"I'm well," quoth he, "but thought just now: If only lightning flashing, Down there, would strike that stripling dead, Him and his trumpet smashing!

The live-long day my fine young sir On shore is promenading; Rhine up, Rhine down, and never stops His hateful serenading."

Dame Trout, then smiling, answered him; "Dear cousin, you are spiteful, I, on the contrary, do find The Trumpeter delightful.

"If you, like him, could but enjoy Fair Margaretta's favour, To learn the trumpet even now, You would not deem much labour."

VIII.

I pray that no fair rose for me, By thy dear hands, be broken; A slip of holly evergreen, Be of our love the token.

The chaplet green with glossy sheen O'er the fruit good watch is keeping; And all will prick who try to pick What's for another's reaping.

The gaudy rose, when Autumn comes, Finds that her beauty waneth; The holly leaf her modest green Through cold and snow retaineth.

IX.

Her fragrant balm the sweet May night O'er hill and vale is breathing, When through the shrubs with footsteps light To the castle I am stealing. In the garden waves the linden-tree, I climb to its green bower, And from the leafy canopy My song soars to the tower: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling. Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

With joyous trills the nightingale On the topmost bough is singing, While far o'er mountain and o'er vale The thrilling notes are ringing. The birds are looking all about, Awaking from their slumber; From branch, and bush, and hedge burst out Glad voices without number: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling. Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

The sounds are heard, are borne along By the river downward flowing; And from afar echoes the song, Fainter and fainter growing. And through the air of rosy morn I see two angels winging, Like a harp's sweet tones, from Heaven borne, I hear their voices singing: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling. Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

X.

Who's clattering from the tower To me a greeting queer? 'Tis, in his nest so cosy, My friend the stork I hear.

He's preparing for a journey, O'er sea and land will hie; The Autumn is coming quickly, So now he says good-bye.

Art right, that thou dost travel Where warmer skies do smile; From me greet fair Italia, And also Father Nile.

There in the south are waiting Far better meals for thee, Than German frogs and paddocks, Poor chafers and ennui!

Old fellow, God preserve thee, My blessing take along; For thou, at peaceful night-time, Hast often heard my song.

And if perchance thou wert not Asleep within thy nest, Thou must have seen how often With kisses I was blest.

But be not, pray, a tell-tale, Be still, old comrade mine, What business have the Moors there With lovers on the Rhine?

XI.

A settled life I did despise, And so to wandering took; When soon I found, to my surprise, A comfortable nook.

But as I lay in rest's soft lap, And hoped for long repose, There broke o'er me a thunder-clap, My stay came to a close.

Each year a different plant I see Spring up, with beauty clad; A fool's mad dance this world would be, If 'twere not quite so sad.

XII.

To life belongs a most unpleasant feature: That not a rose without sharp thorns doth grow, Much as love's yearning stirs our human nature, Through pangs of parting we at last must go. From thy dear eyes, when I my fate was trying, A gleam of love and joy streamed forth to me: Preserve thee God! my joy seemed then undying, Preserve thee God! such joy was not to be.

I've suffered much from envy, hatred, sorrow, A weather-beaten wanderer sad and worn; I dreamt of peace and of a happy morrow, When I to thee by angel-guides was borne. To thy dear arms for comfort I was flying, In grateful thanks I vowed my life to thee: Preserve thee God! my joy seemed then undying, Preserve thee God! such joy was not to be.

The clouds fly fast, the wind the leaves is sweeping, A heavy shower falls o'er woods and meads: The weather with my parting is in keeping, Gray as the sky my path before me leads. Whatever may come, joy's smile or bitter sighing, Thou lovely maid! I'll think of naught but thee! Preserve thee God! my joy seemed once undying, Preserve thee God! such joy was not for me.



SONGS OF THE CAT HIDDIGEIGEI.

I.

Honest folks are turning lately Their attention to the Muses, And with ease compose their own songs For their daily household uses.

Therefore I shall also try it, On light pinions freely winging; For, who dares deny our talent, Takes from cats the right of singing?

If I always run to book-stores I shall find it too expensive; And their gaudy books contain oft Naught but trash, weak and offensive.

II.

When through vales and on the mountains Roars the storm at midnight drear, Clambering over ridge and chimney Hiddigeigei doth appear.

Like a spirit he stands up there, Never looked he half so fair; Fire from his eyes is streaming, Fire from his bristling hair.

And he howls in fierce wild measure, An old war-cry caterwauling, Which is borne off by the storm-wind, Like the distant thunder rolling.

Not a soul then ever sees him, Each is sleeping in his house; But far down, deep in the cellar, Listens the poor trembling mouse.

For his voice she recognises, And she knows that, when in rage, Most ferocious is the aspect Of this valiant feline sage.

III.

From the tower's highest summit Gaze I at the world below; From my lofty seat I'm able To observe life's ceaseless flow.

And the cat's green eyes are staring, And he laughs within his sleeve, That those pygmies there are trying Such great follies to achieve.

What's the use? Up to my level Never can I raise mankind. Let them follow their devices, Small their loss is, to my mind.

For perverted are men's actions, And their work is woe and crash. Conscious of his own great value, Grins the cat down on this trash!

IV.

O the world does us injustice, And for thanks I look quite vainly; For the finest chords of feline Nature, it mistakes so plainly.

Thus, if some one falls down drunken, And a throbbing like a hammer Racks his heavy head on waking, Germans call it Katzenjammer.

Katzenjammer, oh great insult! Gentle is our caterwauling; Only men I hear too often Through the streets at night-time bawling.

Yes! they do us great injustice, Never can be comprehending All the deep and morbid sorrow Which a poor cat's heart is rending.

V.

Hiddigeigei often has raved with delight, The true, good, and beautiful seeking; Hiddigeigei often felt grief's deadly blight, And with tender sad yearnings was weeping.

Hiddigeigei once has felt his heart glow, When the fairest of cats he was wooing; And just as a troubadour's love-songs flow, Rang nightly his spirited mewing.

Hiddigeigei many a valiant fight, Like the Paladin Roland, was waging; But men have often belaboured his hide, And with dropping hot pitch made him raging.

Hiddigeigei to his sorrow found out, That his fair one was false and deceiving That from a poor insignificant lout She was secretly visits receiving.

Hiddigeigei then did open his eyes, Left off his pining and yearning; The world henceforth he learned to despise, To his inner self earnestly turning.

VI.

Lovely month of May, how hateful To a cat you are, and dreary Ne'er I thought such din of music Could a cat's heart make so weary.

From the branches, from the bushes Birds their warbling notes are ringing; Far and wide, as if for money, Men I hear forever singing.

There the cook sings in the kitchen— Is love also her head turning? In falsetto she now screameth, That with rage my soul is burning.

Farther upward will I clamber, To the terrace slowly wending. Woe to me, for from the garden Are my neighbour's songs ascending.

Even next the roof I cannot Find the rest for which I'm pining; Near me dwells a crazy poet, His own verses ever whining.

When despairing to the cellar Down I rush the noise escaping; Ah, above me they are dancing, To the pipes, and fiddles' scraping.

Harmless tribe! Your lyric madness You'll continue, while there yonder, In the East, the clouds are gathering, Soon to burst in tragic thunder.

VII.

May has come now. To the thinker, Who the causes of phenomena Searches, 'tis a natural sequence: In the centre of creation Are two aged white cats standing, Who the world turn on its axis; And their labour there produces The recurring change of seasons.

