THE town of Göttingen, famous by reason of its university and its sausages, belongs to the kingdom of Hanover, and contains 999 fire-stations, divers churches, a lying-in hospital, an observatory, an academic prison, a library, and an underground tavern — where the beer is excellent. The brook that flows past the town is called the Leine, an serves for bathing in summer; the water is very cold, and at some places the brook is so wide that one cannot jump across it without some exertion. The town is very handsome, and pleases me best when my back is turned to it. It must be very old, for I remember that when I matriculated (and was soon afterward rusticated), five years ago, it had the same gray, ancient appearance, and was as thoroughly provided, as it is now, with poodle dogs, dissertations, laundresses, anthologies, roast pigeon, Guelph decorations, pipe-bows, court councilors, privy councilors, and silly counts. . . .
In general, the inhabitants of Göttingen may be divided into students, professors, Philistines, and cattle. The cattle class is numerically the strongest. To place on record here the names of all professors and students would take me too far afield, nor can I even, at this moment, remember the name of every student; while among the professors there are many who have as yet made none. The number of Philistines in Göttingen must be like that of the sands — or rather the mud — of the sea. Truly, when they appear in the morning with their dirty faces and their white bills at the gates 209 of the academic court, one wonders how God could have had the heart to create such a pack of scoundrels!
More thorough information concerning Göttingen is easily obtainable by reference to the “Topography” of the town, by K. F. H. Marx. Although I am under the deepest obligations to the author, who was my physician and did me many kindnesses, I cannot praise his work without reserve. I must blame him for not having opposed in terms sufficiently strong the heresy that the ladies of Göttingen have feet of spacious dimensions. I have been engaged for a long time upon a work which is to destroy this erroneous idea once and forever. For this purpose I have studied comparative anatomy, have made excerpts from the rarest books in the library, and have for hours and hours observed the feet of he passing ladies in Weender Street. In my learned treatise I intend to deal with the subject as follows:
1. Of Feet in General.
2. Of the Feet of the Ancients.
3. Of the Feet of Elephants.
4. Of the Feet of the Fair Inhabitants of Göttingen.
5. Summing up of Opinions delivered upon Feet in Göttingen Taverns.
6. Connection and Comparison of Feet with Calves, Knees, etc.
7. Facsimile Charts (if sheets of paper sufficiently large are obtainable) of Specimen Feet of Göttingen Ladies.
THE carriage’s jolting woke me up
From my dream, yet vainly sought I
To keep away, so I slumbered again,
And of Barbarossa thought I.
Again we went through the echoing halls,
And talked of great and small things;
He asked me this, and he asked me that,
And wished to know about all things.
He told me that not one mortal word
From the world above had descended
For many a year — in fact, not since
The Seven Years’ war had ended.
With interest he for Karschin asked,
For Mendelssohn (Moses the glorious),
For Louis the Fifteen’s mistress frail,
The Countess du Barry notorious.
“Oh, Emperor, cried I, “how backward thou art!
Old Moses is dead and forgotten,
With his Rebecca; and Abraham, too,
The son, is dead and rotten.
“This Abraham, and Leah his wife, gave birth
To Felix, who proved very steady;
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His fame through Christendom far has spread,
He’s an orchestra leader already.
“Old Karschin likewise has long been dead,
And Klenke, her daughter, is dead too;
Helmine Chezy, the granddaughter, though,
Still lives — at least she is said to.
“Du Barry lived merrily, keeping afloat,
For Louis the Fifteenth screened her
As long as he lived, but when she was old
They cruelly guillotined her.
“King Louis the Fifteenth died in his bed,
By the doctors attended and seen to;
But Louis the Sixteenth was guillotined,
And Antoinette, the queen, too.
“The queen the greatest courage displayed,
And died like a monarch, proudly;
But Madame du Barry, when guillotined,
Kept weeping and screaming loudly.”
The emperor suddenly came to a stand,
And stared, as if doubting my meaning.
And said, “For the sake of Heaven, explain
What is meant by that word guillotining?”
“Why, guillotining,” I briefly replied,
“Is a method newly constructed,
By means of which people of every rank
From life to death are conducted.
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“For this purpose, a new machine is employed” —
I continued, while closely he listened —
“Invented by Monsieur Guillotin,
And ‘guillotine’ after him christened.
“You first are fastened to a board;
’Tis lowered; then quickly they shove you
Between two posts; meanwhile there hangs
A triangular ax just above you.
“They pull a string, and downward shoots
The ax, quite lively and merry;
And so your head falls into a bag,
And nothing remains but to bury.”
