"'Don't put yourself out, Mike; don't put yourself out!' said Klaus patronizingly, seating himself upon a chest, and then tuning his fiddle. 'Getting into a passion won't bring the shiners back! What do you say, gossip, to a tune? Will you dance if I play? I have improved wonderfully, I can tell you, since I left this half-and-half sort of a world. Nobody dances now to my touch who doesn't praise it to the skies. You can't care much for dancing at your time of life, I know; and yet, if you could get a ducat for every step, and one or two for every hop, you would put your best foot forward, and try to do something any how— wouldn't you?'

"'What, what, what? What's that you say?' cried Simon, squeezing his empty money-bags. 'A ducat for every step! two for a hop! Kremnitz or Dutch, my dear old friend?'

"'Kremnitz, old gentleman, and full weight too!' replied the Dwarf. 'But,' added the little monster, 'about the head, Mike—what do you say, am I to get it?'"

Simon put his hand to his hair—involuntarily.

"'Oh! I am no Turk, gossip!' said the fiddler. 'I sha'n't scalp you. I'll gild every hair that you have on your crown; but your pate I must have, or else I can say nothing about the ducats.'

"'But what do you mean to do with it, dear ducat—dear Klaus, I mean?' asked the bewildered Mike.

"'That's my concern. I promise you not to hurt a hair; and your noddle shall be kept warm enough,' added the creature with a hideous chuckle. 'I engage myself to that, by all the Kremnitz ducats in the world!'

"Hesitation seldom prospers. It was fatal to poor Mike. He couldn't bring himself to answer. 'What,' he kept saying to himself—'what can I want with my head when I am dead? What matters who gets it?'

"'Have you settled?' enquired the Dwarf. 'Don't keep me, Mike; there are plenty of fellows who'll jump to get the ducats.'

"'Ducats! ducats!' continued Simon, still arguing with himself.—'What's a dead head in a scale with ducats? Nothing at all!—precious ducats! How many I have lost! one for a step, two for a hop. I had better close the bargain!'

"'You won't have them, then!' exclaimed the Dwarf. "'Yes! Done—agreed!' cried Simon eagerly. 'I'll consent, dear Klaus!' "'Very well!' replied the Dwarf. 'We'll to business, then!'

"'You recollect the terms, dear gossip! One for a step, two for a hop; and you are to have my head as soon as I die, and have no further use for it. Now, play a very slow waltz, there's a good Klaus—very slow, if you love me! Don't fiddle too long, and let the ducats come down prettily!'

"The Dwarf made no reply; but simply laughed like a growling bear. He cocked his fiddle under his chin, however, as quick as lightning; scraped a little by way of timing, and then broke out. Klaus Stringstriker had fiddled for a very few minutes before Simon was springing about, and cutting such capers as no professional performer had ever attempted, whilst the beams and rafters of the house quivered again. The impoverished farmer held in his hands about twenty large empty money-bags, which he grasped very tightly. It was quite wonderful to see how at every caper, at every kick of the foot, there fell at least two dozen real and true Kremnitz ducats, right down from his head straight into the pockets. Down they came faster and faster, so thick that before the dance was half over, the bags were all chokeful, and the dancer himself hardly able to bear the weight of all his treasure. But, mad with joy at the unexpected rushing back of all his wealth, he burst into the wildest laughter, flung himself about like a lunatic, and devoured with greedy gluttonous eyes the clinking, twinkling gold, that in starry showers discharged itself around him.

"At the end of a short quarter of an hour, the bags were bursting in Simon's hands. The Dwarf wriggled with delight, and played on—on—on; and the old farmer, intoxicated and insane, jumped till his hoary and fated skull struck against the ceiling. Now his joints cracked under the weight of gold that he bore; but he could not put it from him, for the bags stuck to his hands, as though they had grown to them. His strength decayed; his thoughts languished. He tried to speak; but he could not stammer out a word.

"'Gos-en-o, Kl-kl-oh-oh-oh'—

"The Dwarf kicked his feet with pleasure, and laughed again like a bear. He never played in right earnest until now. He scraped with all his might and main. Poor Twirling-stick Mike groaned, and his unhappy head dropped exhausted upon his breast. Miserable man, his last capers were cut! His dancing was no longer worth mentioning. He went up a little way, like a baby's shuttlecock, and came down again feebly and dull. The ducats poured out. The bags swelled; playing and dancing—dancing, such as it was—went forward, and one terrible hour passed away. At last the wrists of the farmer snapped asunder; his hands and the bags of gold fell to the ground together. The dancer gave one desperate and convulsive leap into the air. Klaus stopped his violin; and, in the next instant, Simon lay dead upon the floor. Will it be believed that the rascally Dwarf had fiddled every hair of the poor devil's head, and brought them all down to his feet in the shape of ducats! Simon's skull was as smooth and clean as if it had been shorn.

"The Dwarf put his fiddle up; quietly possessed himself of the money-bags, and then grinned at the corpse before him.

"'Well, you old fool!' said he. 'Have I shaved your ugly jobber-nowl clean enough? I don't want any of your tiresome barbers to do my work! Are we quits, gossip? Can we wipe off the old scores yet, friend Simon? No, no! We have something to do still! Let your boy look well to himself, and get reconciled to my people whilst there is yet time!'"

* * * * *

Early in the morning, Simon was found lying dead on the floor. The hairs of the unfortunate man, plucked out, and scattered over the boards, in part confirmed the vehement declaration of the servants; viz. that their master had wrestled with the devil, and had got the worst of the bout. Young Klaus, however, shaken as he was by the unexpected sight, at once guessed the true history. Returning home the night before, from a nocturnal visit to his sweetheart, he had passed his father's house, and here he had not only heard the playing of the fiddler, but, looking through a crevice of the garret-door, he had likewise discerned the very form of the Dwarf-spirit, and heard his laughter, as well as the noisy leaping of his unhappy parent. In his first grief at the frightful termination of his father's career, Klaus hurled the bitterest execrations at the head of the revengeful Stringstriker; cursed him over and over again, and himself no less, on account of his plaguing, ghost-seeing faculty. Raving over the handless body of Simon, he vowed at length, that if ever again the shadow of the fiend crossed his path, he would double him up in a sack, and hang him on the first tree that he came to.

This excited state of mind did not last very long with the volatile youth; for, truth to say, the sudden dereliction of mortality on the part of his quarrelsome old father, did not come altogether amiss to him. What hindered him now from wedding the girl of his heart, and leading as jolly a life as any? According to good old custom, he put on his dress and looks of mourning, donned his three-cornered hat, pulled it deep over his forehead, and walked decently and soberly up the church-path to the parson's house.

'Reverend sir!' said the precious youth to the minister, 'the Lord has been very gracious to my father, and this night he has taken him to himself. May the Lord comfort us! If you please, reverend sir, he shall be buried on Friday next; and I should like him to have a funeral oration and a parentation. He was a good man, sir, and I know I shall miss him at every turn and corner. But God's name be praised, sir, he always sends us what's best!' And so saying, Klaus wiped the tears on his eyes.

In due time old Simon was put under ground, and there was not a word to be said by his many followers against either the deceased father or the living son; for the latter gave a capital feast in honour of the occasion, which, setting aside two bloody heads, passed off in the most satisfactory manner. On the evening of the funeral, Klaus got very impatient to look over his lawful inheritance. Bethinking him of the avarice of his father, he had made up his mind to routing out no end of wealth; for as to the old man's continual complaints and grumblings, he had always looked upon them as so much flummery. To his great astonishment and dismay, however, he found every chest and coffer empty. Money-bags there were in plenty; but torn and moneyless, and the very little ready cash that remained in the house was by no means sufficient to satisfy the disappointed lawyers, whose bills, drawn out respectively to the loss which they had suffered through the sudden demise of Mike, were large enough, as you may believe.

This discovery and turn of affairs sensibly interfered with the rejoicings of Klaus; and no wonder! For whilst he was still warm with the idea of bringing his bride home to a well-stocked property, he had to learn that he was actually as poor as a church-mouse. What could he do? He was not long in forming a resolution. House and farm, field and coppice, were in pretty good condition; no mortgages, as far as he knew, cumbered the estate. Surely, till better times came, there would be no difficulty in borrowing? At all events, the effort should be made. Klaus went to Zittau to beg the loan of a thousand dollars from the trustees of pious legacies. He stammered out his request to the board with as much confidence as he could command; but whether his awkward way and manner, or his unsteady look, or the wealth which it was supposed he possessed, or the nickname which he bore—whether one or all of these gave rise to suspicion and alarm, it is very certain that although friend Nicholas received fine words enough to tear his pocket open, not one farthing of money did he catch, but was fain to return home as rich as he had come.