But why is it in the May month That my eyes are ever ogling, That my heart is so impassioned? And why is it that I daily Must be leering sixteen hours From the terrace, as if nailed there, At the fair cat Apollonia, At the black-haired Jewess Rachel?

VIII.

A strong bulwark 'gainst enticements I have built on good foundations; But to the most virtuous even Sometimes come unsought temptations.

And more ardent than in youth's time, The old dream comes o'er me stealing; I on memory's pinions soar up, Filled with burning amorous feeling.

Oh fair Naples, land of beauty, With thy nectar-cup thou cheerest! To Sorrento I'd be flying. To a roof to me the dearest.

Old Vesuvius and the white sails On the bay are greeting bringing, And the olive-woods are gladdened By the spring-birds' joyous singing.

To the Loggia slinks Carmela, Strokes my beard with soft caresses; Of all cats by far the fairest, Lovingly my paw she presses.

And she looks on me with longing, But now hark! there is a howling; Is the surf thus loudly roaring? Or is old Vesuvius growling?

'Tis not old Vesuvius growling, For he holds now his vacation. In the yard, destruction vowing, Barks the worst dog in creation—

Barks the worst dog in creation— Barks Francesco, loudly yelling; And my lovely dream's enchantment He thus rudely is dispelling.

IX.

Hiddigeigei strictly shunneth What his conscience might be hurting; But he oft connives benignly At his fellow-cats' gay flirting.

Hiddigeigei with great ardour Makes the mice-hunt his chief duty; And he frets not if another With sweet music worships beauty.

Quoth the wise cat Hiddigeigei: Ere it rots, the fruit be plucking; So, if years should come of famine, Memory's paws remain for sucking.

X.

Even a God-fearing conduct, Cannot keep us from declining; With despair I see already In my fur some gray hairs shining.

Yes, unpitying Time destroyeth All for which we've boldly striven; For against the sharp-toothed tyrant Nature has no weapons given.

Unadmired and forgotten We fall victims to this power. Wish I could, with fury raging, Eat both clock-hands of the tower.

XI.

Long past is the time, ere man in his might O'er the earth his dominion was spreading; When the mammoth roamed in his ancient right Through the forests which crashed 'neath his treading.

In vain may'st thou search now far and near For the Lion, the desert's great ruler; But we must remember, that we live here In a climate decidedly cooler.

In life and in fiction is given no praise To the great and the highly gifted; And ever weaker is growing the race Till genius to nothing is sifted.

When cats disappear the mice raise their voice, Till they like the others skedaddle; At last in mad frolic we hear them rejoice— The infusoria rabble.

XII.

Hiddigeigei sees with sorrow To a close his days are drawing; Death may come at any moment, So deep grief his heart is gnawing.

O how gladly I the riches Of my wisdom would be preaching, That in joy as well as sorrow Cats might profit from my teaching.

Ah! the road of life is rugged; On it rough sharp stones are lying. Stumbling o'er this path so dreary, Sprained and bruised we limp on crying.

Life oft useless wounds is giving. For 'tis full of brawls and knavery; Vainly many cats have fallen Victims to an empty bravery.

But for what this constant fretting? The young cats are laughing ever, No advice from me accepting— Only suffering makes them clever.

Let us see what they'll accomplish; History's teachings are derided: His sage maxims ne'er to publish, Hiddigeigei has decided.

XIII.

Growing weaker, breathing harder, Soon I'll feel Death's shadow o'er me: Make my grave there in the store-house, In my former field of glory.

Valiantly all round me slaying Fought I like a raging lion: In his armour clad then bury Of his race the last brave scion.

Yes the last, because the offspring Win their parents equal never! They are good but wooden people, Not so witty nor as clever.

Wooden are they, thinking solely Of the moment, hollow hearted; Only few still hold as sacred The bequests of the departed.

But sometime, when years have passed by, In my grave I've long been sleeping, Then will come the angry cat's howl Nightly down upon you sweeping.

Hiddigeigei's solemn warning Will you from your slumber waken: Ever fear the coils of dulness! Save yourselves, ye God-forsaken!



SONGS OF THE SILENT MAN.

FROM THE CAVE OF THE GNOMES.

I.

Quiet heart! O ponder lonely, Valiant, by no fears assailed; Only in calm meditation Lofty secrets are unveiled.

While the storms of life are raging, While mean souls for trifles fight. Thou on wings of song art soaring O'er the mob in purer light.

Leave the dusty road to others, And thy soul unsullied keep, A clear mirror, like the ocean, Where the sun has sunk to sleep.

O'er the world's loud bustle rising, Soars the eagle lone on high; Cranes and storks, they flock together, But close to the earth do fly.

Quiet heart! O ponder lonely, Valiant, by no fears assailed; Only in calm meditation Lofty secrets are unveiled.

II.

Leave all commonplace forever, Digging deeply, upward soaring; For rich Nibelungen-treasures Lie all ready for exploring.

From the mountains we see shining Distant seas and shores of beauty; While beneath we hear the booming Of the gnomes hard at their duty.

Manna-like is spread around us Spiritual food abundant; And before our vision rises The old truth with light redundant—

As coarse threads and fine together In one net are intertwisting, So the same laws are forever For the small and great existing.

But a point comes,—sad confession?— Where to pause, our thoughts restraining; At the limit of perception Is mysterious silence reigning.

III.

Past me wander beings pallid, Fill the air with words of anguish: All our doings are invalid, Sick and old, we slowly languish.

Have you ne'er the wondrous story Found in ancient books related, Of the spring, wherein the hoary Plunged, then rose rejuvenated?

And this fountain is no fiction, Within reach of all 'tis flowing; But you've lost the true direction, Farther from its traces going.

In the forests' verdant bowers, Where deep calm the soul entrances, Where on graceful ferns and flowers Elves sweep through their nightly dances:

There by stones and moss well hidden, Rush the waters from the mountain; From Earth's bosom springs unbidden, Ever fresh, this magic fountain.

There with peace the soul is ravished; There the mind regains its powers; And the wealth of Spring is lavished O'er old wounds in blossom-showers.

IV.

Wilt thou know the world more clearly, See then what before thee lies; How from matter and from forces The whole fabric doth arise.

Of the fixed forms of creation Thou the moving cause must see; In the changes of phenomena Find what lasts eternally.

In presumptuous opinions Fresh pure seeds ne'er germinate; By deep meditation only Human minds explore, create.

V.

With the eagle's piercing sight endowed, And the heart with hope o'erflowing, I found myself with a mounted crowd To thought's fierce battle going.

The banners high, the lance in rest, The enemy's ranks were broken. On their broad backs, O what a jest, To mark a nice blue token!

We came at last to the end of our course, O'er our failure in knowledge repining; Then slowly I turned my gallant horse, Myself to silence resigning;

Too proud to believe—my thoughts all free,— To the cave as a refuge flying. The world is far too shallow for me, The core is deeper lying.

I for my weapons no longer care, In the corner there they lie rusting. No priggish fool to provoke me shall dare, To my valour alone I am trusting.

These owls and bats a look alone Suffices to abolish; Still serveth well an ass's bone, The Philistines to demolish.

VI.

Be proud, and thy lot nobly bear, From tears and sighs desisting; Like thee will many others fare, While thinkers are existing.

There are many problems left unsolved By former speculations; But when thou art to dust resolved, Come other generations.

The wrinkles on thy lofty brow Let them go on increasing, They are the scars which show us how Thought's struggle was unceasing.

