網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

Before fifteen,-is ought we see,
So full of innocence and glee;
The buoyant step, the eye of gladness,
The heart devoid of sin and sadness,
The slender form, approaching woman,
The stem, that shows the bud is comin'
The spring of life, with blink and shower,
The April of the female flower;
That tells in language most express,
The coming summer's loveliness.

Then mark the first vibrations kind,
That ripen in the female mind;
Fondness, for helpless infancy,
Pity, for age and poverty;
Joy o'er a flowret's opening blade,
And grief when it begins te fade;
O, I do love with all my heart,
A thing so sweet, so void of art;
And nought on earth's so pure I ween,
As blooming maid below fifteen.

[blocks in formation]

ROBIN.

Then Summer comes, in all her beauty, Radiant with smiles of love and duty; The flowers of heaven are showered around us, That dazzle, pleasure, and confound us; The mould so framed for love's caress, That shrinks from its own loveliness; The liquid eye, whose every blink, Says more than human heart can think; As welling from that fountain bright, Where genuine love first springs to light; Its language has a thrilling spell, Beyond what tongue of man can tell: The flowing glossy locks that shine, With tints, that almost seem divine;

The cheeks! The lips! The arch'd eyebrow! Slanderer insane! Where are you now?

CUDDY.

Go on-go on, man, stop not there;
That's mighty grand, I must declare;
Woman, for all her perverse nature,
Is, without doubt, a lovely creature;
I never said that she was not.
A virgin without stain or blot
Is such a treasure-one forgets,

But the jilts, and the coquettes;
Ah, Robin, had I not believed,

That I was loved, and been deceived,

I would, like you, I must aver,

Have been a woman worshipper,

Plague on them! They have marr'd me quite, Of temper, reason, and delight.

Go on-go on-'tis most beseemin;
Another spell at female women.

ROBIN.

Then must I paint the vale of life,
The loving and the virtuous wife;
For vinirg beauty's undefined,

And blooms beyond the bourn of mind;
A gem all other gems supreme of,

A thing that man should hardly dream of,
And sooth the married life to me

Seems fraught with such felicity,

Such chasten'd love and natural meetness,
Such multiform and holy sweetness;
That to describe it like a man,
Both as I should and as I can,-
The tender mother's eye so mild,
First turned to father, then to child;
The heavenly breathings of her tongue,
O'er her beloved and helpless young;
O, these would leave us so love-lorn,
We'd both be married ere the morn.

CUDDY.

Robin, you needna fash to-day,
My heart's beginning to give way;
I find for all my stern device,
Nature too strong for prejudice;
When next we meet, you may opine,
Our sentiments will maist combine;
Farewell, dear Robin. I must run!
Come, Cappy, is your quarrel done?

GERMAN PROLUSIONS.

No. I.

It is only of late years that the literature of Germany has been studied in this country. But though many have acquired the language, few have been at the trouble to give translations; while the difficulties, real as well as imaginary, of learning German, have proved an insuperable obstacle to those who contrive to pick up a smattering of French or Italian in a few months.

The majority of those works which profess to be translations from the German, are in fact nothing more than versions of French translations, badly executed in both languages; and being thus a translation of a translation, it may easily be supposed they retain nothing of the original except the dry bones.

Popular as the Sorrows of Werter, for example, have been in England, there is no translation of it from the German, except one that was done some years ago in the following manner: A German teacher (Dr. Render) turned it into his English; and a bookseller's hack (one of Sir Richard Phillips's journeymen authors) licked it into decent syntax. I appeal to any one who has read that touching work in German (inferior only, if inferior, to the Nouvelle Heloise of Rousseau), whether he has ever seen a line of it in English, that preserved the pathos, simplicity, and beauty, of Goëthe? The same may be said (with one or two exceptions, where such men as Coleridge have employed their pens) of the works of Schiller, Wieland, &c.

It is the design of the following series of papers to attempt to supply this defect, and to make the English reader acquainted with some of the many admirable

productions of German genius. No particular system will be adhered to, except, that the aim will be to select such pieces as may delight by their narrative form, or by the elegance and beauty of their conception; and of which no translations have hitherto appeared, or the translations of which are notoriously meagre and unskilful. Our treasures are ample. They can fail in being attractive only by deficiency of judgment in collecting and arranging them, or by inability to preserve their original brilliancy.

THE GRATEFUL GHOST.

(By Musus)

THERE lived formerly, in the town of Bremen, a very rich man, whose name was Melchior. His wealth was so great, that his large dining-hall was actually paved with hard dollars. Still his money went on increasing every year; and he looked forward to a long enjoyment of it. But he died suddenly one day, of apoplexy, in the midst of a sumptuous feast which he had given to celebrate the safe arrival of one of his most richly laden ships.

