Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

The former may be taken on by indigent souls: the latter imply a noble and opulent nature. And wait you not for death, according to the counsel of Solon, to be named happy, if you are permitted fellowship with a man of rich mind, whose individual savor you always finely perceive, and never more than finely,--who yields you the perpetual sense of community, and never of confusion, with your own spirit. The happiness is all the greater, if the fellowship be accorded by a mind eminently superior to one's own; for he, while yet more removed, comes yet nearer, seeming to be that which our own soul may become in some future life, and so yielding us the sense of our own being more deeply and powerfully than it is given by the consciousness in our own bosom. And going forward to the supreme point of this felicity, we may note that the worshipper, in the ecstasy of his adoration, feels the Highest to be also Nearest,--more remote than the borders of space and fringes of heaven,--more intimate with his own being than the air he breathes or the thought be thinks; and of this double sense is the rapture of his adoration, and the joy indeed of every angel, born.

Divineness appertains to the absolute nature of man; piquancy and charm to that which serves and modifies this. Infinitude and immortality are of the one; the strictest finiteness belongs to the other. In the first you can never be too deep and rich; in the second never too delicate and measured. Yet you will easily find a man in whom the latter so abounds as not only to shut him out from others, but to absorb all the vital resource generated in his own bosom, leaving to the pure personality nothing. The finite nature fares sumptuously every day; the other is a heavenly Lazarus sitting at the gate.

Of such individuals there are many classes; and the majority of eccentric men constitute one class. If a man have very peculiar ways, we readily attribute to him a certain depth and force, and think that the polished citizen wants character in comparison. Probably it is not so. Singularity may be as shallow as the shallowest conformity. There are numbers of such from whom if you deduct the eccentricity, it is like subtracting red from vermilion or six from half a dozen. They are grimaces of humanity,--no more. In particular, I make occasion to say, that those oddities, whose chief characteristic it is to slink away from the habitations of men, and claim companionship with musk-rats, are, despite Mr. Thoreau's pleasant patronage of them, no whit more manly or profound than the average citizen, who loves streets and parlors, and does not endure estrangement from the Post-Office. Mice lurk in holes and corners; could the cat speak, she would say that they have a genius _only_ for lurking in holes. Bees and ants are, to say the least, quite as witty as beetles, proverbially blind; yet they build insect cities, and are as invincibly social and city-loving as Socrates himself.

Aside, however, from special eccentricity, there are men, like the Earl of Essex, Bacon's _soi-disant_ friend, who possess a certain emphatic and imposing individuality, which, while commonly assumed to indicate character and force, is really but the _succedaneum_ for these. They are like oysters, with extreme stress of shell, and only a blind, soft, acephalous body within. These are commonly great men so long as little men will serve; and are something less than little ever after. As an instance of this, I should select the late chief magistrate of this nation. His whole ability lay in putting a most imposing countenance upon commonplaces. He made a mere _air_ seem solid as rock. Owing to this possibility of presenting all force on the outside, and so creating a false impression of resource, all great social emergencies are followed by a speedy breaking down of men to whom was generally attributed an able spirit; while others of less outward mark, and for this reason hitherto unnoticed, come forward, and prove to be indeed the large vessels of manhood accorded to that generation.

Our tendency to assume individual mark as the measure of personality is flattered by many of the books we read. It is, of course, easier to depict character, when it is accompanied by some striking individual hue; and therefore in romances and novels this is conferred upon all the forcible characters, merely to favor the author's hand: as microscopists feed minute creatures with colored food to make their circulations visible. It is only the great master who can represent a powerful personality in the purest state, that is, with the maximum of character and the minimum of individual distinction; while small artists, with a feeble hold upon character, habitually resort to extreme quaintnesses and singularities of circumstance, in order to confer upon their weak portraitures some vigor of outline. It takes a Giotto to draw readily a nearly perfect O; but a nearly perfect triangle any one can draw. Shakspeare is able to delineate a Gentleman,--one, that is, who, while nobly and profoundly a man, is so delicately individualized, that the impression of him, however vigorous and commanding, cannot be harsh: Shakspeare is equal to this task, but even so very able a painter as Fielding is not. His Squire Western and Parson Adams are exquisite, his Allworthy is vapid: deny him strong pigments of individualism, and he is unable to portray strong character. Scott, among British novelists, is, perhaps, in this respect most Shakspearian, though the Colonel Esmond of Thackeray is not to be forgotten; but even Scott's Dandie Dinmonts, or gentlemen in the rough, sparkle better than his polished diamonds. Yet in this respect the Waverley Novels are singularly and admirably healthful, comparing to infinite advantage with the rank and file of novels, wherein the "characters" are but bundles of quaintnesses, and the action is impossible.

Written history has somewhat of the same infirmity with fictitious literature, though not always by the fault of the historian. Far too little can it tell us respecting those of whom we desire to know much; while, on the other hand, it is often extremely liberal of information concerning those of whom we desire to know nothing. The greatest of men approach a pure personality, a pure representation of man's imperishable nature; individual peculiarity they far less abound in; and what they do possess is held in transparent solution by their manhood, as a certain amount of vapor is always held by the air. The higher its temperature, the more moisture can the atmosphere thus absorb, exhibiting it not as cloud, but only as immortal azure of sky: and so the greater intensity there is of the pure quality of man, the more of individual peculiarity can it master and transform into a simple heavenliness of beauty, of which the world finds few words to say. Men, in general, have, perhaps, no more genius than novelists in general,--though it seems a hard speech to make,--and while profoundly _impressed_ by any manifestation of the pure genius of man, can _observe_ and _relate_ only peculiarities and exceptional traits. Incongruities are noted; congruities are only felt. If a two-headed calf be born, the newspapers hasten to tell of it; but brave boys and beautiful girls by thousands grow to fulness of stature without mention. We know so little of Homer and Shakspeare partly because they were Homer and Shakspeare. Smaller men might afford more plentiful materials for biography, because their action and character would be more clouded with individualism. The biography of a supreme poet is the history of his kind. He transmits himself by pure vital impression. His remembrance is committed, not to any separable faculty, but to a memory identical with the total being of men. If you would learn his story, listen to the sprites that ride on crimson steeds along the arterial highways, singing of man's destiny as they go.