And if no laurel-crown to thee To deck thy brow be given; Still be thou proud; thy soul so free For thought alone has striven.



SOME OF MARGARETTA'S SONGS.

I.

How proud he is and stately! How noble is his air! A trumpeter he's only, Yet I for him do care.

And owned he castles seven, He could not look more fair. O would to him were given Another name to bear!

Ah, were he but a noble, A knight of the Golden Fleece! Love, thou art full of trouble, Love, thou art full of peace.

II.

Two days now have passed already, Since I gave him that first kiss; Ever since that fatal hour All with me has gone amiss.

My dear little room, so pretty, Where so nice a life I led, Is now in such dire confusion. That it almost turns my head.

My sweet roses and carnations, Withered now, for care ye pine! Oh, I think, instead of water, I have deluged you with wine.

My dear lovely snow-white pigeon Has no water and no bread; And the goldfinch in his cage there Looks as if he were half dead.

I am putting blue and red yarn In my white net as I knit; And I work in my embroidery White wool where it doth not fit.

Where are Parcival and Theuerdank? If I only, only knew! I believe that I those poets In the kitchen-pantry threw.

And the kitchen plates are standing On the book-case—what a shame! Ah, for all these many blunders I my love, my love must blame!

III.

Away he is gone in the wide wide world; No word of farewell has he spoken. Thou fresh young player in wood and mead, Thou sun whose light is my daily need, When wilt thou send me a token?

I hardly had time in his eyes to gaze, When the dream already had vanished; Oh Love, why dost thou two lovers unite, With thy burning torch their hearts ignite, When their bliss so soon must be banished?

And where does he go? The world is so large, So full of deep snares for a rover. He even may go to Italia, where The women, I hear, are so false and so fair! May Heaven protect my dear lover.



FIVE YEARS LATER.

WERNER'S SONGS FROM ITALY.

I.

Too well were all things going, Therefore it could not last; My cheeks my grief are showing, Misfortune came too fast.

The violet and clover, The flowers all are gone. 'Mid frost and snow, a rover I wander sad alone.

Good luck will never favour The man who nothing dares; But he who does not waver The smile of fortune shares.

II.

A lonely rock juts upward Just by the craggy strand; The angry foaming waters Have torn it from the land.

Now in green waves half sunken Defiantly it lies; The snow-white gulls are flying Around it with shrill cries.

There on the heaving billows Is dancing a light boat; The sounds of plaintive singing Up to the lone rock float:

"O that I to my country, And to my love were borne; O home in dear old Rhine-land, For thee my heart is torn!"

III.

Bewitched I am by the summer night, In silent thought I am riding; Bright glow-worms through the thicket fly Like happy dreams, which in times gone by My longing heart were delighting.

Bewitched I am by the summer night. In silent thought I am riding; The golden stars shine so far and bright, In the water's fair bosom is mirrored their light, As, in Time's deep sea, love abiding.

Bewitched I am by the summer night, In silent thought I am riding; The nightingale sings from the myrtle tree, He warbles so meltingly, tenderly, As if Fate his heart had been blighting.

Bewitched I am by the summer night, In silent thought I am riding; The sea rises high, the waves do frown; Wherefore these useless tears which down The rider's wan cheeks are gliding?

IV.

'Neath the waves the sun is going, With bright hues the sky is glowing, Twilight o'er the earth is stealing, Far-off evening bells are pealing: Thee I think of, Margaretta.

On the rocky crag I'm lying, Stranger in a strange land sighing; Round my feet the waves are dancing, Through my soul float dreams entrancing: Thee I think of, Margaretta.

V.

Oh Roman girl, why lookest thou At me with burning glances? Thine eye, though beautiful it be, The stranger ne'er entrances.

Beyond the Alps there is a grave, The Rhine watch o'er it keepeth; And three wild roses bloom thereon; Therein my love-dream sleepeth.

Oh Roman girl, why lookest thou At me with burning glances? Thine eye, though beautiful it be, The stranger ne'er entrances.

VI.

Outside the gates when walking, I see of life no trace; There is the wide-spread graveyard Of the ancient Roman race.

They rest from love and hatred, From pleasure, strife, and guilt; There in the Appian Way are Their tombs of marble built

A tower greets me, gilded By the setting sun's last rays— Caecilia Metella, At thy proud tomb I gaze.

My eyes are turning northward, As 'mid this pile I stand; My thoughts are swiftly flying Far from this southern land,

On to another tower, With stones of smaller size; By the shady vine-clad window I see my love's sweet eyes.

VII.

The world lies now encircled By the frosty winter night. No use that by the hearth-stone I think of love's sad flight.

The logs will soon be burnt out, To ashes all will fall; The embers will cease glowing, That is the end of all.

It is the same old story, I think of nothing more But silence and forgetting— Forget what I adore?

VIII.

The crowd it frolics, shouts and sings, Disturbs Rome's usual quiet; Mad folly high her banner swings, And thronging masks run riot.

Now up and down the Corso pace Gay coaches 'mid wild showers; The Carnival's great sport takes place, The fight with chalk and flowers.

Confetti and fair roses fly, Bouquets are thickly raining. That hit—good luck! how glows her eye! Thou art the victory gaining.

And thou, my heart, mirth also show, Forget what thou hast suffered; Let bygone times and bygone woe With flowers sweet be covered.

IX.

By the clear green Lake of Nemi An old maple-tree doth grow; Through its lofty leafy summit The breezes sadly blow.

By the clear green Lake of Nemi A young musician lies, He hums a song, while many Tears glisten in his eyes.

On the clear green Lake of Nemi The waves so gently flow; The maple and musician Their own minds do not know.

By the clear green Lake of Nemi Is the best inn of the land; Praiseworthy macaroni, And wine of famous brand.

The maple and musician Are crazy both, I think; Else they would go there yonder, Grow sane by honest drink.

X.

My heart is filled with rancour, The storm howls all around; Thou art the man I want now, Thou false Italian hound.

Thy dagger's thrust I parried; Now, worthy friend, beware How from a German sword's stroke Thy Italian skull will fare.

The sun's last rays had vanished Far from the Vatican; It rose to shine next morning Upon a lifeless man.

XI.

Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge of renown, Near thee many draughts have I swallowed down, From bottles in wicker-work braided. Oh Ponte Molle, what is the cause That I between my glasses now pause, Can hardly to drink be persuaded?

Oh Ponte Molle, 'tis strange in truth, That the lovely days of my vanished youth And love's old dream are recurring. Through the land the hot sirocco blows, And within my heart the old flame glows, Sweet music within me is stirring.

Oh Tiber-stream, oh St. Peter's dome, Oh thou all-powerful ancient Rome, Naught care I for all thou containest. Where'er in my restless wanderings I rove, My gentle and lovely Schwarzwald-love, The fairest on earth thou remainest!

Oh Ponte Molle, how lovely was she! And if I thousands of girls should see, To love but the one I am willing. And if ever thy solid pile should bear The weight of her footsteps, I will swear, Even thy cold frame would be thrilling.

But useless the longing and useless the woe, The sun is too ardent so far to go, And flying is not yet invented. Padrone, another bottle of wine! This Orvieto so pearly and fine Makes even a sad heart contented.

Oh Ponte Molle, thou bridge of renown, Hast thou on my head called witchcraft down For my love-sick and dreamy talking? A cloud of dust whirls up to the sky, A herd of oxen now passing by Blocks up the way I am walking.

XII.

(Monte testaccio.)

