterious carpet of love. Every Spring it is renewed, and its peculiar

writing is legible only to the loved one, like the nosegay of the

East; he will read forever, yet never enough, and will perceive daily

new meanings, new delightful revelations of loving nature. This

infinite enjoyment is the secret charm, which the survey of the earth's

surface has for me, while each region solves other riddles, and has

always led me to divine whence I came and whither I go."

"Yes," said Henry, "we began to speak of childhood's years, and of

education, because we are in your garden; and the revelation of

childhood, the innocent world of flowers, imperceptibly brought to our

thoughts and lips the recollection of old acquaintanceship. My father

is also very fond of gardening, and spends the happiest hours of his

life among the flowers. This has certainly kept his heart open towards

children, since flowers are their counterpart. The teeming opulence of

infinite life, the mighty powers of later times, the splendor of the

end of the world, and the golden future which awaits all things, we

here see closely entwined, but still to be most plainly and clearly in

tender youthfulness. All-powerful love is already working, but does not

yet enflame; it is no devouring fire, but a melting vapor; and however

intimate the union of the tenderest souls may be, yet it is accompanied

by no intense excitement, no consuming madness, as in brutes. Thus is

childhood below here nearest to the earth; as on the other hand clouds

are perhaps the types of the second, higher childhood, of the paradise

regained; and hence they so beneficently shed their dew upon the

first."

"There is indeed something very mysterious in the clouds," said

Sylvester, "and certain overcloudings often have a wonderful influence

upon us. Trailing over our heads, they would take us up and away in

their cold shades; and when their form is lovely and varied, like an

outbreathed wish of our soul, then the clearness and the splendid

light, which reigns upon earth, is like a presage of unknown, ineffable

glory. But there are also dark, solemn, and fearful overcloudings, in

which all the terrors of old night appear to threaten. The sky seems as

if it never would be clear again; the serene blue is hidden; and a wan

copper hue upon the dark gray ground awakens fear and anxiety in every

bosom. Then when the blasting beams shoot downwards, and with fiendish

laughter the crashing thunder-peals fall after them, we are struck to

our souls; and unless there arises the lofty consciousness of our moral

superiority, we fancy that we are delivered over to the terrors of hell

and all the powers of darkness. They are echoes of the old, unhuman

nature, but awakening voices too of the higher nature of divine

conscience within us. The mortal totters to its base; the immortal

grows more serene and recognises itself."

"Then," said Henry, "when will there be no more terror or pain, want or

evil in the universe?"

"When there is but one power, the power of conscience; when nature

becomes chaste and pure. There is but one cause of evil,--common

frailty,--and this frailty is nothing but a weak moral susceptibility,

and a deficiency in the attraction of freedom."

"Explain to me the nature of Conscience."

"I were God, could I do so; for when we comprehend it, Conscience

exists. Can you explain to me the essence of poetry?"

"A personality cannot be distinctly defined."

"How much less then the secret of the highest indivisibility. Can music

be explained to the deaf?"

"If so, would the sense itself be part of the new world opened by it?

Does one understand facts only when one has them?"

"The universe is separated into an infinite system of worlds, ever

encompassed by greater worlds. All senses are in the end but one. One

sense conducts, like one world, gradually to all worlds. But everything

has its time and its mode. Only the Person of the universe can detect

the relations sustained by our world. It is difficult to say, whether

we, within the sensuous limits of corporeity, could really augment our

world with new worlds, our sense with new senses, or whether every

increase of our knowledge, every newly acquired ability, is only to be

considered as the development of our present organization."

"Perhaps both are one," said Henry. "For my own part, I only know that

Fable is the collective instrument of my present world. Even

Conscience, that sense and world-creating power, that germ of all

Personality, appears to me like the spirit of the world-poem, like the

event of the eternal, romantic confluence of the infinitely mutable

common life."

"Dear pilgrim," Sylvester replied, "the Conscience appears in every

serious perfection, in every fashioned truth. Every inclination and

ability transformed by reflection into a universal type becomes a

phenomenon, a phase of Conscience. All formation tends to that which

can only be called Freedom; though by that is not meant an idea, but

the creative ground of all being. This freedom is that of a guild. The

master exercises free power according to design, and in defined and

well digested method. The objects of his art are his, and he can do

with them as he pleases, nor is he fettered or circumscribed by them.

To speak accurately, this all-embracing freedom, this mastership of

dominion, is the essence, the impulse of Conscience. In it is revealed

the sacred peculiarity, the immediate creation of Personality, and

every action of the master, is at once the announcement of the lofty,

simple, evident world--God's word."

"Then is that, which I remember was once called morality, only religion

as Science, the so called theology in its proper sense? Is it but a

code of laws related to worship as nature is to God, a construction of

words, a train of thoughts, which indicates, represents the upper

world, and extends it to a certain point of progress--the religion for

the faculty of insight and judgment--the sentence, the law of the

solution and determination of all the possible relations which a

personal being sustains?"

