FRIEDRICH'S BALLAD.
A TALE OF THE FEAST OF ST. NICHOLAS.
"Ne pinger ne scolpir fia piu che queti, L'anima volta a quell' Amor divino Ch'asserse a prender noi in Croce le braccia."
"Painting and Sculpture's aid in vain I crave, My one sole refuge is that Love divine Which from the Cross stretched forth its arms to save."
_Written by_ MICHAEL ANGELO _at the age of 83._
"So be it," said one of the council, as he rose and addressed theothers. "It is now finally decided. The Story Woman is to be walledup."
The council was not an ecclesiastical one, and the woman condemned tothe barbarous and bygone punishment of being "walled up" was not anoffending nun. In fact the Story Woman (or _Maerchen-Frau_ as she iscalled in Germany) may be taken to represent the imaginary personagewho is known in England by the name of Mother Bunch, or Mother Goose;and it was in this instance the name given by a certain family ofchildren to an old book of ballads and poems, which they wereaccustomed to read in turn with special solemnities, on one particularnight in the year; the reader for the time being having a peculiarcostume, and the title of "Maerchen-Frau," or Mother Bunch, a namewhich had in time been familiarly adopted for the ballad-book itself.
This book was not bound in a fashionable colour, nor illustrated by afashionable artist; the Chiswick Press had not set up a type for it,and Hayday's morocco was a thing unknown. It had not, in short, one ofthose attractions with which in these days books are surrounded, whoseinsides do not always fulfil the promise of the binding. If, however,it was on these points inferior to modern volumes, it had on othersthe advantage. It did not share a precarious favour with a dozenrivals in mauve, to be supplanted ere the year was out by twelve newones in magenta. It was never thrown aside with the contemptuousremark,--"I've read that!" On the contrary, it always had been to itspossessors, what (from the best Book downwards) a good book alwaysshould be, a friend, and not an acquaintance--not to be too readilycriticized, but to be loved and trusted. The pages were yellow andworn, not with profane ill-usage, but with honourable wear and tear;and the mottled binding presented much such an appearance as might beexpected from a book that had been pressed under the pillow of onereader, and in the pocket of another; that had been wept over andlaughed over, and warmed by winter fires, and damped in the summergrass, and had in general seen as much of life as the venerable bookin question. It was not the property of one member of the family, butthe joint possession of all. It was not _mine_, but _ours_, as theinscription, "For the Children," written on the blank leaf testified;which inscription was hereafter to be a pathetic memorial to aged eyesof days when "the children" were not yet separated, and took theirpleasures, like their meals, together.
And after all this, with the full consent of a council of the owners,the _Maerchen-Frau_ was to be "walled up."
But before I attempt to explain, or in any way excuse this seeminglyungracious act, it may be well to give some account of the doersthereof. Well, then:--
Providence had blessed a certain respectable tradesman, in a certaintown in Germany, with a large and promising family of children. He hadmarried very early the beloved of his boyhood, and had been left awidower with one motherless baby almost before he was a man. Aneighbour, with womanly compassion, took pity upon this desolatefather, and more desolate child; and it was not until she had nursedthe babe in her own house through a dangerous sickness, and had forlong been chief adviser to the parent, that he awoke to the fact thatshe had become necessary to him, and they were married.
Of this union came a family of eight, the two eldest of whom were laidin turn in the quiet grave. The others survived, and, with the firstwife's daughter, made a goodly family party, which sometimes sorelytaxed the resources of the tradesman to provide for, though hisbusiness was good and his wife careful. They scrambled up, however, aschildren are wont to do in such circumstances; and at the time ourstory opens the youngest had turned his back upon babyhood, and Marie,the eldest, had reached that pinnacle of childish ambition--she was"grown up."
A very good Marie she was, and always had been; from the days when sheran to school with a little knapsack on her back, and her fair hairhanging down in two long plaits, to the present time, when shetenderly fastened that same knapsack on to the shoulders of a youngersister; and when the plaits had for long been reclaimed from theirvagrant freedom, and coiled close to her head.
"Our Marie is not clever," said one of the children, who flatteredhimself that _he was_ a bit of a genius; "our Marie is not clever, butalso she is never wrong."
It is with this same genius that our story has chiefly to do.
Friedrich was a child of unusual talent; a fact which, happily forhimself, was not discovered till he was more than twelve years old. Helearnt to read very quickly; and when he was once able, read everybook on which he could lay his hands, and in his father's house thenumber was not great. When Marie was a child, the school was kept by acertain old man, very gentle and learned in his quiet way. He had beenfond of his fair-haired pupil, and when she was no longer a scholar,had passed many an odd hour in imparting to her a slight knowledge ofLatin, and of the great Linnaeus' system of botany. He was now dead,and his place filled by a less sympathizing pedagogue; and Friedrichlistened with envious ears to his more fortunate sister's stories ofher friend and master.
"So he taught you Latin--that great language! And botany--which is ascience!" the child would exclaim with envious admiration, when he hadheard for the thousandth time every particular of the oldschoolmaster's kindness.
And Marie would answer calmly, as she "refooted" one of the father'sstockings, "We did a good deal of the grammar, which I fear I haveforgotten, and I learnt by heart a few of the Psalms in Latin, which Iremember well. Also we commenced the system of Mr. Linnaeus, but I wasvery stupid, and ever preferred those plates which pictured the floweritself to those which gave the torn pieces, and which he thought mostvaluable. But, above all, he taught me to be good; and though I haveforgotten many of his lessons, there are words and advice of his whichI heeded little then, but which come back and teach me now. Fatheronce heard the Burgomaster say he was a genius, but I know that he wasgood, and that is best of all;" with which, having turned the heel ofher stocking, Marie would put it out of reach of the kitten, and laythe table for dinner.
And Friedrich--poor Friedrich!--groaning inwardly at his sister'sindifference to her great opportunities for learning, would speculateto himself on the probable fate of each volume in the oldschoolmaster's library, which had been sold when he, Friedrich, wasbut three years old. Thus, in these circumstances, the boy expressedhis feelings with moderation when he said, "Our Marie is not clever,but also she is never wrong."
If the schoolmaster was dead, however, Friedrich was not,nevertheless, friendless. There was a certain bookseller in his nativetown, for whom in his spare time he ran messages, and who in returnwas glad to let him spend his playhours and half-holidays among thebooks in his shop. There, perched at the top of the shelves on aladder, or crouched upon his toes at the bottom, he devoured somevolumes and dipped into others; but what he liked best was poetry, andthis not uncommon taste with many young readers was with this one amania. Wherever the sight of verses met his eye, there he fastened andread greedily.
