Zigzag Journeys in Northern Lands. The Rhine to the Arctic. A Summer Trip of the Zig-Zag Club Through Holland, Germany, Denmark, Norway, and Sweden

One day the cobbler’s wife was at the market as usual, and her little boy was with her, when a strange old woman entered the stalls.

The woman hardly seemed human. She had red eyes, a wizened, pinched-up face, and her nose was sharp and hooked, and almost reached to her chin. Her dress was made up of rags and tatters. Never before had there entered the market such a repulsive-looking person.

“Are you Hannah the herb-woman?” she asked, bobbing her head to and fro. “Eh?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see, let me see; you may have some herbs I want.”

She thrust her skinny hands into the herbs, took them up and smelled of them, crushing them as she did so.

Having mauled them to her heart’s content, she shook her head, saying, —

“Bad stuff; rubbish; nothing I want; rubbish, rubbish, – eh?”

“You are an impudent old hag,” said the cobbler’s boy, Jamie; “you have crushed our herbs, held them under your ugly nose, and now condemn them.”

“Aha, my son, you do not like my nose, – eh? You shall have one, too, to pay for this, – eh?”

“If you want to buy anything, pray do so at once,” said the cobbler’s wife; “you are keeping other customers away.”

“I will buy something,” said the hag viciously; “I will buy. I will take these six cabbages. Six? That is more than I can carry, as I have to lean upon my stick. You must let your boy take them home for me.”

This was but a reasonable request, and the cobbler’s wife consented.

Jamie did as he was bid, and followed the hag to her home. It was a long distance there. At last the beldam stopped in an out-of-the-way part of the town, before a strange-looking house. She touched a rusty key to the door, which flew open, and, as the two entered, a most astonishing sight was revealed to Jamie’s eyes.

The interior of the house was like a throne-room in a palace, the ceilings were of marble and gold, and the furniture was jewelled ebony.

The old woman took a silver whistle and blew it. Little animals – guinea pigs and squirrels – answered the call. They were dressed like children, and walked on two legs; they could talk and understand what was said to them. Was the beldam an enchantress, and were these little animals children, whom she had stolen and made victims of her enchantments?

“Sit down, child,” said the old woman, in a soft voice, “sit down; you have had a heavy load to carry. Sit down, and I will make you a delicious soup; one that you will remember as long as you live. It will contain some of the herb for which I was looking in the market and did not find. Sit down.”

The beldam hurried hither and thither, and with the help of the guinea pigs and squirrels quickly made the soup.

“There, my child, eat that. It contains the magic herb I could not find in the market. Why did your mother not have it? Whoever eats that will become a magic cook.”

Jamie had never tasted such delicious soup. It seemed to intoxicate him. It produced a stupor. He felt a great change coming over him. He seemed to become one of the family of guinea pigs and squirrels, and, like them, to serve their mistress. Delightful little people they were, – he came to regard them as brothers; and time flew by.

Years flew by, and other years, when one day the dame took her crutch and went out. She left her herb-room open, and he went in. In one of the secret cupboards he discovered an herb that had the same scent as the soup he had eaten years before. He examined it. The leaves were blue and the blossoms crimson. He smelt of it.

He began to sneeze, – such a delightful sneeze! He smelt, and sneezed again. Suddenly he seemed to awake, as from a dream, – as though some strange enchantment had been broken.

“I must go home,” he said. “How mother will laugh when I tell her my dream! I ought not to have gone to sleep in a strange house.”

He went out into the street. The children and idlers began to follow him.

“Oho, oho! look, what a strange dwarf! Look at his nose! Never the like was seen before.”

Jamie tried to discover the dwarf, but could not see him.

He reached the market. His mother was there, a sad old woman, in the same place. She seemed altered; looked many years older than when he left her. She leaned her head wearily on her hand.

“What is the matter, mother dear?” he asked.

She started up.

“What do you want of me, you poor dwarf? Do not mock me. I have had sorrow, and cannot endure jokes.”

“But, mother, what has happened?”

He rushed towards her to embrace her, but she leaped into the air.

The market-women came to her and drove him away.

He went to his father’s cobbler’s shop. His father was there, but he looked like an old man.

“Good gracious! what is that?” said he wildly, as Jamie appeared.