This was a heavy blow to the young farmer. As usual with him in seasons of trouble, he thought of the Dwarf, and cursed him. Then he prayed for a sight of the monster, only till he had wreaked his vengeance on him; and then he went like a drunken man homeward. To his intense vexation, as often as he relieved himself of an execration, his ear was assailed with a scornful peal of laughter. It escorted him to his very door, and there left him mad with rage, because he could by no means perceive whence the mockery proceeded. Once at home again, he repeated the rummaging of rooms, cellars, and corners, in the still unextinguished hope of finding something, were it only paper bonds, of which he had known his father, at one time, to possess several. His search availed him nothing—the chests were empty—there was not an atom of money left. As if this were not misery enough, he perceived, with inexpressible grief, that the rafters of the house, the wainscoting of the rooms, were beginning to totter and crack so fearful, that it would be impossible to reside much longer beneath them. And oh, sorrow upon sorrow! those unpleasant gentlemen, the lawyers, were daily asking payment, and threatening an execution. Klaus grew very wretched. Breathing time, at all events, was necessary, and so he sold the tavern and a considerable portion of his land. With part of the proceeds he appeased the blood-suckers; and with what remained, he purposed repairing his cracked and rickety tenement.

Accustomed from his youth upwards to go to work with a full pocket, the thrifty way of life to which he was obliged to conform, was any thing but pleasant to him; but worse than all, and more difficult to support, were the evidences of disrespect which poor Nicholas observed in the conduct of the neighbouring farmers—and which every day became more palpable. Before his poverty was known, as the son of his father, he had been treated with some regard—and if folks did call him Lying Klaus, it was more by way of joke than to give him pain. Now, however, the neglect of him was bare-faced; and the meanest of the village learnt to make their ill-natured remarks, and to fling his nickname over meadow and field after him as he went. He was welcome nowhere—deserted and forsaken on every side. Even in his work, he was the most unfortunate of labourers. Ill-luck ever attended it. If he ploughed, either the ploughshare would go to pieces, or the furrows would turn over so often, that he could not stir. If he sowed in the serenest weather, when not a breath of air was moving, a whirlwind would arise as soon as he had begun, carrying the grain to some one distant spot, and rendering it there perfectly useless. Sometimes he would find that he held a handful of mere husks, and then if, in the bitterness of his soul, he began to curse and tear his hair—he would all at once espy in those very husks— eyes that fleered at him, whilst a horrible laughter echoed from every side.

These were Klaus's out o' doors troubles. Those within were still worse. His sound, strong horses perished one after another—till at last he had nothing left in his stables but one old gaunt mare called Blaessel. A distemper broke out amongst his horned stock, and before a month passed, destroyed every thing in his stalls, with the exception of an old goat and a gormandizing and insatiable porker.

A much more sedate man than Klaus would have been ready to jump out of his skin in the midst of so much disaster. Once more he had recourse to a sale. With a heavy heart he put up his inheritance, and with inexpressible dismay he received the first buyers. Upon their close inspection of house and farm, it soon became too apparent that the whole of the woodwork was thoroughly worm-eaten, and, in the ground-floor, destructive fungus hard at work. Those who came inclined to buy, shook their heads and wished him good-morning: and in less than four-and-twenty hours after their departure, every soul in the parish knew that Lying Klaus was as good as a bankrupt; that his house was already tumbling about his ears; and that he himself would be forced to go from house to house, and practise the art of lattice-tapping.[1]

[1] The more ancient village houses have still, for the most part, before the house door, a kind of lattice, upon which the beggar taps, by way of announcing himself to the dwellers.

"Rumour in this case proved a true prophet. The end of the summer found Klaus's homestead all to pieces. The wind whistled through the broken windows. Rats frolicked about the floor: a lease of the rafters was taken by a society of martens, and Klaus was left the choice of making friends with the vermin, or being dislodged from his miserable den altogether.

"When a poor man suddenly becomes rich, there is no lack of good words thrown away; but when a rich man suddenly comes to beggary, all that is said is—that he is a deplorable wretch—that everybody expected it—and that it serves him right. Klaus led a horrid life. He was shunned by universal consent. The youngest urchins of the parish threw dirt at him, made faces, called him Lying Klaus, and trotted after him, imitating the gait and gestures of an ill-conditioned dwarf. If Klaus entered the tavern—so lately his own property—the boors shrunk from him as though he were a leper—the landlord lazily shoved a dirty glass before him, and looked at the piece of money which he got in exchange, a dozen times before he put it into his till. The most abandoned criminal, who had undergone his ten years of imprisonment and hard labour, could not have been treated more ignominiously. Had Klaus not lived on in a sort of mental intoxication, he must have committed murder or manslaughter, if, in his desperation, he had not even laid unholy hands upon himself.

"All help cut away, every means of support dried up, and the beggar denied even the bread of charity, Klaus at length resolved upon abandoning his birthplace, and seeking his fortune in the open world. He had all along carried on his stick trade without being able to earn even salt to his porridge. A small piece of copse-wood, of little value, for which he had been unable to find a purchaser, he could yet call his own—the lean and bony Blaessel was also spared him. With sticks and steed, therefore, he quitted his native place, and began to take his rounds abroad, scarcely hoping to gather what was denied him amongst his own people—a scanty pittance. It was little that poor Nicholas got to break and bite upon his road; he made amends for the deficiency by consulting the brandy flask, from which the deserted one sucked his temporary solace. With the hot liquor in his head, he could whistle and sing, forget his misery, and boldly face mankind.

"Late one evening, Klaus returned from a distant business tour. Blaessel had not a leg to stand upon, Klaus himself had eaten nothing the whole day, and he was besides parched with thirst. To satisfy the cravings of nature, he stepped, unwillingly enough, into The Sun at Herwigsdorf. The parlour was full of boors, one of whom, in a gruff voice, read aloud the Weekly Intelligencer, whilst the rest remarked upon its contents. Klaus edged himself into a corner to avoid observation, and mine host brought him, for his two or three pence, a very melancholy supper. The reading came at length to a close, and the stage then became alive. The farmers discussed and argued the news that had been delivered to them, until they grew very warm, and had exhausted all their eloquence, when they commenced knocking the table with their doubled fists, for want of better arguments. In the height of the dispute, a neighbouring miller—a very learned gentleman—entered the apartment. He was at once unanimously appealed to for a decision, and then nobody would abide by his verdict. A general tumult ensued; in the midst of it, unlucky Klaus was detected, and then politics and the welfare of mankind were immediately lost sight of.

"'Devil take me!' cried one, advancing towards the wretched man, 'If there doesn't sit Lying Klaus from Starving Castle!'

"Klaus was surrounded in an instant. The whole assembly hooted him, and he for shame and rage would gladly have buried himself for ever in the earth.

"Well, I will say," continued the unfeeling boor, "the rich Klaus has become the very careful and thrifty. I wonder if the churchwarden means to give him the bell-purse money for ever!"[1] Well, Liar, how gets on the stick trade? Will you soon be able to patch your coat out of your earnings? If you happen now to have a sixpence more than you want, I think we may do a little business together. I have some four-year-old straw that will come in well for your palace. It is eaten away a little by the mice, but that doesn't matter. Why, what are you thinking of, you nincompoop? Don't you know when Klaus wants straw, or money, or an honest name, he has only to go to his couch-grassed stubble-fields, and sneeze three times into the Dwarf's wall, and then he gets directly what he asks for? Who wouldn't have a Dwarf for his godfather! a fellow just three cheeses high, and a fiddle-scrapper A pretty scrape he has made of it for you—only scraped your precious soul into hell, as he would have done if Holy Peter had bound it three times round his key-bit. It is a great pity though, that Dwarf-piper don't fiddle money into his darling's pocket, as well as out of it. Kick the blackguard out, pull his ears for him—I say he isn't honest. He can't be, for he has dealings with the devil!'

[1] The churchwardens go about the church during the service, and collect alms from the congregation in a purse with a bell.—TRANSLATOR.

"Many sinewy arms were stretched out at the moment to grasp the weak defenceless man, who sat gnashing his teeth, and awaiting the assault, whilst in his heart he cursed himself and all the world besides. The miller called upon the company to desist, and they retreated a stop or two, whilst he stepped forth, and placed himself at the side of the unprotected wanderer.

"'Come, come!' said the unexpected friend, 'this isn't fair. Klaus is a very worthy fellow, though things are going against him, because, as I believe, his old father bore too hard upon that imp Stringstriker. If Klaus were only a clever fellow, and knew how to say a private word or so to his godfather, he would soon make it all right with him again. Dwarfs must be managed. Bless you, I have one in my own mill. Every ninth night he hammers away on the twenty-first cog of the third wheel; and as soon as he begins, three honey cells must be put upon the millstone for him, if I don't wish the mill to stand still immediately, and all the grain to breed worms. It is nothing but Dwarf's roguery, and so I say let Klaus go quietly his way. I'll wager what you like, if the fellow asks the Dwarf's pardon, and makes it up with him, he'll be as rich as ever again. For you see, masters, Dwarfs must sometimes play all sorts of pranks with poor mortals, that they may so have occasion to help them at a future time, and secure for themselves a place in Heaven at last.'