The emperor here interrupted my speech:
“Be silent! May Heaven confuse it,
That foul machine! And God forbid
That I should ever use it!
“The king and queen! What — to a board
Both fastened! What a position!
’Tis contrary to all respect,
And etiquette in addition!”
“I AM a man, doctor, who has no vanity, but if I cared to be vain of anything, it would be of this, that I am an honest man. I will tell you a noble trait of mine, and you will be astonished — I tell you, you will be astonished, so sure as I am an honest man.
213“There lies a man in Hamburg, and he is a greengrocer, and his name is Klotz. And this man’s wife, Madame Klotz, could never bear to have her husband play in my lottery. So when he wanted to play, I never came with the lottery tickets to his house, but he would always tell me on the street, ‘I want to play on such and such a number, and here is the money for it, Hirsch.’ And I, when I got home, would put up the number for him, and write on the envelope, in German script: ‘On account of Christian Heinrich Klotz.’ And now listen and marvel:
“It was a beautiful spring day, and the trees at the exchange were green, and the breezy air was pleasant, and the sun shone in the sky, as I stood by the Bank of Hamburg. And behold, Klotz comes with his stout Madame Klotz, and greets me, and speaks of the beauty of God’s springtide, makes some patriotic remarks about the militia, and asks me how business is, and so in the course of conversation says to me, ‘Last night I dreamed that number 1,538 will win the first prize’; and at the same moment, while Madame Klotz was contemplating the town hall, he presses thirteen good, full-weighted louis d’or into my hand — I feel them there to this day — and, even before Madame Klotz turns round, says I, ‘All right, Klotz!’ Then, away I go, straight to the main lottery office, and get number 1,538, and put it in an envelope; and as soon as I get home, I write on the envelope, ‘On account of Christian Heinrich Klotz.’ And what does God do? A fortnight later, in order to put my honesty to the test, He lets the number 1,538 turn up and win fifty thousand Thaler. But what does Hirsch do — the identical Hirsch who stands before you now? This same Hirsch puts on a clean little white dickey and a clean white neckerchief, and takes a cab and gets the fifty thousand Thaler from the 214 main office. As Klotz sees me coming, he aks, ‘Hirsch, why are you dressed up so to-day?’ I, however, answer not a word, but put the large surprise-package on the table, and say solemnly, ‘My dear friend, Christian Heinrich Klotz, number 1,538, which you had the kindness to play in my lottery, has had the good fortune to win fifty thousand Thaler. I have the honor of presenting you with the money in this bag, and I take the liberty of asking for a receipt.’ When Klotz heard that, he began to weep. When Madame Klotz heard the story, she wept, the red-headed servant-girl wept, the squinting clerk wept, the children wept. And I? A man of felling like myself could not even weep at first; but I fell into a swoon, and only afterward the tears came out of my eyes like a river, and I wept for three hours.”
The voice of the little man shook as he related this, and solemnly he pulled a little parcel out of his pocket, unwound from it the faded pink ribbon, and showed me the signed acknowledgment of Christian Heinrich Klotz for the receipt of fifty thousand Thaler. “When I die,” said Hirsch, with a tear in his eye, “let them put this receipt into my grave, and when the time comes, on the Day of Judgment, for me to render an account of my actions, then will I step before the throne of the Almighty with this receipt in my hand. And when my bad angel begins to read the list of the bad deeds which I did in this world, and my good angel the list of my good deeds, I will say calmly, ‘Be silent. All I want to know is, Is this receipt genuine? Is this the handwriting of Christian Heinrich Klotz?’ Then comes a tiny angel a-flying, and says, ‘I know Klotz’s handwriting quite well,’ and he relates at the same time the story of the remarkable honesty which I once perpetrated. The Creator of eternity, however, the All-Knowing One Who Knows 215 Everything, remembers the story, and praises me in the presence of sun and moon and stars, and immediately computes in His Head, that if all my evil deeds be subtracted from fifty thousand Thaler’s worth of honesty, there will yet remain a considerable balance in my favor, and so He says, ‘Hirsch, I appoint thee as an angel of the first rank, and thou mayest wear wings with white and red feathers!’ ”
“YOU have no idea, doctor,” said the Marchese di Gumpelino, “how much money I am obliged to spend, though I manage to do with a single servant, and have a private chaplain only when I am in Rome, I see there comes Hyacinth.”