One day, a short time before my story opens, he found, in hiswanderings from shelf to shelf, some nicely-bound volumes, one ofwhich he opened, and straightway verses of the most attractive-lookingmetre met his eye, not, however, in German, but in a fair round Romantext, and, alas! in a language which he did not understand. There werecustomers in the shop, so he stood still in the corner with his nosealmost resting on the bookshelf, staring fiercely at the page, as ifhe would force the meaning out of those fair clear-looking verses.When the last beard had vanished through the doorway, Friedrich cameup to the counter, book in hand.
"Well, now?" said the comfortable bookseller, with a round Germansmile.
"This book," said the boy; "in wha
t language is it?"
The man stuck his spectacles on his nose, and smiled again.
"It is Italian, and these are the sonnets of Petrarch, my child. Theedition is a fine one, so be careful." Friedrich went back to hisplace, sighing heavily. After a while he came out again.
"Well now, what is it?" said the bookseller, cheerfully.
"Have you an Italian grammar?"
"Only this," said the other, as he picked a book from the shelf andlaid it on the counter with a twinkle in his eye. The boy opened itand looked up disappointed.
"It is all Italian," said he.
"No, no," was the answer; "it is in French and Italian, and wasprinted at Paris. But what wouldst thou with a grammar, my child?"
The boy blushed as if he had been caught stealing, and said hastily--
"I _must_ read those poems, and I cannot if I do not learn thelanguage."
"And thou wouldst read Petrarch with a grammar," shouted thebookseller; "ho! ho! ho!"
"And a dictionary," said Friedrich; "why not?"
"Why not?" repeated the other, with renewed laughter. "Why not?Because to learn a language, my Friedrich, one must have a master, andexercises, and a phrase-book, and progressive reading-lessons withvocabulary; and, in short, one must learn a language in the wayeverybody else learns it; that is why not, my Friedrich."
"Everybody is nobody," said Friedrich, hotly; "at least nobody worthcaring for. If I had a grammar and a dictionary, I would read thosebeautiful poems."
"Hear him!" said the cheerful little bookseller. "He will readPetrarch. He! If my volumes stop in the shelves till thou canst readthem, my child--ho! ho! ho!" and he rubbed his brushy little beardwith glee.
Friedrich's temper was not by nature of the calmest, and thisconversation rubbed its tenderest points. He answered almostfiercely--
"Take care of your volumes. If I live, and they _do_ stop in theshelves, I will buy them of you some day. Remember!" and he turnedsharply round to hide the tears which had begun to fall.
For a moment the good shopkeeper's little mouth became as round as hisround little eyes and his round little face; then he laid his hands onthe counter, and jumping neatly over flung his dead weight on toFriedrich, and embraced him heartily.
"My poor child! (a kiss)--would that it had pleased Heaven to makethee the son of a nobleman--(another kiss). But hear me. A man inBerlin is now compiling an Italian grammar. It is to be out in a monthor two. I shall have a copy, and thou shalt see it; and if ever thoucanst read Petrarch I will give thee my volumes--(a volley of kisses).And now, as thou hast stayed so long, come into the little room anddine with me." With which invitation the kind-hearted German releasedhis young friend and led him into the back room, where they buried thememory of Petrarch in a mess of vegetables and melted butter.
It may be added here, that the Petrarchs remained on the shelf, andthat years afterwards the round-faced little bookseller redeemed hispromise with pride.
Of these visits the father was to all intents and purposes ignorant.He knew that Friedrich went to see the bookseller, and that thebookseller was good-natured to him; but he never dreamt that his sonread the books with which his neighbour's shop was lined, and he knewnothing of the wild visions which that same shop bred and nourished inthe mind of his boy, and which made the life outside its doorstepseem a dream. The father and son saw that life from different pointsof view. The boy felt that he was more talented than other boys, anddesigned himself for a poet; the tradesman saw that the boy was moretalented than other boys, and designed him for the business; and theopposite nature of these determinations was the one great misery ofFriedrich's life.
If, however, this source of the child's sorrows was a secret one, andnot spoken of to his brothers and sisters, or even to his friend thebookseller, equally secret also were the sources of his happiness. Noeye but his own ever beheld those scraps of paper which he begged fromthe bookseller, and covered with childish efforts at verse-making. Noone shared the happiness of those hours, of which perhaps a quarterwas spent in working at the poem, and three-fourths were given to theday-dreams of the poet; or knew that the wild fancies of his brainmade Friedrich's nights more happy than his days. By day he was achild (his family, with some reason, said a tiresome one), by night hewas a man, and a great man. He visited the courts of Europe, andreceived compliments from Royalty; _his_ plays were acted in thetheatres; _his_ poems stood on the shelves of the booksellers; he madehis family rich (the boy was too young to wish for money forhimself); he made everybody happy, and himself famous.
Fame! that was the word that rang in his ears and danced before hiseyes as the hours of the night wore on, and he lived through aglorious lifetime. And so, when the mother, candle in hand, came roundlike a guardian angel among the sleeping children, to see that "allwas right," he--poor child!--must feign to be sleeping on his face, tohide the traces of the tears which he had wept as he composed theepitaph which was to grace the monument of the famous Friedrich ----,poet, philosopher, etc. Whoever doubts the possibility of suchexaggerated folly, has never known an imaginative childhood, or weptover those unreal griefs, which are not the less bitter at the timefrom being remembered afterwards with a mixture of shame andamusement. Happy or unhappy, however, in his dreams the boy was great,and this was enough; for Friedrich was vain, as everyone is tempted tobe who feels himself in any way singular and unlike those about him.He revelled in the honours which he showered upon himself, and so--thenight was happy; and so--the day was unwelcome when he was smartly bidto get up and put on his stockings, and found Fame gone and himself achild again, without honour, in his own country, and in his father'shouse.
These sad dreams (sad in their uselessness) were destined, however, todo him some good at last; and, oddly enough, the childish council thatcondemned the ballad-book decided his fate also. This was how ithappened.
The children were accustomed, as we have said, to celebrate the Feastof St. Nicholas by readings from their beloved book. St. Nicholas'sDay (the 6th of December) has for years been a favourite festival withthe children in many parts of the Continent. In France, the childrenare diligently taught that St. Nicholas comes in the night down thechimney, and fills the little shoes (which are ranged there for thepurpose) with sweetmeats or rods, according to his opinion of theirowner's conduct during the past year. The Saint is supposed to travelthrough the air, and to be followed by an ass laden with two panniers,one of which contains the good things, and the other the birch, and heleaves his ass at the top of the chimney and comes down alone. Thesame belief is entertained in Holland; and in some parts of Germany heis even believed to carry off bad boys and girls in his sack,answering in this respect to our English Bogy.
