Chapter V: Part 5

The Schleswig-Holsteiners have their own dialect, and cling to it as they cling to many things which, in other parts of Germany, have been discarded as old-fashioned and useless. “_Oll Knust hölt Hus_,”—“Stale bread lasts longest,”—is one of their proverbs. But they read their Bible in High-German; they write their newspapers in High-German, and it is in High-German that their children are taught, and their sermons preached in every town and in every village. It is but lately that Low-German has been taken up again by Schleswig-Holstein poets; and some of their poems, though intended originally for their own people only, have been read with delight, even by those who had to spell them out with the help of a dictionary and a grammar. This kind of homespun poetry is a sign of healthy national life. Like the songs of Burns in Scotland, the poems of Klaus Groth and others reveal to us, more than anything else, the real thoughts and feelings, the every-day cares and occupations, of the people whom they represent, and to whose approval alone they appeal. But as Scotland, proud though she well may be of her Burns, has produced some of the best writers of English, Schleswig-Holstein, too, small as it is in comparison with Scotland, counts among its sons some illustrious names in German literature. Niebuhr, the great traveller, and Niebuhr, the great historian, were both Schleswig-Holsteiners, though during their lifetime that name had not yet assumed the political meaning in which it is now used. Karsten Niebuhr, the traveller, was a Hanoverian by birth; but, having early entered the Danish service, he was attached to a scientific mission sent by King Frederick V. to Egypt, Arabia, and Palestine, in 1760. All the other members of that mission having died, it was left to Niebuhr, after his return in 1767, to publish the results of his own observations and of those of his companions. His “Description of Arabia,” and his “Travels in Arabia and the Adjoining Countries,” though published nearly a hundred years ago, are still quoted with respect, and their accuracy has hardly ever been challenged. Niebuhr spent the rest of his life as a kind of collector and magistrate at Meldorf, a small town of between two and three thousand inhabitants, in Dithmarschen. He is described as a square and powerful man, who lived to a good old age, and who, even when he had lost his eyesight, used to delight his family and a large circle of friends by telling them of the adventures in his Oriental travels, of the starry nights of the desert, and of the bright moonlight of Egypt, where, riding on his camel, he could, from his saddle, recognize every plant that was growing on the ground. Nor were the listeners that gathered round him unworthy of the old traveller. Like many a small German town, Meldorf, the home of Niebuhr, had a society consisting of a few government officials, clergymen, and masters at the public school; most of them men of cultivated mind, and quite capable of appreciating a man of Niebuhr’s powers. Even the peasants there were not the mere clods of other parts of Germany. They were a well-to-do race, and by no means illiterate. Their sons received at the Gymnasium of Meldorf a classical education, and they were able to mix with ease and freedom in the society of their betters. The most hospitable house at Meldorf was that of Boie, the High Sheriff of Dithmarschen. He had formerly, at Göttingen, been the life and soul of a circle of friends who have become famous in the history of German literature, under the name of “Hainbund.” That “Hainbund,” or Grove-club, included Bürger, the author of “Lenore;” Voss, the translator of Homer; the Counts Stolberg, Hölty, and others. With Goethe, too, Boie had been on terms of intimacy, and when, in after life, he settled down at Meldorf, many of his old friends, his brother-in-law Voss, Count Stolberg, Claudius, and others, came to see him and his illustrious townsman, Niebuhr. Many a seed was sown there, many small germs began to ripen in that remote town of Meldorf, which are yielding fruit at the present day, not in Germany only, but here in England. The sons of Boie, fired by the descriptions of the old, blind traveller, followed his example, and became distinguished as explorers and discoverers in natural history. Niebuhr’s son, young Barthold, soon attracted the attention of all who came to see his father, particularly of Voss; and he was enabled by their help and advice, to lay, in early youth, that foundation of solid learning which fitted him, in the intervals of his checkered life, to become the founder of a new era in the study of Ancient History. And how curious the threads which bind together the destinies of men! how marvelous the rays of light which, emanating from the most distant centres, cross each other in their onward course, and give their own peculiar coloring to characters apparently original and independent! We have read, of late, in the Confessions of a modern St. Augustine, how the last stroke that severed his connection with the Church of England was the establishment of the Jerusalem bishopric. But for that event, Dr. Newman might now be a bishop, and his friends a strong party in the Church of England. Well, that Jerusalem bishopric owes something to Meldorf. The young schoolboy of Meldorf was afterwards the private tutor and personal friend of the Crown-Prince of Prussia, and he thus exercised an influence both on the political and the religious views of King Frederick William IV. He was likewise Prussian Ambassador at Rome, when Bunsen was there as a young scholar, full of schemes, and planning his own journey to the East. Niebuhr became the friend and patron of Bunsen, and Bunsen became his successor in the Prussian embassy at Rome. It is well known that the Jerusalem bishopric was a long-cherished plan of the King of Prussia, Niebuhr’s pupil, and that the bill for the establishment of a Protestant bishopric at Jerusalem was carried chiefly through the personal influence of Bunsen, the friend of Niebuhr. Thus we see how all things are working together for good or for evil, though we little know of the grains of dust that are carried along from all quarters of the globe, to tell like infinitesimal weights in the scales that decide hereafter the judgment of individuals and the fate of nations.