“How are you getting on, master?” asked Jamie.

“Poorly enough. I’m getting old, and have no one to help me.”

“Have you no son?”

“I had one, years ago.”

“Where is he now?”

“Heaven only knows. He was kidnapped one market-day, seven years ago.”

“Seven years ago!”

Jamie turned away. The people on the street stared at him, and the ill-bred children followed him. He chanced to pass a barber’s shop, where was a looking-glass in the window. He stopped and saw himself.

The sight filled him with terror. He was a dwarf, with a nose like that of the strange old woman.

What should he do?

He remembered that the old woman had said that the eating of the magic soup that contained the magic herb would make him a magic cook.

He went to the palace of the duke and inquired for the major domo. He was kindly received, as dwarfs are in such places, and he asked to be employed in the kitchen, and allowed to show his skill in preparing some of the rare dishes for the table.

No one in the ducal palace was able to produce such food as he. He was made chief cook in a little time, and enjoyed the duke’s favor for two years. He grew fat, was honored at the great feasts, and became the wonder of the town.

Now happened the strangest thing of his strange life.

(Ye that have eyes, prepare to open them now.)

One morning he went to the goose market to buy some nice fat geese, such as he knew the duke would relish. He purchased a cage of three geese, but he noticed that one of the geese did not quack and gabble like the others.

“The poor thing must be sick,” he said; “I will make haste to kill her.”

To his great astonishment, the goose made answer: —

“Stop my breath,And I will cause your early death.”

Then he knew that the goose was some enchanted being, and he resolved to spare her life.

“You have not always had feathers on you, as now?” said the dwarf.

“No; I am Mimi, daughter of Waterbrook the Great.”

“Prithee be calm; I will be your friend; I know how to pity you. I was once a squirrel myself.”

Now the duke made a great feast, and invited the prince. The prince was highly pleased with the ducal dishes, and praised the cook.

“But there is one dish that you have not provided,” said the prince.

“What is that?” asked the duke.

“Pâté Suzerain.”

The duke ordered the dwarf to make the rare dish for the next banquet.

The dwarf obeyed.

When the prince had tasted, he pushed it aside, and said, —

“There is one thing lacking, – one peculiar herb. It is not like that which is provided for my own table.”

The duke, in a towering passion, sent for the dwarf.

“If you do not prepare this dish rightly for the next banquet,” he said, “you shall lose your head.”

Now the dwarf was in great distress, and he went to consult with the goose.

“I know what is wanting,” said the goose; “it is an herb called Sneeze with Delight. I will help you find it.”

The dwarf took the goose under his arm, and asked of the guard, who had been placed over him until he should prepare the dish, permission to go into the garden.

They were allowed to go. They searched in vain for a long time; but at last the goose spied the magic leaf across the lake, and swam across, and returned with it in her bill.

“’Tis the magic herb the old woman used in the soup,” said the dwarf. “Thank the Fates! we may now be delivered from our enchantment.”

He took a long, deep sniff of the herb. He then sneezed with delight, and lo! he began to grow, and his nose began to shrink, and he was transformed to the handsomest young man in all the land.

He took the goose under his arm, and walked out of the palace yard. He carried her to a great magician, who delivered her from her enchantment, and she sneezed three sneezes, and became the handsomest lady in all the kingdom.

Now, Mimi’s father was very rich, and he loaded Jamie with presents, which were worth a great fortune.

Then handsome Jamie married the lovely Mimi; and he brought his old father and mother to live with them in a palace, and they were all exceedingly happy.

“What is the moral of such a tale as that?” asked one of the Club.

“If you have any crookedness, to find the magic herb,” said Charlie.

Charlie Leland, the President, closed the exercises with some translations of his own, which he called “Stories in Verse.” We give two of them here; each relates an incident of Eberhard, the good count, whom German poets have often remembered in song.