The day, as may be supposed, is looked forward to with no small amountof anxiety; very clean and tidy are the little shoes placed by theyoung expectants; and their parents--who have threatened and promisedin St. Nicholas's name for a year past--take care that, with one sortof present or the other, the shoes are well filled. The greatquestion--rods or sweetmeats--is, however, finally settled for eachindividual before breakfast-time on the great day; and before dinner,despite maternal warnings, most of the said sweetmeats have beenconsumed. And so it came to pass that Friedrich and his brothers andsisters had hit upon a plan for ending the day, with the same spiritand enjoyment with which it opened.
The mother, by a little kind manoeuvring, generally induced thefather to sup and take his evening pipe with a neighbour, for thetradesman was one of those whose presence is rather a "wet blanket"upon all innocent folly and fun. Then she good-naturedly took herselfoff to household matters, and the children were left in undisturbedpossession of the stove, round which they gathered with the book, andthe game commenced. Each in turn read whichever poem he preferred; andthe reader for the time being, was wrapt in a huge hood and cloak,kept for the purpose, and was called the "Maerchen-Frau," or StoryWoman. Sometimes the song had a chorus, which all the children sang towhichever suited best of the thousand airs that are a
lways floatingin German brains. Sometimes, if the ballad was a favourite one, theothers would take part in any verses that contained a dialogue. Thiswas generally the case with some verses in the pet ballad ofBluebeard, at that exciting point where Sister Anne is looking fromthe castle window. First the Maerchen-Frau read in a sonorous voice--
"Schwester Aennchen, siehst du nichts?" (Sister Anne, do you see nothing?)
Then the others replied for Anne--
"Staeubchen fliegen, Graeschen wehen." (A little dust flies, a little grass waves.)
Again the Maerchen-Frau--
"Aennchen, laesst sich sonst nichts sehen?" (Little Anne, is there nothing else to be seen?)
And the unsatisfactory reply--
"Schwesterchen, sonst seh' ich nichts!" (Little sister, I see nothing else!)
After this the Maerchen-Frau finished the ballad alone, and theconclusion was received with shouts of applause and laughter, thatwould have considerably astonished the good father, could he haveheard them, and that did sometimes oblige the mother to call orderfrom the loft above, just for propriety's sake; for, in truth, thegood woman loved to hear them, and often hummed in with a chorus toherself as she turned over the clothes among which she was busy.
At last, however, after having been for years the crowning enjoymentof St. Nicholas's Day, the credit of the Maerchen-Frau was doomed tofade. The last reading had been rather a failure, not because the oldballad-book was supplanted by a new one, or because the children hadoutgrown its histories; perhaps--though they did not acknowledgeit--Friedrich was in some degree to blame.
His increasing knowledge, the long readings in the bookseller's shop,which his brothers and sisters neither shared nor knew of, had givenhim a feeling of contempt for the one book on which they feasted fromyear to year; and his part, as Maerchen-Frau, had been on this occasionmore remarkable for yawns than for anything else. The effect of thisfailure was not confined to that day. Whenever the book was broughtout, there was the same feeling that the magic of it was gone, andvery greatly were the poor children disquieted by the fact.
At last, one summer's day, in the year of which we are writing, one ofthe boys was struck, as he fancied, by a brilliant idea; and asbrilliant ideas on any subject are precious, he lost no time insummoning a council of his brothers and sisters in the garden. It wasa half-holiday, and they soon came trooping round the great lindentree--where the bees were already in full possession--and the youngestgirl, who was but six years old, bore the book hugged fast in her twoarms.
The boy opened the case--as lawyers say--by describing the loss ofinterest in their book since the last Feast of St. Nicholas. "This didnot," he said, "arise from any want of love to the stories themselves,but from the fact of their knowing them so well. Whatever ballad theMaerchen-Frau chose, every line of it was so familiar to each one ofthem that it seemed folly to repeat it. In these circumstances it wasevident that the greatest compliment they could pay the stories was toforget them, and he had a plan for attaining this desirable end. Letthem deny themselves now for their future pleasure; let them put awaythe Maerchen-Frau till next St. Nicholas's Day, and, in the meantime,let each of them do his best to forget as much of it as he possiblycould." The speaker ceased, and in the silence the bees above dronedas if in answer, and then the children below shouted applause untilthe garden rang.
But now came the question, where was the Maerchen-Frau to be put? andfor this the suggestive brother had also an idea. He had foundcertain bricks in the thick old garden wall which were loose, and whentaken out there was a hole which was quite the thing for theirpurpose. Let them wrap the book carefully up, put it in the hole, andreplace the bricks. This was his proposal, and he sat down. The beesdroned above, the children shouted below, and the proposal was carriedamid general satisfaction. "So be it," said the suggestor, inconclusion. "It is now finally decided. The Maerchen-Frau is to bewalled up."
And walled up she was forthwith, but not without a parting embracefrom each of her judges, and possibly some slight latent faith in thesuggestion of one of the party that perhaps St. Nicholas would put anew inside and new stories into her before next December.
"I don't think I should like a new inside, though," doubted the childbefore mentioned, with a shake of her tiny plaits, "or new storieseither."
As this quaint little Fraeulein went into the house she met Friedrich,who came from the bookseller's.
"Friedrich," said she, in a solemn voice, "we have walled up the'Maerchen-Frau.'"
"Have you, _Schwesterchen_?"
This was Friedrich's answer; but it may safely be stated that, if anyone had asked him what it was his sister had told him, he would havebeen utterly unable to reply.
He had been to the bookseller's!
The summer passed, and the children kept faithfully to their resolve.The little sister sometimes sat by the wall and comforted theMaerchen-Frau inside, with promises of coming out soon; but not a brickwas touched. There was something pathetic in the children's voluntaryrenouncement of their one toy. The father was too absent and themother too busy, to notice its loss; Marie missed it and madeinquiries of the children, but she was implored to be silent, anddiscreetly held her tongue. Winter drew on, and for some time a changewas visible in the manners of one of the children; he seemed restlessand uncomfortable, as if something preyed upon his mind. At last hewas induced to unburden himself to the others, when it was discoveredthat he couldn't forget the poems in "Maerchen-Frau." This was thegrievance.
"It seems as if I did it on purpose," groaned he in self-indignation."The nearer the time comes, and the more I try to forget, the clearerI remember them everyone. You know my pet is Bluebeard; well, Ithought I would forget that altogether, every word: and then when myturn came to be Maerchen-Frau I would take it for my piece. And now, ofall the rest, this is just the one that runs in my head. It is quiteas if I did it on purpose."