THE GERMAN BURNS.

The extreme southwestern corner of Germany is an irregular right-angle, formed by the course of the Rhine. Within this angle and an hypothenuse drawn from the Lake of Constance to Carlsruhe lies a wild mountain-region--a lateral offshoot from the central chain which extends through Europe from west to east--known to all readers of robber-romances as the Black Forest. It is a cold, undulating upland, intersected with deep valleys which descend to the plains of the Rhine and the Danube, and covered with great tracts of fir-forest. Here and there a peak rises high above the general level, the Feldberg attaining a height of five thousand feet. The aspect of this region is stern and gloomy: the fir-woods appear darker than elsewhere; the frequent little lakes are as inky in hue as the pools of the High Alps; and the meadows of living emerald give but a partial brightness to the scenery. Here, however, the solitary traveller may adventure without fear. Robbers and robber-castles have long since passed away, and the people, rough and uncouth as they may at first seem, are as kindly-hearted as they are honest. Among them was born--and in their incomprehensible dialect wrote--Hebel, the German Burns.

We dislike the practice of using the name of one author as the characteristic designation of another. It is, at best, the sign of an imperfect fame, implying rather the imitation of a scholar than the independent position of a master. We can, nevertheless, in no other way indicate in advance the place which the subject of our sketch occupies in the literature of Germany. A contemporary of Burns, and ignorant of the English language, there is no evidence that he had ever even heard of the former; but Burns, being the first truly great poet who succeeded in making classic a local dialect, thereby constituted himself an illustrious standard, by which his successors in the same path must be measured. Thus, Bellman and Béranger have been inappropriately invested with his mantle, from the one fact of their being song-writers of a democratic stamp. The Gascon, Jasmin, better deserves the title; and Longfellow, in translating his "Blind Girl of Castèl-Cuillè," says,--

"Only the lowland tongue of Scotland might
Rehearse this little tragedy aright":--

a conviction which we have frequently shared, in translating our German author.

It is a matter of surprise to us, that, while Jasmin's poems have gone far beyond the bounds of France, the name of John Peter Hebel--who possesses more legitimate claims to the peculiar distinction which Burns achieved--is not only unknown outside of Germany, but not even familiarly known to the Germans themselves. The most probable explanation is, that the Alemannic dialect, in which he wrote, is spoken only by the inhabitants of the Black Forest and a portion of Suabia, and cannot be understood, without a glossary, by the great body of the North-Germans. The same cause would operate, with greater force, in preventing a translation into foreign languages. It is, in fact, only within the last twenty years that the Germans have become acquainted with Burns,--chiefly through the admirable translations of the poet Freiligrath.

To Hebel belongs the merit of having bent one of the harshest of German dialects to the uses of poetry. We doubt whether the lyre of Apollo was ever fashioned from a wood of rougher grain. Broad, crabbed, guttural, and unpleasant to the ear which is not thoroughly accustomed to its sound, the Alemannic _patois_ was, in truth, a most unpromising material. The stranger, even though he were a good German scholar, would never suspect the racy humor, the _naïve_, childlike fancy, and the pure human tenderness of expression which a little culture has brought to bloom on such a soil. The contractions, elisions, and corruptions which German words undergo, with the multitude of terms in common use derived from the Gothic, Greek, Latin, and Italian, give it almost the character of a different language. It was Hebel's mother-tongue, and his poetic faculty always returned to its use with a fresh delight which insured success. His _German_ poems are inferior in all respects.

Let us first glance at the poet's life,--a life uneventful, perhaps, yet interesting from the course of its development. He was born in Basle, in May, 1760, in the house of Major Iselin, where both his father and mother were at service. The former, a weaver by trade, afterwards became a soldier, and accompanied the Major to Flanders, France, and Corsica. He had picked up a good deal of stray knowledge on his campaigns, and had a strong natural taste for poetry. The qualities of the son were inherited from him rather than from the mother, of whom we know nothing more than that she was a steady, industrious person. The parents lived during the winter in the little village of Hausen, in the Black Forest, but with the approach of spring returned to Basle for their summer service in Major Iselin's house.

The boy was but a year old when his father died, and the discipline of such a restless spirit as he exhibited in early childhood seems to have been a task almost beyond the poor widow's powers. An incorrigible spirit of mischief possessed him. He was an arrant scape-grace, plundering cupboards, gardens, and orchards, lifting the gates of mill-races by night, and playing a thousand other practical and not always innocent jokes. Neither counsel nor punishment availed, and the entire weight of his good qualities, as a counterbalance, barely sufficed to prevent him from losing the patrons whom his bright, eager, inquisitive mind attracted. Something of this was undoubtedly congenital, and there are indications that the strong natural impulse, held in check only by a powerful will and a watchful conscience, was the torment of his life. In his later years, when he filled the posts of Ecclesiastical Counsellor and Professor in the Gymnasium at Carlsruhe, the phrenologist Gall, in a scientific _séance_, made an examination of his head. "A most remarkable development of"----, said Gall, abruptly breaking off, nor could he be induced to complete the sentence. Hebel, however, frankly exclaimed,--"You certainly mean the thievish propensity. I know I have it by nature, for I continually feel its suggestions." What a picture is presented by this confession! A pure, honest, and honorable life, won by a battle with evil desires, which, commencing with birth, ceased their assaults only at the brink of the grave! A daily struggle, and a daily victory!