I do not know what the end will be; O'er the low ground spreads the gloaming, The ominous bat already I see As she starts on her nightly roaming. On Ponte Molle all is still, I think the good old hostess will Very soon the inn be closing.

A little owl I hear there screech In the cypress grove 'tis hiding; Campagna fogs up there now reach, Over gate and city gliding. They roll and float like ghostly troops Round Cestius' Pyramid in groups; What are the dead there wanting?

Now bursts a light around the hill, The leaden gray clouds are fast going; The full moon's face rises slow and still, With envy's yellow hue glowing. She shines so pale, she shines so cold, Right into the goblet which I hold; That cannot be a good omen.

He who from his sweetheart is torn away, Will love her more dearly than ever; And who doth long in the night-air stay, Will catch most surely a fever. And now the hostess the light puts out, Felice notte! I back to her shout; The bill I'll settle to-morrow.

XIII.

Awaking from my slumber I hear the skylark sing; The rosy morning greets me, The fresh young day of Spring.

In the garden waves the palm-tree Mysteriously its crown, And on the distant sea-shore The surf rolls up and down;

And azure-blue the heavens, The golden sun so bright; My heart, what more is wanting? Chime in with all thy might!

And now pour out thy praises To God, who oft gave proof, He never would forsake thee— 'Tis thou who kept aloof.

XIV.

To serve, to serve! an evil ring, Has this word so harsh and frigid; My love is gone, my life's sweet Spring; My heart, become not rigid.

My trumpet looks so sad to-day, With crape around it winding; In a cage they put the player gay, Lay on him fetters binding.

Deep grief and pain infest his way, His heart with arrows stinging; For his daily bread he has to play, He can no more be singing.

Who on the Rhine sang to his lyre. Of all save joy unheeding, Is now—sad fate—the Pope's great choir In the Sistine Chapel leading.



FIFTEENTH PART.

THE MEETING IN ROME.

Scorching lay the heat of summer Over Rome, th' Eternal City; Sluggishly his yellow waters Rolls the Tiber, rolls them seaward, Through the sultry air; however, Not so much from choice, but rather From a sense of duty, knowing That it is a river's business. Deep down at the river's bottom, Sat old Tiber, and he muttered:

"Oh how slowly time is dragging! I am weary! Would the end were Of this dull monotonous motion! Will no storm ere raise a flood-tide, To engulf this little country, And drag all the brooks and rivers, Also me—the river veteran— And embrace us all together In the ocean's mighty bosom? E'en to wash the walls forever Of old Rome I find most tedious. And what matter that this region And myself are held as classic? Vanished, turned to dust and ashes, Are those genial Roman poets, Who, their brows adorned with laurel, And their hearts imbued with rhythm, Formerly have sung my praises. Then came others, long since vanished, Others followed in their stead, like Pictures in a magic lantern. Well! to me 'tis all the same, if Only they would not disturb me. Oh what have these busy mortals Thrown into my quiet waters, Quite regardless of my comfort! Where my nymphs with sacred rushes Had arranged for me a pillow, For my usual siesta, There now lie great heaps of rubbish, Roman helmets, Gaulish weapons, Old utensils of Etruria, And the lovely marble statues Which once from the tomb of Hadrian Down upon thick-headed Goths fell; And the bones all mixed together Of defenders and aggressors; Just as if my river-bed were An historic lumber chamber. Oh how sick I am and weary! Worn-out world, when wilt thou die?"

Whilst now thus the worthy Tiber Gave full vent unto his anger By this discontented grumbling, There above gay life was surging, And arrayed in festal garments Crowds went toward the Vatican. On St. Angelo's Bridge was hardly Room enough for all the passers. Crowding came in Spanish mantles, Wigs and swords, the grand Signori; Then some black Franciscan friars, Also Capuchins, and common Roman burghers. Here and there a Sun-burnt and wild-looking shepherd Of the near Campagna wore with Classic grace his tattered garment; And among them, with light footsteps, Walked the lovely Roman maidens, With black veils, although this covering Did not hide their fervent glances. (O how can the glowing sunshine, Even when its rays are gathered By adepts in their reflectors, E'er compare with Roman glances? Heart which felt their flames, be silent!)

From the castle of St. Angelo Flutter gaily many banners, Bearing all the Pope's insignia, Both the mitre and the crossed keys, Giving notice of the feast-day Kept in honour of St. Peter.

There before the proud cathedral Were the sparkling fountains playing; Through the spray the vivid rainbow Glitters o'er the granite basins. And the obelisk gigantic Of Rameses, King of Egypt, Looked upon the crowd of people, In his native tongue lamenting: "Most perplexing are these Romans! In the time of Nero hardly Did I comprehend their doings; Now still less I understand them. But this much I have discovered, That the climate here is chilly. Amun-Re, thou god of sunlight, Take me home to my old friends there, To the Sphinx, and let me once more Hear the prayer of Memnon's column Through the glowing desert ringing!"

On the broad steps of the Vatican And beneath the marble columns Tall Swiss halberdiers are walking To and fro in keeping watch there. Clanging through the hall the echo Of their heavy tread is ringing. To the gray old corporal turning Speaks a youthful soldier sadly: "Fine, indeed, and proud we Swiss are, And I see no other soldiers In the streets of Rome as jaunty As we look with our cuirasses, In the black, red, yellow doublet. Many burning glances shyly From the windows fall upon us; But the heart is wildly yearning Homeward, homeward for the mountains, As at Strasburg on the bulwarks When the Alpine horn was blowing. Willingly would I give up all, Earnest money, silver scudi, E'en the Holy Father's blessing, E'en the wine of Orvieto Which pearls sweetly in the goblet, Could I once again be chasing Boldly on their tracks the chamois O'er the rocks, near avalanches, On the craggy steep Pilatus; Or steal gently in the moonlight Over fragrant Alpine meadows To the faintly-lighted cottage, To the dairy-maid, the light-haired Kunigund of Appenzell; And then greet the golden sunrise With a joyful heartfelt jodel. Oh Saint Peter, thy fine music I should miss without regretting, Could I hear again the well-known Sharp shrill whistle of the marmot In its lonely Alpine cave!"

On the steps of the cathedral Stood in crowds close packed together Elegant and idle dandies, Holding muster over all the Carriages and great state coaches Which came quickly driving up there. "Do you see the Eminenza With that round face like the full moon, With the double chin, he's leaning On the servant in rich livery? 'Tis the Cardinal Borghese. He would rather now be sitting Quiet in the Sabine mountains In the airy villa by the Rural beauty Donna Baldi. He's a man of taste, a scholar, Loves the classics, and especially Doth he love the true Bucolic."

"Who is that?" now asked another, "That imposing-looking person? Don't you see there what a splendid Chain of honour he is wearing; How he shakes his periwig now Like th' Olympian Jupiter?" "What, you do not known him?" answered Then loquaciously another, "Him, the Chevalier Bernini? Who has just restored the Pantheon, Who upon St. Peter's also Has bestowed such rich adornments, And the golden tabernacle Built o'er Peter's grave, which cost more Than a hundred thousand scudi. Take your hat off! Since the world was, Has she seen no greater master, Nor—" He was then interrupted By a man with gray moustaches, Who his shoulder tapped and scornful Said: "You are mistaken; never Saw the world a greater bungler! I say this, Salvator Rosa."