If Holstein, and more particularly Dithmarschen, of which Meldorf had in former days been the capital, may claim some share in Niebuhr the historian,—if he himself, as the readers of his history are well aware, is fond of explaining the social and political institutions of Rome by references to what he had seen or heard of the little republic of Dithmarschen,—it is certainly a curious coincidence that the only worthy successor of Niebuhr, in the field of Roman history, Theodore Mommsen, is likewise a native of Schleswig. His History of Rome, though it did not produce so complete a revolution as the work of Niebuhr, stands higher as a work of art. It contains the results of Niebuhr’s critical researches, sifted and carried on by a most careful and thoughtful disciple. It is, in many respects, a most remarkable work, particularly in Germany. The fact that it is readable, and has become a popular book, has excited the wrath of many critics, who evidently consider it beneath the dignity of a learned professor that he should digest his knowledge, and give to the world, not all and everything he has accumulated in his note-books, but only what he considers really important and worth knowing. The fact, again, that he does not load his pages with references and learned notes has been treated like a _crimen lœsæ majestatis;_ and yet, with all the clamor and clatter that has been raised, few authors have had so little to alter or rectify in their later editions as Mommsen. To have produced two such scholars, historians, and statesmen as Niebuhr and Mommsen, would be an honor to any kingdom in Germany: how much more to the small duchy of Schleswig-Holstein, in which we have been told so often that nothing is spoken but Danish and some vulgar dialects of Low-German!

Well, even those vulgar dialects of Low-German, and the poems and novels that have been written in them by true Schleswig-Holsteiners, are well worth a moment’s consideration. In looking at their language, an Englishman at once discovers a number of old acquaintances: words which we would look for in vain in Schiller or Goethe. We shall mention a few.

_Black_ means black; in High-German it would be _schwarz_. _De black_ is the black horse; _black up wit_ is black on white; _gif mek kil un blak_, give me quill and ink. _Blid_ is _blithe_, instead of the High-German _mild_. _Bottervogel_, or _botterhahn_, or _botterhex, is __butterfly__, instead of __schmetterling__. It is a common superstition in_ the North of Germany, that one ought to mark the first butterfly one sees in spring. A white one betokens mourning, a yellow one a christening, a variegated one a wedding. _Bregen_ or _brehm_ is used instead of the High-German _gehirn_; it is the English _brain_. People say of a very foolish person, that his brain is frozen, _de brehm is em verfrorn_. The peculiar English but, which has given so much trouble to grammarians and etymologists, exists in the Holstein _buten_, literally outside, the Dutch _buiten_, the Old-Saxon _bi-ûtan_. _Buten_ in German is a regular contraction, just as _binnen_, which means inside, within, during. _Heben_ is the English heaven, while the common German name is _Himmel_. _Hückup_ is a sigh, and no doubt the English _hiccough_. _Düsig_ is dizzy; _talkig_ is talkative.

There are some curious words which, though they have a Low-German look, are not to be found in English or Anglo-Saxon. Thus _plitsch_, which is used in Holstein in the sense of clever, turns out to be a corruption of _politisch_, _i.e._ political. _Krüdsch_ means particular or over nice; it is a corruption of _kritisch_, critical. _Katolsch_ means angry, mad, and is a corruption of _catholic_, _i.e._ Roman Catholic. _Kränsch_ means plucky, and stands for _courageux_. _Fränksch_, _i.e._ Frankish, means strange; _Flämsch_, _i.e._ Flemish, means sulky, and is used to form superlatives; _Polsch_, _i.e._ Polish, means wild. _Forsch_ means strong and strength, and comes from the French _force_. _Klür_ is a corruption of _couleur_, and _Kunkelfusen_ stands for confusion or fibs.

Some idiomatic and proverbial expressions, too, deserve to be noted. Instead of saying, “The sun has set,” the Holsteiners, fond as they are of their beer, particularly in the evening after a hard day’s work, say, “_De Sünn geiht to Beer_,” “The sun goes to beer.” If you ask in the country how far it is to some town or village, a peasant will answer, “_’n Hunnblaff_,” “A dog’s bark,” if it is quite close; or “_’n Pip Toback_,” “A pipe of tobacco,” meaning about half an hour. Of a conceited fellow they say, “_Hê hört de Flégn hosten_,” “He hears the flies coughing.” If a man is full of great schemes, he is told, “_In Gedanken fört de Bur ôk in’t Kutsch_.” “In thought the peasant, too, drives in a coach.” A man who boasts is asked, “_Pracher! häst ôk Lüs, oder schuppst di man so?_” “Braggart! have you really lice, or do you only scratch yourself as if you had?”

“_Holstein singt nicht_,” “Holstein does not sing,” is a curious proverb; and if it is meant to express the absence of popular poetry in that country, it would be easy to convict it of falsehood by a list of poets whose works, though unknown to fame beyond the limits of their own country, are cherished, and deservedly cherished, by their own countrymen. The best known among the Holstein poets is Klaus Groth, whose poems, published under the title of “Quickborn,” _i.e._ quick bourn, or living spring, show that there is a well of true poetical feeling in that country, and that its strains are all the more delicious and refreshing if they bubble up in the native accent of the country. Klaus Groth was born in 1819. He was the son of a miller; and, though he was sent to school, he had frequently to work in the field in summer, and make himself generally useful. Like many Schleswig-Holsteiners, he showed a decided talent for mathematics; but, before he was sixteen, he had to earn his bread, and work as a clerk in the office of a local magistrate. His leisure hours were devoted to various studies: German, Danish, music, psychology, successively engaged his attention. In his nineteenth year he went to the seminary at Tondern to prepare himself to become a schoolmaster. There he studied Latin, French, Swedish; and, after three years, was appointed teacher at a girls’ school. Though he had to give forty-three lessons a week, he found time to continue his own reading, and he acquired a knowledge of English, Dutch, Icelandic, and Italian. At last, however, his health gave way, and in 1847 he was obliged to resign his place. During his illness his poetical talent, which he himself had never trusted, became a source of comfort to himself and to his friends, and the warm reception which greeted the first edition of his “Quickborn” made him what he was meant to be,—the poet of Schleswig-Holstein.