Involuntarily the company--who appeared to have forgotten it as littleas he--struck up in a merry tune--
"Blaubart war ein reicher Mann," etc.[A]
"Oh, don't!" groaned the victim. "That's just how it goes in my headall along, especially the verse--
"Stark war seines Koerpers Ban, Feurig waren seine Blicke, Aber ach!--ein Missgeschicke!-- Aber ach! sein Bart war blau."[B]
"On Sunday, when the preacher gave out the text, I was looking at him,and it came so strongly into my head that I nearly said it outloud--'But ah! his beard was blue!' To-day the schoolmaster asked me aquestion about Solomon. I could remember nothing but 'Ah! his beardwas blue!' I have tried this week with all my might; and the harder Itry, the better I remember every word. It is dreadful."
[Footnote A: "Bluebeard was a rich man."]
[Footnote B:
"Strong was the build of his body, Fiery were his glances, But ah!--disaster!-- But ah! his beard was blue."]
It was dreadful; but he was somewhat comforted to learn that thememories of his brothers and sisters were as perverse as his own.Those ballads were not to be easily forgotten. They refused to give uptheir hold on the minds they had nourished and amused so long.
One and all the children were really distressed, with the exception ofFriedrich, who had, as usual, given about half his attention to thesubject in hand; and who now sat absently humming to himself theaccount of Bluebeard's position and character, as set forth inGotter's ballad.
The others came to the conclusion that there was but one hopeleft--that St. Nicholas might have put some new ballads into the oldbook--and one and all they made for the hiding-place, followed at afeebler pace by the little Fraeulein, who ran with her lips tightlyshut, her hands clenched, and her eyes wide open with a mixture offear and expectation. The bricks were removed, the book unwrapped, butalas! everything was the same, even to the rough woodcut of Bluebeardhimself, in the act of sharpening his scimitar. There was no change,except that the volume was rather the worse for damp. It was throwndown with a murmur of disappointment,
but seized immediately by thelittle Fraeulein, who flung herself upon it in a passion of tears andembraces. Hers was the only faithful affection; the charm of theMaerchen-Frau was gone.
They were all out of humour with this, and naturally looked about forsome one to find fault with. Friedrich was at hand, and so they fellupon him and reproached him for his want of sympathy with theirvexation. The boy awoke from a brown study, and began to defendhimself:--"He was very sorry," he said; "but he couldn't see the useof making such a great fuss about a few old ballads, that after allwere nothing so very wonderful."
This was flat heresy, and he was indignantly desired to say where anywere to be got like them--where even _one_ might be found, when St.Nicholas could not provide them? Friedrich was even less respectful tothe idea of St. Nicholas, and said something which, translated intoEnglish, would look very like the word _humbug_. This was no answer tothe question "where were they to get a ballad?" and a fresh storm cameupon his head; whereupon being much goaded, and in a mixture of vanityand vexation of spirit, he let out the fact that "he thought he couldwrite one almost as good himself."
This turned the current of affairs. The children had an instinctivebelief in Friedrich's talents, to which their elders had not attained.The faith of childhood is great; and they saw no reason why he shouldnot be able to do as he said, and so forthwith began to pet and coaxhim as unmercifully as they had scolded five minutes before.
"Beloved Friedrich; dear little brother! _Do_ write one for us. Weknow thou canst!"
"I cannot," said Friedrich. "It is all nonsense. I was only joking."
"It is not nonsense; we know thou canst! Dear Fritz--just to pleaseus!"
"Do!" said another. "It was only yesterday the mother was saying,'Friedrich can do nothing useful!' But when thou hast written a poemthou wilt have done more than any one in the house--ay, or in thetown. And when thou hast written one poem thou wilt write more, and belike Hans Sachs, and the Twelve Wise Masters thou hast told us of sooften."
Friedrich had read many of the verses of the Cobbler Poet, but thename of Hans Sachs awakened no thought in his mind. He had heardnothing of that speech but one sentence, and it decided him.
_Friedrich can do nothing useful._ "I will see what I can do," hesaid, and walked hastily away. Down the garden, out into the road,away to the mill, where he could stand by the roaring water and talkaloud without being heard.
"Friedrich can do nothing useful. Yes, I will write a ballad."
He went home, got together some scraps of paper, and commenced.
In half-a-dozen days he began as many ballads, and tore them up oneand all. He beat his brains for plots, and was satisfied with none. Hehad a fair maiden, a cruel father, a wicked sister, a handsome knight,and a castle on the Rhine; and so plunged into a love story with amoonlight meeting, an escape on horseback, pursuit, capture, despair,suicide, and a ghostly apparition that floated over the river, andwrung her hands under the castle window. It seems impossible for anauthor to do more for his heroine than take her out of the world, andbring her back again; but our poet was not content. He had not comehimself to the sentiment of life, and felt a rough boyish disgust atthe maundering griefs of his hero and heroine, who, moreover, wereunpleasantly like every other hero and heroine that he had ever readof under similar circumstances; and if there was one thing more thananother that Friedrich was determined to be, it was to be original.
He had no half hopes. With the dauntlessness of young ambition, hedetermined to do his very best, and that that best should be betterthan anything that ever had been done by any one.
Having failed with the sentimental, he tried to write something funny.Surely such child's tales as Bluebeard, Cinderella, etc., were easyenough to write. He would make a _Kindeslied_--a child's song. But hewas mistaken; to write a new nursery ballad was the hardest task ofall. Time after time he struggled; and, at last, one day when he hadwritten and destroyed a longer effort than usual, he went to bed inhopeless despair.
His disappointment mingled with his dreams. He dreamt that he was inthe bookseller's shop hunting among the shelves for some scraps ofpaper on which he had written. He could not find them, he thought, butcame across the Petrarch volumes in their beautiful binding. He openedone and saw--not a word of that fair-looking Italian, but--his ownballad that he could not write, written and printed in good Germancharacter with his name on the title-page. He took it in his hands andwent out of the shop, and as he did so it seemed to him, in his dream,that he had become a man. He dreamt that as he came down the steps,the people in the street gathered round him and cheered and shouted.The women held up their children to look at him; he was a Great Man!He thought that he turned back into the shop and went up to thecounter. There sat the smiling little bookseller as natural as life,who smiled and bowed to him, as Friedrich had a hundred times seenhim bow and smile to the bearded men who came in to purchase.
"How many have you sold of this?" said Friedrich, in his dream.
"Forty thousand!" with another smile and bow.
Forty thousand! It seemed to him that all the world must have read it.This was Fame.
He went out of the shop, through the shouting market-place, and home,where his father led him in and offered pipes and a mug of ale, as ifhe were the Burgomaster. He sat down, and when his mother came in,rose to embrace her, and, doing so, knocked down the mug. Crash! itwent on the floor with a loud noise, which woke him up; and then hefound himself in bed, and that he had thrown over the mug of waterwhich he had put by his bedside to drink during the thirsty feverishhours that he lay awake.