Coaches come, in front postilions; Splendid uniforms are glittering And with retinue attended Steps an aged lady onward To the portal of the Dome. "How she's fading," said then someone, "The illustrious Queen of Sweden! Do you still recall her lovely Looks when first she made her entrance? Then the Gate del Popolo looked Just as if built out of flowers; And as far as Ponte Molle Came the Romans out to greet her. Down the long street of the Corso Unto the Venetian Palace Were the shouts of joy unending. Do you see that little hunchback Standing there, who now is sneezing? He stands high in grace and favour As one of the queen's attendants. He's a scholar of deep learning, The philologist Naudaeus. He knows everything that happened, And sometime ago he even, Over there at Prince Corsini's, Danced an ancient Saltarello To instruct the royal party, Whose loud laughter was heard plainly Even far off by the Tiber."

In the throng now quite unnoticed Came a heavy lumbering carriage; In it were two black-robed ladies; On the box sat worthy Anton As their coachman, calling loudly: "Room ye people for the gracious Lady Abbess and my mistress!" Called in German, which roused laughter. With bewildered eyes he looked round At the foreign scene, and just then Passing by the queen's attendants, He beheld a gray old coachman, And he muttered from his coach-box: "Don't I know thee, Swedish rascal? Didst thou not belong once to the Regiment of Sudermanland? Do you now expect my thanks here For the cut you had the kindness To bestow upon my arm once In the fight at Nuremberg? A most marvellous place is truly This old Rome, for long-forgotten Friends and foes meet here again!"

On the classic soil of Italy Now my song greets Margaretta. Gladly would it strew its fairest Blossoms on the path to welcome And to cheer this pallid maiden, So that smiles might light her features; For, since Werner left the castle, Pleasure had become a stranger. Only once they saw her laughing, When the Suabian younker came there; But it was a bitter laughter, Harsh, discordant as a string sounds On a mandolin when snapping; And the younker then returned thence Single, as from home he started. Silently the maiden sorrowed As the months and years sped onward; Till at last the Princess Abbess, Filled with pity, told the Baron: "On our soil your child no longer Thrives as heretofore, but slowly Her poor heart from grief is withering. Change of air oft worketh wonders. Let me take then Margaretta With me to the Holy City, Where in spite of age I'm going; For, in Chur the wicked bishop Threatens to deprive our convent Of our fairest Swiss possessions, And I shall complain of him there, Saying to the Holy Father: 'Show me mercy, justly punish The harsh bishop of the Grisons.'" Said the Baron: "Take her with you; And may Heaven grant its blessing, That you may bring back my daughter Rosy-cheeked and happy-hearted." Thus to Italy they travelled With old Anton as their coachman.

Now the carriage-door he opened, And alighting, the old Abbess, Followed by fair Margaretta, Walked up to the church and entered. Margaretta gazed in wonder At the vastness of the building, Where man seems reduced to nothing; At the giant marble columns, And the dome with gold overladen. In the niche of the great nave stands The bronze statue of St. Peter, Which this day in papal vestments Was arrayed, the gold brocade robe Hanging stiffly on the statue; On the head the Bishop's mitre. And they saw how many people Kissed the foot of this bronze statue. Then a papal chamberlain led Both the German ladies forward To a seat close by the altar, Place of honour kept for strangers. Now was heard the sound of music; And the Holy Father coming Through the side-door from the Vatican Made his entrance to St. Peter's. Stout Swiss halberdiers were marching At the head of the procession, Followed by the celebrated Singers of the papal choir. Heavy music-books were carried By the choristers, some hardly Strong enough to bear the folios. Then there came in motley order Monsignori robed in violet; Abbots followed then and prelates, And the canons of St. Peter's, Heavy looking, their fat figures Corresponding to their livings. Leaning on his staff the General Of the Capuchins walked slowly For a load of more than ninety Years was resting on his shoulders; But his brain was working out still Many plans with youthful vigour. With Franciscans from the cloister Ara c[oe]li also came the Prior of Pallazuola. By the shores of Lake Albano, 'Neath the shade of Monte Cavo, Stands his little monastery, Peaceful spot for idle dreamers. On he walked in deep thought buried; And who knows wherefore his mutterings Did not sound like prayer, but more like "Fare-thee-well, Amalia." After them the choicest portion, All the cardinals, were walking, Their long robes of scarlet colour On the marble pavement trailing. "Heart, be patient," so was thinking Cardinal di Ottoboni; "Now I'm second to the Pope yet, But in seven years most likely I shall mount St Peter's chair." Then a train of cavaliers came With their shining swords, and followed In strict military order; 'Twas the Pope's own guard of honour. And at last the Holy Father Made his entrance, being carried On a throne by eight strong bearers. O'er his head were held by pages The great fans of peacock-feathers. Snow-white were his festal garments; And his right hand, raised in blessing, Wore the signet-ring of Peter. Low the crowd knelt down in silence.

At the foot of the High Altar The procession had arrived now, And the Pope held solemn service Over the Apostle's grave. Solemnly and gravely sounded The peculiar choral measures Which old Master Palestrina Had in his strict style composed. And the aged Lady Abbess Prayed with fervent deep devotion. But fair Margaretta's glances Were directed up to heaven, Whence these solemn strains of music Seemed to her to be descending. But her eye was then attracted To the singers' box—she trembled: For, amid the group of singers, Though half hidden by a column, Stood a stately light-haired figure. And again she looked now upward; From her sight the Pope had vanished, All the Cardinals had vanished, Likewise all the nine-and-eighty Burning lamps o'er Peter's grave. "My old dream, dost thou return then? My old dream, why dost thou haunt me Even in these sacred precincts?"

The last notes had died out softly, And the Holy Mass was ended. "Oh how pale you look, dear lady!" Said the aged Lady Abbess. "Take my vial, it will help you, It contains the finest essence Which I bought myself in Florence At the cloister of San Marco."

The procession of the singers Passed just then before the ladies. "God in heaven! oh have mercy! Yes, 'tis he! I know the scar there On his brow—it is my Werner!" Dark before her eyes it grew now, And her heart was beating wildly. No more could her feet support her, And the maiden sank down fainting On the hard cold floor of marble.



SIXTEENTH PART.

SOLUTION AND END.

Innocentius the Eleventh Was kind-hearted; and his dinner He had just now greatly relished. At dessert he still was sitting, And while luscious fruit enjoying, Said to Cardinal Albani: "Who was that young pallid lady, Who this morning in St. Peter's Fell upon the floor and fainted?" Answered Cardinal Albani: "On this subject just at present I can give no information; But the Monsignor Venusto I will ask, for he knows always What in Rome is daily happening; Knows what in salons is gossiped, What the senators are doing, What is drunk by Flemish artists, What is sung by Prima Donnas, Even what the puppet-show is Playing on the Square Navona. There is naught the Monsignore Can't unravel and discover." E'en before was served the coffee (At that time this was a novel Beverage and rarely taken, Only on the highest feast-days) Had the Cardinal already Learnt the facts. He thus related: "This pale maiden is a noble Lady, who has travelled hither With that German Princess Abbess; And she saw—most marvellously— In the church a man this morning, Whom she once had lost her heart with, And whom, still more marvellously, She unto this day is loving, Notwithstanding and in spite of Want of noble birth and titles, And her father's stem refusal. And the cause of this her fainting Is, again most marvellously, No one else but Signor Werner, Chapel-master to your Holiness. This the Monsignor Venusto Heard to-day, when on a visit To the Abbess who related Confidentially these facts."