The little figure which just then emerged from a crease in the hillside would rather have deserved the name of Fire-Lily. It was a capacious scarlet coat sown with gold tresses, on which the sun gleamed, and out of this glaring magnificence sweated a little head that nodded to me familiarly. And, to be sure, when I took a nearer view of the pallid, anxious little face and the clever, twinkling little eyes, I recognized some one whom I would sooner have expected to find on Mount Sinai than on the Apennines, for it was none other than Herr Hirsch, of Hamburg, who was not only known as an honest collector of lottery tickets, but who also possessed unusual skill in the handling of corns and jewels, so that he could not only distinguish the former from the latter, but could operate on the corns and estimate the value of the jewels.
216“I hope,” he said, as he approached, “that you still know me, although my name is no longer Hirsch. My name now is Hyacinth, and I am Herr Gumpel’s valet.”
“Hyacinth!” cried the latter in astonishment at his servitor’s indiscretion.
“Never mind, Herr Gumpel, or Herr Gumpelino, or Marchese, or Excellenza. We need not be embarrassed on account of this gentleman; he knows me, has playing in my lottery, and, I believe, still owes me a trifling sum. I am indeed glad to see you, doctor. Are you here, too, on the pleasure-hunting business? There is nothing else to be done in this heat, in which one has to climb mountains all day. I am as tired here at night as if I had walked twenty times from the Altona Gate to the Stone Gate at Hamburg, without earning a penny for my trouble.”
“Heavens!” cried the marchese, “keep still! I must get another servant!”
“Why should I keep still?” said Hirsch-Hyacinth. “I am glad to be able to speak good German to some one whom I used to know in Hamburg; for when I think of Hamburg ——”
And at the memory of his little stepfatherland the man’s eye shimmered suspiciously, and sighing, he said:
“What is man, after all? You take a pleasant walk beyond the Altona Gate on the Hamburg Hall, and look at all the sights — the lions, the pigeons, the cockatoos, the monkeys, the people; you ride on the merry-go-round, or buy an electric shock, and you think, how fine it must be in a country two hundred miles from here, where the oranges and lemons grow — in Italy! What is man? Put him at the Altona Gate, and he would like to be in Italy; put him in Italy, and he longs for the Altona Gate! Oh, if I were only there, and 217 could see the clock on St. Michael’s tower with the golden numbers on its dial, that used to gleam at me in such friendly fashion in the afternoon sun that I should often have liked to kiss them! Now I am in Italy, where the oranges and lemons grow, and when I see them grow I wish I were on the Stone road at Hamburg, where you see whole wagons full of them, and can eat them in comfort, without climbing all these dangerous mountains and suffering all this fiery heat. As sure as I stand here, marchese, if it were not for the sake of honor and culture, I would never have followed you here. But it is not to be denied that honor is done one in your service, and that one gets culture.”
“Hyacinth,” said Gumpelino, pacified by this flattery, “Hyacinth, you are now to go ——”
“I know ——”
“I tell you that you do not know, Hyacinth!”
“I tell you, Herr Gumpel, that I know. Your Excellency is going to send me to Lady Maxfield. I don’t need orders. I know all your thoughts — even those that you have not thought yet, and perhaps never will think. You won’t easily get another man like me, and I do it all for the sake of honor and culture, for one gets both in your service.” and the little man wiped his nose with a large, snowy handkerchief.
“Hyacinth,” said the marchese, “you are now to go to Lady Julia Maxfield, to my Julia, and give her this tulip. Be careful of it, for it cost five paoli, and say to her ——”
I know ——”
You know nothing! Say, ‘To other flowers is the tulip’ ——”
“I know. You want to tell her something by means of the flower. Often and often I have written mottoes on my lottery tickets.”
218“I tell you, Hyacinth, I don’t want a motto! Take this flower to Lady Maxfiel, and say to her:
“ ‘To other flowers is the tulip
What to other cheese is strachino;
But more than flowers or cheese,
Adores thee Gumpelino.’ ”
“May God give me all good gifts, but that is fine!” cried Hyacinth. “Don’t make signs at me, marchese; what you know, I know, and I know what you know. — Good-by, doctor! don’t worry about that little debt.” He went down the hill murmuring continually, “Gumpelino — strachino; Gumpelino — strachino.”
“He is a faithful fellow,” said the marchese, “and for that reason I keep him. His deficiency in etiquette is dreadful. Before you that does not matter, of course. You understand. How did you like his livery? It has forty Thaler’s worth more of gold lace on it than the livery of Rothschild’s servants. I take pleasure in seeing the man grow to the height of perfection under my care. Now and then I give him instruction in culture. I often say to him, ‘What is money? Money is round, and rolls away; but culture remains.’ Yes, doctor, if I — which God forbid! — were to lose my money, I would still be a great connoisseur of painting, music, and poetry. You may bind my eyes, and take me to the gallery in Florence, and before every painting I will tell you the painter’s name, or, at least, the school to which he belonged. Music? Stuff cotton in my ears, and I hear every discord. Poetry? I know every actress in Germany, and the poets I know by heart. And as for nature? I traveled two hundred miles, day and night, to see a single mountain in Scotland. 219 But Italy surpasses everything. How do you like this scenery? Look at the trees, the hills, the sky, and the water down there! Is it not as if it were painted? Did you ever see it better done on the stage? One becomes a poet here! Verses float into one’s soul one knows not whence!”