"This learned address so dumbfoundered the peasants, that they retreated by degrees further and further from their intended victim, who, like a shrewd fellow, seized his opportunity, and made his escape. He was not long in harnessing his hack, mounting his cart, and driving from the inhospitable spot. The words of the miller had made a deep impression on his mind. The wish to hold communion by any means with the world of spirits, which had been closed upon him from the moment that he had hurled his curse against one of them—grew strong and lively within him. His miserable condition subdued him into sorrow and repentance, and, in a loud and earnest voice, he implored his godfather to take pity upon him, to forgive him, and to show him the means by which he might be reconciled again to him, and made worthy of the regard and consideration of his people.

"He had reached Hoernitz when his stricken heart indulged itself in such outpourings. Breiteberg arose at a short distance before him, with the few acres of land that still belonged to him lying waste for want of hands. Klaus threw a look of sullen discontent towards the land, and lo—he beheld there the figure of the Dwarf gliding along, and surrounded by countless sparkling lights. The lad stood still, and stared with astonishment at the apparition. Dissevered tones, as of a violin, floated in the disturbed air; and when the phantom lifted his fiddlestick, it seemed as if he sent a recognising nod towards his godchild. Klaus urged his beast forward, and at the same moment the Dwarf turned off at a cross-road, and with the speed of an arrow swept towards the neighbourhood of the Dwarf's well.

"Klaus lay awake half the night dwelling upon this encounter, and when he fell to sleep, it was the subject of his dreams. 'The miller,' thought he, 'is right, after all! Godfather may be pacified yet, if he is properly and becomingly spoken to. How kindly he nodded to me! O, if I could get only half my fortune back!' Before Klaus was out of bed again, he resolved to have a trial, and, on the very next day, humbly to present himself to his godfather, if that great personage would deign him an interview. He had to go to the wood for sticks, and time and place were both favourable to a meeting with the spirit.

"The road to the wood lay hard by the Dwarf's well. Klaus, arriving there, reined his horse up, and looked upon the spring with profoundly cogitative eyes. It was clear and still. Pearly bright the water ascended from the rent basaltic bottom, and rippled in a small thread-like rill through whispering rushes, across meadows and fields, until it reached the village.

"'Now, this is the strangest well!' quoth Klaus, knocking out the ashes from his short stump of a pipe—'always humming and brumming when I take my way by it—and when I have passed it, it is just as though I had loaded on another hundred-weight. The poor thing regularly gasps, and plants her hoof as if she were pulling the church after her. Now, wo-ho, Whiteface!—wo-ho!"

As Klaus spoke, the horse snorted, gasped, and stamped, without making any way. It was as though the devil had tied a hair about the spokes. After fearful struggling and long agony, the wood was at length reached. Klaus fell manfully to work. A sheaf of young trees were presently down before his axe. In the haste of the felling, he cut down some shrubbery, of no use in the manufacture of twirling-sticks, but trees and shrubs were heaped together on his cart; he stopped his pipe, and with provision at least for the next week, he gaily pushed towards home.

"It was a fine warm evening of autumn. The moon stood in the cloudless heavens above the blue hills, and the rich region lay in her splendour. Klaus hummed a careless tune; smoked and hummed, hummed and smoked. In the swampy marsh meadows to the right and left of him, number of social frogs joined in the concert; the streams were steaming in the valleys, and silvery mists strayed, catching the radiance, along the mountain forests.

"'Wo-ho, Blaesse!' growled Klaus, as his favourite began to snort and caracole. 'No shying, Whiteface! It is only the night-fog bubbling up a bit. 'Twon't singe thy poor bones, wo-ho!' and then he cracked his whip, and made it sing about the ears of the mulish beast. At the same moment, a bright flame sprang up before him—but only like a flash of lightning; for in an instant all was again hushed, dim, and lonely. The moon was visible through the mist, and in Hoernitz the lights were seen glimmering.

"'Oho!' thought Klaus, 'godfather is lighting his pipe, is he? We shall soon see, then, how the world wags with him. Hollo! Godfather Stringstriker, be good and kind to your child, and show yourself. Tell me, dear godfather, how I am to fill my money-bags again; for you know who had the emptying of them! There's a nice dear old gentleman, come out to me—I do so long to see you!'

"It was all very proper for Klaus to evince such amiability, but it had not the effect intended. Not a sound could he hear in reply. He waited for a space; then bellowed again into the open air—waited again, and holloed again. But all was quiet save the water of the spring which purled amongst the pebbles, and the grassy reeds that rustled and sighed through the mist, now reeking thicker and thicker around the speaker and his sorry jade. Klaus waxed spiteful.

"'Godfather!' he cried, striking poor Whiteface in his wrath, 'thou art a thick-lipped, crooked-legged lubber; that's what you are! Every question is worth an answer; it is a rule that holds good with man and beast; and why not amongst ghosts? Why did you beckon to me yesterday if you did not mean to show? You invited me here, and now that I have come, the tortoise creeps into his hole. You are a cruel, hard-hearted godfather. But never mind—good-night, Dwarf-piper Here's a present for thee. I bear thee no malice!'

"So speaking, Klaus threw a pocket-knife into the well, which he passed at the moment. The knife dropped into the water; a flame shot suddenly up, and was as quickly out. Klaus pressed his nag again; but the poor beast reared, snorted, and dragged at the gearing, without being able to move the cart an inch. The fog severed a little, and the moonbeams lay in great beauty upon a hundred acres. Klaus attempted to give his animal ease; but let Whiteface tug as she would, the cart stood still as if it had been frost-bound.

"'That ugly thick head of godfather's has certainly caught amongst the felloes," said Klaus, almost worried to death, and looking about him half-curiously, half-timorously. It wanted very little to pitch him backwards out of the vehicle, so astonished and affrighted was he with all that he beheld. The ghost-seer had seen many sights, but this beggared them all. His cart, in length and breadth, was covered with millions of dwarfs; every fir-spray, every dark green spike of a leaf, every pole, nay, even wheels and wheelspokes to the nave itself, were beset with the creatures. And what were they all about? Tiny, miraculous beings! labouring with unexampled diligence at the prettiest dancing-pumps ever seen! The Lilliput shoelings glistered like Spelt in the tiny brown hands of the workmen, as, turned to and fro, they came under the numerous and almost invisible hammers and awls. Every brilliant pair finished, and out of hand, was briskly strung up on cobwebs, with which the cart, vaultwise, was overwoven; and upon which, at the very first glance, Klaus himself could count more than three hundred thousand finished shoes. The astounded waggoner could for a long time do nothing more than fold his arms, and stare on in silence. The little rogues looked inexpressibly comical, it must be confessed. They were exactly half an inch in length, with great thick heads, on which were fixed leathern-coloured caps, at least six times the size, every one being decorated in front, by way of clasp, with a tiny glow-worm. Their legs were very slender and very crooked, although their feet were delicate and beautifully formed. Their little bodies, endowed in excess with high shoulders, were clad in fine dark-brown satin jackets, and about the waist were girdles of glistening silver, from which jingled the needful workman's apparatus. As soon as one of the little fellows had to hammer a sole, he adroitly tucked round his left leg, and, upon his tiny heel, beat out the bit of leather into order.

"'This must be profitable work any how!' quoth Klaus, breaking out at length, and, at the instant, the busy workers raised their headikins, and goggled so drolly at the young boor, that the latter was seized with a laughter which he found it impossible to control. The Dwarfs were set off also, and for some time they roared together; that is to say, Klaus roared, but the voicelets of the Dwarfs sounded only like a light whisper. Their laughing, however, did not prevent the smoking of their twirling-stick pipes, which they seemed to take much delight in; each Dwarf, it must be known, carrying in his mouth the strangest little twirling-stick, the four little arms of which reeked like pipe-heads.

"'If it is quite allowable, gentlemen!' said Klaus, taking off his hat— a politeness which was immediately responded to by every dwarf—'I should be glad to have a minute's chat with you; and to ask, first and foremost, for whom all this tremendous stock is that you are finishing off so busily and magnificently?'

"One of the cordwainers fastened the shoe that he had just finished, close before the young boor's eyes, upon the cobweb; then he folded his arms in imitation of Klaus, stared at him roguishly, and answered,

"'They are dancing-pumps for thy wedding, Klaus!'

"'For my what?' exclaimed the youth.

"'Thy wedding, Klaus!'