Then the Pope said: "This is truly A most strange and touching meeting. Were the subject not too modern, And the actors of the drama Not such semi-barbarous Germans, Then some poet might win laurels In the sweet groves of Arcadia, Should he sing this wondrous meeting. But I truly take an interest In the grave young Signor Werner. Greatly has improved the singing Of my choir, since he leads it, And the taste for solemn music; While my own Italian singers Care too much for operatic Tunes of lighter character. Quietly he does his duty, Of his own accord ne'er speaking; Never begs of me a favour; Never was his hand extended To receive the gifts of bribery. Yet examples of corruption Are more frequent with us, surely, Than the fleas in sultry summer. Monsignor Venusto knows this! Seems to me that this grave German Is consumed by secret sorrow. I should really like to know now, If he's thinking of his love yet?"

Said the Cardinal Albani: "I well-nigh may answer for this. In the books kept on the conduct Of all high and low officials In the State and Church departments, It is mentioned as a wonder That he strictly shuns all women. First we nourished a suspicion That his heart had fallen victim To the charms of the fair hostess Of the inn near Vale Egeria. He was seen each evening strolling Through the Porta Sebastiano, And outside there is no dwelling But the tavern just now mentioned. Thus such nightly promenading Of one yet in early manhood Could not but arouse suspicion. Therefore we once sent two persons Carefully to track his footsteps, But they found him 'mid the ruined Tombs along the Appian Way. There had once a great patrician Built a tomb to his freed woman, Whom he'd brought as a remembrance From Judaea, at the time of The destruction of the Temple. She was called Zatcha Achyba. There he sat, the spies related; 'Twas a subject for an artist: The Campagna's sombre landscape; Moonlight on the marble tombstone; He his mantle wrapped around him; Mournfully he blew his trumpet Through the gloomy lonely silence. This had brought upon him later Many mocking jeers like this one: 'Signor Werner is composing For the Jewess there a requiem.'"

At this smiled the Holy Father, And the Cardinals did likewise; Following these high examples, All the chamberlains smiled also; Even Carlo Dolci's features Now relaxed their gloomy sadness. And the Pope said: "We must all have Great respect for this young German. It were well if many others Who at night away are stealing, To the Appian Way were going. Signor Werner, I assure you, Stands most high in my good graces, And to-morrow he shall see it; For, I recollect, I've granted Then an audience to the Abbess."

On the first day of July in Sixteen hundred seventy-nine, there Rose the sun with special glory. Cooling blew the tramontana Through the cypresses and myrtles In the Vatican's fair garden; And the half-parched flowers gladly Raised their heads, breathed out fresh fragrance, O'er the bronze gigantic pine-cone,— Which once Hadrian's museum Had adorned, and now was living 'Mid the jessamines and roses, As a pensioner contented,— Lively lizards swiftly glided, Snapping at the tiny insects Ever dancing in the sunshine. Fountains played, and birds were singing; E'en the pale old marble statues With warm life became imbued. And the satyr, with his reed flute, Raised his foot as if intending To go dancing round the garden; But Apollo's hand waved warning: "Friend, those times have passed forever; Thou wouldst only raise a scandal." Bathed in sunlight, Rome looks smiling O'er the river at the Vatican; From the sea of houses, churches, And fair palaces, the Quirinal Proudly rises; in the distance Towers up the Capitolium In the violet autumn haze.

Through the Boscareccio's verdant Alleys swept the shining white robe Of His Holiness, who kindly To the Abbess and the maiden Here had granted audience. And the Abbess gained assurance, That her lawsuit would be taken Into prompt consideration. Then to Margaretta turning. Said the Pope: "None of the pilgrims Ever leave Rome without comfort; So I, as the soul's physician, Must prevent another fainting." And he whispered to a servant: "Go and fetch the chapel-master."

Werner came: to stately manhood In this southern clime he'd ripened Since he left, a hopeless suitor, The old castle in the Rhine-land. Life's wild whirlpool, since that morning, Had well tossed him hither thither. Willingly I would relate here, How he went to many countries; How o'er land and sea he travelled; How he with the Knights of Malta Cruised against the Turkish corsairs; Till at last a fate mysterious Unto Rome had duly brought him. But my song becomes impatient; Like a driver who is snapping At the door his whip, 'tis calling: "Onward! On to the conclusion!" Werner came; bewildered gazed he Twice, yes thrice, at Margaretta, Gazed at her in utter silence; But his glances did express more Than a printed folio volume. 'Twas the glance with which Ulysses Sitting by the suitors' corpses Gazed upon his consort, from whom He by twenty years of wandering And of suffering had been parted.

Innocentius the Eleventh Was kind-hearted, a discerner Of men's hearts. Most kindly said he: "Those whom Providence united In His goodness and His wisdom, Shall no more be separated. Yesterday when in St. Peter's, And to-day here in the garden, I have come to the conviction, That there is a case here waiting For my papal interference. "'Tis indeed a mighty power Love, a power all subduing; Than light even more ethereal, Doth it penetrate all barriers, And the chair of Peter also Is not safe from its invasion When it asks us for our help. "But it is a pleasant duty Of the head of Christendom, To make smooth the path of lovers, Every obstacle removing, That true love may be victorious. And of all the various nations, 'Tis the Germans who beyond all Keep us busy with such matters. So the Count of Gleichen brought here With him a fair Turkish consort From the Holy Land, though knowing His own consort still was living. And our annals make full mention Of our predecessor's troubles Brought about by this wild action. So likewise the most unhappy Of all knights came here, Tannhauser: "'Pope Urbano, Pope Urbano, Heal the sick man held as captive Seven years within the mountain Of the wicked goddess Venus!' But to-day the case is different And more pleasing; there is nothing Which conflicts with any canon. There is only a slight scruple— If I've heard right—with the Baron. You, my Werner, have been faithful, But I read 'neath all this quiet Resignation to your duty, That reluctantly you sang here, As a caged-up bird is singing. Oft you've asked for your dismission, Which I ever did deny you, And to-day would never grant you, If it only were the custom, That the papal chapel-master Could like other mortals marry. But in Rome we must keep always, As you know, traditions sacred; Palestrina for this reason Went himself to foreign lands. "Therefore go with my full favour; And because the lady's father Thinks the name of Werner Kirchhof Much too simple, so I grant you Knighthood by my sovereign power. You, I know, care naught about it; For you by your art ennobled Think such titles of no moment. But perhaps the gracious lady May consider it more proper, To bestow her hand in marriage On the Marquis Camposanto Rather than on Master Werner. And because I hold the power Both to bind as well as loosen, I now solemnly betroth you. E'en this loveless age rejoices At examples of devotion. You have shown one—be then happy, And receive my papal blessing."

This he spoke with much emotion. And overwhelmed with grateful feelings Werner knelt with Margaretta Down before the Holy Father; And the Abbess wept so freely That the grass thought it was raining. With the tears of the good Abbess Closes now the touching story Of the young musician Werner And the lovely Margaretta.