His political poems are few; and, though a true Schleswig-Holsteiner at heart, he has always declined to fight with his pen when he could not fight with his sword. In the beginning of this year, however, he published “Five Songs for Singing and Praying,” which, though they fail to give an adequate idea of his power as a poet, may be of interest as showing the deep feelings of the people in their struggle for independence. The text will be easily intelligible with the help of a literal English translation.

DUTSCHE EHR AND DUTSCHE EER.

I.

_Frühling_, 1848.

Dar keemn Soldaten æwer de Elf, Hurah, hurah, na’t Norn! Se keemn so dicht as Wagg an Wagg, Un as en Koppel vull Korn.

Gundag, Soldaten! wo kamt jü her? Vun alle Bargen de Krüz un Quer, Ut dütschen Landen na’t dütsche Meer— So wannert un treckt dat Heer.

Wat liggt so eben as weert de See? Wat schint so gel as Gold? Dat is de Marschen er Saat un Staat, Dat is de Holsten er Stoet.

Gundag jü Holsten op dütsche Eer! Gundag jü Friesen ant dütsche Meer! To leben un starben vær dütsche Ehr So wannert un treckt dat Heer.

German Honor and German Earth.

_Spring_, 1848.

There came soldiers across the Elbe, Hurrah, hurrah, to the North! They came as thick as wave on wave, And like a field full of corn.

Good day, soldiers! whence do you come? From all the hills on the right and left, From German lands to the German sea,— Thus wanders and marches the host.

What lies so still as it were the sea? What shines so yellow as gold? The splendid fields of the Marshes they are, The pride of the Holsten race.

Good day, ye Holsten on German soil! Good day, ye Friesians, on the German sea To live and to die for German honor,— Thus wanders and marches the host.

II.

_Sommer_, 1851.

Dat treckt so trurig æwer de Elf, In Tritt un Schritt so swar— De Swalw de wannert, de Hatbar treckt— Se kamt wedder to tokum Jahr.

Ade, ade, du dütsches Heer! “Ade, ade, du Holsten meer! Ade op Hoffen un Wiederkehr!” Wi truert alleen ant Meer.

De Storch kumt wedder, de Swalw de singt So fröhlich as all tovær— Wann kumt de dütsche Adler un bringt Di wedder, du dütsche Ehr?

Wak op du Floth, wak op du Meer! Wak op du Dunner, un week de Eer! Wi sitt op Hæpen un Wedderkehr— Wi truert alleen ant Meer.

_Summer_, 1851.

They march so sad across the Elbe, So heavy, step by step,— The swallow wanders, the stork departs,— They come back in the year to come.

Adieu, adieu, thou German host! “Adieu, adieu, thou Holsten sea! Adieu, in hope, and to meet again!” We mourn alone by the sea.

The stork comes back, the swallow sings As blithe as ever before,— When will the German eagle return, And bring thee back, thou German honor!

Wake up, thou flood! wake up, thou sea! Wake up, thou thunder, and rouse the land! We are sitting in hope to meet again,— We mourn alone by the sea.

III.

_Winter_, 1863.

Dar kumt en Brusen as Værjahswind, Dat dræhnt as wær dat de Floth,— Will’t Fröhjahr kamen to Wihnachtstid? Hölpt Gott uns sülb’n inne Noth?

Vun alle Bargen de Krüz un Quer Dar is dat wedder dat dütsche Heer! Dat gelt op Nu oder Nimmermehr! So rett se, de dütsche Ehr!

Wi hört den Adler, he kumt, he kumt! Noch eenmal hæpt wi un harrt! Is’t Friheit endlich, de he uns bringt? ls’t Wahrheit, wat der ut ward?

Sunst hölp uns Himmel, nu geit’t ni mehr! Hölp du, un bring uns den Herzog her! Denn wüllt wi starben vær dütsche Ehr! Denn begravt uns in dütsche Eer!

30 _December_, 1863.

_Winter_, 1863.

There comes a blast like winter storm; It roars as it were the flood. Is the spring coming at Christmas-tide? Does God himself help us in our need?

From all the hills on the right and left, There again comes the German host! It is to be now or never! O, save the German honor!

We hear the eagle, he comes, he comes! Once more we hope and wait! Is it freedom at last he brings to us? Is it truth what comes from thence?

Else Heaven help us, now it goes no more! Help thou, and bring us our Duke! Then will we die for German honor! Then bury us in German earth!

_December_ 30, 1863.

It is not, however, in war songs or political invective that the poetical genius of Klaus Groth shows to advantage. His proper sphere is the quiet idyl, a truthful and thoughtful description of nature, a reproduction of the simplest and deepest feelings of the human heart, and all this in the homely, honest, and heartfelt language of his own “Platt Deutsch.” That the example of Burns has told on Groth, that the poetry of the Scotch poet has inspired and inspirited the poet of Schleswig-Holstein, is not to be denied. But to imitate Burns, and to imitate him successfully, is no mean achievement, and Groth would be the last man to disown his master. The poem “Min Jehann” might have been written by Burns. I shall give a free metrical translation of it, but should advise the reader to try to spell out the original; for much of its charm lies in its native form, and to turn Groth even into High-German destroys his beauty as much as when Burns is translated into English.

MIN JEHANN.

Ik wull, wi weern noch kleen, Jehann,
Do weer de Welt so grot!
We seten op den Steen, Jehann,
Weest noch? by Nawers Sot.
An Heben sell de stille Maan,
Wi segen, wa he leep,
Un snacken, wa de Himmel hoch,
Un wa de Sot wul deep.