"Certainly," said Sylvester, "Conscience is the innate mediator of

every man. It takes the place of God upon earth, and is therefore to

many the highest and the final. But how far was the former science,

called virtue or morality, from the pure shape of this lofty,

comprehensive, personal thought! Conscience is the peculiar essence of

man fully glorified, the divine archetypal man (Urmensch.) It is not

this thing and that thing; it does not command in a common tongue, it

does not consist of distinct virtues. There is but one virtue,--the

pure, solemn Will, which, at the moment of decision chooses, resolves

instantaneously. In living and peculiar oneness it dwells and inspires

that tender emblem, the human body, and can excite all the spiritual

members to the truest activity."

"O excellent father!" exclaimed Henry, "with what joy fills me the

light which flows from your words! Thus the true spirit of Fable is the

spirit of virtue in friendly disguise; and the proper spirit of the

subordinate art of poetry is the emotion of the loftiest, most personal

existence. There is a surprising selfness (Selbstheit) between a

genuine song and a noble action. The disfranchised conscience in a

smooth, unresisting world, becomes an enchaining conversation, an

all-narrating fable. In the fields and halls of this old world lives

the poet, and virtue is the spirit of his earthly acts and influences;

and as this is the indwelling divinity among men, the marvellous reflex

of the higher world, so also is Fable. How safely can the poet now

follow the guidance of his inspiration, or if he possesses a lofty,

transcendent sense, follow higher essences, and submit to his calling

with child-like humility. The higher voice of the universe also speaks

within him, and cries with enchanting words to kindlier and more

familiar worlds. As religion is related to virtue, so is inspiration to

mythology; and as the history of revelation is treasured in sacred

writings, so the life of a higher world expresses itself in mythology

in manifold ways, in poems of wonderful origin. Fable and history

sustain to each other the most intimate relations, through paths the

most intricate, and disguises the most extraordinary; and the Bible and

mythology are constellations of one orbit."

"What you say is perfectly true," said Sylvester; "and now you can

probably comprehend that all nature subsists by the spirit of virtue

alone, and must ever become more permanent. It is the all-inflaming,

the all-quickening light in the embrace of earth. From the firmament,

that lofty dome of the starry realm, down to the ruffling carpet of the

varied meadow, all things will be sustained by it, united to us and

made comprehensible; and by it the unknown course of infinite nature's

history will be conducted to its consummation."

"Yes; and you have often as beautifully shown, before now, the

connexion between virtue and religion. Everything, which experience and

earthly activity embrace, forms the province of Conscience, which

unites this world with higher worlds. With a loftier sense religion

appears, and what formerly seemed an incomprehensible necessity of our

inmost nature, a universal law without any definite intent, now becomes

a wonderful, domestic, infinitely varied, and satisfying world, an

inconceivably interior communion of all the spiritual with God, and a

perceptible, hallowing presence of the only One, or of his Will, of his

Love in our deepest self."

"The innocence of your heart," Sylvester replied, "makes you a prophet.

All things will be revealed to you, and for you the world and its

history will be transformed into holy writ, just as the sacred writings

evince how the universe can be revealed in simple words, or narratives,

if not directly, yet mediately by hinting at and exciting higher

senses. My connexion with nature has led me to the point where the joy

and inspiration of language have brought you. Art and history have made

me acquainted with nature. My parents dwelt in Sicily, not far from the

famous Mount Ætna. Their dwelling was a comfortable house in the

ancient style, hidden by old chestnut trees near the rocky shore of the

sea, and affording the attraction of a garden stocked with various

plants. Near were many huts, in which dwelt fishermen, herdsmen, and

vine-dressers. Our chambers and cellar were amply provided with

everything that supports and gives enjoyment to life, and by well

bestowed labor, our arrangements were agreeable to the most refined

senses. Moreover there was no lack of those manifold objects, whose

contemplation and use elevate the mind above ordinary life and its

necessities, preparing it for a more suitable condition, and seem to

promise and procure for it the pure enjoyment of its full and proper

nature. You might have seen there marble statues, storied vases, small

stones with most distinct figures, and other articles of furniture, the

relics perhaps of other and happier times. Also many scrolls of

parchment lay in folds upon each other, in which were treasured, in

their long succession of letters, the knowledge, sentiments, histories,

and poems of that past time, in most agreeable and polished

expressions. The calling of my father, who had by degrees become an

able astrologer, attracted to him many inquiring visiters, even from

distant lands; and as the knowledge of the future seemed to men a rare

and precious gift, they were led to remunerate him richly for his

communication; so that he was enabled, by the gifts he received, to

defray the expenses of a comfortable and even luxurious style of life."