"'Ah, my pretty shoemakers, that's a long way off, I fear. Annie has no great longing to milk the spiders in my stalls, and who can blame her? But who gave you the order? Who took the measures? I guess our Marthas and Marys will want a considerable shoe-horn to get the pumps on, if the greater number don't prove misfits!'

"The Dwarfs laughed and clapped their hands for joy, nodding to one another with such vivacity, that the glow-worms upon their bonnets flew one amongst another.

"'Don't believe it, gossip—don't believe it,' rejoined the spokesman. 'We work for ourselves only. We mean to dance at thy wedding—every one of us, regularly one after the other, with thy virtuous bride."

"'What! all of you?' asked Nicholas, hurriedly.

"'All, all! as many of us as there are pairs of shoes!'

"'Thank you for nothing!' returned Klaus. 'Why, you would make me a widower before my wedding was over. Annie is a good strapping girl I know, and she carries her bushel of winter wheat, in defiance of Geordie, the miller's man, up three flights without stop or sigh; and that, from old time, has always been with us a sign of sound lungs: but a man can't drink, my little cobblers, beyond his thirst. You understand? Now would it not be better—mind you I am much obliged to you for the honour, all the same—if you sent a few delegates, say two or three; wouldn't that be more considerate to the lady, and show your politeness just as well?'

"'Not a bit of it, not a bit of it!' screamed the broad-bonnets. 'We must all eat, and all dance!'

"'Just like all the world!' muttered Klaus to himself. 'If you invite one of the townsfolk to a church ale he'll take three cakes for one, and stuff himself till the steps groan as he goes down again. I say, gentlemen,' he continued, turning to the Dwarfs, 'are you aware that I am your king's godson, and on the most intimate terms with him?'

"'And that thy father made him fiddle himself to death?' answered the little one resentfully; 'and that thou hast grown a good-for-nought, ready to bung up our whole gracious kingdom in a mouse-hole, had'st thou thy will? Eh, Master Nicholas?"

'Ah, don't be too hard now! Recollect what your king did to my father, and all that I have suffered for the last six months. Look at me! Hasn't Gossip Crookleg stripped me of money, field, and house?'

Again the dwarfs laughed.

'Ha, Klaus!' said the speaker, "Tell us, now, wouldn't you like to see all that went out at the doors fly in again, ere to-morrow, at the windows?"

'Only tell me,' said Klaus quickly, 'how to fill my bags again, and I invite you all, every man Jack of you, to the wedding. There's nothing like shaking hands and being friends again. Forget and forgive, say I!'

'And Annie dances with us?' interposed the Dwarf with eagerness, swinging a pair of newly-made shoes at the same time so impetuously that they slipped out of his hand, and dropped just into the young boor's lap.

'Hollo! I didn't say that!' cried Klaus. 'I'll turn that over in my mind, and give you an answer in the morning.'

A marvellous kind of whining interrupted the discourse. The innumerable band of dwarfs pulled the drollest faces, folded their handikins, and made the most lamentable gesticulations; but the speaker slid like a spider, upon one of the threads which canopied over the cart, down into Klaus's lap; thence he clambered up his jacket, and mounted until he reached the youngster's hand—'Give me the shoes!' he exclaimed maliciously, snatching and catching at the lost property.

"'Not so, not so, dear cousin Broadcap. This bit of workmanship will I hoard up against my marriage, when I promise to put them on you myself, if you will visit me.'

"'No, no, no—give me the shoes!' said the Dwarf fiercely, stamping with both feet, and lifting his manikin fists in menace against Klaus. 'I must and will have the shoes!'

"The remaining dwarfs again set up their sorrowful whine; and then Klaus became aware that an accident had happened which, with prudence, might be turned to great account.

"'Now, fine fellows, listen to me!' said he. 'The shoes you don't have back. But if you will promise to set me to rights again with your king and people, and to give me only the neediest livelihood, then are you welcome to my wedding, to eat and dance as much as you like.

"'Well, Klaus!' answered the Dwarf, 'I see thou hast the best of us; and we have no time to spend in disputation. In thirteen hours from this, we must breathe upon the silver veins of the earth, that they may keep nicely fresh, and in good growth. But an thou wilt hold faith with us, hear my proposal. Come hither again to-morrow evening, and strike with that sprig of yew, that hangs down below thee, into the well water. So, perchance, shalt thou learn what is best to do. Quick, yea or nay?'

"'There can be little harm in that!' returned the farmer. 'I answer—yea!'

"'Brrrr——!' snarled and whizzled behind him all over the cart. The dwarfs tumbled down from every twig, bough, spoke, and felloe, and vanished in one large pointed flame, that could be seen for a second blazing from the well.

"Baldface took fright, tore from the spot, and galloped as if for life and death, over stock and stone, until the village was reached. As for Klaus, he did not recover his senses until he found himself again in his own farmyard.

"It was with solicitude and a beating heart that Nicholas awaited the arrival of the next evening. In the meanwhile, he took another and more exact survey of his already half-ruined house; and the result was so melancholy that he felt he must stake life itself for the chance of bettering his fortune. There was not a beam, a board, a rafter, a lath, in the whole house that was not ready, upon the slightest assault, to go to wreck. Of glass windows the rumour was long since extinct. All stood open; and had Klaus been a student of meteorology, a better observatory than his loopholed, tumble-down homestead could not have been to be had. He returned from his tour of inspection more firmly resolved than ever to risk his adventure; and as soon as the sun was set, and the moon traced darker shadows upon the ground, he took his yew-branch and dwarfs' shoes, and set out.

"Klaus made a long circuit, and lingered a long time in the fields, before he could summon courage to approach the spring. He plucked up a heart at last, struck a light, and lit his pipe. Thus armed, he advanced to the well. The yew-twig struck the bright motionless water, and strongly agitated it. The stream exundated on every side; kindled as it mounted, and, tumbling and commingling, in a few seconds, like an enormous flame of fire, rolled forwards and backwards round the margin of the fountain.

"Klaus steadily regarded the mysterious phantasm. The flame enringed the whole well, and at length falling back, in an incomprehensible manner, into itself, began to darken, and to emit vapour. In the midst of the smoke, the young boor recognized Godfather Stringstriker. He was sitting upon a crystal throne, a-squat, with his crooked legs tucked under him, smoking with exquisite complacency a pipe as thick as his arm, terminating in a bowl as large as his head. He seemed wholly occupied in tracing the progress of the massive curls of smoke, which gushed abundantly from his capacious mouth, and took no notice of his godchild. It was left to young Nicholas, therefore, to commence the colloquy.

"'Good even, godfather!' said the lad, not quite at ease. 'I hope you enjoy your evening pipe. You need something to keep yourself warm and comfortable. The air strikes chilly hereabouts!'

"A smile diffused itself over the whole breadth of the dwarf's face, and he puffed away for his life.

"'You're i' th' right, Godson Klaus. I like my bit of pipe! That I can say, and honestly. It's good tobacco, too; a little dear, no doubt, but fairly earned. Wilt try a Whiff?'

"'I—I—I am much obliged, Godfather Stringstriker, but I am no great smoker, and I like to stick to one sort—Porto-rico—threepence a packet. Would you like to taste it?'

"'Cabbage!' rejoined the Dwarf, contemptuously. 'Tobacco, to be good, must smell like mine. Here, put your nose to it. It's Hungarian of the best!'

"The Dwarf pushed out his broad hand, and Klaus stooped towards it. His heart leaped into his throat as he gazed upon a dozen or two of the purest Kremnitz ducats. He darted at them like a tiger; but the Dwarf was prepared for him.

"'Not so, not so!' replied the latter, drawing his hand back. 'Ere thou have them, we must strike a bargain.'

"And with these words the Dwarf took up his pipe, which only a moment before he had laid aside. The attention of young Nicholas was drawn more closely to it by the movement, and he perceived, for the first time, that the colossal bowl was neither more nor less than a bald, smooth, and perfectly white human skull. A closer inspection convinced him that it was that of his own deceased and venerated parent. Above, upon the forehead, there was a moveable clapper, through which the superfluous smoke ascended; the tube was fixed in the mouth, and the eye-holes were continually supplied with gold pieces by a couple of thousand of indefatigable dwarfs, twenty or thirty of whom tugged along one ducat, and were sorely put to it to bring it to the proper place. Klaus was almost unsettled by the discovery.

"'I see,' he said with an unsteady, tremulous voice—'I see, godfather, you have quite a new-fashioned headpiece there. Is it your own particular fancy, or a new French mode?'

"'Quite my own private and individual gout, godson Klaus!' answered the Dwarf proudly. 'The flavour is perfect out of an old rogue's skull, that has been danced to death. When it is thoroughly smoke-seasoned, I expect the Grand Turk will give me a million piasters for it. Before then I must look about, and get me another. Heark'ee, godson! how clear it rings already!' And before Klaus could get in a word, the Dwarf gave the well-smoked skull a dozen unmerciful kicks with his heavy topboots.