Hebel lost his mother in his thirteenth year, but was fortunate in possessing generous patrons, who contributed enough to the slender means he inherited to enable him to enter the Gymnasium at Carlsruhe. Leaving this institution with the reputation of a good classical scholar, he entered the University of Erlangen as a student of theology. Here his jovial, reckless temperament, finding a congenial atmosphere, so got the upperhand that he barely succeeded in passing the necessary examination, in 1780. At the end of two years, during which time he supported himself as a private tutor, he was ordained, and received a meagre situation as teacher in the Academy at Lörrach, with a salary of one hundred and forty dollars a year! Laboring patiently in this humble position for eight years, he was at last rewarded by being transferred to the Gymnasium at Carlsruhe, with the rank of Sub-Deacon. Hither, the Markgraf Frederick of Baden, attracted by the warmth, simplicity, and genial humor of the man, came habitually to listen to his sermons. He found himself, without seeking it, in the path of promotion, and his life thenceforth was a series of sure and moderate successes. His expectations, indeed, were so humble that they were always exceeded by his rewards. When Baden became a Grand Duchy, with a constitutional form of government, it required much persuasion to induce him to accept the rank of Prelate, with a seat in the Upper House. His friends were disappointed, that, with his readiness and fluent power of speech, he took so little part in the legislative proceedings. To one who reproached him for this timidity he naively wrote,--"Oh, you have a right to talk: you are the son of Pastor N. in X. Before you were twelve years old, you heard yourself called _Mr._ Gottlieb; and when you went with your father down the street, and the judge or a notary met you, they took off their hats, you waiting for your father to return the greeting, before you even lifted your cap. But I, as you well know, grew up as the son of a poor widow in Hausen; and when I accompanied my mother to Schopfheim or Basle, and we happened to meet a notary, she commanded, 'Peter, jerk your cap off, there's a gentleman!'--but when the judge or the counsellor appeared, she called out to me, when they were twenty paces off, 'Peter, stand still where you are, and off with your cap quick, the Lord Judge is comin'!' Now you can easily imagine how I feel, when I recall those times,--and I recall them often,--sitting in the Chamber among Barons, Counsellors of State, Ministers, and Generals, with Counts and Princes of the reigning House before me." Hebel may have felt that rank is but the guinea-stamp, but he never would have dared to speak it out with the defiant independence of Burns. Socially, however, he was thoroughly democratic in his tastes; and his chief objection to accepting the dignity of Prelate was the fear that it might restrict his intercourse with humbler friends.

His ambition appears to have been mainly confined to his theological labors, and he never could have dreamed that his after-fame was to rest upon a few poems in a rough mountain-dialect, written to beguile his intense longing for the wild scenery of his early home. After his transfer to Carlsruhe, he remained several years absent from the Black Forest; and the pictures of its dark hills, its secluded valleys, and their rude, warm-hearted, and unsophisticated inhabitants, became more and more fresh and lively in his memory. Distance and absence turned the quaint dialect to music, and out of this mild home-sickness grew the Alemannic poems. A healthy oyster never produces a pearl.

These poems, written in the years 1801 and 1802, were at first circulated in manuscript among the author's friends. He resisted the proposal to collect and publish them, until the prospect of pecuniary advantage decided him to issue an anonymous edition. The success of the experiment was so positive that in the course of five years four editions appeared,--a great deal for those days. Not only among his native Alemanni, and in Baden and Würtemberg, where the dialect was more easily understood, but from all parts of Germany, from poets and scholars, came messages of praise and appreciation. Jean Paul (Richter) was one of Hebel's first and warmest admirers. "Our Alemannic poet," he wrote, "has life and feeling for everything,--the open heart, the open arms of love; and every star and every flower are human in his sight.... In other, better words,--the evening-glow of a lovely, peaceful soul slumbers upon all the hills he bids arise; for the flowers of poetry he substitutes the flower-goddess Poetry herself; he sets to his lips the Swiss Alp-horn of youthful longing and joy, while pointing with the other hand to the sunset-gleam of the lofty glaciers, and dissolved in prayer, as the sound of the chapel-bells is flung down from the mountains."

Contrast this somewhat confused rhapsody with the clear, precise, yet genial words wherewith Goethe welcomed the new poet. He instantly seized, weighed in the fine balance of his ordered mind, and valued with nice discrimination, those qualities of Hebel's genius which had but stirred the splendid chaos of Richter with an emotion of vague delight. "The author of these poems," says he, in the Jena "Literaturzeitung," (1804,) "is about to achieve a place of his own on the German Parnassus. His talent manifests itself in two opposite directions. On the one hand, he observes with a fresh, cheerful glance those objects of Nature which express their life in positive existence, in growth and in motion, (objects which we are accustomed to call _lifeless_,) and thereby approaches the field of descriptive poetry; yet he succeeds, by his happy personifications, in lifting his pictures to a loftier plane of Art. On the other hand, he inclines to the didactic and the allegorical; but here, also, the same power of personification comes to his aid, and as, in the one case, he finds a soul for his bodies, so, in the other, he finds a body for his souls. As the ancient poets, and others who have been developed through a plastic sentiment for Art, introduce loftier spirits, related to the gods,--such as nymphs, dryads, and hamadryads,--in the place of rocks, fountains, and trees: so the author transforms these objects into peasants, and countrifies [_verbauert_] the universe in the most _naïve_, quaint, and genial manner, until the landscape, in which we nevertheless always recognize the human figure, seems to become one with man in the cheerful enchantment exercised upon our fancy."

This is entirely correct, as a poetic characterization. Hebel, however, possesses the additional merit--no slight one, either--of giving faithful expression to the thoughts, emotions, and passions of the simple people among whom his childhood was passed. The hearty native kindness, the tenderness, hidden under a rough exterior, the lively, droll, unformed fancy, the timidity and the boldness of love, the tendency to yield to temptation, and the unfeigned piety of the inhabitants of the Black Forest, are all reproduced in his poems. To say that they teach, more or less directly, a wholesome morality, is but indifferent praise; for morality is the cheap veneering wherewith would-be poets attempt to conceal the lack of the true faculty. We prefer to let our readers judge for themselves concerning this feature of Hebel's poetry.