He was not a great man, but a child.
He had not written a ballad, but broken a mug.
"Friedrich can do nothing useful."
He buried his face, and wept bitterly.
In time, his tears were dried, and as it was very early he lay awakeand beat his brains. He had added nothing to his former character butthe breaking of a piece of crockery. Something must be done. No morefunny ballads now. He would write something terrible--miserable;something that should make other people weep as he had wept. He was ina very tragic humour indeed. He would have a hero who should go intothe world to seek his fortune, and come back to find his lady-love ina nunnery; but that was an old story. Well, he would turn it the otherway, and put the hero into a monastery; but that wasn't new. Then hewould shut both of them up, and not let them meet again till one was amonk and the other a nun, which would be grievous enough in allreason; but this was the oldest of all. Friedrich gave up love storieson the spot. It was clearly not his _forte_.
Then he thought he would have a large family of brothers and sisters,and kill them all by a plague. But, besides the want of furtherincident, this idea did not seem to him sufficiently sad. Either fromits unreality, or from their better faith, the idea of death does notpossess the same gloom for the young that it does for those olderminds that have a juster sense of the value of human life, and are,perhaps, more heavily bound in the chains of human interests.
No; the plague story might be pathetic, but it was not miserable--notmiserable enough at any rate for Friedrich.
In truth, he felt at last that every misfortune that he could inventwas lost in the depths of the real sorrow which oppressed his ownlife, and out of this knowledge came an idea for his ballad. What afool never to have thought of it before!
He would write the history--the miserable bitter history--of a greatman born to a small way of life, whose merits should raise him fromhis low estate to a deserved and glorious fame; who should toil, andstrive, and struggle, and when his hopes and prayers seemed to be atlast fulfilled, and the reward of his labours at hand, should awakeand find that it was a dream; that he was no nearer to Fame than ever,and that he might never reach it. Here was enough sorrow for atragedy. The ballad should be written now.
The next day. Friedrich plunged into the bookseller's shop.
"Well, now, what is it?" smiled the comfortable little bookseller.
"I want some paper, ple
ase," gasped Friedrich; "a good big bit if Imay have it, and, if you please, I must go now. I will come and cleanout the shop for you at the end of the week, but I am very busyto-day."
"The condition of the shop," said the little bookseller,grandiloquently, with a wave of his hand, "yields to more importantmatters; namely, to thy condition, my child, which is not of the best.Thou art as white as this sheet of paper, to which thou art heartilywelcome. I am silent, but not ignorant. Thou wouldst be a writer, butart not yet a philosopher, my Friedrich. Thou art not fast-set on thyphilosophic equilibrium. Thou hast knocked down three books and astool since thou hast come in the shop. Be calm, my child: considerthat even if truly also the fast-bound-eternally-immutable-conditionof everlastingly-varying-circumstance--"
But by this time Friedrich was at home.
How he got through the next three days he never knew. He stumbled inand out of the house with the awkwardness of an idiot, and was sostupid in school that nothing but his previous good character savedhim from a flogging. The day before the Feast of St. Nicholas (whichwas a holiday) the schoolmaster dismissed him with the severe inquiry,if he meant to be a dunce all his life? and Friedrich went home withtwo sentences ringing in his head--
"Do I mean to be a dunce all my life?"
"Friedrich can do nothing useful."
To-night the ballad must be finished.
He contrived to sit up beyond his usual hour, and escaped notice bycrouching behind a large linen chest, and there wrote and wrote tillhis heart beat and his head felt as if it would split in pieces. Atlast, the careful mother discovered that Friedrich had not bid hergood-night, and he was brought out of his hiding-place and sent tobed.
He took a light and went softly up the ladder into the loft, and, tohis great satisfaction, found the others asleep. He said his prayers,and got into bed, but he did not put out the light; he put a boxbehind it to prevent its being seen, and drew out his paper and wrote.The ballad was done, but he must make a fair copy for theMaerchen-Frau; and very hard work it was, in his feverish excitedstate, to write out a thing that was finished. He worked resolutely,however, and at last completed it with trembling hands, and pushed itunder his pillow.
Then he sat up in bed, and looked round him.
Time passed, and still he sat shivering and clasping his knees, andthe reason he sat so was--because he dared not lie down.
The work was done, and the overstrained mind, no longer occupied,filled with ghastly fears and fancies. He did not dare to put out thelight, and yet its faint glimmer only made the darkness more horrible.He did not dare to look behind him, though he knew that there wasnothing there. He trembled at the scratching sound in the wainscot,though he knew that it was only mice. A sudden light on the window,and a distant chorus, did not make his heart beat less wildly frombeing nothing more alarming than two or three noisy students goinghome with torches. Then his light took the matter into its own hands,and first flared up with a suddenness that almost made Friedrich jumpout of his skin, and then left him in total darkness. He could endureno longer, and, scrambling out of bed, crossed the floor to where thewarm light came up the steps of the ladder from the room beneath.There our hero crouched without daring to move, and comforted himselfwith the sounds of life below. But it was very wearying, and yet hedared not go back. A neighbour had "dropped in," and he could seefigures passing to and fro across the kitchen.
At last his sister passed, with the light shining on her goldenplaits, and he risked a low murmur of "Marie! Marie!"
She stopped an instant, and then passed on; but after a few minutes,she returned, and came up the ladder with her finger on her lips toenjoin silence. He needed no caution, being instinctively aware thatif one parental duty could be more obvious than another to thetradesman, it would be that of crushing such folly as Friedrich wasdisplaying by timely severity. The boy crept back to bed, and Mariecame after him.
There are unheroic moments in the lives of the greatest of men, andthough when the head is strong and clear, and there is plenty of lightand good company, it is highly satisfactory and proper to smilecondescension upon female inanity, there are times when it is notunpleasant to be at the mercy of kind arms that pity without asking areason, and in whose presence one may be foolish without shame. And itis not ill, perhaps, for some of us, whose acutely strung minds go upwith every discovery, and down with every doubt, if we have somehumble comforter (whether woman or man) on whose face a faithfulspirit has set the seal of peace--a face which in its verysteadfastness is "as the face of an angel."
Such a face looked down upon Friedrich, before which fancied horrorsfled; and he wound his arms round Marie's neck, and laid down hishead, and was comfortable, if not sublime.
After a dozen or so of purposeless kisses, she spoke--
"What is it, my beloved?"
"I--I don't think I can get to sleep," said the poet.
Marie abstained from commenting on this remark, and Friedrich wassilent and comfortable. So comfortable that, though he despised heropinion on such matters he asked it in a low whisper--"Marie, dostthou not think it would be the very best thing in the world to be agreat man? To labour and labour for it, and be a great man at last?"