"'For God's sake, godfather Stringstriker,' exclaimed Klaus, 'have some discretion, or I shall forget myself, and fall foul of you! What! do you think a child has no feeling for his dead parents? and is that a respectable way of treating your friends?'

"'Spare your breath, child!' interposed the Dwarf; 'talking makes no headway with men of my stamp. Let us come to an understanding! Tell me, Klaus—art thou content that, in ten years' time, when this pipe-head is handed over to the Grand Turk, to give up thy numskull for my evening pipe? I own to thee, I envy it. It is of first-rate thickness, and would smoke a pretty while, for thou dost hold, I think, a good quantity.'

"'Come to an end—out with it all, godfather!' said Klaus in a tone of wretchedness. 'What do you wish me to do? I am willing to fast till I die of hunger, and whatever is humanly possible to perform, I will do; but as to your cursed head-smoking, I tell you, once for all, it's out of the question. The thing must be put an end to; for it is a disgrace to me, and a shame to all Christendom!'

"As Klaus spoke in sheer vexation, he smote several times with his yew-slip into the water of the well, without noticing that the clear flood swelled over upon all sides like a lightning fire-glow; whilst a whining moan was plainly audible. The Dwarf put on a very serious countenance, his pipe slipped from his mouth, and, in a completely altered tone, he rejoined—

"'Godchild Klaus, take heed to me! I like your ways, and will make you a well-meant offer. As for this head here,' and he knocked the ducat-ashes out of Simon's skull—'it shall be transferred to thee, and thou shalt keep thine own too, provided thou wilt give me back the two shoes which yesterday one of my merry pages lost. What say you to it?'

"'Eh! what?' said Nicholas, in doubt.

"'Give me the shoes!' repeated Stringstriker.

"'Now look you, godfather!' said Klaus determinedly, 'what if I accept your proposal! Here are your shoes, and you are welcome to them. But I ask you, is life worth having, if I am to be for ever a poor eschewed, scoffed, and scorned castaway? The devil a bit you care for what the world says; but one of us, who is a mere man, spitted upon by a whole village, feels what it is to be poor and contemned. I tell you boldly, godfather, and on my very heart, you must put an end to my misery—for you can do it. Give me back my money and land, and make me honourable amongst my neighbours. I can't sit alone like a night-owl in my hovel. I like to have my fellow-creatures about me, to eat bread and drink water, or it may be a draught of beer with me. I can't live the life of a blessed hermit. I am, as you know, but a simple plain fellow, a boor, a foolish forlorn lad, the unhappy son of poor Mike, danced to death for his sins.'

"Here Nicholas stopped, sobbing piteously, and dropping big and heavy tears, that found their way to the well beneath him.

"'Have you done?' said Stringstriker.

"'I have nothing more to say, godfather,' sighed the lad; 'only be kind, and put all to rights again. I have paid dearly for cursing you upon occasion, and now I humbly ask your pardon for my fault. Give me a handful or two of ducats, that I may get my barn repaired, marry my poor Annie, and again set up for an honest boor. If you will do this, Godfather Stringstriker, your children shall dance at my marriage, and here are your shoes!'

"'A bargain, godson!' said the Dwarf. 'Thou art a right sort of lad, and I will help thee. My children must have their shoes too; for by the loss of them they have gone already a great stride back in their education. Thou canst hear how they cry and beg, the poor things! Come here, and dip into thy father's head. The poor dog no longer feels it. So! that'll do. For the skull, concern thee no further. In a quarter of an hour, it shall be where it should be. But now, I rede thee, look that thou art presently ready to marry, and neglect not bidding good plenty of guests; but invite especially those that have hitherto tightly toused, mocked, and scorned thee. If thou hast lack of coin, thou wottest where Godfather Stringstriker dwells. On thy wedding-day, send hither thy three largest waggons, and to each a team of four strong horses, for I shall load them heavily—and hear'st, Godson Klaus? they shall drive nice and slowly round about the springlet, and then away again at a good gallop back to thy farm-yard. As to thyself, mark me, Klaus! upon thy wedding-day thou shalt stick a yew-leaf in thy left ear, and, as soon as I sign to thee, throw some handfuls of the like upon all the tables. Now, at once, good-night!'

"The shoes were already delivered up. There was a hissing in the air, the water in the well moved in luminous circles, and a hearty laughter seemed to force its way out of all the fissures of the earth. All was then still. The moon burst forth, and shone so brightly that one might have looked for a pin. Klaus felt his good gold in his pockets, and returned gleesome, and in ease of heart, back to his ruinous house.

"After a night spent in pleasant dreams, Klaus reckoned up his cash, and found it sufficient to procure some horses, a few cows, waggon, and gearing. As to the repairs of the mansion, his notion was to do at first only the indispensable, clearly discerning that, in order to live comfortably in future, an entire pulling down and rebuilding was inevitable. He was much more bent upon reappearing as a man of money and estate in the eyes of his fellow farmers. His first care, accordingly, was to hire domestics, male and female, to rig himself out a little, and then, without delay, to push on the preparations for his marriage.

"In less than a fortnight, every thing requisite was done, and the neighbours opened their eyes to thrice their usual size as they suddenly saw life moving again in Nicholas's farmhouse—active labourers once more in his fields. Their astonishment increased upon hearing, next Sunday, the banns published from the pulpit. But when, a week afterwards, the functionary whose office it was, with silver-headed cane, velvet waistcoat and frill, to bid the guests to the approaching wedding, appeared upon the farms of those who, a little before, were Klaus's most memorable calumniators, and invited all, without exception, to the merry-making, then indeed, as if by magic, did the despised Lying Klaus become 'a worthy creature after all,' 'a capital fellow at last,' and have his praises echoed from every beer-bench in the parish. Nobody ever thought of asking how Klaus got possessed of his new money. He had it; that fact was all-sufficient for the multitude. One or two might itch to make their comments upon the quick metamorphosis, but self-love kept them quiet; for every man already licked his lips in anticipation of the marriage-feast that awaited all.

"The preparations for the wedding were busily pushed on. Joiners and carpenters were closing windows, and fastening tottering beams from morning till night. Walls were broken down, and kitchens built up. Nothing had been seen like it by 'the oldest inhabitant.'

"Well, time ran on, and the banns were three times called; there was the spousal at the parsonage, the fetching of the bride by the bridegroom, with an escort of musicians, and at length there was the marriage ceremony itself—all happily got through. The guests, men and women, were numerous, and amongst them not a few who, for a sennight, had lived on half-allowance, the better and more steadily to devour at Klaus's marriage.

"In due time, orders were given to take the three largest waggons to the Dwarf's well, to drive slowly round this thrice, and then to push back at a gallop. The servants did not dare to refuse their master's bidding; but they shook their heads significantly when they received their strange commission, and suspected, firm and fast, that Klaus, in his excessive joy, had already drunk a cup or two beyond his thirst.

"The pastor, sitting at the right hand of the bride, had said grace, and the schoolmaster and the marriage-entreater were about commencing the distribution of the enormous masses of carp, beneath which the tables fairly groaned, when the rattle of the three returning waggons made known to Klaus the arrival of his subterranean guests. His heart beat violently, for at the same instant a well-known whispering and humming met his ear. In obedience to command, he secured the yew-leaf in his left ear, and prepared himself for what might follow. He expected much, but what he saw almost threw him from his seat with astonishment.

"Wherever there was an aperture, a split, or a rent in walls, windows, doors, there came in the dwarfs by hundreds: so as that in a few minutes the whole space was swarming with the little ones. They were most smartly dressed, just as Klaus had previously seen them, only that now, instead of the top boots, they wore those delicate dancing-pumps, upon which the young husbandman had at first caught them at work.

"Klaus attentively noted whether any of his guests had a suspicion of the apparition of these earth mannikins, but there was not a sign of it. The gentlemen forked away gallantly, and the tankards were not running over. As the bridegroom saw the spiritual company still gliding in, so that their number amounted already to hundreds of thousands, and stove-cornices, window-sills, joint-stools, and backs of chairs were thickly beset with the comical companions, he began to be uneasy. He feared lest the brothers of the bride, who were waiting upon the guests, might trample the small brood into fine dust; and in order to divert at least all blame from himself, he addressed himself to his godfather, then approaching him.

"'You do me great honour, respected godfather, by your presence—but please remember, I cannot answer for dwarf slaughter—and murderous crushings. Only look at the quantity of spruce vermin you have done me the favour to bring with you!'