The Alemannic dialect, we have said, is at first harsh to the ear. It requires, indeed, not a little practice, to perceive its especial beauties; since these consist in certain quaint, playful inflections and elisions, which, like the speech of children, have a fresh, natural, simple charm of their own. The changes of pronunciation, in German words, are curious. _K_ becomes a light guttural _ch_, and a great number of monosyllabic words--especially those ending in _ut_ and _üh_--receive a peculiar twist from the introduction of _e_ or _ei_: as _gut, früh_, which become _guet, früeih_. This seems to be a characteristic feature of the South-German dialects, though in none is it so pronounced as in the Alemannic. The change of _ist_ into _isch, hast_ into _hesch, ich_ into _i, dich_ into _de_, etc., is much more widely spread, among the peasantry, and is readily learned, even by the foreign reader. But a good German scholar would be somewhat puzzled by the consolidation of several abbreviated words into a single one, which occurs in almost every Alemannic sentence: for instance, in _woni_ he would have some difficulty in recognizing _wo ich; ságene_ does not suggest _sage ihnen_, nor _uffeme, auf einem_.

These singularities of the dialect render the translation of Hebel's poems into a foreign language a work of great difficulty. In the absence of any English dialect which possesses corresponding features, the peculiar quaintness and raciness which they confer must inevitably be lost. Fresh, wild, and lovely as the Schwarzwald heather, they are equally apt to die in transplanting. How much they lose by being converted into classical German was so evident to us (fancy, "Scots who have with Wallace bled"!) that we at first shrank from the experiment of reproducing them in a language still farther removed from the original. Certainly, classical English would not answer; the individual soul of the poems could never be recognized in such a garb. The tongue of Burns can be spoken only by a born Scot; and our Yankee, which is rather a grotesque English than a dialect, is unfortunately so associated with the coarse and the farcical--Lowell's little poem of "'Zekel's Courtship" being the single exception--that it seems hardly adapted to the simple and tender fancies of Hebel. Like the comedian whose one serious attempt at tragic acting was greeted with roars of laughter, as an admirable burlesque, the reader might, in such a case, persist in seeing fun where sentiment was intended.

In this dilemma, it occurred to us that the common, rude form of the English language, as it is spoken by the uneducated everywhere, without reference to provincial idioms, might possibly be the best medium. It offers, at least, the advantage of simplicity, of a directness of expression which overlooks grammatical rules, of natural pathos, even,--and therefore, so far as these traits go, may reproduce them without detracting seriously from the original. Those other qualities of the poems which spring from the character of the people of whom and for whom they were written must depend, for their recognition, on the sympathetic insight of the reader. We can only promise him the utmost fidelity in the translation, having taken no other liberty than the substitution of common idiomatic phrases, peculiar to our language, for corresponding phrases in the other. The original metre, in every instance, has been strictly adhered to.

The poems, only fifty-nine in number, consist principally of short songs or pastorals, and narratives. The latter are written in hexameter, but by no means classic in form. It is a rough, irregular metre, in which the trochees preponderate over the dactyls: many of the lines, in fact, would not bear a critical scansion. We have not scrupled to imitate this irregularity, as not inconsistent with the plain, ungrammatical speech of the characters introduced, and the homely air of even the most imaginative passages. The opening poem is a charmingly wayward idyl, called "The Meadow," (_Die Wiese_,) the name of a mountain-stream, which, rising in the Feldberg, the highest peak of the Black Forest, flows past Hausen, Hebel's early home, on its way to the Rhine. An extract from it will illustrate what Jean Paul calls the "hazardous boldness" of Hebel's personifications:--

Beautiful "Meadow," daughter o' Feldberg, I
welcome and greet you.
Listen: I'm goin' to sing a song, and all in
y'r honor,
Makin' a music beside ye, follerin' wherever
you wander.
Born unbeknown in the rocky, hidden heart
o' the mountain,
Suckled o' clouds and fogs, and weaned by
the waters o' heaven,
There you slep' like a babblin' baby, a-kep'
in the bed-room,
Secret, and tenderly cared-for: and eye o'
man never saw you,--
Never peeked through a key-hole and saw
my little girl sleepin'
Sound in her chamber o' crystal, rocked in
her cradle o' silver.
Neither an ear o' man ever listened to hear
her a-breathin',
No, nor her voice all alone to herself
a-laughin' or cryin'.
Only the close little spirits that know every
passage and entrance,
In and out dodgin', they brought ye up and
teached ye to toddle,
Gev' you a cheerful natur', and larnt you
how to be useful:
Yes, and their words didn't go into one ear
and out at the t'other.
Stand on your slippery feet as soon as may
be, and use 'em,
That you do, as you slyly creep from your
chamber o' crystal
Out o' doors, barefoot, and squint up to
heaven, mischievously smilin'.
Oh, but you're pretty, my darlin', y'r eyes
have a beautiful sparkle!
Isn't it nice, out o' doors? you didn't guess
't was so pleasant?
Listen, the leaves is rustlin', and listen, the
birdies a-singin'!
"Yes," says you, "but I'm goin' furder, and
can't stay to hear 'm:
Pleasant, truly, 's my way, and more so the
furder I travel."

Only see how spry my little one is at her
jumpin'!
"Ketch me!" she shouts, in her fun,--"if
you want me, foller and ketch me!"
Every minute she turns and jumps in another
direction.

