afterward in love with a pretty gentlewoman, married her, and by her had many children. After some years the same swan came with the same barge into the same place; the soldier, entering into it, was carried thence the way he came, left wife, children, and family, and was never seen among them after."

BRIGHT on the mountain's heathy slope

The day's last splendors shine,
And, rich with many a radiant hue,
Gleam gayly on the Rhine.

And many a one from Waldhurst's walls
Along the river stroll'd,

As ruffling o'er the pleasant stream
The ev'ning gales came cold.

So as they stray'd a swan they saw
Sail stately up and strong,
And by a silver chain he drew
A little boat along,

Whose streamer to the gentle breeze
Long floating flutter'd light,
Beneath whose crimson canopy
There lay reclined a knight.

With arching crest and swelling breast
On sail'd the stately swan,
And lightly up the parting tide
The little boat came on.

And onward to the shore they drew,
Where having left the knight,
The little boat adown the stream
Fell soon beyond the sight.

Was never a knight in Waldhurst's walls
Could with this stranger vie;
Was never a youth at aught esteem'd
When Rudiger was by.

Was never a maid in Waldhurst's walls
Might match with Margaret;
Her cheek was fair, her eyes were dark,
Her silken locks like jet.

And many a rich and noble youth
Had strove to win the fair;

But never a rich and noble youth
Could rival Rudiger.

At every tilt and tourney he
Still bore away the prize;
For knightly feats superior still,
And knightly courtesies.

His gallant feats, his looks, his love,
Soon won the willing fair;
And soon did Margaret become
The wife of Rudiger.

Like morning dreams of happiness
Fast roll'd the months away;
For he was kind and she was kind,
And who so bless'd as they?

Yet Rudiger would sometimes sit
Absorb'd in silent thought,

And his dark downward eye would seem
With anxious meaning fraught:

But soon he raised his locks again,
And smiled his cares away,
And 'mid the hall of gayety

Was none like him so gay.

And onward roll'd the waning months-
The hour appointed came,
And Margaret her Rudiger
Hail'd with a father's name.

But silently did Rudiger

The little infant see;

And darkly on the babe he gazed-
A gloomy man was he.

And when to bless the little babe
The holy father came,
To cleanse the stains of sin away
In Christ's redeeming name,
Then did the cheek of Rudiger

Assume a death-pale hue,

And on his clammy forehead stood
The cold convulsive dew;

And falt'ring in his speech, he bade
The priest the rites delay,

Till he could, to right health restored,
Enjoy the festive day.
When o'er the many-tinted sky

He saw the day decline,
He call'd upon his Margaret

To walk beside the Rhine;

"And we will take the little babe,
For soft the breeze that blows,
And the mild murmurs of the stream
Will lull him to repose."

110

And so together forth they went;
The evening breeze was mild,
And Rudiger upon his arm

Pillow'd the little child.

And many a one from Waldhurst's walls
Along the banks did roam;

But soon the evening wind came cold,
And all betook them home.

Yet Rudiger in silent mood

Along the banks would roam, Nor aught could Margaret prevail To turn his footsteps home.

"O turn thee, turn thee, Rudiger!
The rising mists behold,

The evening wind is damp and chill,
The little babe is cold!"

"Now who can judge this to be other than one of those spirits that are named Incubi ?" says Thomas Heywood, in his "Notes to the Hierarchies of the Blessed Angels," a poem printed by Adam Islip in 1635. "I have adopted his story," writes Southey, "but not his solution, making the unknown soldier not an evil spirit, but one who had purchased happiness of a malevolent being, by the promised sacrifice of his first-born child." Southey has borrowed themes of other ballads from this quaint old writer; one in particular, "Donica," who moved about the world many years after she was dead, eating and drinking, "although very sparingly," and indicating the absence of the soul only by "a deep paleness on her countenance." At length a magician coming by where she was, in the company of other virgins, as soon as he beheld her he said," Fair maids, why keep you company with this dead virgin, whom you suppose to be alive?" when taking away the magic charm which was hid under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion.

"Now hush thee, hush thee, Margaret,
The mists will do no harm,
And from the wind the little babe.

Lies shelter'd on my arm."

"O turn thee, turn thee, Rudiger !
Why onward wilt thou roam?
The moon is up, the night is cold,
And we are far from home."

He answer'd not, for now he saw
A swan come sailing strong,
And by a silver chain he drew
A little boat along.

To shore they came, and to the boat
Fast leap'd he with the child,
And in leap'd Margaret-breathless now,
And pale with fear and wild.