THE RICHEST PRINCEIn a stately hall in the city of Worms,A festive table was laid;The lamps a softened radiance shed,And sweet the music played.Then the Saxon prince, and Bavaria’s lord,And the Palsgrave of the Rhine,And Würtemberg’s monarch, Eberhard,Came into that hall to dine.Said the Saxon prince, with pride elate,“My lords, I have wealth untold:There are gems in my mountain gorges great;In my valleys are mines of gold.”“Thou hast boasted well,” said Bavaria’s lord,“But mine is a nobler land:I have famous cities, and castled towns,And convents old and grand.”“And better still is my own fair land,”Said the Palsgrave of the Rhine:“There are sunny vineyards upon the hills;In the valleys are presses of wine.”Then bearded Eberhard gently said,“My lords, I have neither gold,Nor famous cities, nor castled towns,Nor convents grand and old.“I have no vineyards upon the hills,In the valleys no presses of wine;But God has given a treasure to meAs noble as any of thine.“I wind my horn on the rocky steep,In the heart of the greenwood free,And I safely lay me down and sleepOn any subject’s knee.”Oh, then the princes were touched at heart,And they said, in that stately hall,“Thou art richer than we, Count Eberhard;Thy treasure is greater than all.”EQUALITYThe banners waved, the bugles rung,The fight was hot and hard;Beneath the walls of Doffingen,Fast fell the ranks of Suabian menLed on by Eberhard.Count Ulric was a valiant youth,The son of Eberhard;The banners waved, the bugles rung,His spearmen on the foe he flung,And pressed them sore and hard.“Ulric is slain!” the nobles cried, —The bugles ceased to blow;But soon the monarch’s order ran:“My son is as another man,Press boldly on the foe!”And fiercer now the fight began,And harder fell each blow;But still the monarch’s order ran:“My son is as another man,Press, press upon the foe!”Oh, many fell at DoffingenBefore the day was done;But victory blessed the Suabian men,And happy bugles played again,At setting of the sun.

CHAPTER V.

THE SECOND MEETING OF THE CLUB

Constance. – The Story of Huss. – Bismarck and the German Government. – The Story of the Heart of Stone. – Poem. – Seven Nights on the Rhine: Night First

THE second meeting of the Club was opened by Mr. Beal with an account of Constance, and of the great Council that convened there in 1414.

“Via Mala! So the old Romans called the road near the source of the Rhine. It passed over and through dark and awful chasms, that the river, as it came down from the Alps, had been tunnelling for thousands of years.

“The Rhine is the gift of the Alps, as Egypt is the gift of the Nile. From its source amid the peaks of the clouds to its first great reservoir, the Lake of Constance, it passes through one of the wildest and most picturesque regions in the world. It is not strange that the Romans should have called their old Swiss road Via Mala.

“Lake Constance! How our heads bent and our feelings kindled and glowed when we beheld it! It is the most beautiful lake that Germany possesses. It is walled by snow-capped mountains, whose tops seem like islands in the blue lakes of the skies. Quaint towns are nestled among the groves of the shore; towers, with bells ringing soft and melodious in the still air. The water is like emerald. Afar, zigzagging sails flap mechanically in the almost pulseless air.

“There is color everywhere, of all hues: high, rich tones of color; low tones. Piles of gems on the mountains, gloomy shadows in the groves; a deep cerulean sky above, that the sunlight fills like a golden sea. At sunset the lake seems indeed like the vision that John saw, – ‘a sea of glass, mingled with fire.’

“The town of Constance, once a great city, is as old as the period of Constantine. When Charlemagne went to Rome to receive the imperial crown, he rested here. Here a long line of German kings left the associations of great festivities; here those kings passed their Christmases and Easters. Here convened brilliant regal assemblies. Here the ambassadors from Milan appeared before Barbarossa, and delivered to him the golden key of the Italian states.

“But these events are of comparatively small importance in comparison with the so-called Holy Council of Constance, in 1414. It was a time of spiritual dearth in the world. Arrogance governed the Church, and immorality flourished in it. There were three popes, each at war with the others, – John XXIII., Benedict XII., and Gregory XII.

“The Council was called to choose a pope, and to reform the Church. The town for four years became the centre of European history. Hither came kings and princes; the court of the world was here.

“The town filled, and filled. It was like a great fair. Delegates came from the North and the South, the East and the West. There were splendid fêtes; luxury and vainglory. At one time there were present a hundred thousand men.

“The Council accomplished nothing by way of reform, except to induce the three rival popes to relinquish their claims to a fourth; but it stained its outward glory with a crime that will never be forgotten.