Weest noch, wa still dat weer, Jehann?
Dar röhr keen Blatt an Bom.
So is dat nu ni mehr, Jehann,
As höchstens noch in Drom.
Och ne, wenn do de Scheper sung—
Alleen in’t wide Feld:
Ni wahr, Jehann? dat weer en Ton—
De eenzige op de Welt.

Mitünner inne Schummerntid
Denn ward mi so to Mod,
Denn löppt mi’t langs den Rügg so hitt,
As domals bi den Sot.
Den dreih ik mi so hasti um,
As weer ik nich alleen:
Doch Allens, wat ik finn, Jehann,
Dat is—ik stah un ween.

MY JOHN.

I wish we still were little, John,
The world was then so wide!
When on the stone by neighbor’s bourn
We rested side by side.
We saw the moon in silver veiled
Sail silent through the sky;
Our thoughts were deeper than the bourn,
And as the heavens high.

You know how still it was then, John;
All nature seemed at rest;
So is it now no longer, John,
Or in our dreams at best!
Think when the shepherd boy then sang
Alone o’er all the plain,
Aye, John, you know, that was a sound
We ne’er shall hear again.

Sometimes now, John, the eventides
The self-same feelings bring,
My pulses beat as loud and strong
As then beside the spring.
And then I turn affrighted round,
Some stranger to descry;
But nothing can I see, my John,—
I am alone and cry.

The next poem is a little popular ballad, relating to a tradition, very common on the northern coast of Germany, both east and west of the peninsula, of islands swallowed by the sea, their spires, pinnacles, and roofs being on certain days still visible, and their bells audible, below the waves. One of these islands was called _Büsen_, or _Old Büsum_, and is supposed to have been situated opposite the village now called Büsen, on the west coast of Dithmarschen. Strange to say, the inhabitants of that island, in spite of their tragic fate, are represented rather in a comical light, as the Bœotians of Holstein.

WAT SIK DAT VOLK VERTELLT.

_Ol Büsum._

Ol Büsen hggt int wille Haff, De Floth de keem un wöhl en Graff. De Floth de keem un spöl un spöl, Bet se de Insel ünner wöhl. Dar blev keen Steen, dar blev keen Pahl, Dat Water schæl dat all hendal. Dar weer keen Beest, dar weer keen Hund, De ligt nu all in depen Grund. Un Allens, wat der lev un lach, Dat deck de See mit depe Nach. Mitünner in de holle Ebb So süht man vunne Hüs’ de Köpp. Denn dukt de Thorn herut ut Sand, As weert en Finger vun en Hand. Denn hört man sach de Klocken klingn, Denn hört man sach de Kanter singn; Denn geit dat lisen dær de Luft: “Begrabt den Leib in seine Gruft.”

WHAT THE PEOPLE TELL.

_Old Büsum._

Old Büsen sank into the waves; The sea has made full many graves; The flood came near and washed around, Until the rock to dust was ground. No stone remained, no belfry steep; All sank into the waters deep. There was no beast, there was no hound; They all were carried to the ground. And all that lived and laughed around The sea now holds in gloom profound. At times, when low the water falls, The sailor sees the broken walls; The church tower peeps from out the sand, Like to the finger of a hand. Then hears one low the church bells ringing Then hears one low the sexton singing; A chant is carried by the gust: “Give earth to earth, and dust to dust.”

In the Baltic, too, similar traditions are current of sunken islands and towns buried in the sea, which are believed to be visible at certain times. The most famous tradition is that of the ancient town of Vineta,—once, it is said, the greatest emporium in the north of Europe,—several times destroyed and built up again, till, in 1183, it was upheaved by an earthquake and swallowed by a flood. The ruins of Vineta are believed to be visible between the coast of Pomerania and the island of Rügen. This tradition has suggested one of Wilhelm Müller’s—my father’s—lyrical songs, published in his “Stones and Shells from the Island of Rügen,” 1825, of which I am able to give a translation by Mr. J. A. Froude.

VINETA.

I.

Aus des Meeres tiefem, tiefem Grunde
Klingen Abendglocken dumpf und matt,
Uns zu geben wunderbare Kunde
Von der schönen alten Wunderstadt.

II.

In der Fluthen Sehooss hinabgesunken
Blieben unten ihre Trümmer stehn,
Ihre Zinnen lassen goldne Funken
Wiederscheinend auf dem Spiegel sehn.

III.

Und der Schiffer, der den Zauberschimmer
Einmal sah im hellen Abendroth,
Nach derselben Stelle schifft er immer,
Ob auch rings umher die Klippe droht.

IV.

Aus des Herzens tiefem, tiefem Grunde
Klingt es mir, wie Glocken, dumpf und matt:
Ach, sie geben wunderbare Kunde
Von der Liebe, die geliebt es hat.

V.

Eine schöne Welt ist da versunken,
Ihre Trümmer blieben unten stehn,
Lassen sich als goldne Himmelsfunken
Oft im Spiegel meiner Träume sehn.

VI.

Und dann möcht’ ich tauchen in die Tiefen,
Mich versenken in den Wiederschein,
Und mir ist als ob mich Engel riefen
In die alte Wunderstadt herein.

VINETA.

I.

From the sea’s deep hollow faintly pealing,
Far off evening bells come sad and slow;
Faintly rise, the wondrous tale revealing
Of the old enchanted town below.

II.

On the bosom of the flood reclining,
Ruined arch and wall and broken spire,
Down beneath the watery mirror shining,
Gleam and flash in flakes of golden fire.