There, you'll fall from the bank! You see,
she's done it: I said so.
Didn't I say it? And now she wobbles
furder and furder,
Creepin' along on all-fours, then off on her
legs she's a-toddlin',--
Slips in the bushes,--"Hunt me!"--and
there, on a sudden, she peeks out.
Wait, I'm a-comin'! Back o' the trees I
hear her a-callin':
"Guess where I am!"--she's whims of her
own, a plenty, and keeps 'em.
But, as you go, you're growin' han'somer,
bigger, and stronger.
Where the breath o' y'r breathin' falls, the
meadows is greener,
Fresher o' color, right and left, and the
weeds and the grasses
Sprout up as juicy as _can_ be, and posies o'
loveliest colors
Blossom as brightly as wink, and bees come
and suck 'em.
Water-wagtails come tiltin',--and, look!
there's the geese o' the village!
All are a-comin' to see you, and all want to
give you a welcome;
Yes, and you're kind o' heart, and you
prattle to all of 'em kindly;
"Come, you well-behaved creeturs, eat and
drink what I bring you,--
I must be off and away: God bless you,
well-behaved creeturs!"[A]

[Footnote A: As the reader of German may be curious to see a specimen of the original, we give this last passage, which contains, in a brief compass, many distinctive features of the Alemannic dialect:--

"Nei so lucg me doch, wie cha mi Meiddeli springe!
'Chunnsch mi über,' seits und lacht, 'und witt
mi, se hol mi!'
All' wil en andere Weg, und alliwil anderi
Sprüngli!
Fall mer nit sel Reiuli ab!--Do hemmer's, i sags io--
Hani's denn nit gseit? Doch gauckelet's witers
und witers,
Groblet uf alle Vieren, und stellt si wieder uf
d' Beinli,
Schlieft in d' Hürst--iez such mer's eisl--dört
güggelet's use,
Wart, i chumm! Druf rüefts mer wieder hinter
de Bäume:
'Roth wo bin i iez!'--und het si urige Phatest.
Aber wie de gosch, wirsch sichtli grösser und
schöner.
Wo di liebligen Othern weiht, so färbt si der Rase
Grüener rechts und links, es stöhn in saftige
Triebe
Gras und Chrüter uf, es stöhn in frischere Gstalte
Farbigi Blüemli do, und d' Immli chömmen und
suge.
'S Wasserstelzli chunnt, und lueg doch,'s Wuli
vo Todtnau!
Alles will di bschauen, und Alles will di bigrüsse,
Und di fründlig Herz git alle fründligi Rede:
'Chömmet ihr ordlige Thierli, do hender, esset
und trinket!
Witers goht mi Weg, Gsegott, ihr ordlige Thierli!'"
]

The poet follows the stream through her whole course, never dropping the figure, which is adapted, with infinite adroitness, and with the play of a fancy as wayward and unrestrained as her own waters, to all her changing aspects. Beside the Catholic chapel of Fair-Beeches she pauses to listen to the mass; but farther down the valley becomes an apostate, and attends the Lutheran service in the Husemer church. Stronger and statelier grown, she trips along with the step of a maiden conscious of her own beauty, and the poet clothes her in the costume of an Alemannic bride, with a green kirtle of a hundred folds, and a stomacher of Milan gauze, "like a loose cloud on a morning sky in spring-time." Thus equipped, she wanders at will over the broader meadows, around the feet of vineyard-hills, visits villages and churches, or stops to gossip with the lusty young millers. But the woman's destiny is before her; she cannot escape it; and the time is drawing near when her wild, singing, pastoral being shall be absorbed in that of the strong male stream, the bright-eyed son of the Alps, who has come so far to woo and win her.

Daughter o' Feldberg, half-and-half I've got
a suspicion
How as you've virtues and faults enough now
to choose ye a husband.
Castin' y'r eyes down, are you? Pickin' and
plattin' y'r ribbons?
Don't be so foolish, wench!--She thinks I
know nothin' about it,
How she's already engaged, and each is
a-waitin' for t'other.
Don't I know him, my darlin', the lusty
young fellow, y'r sweetheart?

Over powerful rocks, and through the hedges
and thickets,
Right away from the snowy Swiss mountains
he plunges at Rheineck
Down to the lake, and straight ahead swims
through it to Constance,
Sayin': "'T's no use o' talkin', I'll have
the gal I'm engaged to!"

But, as he reaches Stein, he goes a little more slowly,
Leavin' the lake where he's decently washed his feet and his body.
Diessenhofen don't please him,--no, nor the convent beside it.
For'ard he goes to Schaffhausen, onto the rocks at the corner;
There he says: "It's no use o' talkin', I'll git to my sweetheart:
Body and life I'll stake, cravat and embroidered suspenders."
Woop! but he jumps! And now he talks to hisself, goin' furder,
Giddy, belike, in his head, but pushes for'ard to Rheinau,
Eglisau, and Kaiserstuhl, and Zurzach, and Waldshut,--
All are behind him, passin' one village after another
Down to Grenzach, and out on the broad and beautiful bottoms
Nigh unto Basle; and there he must stop and look after his license.

* * * * *

Look! isn't that y'r bridegroom a-comin' down yonder to meet you?--
Yes, it's him, it's him, I hear't, for his voice is so jolly!
Yes, it's him, it's him,--with his eyes as blue as the heavens,
With his Swiss knee-breeches o' green, and suspenders o' velvet,
With his shirt o' the color o' pearl, and buttons o' crystal,
With his powerful loins, and his sturdy back and his shoulders,
Grand in his gait, commandin', beautiful, free in his motions,
Proud as a Basle Councilman,--yes, it's the big boy o' Gothard![B]

[Footnote B: The Rhine.]

The daring with which Hebel _countrifies_ (or, rather, _farmerizes_, to translate Goethe's--word more literally) the spirit of natural objects, carrying his personifications to that point where the imaginative borders on the grotesque, is perhaps his strongest characteristic. His poetic faculty, putting on its Alemannic costume, seems to abdicate all ambition of moving in a higher sphere of society, but within the bounds it has chosen allows itself the utmost range of capricious enjoyment. In another pastoral, called "The Oatmeal Porridge," he takes the grain which the peasant has sown, makes it a sentient creature, and carries it through the processes of germination, growth, and bloom, without once dropping the figure or introducing an incongruous epithet. It is not only a child, but a child of the Black Forest, uttering its hopes, its anxieties, and its joys in the familiar dialect. The beetle, in his eyes, becomes a gross, hard-headed boor, carrying his sacks of blossom-meal, and drinking his mug of XX morning-dew; the stork parades about to show his red stockings; the spider is at once machinist and civil engineer; and even the sun, moon, and morning-star are not secure from the poet's familiarities. In his pastoral of "The Field-Watchmen," he ventures to say,--

Mister Schoolmaster Moon, with y'r forehead wrinkled with teachin',
With y'r face full o' larnin', a plaster stuck on y'r cheek-bone,
Say, do y'r children mind ye, and larn their psalm and their texes?