But who's wandering late at night-time Through the Corso, who is stealing Through that dark and narrow side-street? 'Tis the faithful coachman Anton; Filled with joy is his whole being. To give vent unto this feeling He is going to the wine-house, To the tavern del Fachino. And to-night he is not drinking Country wine in fogliette; He has ordered a straw-covered Bottle of good Orvieto And of Monte Porzio. Panes are crashing, fragments flying; For he throws each empty bottle In his rapture through the window. Though indignant at the oil-drops Which upon the wine are floating, Just like comets in the ether, Still he drinks and drinks with ardour; Only while the tavern-keeper Went to fetch him the sixth bottle From the cellar, thus he spoke out: "Thou, oh heart of an old coachman, Now rejoice, for soon thou'lt harness Thy good horses and drive homeward. From the standpoint of a coachman Italy is but a mournful Land, behind in every comfort. Horrid roads, and frequent toll-gates, Musty stalls, and oats quite meagre, Coaches rough! I feel insulted Every time I see those waggons Drawn by oxen yoked together. The first element is wanting Of a coachman's daily comfort, 'Tis the handy German hostler. Oh how much I miss those worthies! Oh how gladly I will welcome One in pointed cap and apron! In my joy again to see him I will hug and even kiss him. And at home what great surprises Are in store! Oh never was I So impressed with the grave duties Of a coachman as at present At a proud trot, such as never Has been seen in this whole country, Shall I drive my lord and ladies Home through Florence and Milan.

"At Schaffhausen, the last station For our night's rest, I must promptly Send a messenger on horseback, And he must alarm the city: 'Put up quickly all your banners, Load your cannons for saluting, And erect an arch of honour!' Then we enter the next evening Through the ancient gate in triumph, And my whip I'll crack so loudly That the town-house windows rattle. Then I hear the aged Baron Asking sharply: 'What's the meaning Of these banners and this uproar?' From afar I shout already: 'Heaven's blessing rests upon us; Here a bridal pair are coming, And, my lord, they are your children.' This day ne'er shall be forgotten! In remembrance shall the tom-cat Hiddigeigei have a genuine Whole well-smoked Italian sausage. For the sake of after ages Must the good schoolmaster make me A fine poem on this subject; I don't care, e'en should it cost me The amount of two whole thalers, And it must conclude as follows: 'From true love and trumpet-blowing Many useful things are springing; For true love and trumpet-blowing E'en a noble wife are winning. May true love and trumpet-blowing Each one find good fortune bringing, As our trumpeter young Werner, On the Rhine at old Saekkingen.'"



THE END.



NOTES.

The town of Saekkingen, where the scene of this poem is laid, is situated amid beautiful scenery on the outskirts of the Schwarzwald (Black Forest), on the right bank of the Rhine, and on the road from Basel to Constance, about 30 miles above the former place. The town owes its origin to the settlement of St. Fridolinus (as related in the Third Part of the poem), who came here from Ireland in the 6th century, and founded a monastery, afterwards converted into a convent for noble ladies. The settlement was made on an island in the Rhine. In the poem the town is still considered as lying on an island, but according to the legend, St. Fridolinus altered the course of the Rhine, leading its waters entirely to the west side of the island.

The castle of Schoenau, on the site of the old castle of the Baron, the father of the heroine of the story, stands close to the Rhine, and is now the seat of Mr. Theodore Bally, the well-known wealthy and benevolent proprietor of large silk manufactories. He has caused the old tower of the castle to be restored, and intends to adorn its walls with frescoes, representing scenes from the poem.

Page 1.—Michele Pagano, a very popular hotel-keeper in Capri, whose hotel was mostly frequented by German artists. He died only very recently, universally regretted.

Page 3.—The cat Hiddigeigei, the old Baron's cat, with which the reader will become better acquainted as a philosophising cat in the course of the poem.

Page 5.—Amaranth, a poem by Oscar von Redwitz, published a few years before "The Trumpeter of Saekkingen," and at that time very popular, especially with certain classes in Germany.

Page 13.—The Boezberg, a mountain in the Jura, over which the old road from Basel to Zuerich led. Now the railroad between the two places pierces it with a tunnel.

—The Hozzenwald, the Hauenstein mountains. See note to page 15.

—The Gallus Tower, an old tower at the upper extremity of Saekkingen, properly called after St. Gallus, now used as a house of refuge for homeless people.

Page 14.—The graveyard of Saekkingen contains still the tombstone of the hero and heroine of the poem. Their names, as given there, are Franz Werner Kirchhofer and Marie Ursula von Schoenau. The first died in May, 1690, the latter in March of the following year.

Page 15.—The Eggberg is one of the mountains in the Hauenstein country, to the north of Saekkingen. The inhabitants of this country were formerly remarkable for their quaint costumes coming down from the 15th century. The men wore shirts with large frills around the neck, red stomachers, long black jackets, and wide trousers reaching below the knee, and called hozen. Hence the land was called Hozzenland. The dress of the women was also very peculiar, and of many bright colours. These old costumes are now rarely seen.

Page 17.—"The silvery lake," a romantic small lake, half an hour N.W. from Saekkingen. It lies in a hollow on the hills, surrounded by rocks and splendid fir-woods. The lake, which is known by the name of Berg See (mountain lake), is now also called Scheffel See. It is a favourite spot for excursions from far and near, and abounds in fish.

Page 19.—The Feldberg, the highest point of the Schwarzwald.

Page 20.—St. Blasien, formerly a very ancient monastery of Benedictine monks, called thus after St. Blasius, Bishop of Sebaste, whose relics were brought here by one of the early abbots.

Page 21.—"Then appeared as Death and Devil." This is the subject of one of Albrecht Duerer's most celebrated engravings, called Ritter, Tod, and Teufel (the Knight, Death, and the Devil), where the knight rides quietly and unmoved through a gloomy mountain glen, smiling at Death, who holds up an hourglass before him, and taking no notice at all of the droll Devil, who tries to grasp him from behind. The knight is evidently an embodiment of the freer spirit which began to reign then in Germany. The engraving is of the year 1513.

Page 26.—"Far off on the island glisten." The town of Saekkingen with its minster.

Page 30.—Rheinfeld, or rather Rheinfelden, a town on the left bank of the Rhine, about halfway between Saekkingen and Basel, where, during the Thirty Years' War, in the year 1638 several actions took place.

Page 32.—Wehr, a village about six miles from Saekkingen, on the road to Schopfheim, in the neighbourhood of a stalactite cave (Hasler Hoehle) mentioned in the Tenth Part.

Page 38.—Cujacius (Jacques de Cujas), a very distinguished jurist and professor of law in the university of Bourges (d. 1590). His only daughter, Susanna, became known by her profligate life. But the stories told of her by Catherinot cannot have happened during her father's lifetime, as he died when she was only three years old.

Page 43—Palsgrave Frederic married the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of James the First of England, in 1613. He was afterwards made king of Bohemia by the Protestant princes of Germany, and moved to Prague in 1619. In the year following his army was routed near Prague by the forces of the Catholic League, and he had to fly with his family.

Page 46.—"Of a young and handsome carpenter." The pastor refers here to a popular German song, still often sung by students:

War einst ein jung, jung Zimmergesell, Der hatte zu bauen ein Schloss, etc.

It is the story of a young carpenter who built a castle for a Margrave. During the absence of the latter the Margravine falls in love with the carpenter. The lovers are afterwards surprised by the Margrave, who has a gallows built on which the carpenter is hung.

Page 49.—Clovis (465-511), king of the Franks, was married, while he was still a heathen, to Clotilde, a Christian princess of Burgundy. During the battle at Tolbiac (Zuelpich), near Cologne, when sorely pressed by the enemy, the Allemanni, he vowed to become a Christian, if he should gain the victory. After routing and subjugating the Allemanni, the king and many thousands of his people were baptised by the Bishop of Rheims, on the 23rd of December of the same year (496).

Page 50.—"Augusta Rauracorum," Colonia Raurica, afterwards called Augusta Rauracorum, a Roman colony founded in the year 44 B.C., by L. Munatius Plancus. On the site of the Roman town are now two villages, Basel-Augst and Kaiser-Augst, the latter a station on the railroad from Basel to Zurich. Near Basel-Augst the remains of a Roman amphitheatre and of a temple can still be seen.