Melchior's son Francis was the sole heir of his father's immense fortune, and being of age, came into the uncontrolled possession of it. In the full vigour of health, with a handsome person, and an excellent heart, he was esteemed as one of the most amiable young men in his native place; while his vast wealth enabled him to indulge to its utmost, his noble desire of doing good. But, on the other hand, inexperience, and youthful passions, exposed him to all the dangers of seduction, and the more so, because his father, whose whole soul had been wrapped up in the accumulation of money, had bestowed very little care upon the judicious instruction of his son. Francis was soon surrounded by a circle of flatterers and parasites, who called themselves his best friends, and endeavoured to keep him in one continued turmoil of pleasure. His house became the resort of all the roystering spirits of Bremen, who passed their days in riotous eating and drinking at his expense. No banquets given at the bishop's palace, equalled the splendour and profusion of his; and so long as the town stands, it will never again witness such oxen feasts as he used to give yearly: when every citizen received from him a noble piece of roast-beef, and a small pitcher of Spanish wine. Business was left to the management of clerks and agents, with whom he interfered as little as he could

help, the cashier being the only person he cared to see, because it was his province to find the money for his prodigality. The credit of his father had been too deeply fixed to admit of being easily destroyed; Francis, therefore, was enabled to go on for some years in this extravagant and thoughtless career; but when, in order to obtain ready money, he found himself compelled to remove, secretly, the silver flooring of the dininghall, and replace it with one of stone, he began to think a little seriously of his situation. His numerous creditors, too, became suddenly clamorous, and as he was unable to satisfy their demands, a complete bankruptcy ensued. The paternal mansion, warehouses, gardens, lands, costly furniture, all were sold by the candle; and Francis hardly saved enough out of the wreck of his inheritance, to secure him from utter destitution for half a year.

And now, for the first time, his eyes were opened. He meditated seriously upon his past life, and his present situation: but alas! repentance came too late! His good friends, his revelling companions, all disappeared; while he had wholly neglected to cultivate the friendship of honourable and upright men. He was left consequently quite alone; abandoned to himself: with no one to consult or advise with, in his melancholy condition. It was insupportable to his proud feelings, to remain among those, who had known him on the pinnacle of wealth and greatness, in the character of a worthless spendthrift. He resolved, therefore, to quit his native town, and endeavour to gain, once more, fortune and respectability in some foreign country.

While he was meditating upon this resolve, and before he had definitively settled any plan in his own mind, it happened that his father's account-books

fell into his hands. Heretofore, he had never troubled himself very much with them; it had always been an irksome task, even to look into them; but now they became of importance. He turned over the leaves, and found large arrears of bad debts: his resolution was immediately taken. He determined to set forth and seek the persons who owed these debts; he hoped, by a touching description of his own misfortunes, so far to work upon their feelings, that they would at least pay some portion of them; and then he would again be able to carry on business in a small way. This cheering prospect, animated him; he made immediate preparations; bought a saddle-horse; packed his saddle-bags; ordered a prayer to be put up in the cathedral for a young traveller, beseeching an auspicious issue to his journey; and rode away.

The principal debtors were merchants, who resided at Antwerp; and thither he directed his steps. A journey from Bremen to Antwerp in those days, when the roads were beset with robbers, and every knight considered himself at liberty to plunder, and incarcerate in the dungeons of his castle, any traveller not duly provided with a safety-pass, was a more dangerous undertaking than it would be now to go from Bremen to Kamschatka. Francis, nevertheless, journeyed safely till he reached the middle of Westphalia. Here one sultry day, he rode till sunset through a wild desolate tract of country, without seeing a habitation of any kind. Suddenly, a dreadful thunder-storm came on, accompanied with a deluge of rain, which soon drenched him to the skin. Far and near he cast his eyes around; but he could discover no friendly roof. Night came on; and the dark clouds rolled so thickly over the heavens, that he could not discern an object at the distance of two paces.

The delicate Francis, who from his infancy had been accustomed to every effeminate indulgence, was ill calculated to encounter hardships like these, and he began to ruminate, with many bitter forebodings, upon the manner in which he should probably have to pass the night. In the midst of these gloomy reflections, to his infinite consolation, he perceived a distant light; it served him as a guide in making immediately for

it; and he found that it issued from a miserable hovel.

He knocked at the door, entreating to be admitted. But the man who lived there was a surly fellow, who, without opening the door, answered from within

"There is no room here for travellers -I have hardly room enough for myself, much less for strangers."-Francis renewed his entreaties most imploringly. He represented what a dreadful night it was; said, he only wished for a safe shelter, and assured him he would gladly reward him. But the brute made no further answer; extinguished his light; and laid himself down upon his straw.