* * * * *

The author advanced no farther in the composition of this second part,

which he called "The Fulfilment," as he had called the first "The

Expectation," because all that was left to anticipation in the latter

was explained and fulfilled in the former. It was the design of the

author to write, after the completion of Ofterdingen, six romances for

the statement of his views of physical science, civil life, commerce,

history, political science, and of love; as his views of poetry had

been given in Ofterdingen. I need not remind the intelligent reader,

that the author in this poem has not adhered very closely to the time

or the person of that well known Minnesinger, though every part brings

him and his time to remembrance. It is an irreparable loss, not only to

the friends of the author, but to the art itself, that he could not

have finished this romance, the originality and great design of which

would have been better developed in the second than in the first part.

For it was by no means his object to represent this or that occurrence,

to embrace one side of poetry, and explain it by figures and narrative;

but it was his intention, as is plain from the last chapter of the

first part, to express the real essence of poetry and explain its

inmost aim.

To this end nature, history, war, and civil life, with their usual

events, are all transformed to poetry, as that is the spirit which

animates all things.

I shall endeavor as far as possible, from my memory of conversations

with my friend, and from what I can discover in the papers he has left,

to give the reader some idea of the plan and subject-matter of the

second part of this work.

To the poet, who has apprehended the essence of his art at its central

point, nothing appears contradictory or strange; to him all riddles are

solved. By the magic of fancy he can unite all ages and all worlds;

wonders vanish, and all things change to wonders. So is this book

written; and the reader will find the boldest combinations,

particularly in the tale which closes the first part. Here are renewed

all those differences by which ages seem separated, and hostile worlds

meet each other. The poet wished particularly to make this tale the

transition-point to the second part, in which the narrative soars from

the common to the marvellous, and both are mutually explained and

restored; the spirit of the prologue in verse should return at each

chapter, and this state of mind, this wonderful view of things should

be permanent. By this means the invisible world remains in eternal

connexion with the visible. This speaking spirit is poetry itself; but

at the same time the sidereal man who is born from the love of Henry

and Matilda. In the following lines, which should have their place in

Ofterdingen, the author has expressed in the simplest manner the

interior spirit of his works:

When marks and figures cease to be

For every creature's thoughts the key,

When they will even kiss or sing

Beyond the sage's reckoning,

When life, to Freedom will attain,

And Freedom in creation reign,

When Light and Shade, no longer single,

In genuine splendor intermingle,

And one in tales and poems sees

The world's eternal histories,--

Then will our whole inverted being

Before a secret word be fleeing.

The gardener, who converses with Henry, is the same old man who had

formerly entertained Ofterdingen's father. The young girl, whose name

is Cyane, is not his child, but the daughter of the Count of

Hohenzollern. She came from the East; and though it was at an early

age, yet she can recollect her home. She has long lived a strange life

in the mountains, among which she was brought up by her deceased

mother. She has lost in early life a brother, and has narrowly escaped

death in a vaulted tomb; but an old physician rescued her in some

peculiar way. She is gentle, and kind, and very familiar with the

supernatural. She tells the poet her history as she had heard it once

from her mother. She sends him to a distant cloister, whose monks seem

to be a kind of spirit-colony; everything is like a mystic, magic

lodge. They are the priests of the holy fire in youthful minds. He

hears the distant chant of the brothers; in the church itself, he has a

vision. With an old monk Henry converses about death and magic, has

presentiment of death--and of the philosopher's stone; visits the

cloister-garden and the churchyard, concerning which latter I find the

following poem:--

Praise ye now our still carousals,

Gardens, chambers decked so gaily,

Household goods as for espousals,

Our possessions praise.

New guests are coming daily,

Some late, the others early;

On the spacious hearth forever

Glimmereth a new life-blaze.

Thousand vessels wrought with cunning,

Once bedewed with thousand tears,

Golden rings and spurs and sabres,

Are our treasury;

Many gems of costly mounting

Wist we of in dark recesses,

None can all our wealth be counting,

Counts he even ceaselessly.

Children of a time evanished,

Heroes from the hoary ages,

Starry spirits high excelling,

Wondrously combine,

Graceful women, solemn sages,

Life in all its motley stages,

In one circle here are dwelling,

In the olden world recline.

None is evermore molested;

None who joyously hath feasted,

At our sumptuous table seated,

Wisheth to be gone.

Hushed is sorrow's loud complaining,

Wonders are no longer greeted,

Bitter tears no longer raining,

Hour-glass ever floweth on.

Holy kindness deeply swelling,

In blest contemplation buried,

Heaven in the soul is dwelling

With a cloudless breast;

In our raiment long and flowing

Through spring-meadows are we carried,

Where rude winds are never blowing,

In this land of perfect rest.

Pleasing lure of midnight hours

Quiet sphere of hidden powers,

Rapture of mysterious pleasure,

These alone our prize;

Ours alone that highest measure,

Where ourselves in streamlets pouring,

Then in dew-drops upward soaring,

Drink we as we flow or rise.

First with us grew life from love;

Closely like the elements

Do we mangle Being's waves,

Foaming heart with heart.

Hotly separate the waves,

For the strife of elements

Is the highest life of love,

And the very heart of hearts.