III.

And the boatman who at twilight hour
Once that magic vision shall have seen,
Heedless how the crags may round him lour,
Evermore will haunt the charméd scene.

IV.

From the heart’s deep hollow faintly pealing,
Far I hear them, bell-notes sad and slow,
Ah, a wild and wondrous tale revealing
Of the drownéd wreck of love below.

V.

There a world, in loveliness decaying,
Lingers yet in beauty ere it die;
Phantom forms, across my senses playing,
Flash like golden fire-flakes from the sky.

VI.

Lights are gleaming, fairy bells are ringing,
And I long to plunge and wander free,
Where I hear the angel-voices singing
In those ancient towers below the sea.

I give a few more specimens of Klaus Groth’s poetry, which I have ventured to turn into English verse, in the hope that my translations, though very imperfect, may, perhaps on account of their very imperfection, excite among some of my readers a desire to become acquainted with the originals.

HE SÄ MI SO VEL.

I.

He sä mi so vel, un ik sä em keen Wort, Un all wat ik sä, weer: Jehann, ik mutt fort!

II.

He sä mi vun Lev un vun Himmel un Eer, He sä mi vun allens—ik weet ni mal mehr!

III.

He sä mi so vel, un ik sä em keen Wort, Un all wat ik sä, weer: Jehann, ik mutt fort!

IV.

He heeld mi de Hann, un he be mi so dull, Ik schull em doch gut wen, un ob ik ni wull?

V.

Ik weer je ni bös, awer sä doch keen Wort, Un all wat ik sä, weer: Jehann, ik mutt fort!

VI.

Nu sitt ik un denk, un denk jümmer deran Mi düch, ik muss seggt hebbn: Wa geern, min Jehann!

VII.

Un doch, kumt dat wedder, so segg ik keen Wort, Un hollt he mi, segg ik: Jehann, ik mutt fort!

HE TOLD ME SO MUCH.

I.

Though he told me so much, I had nothing to say, And all that I said was, John, I must away!

II.

He spoke of his true love, and spoke of all that, Of honor and heaven,—I hardly know what.

III.

Though he told me so much, I had nothing to say, And all that I said was, John, I must away!

IV.

He held me, and asked me, as hard as he could, That I too should love him, and whether I would?

V.

I never was wrath, but had nothing to say, And all that I said was, John, I must away!

VI.

I sit now alone, and I think on and on, Why did I not say then, How gladly, my John!

VII.

Yet even the next time, O what shall I say, If he holds me and asks me?—John, I must away!

TÖF MAL!

Se is doch de stillste vun alle to Kark! Se is doch de schönste vun alle to Mark! So weekli, so bleekli, un de Ogen so grot, So blau as en Heben un deep as en Sot.

Wer kikt wul int Water, un denkt ni sin Deel? Wer kikt wul nan Himmel, un wünscht sik ne vel? Wer süht er in Ogen, so blau un so fram, Un denkt ni an Engeln, un allerhand Kram?

I.

In church she is surely the stillest of all, She steps through the market so fair and so tall,

II.

So softly, so lightly, with wondering eyes, As deep as the sea, and as blue as the skies.

III.

Who thinks not a deal when he looks on the main? Who looks to the skies, and sighs not again?

IV.

Who looks in her eyes, so blue and so true, And thinks not of angels and other things too?

KEEN GRAFF IS SO BRUT.

I.

Keen Graff is so brut un keen Müer so hoch, Wenn Twe sik man gut sünd, so drapt se sik doch.

II.

Keen Wedder so gruli, so düster keen Nacht, Wenn Twe sik man sehn wüllt, so seht se sik sacht.

III.

Dat gif wul en Maanschin, dar schint wul en Steern, Dat gift noch en Licht oder Lücht un Lantern.

IV.

Dar fiunt sik en Ledder, en Stegelsch un Steg: Wenn Twe sik man leef hebbt—keen Sorg vaer den Weg.

I.

No ditch is so deep, and no wall is so high, If two love each other, they’ll meet by and by.

II.

No storm is so wild, and no night is so black, If two wish to meet, they will soon find a track.

III.

There is surely the moon, or the stars shining bright, Or a torch, or a lantern, or some sort of light;

IV.

There is surely a ladder, a step, or a stile, If two love each other, they’ll meet ere long while.

JEHANN, NU SPANN DE SCHIMMELS AN!

I.

Jehann, nu spann de Schimmels an! Nu fahr wi na de Brut! Un hebbt wi nix as brune Per, Jehann, so is’t ok gut!

II.

Un hebbt wi nix as swarte Per, Jehann, so is’t ok recht! Un bün ik nich uns Weerth sin Sœn, So bün’k sin jüngste Knecht!

III.

Un hebbt wi gar keen Per un Wag’, So hebbt wi junge Been! Un de so glückli is as ik, Jehann, dat wüll wi sehn!

MAKE HASTE, MY JOHN, PUT TO THE GRAYS.

I.

Make haste, my John, put to the grays, We’ll go and fetch the bride, And if we have but two brown hacks, They’ll do as well to ride.

II.

And if we’ve but a pair of blacks, We still can bear our doom, And if I’m not my master’s son, I’m still his youngest groom.

III.

And have we neither horse nor cart, Still strong young legs have we,— And any happier man than I, John, I should like to see.

DE JUNGE WETFRU.

Wenn Abends roth de Wulken treckt, So denk ik och! an di! So trock verbi dat ganze Heer, Un du weerst mit derbi.

Wenn ut de Böm de Blaeder fallt, So denk ik glik an di: So full so menni brawe Jung, Un du weerst mit derbi.