“When we were in Florence, – beautiful Florence! – the tragedy of Savonarola rose before us like a spectre in the history of the past. Savonarola tried to reform the conduct of the clergy and to maintain the purity of the Church, but failed. He made the republic of Florence a model Christian commonwealth. Debauchery was suppressed, gambling was prohibited, the licentious factions of the times were there publicly destroyed. He arraigned Rome for her sins. The Roman party turned against him and accused him of heresy, the punishment of which was death. He declared his innocence, and desired to test it with his accusers by walking through a field of living fire. He believed God would protect him from the flames, like the worthies of old. His enemies were unwilling to go with him into the fiery ordeal. He was condemned and executed. The martyr of Florence in after years became one of its saints.

“At Constance a like tragedy haunted us. Constance has been called ‘the city of Huss.’

“Among the mighty ones who wended their way to the city of the lake, to attend the great Council, was a pale, thin man, in mean attire. He had been invited to the Council by the Emperor Sigismund, who promised to protect his person and his life. He was a Bohemian reformer; a follower of Wycliffe. He was graciously received, but was soon after thrown into prison on the charge of heresy.

“They led him in chains before the Council, which assembled in an old hall, which is still shown. The emperor sat upon the throne as president.

“He confessed to having read and disseminated the writings of Wycliffe.

“He was required to denounce the English reformer as one of the souls of the lost.

“‘If he be lost, then I could wish my soul were with his,’ he said firmly.

“This was pronounced to be heresy.

“The emperor declared that he was not obliged to keep his word to heretics, and that his promise to protect the life of the Bohemian was no longer binding.

“He was condemned to death. He was stripped of his priestly robes, and the cup of the sacrament was taken from his hands with a curse.

“‘I trust I shall drink of it this day in the kingdom of heaven,’ he said.

“‘We devote thy soul to the devils in hell,’ was the answer of the prelates.

“He was led away, guarded by eight hundred horsemen, to a meadow without the gates. Here he was burned alive, and triumphed in soul amid the flames.

“Such was the end of John Huss, the Savonarola of Constance.

“We made an excursion upon the lake. The appearance of the old city from the water is one of the most beautiful that can meet the eye. It seems more like an artist’s dream than a reality, – floating towers in a crystal atmosphere.

“‘Girt round with rugged mountains,The fair Lake Constance lies.’

“The lake is walled with mountains, and wears a chain of castle-like towns, like a necklace.

“It would be delightful to spend a summer there. Excursions on the steamers can be made at almost any time of the day. One can visit in this way five different old countries, – Baden, Würtemberg, Bavaria, Austria, and Switzerland.”

Mr. Beal’s succinct account of the old city led to a discussion of the gains of civilization from martyrdoms for principle and progress. He was followed by Master Lewis, who gave the Class some account of

BISMARCK AND THE GERMAN GOVERNMENT

In the eyes of the multitude, Bismarck is a great but unscrupulous statesman, intent upon uniting Germany and making it the leading nation of Europe. As a man, he seems hard-headed, self-willed, and iron-handed. As a ruler, he is looked upon as the incarnation of the despotic spirit, – a believer in force, an infidel as to moral suasion.

Many persons who sympathize with his policy censure the means by which he executes it. They do not consider that so long as that policy is threatened from within and without, the Chancellor must trust in force; nor do they read the lesson of the centuries, —Force must rule until Right reigns.

The fact is not apprehended by the unthinking multitude, that the work of grafting a statesman’s policy into the life of a nation requires, like grafting a fruit-tree, excision, incision, pressure, and time.

But it is not of Bismarck’s policy I would first speak, but of that which few credit him with possessing, – his moral convictions. Strange as it may seem to those who know only the Chancellor, Bismarck is not only a religious man, but his religion is the foundation of his policy.

Dr. Busch, one of the statesman’s secretaries, in a recent book, “Bismarck in the Franco-German War,” narrates incidents and reports private conversations which justify this assertion.

On the eve of his leaving Berlin to join the army, the Chancellor partook of the Lord’s Supper. The solemn rite was celebrated in his own room, that it might not appear as an exhibition of official piety.

One morning Bismarck was called suddenly from his bed to see a French general. Dr. Busch, on entering the bedroom just after the chief had left it, found everything in disorder. On the floor was a book of devotion, “Daily Watchwords and Texts of the Moravian Brethren for 1870.” On the table by the bed was another, “Daily Refreshment for Believing Christians.”