And the marchese smiles his most rapturous smile of delight upon the laughing, sunlit valley below.
YES, it is undeniably true that in culture I have made strides like a giant. I really hardly know what to do, or with whom to associate, when I return to Hamburg. But as far as religion is concerned, I do know what I shall do. For the present I can find satisfaction at the new Israelite temple — I mean the pure Mosaic service, where they have orthographic German hymns, and moving sermons, and a few of the other emotionalities necessary to every religion. As true as I live, I ask for no better religion, and it deserves every one’s support. When I return to Hamburg I shall go there every Saturday. There are, unfortunately, people who have given this new Israelite service a bad name, and have asserted that it would — saving your presence — give rise to a schism. But you may take my word for it, it is a good, cleanly religion, perhaps rather too advanced for the common man, who gets on very well with the old-fashioned Jewish faith. For the common man must enjoy some form of stupidity to make him happy. An old Jew with an unkempt beard and a tattered coat, who cannot speak correct German, 220 is probably happier in his soul than I with all my culture.
In Hamburg, for instance, there lives in the Bakers’ Broad Walk a man named Moses Lump. This man runs about the whole week, in wind and weather, with his pack on his back, to earn a few Thaler. But when he comes home on Friday night he finds the seven lights burning, and the table covered with a fair white cloth; he puts away his pack and his cares; sits down at the table with his crooked wife and crookeder daughter; eats fish cooked in tasteful white garlic sauce; sings the splendid songs of King David, rejoicing in his heart over the deliverance of the children of Israel out of Egypt; rejoicing, too, that all villains who wished them ill — Pharaoh, Nebuchadnezzar, Haman, Antiochus, Titus — are dead, while he, Moses Lump, is still alive, and eating fish with his wife and child. And it tell you, the fish is delicious, and the man is happy. He needs not to worry over culture. Right cheerfully he sits here in his religion and his green coat, like Diogenes in his tub, and looks complacently at the seven candles, which he does not even snuff himself. It tell you, should the lights burn low, and the Gentile women not be at hand to snuff them, and Rothschild the Great should enter with all his agents, brokers, cashiers, and head clerks, and were to say, “Moses Lump, ask a favor, and whatever you desire is yours” — I am convinced that Moses Lump would say, “Snuff those candles for me!” Then Rothschild the Great would marvel deeply, and say, “If I were not Rothschild, I should wish to be Moses Lump!”
WOULD that I, alas! could once more
Lick thy well-belovèd muzzle,
My dear Mumma, which so sweetly
Stroked me over, as with honey!
Would that I again could snuffle
That sweet smell, thy own peculiar,
Oh, my dear and swarthy Mumma,
Charming as the scent of roses!
But, alas! my Mumma’s pining
In the fetters of those rascals,
Who, the name of men adopting
Deem themselves creation’s masters.
Death and hell! these men unworthy,
Aristocracy’s arch-emblems,
Look down on the an’mal kingdom
Proudly and disdainfully;
Take away our wives and children,
Fetter us, ill-treat us, even
Kill us, for the sake of selling
Our poor hide and our poor carcass!
And they think themselves permitted
Wicked deeds like this to practise
’Gainst us bears especially;
And the “rights of man” they call it!
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“Rights of man,” indeed! Fine rights, these!
Tell me who bestow’d them on you?
Nature certainly ne’er did so,
For she’s not unnatural!
“Rights of man,” indeed! Who gave you
This great privilege, I wonder?
Reason certainly ne’er did so,
For she’s not unreasonable!
Men, pray, are ye any better
Than we others, just for eating
All your dinners boil’d or roasted?
In a raw state we eat ours;
Yet is the result the same
To us both. No, food can never
Make one noble; he is noble
Who both nobly feels and acteth.
Men, pray are ye any better
Just because the arts and science
With success ye follow? We, now,
Never give ourselves the trouble.
Are there not such things as learnèd
Dogs, and horses too, who reckon
Just like councilors of commerce?
Do not hares the drum play finely?
Are not many beavers adepts
In the art of hydrostatics?
Were not clysters first invented
By the cleverness of storks?
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Write not asses criticisms?