Marie's answer was as low, but quite decided--
"No."
"Why not, Marie?"
"It is very nice to be great, and I should love to see thee a greatman, Friedrich, very well indeed, but the very best thing of all is tobe good. Great men are not always happy ones, though when they aregood also it is very glorious, and makes one think of the words of thepoor heathen in Lycaonia--'The gods have come down to us in thelikeness of men.' But if ever thou art a great man, little brother, itwill be the good and not the great things of thy life that will bringthee peace. Nay, rather, neither thy goodness nor thy greatness, butthe mercy of GOD!"
And in this opinion Marie was obstinately fixed, and Friedrich arguedno more.
"I think I shall do now," said the hero at last; "I thank thee verymuch, Marie."
She kissed him anew, and bade GOD bless him, and wished himgood-night, and went down the ladder till her golden plaits caughtagain the glow of the warm kitchen, and Friedrich lost sight of hertall figure and fair face, and was alone once more.
He was better, but still he could not sleep. Wearied and vexed, he laystaring into the darkness till he heard steps upon the ladder, andbecame the involuntary witness of--the true St. Nicholas.
It was the mother, with a basket in her hand, and Friedrich watchedher as she approached the place where all the shoes were laid out, hisamong them.
The children were by no means immaculate or in any way greatlysuperior to other families, but the mother was tender-hearted, and hada poor memory for sins that were past, and Friedrich saw her fill oneshoe after another with cakes and sweetmeats. At last she came to his,and then she stopped. He lifted up his head, and an indefinable furysurged in his heart. He had been very tiresome since the ballad wasbegun; was she going to put rods into his shoes only? _His_! He couldhave borne anything but this. Meanwhile, she was fumbling in thebasket; and, at last, pulled out--not a rod, but--a paper of cakes ofanother kind, to which Friedrich was particularly attached, and withthese she lined the shoes thickly, and filled them up with sweetmeats,and passed on.
"Oh, mother! mother! Far, far too kind!" The awkwardness andstupidity of yesterday, and of many yesterdays, smote him to theheart, and roused once more the only too ready tears. But he did notcry long, he had a happy feeling of community with his brothers andsisters in getting more than they any of them deserved; to have seenthe St. Nicholas's proceedings had diverted his mind from gloomyfancies, and altogether, with a comfortable sensation of cakes andkindness, he fell asleep smiling, and slept soundly and well.
The next day he threw his arms round his mother, and said that thecakes were "so nice."
"But I don't deserve them," he added.
"Thou'lt mend," said she kindly. "And no doubt the Saint knew thatthou hadst eaten but half a dinner for a we
ek past, and brought thosecakes to tempt thee; so eat them all, my child; for, doubtless, thereare plenty more where they come from."
"I am very much obliged to whoever did think of it," said Friedrich.
"And plenty more there are," said the good woman to Marie afterwards,as they were dishing the dinner. "Luise Jansen's shop is full of them.But, bless the boy! he's too clever for anything. There's no playingSt. Nicholas with him."
The day went by at last, and the evening came on. The tradesman wentoff of himself to see if he could meet with the Burgomaster, and thechildren became rabid in their impatience for Friedrich's ballad.
He would not read it himself, so Marie was pressed into the service,and crowned with the hood and cloak, and elected Maerchen-Frau.
The author himself sat in an arm-chair, with a face as white andmiserable as if he were ordered for execution. He formed a painfulcontrast to his ruddy brothers and sisters; and it would seem as if hehad begun already to experience the truth of Marie's assertion, that"great men are not always happy ones."
The ballad was put into the Maerchen-Frau's hands, and she was toldthat Friedrich had written it. She gave a quick glance at it, andasked if he had really invented it all. The children repeated thefact, which was a pleasant but not a surprising one to them, and Mariebegan.
The young poet had evidently a good ear, for the verses were easy andmusical, and the metre more than tolerably correct; and as the hero ofthe ballad worked harder and harder, and got higher and higher, thechildren clapped their hands, and discovered that it was "quite likeFriedrich."
Why, when that hero was almost at the height of fortune, and theothers gloried in his success, did the foolish author bury his faceupon his arms, and sob silently but bitterly in sympathy?--moreover,with such a heavy and absorbing grief that he did not hear it, whenMarie stopped for an instant and then went on again, or know thatsteps had come behind his chair, and that his father and theBurgomaster were in the room.
The Maerchen-Frau went on; the hero awoke from his unreal happiness tohis real fate, and bewailed in verse after verse the heavy weights ofbirth, and poverty, and circumstance, that kept him from the heightsof fame. The ballad was ended.
Then a voice fell on Friedrich's ear, which nearly took away hisbreath. It was his father's asking sternly, "What is all this?"
And then he knew that Marie was standing up, with a strange emotion onher face, and he heard her say--
"It is a poem that Friedrich has written. He has written it allhimself. Every word. And he is but twelve years old!" She was pointingto him, or, perhaps, the Burgomaster might not have recognized in thathuddled miserable figure the genius of the family.
His was the next voice, and what he said Friedrich could hardlyremember; the last sentences only he clearly understood.
"GOD has not blessed me with children, neighbour. My wife, aswell as I, would be ashamed if such genius were lost for want of alittle money. Give the child to me. He shall have a liberal education,and will be a great man."
"I shall not," said the tradesman, "stand in the way of his interestsor your commands. I cannot tell what to say to your kindness,Burgomaster. GOD willing, I hope he will be a credit to the town."
"GOD willing, he will be a credit to his country," said theBurgomaster.
The words rang in Friedrich's ears over and over again, like thechanges of bells. They danced before his eyes as if he saw them in abook. They were written in his heart as if "graven with an iron penand lead in the rock for ever."
"GOD _willing, I hope he will be a credit to the town._"
"GOD _willing, he will be a credit to his country._"
"_He shall have a liberal education, and will be a_ GREATMAN."
Friedrich tried to stand on his feet and thank the Burgomaster; who,on any other occasion, might have been tempted to suppose him anidiot, so white and distorted was the child's face, struggling throughtears and smiles. He could not utter a word; a mist began to comebefore his eyes, through which the Burgomaster's head seemed to bob upand down, and then his father's, and his mother's, and Marie's, with alook of pity on her face. He tried to tell _her_ that he was now agreat man and felt quite happy; but, unfortunately, was only able toburst into tears, and then to burst out laughing, and then a sharppain shot through his head, and he remembered no more.
* * * * *
Friedrich had a dim consciousness of coming round after this, andbeing put to bed; then he fell asleep, and slept heavily. When he wokeMarie was sitting by his side, and it was dark. The mother had gonedownstairs, she said, and she had taken her place. Friedrich laysilent for a bit; at last he said,
"I am very happy, Marie."