Whispered talk of gentle wishes

Hear we only, we are gazing

Ever into eyes transfigured,

Tasting nought but mouth and kiss;

All that we are only touching,

Change to balmy fruits and glowing,

Change to bosoms soft and tender,

Offerings to daring bliss.

The desire is ever springing,

On the loved one to be clinging,

Round him all our spirit flinging,

One with him to be,--

Ardent impulse ever heeding

To consume in turn each other,

Only nourished, only feeding

On each other's ecstasy.

So in love and lofty rapture

Are we evermore abiding,

Since that lurid life subsiding,

In the day grew pale;

Since the pyre its sparkles scattered,

And the sod above us sinking,

From around the spirit shrinking

Melted then the earthly veil.

Spells around remembrance woven,

Holy sorrow's trembling gladness,

Tone-like have our spirits cloven,

Cooled their glowing blood.

Wounds there are, forever paining;

A profound, celestial sadness,

Within all our hearts remaining,

Us dissolveth in one flood.

And in flood we forth are gushing,

In a secret manner flowing

To the ocean of all living,

In the One profound;

And from out His heart while rushing,

To our circle backward going,

Spirit of the loftiest striving

Dips within our eddying round.

All your golden chains be shaking

Bright with emeralds and rubies,

Flash and clang together making,

Shake with joyous note.

From the damp recesses waking,

From the sepulchres and ruins,

On your cheeks the flush of heaven,

To the realm of Fable float.

O could men, who soon will follow

To the spirit-land, be dreaming

That we dwell in all their joyance,

All the bliss they taste,

They would burn with glad upbuoyance

To desert the life so hollow,--

O, the hours away are streaming,

Come, beloved, hither haste.

Aid to fetter the Earth-spirit,

Learn to know the sense of dying,

And the word of life discover;

Hither turn at last.

Soon will all thy power be over,

Borrowed light away be flying,

Soon art fettered, O Earth-spirit,

And thy time of empire past.

This poem was perhaps a prologue to a second chapter. Now an entirely

new period of the work would have opened; the highest life proceeding

from the stillest death; he has lived among the dead and conversed with

them. Now the book would have become nearly dramatic, the epic tone, as

it were, uniting together and simply explaining the single scenes.

Henry suddenly finds himself in Italy, distracted, rent with wars; he

sees himself the leader of an army. All the elements of war play in

poetic colors. With an irregular band, he attacks a hostile city; here

appears in episode the love of a noble of Pisa for a Florentine maiden.

War-songs--"a great war, like a duel, noble, philosophical, human

throughout. Spirit of the old chivalry; the tournament. Spirit of

bacchanalian sadness.[4] Men must fall by each other,--nobler than to

fall by fate. They seek death.--Honor, fame, is the warrior's joy and

life. The warrior lives in death and like a shade. Desire for death is

the warrior-spirit. Upon the earth is war at home; it must be upon

earth."--In Pisa Henry finds the Son of Frederick the Second, who

becomes his confidential friend. He also travels to Loretto. Several

songs were to follow here.

The poet is cast away on the shores of Greece by a tempest. The old

world with its heroes and treasures of art fills his mind. He converses

with a Grecian about morality. Everything from ancient times is present

to him; he learns to understand the old pictures and histories.

Conversation upon Grecian polity and mythology.

After becoming acquainted with the heroic age and with antiquity, he

visits the Holy Land, for which he had felt so great a longing from his

youth. He seeks Jerusalem, and acquaints himself with Oriental poetry.

Strange events among the infidels detain him in desert regions; he

discovers the family of the eastern girl (see Part I.): the manners and

life of nomadic tribes.--Persian tales, recollections of the remotest

antiquity. The book during all these various events was to retain its

characteristic hue, and recall to mind the blue flower: throughout, the

most distant and distinct traditions were to be knit together, Grecian,

Oriental, Biblical, Christian, with reminiscences of and references to

both the Indian and Northern mythology.--The Crusades.--Life at sea.--

Henry visits Rome. Roman history.

Sated with his experiences, Henry at length returns to Germany. He

finds his grandfather, a profound character; Klingsohr is in his

society. An evening's conversation with them.

Henry joins the court of Frederick, and becomes personally acquainted

with the emperor. The court would have made a worthy appearance,

portraying the best, greatest, and most remarkable men, collected from

the whole world, whose centre is the emperor himself. Here appears the

greatest splendor, and the truly great world. German character and

German history are explained. Henry converses with the emperor

concerning government and the empire; obscure hints of America and the

Indies. The sentiments of a prince,--the mystic emperor,--the book, "De

tribus impostoribus."

Henry having now, in a new and higher method than in the Expectation,

lived through and observed nature, life, and death, war, the East,

history, and poetry, turns back into his mind as to an old home. From

his knowledge of the world and of himself arises the impulse for

expression; the wondrous world of fable now draws the nearest, because

the heart is fully open to its comprehension.