Denn sett ik mi so truri hin, Un denk so vel an di, Ik et alleen min Abendbrot— Un du büst nich derbi.

THE SOLDIER’S WIDOW.

When ruddy clouds are driving past, ’Tis more than I can bear; Thus did the soldiers all march by, And thou, too, thou wert there.

When leaves are falling on the ground, ’Tis more than I can bear; Thus fell full many a valiant lad, And thou, too, thou wert there.

And now I sit so still and sad, ’Tis more than I can bear; My evening meal I eat alone, For thou, thou art not there.

I wish I could add one of Klaus Groth’s tales (“Vertellen,” as he calls them), which give the most truthful description of all the minute details of life in Dithmarschen, and bring the peculiar character of the country and of its inhabitants vividly before the eyes of the reader. But, short as they are, even the shortest of them would fill more pages than could here be spared for Schleswig-Holstein. I shall, therefore, conclude this sketch with a tale which has no author,—a simple tale from one of the local Holstein newspapers. It came to me in a heap of other papers, fly-sheets, pamphlets, and books, but it shone like a diamond in a heap of rubbish; and, as the tale of “The Old Woman of Schleswig-Holstein,” it may help to give to many who have been unjust to the inhabitants of the Duchies some truer idea of the stuff there is in that strong and staunch and sterling race to which England owes its language, its best blood, and its honored name.

“When the war against Denmark began again in the winter of 1863, offices were opened in the principal towns of Germany for collecting charitable contributions. At Hamburg, Messrs. L. and K. had set apart a large room for receiving lint, linen, and warm clothing, or small sums of money. One day, about Christmas, a poorly clad woman from the country stepped in and inquired, in the pure Holstein dialect, whether contributions were received here for Schleswig-Holstein. The clerk showed her to a table covered with linen rags and such like articles. But she turned away and pulled out an old leather purse, and, taking out pieces of money, began to count aloud on the counter: ‘One mark, two marks, three marks,’ till she had finished her ten marks. ‘That makes ten marks,’ she said, and shoved the little pile away. The clerk, who had watched the poor old woman while she was arranging her small copper and silver coins, asked her,—‘From whom does the money come?’

“ ‘From me,’ she said, and began counting again, ‘One mark, two marks, three marks.’ Thus she went on emptying her purse, till she had counted out ten small heaps of coin, of ten marks each. Then, counting each heap once over again, she said: ‘These are my hundred marks for Schleswig-Holstein; be so good as to send them to the soldiers.’

“While the old peasant woman was doing her sums, several persons had gathered round her; and, as she was leaving the shop, she was asked again in a tone of surprise from whom the money came.

“ ‘From me,’ she said; and, observing that she was closely scanned, she turned back, and looking the man full in the face, she added, smiling: ‘It is all honest money; it won’t hurt the good cause.’

“The clerk assured her that no one had doubted her honesty, but that she herself had, no doubt, often known want, and that it was hardly right to let her contribute so large a sum, probably the whole of her savings.

“The old woman remained silent for a time, but, after she had quietly scanned the faces of all present, she said: ‘Surely it concerns no one how I got the money. Many a thought passed through my heart while I was counting that money. You would not ask me to tell you all? But you are kind gentlemen, and you take much trouble for us poor people. So I’ll tell you whence the money came. Yes, I have known want; food has been scarce with me many a day, and it will be so again, as I grow older. But our gracious Lord watches over us. He has helped me to bear the troubles which He sent. He will never forsake me. My husband has been dead this many and many a year. I had one only son; and my John was a fine stout fellow, and he worked hard, and he would not leave his old mother. He made my home snug and comfortable. Then came the war with the Danes. All his friends joined the army; but the only son of a widow, you know, is free. So he remained at home, and no one said to him, “Come along with us,” for they knew that he was a brave boy, and that it broke his very heart to stay behind. I knew it all. I watched him when the people talked of the war, or when the schoolmaster brought the newspaper. Ah, how he turned pale and red, and how he looked away, and thought his old mother did not see it! But he said nothing to me, and I said nothing to him, Gracious God, who could have thought that it was so hard to drive our oppressors out of the land? Then came the news from Fredericia! That was a dreadful night. We sat in silence opposite each other. We knew what was in our hearts, and we hardly dared to look at each other. Suddenly he rose and took my hand, and said, “Mother!”—God be praised, I had strength in that moment—“John,” I said, “our time has come; go in God’s name. I know how thou lovest me, and what thou hast suffered. God knows what will become of me if I am left quite alone, but our Lord Jesus Christ will forsake neither thee nor me.” John enlisted as a volunteer. The day of parting came. Ah, I am making a long story of it all! John stood before me in his new uniform. “Mother,” he said, “one request before we part—if it is to be”—“John,” I said to him, “I know what thou meanest,—O, I shall weep, I shall weep very much when I am alone; but my time will come, and we shall meet again in the day of our Lord, John! and the land shall be free, John! the land shall be free!” ’

“Heavy tears stood in the poor old woman’s eyes as she repeated her sad tale; but she soon collected herself, and continued: ‘I did not think then it would be so hard. The heart always hopes even against hope. But for all that’—and here the old woman drew herself up, and looked at us like a queen—‘I have never regretted that I bade him go. Then came dreadful days; but the most dreadful of all was when we read that the Germans had betrayed the land, and that they had given up our land with all our dead to the Danes! Then I called on the Lord and said, “O Lord, my God, how is that possible? Why lettest Thou the wicked triumph and allowest the just to perish?” And I was told that the Germans were sorry for what they had done, but that they could not help it. But that, gentlemen, I could never understand. We should never do wrong, nor allow wrong to be done. And, therefore, I thought, it cannot always remain so; our good Lord knows his own good time, and in his own good time He will come and deliver us. And I prayed every evening that our gracious Lord would permit me to see that day when the land should be free, and our dear dead should sleep no more in Danish soil. And, as I had no other son against that day, I saved every year what I could save, and on every Christmas Eve I placed it before me on a table, where, in former years, I had always placed a small present for my John, and I said in my heart, The war will come again, and the land will be free, and thou shalt sleep in a free grave, my only son, my John! And now, gentlemen, the poor old woman has been told that the day has come, and that her prayer has been heard, and that the war will begin again; and that is why she has brought her money, the money she saved for her son. Good morning, gentlemen,’ she said, and was going quickly away.