"I am very glad, dearest."
"Dost thou think father will let the Burgomaster give me a goodeducation, Marie?"
"Yes, dear, I am sure he will."
"It is very kind," said Friedrich, thoughtfully; "for I know he wantsme for the business. But I will help him some day. And, Marie, I willbe a good man, and when I am very rich I will give great alms to thepoor."
"Thou wilt be a good man before thou art a rich one, I trust," saidhis dogmatic sister. "We are accepted in that we have, and not in thatwe have not. Thou hast great talent, and wilt give it to the Lord,whether He make thee rich or no. Wilt thou not, dearest?"
"What dost thou mean, Marie? Am I never to write anything but hymns?"
"No, no, I do not mean that," she said. "I am very ignorant and cannotrightly explain it to thee, little brother. But genius is a great andperilous gift; and, oh, Friedrich! Friedrich! promise me justthis:--that thou wilt never, never write anything against the faith orthe teaching of the Saviour, and that thou wilt never use the gracesof poetry to cover the hideousness of any of those sins which it isthe work of a lifetime to see justly, and to fight against manfully.Promise me just this."
"Oh, Marie! to think that I could be so wicked!"
"No! no!" she said, covering him with kisses. "I know thou wilt begood and great, and we shall all be proud of our little brother.GOD give thee the pen of a ready writer, and grace to use itto His glory!"
"I will," he said, "GOD help me! and I will write beautifulhymns for thee, Marie, that when I am dead shall be sung in thechurches. They shall be like that Evening Hymn we sing so often. Singit now, my sister!"
Marie cleared her throat, and in a low voice, that steadied and grewlouder and sweeter till it filled the house and died away among therafters, sang the beautiful hymn that begins--
"Herr, Dein Auge geht nicht unter, wenn es bei uns Abend wird;" (Lord! Thine eye does not go down, when it is evening with us.)
The boy lay drinking it in with that full enjoyment of simple vocalmusic which is so innate in the German character; and as he lay, hehummed his accustomed part in it, and the mother at work below caughtup the song involuntarily, and sang at her work; and Marie's clearvoice breaking through the wooden walls of the house, was heard by apasser in the street, who struck in with the bass of the familiarhymn, and went his way. Before it was ended, Friedrich was sleepingpeacefully once more.
But Marie sat by the stove till the watchman in the quaint old streettold the hour of midnight, when (with the childish custom taught herby the old schoolmaster long ago) she folded her hands, and murmured,
"Nisi Dominus urbem custodiat, frustra vigilat custos." (Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.)
And then she slept also.
The snow fell softly on the roof, and on the walls of the old churchoutside, and on the pavement of the street of the poet's native town,and the night passed and the day came.
There is little more to tell, for that night was the last night of hissorrowful humble childhood, and that day was the first day of hisfame.
* * * * *
The Duke of ---- was an enlightened and generous man, and a munificentpatron of the Arts and Sciences, and of literary and scientific men.He was not exactly a geni
us, but he was highly accomplished. He wrotea little, and played a little, and drew a little; and with fortune tobefriend him, as a natural consequence he published a little, andcomposed a little, and framed his pictures.
But what was better and more remarkable than this, was the generousspirit in which he loved and admired those who did great things in theparticular directions in which he did a little. He bought goodpictures while he painted bad ones; and those writers, musicians, andartists who could say but little for his performances, had everyreason to talk loudly of his liberality. He was the special admirer oftalent born in obscurity; and at the time of which we are writing(many years after the events related above), the favourite "lion" inthe literary clique he had gathered round him in his palace, was acertain poet--the son of a small tradesman in a small town, who hadbeen educated by the kindness of the Burgomaster (long dead), and whonow had made Germany to ring with his fame; who had visited the Courtsof Europe, and received compliments from Royalty, whose plays wereacted in the theatres, whose poems stood on the shelves of thebooksellers, who was a great man--Friedrich!
It was a lovely evening, and the Duke, leaning on the arm of hisfavourite, walked up and down a terrace. The Duke was (as usual) inthe best possible humour. The poet (as was not uncommon) was just inthe slightest degree inclined to be in a bad one. They had beenreading a critique on his poems. It was praise, it is true, but thepraise was not judiciously administered, and the poet was aggrieved.He rather felt (as authors are not unapt to feel) that a poet whocould write such poems should have critics created with expresscapabilities for understanding him. But the good Duke was in his mostcheery and amiable mood, and quite bent upon smoothing his ruffledlion into the same condition.
"What impossible creatures you geniuses are to please!" he said. "Tellme, my friend, has there ever been, since you first began your career,a bit of homage or approbation that has really pleased you?"
"Oh, yes!" said the poet, in a tone that sounded like Oh, no!
"I don't believe it," said the Duke. "Come, now, could you, if youwere asked, describe the happiest and proudest hour of your life?"
A new expression came into the poet's eyes, and lighted up his gauntintellectual face. Some old memories awoke within him, and it isdoubtful if he saw the landscape at which he was gazing. But the Dukewas not quick, though kind; he thought that Friedrich had not heardhim, and repeated the question.
"Yes," said the poet. "Yes, indeed I could."
"Well, then, let me guess," said the Duke, facetiously. (He fanciedthat he was bringing his crusty genius into capital condition.) "Wasit when your great tragedy of 'Boadicea' was first performed inBerlin, and the theatre rose like one man to offer homage, and thegods sent thunder? I wish they had ever treated my humble efforts withas much favour. Was it then?"
"No!"
"Was it when his Imperial Majesty the Emperor of ---- was pleased topresent you with a gold snuff-box set with diamonds, and to expresshis opinion that your historical plays were incomparably among thefinest productions of poetic genius?"
"His Imperial Majesty," said Friedrich, "is a brave soldier; but,a--hem!--an indifferent critic. I do not take snuff, and his ImperialMajesty does not read poetry. The interview was gratifying, but thatwas not the occasion. No!"
"Was it when you were staying with Dr. Kranz at G----, and thestudents made that great supper for you, and escorted your carriageboth ways with a procession of torches?"
"Poor boys!" said the poet, laughing; "it was very kind, and theycould ill afford it. But they would have drunk quite as much wine forany one who would have taken the inside out of the University clock,or burnt the Principal's wig, as they did for me. It was a veryunsteady procession that brought me home, I assure you. The way theypoked the torches in each other's faces left one student, as I heard,with no less than eight duels on his hands. And, oh! the manner inwhich they howled my most pathetic love songs! No! no!"
The Duke laughed heartily.
"Is it any of the various occasions on which the fair ladies ofGermany have testified their admiration by offerings of sympathy andhandiwork?"
"No!" roared the poet.