In the Manesian collection of Minnesingers, we find a rather obscure

rival song of Henry of Ofterdingen and Klingsohr with other poets;

instead of this, jousting, the author would have represented another

peculiar poetic contest, the war of the good and evil principles in

songs of religion and irreligion, the invisible world contrasted with

the visible. "Out of Enthusiasm the poets in bacchanalian intoxication

contend for death." The sciences are poetized; mathematics also enters

the lists. The plants of India are commemorated in song; new

glorification of Indian mythology.

This is Henry's last act upon the earth; the transition to his own

glorification. This is the solution of the whole work, the _Fulfilment_

of the allegory which concludes the First Part. Everything is explained

and completed, supernaturally and yet most naturally. The partition

between Fiction and Truth, between the Past and the Present has fallen

down. Faith, Fancy, and Poetry lay open the internal world.

Henry reaches Sophia's land, in Nature, such as might be allegorically

painted; after having conversed with Klingsohr concerning certain

singular signs and omens. These are mostly awakened by an old song

which he hears by chance, and in which is described a deep water in a

secluded spot. The song excites within him long forgotten

recollections; he visits the water, and finds a small golden key, which

a raven had stolen from him some time before, and which he had never,

expected to find. An old man had given it to him soon after Matilda's

death, with the injunction that he should carry it to the emperor, who

would tell him what to do with it. Henry seeks the emperor, who is

highly rejoiced and gives him an ancient manuscript, in which it is

written that the emperor should give it to that man who ever brought

him a golden key; that this man would discover in a secret place an old

talisman, a carbuncle for his crown, in which a space was yet left for

it. The place itself is also described in the parchment. After reading

the description, Henry takes the road to a mountain, and meets on the

way the stranger who first told him and his parents concerning the blue

flower; he converses with him about Revelation. He enters the mountain

and Cyane trustingly follows him.

He soon reaches that wonderful land in which air and water, flowers and

animals, differ entirely from those of earthly nature. The poem at the

same time changes in many places to a play. "Men, beasts, plants,

stones and stars, the elements, sounds, colors, meet like one family,

act and converse like one race. Flowers and brutes converge concerning

men. The world of fable is again visible; the real world is itself

regarded as a fable." He finds the blue flower; it is Matilda, who

sleeps and has the carbuncle. A little girl, their child, sits by a

coffin, and renews his youth. "This child is the primeval world, the

close of the golden time." "Here the Christian religion is reconciled

with the Heathen. The history of Orpheus, of Psyche, and others are

sung."

Henry plucks the blue flower, and delivers Matilda from her

enchantment, but she is lost to him again; he becomes senseless through

pain, and changes to a stone. "Edda (the blue flower, the Eastern

Maiden, Matilda) sacrifices herself upon the stone; he is transformed

to a melodious tree. Cyane hews down the tree and burns herself with

him. He becomes a golden ram. Edda, Matilda, is obliged to sacrifice

it. He becomes a man again. During these metamorphoses he has the very

strangest conversations."

He is happy with Matilda, who is both the Eastern Maiden and Cyane. A

joyous spirit-festival is celebrated. All that has past was Death, the

last dream and awakening. "Klingsohr comes again as king of Atlantis.

Henry's mother is Fancy, his father, Sense. Swaning is the Moon; the

miner is the antiquary and at the same time Iron. The emperor Frederick

is Arcturus. The Count of Hohenzollern and the merchants also return."

Everything flows into an allegory. Cyane brings the stone to the

emperor; but Henry is now himself the poet of the fabulous tale which

the merchants had formerly related to him.

The blissful land suffers yet again by enchantment, while subjected to

the changes of the Seasons. Henry destroys the realm of the Sun. The

whole work was to close with a long poem, only the beginning of which

was composed.

THE NUPTIALS OF THE SEASONS.

Deep buried in thought stood the new monarch. He was recalling

Dreams of the midnight, and every wonderful tale,

Which gathered he first from the heavenly flower, when stricken

Gently by prophecy, love all-subduing he felt.

He thought still he heard the accents deeply impressive,

Just as the guest was deserting the circle of joy;

Fleeting gleams of the moon illumined the clattering window,

And in the breast of the youth there raged a passionate glow.

Edda, whispered the monarch, what is the innermost longing

In the bosom that loves? What his ineffable grief?

Say it, for him would we comfort, the power is ours, and noble

Be the time when thou art the joy of heaven again.--

"Were the times not so cold and morose, if were united

Future with Present, and both with the holy Past time;

Were the Spring linked to Autumn, and the Summer to Winter,

Were into serious grace childhood with silver age fused;

Then, O spouse of my heart, would dry up the fountain of sorrow,

Every deep cherished wish would be secured to the soul."

Thus spake the queen, and gladsomely clasped her the radiant beloved:

Thou hast uttered in sooth to me a heavenly word,

Which long ago over the lips of the deep-feeling hovered,

But on thine alone first pure and in season did light.