We much fear that this over-quaintness of fancy, to which the Alemannic dialect gives such a racy flavor, and which belongs, in a lesser degree, to the minds of the people who speak that dialect, cannot be successfully clothed in an English dress. Let us try, therefore, a little poem, the sentiment whereof is of universal application:--

THE CONTENTED FARMER.

I guess I'll take my pouch, and fill
My pipe just once,--yes, that I will!
Turn out my plough and home'ards go:
_Buck_ thinks, enough's been done, I know.

Why, when the Emperor's council's done,
And he can hunt, and have his fun,
He stops, I guess, at any tree,
And fills his pipe as well as me.

But smokin' does him little good:
He can't have all things as he would.
His crown's a precious weight, at that:
It isn't like my old straw hat.

He gits a deal o' tin, no doubt,
But all the more he pays it out;
And everywheres they beg and cry
Heaps more than he can satisfy.

And when, to see that nothin' 's wrong,
He plagues hisself the whole day long,
And thinks, "I guess I've fixed it now,"
Nobody thanks him, anyhow.

And so, when in his bloody clo'es
The Gineral out o' battle goes,
He takes his pouch, too, I'll agree,
And fills his pipe as well as me.

But in the wild and dreadfle fight,
His pipe don't taste ezackly right:
He's galloped here and galloped there,
And things a'n't pleasant, anywhere.

And sich a cursin': "Thunder!" "Hell!"
And "Devil!" (worse nor I can tell:)
His grannydiers in blood lay down,
And yonder smokes a burnin' town.

And when, a-travellin' to the Fairs,
The merchant goes with all his wares,
He takes a pouch o' th' best, I guess,
And fills and smokes his pipe, no less.

Poor devil, 't isn't good for you!
With all y'r gold, you've trouble, too.
Twice two is four, if stocks'll rise:
I see the figgers in your eyes.

It's hurry, worry, tare and tret;
Ye ha'n't enough, the more ye get,--
And couldn't use it, if ye had:
No wonder that y'r pipe tastes bad!

But good, thank God! and wholesome's mine:
The bottom-wheat is growin' fine,
And God, o' mornin's, sends the dew,
And sends his breath o' blessin', too.

And, home, there's Nancy bustlin' round:
The supper's ready, I'll be bound,
And youngsters waitin'. Lord! I vow
I dunno which is smartest, now.

My pipe tastes good; the reason's plain:
(I guess I'll fill it once again:)
With cheerful heart, and jolly mood,
And goin' home, all things is good.

Hebel's narrative poems abound with the wayward pranks of a fancy which seems a little too restive to be entirely controlled by his artistic sense; but they possess much dramatic truth and power. He delights in the supernatural element, but approaches it from the gentler human side. In "The Carbuncle," only, we find something of that weird, uncanny atmosphere which casts its glamour around the "Tam O'Shanter" of Burns. A more satisfactory illustration of his peculiar qualities is "The Ghost's Visit on the Feldberg,"--a story told by a loafer of Basle to a group of beer-drinkers in the tavern at Todtnau, a little village at the foot of the mountain. This is, perhaps, the most popular of Hebel's poems, and we therefore translate it entire. The superstition that a child born on Sunday has the power of seeing spirits is universal among the German peasantry.

THE GHOST'S VISIT ON THE FELDBERG.