"Are you quite sure?" said the Duke, slyly. "I have heard ofcomforters, and slippers, and bouquets, and locks of hair, besides adozen of warm stockings knit by the fair hands of ----"
"Spare me!" groaned Friedrich, in mock indignation. "Am I a petpreacher, that I should be smothered in female absurdities? I havehair that would stuff a sofa, comforters that would protect a regimentin Siberia, slippers, stockings ----. I shall sell them, I shall burnthem. I would send them back, but the ladies send nothing but theirChristian names, and to identify Luise, and Gretchen, and Catherine,and Bettina, is beyond my powers. No!"
When they had ceased laughing the Duke continued his catechism.
"Was it when the great poet G---- (your only rival) paid that handsomecompliment to your verses on ----"
"No!" interrupted the poet. "A thousand times no! The great poetpraised the verses you allude to simply to cover his depreciation ofmy 'Captive Queen,' which is among my best efforts, but too much inhis own style. How Germany can worship his bombastic ---- but that'snothing! No."
"Was it when you passed accidentally through the streets of Dresden,and the crowd discovered you, and carried you to the hotel on itsshoulders?"
The momentary frown passed from Friedrich's face, and he laughedagain.
"And when the men who carried me twisted my leg so that I couldn'twalk for a fortnight, to say nothing of the headache I endured frombowing to the populace like a Chinese mandarin? No!"
"Is it any triumph you have enjoyed in any other country in Europe?"
"No!"
"My dear genius, I can guess no more; what, in the name of Fortune,was this happy occasion--this life triumph?"
"It is a long story, your highness, and entertaining to no one butmyself."
"You do me injustice," said the Duke. "A long story from you is toogood to be lost. Sit down, and favour me."
A patron's wishes are not to be neglected; and somewhat unwillinglythe poet at last sat down, and told the story of his Ballad and of St.Nicholas's Day, as it has been told here. The fountain of tears isdrier in middle age than in childhood, but he was not unmoved as heconcluded.
"Every circumstance of that evening," he said, "is as fresh in myremembrance now as it was then, and will be till I die. It is a joy, atriumph, and a satisfaction that will never fade. The words thatroused me from despair, that promised knowledge to my ignorance andfame to my humble condition, have power now to make my heart beat, andto bring hopeful tears into eyes that should have dried with age--
"GOD _willing, he will be a credit to the town._"
"GOD _willing, he will be a credit to his country._"
"_He shall have a liberal education, and will be a great man._"
"It is as good as a poem," said the delighted Duke. "I shall tell thecompany to-night that I am the most fortunate man in Germany. I haveheard your unpublished poem. By the bye, Poet, is that balladpublished?"
"No, and never will be. It shall never know less kindly criticism thanit received then."
"And are you really in earnest? Was this indeed the happiest triumphyour talents have ever earned?"
"It was," said Friedrich. "The first blast on the trumpet of Fame isthe sweetest. Afterwards, we find it out of tune."
"Your parents are dead, I think?"
"They are, and so is my youngest sister."
"And what of Marie?"
"She married--a man who, I think, is in no way worthy of her. Not abad, but a stupid man, with strong Bible convictions on the subject ofmarital authority. She is such an angel in his house as he can neverunderstand in this world."
"Do you ever see her?"
"Sometimes, when I want a rest. I went to see her not long ago, andfound her just the same as ever. I sat at her feet, and laid my headin her lap, and tried to be a child again. I bade her tell me thehistory of Blue
beard, and strove to forget that I had ever lost thechildish simplicity which she has kept so well;--and I almostsucceeded. I had forgotten that the great poet was jealous of my'Captive Queen,' and told myself it would be a grand thing to be likehim. I thought I should like to see a live Emperor. But just when thedelusion was perfect, there was a row in the street. The people hadfound me out, and I must show myself at the window. The spell wasbroken. I have not tried it again."
They were on the steps of the palace.
"Your story has entertained and touched me beyond measure," said theDuke. "But something is wanting. It does not (as they say) 'endwell.' I fear you are not happy."
"I am content," said Friedrich. "Yes, I am happy. I never could be achild again, even if it pleased GOD to restore to me thecircumstances of my childhood. It is best as it is, but I have learntthe truth of what Marie told me. It is the good, and not the greatthings of my life that bring me peace; or rather, neither one nor theother, but the undeserved mercies of my GOD!"
* * * * *
For those who desire to know more of the poet's life than has beentold, this is added. He did not live to be very old. A painful disease(the result of mental toil), borne through many years, ended his lifealmost in its prime. He retained his faculties till the last, and boreprotracted suffering with a heroism and endurance which he had notalways displayed in smaller trials. The medical men pronounced, on theauthority of a _post-mortem_ examination, that he must for years havesuffered a silent martyrdom. Truly, his bodily sufferings (when knownat last) might well excuse many weaknesses and much moody, irritableimpatience; especially when it is remembered that the mentalsufferings of intellectual men are generally great in proportion totheir gifts, and (when clogged with nerves and body that are everurged beyond their strength) that they often mock the pride ofhumanity by leaving but little space between the genius and themadman.
Another fact was not known till he had died--his charity. Then it wasdiscovered how much kindness he had exercised in secret, and thatthree poor widows had been fed daily from his table during all thebest years of his prosperity. Before his death he arranged all hisaffairs, even to the disposal of his worn-out body.
"My country has been gracious to me," he said, "and, if it cares, maydispose of my carcase as it will. But I desire that after my death myheart may be taken from my body and buried at the feet of my fatherand my mother in the churchyard of my native town. At their feet," headded, with some of the old imperiousness--"strong in death." "Attheir feet, remember!"
In one of the largest cities of Germany, a huge marble monument iserected to the memory of the Great Man. On three sides of the pedestalare bas-relief designs illustrating some of his works, whereby threefellow-countrymen added to their fame; and on the fourth is a fineinscription in Latin, setting forth his talents, and his virtues, andthe honours conferred on him, and stating in conclusion (on theauthority of his eulogizer) that his works have gained for himimmortality.
In a quiet green churchyard, near a quiet little town, under theshadow of the quaint old church, a little cross marks the graves of atradesman and of his wife who lived and laboured in their generation,and are at rest. Near them, daisies grow above the dust of the"Fraeulein," which awaits the resurrection from the dead. And at thefeet of that simple couple lies the heart of their great son--a heartwhich the sickness of earthly hope and the fever of earthly ambitionshall disturb no more.
By the Poet's own desire, "the rude memorial" that marks the spotcontains no more than his initials, and a few words in his nativetongue to mark the foundation of the only ambition that he could feelin death--
"Ich verlasse mich auf Gottes Guete immer und ewiglich."
--_My trust is in the tender mercy of_ GOD _for ever and ever._
Melchior's Dream and Other Tales Page 3