Francis, however, did not cease his importunities outside, and as the man could get no sleep, he endeavoured to ged rid of his visitor. "Hark'ee, countryman," said he, "if you would have snug quarters, ride on about a quarter of a mile further to the left, through the wood; you will come to the castle of the bold knight Bronkhorst; he is always ready to give shelter to travellers; only sometimes he is fond of indulging in a foolish whim, that of soundly thrashing them, when they take their leave. If this dislike you not, you will find yourself comfortable enough there."

Francis bethought himself a moment, for the said leave-taking was not exactly to his fancy. But what was to be done? He must either pass the night, stormy as it was, in the open air, or run the risk, for once, of that same thrashing. The latter seemed preferable. Besides, it was not certain the knight would indulge in his joke. He sprung forward therefore, and soon found himself before the massy gates of the castle. As he knocked, the warder, in a hoarse loud voice, called out, "Who is there?"

"A traveller who has lost his way, and wishes for shelter from the inclemency of the weather," answered Francis.

"If you are willing to comply with the custom of the place, the door shall be opened to you," replied the warder in the same growling tone.

Francis promised, and immediately the enormous gate rolled back. Servants came forth to help him to alight, to take charge of his saddle-bags, to lead his horse into the stable, and to conduct

himself to the knight, who was seated in a brilliantly illuminated chamber.

He was a tall powerful man, who in his younger days, had performed valiant deeds as a warrior; but he had now retired to his castle, to repose from the severe duties of the field. His frank and hearty manner, and his hospitality, might have inspired confidence; but his haughty, warlike air, his harsh voice, and his impetuous gestures, created alarm at first, to those who did not know him intimately.

He advanced towards Francis, shook him by the hand with so cordial a gripe that he could hardly refrain from crying out, and thundered in his ears such a rattling oath, in the way of welcome, as would have made a deaf man hear. Francis was astounded; and betrayed in his appearance the alarm he felt.

66

"What is the matter with you, youngster?" said the knight, your whole body trembles like an aspen-leaf." "I am wet through, and cold," replied Francis. "If I could have some dry clothes and a warm posset-"

"Very well-you shall have them. Is there any thing else you wish? command freely, as if you were in your own house."

It

Francis considered for a moment. would all come to the same end, he thought. He could not escape the awkward leave-taking; so, as he was fairly in for it, he resolved to make himself comfortable meanwhile.

When the servants brought him dry clothes, and assisted him in undressing and dressing, he began scolding them without any ceremony, complaining that this was wrong, and the other, and finding fault with every thing. The knight manifested no displeasure at this freedom; on the contrary, he set to, and scolded them himself, for not knowing how to wait properly on a stranger, and ordered them to be quick. The table was next spread, and a splendid banquet brought in. Francis was desired to sit opposite his host, who apprized him, once for all, that it was not his custom to press his guests to eat. Francis took the hint; helped himself quickly to whatever he fancied; and ordered whatever he wanted without the least diffidence. After a while, the knight beckoned to the servants, that they should bring in the wine, and pour it out. "How do you like

that wine?" inquired the knight, when Francis had put his first glass to his lips. "If it be the worst in your cellar," replied Francis, "then it is very good of its kind; but if it be your best,it is very bad." "Well said," answered the knight, and immediately ordered another flask to be brought.

"This is better than the first," said Francis; "but I have drunk much stronger wine of this quality."

The knight ordered a third flask to be brought, and scarcely had Francis tasted of it, when he exclaimed, "That's capital! we'll stick to this, if you please."

"You are a nice judge of wine," answered the knight.

And now they began, after the good old custom of their country in those days, to tipple away, while the knight entertained Francis with accounts of his own heroical deeds in the Turkish wars; in the recital of which he became so warmed that he sabred down bottles and glasses with the great carving-knife, till Francis often started back in terror, lest his own nose should be sliced off. Towards midnight, however, he interrupted his loquacious host.

Excuse me, sir knight," said he, "but I have a long journey to perform, and must proceed onwards with the first dawn of the morning; I should be glad, therefore, to have an hour or two of sleep."

The knight gave over his stories immediately, and replied, "Your bed is ready for you: but I cannot allow you to set out so early, and fasting. You must breakfast with me first; and then I will accompany you according to the custom of my castle."

Francis understood these words without any further explanation. However, he once more tried to convince his host that he could manage his departure so quietly, as not to disturb any one; but it was all in vain.

"An old soldier is accustomed to be always ready," said the knight, "and you shall see I shall be awake before you are."

He then bade Francis good night, and they both retired to rest.

Weary from his long journey, and moreover somewhat oppressed with wine, Francis slept soundly on his soft bed until it was broad daylight, and was

« 上一頁繼續 »