"Stringstriker waved his hand magnanimously, and told his godson that it was of little consequence. Then with a bold leap, the king mounted the long table, picked his way to the middle of it, and there, with legs astride, fast planted himself. Not one of all the guests perceived the larger Dwarf, any more than they could see the countless little ones. Even Annie and the clergyman were stone-blind: so that Klaus, speaking unintelligibly at every turn, had to bear the jokes of all; for young and old, woman and man, chimed readily in with the tone of sportive raillery, as soon as it was once pitched.

"The company indeed persisted in laughing and rioting so loudly at the bridegroom's expense, that the pastor of the flock at length felt himself called upon to assume his face of office—to put a damper, as it were, upon the unseemly proceeding. Just as he began, a new dish, soup with crabs' noses, (hotchpotch,) engaged exclusively the regard of the whole of the guests. A full plate was set before every visitor, but scarcely set before him, before, with the speed of lightning, from chair-backs, window-sills, stove-cornices, nay, from the floor itself, innumerable dwarfs bounded on to the table, and, taking their places by all the plates, in three seconds consumed the savoury viand. To complete the astonishment, the confusion, the wrath, the fury of the voracious boors, Stringstriker himself galloped up and down the whole length of the table, breaking all the vessels, and draining all the beer and brandy with wonderful celerity.

"Had the most precious jewels of the Holy Roman Empire been plundered by the Turks, there could not have been a greater commotion than arose among the wedding-guests. Every man jumped up, turned in anger and disgust towards his neighbour, sate down again, and again began to reach after the food, without being able, of course, to get a morsel. Then every man swore his neighbour was making a fool of him, and, from the coarsest words, it came, without loss of time, to dreadful menaces and blows. So greedy were some after the liquorish cookery that they gave themselves good smart punctures in lip and tongue; inasmuch as the mischievous dwarfs, as soon as any in his haste forked up a piece of meat, incontinently had it down their own throats. With such provocation, the blows, on all sides, came down in showers; more ears were peppered, backs thumped, ribs punched, than the prize-ring of England had ever seen. And, as if it were not enough for the men to be sparring, the women, seeing their husbands covered with blood and bruises, must needs take up the cudgels, and fall to fighting too! A hundred arms were a-kimbo in a twinkling. Caps were dragged off, and nails shown with amazonian spirit. There was a general melee; every soul at the table was engaged in the contest. Marriage and bridal pair were forgotten; and Klaus roared at the droll uproar till his throat smarted again: for, not much to his regret, he soon enough became aware that his enemies and his calumniators were the parties who were coming off second best.

"This mutual threshing had lasted a good quarter of an hour, when a sign from Stringstriker directed the bride-groom to scatter the yew-leaves. In an instant the table was covered with them; and the guests, as if bewitched, dispersed in grotesque groups, and remained transfixed. Every eye was on the busy dwarfs. Klaus's godfather, crossing his legs, seated himself upon the table, and began to scrape his fiddle. The earth mannikins then arranged themselves in order, swung their broad hats gracefully, and, one stepping upon the shoulder of another, built up a living pyramid above the bride. A number clambered up to the very top of her tinsel crown, where, still two and two, they took possession of a spangle, fixed themselves upon it, and rocking to and fro, set up a soft and tender song. The bride danced to its tune, the pyramid of dwarfs along with her; and it was enchanting to see how their shining silvery girdles, and the bright clasps upon their caps, flashed and sparkled in the varying figure. Three times the dwarfs changed in the building of this pyramid, and three times, attended by it, must the bride dance round the table, through the gaping groups of guests. This done, Stringstriker played a lively march, broke through a window with his fiddlestick, and leapt out through the opening—whilst the whole dwarf brotherhood, waltzing, laughing, tumbling, in a countless crowd, prepared to follow him. For a time the procession fluctuated through the air, where the girdles yet sparkled. Soon, like a dissolving gleam, all vanished!

"The stupified boors were now able to stir themselves again. Doubtless there were many bumps, black and blue faces, and bloody noses: but the sight of all could not suppress the most extravagant merriment. All that had happened was looked upon as a prank of the fiddler, and many in their hearts felt that they had only received a just punishment for their coarse and unchristian calumnies.

"Klaus Stringstriker's fame lived upon every tongue. The dwarfs obtained no mean eulogies: and when it was at last discovered that the small mannikins had, close before the window, one and all thrown down their broad brown capkins with the brilliant clasps, the company for joy was almost mad. The bridegroom was importuned, in remembrance of this marvellous festival, to bestow upon each guest one such dwarf-hatkin, and Klaus did not need a long begging. Each one acquired a hatkin with its agraffe: some of a greedy nature, by stealth, possessed themselves of two. The presents given, the company returned to the board, and drank and uproared far into the night.

"Upon the morrow, Klaus found the Dwarf-hatkins turned into so many Kremnitz double ducats, and upon each there lay, glittering in the sunshine, a fine diamond. As he gathered them, a delicate voice from unseen lips whispered to him that these were his father's hairs. All the gift-receivers had the same wonder to tell. Those, however, who had secretly taken away the second dwarf's cap were punished for the theft— for they got nothing from the transformation but a wet and worthless beech-leaf.

"From that hour all haunting upon Klaus's estate ceased. Even at the Dwarf's well nothing remarkable was seen, save once a-year—upon the anniversary of the young boor's wedding-day—when a great gamboling flame appeared upon the waters, in which a singing and ringing might be heard, like the voices of the smallest beings. The fortunate Klaus built himself a great house, repurchased the tavern, and upon the pillar where Stringstriker, tied up by his father, had had to fiddle so long, he carved an inscription which published the Dwarf's praise to every guest And his father's grave he surrounded with a fair iron grating. As for himself, his intercourse with the Dwarf had made him prudent. He ruled his substance discreetly, helped the poor, and cautioned the light-witted by the relation of his own history. So he became the richest and most respected man of the whole neighbourhood; and at length acquired the name of the Dwarf's advocate: because, as Klaus maintained, and as it was generally believed, a most important service had been rendered, by the passages of Klaus's history, to these singular and benevolent earth-spirits themselves."



SOME REMARKS ON SCHILLER'S MAID OF ORLEANS.

Perhaps there is no play of Schiller's which is read with more general pleasure than the Maid of Orleans, nor one against which so many critical objections have been raised. Some of these we wish to examine, in order either to remove, or with greater accuracy to re-state them. It will be seen at once that we have no intention of entering into any general review or estimate of this great dramatic poet. Too much has been written, and especially in this place, on Schiller, to permit us to be tempted into any such design. We shall not wander from the single play we have selected for our criticism.

On recalling to mind the story of Joan d'Arc, what is the point of view in which that singular person presents herself to us? Joan d'Arc—whom we shall call, after her title in the play, Johanna—a village maiden, and a fugitive from her home, turned the tide of victory in the great war which, in her time, was raging in France. As she effected this through the influence which a belief in her supernatural power and celestial inspiration exerted upon the army of Charles; and as, on the other hand, the cruel fate she herself personally encountered from her enemies, was the consequence of an opposite belief in her witchcraft, or possession by the devil; the unhappy maiden presents herself to us, in a strictly historical point of view, as one of those wild visionaries whom solitude occasionally rears, become suddenly the sport of the tumultuous feelings of two rival hosts, elevated by the one to a saint and the companion of angels, and by the other blackened into a witch and the associate of demons. History has relieved her moral character from the aspersions thrown upon it, and philosophy has quite denuded her of the least claims to supernatural power, whether derived from above or from below: nothing remains but the enthusiast and the visionary, and the strange position into which circumstances conducted her. And this position of the thought-bewildered maid is rendered the more striking, when we consider that it was her own countrymen who judged of her in so contradictory a manner; for the war which raged around her was rather a civil war, in which one of the parties had formed an alliance with England, than a national war between France and England. It was by Frenchmen that she was extolled and reverenced, and by Frenchmen that she was condemned and executed: it was under the auspices, and with the blessings, of the church that she conquered; it was the church that execrated her, and sent her as an abomination to the stake.

This point of view is not only historically true, but replete, we think, with poetic interest. The maiden is not, indeed, invested with any supernatural attributes; we see her here neither more nor less than the pious and day-dreaming enthusiast; but an enthusiast for her country—an enthusiast for a young prince whom she has been taught to honour, and whose reverse of fortune has deeply affected her. We see this young enthusiast—her imagination swarming with visions, her heart beating with generous aspirations—thrown out from her village retirement upon the tumult of war; we see her snatched up, as by a whirlwind, by the fanaticism of the multitude, who bear her, as she bears her banner, onwards in their career, and conquer under this new standard they have reared. We see her arriving at a success which, notwithstanding her own prophecies, must have astonished herself. When the king has been crowned at Rheims, something whispers to her that she ought now to retreat into her native village, or, what was the only fitting termination for her course, into some religious house, and find there a harbour from the tempest on which she is tossing. But the selfish men around her will not let her go. She may guide them a little yet. They bear the torch while there is an ember left. Then comes the changeful fortune of war, defeat and imprisonment; and now we see the same poor human heart, its visions soiled and clouded, its courage beaten down, surrounded only by enemies and scoffers, beginning even to suspect itself of imposture and impiety. She who had felt as a saint, hears herself exorcised as a sorcerer; and, by and by, a crowd of men, churchmen and civilians, stand round in triumph to see her burnt and consumed as a thing unholy and impure, whose life had been, not, as she had deemed, a perpetual devotion, but a perpetual blasphemy.