“The Chancellor reads in them every night,” said Bismarck’s valet to Dr. Busch, seeing his surprise.

One day, while dining with his staff, several of whom were “free-thinkers,” Bismarck turned the conversation into a serious vein. A secretary had spoken of the feeling of duty which pervaded the German army, from the private to the general.

Bismarck caught the idea and tossed it still higher. “The feeling of duty,” he said, “in a man who submits to be shot dead on his post, alone, in the dark, is due to what is left of belief in our people. He knows that there is Some One who sees him when the lieutenant does not see him.”

“Do you believe, Your Excellency,” asked a secretary, “that they really reflect on this?”

“Reflect? no: it is a feeling, a tone, an instinct. If they reflect they lose it. Then they talk themselves out of it.

“How,” Bismarck continued, “without faith in a revealed religion, in a God who wills what is good, in a Supreme Judge, and in a future life, men can live together harmoniously, each doing his duty and letting every one else do his, I do not understand.”

There was a pause in the conversation, and the Chancellor then gave expression to his faith.

“If I were no longer a Christian,” he said, “I would not remain for an hour at my post. If I could not count upon my God, assuredly I should not do so on earthly masters.

“Why should I,” he continued, “disturb myself and work unceasingly in this world, exposing myself to all sorts of vexations, if I had not the feeling that I must do my duty for God’s sake? If I did not believe in a Divine order, which has destined this German nation for something good and great, I would at once give up the business of a diplomatist. Orders and titles have no charm for me.”

There was another pause, for the staff were silent before this revelation of their chief’s inner life. He continued to lay bare the foundations of his statesmanship.

“I owe the firmness which I have shown for ten years against all possible absurdities only to my decided faith. Take from me this faith, and you take from me my fatherland. If I were not a believing Christian, if I had not the supernatural basis of religion, you would not have had such a Chancellor.

“I delight in country life, in the woods, and in nature,” he said, in the course of the conversation. “Take from me my relation to God, and I am the man who will pack up to-morrow and be off to Varzin [his farm] to grow my oats.”

The surprise with which these revelations of a statesman’s inner life are read is due to their singularity. Neither history nor biography is so full of instances of statesmen confessing their faith in God and in Christianity, at a dinner-table surrounded by “free-thinkers,” as to prevent the reading of these revelations from being both interesting and stimulating.

“I live among heathen,” said the Chancellor, as he concluded this acknowledgment that his religion was the basis of his statesmanship. “I don’t seek to make proselytes, but I am obliged to confess my faith.”

Prince von Bismarck was born in 1813. His political history is similar to Emperor William’s, which I related at our last meeting. The Emperor and his Chancellor, in matters of state, have been as one man. Each has aimed to secure the unity of the German empire. Each has sought to disarm, on the one hand, that branch of the Catholic party who give their allegiance to Rome rather than the government, the so-called Ultramontanes; and the Socialists, on the other hand, who would overthrow the monarchy. The two strong men have ruled with a firm hand, but with much wisdom. Germany could hardly have a more liberal government, unless she became a republic.

The stories of the evening were chiefly selected from Hoffman. They were too long and terrible to be given here. Among them were “The Painter” and “The Elementary Spirit.” In introducing these stories, Mr. Beal related some touching and strange incidents of their author.

HOFFMAN

Hoffman died in Berlin. His career as a musical artist had been associated with the Prussian-Polish provinces, where he seems to have acquired habits of dissipation in brilliant but gay musical society.

Hoffman had exquisite refinement of taste, and sensitiveness to the beautiful in nature and art, but the exhilaration of the wine-cup was to him a fatal knowledge. It made him in the end a poor, despised, inferior man.

As he lost his self-mastery, he also seemed to lose his self-respect. He mingled with the depraved, and carried the consciousness of his inferiority into all his associations with better society.

“I once saw Hoffman,” says one, “in one of his night carouses. He was sitting in his glory at the head of the table, not stupidly drunk, but warmed with wine, which made him madly eloquent. There, in full tide of witty discourse, or, if silent, his hawk eye flashing beneath his matted hair, sat this unfortunate genius until the day began to dawn; then he found his way homeward.