Hark ye, fellows o' Todtnau, if ever I told
you the Scythe-Ghost[C]
Was a spirit of Evil, I've now got a different
story.
Out of the town am I,--yes, that I'll honestly
own to,--
Related to merchants, at seven tables free to
take pot-luck.
But I'm a Sunday's child; and wherever the ghosts
at the cross-roads
Stand in the air, in vaults, and cellars, and
out-o'-way places,--
Guardin' hidden money with eyes like fiery
sauce-pans,
Washin' with bitter tears the spot where
somebody's murdered,
Shovellin' the dirt, and scratchin' it over
with nails all so bloody,--
Clear as day I can see, when it lightens.
Ugh! how they whimper!
Also, whenever with beautiful blue eyes the
heavenly angels,
Deep in the night, in silent, sleepin'
villages wander,
Peekin' in at the windows, and talkin'
together so pleasant,
Smilin' one at the t'other, and settin'
outside o' the house-doors,
So that the pious folks shall take no harm
while they're sleepin':
Then ag'in, when in couples or threes they
walk in the grave-yard,
Talkin' in this like: "There a faithful
mother is layin';
And here's a man that was poor, but took no
advantage o' no one:
Take your rest, for you're tired,--we'll waken
ye up when the time comes!"
Clearly I see by the light o' the stars, and I
hear them a-talkin'.
Many I know by their names, and speak to,
whenever I meet 'em,
Give 'em the time o' day, and ask 'em, and
answer their questions.
"How do ye do?" "How's y'r watch?"
"Praise God, it's tolerable, thank you!"
Believe it, or not! Well, once on a time my
cousin, he sent me
Over to Todtnau, on business with all sorts o'
troublesome people,
Where you've coffee to drink, and biscuit
they give you to soak in 't.
"Don't you stop on the road, nor gabble
whatever comes foremost,"
Hooted my cousin at startin', "nor don't you
let go o' your snuff-box,
Leavin' it round in the tavern, as gentlemen
do, for the next time."
Up and away I went, and all that my cousin
he'd ordered
Fairly and squarely I fixed. At the sign o'
the Eagle in Todtnau
Set for a while; then, sure o' my way, tramped
off ag'in, home'ards,
Nigh by the village, I reckoned,--but found
myself climbin' the Feldberg,
Lured by the birdies, and down by the brooks
the beautiful posies:
That's a weakness o' mine,--I ran like a fool
after such things.
Now it was dusk, and the birdies hushed up,
settin' still on the branches.
Hither and yonder a starlie stuck its head
through the darkness,
Peekin' out, as oncertain whether the sun was
in bed yet,--
Whether it mightn't come, and called to the
other ones: "Come now!"
Then I knowed I was lost, and laid myself
down,--I was weary:
There, you know, there's a hut, and I found
an armful o' straw in 't.
"Here's a go!" I thinks to myself, "and I
wish I was safely
Cuddled in bed to home,--or 't was midnight,
and some little spirit
Somewhere popped out, as o' nights when it's
twelve they're accustomed,
Passin' the time with me, friendly, till winds
that blow early o' mornin's
Blow out the heavenly lights, and I see the
way back to the village."
Now, as thinkin' in this like, I felt all over my
watch-face,--
Dark as pitch all around,--and felt with my
finger the hour-hand,
Found it was nigh onto 'leven, and hauled my
pipe from my pocket,
Thinkin': "Maybe a bit of a smoke'll keep
me from snoozin'":
Thunder! all of a sudden beside me was two
of 'em talkin',
Like as they'd business together! You'd
better believe that I listened.
"Say, a'n't I late a-comin'? Because there
was, over in Mambach,
Dyin', a girl with pains in the bones and terrible
fever:
Now, but she's easy! I held to her mouth the
drink o' departure,
So that the sufferin' ceased, and softly lowered
the eyelids,
Sayin': 'Sleep, and in peace,--I'll waken
thee up when the time comes!'
Do me the favor, brother: fetch in the basin o'
silver
Water, ever so little: my scythe, as you see,
must be whetted."
"Whetted?" says I to myself, "and a spirit?"
and peeked from the window.
Lo and behold, there sat a youngster with
wings that was golden;
White was his mantle, white, and his girdle
the color o' roses,
Fair and lovely to see, and beside him two
lights all a-burnin'.
"All the good spirits," says I, "Mr. Angel,
God have you in keepin'!"
"Praise their Master, the Lord," said the angel;
"God thank you, as I do!"
"Take no offence, Mr. Ghost, and by y'r good
leave and permission,
Tell me, what have you got for to mow?"
"Why, the scythe!" was his answer.
"Yes," says I, "for I see it; and that is my
question exackly,
What you're goin' to do with the scythe."
"Why, to mow!" was his answer.
Then I ventur'd to say: "And that is my question
exackly,
What you're goin' to mow, supposin' you're
willin' to tell me."
"Grass! And what is your business so late up
here in the night-time?"
"Nothin' special," I answered; "I'm burnin'
a little tobacco.
Lost my way, or most likely I'd be at the
Eagle, in Todtnau.
But to come to the subject, supposin' it isn't
a secret,
Tell me, what do you make o' the grass?"
And he answered me: "Fodder!"
"Don't understand it," says I; "for the Lord
has no cows up in heaven."
"Not precisely a cow," he remarked, "but
heifers and asses.
Seest, up yonder, the star?" and he pointed
one out with his finger.
"There's the ass o' the Christmas-Child, and
Fridolin's heifers,[D]
Breathin' the starry air, and waitin' for grass
that I bring 'em:
Grass doesn't grow there,--nothin' grows but
the heavenly raisins,
Milk and honey a-runnin' in rivers, plenty as
water:
But they're particular cattle,--grass they
must have every mornin',
Mouthfuls o' hay, and drink from earthly
fountains they're used to.
So for them I'm a-whettin' my scythe, and
soon must be mowin':
Wouldn't it be worth while, if politely you'd
offer to help me?"
So the angel he talked, and this way I answered
the angel:
"Hark ye, this it is, just: and I'll go wi' the
greatest o' pleasure.
Folks from the town know nothin' about it:
we write and we cipher,
Reckon up money,--that we can do!--and
measure and weigh out,
Unload, and on-load, and eat and drink without
any trouble.
All that we want for the belly, in kitchen,
pantry, and cellar,
Comes in lots through every gate, in baskets
and boxes,
Runs in every street, and cries at every
corner:
'Buy my cherries!' and 'Buy my butter!'
and 'Look at my salad!'
'Buy my onions!' and 'Here's your carrots!'
and 'Spinage and parsley!'
'Lucifer matches! Lucifer matches!' 'Cabbage
and turnips!'
'Here's your umbrellas!' 'Caraway-seed and
juniper-berries!
Cheap for cash, and all to be traded for sugar
and coffee!'
Say, Mr. Angel, didst ever drink coffee?
how do you like it?"
"Stop with y'r nonsense!" then he said, but
he couldn't help laughin';
"No, we drink but the heavenly air, and eat
nothin' but raisins,
Four on a day o' the week, and afterwards five
on a Sunday.
Come, if you want to go with me, now, for
I'm off to my mowin',
Back o' Todtnau, there on the grassy holt by
the highway."
"Yes, Mr. Angel, that will I truly, seein'
you're willin':
Seems to me that it's cooler: give me y'r
scythe for to carry:
Here's a pipe and a pouch,--you're welcome
to smoke, if you want to."
While I was talkin', "Poohoo!" cried the
angel. A fiery man stood,
Quicker than lightnin', beside me. "Light us
the way to the village!"
Said he. And truly before us marched, a-burnin',
the Poohoo,
Over stock and rock, through the bushes, a
travellin' torch-light.
"Handy, isn't it?" laughin', the angel said.
--"What are ye doin'?
Why do you nick at y'r flint? You can light
y'r pipe at the Poohoo.
Use him whenever you like: but it seems to
me you're a-frightened,--
You, and a Sunday's-child, as you are: do you
think he will bite you?"
"No, he ha'n't bit me; but this you'll allow
me to say, Mr. Angel,--
Half-and-half I mistrust him: besides, my tobacco's
a-burnin'.
That's a weakness o' mine,--I'm afeard o'
them fiery creeturs:
Give me seventy angels, instead o' this big
burnin' devil!"
"Really, it's dreadfle," the angel says he,
"that men is so silly,
Fearful o' ghosts and spectres, and skeery
without any reason.
Two of 'em only is dangerous, two of 'em hurtful
to mankind:
One of 'em's known by the name o' Delusion,
and Worry the t'other.
Him, Delusion, 's a dweller in wine: from
cans and decanters
Up to the head he rises, and turns your sense
to confusion.
This is the ghost that leads you astray in forest
and highway:
Undermost, uppermost, hither and yon the
ground is a-rollin',
Bridges bendin', and mountains movin', and
everything double.
Hark ye, keep out of his way!" "Aha!"
I says to the angel,
"There you prick me, but not to the blood: I
see what you're after.
Sober am I, as a judge. To be sure, I emptied
my tankard
Once, at the Eagle,--_once_,--and the landlord
'll tell you the same thing,
S'posin' you doubt me. And now, pray, tell
me who is the t'other?"
"Who is the t'other? Don't know without
askin'?" answered the angel.
"He's a terrible ghost: the Lord forbid you
should meet him!
When you waken early, at four or five in the
mornin',
There he stands a-waitin' with burnin eyes
at y'r bed-side,
Gives you the time o' day with blazin switches
and pinchers:
Even prayin' don't help, nor helps all your
_Ave Marias!_
When you begin 'em, he takes your jaws and
claps 'em together;
Look to heaven, he comes and blinds y'r eyes
with his ashes;
Be you hungry, and eat, he pizons y'r soup
with his wormwood;
Take you a drink o' nights, he squeezes gall
in the tankard;
Run like a stag, he follows as close on y'r trail
as a blood-hound;
Creep like a shadow, be whispers: 'Good! we
had best take it easy';
Kneels at y'r side in the church, and sets at
y'r side in the tavern.
Go wherever you will, there's ghosts a-hoverin'
round you.
Shut your eyes in y'r bed, they mutter:
'There 's no need o' hurry;
By-and-by you can sleep, but listen! we've
somethin' to tell you:
Have you forgot how you stoled? and how
you cheated the orphans?
Secretly sinned?'--and this, and t'other;
and when they have finished,
Say it over ag'in, and you get little good o'
your slumber."
So the angel he talked, and, like iron under
the hammer,
Sparked and spirited the Poohoo. "Surely,"
I says to the angel,
"Born on a Sunday was I, and friendly with
many a preacher,
Yet the Father protect me from these!" Says
he to me, smilin':
"Keep y'r conscience pure; it is better than
crossin' and blessin'.
Here we must part, for y'r way turns off and
down to the village.
Take the Poohoo along, but mind! put him
out, in the meadow,
Lest he should run in the village, settin' fire
to the stables.
God be with you and keep you!" And then
says I: "Mr. Angel,
God, the Father, protect you! Be sure, when
you come to the city,
Christmas evenin', call, and I'll hold it an
honor to see you:
Raisins I'll have at your service, and hippocras,
if you like it.
Chilly 's the air, o' evenin's, especially down
by the river."
Day was breakin' by this, and right there was
Todtnau before me!
Past, and onward to Basle I wandered, i' the
shade and the coolness.
When into Mambach I came, they bore a dead
girl to the grave-yard,
After the Holy Cross, and the faded banner o'
Heaven,
With the funeral garlands upon her, with sobbin'
and weepin'.
Ah, but she 'd heard what he said! he'll
waken her up when the time comes.
Afterwards, Tuesday it was, I got safely back
to my cousin;
But it turned out as he said,--I'd somewhere
forgotten my snuff-box!