Page 56.—Count Ursus of Glarus had been converted to Christianity by St. Fridolinus, and, with the consent of his brother Landolph, donated, a short time before his death, all his estates to the new cloister at Saekkingen. When Landolph, after the death of his brother refused to acknowledge his will, Fridolinus was obliged to go to law in order to make good his claim, and after a long litigation was at last notified by the government of Glarus that he would not be able to have his claims settled, unless he could bring the dead Count Ursus himself in court as a witness. Then, the legend says, Fridolinus went, on the day appointed for the court, to Glarus, raised Ursus from his grave, and walked with him to Rankweil (the seat of the court, ten hours from Glarus), where the count gave testimony in regard to his donation. Landolph then not only gave up his brother's estates, but added also a large portion of his own. After that Fridolinus walked back to Glarus with Count Ursus, and committed him again to his grave. The saint, on account of this miracle, is visually portrayed in company with the skeleton of Count Ursus.

Page 58.—Laufenburg, a town six miles above Saekkingen, and situated on the beautiful rapids of the Rhine. A tower of the old strong castle on the Swiss side is still standing.

Page 59.—Beuggen, a town on the Rhine below Saekkingen. The ancient building of the Teutonic order is still standing, and is used now by the Moravians as an institute for children.

Page 71.—The Wiese, a river coming from the Feldberg and flowing into the Rhine a little below Basel. The beautiful valley of the clear rapid river is now much visited, as there is a railroad as far as the town of Zell. This region has become classic through the poet Hebel, who wrote in the Allemannic idiom, still generally spoken in this whole region. At Hausen, the station before Zell, where he was born, a monument has been erected to him. There is also at Schopfheim, the station below Hausen, on a hill called Hebelshoehe, a bust of the poet The women of this region are remarkable for their large singular-looking caps, to which Scheffel alludes.

Page 76.—This gravel bank, called Field of Fridolinus, is still seen in the Rhine, opposite the castle Schoenau.

Page 80.—Hallau, a village not far from the railroad station Neuhausen, the stopping-place for visiting the falls of the Rhine. The red wine grown there is still very celebrated.

—The Hohe-Randen, a mountain to the north of Schapfhausen.

Page 85.—Theuerdank, a German poem of the beginning of the 16th century, written by Melchior Pfinzing, the secretary of the Emperor Maximilian, who had planned and sketched the poem himself.

Page 101.—Grenzach, the first German village going from Basel, on the railroad to Saekkingen and Constanz. It is celebrated for the wine grown there.

Page 104.—The Frickthal, in the Swiss canton Aargau, nearly south of Saekkingen.

Page 105.—Schinznach, a village in the canton Aargau, much visited on account of its hot sulphur springs. In the neighbourhood are the ruins of the castle of Hapsburg, the cradle of the imperial house of Austria.

Page 109.—The mountain lake. See note to page 17.

Page 120.—May drink, or May wine, a favourite drink in Germany for the spring-time, made by steeping the leaves of woodroof in the light white wine of the country, and sweetening it with sugar. It is an old custom prevailing already in the 16th century, when the woodroof was added to the wine not only to cheer the heart with its fine aroma, but also for medicinal purposes, as acting on the liver.

Page 135.—Albbruck, a place above Laufenburg on the Rhine, at the mouth of the little river Alb, the valley of which is the most beautiful in the Schwarzwald. Formerly there were here quite important ironworks.

Page 151.—"E'en a common Flemish blacksmith." Quentin Massys (1466-1530), a celebrated Flemish painter, said to have been originally a blacksmith. While such, he fell in love, and in order to gain the maiden's consent as well as her father's (who was an artist) he forsook his trade, devoted himself to painting, and became a great master in his art. On the tombstone which his admirers placed on his grave a hundred years after his death, stands the Latin hexameter:

Connubialis amor ex mulcibre fecit Apellem!

Page 152.—The Gnome's cave (Die Erdmannshoehle), a stalactite cave near the village of Hasel (whence the cave is called also Haselhoehle), between Wehr and Schopfheim. It can be reached from the former by a walk of half an hour, and is often visited with guides. The first cave, which one reaches through a low passage, is 13 feet high, the next contains a small lake. There is also a little river rushing along under steps, over which one walks. The cave contains, like all caves of this kind, most fantastic stalactite structures, which popular fancy has called the organ, the chancel, the skeleton, &c. Some columns when struck give out tones which sound as thirds. The most interesting part of the cave is called Die Fuerstengruft (The Prince's Sepulchre), a large room, 16 feet high, with a stalactite structure resembling a large coffin. Popular superstition has from times immemorial made this cave the haunt of gnomes.

Page 169.—The ancient county of Hauenstein lies between two spurs of the Feldberg, the eastern one coming down to the town of Waldshut on the Rhine, the western one to Saekkingen. It is also called Hozzenland (see note to page 15). The early history of the country is somewhat obscure until the time of the Emperor Rudolph of Hapsburg, when it acknowledged the sovereignty of Austria. In the times of the fight for the German throne between Albrecht of Austria and Adolphe of Nassau, and between Frederick the Beautiful and Ludwig of Bavaria, when Suabia was without a duke and Germany without an emperor, the different villages of the country founded a union (Einung) for their protection. There is still in existence such a union document drawn up in the year 1433. The entire union was divided into eight smaller ones, each of which stood under an elected leader (Einungsmeister). All these eight leaders elected one of their body as speaker (Redmann), who held the leadership of the entire union. By this the Hauenstein peasants were greatly protected in their ancient rights; still the oppression of the Austrian governors (Waldvoegte) often incited revolutions, the most important of which occurred during the Peasants' War in 1525. Others lasted from 1589 to 1614, arising from an impost laid on wine. The poet introduces such a rising here in the course of his story.

Page 206.—The Fuggers are an Augsburg family, who, by their linen-trade and weaving, and afterwards by the purchase of mines in Austria, amassed an enormous fortune, and were raised to the rank of nobles by the Emperor Maximilian. The family attained their greatest splendour under the Emperor Charles the Fifth, who, at the time of the Diet at Augsburg, raised the two brothers then living to the rank of counts.

Page 235.—Katzenjammer, literally translated, cats' misery, the vulgar German expression for the indisposition after a drunken debauch.

Page 255.—Parcival, written by Wolfram von Eschenbach about the year 1200. Theuerdank, a German poem of the 16th century. See note to page 85.

Page 277.—"As at Strasburg on the bulwarks." The Swiss soldier refers here to a popular song:

Zu Strasburg auf der Schanz, Da ging mein Trauern an, etc.

The simple but touching story of a soldier who stands guard on the bulwarks of Strasburg and hears the Alpine horn blown on the other side of the Rhine. Seized with home sickness he swims across the Rhine, but is taken afterwards and shot as a deserter.

Page 278.—The villa of the Cardinal Borghese, Casa Baldi, near Olevano, in the Sabine country, is still in existence, and is now an inn much frequented by artists. It has become celebrated by Scheffel's humorous song, "Abschied von Olevano" (Farewell to Olevano), which he wrote on the spot when leaving there after a long sojourn. It is published in Scheffers collection of songs, "Gaudeamus."

Page 285.—Cardinal Pietro Ottoboni of Venice, who in 1689 became the successor of Innocent XI. as Alexander VIII.



CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.

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