But although it appears to us that this, which is the true historical point of view, is also the most replete with poetic interest, it may not be an interest so well adapted to the drama as to other species of poetry. The heroine is here made the prey of the two rival factions, who appear to contend, not only for the possession of her person, but for the domination over her mind; not enough is attributed to her individual will and character; the action of the piece does not immediately flow from her; and the people, with its strange faiths and monstrous caprices, becomes the veritable hero. It was for this reason, we presume, that Schiller rejected what, in our days, is the simple and natural manner of considering his subject, and adopted a different point of view. Designating his play as a romantic tragedy, he resolved to represent the maid as really inspired by Heaven—as veritably commissioned by the Virgin—as endowed, bona fide, with miraculous powers. She is thus the living centre of the action. Whatever is effected by the appearance of the Maid of Orleans, is effected by her individual prowess, or the aid of heaven administered through her.

This was a bold attempt, and very boldly has Schiller executed it. He has stopped at no middle point. He has not scrupled to represent the fabulous miracles of a superstitious age as actually taking place before us. Johanna gives proofs of her faculty of second-sight; she sees, while at the camp of the Dauphin, the death of Salisbury before Orleans; she performs in our presence those miracles by which she is said to have first established her reputation at the court—recognising the Dauphin at once, although he had purposely resigned his post of dignity to another, and reciting to him the secret prayer which he had, the night before, offered up to God in the solitude of his own chamber. And not only are the fables, which the chronicles of the times have handed down to us, enacted as veritable facts, but the poet has added miracles and prodigies of his own invention; and in particular, a certain spectre of a black knight—who appears to us to have been introduced as much for the sake of supporting the supernatural character of the piece as for any other purpose.

This hardihood of the poet has by some critics been censured. For ourselves, we have a lingering and obstinate regret that Schiller ever thought it necessary to forsake the true for the fabulous; that he did not restrict himself to representing the faith of the age in the dialogue of his personages; that he did not content himself with marvels related only in the imitated conversation of superstitious persons. The most sceptical of men admit the reality and fervour of superstitious beliefs; and in depicting them in all their vitality, the poet is still adhering rigidly to truth: it is for the reader to sympathize with them or not at his pleasure. But Schiller having resolved to represent as fact the superstitious faith of the times, instead of building upon that faith as his fact; having determined that Johanna should be verily inspired, and see visions, and be the champion of the Holy Virgin for the salvation of France—we think he was quite right in casting aside all timidity, all remaining scruples of reason, and freely giving up his scene to prodigies and marvels. If you must lie, lie boldly—is a good maxim for poets as well as rogues. Above all, do we dislike that dubious and pitiful position which a narrator of supernatural events sometimes falls into, where the reader is perpetually asking himself whether the author seriously intends to task his credulity or not.

We must here, however, remark that, even when the poet represents the supernatural as the faith only of others, he must still, in order to do this effectively, awaken some degree of superstitious feeling in ourselves. To understand the belief or delusion of another without more or less participating in it, is a state of mind in which the philosopher might be very well content to place us, but which by no means suits the purposes of the poet. We must be made to partake for the moment, to some slight degree, in the superstitious feelings of the past age which is brought before us, or we can no longer feel that sympathetic interest which the poet seeks to create. The spectacle presented to us becomes one of mere curiosity. As well might we look through a microscope, and watch the world of animalculae it reveals. Very curious that little world; but we take no part in any of its proceedings, violent as they evidently are. And here lies the reason, we apprehend, why dramatic representations of insanity are so generally unsuccessful. We cannot participate in the capricious delusions of the maniac, who becomes, therefore, a mere object of wonder or curiosity. The moment when the lunatic affects us most deeply is, when he approaches nearest to the ordinary current of human thought—it is the moment when he comes back to reason, and its too frequent companion, the sense of pain.

We make this observation, because it probably had its weight in determining the poet in the course he pursued. Schiller probably reflected that, whether he related his marvels in the dialogue of his personages, or represented them as facts in his drama, he must in both cases depend, for the impression he should produce, on a successful appeal to the superstitious feelings of his contemporaries. In whatever era a poet may find his materials, his authority for using them must lie in the age he writes for—in the interest they are capable of exciting in that age. His success as a dramatic poet required that he should kindle the love of the marvellous; and he may have thought that, in an artistical point of view, the question resolved itself into one of policy, of means to an end—whether it were better to assail our credulity by open force, and so take it by storm, or to content himself with a less advantage, gained by more insidious but surer approaches.

With all his boldness, and all his genius, has Schiller succeeded in his treatment of the miraculous? We hesitate to reply. There is a peculiar difficulty in deciding how far a poet has been successful in an appeal to superstitious feelings; it is this, that in such cases every intelligent reader feels that he must be aidant and assistant in the subjection of his own rebellious reason, prompt at every moment to turn with impatience and derision from the utterly incredible. This necessity to be a party concerned in the business, leaves him in doubt how far he has been compelled by the poet, and how far he has, or ought to have, voluntarily surrendered. After all, the use of the marvellous in poetry is not so much itself to impress us with awe and astonishment, as to supply novel and striking situations for the display of human feelings. When Johanna, for instance, describes the visitation by the Virgin, and declares her sacred mission, we listen unmoved. Not so, when, having felt the touch of human passion, she sighs to re-enter into the common rank of mortals, and laments the dreadful honour that has been imposed upon her. Yet this latter sentiment, so natural and so affecting, could not be separated from the previous fable. In this lies the difference between the poetry of a rude and a cultivated age. In the first, the supernatural is for itself sought for and admired; in the second, it is admitted for the sake of the singular opportunities it affords for the display of natural and powerful emotions.

There is another point in the tragedy of The Maid of Orleans, on which we feel no hesitation whatever in expressing a decisive opinion— namely, the violent departure from history in the catastrophe. But in order to make our remarks on this and some other points intelligible, we must enter a little further into the plot of the drama. Our detail shall be as brief as possible.[1]

[1] In the few extracts we shall have occasion to make, we would have willingly had recourse at once to an English translation, if such had been within our reach. That not being the case, the reader must accept our own attempts at translation.

The drama opens with a scenic prologue. The scene is the village of Dom Remi; on the left is the Druid oak—on the right, the image of the Virgin in a small chapel. Thibaut d'Arc enters with his three daughters, Margaret, Louison, and Johanna, together with their three suitors, Etienne, Claude Marie, and Raimond. Thibaut deplores the state of his fatherland. Young Henry VI. of England has just been crowned at Paris, and Charles, the hereditary prince, is wandering a fugitive through his own kingdom. They themselves are in danger every day of seeing the enemy pour down into their own quiet valleys. Nevertheless, partly from this very cause, he determines upon giving his daughters in marriage without further delay. He bestows Margaret upon Etienne. Then, turning to the second daughter, Louison, and to her suitor, who, it seems, can lay little claim to worldly possessions, he says—

"Shall I, because ye proffer me no wealth, Sunder two hearts that seem so well attuned? Who has wealth now? Home and homestead now Are booty for the robber and the flames: The strong heart of a brave and constant man Is the sole roof-tree which these stormy times Must pass unshaken."

Hitherto father Thibaut seems an amiable personage, but he turns out to be one of the most disagreeable atrabilious parents that ever made his appearance on the stage. He next addresses and reproaches his daughter Johanna, who is beloved by Raimond, but who rejects the ties of earthly affection. He has taken an exceedingly morose view of the character of his daughter; a circumstance which becomes of great importance in the progress of the piece; for Johanna's reverse of fortune is brought about by the strange intervention of this dark and sinister parent. He believes his child more prone to ally herself with evil spirits, through a vain and sinful ambition, than, inspired by piety, to emulate the lives of saints. Raimond combats this gloomy notion. He thinks that the love of Johanna, like the most costly fruits, is only late in ripening.