Quickly drive here the chariot, ourselves we will summon

First the times of the year, then all the seasons of man.--

They ride to the sun, and first bring the Day, then the Night; then to

the North, for Winter, then to the South, to find Summer; from the East

they bring the Spring, from the West the Autumn. Then they hasten after

Youth, next to Age, to the Past and to the Future.

This is all I have been able to give the reader from my own

recollection, and from scattered words and hints in the papers of my

friend. The accomplishment of this great task would have been a lasting

memorial of a new poesy. In this notice I have preferred to be short

and dry, rather than expose myself to the danger of adding anything

from my own fancy. Perhaps many a reader will be grieved at the

fragmentary character of these verses and words, as well as myself, who

would not regard with any more devout sadness a piece of some ruined

picture of Raphael or Corregio.

L. TIECK.

NOTES.

I.

This _rifacimento_ of Arion's story is not mere mythological twaddle.

As allegories abound, and as in fact there is a suspicion that the

whole Romance may be only an allegory, an "Apotheosis of Poetry,"--the

reader must keep open his internal eye.

Arion is the Spirit of Poetry as embodied in any age, whether in a

single voice, or many. This the age always attempts to drown,--seldom

with applause. The sailors are the exponents of an age, or its

critics. In the case of Arion, they belonged to a certain tribe of

Philistines,--not yet extinct.[5] There is a deep significance in the

fact, that they resolutely stopped their ears against the Poet's

song. The treasures of the Poet are his ideas of the good and the

beautiful, which he fetches from his far home; for he comes, "not

in entire forgetfulness." The fact, that Arion preferred jumping

overboard to being converted into a heave-offering, is typical of the

self-extinguishment and natural dissolution of the true soul, born into

a humanity which is not its counterpart, which cannot answer to it.

Those providential dolphins are a grateful posterity, which preserve

not only the Poet's treasures, but his memory. The conflict among the

sailors, too, has a deep meaning, hidden also in that old, wonderful

myth of the Kilkenny cats.

But an allegory has many sides, like a genuine symphony. Each reader

will interpret all of them best from his own point of view. Should

Henry himself turn out to be Arion, the feat would only be one of

inverted transmigration, and not more extraordinary than the regular

method.

II.

An opportunity is taken to introduce some further remarks of the author

concerning History. They are found among a multitude of fragments,

arranged under the three heads of Philosophical, Critical, and Moral;

an amorphous heap of sayings, generally of great beauty and power. The

present have little connexion with the text, but will be their own

excuse. The total of his remarks will be seen to hint at a theory of

History, with which most school-histories and respectable annals are in

no wise infected.

'Luck or fate is talent for history. The sense for apprehending

occurrences is the prophetic, and luck the divining instinct. (Hence

the ancients justly considered a man's luck one of his talents.) We

take delight in divination. Romance has arisen from the want of

history.

'History creates itself. It first arises through the connexion of the

past with the future. Men treat their recollections much too negligently.

'The historian organizes the historical Essence. The data of history

are the mass, to which the historian gives form, while giving

animation. Consequently history always presupposes the principles of

animation and organization; and where they are not antecedent there can

be no genuine historical _chef d'[oe]uvre_, but only here and there the

traces of an accidental animation, where a capricious genius has ruled.

'The demand, to consider this present world the best, is exactly

analogous to that which would consider my own wedded wife the best and

only woman, and life to be entirely for her and in her. Many similar

demands and pretensions are there, which he who dutifully acknowledges,

who has a discriminating respect for everything that has transpired, is

historically religious, the absolute Believer and Mystic of history,

the genuine lover of Destiny. Fate is the mysticised history. Every

voluntary love, in the common signification, is a religion, which has

and can have but one apostle, one evangelist and disciple, and can be,

though not necessarily, an extra-religion (Wechsel-religion.)

'There is a series of ideal occurrences running parallel with reality.

They seldom coincide. Men and chances usually modify the ideal

occurrence, so that it appears imperfect, and its results likewise.

Thus it was in the Reformation. Instead of Protestantism appeared

Lutheranism.

'What fashions the man, but his _Life-History_? In like manner nothing

fashions great men, but the _World's-History_.

'Many men live better in the past and future time, than in the present.

'The Present indeed is not at all comprehensible without the Past, and

without a high degree of culture, an impregnation with the highest

products, with the pure spirits of the present and of previous ages;

all which assimilating guides and strengthens the human prophetic

glance, which is more indispensable to the human historian, to the

active, ideal elaborator of historic facts, than to the grammatical and

rhetorical annalist.'

III.

Novalis seems here to rehearse his whole poetic creed; or rather, he

seems to be reviewing his own poems. What he deprecates, are the faults

he most avoids. He is distinguished for extreme simplicity, both in

style and language; and the thoughts, though lofty and sometimes vast,

are yet fresh, chaste, and comprehensible. They have a domestic

sublimity. They indicate simply an infinite expansion of the poet's

heart, whose mild and primeval denizens are undisturbed by the forced,

the foreign, or the shadowy. They have a oneness of design, and are

finished and luminous to the most minute criticism. If we say that

Novalis wrote as he was inspired, never attempting to superinduce what

was only galvanic upon the true life, and never daring to write when he

was not inspired, we both describe his genius and discover the secret

of his beauty.