With arching crest and swelling breast
On sail'd the stately swan,
And lightly down the rapid tide
The little boat went on.

The full-orb'd moon, that beam'd around
Pale splendor through the night,
Cast through the crimson canopy
A dim, discolor'd light;

And swiftly down the hurrying stream
In silence still they sail,
And the long streamer fluttering fast
Flapp'd to the heavy gale.

And he was mute in sullen thought,
And she was mute with fear;
Nor sound but of the parting tide
Broke on the list'ning ear.
The little babe began to cry,

Then Margaret raised her head, And with a quick and hollow voice "Give me the child!" she said.

"Now hush thee, hush thee, Margaret,
Nor my poor heart distress!

I do but pay perforce the price
Of former happiness.

"And hush thee too, my little babe!
Thy cries so feeble cease:
Lie still, lie still; a little while
And thou shalt be at peace."
So as he spake to land they drew,
And swift he stepp'd on shore,
And him behind did Margaret
Close follow evermore.

It was a place all desolate,

Nor house nor tree was there;
And there a rocky mountain rose,
Barren, and bleak, and bare.
And at its base a cavern yawn'd,

No eye its depth might view,
For in the moonbeam shining round
That darkness darker grew.

Cold horror crept through Margaret's blood,
Her heart it paused with fear,
When Rudiger approach'd the cave,
And cried, "Lo, I am here!"

A deep sepulchral sound the cave
Return'd, "Lo, I am here!"

And black from out the cavern gloom

Two giant arms appear.

And Rudiger approach'd, and held

The little infant nigh:

Then Margaret shriek'd, and gather'd then
New powers from agony.

And round the baby fast and close
Her trembling arms she folds,
And with a strong, convulsive grasp
The little infant holds."

"Now help me, Jesus!" loud she cries,
And loud on God she calls;
Then from the grasp of Rudiger

The little infant falls.

And loud he shriek'd, for now his frame The huge black arms clasp'd round, And dragg'd the wretched Rudiger Adown the dark profound.

LOVEST THOU ME?

LOVEST thou me? From the flowers beneath thy feet, From the vine and garden tree, Hast thou heard its music sweet?

Didst thou hear the gentle tone, When the southern wind pass'd by, Which, with sweetness all its own, Waited for thy heart's reply?

Lovest thou me?

Didst thou hear its music low
Breaking through the agony
Of His darkest night of woe?

Didst bid thee quickly start,
While thy tears in torrents fell,

Answering from a full, deep heart, Lord, thou knowest I love thee well? Lovest thou me? When life's high and brilliant schemes Hope was planning well for thee, Did it startle all thy dreams?

Didst thou quickly turn away With a painful burning brow? Didst thou then, without delay, At the feet of Jesus bow?

Lovest thou me? May the music of this tone Never, for a moment, be From my wayward heart withdrawn! Now a voice responsive, deep, Answers from the heart's deep cell, While with gratitude I weep, Lord, thou knowest I love thee well.

ITH the exception of Goethe and

widely known than Jean Paul Frederic Richter; at any rate, no one is more widely known by name, if not through the medium of his works. He is the most untranslatable of all the Germans, so much so that he puzzles many of the Germans themselves. He was advised in his lifetime to translate some of his most enigmatical books into the common language of literature. If I am not mistaken, this has been attempted since his death. It seems a little absurd to say, after the manner of the cheap grammars, "JEAN PAUL MADE EASY;" but when you come to know the man the absurdity vanishes.

Goethe and Schiller had a wider reputation than Jean Paul, because they are more cosmopolitan than he. They were essentially men of the world, and for all time, especially Goethe, whose mind was as broad as Shakspeare's. The universality of their genius commends them to all cultivated nations.

"Based on the crystalline sea Of thought and its eternity," their works delight and instruct the world. Jean Paul, on the contrary, appeals to the thoughtful alone; nay, only to the most thoughtful-the sincere lovers and seekers after truth, who are willing to dig out an author's meaning, if it be buried in a crabbed and obscure style, under cartloads of intellectual rubbish. That there

It

is a world of rubbish in Jean Paul, even rubbish of dull and hackneyed authors. is not so much the sweepings of his minddust, and cobwebs, and worthless odds and ends--as its natural imperfections, its magnificent towers and palaces, meanly built, or, worse still, in ruins. There is always something in Jean Paul, if we have the clew to it, and the patience to follow up the clew. But most of us lack patience; we read for amusement, and pour passer le temps: consequently Jean Paul is not for us. Still we have a sort of curiosity about him, just as we have about a famous city, or a dexterous mountebank. He commands our attention because he is unlike all other authors. Even in Germany, where literary nondescripts abound, he is Jean Paul der Einzige-the only.