"Raimond.—As yet she loves to dwell upon the hills, And trembles to descend from the free heath To man's low roof, beset with narrow cares. Thibaut.—Ay, that it is displeases me. She flies Her sisters' frolicsome companionship For the bare hills—deserts her sleepless couch Before the cock-crow—in that fearful hour When man so willingly his shelter seeks, Housed with his kind, within familiar walls, She, like a solitary bird, hies forth Into the gloomy, spirit-haunted, night, Stands on the cross-way, holding with the air Mysterious intercourse. Why will she choose Perpetually this place? Why will she drive Her flocks for ever here? I've seen her sit Musing whole hours together underneath This Druid oak, which all good Christians shun; There's nothing blest beneath it; a foul spirit Has made his refuge in it ever since The old and sinful times of Paganism. The old men of the village can relate Horrible tales of this same tree: one hears Oft, in its thick dark branches, whisperings Of strange unearthly voices. I, myself, As once my way led past the tree at night, Saw sitting at its trunk a spectral woman, Who slowly, from her wide enfolding robe, Stretch'd a thin hand and beckon'd me."

Raimond points to the sacred image of the Virgin, which stands opposite the oak, and replies that it is the attraction which brings Johanna to this spot. But the old man persists in his own interpretation. Because his daughter is more beautiful than any other maiden in the valley, she is proud, and disdains her humble condition. He has had, moreover, ominous dreams. The entrance of Bertrand, a countryman just arrived from the neighbouring town of Vaucouleurs, interrupts the conversation. He carries a helmet in his hand, which has been forced upon him, in the marketplace, by a strange woman. Johanna, who has all this while remained quite silent, not answering a word to the rebuke of her parent, comes suddenly forward, and claims the helmet as having been sent for her. Through the interposition of her lover, it is granted to her. Bertrand, being asked what news of the war he has heard at Vaucouleurs, gives a desponding account of the king's cause, and brings the report that Orleans, pressed by the besiegers, is on the point of surrendering. Johanna now breaks forth:—

"Of treaty, of surrender not a word! A saviour comes and arms her for the fight. At Orleans wrecks the fortune of the foe! His measure full, he is for harvest ripe, And with her sickle shall the virgin come, And reap the rank luxuriance of his pride. Down from the heavens she tears that blazon'd fame These English knights have hung about the stars. Fly not! droop not! Before the corn is yellow in the fields, Before this moon has fill'd her globe of light, There shall not drink an English horse Of the sweet-flowing waters of the Loire. Bertrand.—Alas! the age of miracles is past. Johanna.—Not past! ye shall behold a miracle. Lo! a white dove with eagle courage flies Down on the vulture that still rends his prey, Our mangled country. The traitor Burgundy, The haughty Talbot that would storm the skies, This Salisbury, scandal of the Temple's order, And all these insolent proud islanders Shall fly before her like a herd of lambs."

Of this prologue it has been justly said, that it might as well have been the first scene of the first act: for it is as essential to the progress of the piece as any one scene in the play; and the speakers re-appear, and for very important purposes, in the body of the drama. For our part, we look upon prologues of this description as little else than a device of the poet to gain more space than his five acts afforded him. When it has no connexion with the action of the piece, we wish to know what claim it has to be there at all; and when it is so connected, we are at a loss to perceive what end it answers, which could not be as legitimately prosecuted under the old title of Act I. Scene 1.

The nominal first act opens with the little court of Charles at Chinon. Here all is verging towards a state of desperation. Finances exhausted, troops threatening to disband, and a deputation from Orleans to inform the king that the town had agreed to surrender, if, within fourteen days, effectual succour was not sent to relieve it. Charles answers in despair:—

"Can I by stamping with my feet Raise armies from the ground? Can I Pour granaries from this bare and naked palm? Rend me in pieces! Tear me out this heart, And coin it for gold! Blood have I for you, But silver have I none, nor corn, nor soldiers."

Agnes Sorel enters with a casket of jewels in her hand. Although she has always refused to accept of the king any more costly present than a rare flower, or an early fruit, she now comes to devote all her wealth and possessions to his service. But her aid affords him little more than a noble proof of her love and generosity: it can effect nothing to the restoration of his shattered fortunes. He dismisses the deputies from Orleans with permission to make the best terms they can for themselves. Dunois, the bastard of Orleans, who has eloquently protested against this desponding desertion, as he deems it, of his own cause, quits the king in anger. Sorel dispatches La Hire after him to persuade him to return. La Hire re-enters.

"Sorel. You come alone, you bring him not with you. [then observing him more closely. La Hire! What is it? What means this kindled look? Alas! Some new misfortune.

La Hire. Misfortunes Are overblown—'tis sunshine, lady, sunshine!

Sorel. What is it?—I entreat—

La Hire to the King. Call back the embassy, The deputies from Orleans!

Charles. Why? What is this?

La Hire. Haste! call them back! Thy fortunes change, A battle has been fought, and thine the victory.

Sorel. Victory! Oh, heavenly music!

Charles. La Hire, Some fabulous report has cheated you. Victory! I believe no more in victories.

La Hire. You will believe—in greater wonders still Here comes the archbishop, and with him Dunois.

And with them comes also a knight, who relates how this victory has been won by the sudden appearance of an armed virgin, who scattered dismay and terror amongst their enemies. Shouts are heard from without, and Johanna enters. Here the course of history is followed in the account the maid gives of herself, and the proofs she affords of her divine mission.

At the opening of the second act, we find that Orleans has been relieved by the inspired Johanna. Talbot and Lionel, the English leaders, attribute the late defeat to the Burgundians; the Duke of Burgundy retorts. These angry chiefs are on the point of separating, and terminating their alliance, when the queen-mother Isabeau enters, and reconciles them. But when Isabeau, who, from her unnatural hatred to her son Charles, and a certain coarseness of temper, is altogether a very disagreeable personage, offers, woman against woman, to lead her own party against Johanna, they all unite in bidding her return forthwith to Paris. The army, they say, is dispirited when it thinks it fights for her cause—the cause of the mother against the son. Isabeau says:—

"Ye know not, weak souls, that ye are the rights Of a wrong'd mother. I, for my part, love Who honours me; who injures me, I hate; And should this be my own begotten son, He is for this more hateful. I gave life, And I will take—if he, with shameless rage, Scandal the womb that bore him. Ye proud nobles Who war against my son, ye have no right To pillage him. What injury has he done To you? what duty violated? Ambition and low envy spur ye on: I, who begot him, have a right to hate."

While the English are still in their camp, little dreaming of surprise, the maiden rushes on them, conquers and disperses them. Here passes a scene between Johanna and Montgomery, a young Welsh knight, who begs for his life in a truly Homeric manner—pleading his youth, the anguish of his mother, and the sweet bride he had left upon the Severn. It is quite Homeric, professedly and successfully so, and therefore quite out of place. The Welsh knight speaks in a most unknightly strain. And the change of metre that is adopted assists in giving to the whole the air of a mere poetical exercise. The scene is not, however, without its purpose in the development of the character of the maid, because it shows how utterly she is at this time engrossed in her warlike mission; she is not a moment affected by the entreaties of Montgomery, and dooms him to death without pity.

The war still continues fatal to the English. Talbot is slain. In the next scene, the ghost of this warrior appears to Johanna, under the form of a black knight with the visor closed. The apparition lures her away from the heat of the contest, and then addresses to her this solemn warning:—

"Johanna d'Arc! Up to the gates of Rheims hast thou been borne Upon the wings of victory. Now pause. Content thee with the fame that thou hast won. Let fortune go, whom thou hast held in bonds, Ere it in anger shall break loose from thee; For never is it constant to the end."

Johanna, however, who can hear of nothing, and think of nothing, but of fighting for her country, and who has a particular detestation for this black knight, strikes at it with her sword. It vanishes with the appropriate accompaniments of thunder and lightning.

The apparition of the black knight has occasioned some embarrassment and discussion among the critics. It was at first quite plain that it was the ghost of Talbot; and when there was no longer any doubt on this head, it was not easy to decide what brought the ghost of Talbot there, and why he should give what, knowing as we do the history of Johanna, has the appearance of very sound advice. But in that lay the very snare of Satan. It was wise counsel that the devil, through this ghost, gave to Johanna; but it was worldly wise. It was well suited to some ambitious person engaged in a career of conquest. Had such a black knight appeared, for example, to Napoleon, on the eve of entering on his war with Russia, and warned him to furl his banner of conquest, it would have been a friendly and intelligent ghost, though we do not believe it would have been listened to for a moment. A human passion is stronger than a whole regiment of ghosts. But such advice addressed to Johanna, the missionary of heaven, who fought from duty, not ambition, could have no other effect than to infuse into her mind ideas of vain-glory and love of fame, a selfish regard to personal consequences, and a distrust of the protection of her divine mistress. The ghost of Talbot, therefore, was evidently in league with her enemies, the devils, in the insidious counsel it gave. But the counsel was rejected with disdain, and Johanna went on still victorious over all.

But the maiden next encounters a more pernicious apparition than the black knight. She contends with the gallant Lionel. Here, as elsewhere, she is the victor; she raises her sword to strike, but, fatally for her peace, she looks twice before she deals the blow. She cannot strike.