Are not apes all good comedians?
Is there any grater mimic
Than Batavia, long-tail’d monkey?
Are not nightingales good singers?
And is Freiligrath a poet
Who can sing of lions better
Than his countryman the camel?
I myself the art of dancing
Have advanced as much as Raumer
That of writing. Writes he better
Than I dance — yes, I, the bear?
Men, why are ye any better
Than we others? Upright hold ye,
It is true, your heads, but in them
Low-born thoughts are ever creeping.
Men, pray are ye any better
Than are we, because your skin is
Smooth and glist’ning? This advantage
Ye but share with every serpent.
Human race, two-leggèd serpents!
Well I see the reason why ye
Breeches wear; with foreign wool ye
Hide your serpent-nakedness!
Children, guard yourselves against those
Hairless and misshapen creatures!
My dear daughters, never marry
Any monster that wears breeches!
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· · · · ·
If each bear but thought as I do,
If all beasts but thought so too,
With united forces would we
Take up arms against the tyrants.
Then the bear would form alliance
With the horse, the elephant
Twine his trunk in loving fashion
Round the valiant ox’s horn.
Bear and wolf of every color,
Goat and monkey, e’en the hare,
For a time would work in common,
And our triumph would be certain.
Union! union is th’ essential
Requisite. Alone, we’re conquered
Easily, but, joined together,
We would overreach the tyrants.
Union! Union! And we’ll triumph,
And monopoly’s vile sway
Be o’erthrown, and we’ll establish
A just kingdom for us beasts.
Full equality for all, then,
Of God’s creatures, irrespective
Of their faith, or skin, or odor,
Be its fundamental maxim!
Strict equality! Each donkey
Be entitled to high office;
On the other hand, the lion
Carry to the mill the sack.
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As respects the dog, indeed he
Is a very servile rascal,
Since for centuries has man
Like a dog ne’er ceased to treat him.
Yet in our free state we’ll give him
Once again his olden rights,
His prescriptive birthright, and he
Soon again will be ennobled.
Yes, the Jews shall then enjoy, too,
All the rights of citizens,
And by law be made the equals
Of all other sucking creatures.
Only, dancing in the market
For the Jew shall not be lawful;
This amendment I insist on
In the interest of my art.
For a sense of style, of rigid
Plastic art in motion’s wanting
To that race, who really ruin
What there is of public taste.
NEXT day the world was going on as usual, and, as usual, we had to repair to school and learn things by heart, — the kings of Rome, dates, then Latin nouns and verbs, Greek, Hebrew, geography, German, arithmetic — I grow dizzy when 226 I think of it; all had to be learned by heart. Serious consequences arose from this fact; for had I not known by heart the names of the kings of Rome, I would have cared little whether Niebuhr had disproved their existence or not; and had I not known those dates, how could I later on have found my way about in the great city of Berlin, where one house is as much like the next as a drop of water or a grenadier is like another? And so I tried to connect every acquaintance of mine with some historical event the date of which was identical with the number of his house. Thus, whenever I saw my friends, the great epochs of history came to my mind. For instance, when I saw my tailor, I always thought of the battle of Marathon; the sight of the sleek banker, Christian Gumpel, reminded me of the destruction of Jerusalem; and the judge of the academic court called up the death of Haman. . . .
As far as Latin is concerned, you have no idea how complicated it is. If the Romans had been obliged to learn it, they would never have had time left to conquer the world. Those happy people knew from their very cradles which nouns take im for their accusative. But I had to learn the list in the sweat of my brow. Still, it is well that I knew them; for when, in 1825, at Göttingen, I delivered a public disputation in Latin — it was well worth hearing — had I then said sinapem instead of sinapim, the freshmen might have noticed it, and I would have been disgraced forever. Vis, buris, sitis, tussis, cucumis, amussis, cannabis, sinapis — these words have created so much stir in the world because they formed a class by themselves, and yet remained exceptions; for that reason I respect them, and in many dreary hours of life it has been a profound consolation to me that I know them in case of emergency. The irregular verbs are distinguished 227 from the regular verbs by the number of floggings which accompany them. They are terribly hard. . . .
I do not care to say anything about Greek; I should lose my temper if I did. The monks of the Middle ages were not altogether wrong in asserting Greek to be an invention of the devil. I had better luck with Hebrew. Indeed, I have always been fond of the Jews, though they crucify my fair fame to this very day. Yet I could never make such progress in Hebrew as my watch did, which, being personally acquainted with many pawnbrokers, ended by adopting a number of Jewish customs, and would never run on Saturday. It also learned the sacred language even to the precise conjugation of verbs, and often, of a sleepless night, I would hear it tick thus, to my profound astonishment: katal, katalta, katalti — kittel, kittalta, kittalti — pokat, pokadeti — pikat — pik — pik.