“But, before she had left the room, an old gentleman said, loud enough for her to hear, ‘Poor body! I hope she may not be deceived.’

“ ‘Ah,’ said the old woman, turning back, ‘I know what you mean; I have been told all is not right yet. But have faith, men! the wicked cannot prevail against the just; man cannot prevail against the Lord. Hold to that, gentlemen; hold fast together, gentlemen! This very day I—begin to save up again.’

“Bless her, good old soul! And, if Odin were still looking out of his window in the sky as of yore, when he granted victory to the women of the Lombards, might he not say even now:—

“ ‘When women are heroes, What must the men be like? Theirs is the victory; No need of me.’ ”

1864.

VII. JOINVILLE.(29)

Our attention was attracted a few months ago by a review published in the “Journal des Débats,” in which a new translation of Joinville’s “Histoire de Saint Louis,” by M. Natalis de Wailly, a distinguished member of the French Institute, was warmly recommended to the French public. After pointing out the merits of M. de Wailly’s new rendering of Joinville’s text, and the usefulness of such a book for enabling boys at school to gain an insight into the hearts and minds of the Crusaders, and to form to themselves a living conception of the manners and customs of the people of the thirteenth century, the reviewer, whose name is well known in this country as well as in France by his valuable contributions to the history of medicine, dwelt chiefly on the fact that through the whole of Joinville’s “Mémoires” there is no mention whatever of surgeons or physicians. Nearly the whole French army is annihilated, the King and his companions lie prostrate from wounds and disease, Joinville himself is several times on the point of death; yet nowhere, according to the French reviewer, does the chronicler refer to a medical staff attached to the army or to the person of the King. Being somewhat startled at this remark, we resolved to peruse once more the charming pages of Joinville’s History; nor had we to read far before we found that one passage at least had been overlooked, a passage which establishes beyond the possibility of doubt the presence of surgeons and physicians in the camp of the French Crusaders. On page 78 of M. de Wailly’s spirited translation, in the account of the death of Gautier d’Autrèche, we read that when that brave knight was carried back to his tent nearly dying, “several of the surgeons and physicians of the camp came to see him, and not perceiving that he was dangerously injured, they bled him on both his arms.” The result was what might be expected: Gautier d’Autrèche soon breathed his last.

Having once opened the “Mémoires” of Joinville, we could not but go on to the end, for there are few books that carry on the reader more pleasantly, whether we read them in the quaint French of the fourteenth century, or in the more modern French in which they have just been clothed by M. Natalis de Wailly. So vividly does the easy gossip of the old soldier bring before our eyes the days of St. Louis and Henry III., that we forget that we are reading an old chronicle, and holding converse with the heroes of the thirteenth century. The fates both of Joinville’s “Mémoires” and of Joinville himself suggest in fact many reflections apart from mere mediæval history; and a few of them may here be given in the hope of reviving the impressions left on the minds of many by their first acquaintance with the old Crusader, or of inviting others to the perusal of a work which no one who takes an interest in man, whether past or present, can read without real pleasure and real benefit.

It is interesting to watch the history of books, and to gain some kind of insight into the various circumstances which contribute to form the reputation of poets, philosophers, or historians. Joinville, whose name is now familiar to the student of French history, as well as to the lover of French literature, might fairly have expected that his memory would live by his acts of prowess, and by his loyal devotion and sufferings when following the King of France, St. Louis, on his unfortunate crusade. When, previous to his departure for the Holy Land, the young Sénéchal de Champagne, then about twenty-four years of age, had made his confession to the Abbot of Cheminon; when, barefoot and in a white sheet, he was performing his pilgrimages to Blehecourt (Blechicourt), St. Urbain, and other sacred shrines in his neighborhood, and when on passing his own domain he would not once turn his eyes back on the castle of Joinville, “_pour ce que li cuers ne me attendrisist dou biau chastel que je lessoie et de mes dous enfans_” (“that the heart might not make me pine after the beautiful castle which I left behind, and after my two children”), he must have felt that, happen what might to himself, the name of his family would live, and his descendants would reside from century to century in those strong towers where he left his young wife, Alix de Grandpré, and his son and heir Jean, then but a few months old. After five years he returned from his crusade, full of honors and full of wounds. He held one of the highest positions that a French nobleman could hold. He was Sénéchal de Champagne, as his ancestors had been before him. Several members of his family had distinguished themselves in former crusades, and the services of his uncle Geoffroi had been so highly appreciated by Richard Cœur de Lion that he was allowed by that King to quarter the arms of England with his own. Both at the court of the Comtes de Champagne, who were Kings of Navarre, and at the court of Louis IX., King of France, Joinville was a welcome guest. He witnessed the reigns of six kings,—of Louis VIII., 1223-26; Louis IX., or St. Louis, 1226-70; Philip III., le Hardi, 1270-85 ; Philip IV., le Bel, 1285-1314; Louis X., le Hutin, 1314-16 ; and Philip V., le Long, 1316-22. Though later in life Joinville declined to follow his beloved King on his last and fatal crusade in 1270, he tells us himself how, on the day on which he took leave of him, he carried his royal friend, then really on the brink of death, in his arms from the residence of the Comte d’Auxerre to the house of the Cordeliers. In 1282 he was one of the principal witnesses when, previous to the canonization of the King, an inquest was held to establish the purity of his life, the sincerity of his religious professions, and the genuineness of his self-sacrificing devotion in the cause of Christendom. When the daughter of his own liege lord, the Comte de Champagne, Jeanne de Navarre, married Philip le Bel, and became Queen of France, she made Joinville Governor of Champagne, which she had brought as her dowry to the grandson of St. Louis. Surely, then, when the old Crusader, the friend and counselor of many kings, closed his earthly career, at the good age of ninety-five, he might have looked forward to an honored grave in the Church of St. Laurent, and to an eminent place in the annals of his country, which were then being written in more or less elegant Latin by the monks of St. Denis.