[Footnote C: _Dengle-Geist_, literally, "Whetting-Spirit." The exact meaning of _dengeln_ is to sharpen a scythe by hammering the edge of the blade, which was practised before whetstones came in use.]

[Footnote D: According to an old legend, Fridolin (a favorite saint with the Catholic population of the Black Forest) harnessed two young heifers to a mighty fir-tree, and hauled it into the Rhine near Säckingen, thereby damming the river and forcing it to take a new course, on the other side of the town.]

In this poem the hero of the story unconsciously describes himself by his manner of telling it,--a reflective action of the dramatic faculty, which Browning, among living poets, possesses in a marked degree. The "moral" is so skilfully inwoven into the substance of the narrative as to conceal the appearance of design, and the reader has swallowed the pill before its sugar-coating of fancy has dissolved in his mouth. There are few of Hebel's poems which were not written for the purpose of inculcating some wholesome lesson, but in none does this object prominently appear. Even where it is not merely implied, but directly expressed, he contrives to give it the air of having been accidentally suggested by the theme. In the following, which is the most pointedly didactic of all his productions, the characteristic fancy still betrays itself:--

THE GUIDE-POST.

D' ye know the road to th' bar'l o' flour?
At break o' day let down the bars,
And plough y'r wheat-field, hour by hour,
Till sundown,--yes, till shine o' stars.

You peg away, the livelong day,
Nor loaf about, nor gape around;
And that's the road to the thrashin'-floor,
And into the kitchen, I'll be bound!

D' ye know the road where dollars lays?
Follow the red cents, here and there:
For if a man leaves them, I guess,
He won't find dollars anywhere.

D' ye know the road to Sunday's rest?
Jist don't o' week-days be afeard;
In field and workshop do y'r best,
And Sunday comes itself, I've heerd.
On Saturdays it's not fur off,
And brings a basketful o' cheer,--
A roast, and lots o' garden-stuff,
And, like as not, a jug o' beer!

D' ye know the road to poverty?
Turn in at any tavern-sign:
Turn in,--it's temptin' as can be:
There's bran'-new cards and liquor fine.

In the last tavern there's a sack,
And, when the cash y'r pocket quits,
Jist hang the wallet on y'r back,--
You vagabond! see how it fits!

D' ye know what road to honor leads,
And good old age?--a lovely sight!
By way o' temperance, honest deeds,
And tryin' to do y'r dooty right.

And when the road forks, ary side,
And you're in doubt which one it is,
Stand still, and let y'r conscience guide:
Thank God, it can't lead much amiss!

And now, the road to church-yard gate
You needn't ask! Go anywhere!
For, whether roundabout or straight,
All roads, at last, 'll bring you there.