The German language, which is not as easy as it looks, I understood far better. . . .
But most proficient I was in the French classes of the Abbé d’Aulnoi. Still, even French had its difficulties. I remember very distinctly how I made the acquaintance of la religion in a very unpleasant manner. Six time the teacher said, “Henri, what is the French word for faith?” And six times, and ever more, tearfully I answered le crédit. The seventh time, the master, red in the face, cried, “It is la religion!” and blows showered down upon me, while my comrades laughed. From that day to this I cannot hear the word la religion but my back grows pale with fright and my cheeks red with shame. I must acknowledge, to be frank, that all through my life le crédit has been of more use to me than la religion.
HEGEL’S conversation was usually a kind of monologue, sighed forth in a toneless voice. The grotesqueness of his expressions often struck me, and several of them have remained in my memory. One beautiful, starry evening we both stood at a window, and I, a young man of twenty-two, having just eaten and drunk well, spoke with enthusiasm of the stars, and called them the abodes of souls. The master growled:
“The stars — the stars are only blotches of white leprosy on the face of heaven.”
“For mercy’s sake!” I cried, “do you not believe in some fair habitation above, where virtue will receive its ultimate reward?”
He looked at me with his dim eyes, and said sneeringly:
“Aha! You want to be paid a fee for having nursed your sick mother, and for not having poisoned your brother?”
He then looked about suspiciously, lest his excitement should have been noticed. An acquaintance stepped up, and asked him to take a hand at whist.
MY mother told me that, shortly before I was born, she had a great desire for a beautiful apple in a stranger’s garden, but would not take it for fear her child might become a thief. All my life have I had a secret desire after beautiful 229 apples, but always combined with respect for the property of others and a horror of theft.
I am the most peaceable of mortals. My wishes are: A modest dwelling, a thatched roof, but a good bed, good fare, milk and butter (the latter very fresh), flowers at the window, and a few fine trees before my gate. And if the Lord would fill the cup of my happiness, He would let me live to see the ay when six or seven of my enemies are hung on the trees. With softened heart I would then forgive them all the evil they have done me. Yes, one must forgive one’s enemies, but not before they are hung.
A. If I were of the race of Christ, I should boast of it, and not be ashamed.
B. So would I, if Christ were the only member of the race. But so many miserable scamps belong to it that one hesitates to acknowledge the relationship.
Gervinus, the literary historian, set himself the following problem: To repeat in a long and witless book what Heinrich Heine said in a short and witty one. He solved the problem.
Servants who have no master are not therefore free men; servility is in the soul.
It seems to be the mission of the Germans who live in Paris to keep me from being homesick.
De mortuis nil nisis bene. One should speak only evil of the living.
Wise men discover new ideas, and fools spread them.
THE body lay on the bier of death,
While the poor soul, when gone its breath,
Escaping from earth’s constant riot,
Was on its way to heavenly quiet.
Then knocked it at the portal high,
And spake these words with heavy sigh:
“Saint Peter, give me inside a place,
I am so tired of life’s hard race.
On silken pillows I fain would rest
In heaven’s bright realms, and play my best
With charming angels at blind man’s buff,
Enjoying repose and bliss enough!”
A clatter of slippers ere long was heard,
A bunch of keys appeared to be stirred,
And out of a lattice, the entrance near,
Saint Peter’s visage was seen to peer.
He spake: “The vagabonds come again,
The gipsies, Poles, and their beggarly train,
The idlers and the Hottentots —
They come alone, and they come in knots,
And fain would enter on heaven’s bright rest,
And there be angels, and there be blest.
Hullo! Hullo! For gallows’ faces
Like yours, for such contemptible races,
231
Were never created the halls of bliss!
Your portions’ with Satan, far off from this.
Away, away, and take your flight
To the black pool of endless night!”
The old man thus growled, but hadn’t the heart
To continue to play a blustering part,
So added these words, its spirits to cheer:
“Poor soul, in truth thou dost not appear
To that base troop of rogues to belong;
Well, well, I’ll grant thy desire so strong,
Because it is my birthday to-day,
And I fell just now in a merciful way.
But meanwhile tell me the country and place
From whence thou comest; and was it the case
That thou wast married? It happens sometimes
A husband’s patience atones for all crimes;
A husband need not in hell to be stewed,
Nor need we him from heaven exclude.”
The soul replied: “From Prussia I came.