With one or two exceptions, the present romance is an unfavorable

specimen of his poetic powers. The subjects of most of the songs

require only that luminous simplicity alluded to, and are only fine

examples of a lyrical style, with a few glimpses of his true genius.

"Astralis," the poem that introduces the second part, is unlike the

rest of the volume, being an irregular, mystic embodyment of the hero's

destinies,--a recapitulation of the past and a presentiment of the

future. The romance is unfavorable, excepting one or two prose passages

of great sublimity, much resembling the "Hymns to the Night," one or

two of which are given below. The dream at the close of the sixth

chapter may be particularly designated. "The image of Death, and of the

River being the Sky in that other and eternal Country, seems to us a

fine and touching one: there is in it a trace of that simplicity, that

soft, still pathos, which are characteristics of Novalis, and doubtless

the highest of his specially poetic gifts." But it is in his Spiritual

Songs that we gain a glimpse of his true genius. They are eminently

devotional, and indiscriminately addressed to the Father, the Son, and

the Holy Virgin. A translation of the mass of them would form a most

desirable hymn book for the Christian, though, to be sure, it would be

very graceless to supplant worthy old Dr. Watts. But they are very

sweet and touching, and full of pious fervor. We have been struck with

the similarity of their tone to those of George Herbert, who stands

with the Father and the Son at the very door of his heart, with tearful

and familiar supplication for them to enter.

"Geusz, Vater, Ihn gewaltig aus,

Gib Ihn aus deinem Arm heraus:

_Nur Unschuld, Lieb' und süsze Scham_

_Hielt Ihn, dasz er nicht längst schon kam_.

"Treib' Ihn von dir in unsern Arm,

_Dasz er von deinem Hauch noch warm_;

In schweren Wolken sammle ihn,

Und lasz Ihn so hernieder ziehn."

Among his promiscuous poems is a beautiful lyric, representing the

triumph of Faith over Sorrow, under the symbol of a beautiful child

bringing to him a wand, beneath whose touch the Queen of Serpents

yields to him the "precious jewel."

The following is the first Hymn to the Night:

"What living, sense-endowed being loves not, before all the prodigies

of the far extending space around him, the all-rejoicing light with its

colors, its beams and billows, its mild omnipresence, as waking day?

The restless giant-world of the stars, swimming with dancing motion in

its azure flood. Inhales it as its life's inmost soul; the sparkling,

ever-resting stone, the sensitive, imbibing plant, and the wild,

burning, many-shaped animal, inhale it; but before all, the glorious

stranger, with the speaking eyes, the uncertain gait, and the gently

closed, melodious lips. Like a king of earthly nature, it summons each

power to countless transformations, ratifies and dissolves treaties in

infinite number, and suspends its heavenly image on every earthly

being. Its presence alone reveals the wondrous splendor of creation's

realms.

"I turn aside to the holy, ineffable, mysterious Night. Far away lies

the world, sunk in a depth profound waste and lonely is its place. O'er

the chords of the bosom waveth deep sadness. I will dissolve into dew

drops, and mingle myself with the ashes. Distance of memory, wishes of

youth, dreams of childhood, the short joys and vain hopes of a whole

long life, flit by me in robes of gray, like evening clouds after

sunset. In other spaces Light has pitched its merry tents. Will it

never return to its children, who are waiting for it with the trusting

faith of innocence?

"What swells now so forebodingly beneath the heart, and swallows up the

soft air of sadness? Hast thou also a pleasure in us, sombre Night?

What bringest thou beneath thy mantle, that with viewless power winds

its way to my soul? A costly balsam is dripping from thy hand, from thy

bunch of poppy. The drooping pinions of the mind thou bearest upward.

Dimly and ineffably we feel ourselves moved; a solemn countenance do I

see, in pleasing terror, that gently and full of devotion bendeth

towards me, and showeth dear youth hid in the infinite locks of the

mother. How poor and childish Light now appears to me! How welcome and

blessed the farewell of day! Only for this, because Night alienates

from thee thy servants, didst thou sow in the regions of space the

luminous balls, to proclaim thy omnipotence, thy return, in the times

of thy absence. More heavenly than yonder twinkling stars appear the

infinite eyes that Night opens in us. Their sight extends farther than

the palest of that numberless host; unbeholden to Light, they gaze

through the depths of a loving spirit, which fills a loftier space with

unspeakable rapture. Praised be the Queen of the world, the high

announcer of holy spheres, the nurse of blessed love! She sends me

thee, O dearly beloved, lovely sun of the Night. Now I awake, for I am

Thine and Mine; thou hast announced to me Night as my life, thou hast

made me a man. Consume my body with a spirit-glow, that in ether I may

mingle more closely with thee, and be thou my bridal night forever."