He is the embodiment of certain tendencies of the German brain and heart, and as such is worthy of a careful study. Give him this study; deal fairly with him until we master the peculiarities of his style and manner of thinking, and the chances are that we become his warmest admirers, willing captives of his genius. He is able to hold his own against all odds, and even to extend the boundaries of his kingdom, conquering and turning his foes into friends. He is dangerous to young authors; in some cases to old ones: witness the change that came over Carlyle, after his acquaintance with the writings of Jean Paul. The style of Carlyle's early efforts is simple and un

affected his later style is about the worst that ever disfigured English literature, which is saying a great deal.

One of the first things that strikes us in reading him is his originality. "How queer and yet how original all this is! We never saw anything like it before," we say, and possibly we add, "and never desire to again." We do not know whether we like it or not. It is odd and strange, and clumsy and uncouth; but it is imaginative and poetical. We wonder how he came to have so rich and strong a mind, and so little control over it? Why don't he deliver himself like a man of the world, instead of writing so turgidly and thunderingly? We read on and on, now annoyed, now amused, and now delighted. A poetical image startles us; a glimpse of humor makes us smile; a touch of pathos sends the tears to our eyes. As a general thing the style of Jean Paul displeases his readIt is too unlike the world-language of literature to be easily understood. Obscure in his own tongue, Jean Paul is still more so in English. He lacks directness and simplicity. Instead of stating his theme, and working it up in a clear and reasonable manner, he seizes it when it is but a dim and vague conception, and plays all sorts of vagaries with it, beclouding it with a crazy style, and burying it under a profusion of metaphors. Sometimes it is poetical prose; sometimes prose run mad. With all these drawbacks it is still magnificent writing, grand and stately in diction, and noble in thought. The old Titans might have talked in just such music. It is Olympian

ers.

"The large utterance of the early gods." Jean Paul is often puzzling because he means so much. There is no poverty of matter in his books, but an embarras de richesse. He is too lavish with his barbaric pearl and gold.

To indicate his manifold faults and excellences would require pages, to criticise them in full, a volume. Such a volume may be written, but not while the English and American public are ignorant of Hesperus" and "Titan." It would be love's labor lost.

66

He is one of the greatest humorists that ever lived, not only in his own country, but in the whole world, and in all time, worthy of a place beside Cervantes and Shakspeare. Humor is the ruling quality

of his mind, the central fire that animates his being. Titanic in his humor as in his earnestness, he oversteps all bound and limit, and riots without law or measure. His humor is not in all cases natural and unalloyed. It is often unnatural, extravagant, and absurd; but take it all in all, it is genuine, subtle, and spiritual, drawn from the deepest, and purest, and sweetest recesses of his being. His good and great heart is in it, his simple and tender nature, the kindliness and friendliness of his genius.

He was born at Wunseidel, in the Fichtelgebirge, on the 21st of March, 1763. His father was a master in a gymnasium. A German gymnasium is not a place where young gentlemen climb poles, throw weights, use boxing-gloves, and develop their muscles generally, but an academy or school, divided into eight classes. Jean Paul's father was Tertius, or teacher of the third class. His mother was the daughter of a cloth-weaver in Hof, from whom John | Paul (for Jean Paul was merely a nom de plume) derived his name. The day after his birth he was baptized; and when he was five months old he was taken by his parents to the death-bed of his paternal grandfather, who was then in his seventyseventh year, and a rector of a gymnasium in Neustadt. "Let the old Jacob," said a clergyman present, "lay his hand upon the child that he may bless him." It was done, and the child was blessed.

Besides being a schoolmaster, Jean Paul's father was a good musician, and filled the post of organist in Wunseidel. Jean Paul was himself a musician, and many of his strangest stories were conceived while he was fantasying on the piano-forte.

In 1765, the Tertius master was called to be pastor in Joditz. Jean Paul calls this portion of his life (he remained at Joditz till he was thirteen) his Idyllic years. He describes his joy of a winter evening, when he received from the city an A, B, C book, with a pointer to show the letters. After he had at home privately gone through the lower school classes, he entered the high school, which was opposite his father's parsonage.

One winter's day, when Jean Paul was eight or nine years old, his father brought him a little Latin dictionary, which was to be his, after he had read a page of it. He obstinately mispronounced the word