My native town is Berlin by name;
There ripples the Spree, and in its bed
The young cadets jump heels over head;
It overflows kindly, when rains begin.
A beautiful spot is indeed Berlin!
I was a private tutor when there,
And much philosophy read with care.
I married a canoness; strange to say,
She quarreled frightfully every day,
Especially when in the house was no bread,
’Twas this that kill’d me, and now I am dead.”
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Saint Peter cried: “Alack, alack!
Philosophy’s but the trade of a quack;
In truth, it is a puzzle to me
Why people study philosophy.
It is such tedious and profitless stuff,
And is, moreover, godless enough;
In hunger and doubt their votaries dwell,
Till Satan carries them off to hell.
Well thy Xantippe might make exclamations
Against the thin and washy potations
From whence upon her, with comforting gleam,
No eye of fat could ever beam.
But now, poor soul, pray comforted be!
The strictest commands are given to me,
’Tis true, that each who, while he did live,
To philosophy used his attention to give,
Especially to the godless German,
Should be driven away from hence like vermin.
Yet ’tis my birthday to-day, as I
Have said, so there is a reason why
I’ll not reject thee, but ope for a minute
The gate of heaven. Quick — enter within it
With utmost speed!
Now all is right!
The whole of the day, from morn’s first light
Till late in the evening, thou canst walk
Round heaven at will, and dreamily stalk
Along its jewel-paved streets so fair;
But mind, thou must not meddle, when there,
With any philosophy, or I shall be
Soon compromised most terribly.
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When angels thou hearest singing, assume
A face of rapture, and never of gloom;
But if an archangel sings a song,
Be full of inspiration strong,
And say that Malibran ne’er pretended
To have a soprano so rich and splendid;
And ever applaud each tuneful hymn
Of cherubim and of seraphim.
Compare them all with Signor Rubini,
With Mario and Tamburini;
Give them the title of Excellencies,
And be not sparing of reverencies.
The singers in heaven, as well as on earth,
Have all loved flattery since their birth.
The world’s great Choirmaster on high,
E’en He is pleased when they glorify
His works, and delighteth to hear adored
The wonders of God, the mighty Lord,
And when a psalm to His glory and praise
In thickest incense clouds they raise.
Forget not me. Whenever to thee
The glory of heaven causes ennui,
Then hither come, and at cards we’ll play;
All games alike are in my way;
From doubledummy to faro I’ll go.
We’ll also drink. But, à propos,
If thou shouldst meet, when going from hence,
The Lord, and He should ask thee from whence
Thou com’st, let no word of Berlin be said,
But say from Vienna or Munich, instead.”
FAIR woman’s body is a song
Inscribed by our great Maker
In Nature’s mighty album erst,
When moved to life to wake her.
Ah, yes, propitious was the hour
When thus He show’d compassion!
The coy, rebellious stuff he worked
In true artistic fashion.
Yes, woman’s body is, ’mongst songs,
The song most sweet and tender,
And wondrous strophès are her limbs,
So snowy-white and slender.
And then her neck, her glistening neck —
Oh, what a godlike notion! —
Where the main thought, her little head,
Rocks with a graceful motion.
Like polished epigrams one loves
Her bosom’s rosebuds dearly;
Enchanting the cæsura is
That parts her breasts severely.
The song has flesh, ribs, hands, and feet —
No abstract poem this is!
With lips that rime deliciously,
It smiles and sweetly kisses.
235
True poetry is breathing here;
Grace shines in each direction;
The song upon its forehead bears
The stamp of all perfection.
I’ll praise thee, Lord, and in the dust
Will humbly kneel to show it;
Bunglers are we compared with Thee,
Thou glorious heavenly Poet.
Before the splendor of thy song
I’ll bow in adoration,
And to its study day and night
Pay closest application.
Yes, day and night I’ll study it,
No loss of time admitting;
So shall I soon with overwork
Be thinner than befitting.
BEING tired of freedom for some time past,
The beasts’ republic decided
To be with a single ruler at last
As its absolute head provided.
Each kind of beast prepared for the strife;
Electoral billets were written;
Intrigues on every side were rife;
With party zeal all were bitten.
236
By long-eared gentry at its head
The asses’ committee was aided;
Cockades, whose colors were black, gold, and red,
They boastfully paraded.
A small party there was of friends of the horse.
Who yet were afraid of voting,
So greatly they dreaded the outcry coarse
The long-eared party denoting.
But when one of them ventured the horse to name
As a candidate, greater and greater
Waxed the noise, and an old long-ear, to his shame,
Shouted out, “Thou art only a traitor!
“A traitor art thou! in thy veins doth not flow
One drop of asses’ blood proper.