But what has happened? The monkish chroniclers, no doubt, have assigned him his proper place in their tedious volumes, and there his memory would have lived with that kind of life which belongs to the memory of Geoffroi, his illustrious uncle, the friend of Philip Augustus, the companion of Richard Cœur de Lion, whose arms were to be seen in the Church of St. Laurent, at Joinville, quartered with the royal arms of England. Such parchment or hatchment glory might have been his, and many a knight, as good as he, has received no better, no more lasting reward for his loyalty and bravery. His family became extinct in his grandson. Henri de Joinville, his grandson, had no sons; and his daughter, being a wealthy heiress, was married to one of the Dukes of Lorraine. The Dukes of Lorraine were buried for centuries in the same Church of St. Laurent where Joinville reposed, and where he had founded a chapel dedicated to his companion in arms, Louis IX., the Royal Saint of France; and when, at the time of the French Revolution, the tombs of St. Denis were broken open by an infuriated people, and their ashes scattered abroad, the vaults of the church at Joinville, too, shared the same fate, and the remains of the brave Crusader suffered the same indignity as the remains of his sainted King. It is true that there were some sparks of loyalty and self-respect left in the hearts of the citizens of Joinville. They had the bones of the old warrior and of the Dukes of Lorraine reinterred in the public cemetery; and there they now rest, mingled with the dust of their faithful lieges and subjects. But the Church of St. Laurent, with its tombs and tombstones, is gone. The property of the Joinvilles descended from the Dukes of Lorraine to the Dukes of Guise, and, lastly, to the family of Orleans. The famous Duke of Orleans, Egalité, sold Joinville in 1790, and stipulated that the old castle should be demolished. Poplars and fir-trees now cover the ground of the ancient castle, and the name of Joinville is borne by a royal prince, the son of a dethroned king, the grandson of Louis Egalité, who died on the guillotine.

Neither his noble birth, nor his noble deeds, nor the friendship of kings and princes, would have saved Joinville from that inevitable oblivion which has blotted from the memory of living men the names of his more eminent companions,—Robert, Count of Artois; Alphonse, Count of Poitiers; Charles, Count of Anjou; Hugue, Duke of Burgundy; William, Count of Flanders, and many more. A little book which the old warrior wrote or dictated,—for it is very doubtful whether he could have written it himself,—a book which for many years attracted nobody’s attention, and which even now we do not possess in the original language of the thirteenth or the beginning of the fourteenth centuries—has secured to the name of Jean de Joinville a living immortality, and a fame that will last long after the bronze statue which was erected in his native place in 1853 shall have shared the fate of his castle, of his church, and of his tomb. Nothing could have been further from the mind of the old nobleman when, at the age of eighty-five, he began the history of his royal comrade, St. Louis, than the hope of literary fame. He would have scouted it. That kind of fame might have been good enough for monks and abbots, but it would never at that time have roused the ambition of a man of Joinville’s stamp. How the book came to be written he tells us himself in his dedication, dated in the year 1309, and addressed to Louis le Hutin, then only King of Navarre and Count of Champagne, but afterwards King of France. His mother, Jeanne of Navarre, the daughter of Joinville’s former liege lord, the last of the Counts of Champagne, who was married to Philip le Bel, the grandson of St. Louis, had asked him “to have a book made for her, containing the sacred words and good actions of our King, St. Looys.” She died before the book was finished, and Joinville, therefore, sent it to her son. How it was received by him we do not know; nor is there any reason to suppose that there were more than a few copies made of a work which was intended chiefly for members of the royal family of France and of his own family. It is never quoted by historical writers of that time; and the first historian who refers to it is said to be Pierre le Baud, who, toward the end of the fifteenth century, wrote his “Histoire de Bretagne.” It has been proved that for a long time no mention of the dedication copy occurs in the inventories of the private libraries of the Kings of France. At the death of Louis le Hutin his library consisted of twenty-nine volumes, and among them the History of St. Louis does not occur. There is, indeed, one entry, “Quatre caiers de Saint Looys;” but this could not be meant for the work of Joinville, which was in one volume. These four _cahiers_ or quires of paper were more likely manuscript notes of St. Louis himself. His confessor, Geoffroy de Beaulieu, relates that the King, before his last illness, wrote down with his own hand some salutary counsels in French, of which he, the confessor, procured a copy before the King’s death, and which he translated from French into Latin.

Again, the widow of Louis X. left at her death a collection of forty-one volumes, and the widow of Charles le Bel a collection of twenty volumes; but in neither of them is there any mention of Joinville’s History.