The Beloved was Sophia; concerning whom he writes as follows:--

"Weissenfels, March 22d, 1797.

"It is for me a mournful duty to inform you that Sophia is no more.

After unspeakable sufferings, borne with exemplary resignation, she

died on the 10th of March, at half past nine in the morning. She was

born on the 17th of March, 1783, and on the 15th of March, 1795, I

gained from her the assurance, that she would be mine. She has suffered

since the 7th of November, 1795. Eight days before her death I left her

with the strongest conviction, that I should never see her again. I

could not have endured to look impotently upon the terrible struggle of

blooming youth down-stricken, the fearful anguish of the heavenly

creature. Fate have I never feared. For three previous weeks I saw its

menaces. It has become evening about me, whilst I was yet gazing into

the morning-red. My sorrow is boundless, like my love. For three years

had she been my hourly thought. She alone has bound me to life, to my

country, and to my occupations. With her loss I am separated from

everything, for I scarcely have myself any longer. But it has become

evening, and it seems to me, as if I soon were about to depart, and so

would I gladly be tranquil, and see around me only kind, friendly

faces, and live entirely in her spirit, gentle and kindhearted, as she

was.

"Cherished by me, as my own immortal Sophia, will be the friendship,

the assiduity with which you strove to render her last days serene.

Sophia still treasures your kindnesses with the warmest gratitude, and

I have felt a silent impulse to express to you this gratitude, united

with my own. You will pardon it to my love, when I tell you, that your

attention to Sophia's wishes, and that half year's residence with her,

now first has made you really dear to me.... I must cling to the past,

as I have nothing more to expect from the future. Farewell, and be

happier than

Your friend,

HARDENBERG."

But how soon does his grief become holy, and therefore a joy! The

letter is chiefly valuable as an introduction to the third Hymn to the

Night:--

"Once as I shed bitter tears, when my hope dissolved into pain flowed

away, and I stood alone by the barren hillock, which hid in a dark,

narrow space the form of my life; alone, as none had been before,

driven by unspeakable anguish, powerless, nothing left but a thought of

misery;--as I then looked about after aid, could neither move forward

nor backward, but clung to a fleeting, extinguished life, with infinite

longing,--then came from the blue distance, from the heights of my old

blessedness, a breath as of twilight, and at once the tie of birth, the

chain of Light, was rent asunder. Away flew the glory of earth, and

with it my sorrow; the sadness rushed together into a new, unfathomable

world; thou, Night's-inspiration, slumber of heaven, camest over me.

Gently the scene rose aloft; above it floated my unfettered, new-born

Spirit The hillock became a dust-cloud, and through it I saw the

transfigured features of my Beloved. Eternity lay in her eyes; I

grasped her hands, and the tears became a glittering, indissoluble tie.

Thousands of years flew away in the distance, like tempest-clouds. Upon

her neck I wept enrapturing tears at the thought of this new life.--It

was the first and only dream, and since then do I feel an eternal,

unchangeable faith in the heaven of Night, and its Sun my Beloved."

Such is the melting tenderness, which is a chief element of his poetry,

such the cunning drug that embalms his genius!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Mährchen.]

[Footnote 2: _Mutter_ or _Metallmutter_ is the gang or matrix that

contains the ore.]

[Footnote 3: _Mährchen._]

[Footnote 4: _Bacchischen Wehmuth_; the sadness that drives to

dissipation, not the Elysium of the morning after.]

[Footnote 5: The word _Critic_ is derived from the Hebrew word [Hebrew:

krty] _executioner_; collectively, _executioners and runners_, from the

root [Hebrew: krt], _to cut_. Thus it gradually came to mean, to cut

and run. It is somewhat remarkable that the secondary meaning of the

noun is _Philistine_. See Gesenius in voc.; who also adds, "the

conjecture is not improbable that the Philistines sprang from Crete,

and that _Caphtor_ signifies [Greek: Krêtê]. Comp. Michælis Spicil. J.

1. p. 292-308. Supplemm. p. 1328." The proverbial character of the

Cretans is well known.

The Rabbi Ben Hillel, who was of the tribe of Onagrites, defended the

oral traditions of the Jews against certain persons, who were disposed

to sniff somewhat. In his writings, the venerable Rabbi was accustomed

to designate them as Philistines--_mais nous avons change tout

cela_--and, in a felicitous allusion to the ancient narrative,

insinuated that the extraordinary discomfiture of so many Philistines

by a certain jaw-bone was explained upon the well known principle in

Hom[oe]opathy, whereby any nuisance is abated by the application of

homogeneous substances. This was in the infancy of that science. But

the learned Rabbi in his strictures did not anticipate the retort of

his opponent Judas Haggadosh, who called Ben Hillel "_the would-be

jaw-bone._"]

THE END.