No ass art thou, and I almost know
That a foreign mare was thy dropper!
“From the zebra perchance thou art sprung; thy striped hide
Quite answers the zebra’s description;
The nasal twang of thy voice is allied
To the Hebrew as well as Egyptian.
“And if not a stranger, thou art, thou must own,
A dull ass, of an intellect paltry;
The depths of ass-nature to thee are unknown;
Thou hear’st not its mystical psalt’ry.
“But with sweet stupefaction my soul drinks in
That sound which all others surpasses;
An ass am I, and each hair in the skin
Of my tail the hair of an ass is.
237
“I am not a papist, I am not a slave;
A German ass am I solely —
The same as my fathers, who all were so brave,
So thoughtful, demure, and so holy.
“They were not addicted to doing ill,
Or practising gallantry gaily,
But trotted off with the sack to the mill
In frolicsome fashion daily.
“Our fathers still live. In the tomb only lie
Their skins, their mortal covering;
Their happy spirits, high up in the sky,
Compalcently o’er us are hovering.
“Ye glorified asses, ye need not doubt
That we fain would resemble you ever;
And from the path that duty points out
We’ll swerve a finger’s breadth never.
“Oh, what a delight an ass to be,
From such long-eared worthies descended!
From every housetop I’d fain shout with glee,
‘An ass I was born — how splendid!’
“The noble jackass who gave me birth
Was of genuine German extraction;
From my mother, a German ass of worth,
I sucked milk with great satisfaction.
“An ass am I, and fully intend,
Like my fathers, who now are departed,
To stand by the asses — yes, stand to the end
By the asses, so dear and true-hearted.
238
“And since I’m an ass, I advise you all round
to choose your king from the asses;
A mighty ass-kingdom we thus will found,
They being the governing classes.
“We all are asses. Hee-ha! Hee-ha!
As ostlers we will not demean us;
Away with the horses! Love live, hurrah,
The king of the asinine genus!
Thus spake the patriot. Through the hall
The asses cheered him proudly;
They all, in fact, were national,
And with their hoofs stamped loudly.
An oaken wreath on the orator’s head
They put as a decoration;
He wagged his tail (though nothing he said)
With evident gratification.
UPON the hedge the beetle sits sadly,
He has fallen in love with a ladyfly madly.
“Oh, fly of my soul, ’tis thou alone
Art the wife I have chosen to be my own!
“Oh, marry me, and be not cold,
For I have a belly of glistening gold.
239
“My back is a mass of glory and show;
There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow.”
“Oh, would that I were a fool just now!
I’d never marry a beetle, I vow.
“I care not for emeralds, rubies, or gold,
I know that no happiness riches enfold.
“’Tis toward the ideal my thought soars high,
For I am in truth a haughty fly.”
The beetle flew off, with a heart like to break;
The fly went away, a bath to take.
“Oh, what has become of my maid, the bee,
That she, when I’m washing, may wait on me;
“That she may stroke my soft hair outside?
For I am now a beetle’s bride.
“In truth, a splendid party I’ll give,
For handsomer beetle never did live.
“His back is a mass of glory and show;
There rubies glitter, there emeralds glow.
“His belly is golden, and noble each feature;
With envy will burst full many a creature.
“Make haste, Miss Bee, and dress my hair;
And lace my waist; use perfumes rare;
240
“With attar of roses rub me o’er,
And lavender oil on my feet then pour —
“That I may not stink, or nastily smell,
When I in my bridegroom’s arms shall dwell.
“Already are flitting the dragonflies blue,
As maids of honor to wait on me too.
“Into my bridal garland they’ll twine
The blossoms white of the orange so fine.
“Full many musicians are asked to the place,
And singers as well, of the grasshopper race.
“The bittern, drone, hornet, and gadfly all come,
To blow on the trumpet and beat the drum.
“They’re all to strike up for the glad wedding-feast.
The gay-winged guests, from greatest to least,
“Are coming in families dapper and brisk,
The commoner insects among them frisk.
“The grasshoppers, wasps, and the aunts and the cousins
Are coming, while trumpets are blowing by dozens.
“The pastor, the mole, in black, dignified state,
Has also arrived, and the hour grows late.
“The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong —
But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?”
241
Ding-dong, ding-a-dong, sound the bells all the day,
The bridegroom, however, has flown far away.
The bells are all sounding ding-dong, ding-a-dong —
“But where’s my dear bridegroom ling’ring so long?”
The bridegroom has meanwhile taken his seat
On a distant dunghill, enjoying the heat.
Seven years there sits he, until his forgotten
Poor bride has long been dead and rotten.