



Produced by Charles Bowen, from scans obtained from The
Internet Archive.





Transcriber's notes:
1. This book is derived from the Web Archive,
http://www.archive.org/details/trumpeterskking00schegoog.

2. The oe diphthong is represented by [oe].



                       THE TRUMPETER OF SAeKKINGEN.





                                  THE

                       THE TRUMPETER OF SAeKKINGEN



                      A Song from the Upper Rhine.




                                   BY

                       JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL.




                     TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY

                         MRS. FRANCIS BRUeNNOW.




                  _Translation authorised by the Poet._




                                London:
                   CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
                  NEW YORK: SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG, & CO.
                                  1877.






                       CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS.
                         CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.







      O Song, at home well known to fame,
        That German hearts hath deeply stirred
      And long hath made of Scheffel's name
        A dear and honoured household word,

      Go forth in thy first foreign dress,
        Go forth to Albion's noble land!
      Will she not greetings kind express,
        And warmly clasp the stranger's hand?

      The Emerald Isle will surely give
        A welcome neither cold nor faint;
      For on thy pages still doth live
        The name of Erin's ancient Saint.

      Across the sea my country's shores
        As Hope's bright star before me rise;
      Will she not open wide her doors
        To one who on her heart relies?

      Farewell, oh work of vanished hours;
        When suffering rent my weary heart,
      Thy breath of fragrant woodland flowers
        Did life renew, fresh strength impart.

      Oh Scheffel! may thy years be long!
        And may'st thou live to see the time,
      When this thy genial Schwarzwald song
        Will find a home in every clime.


_Basel_, _June_, 1877.




                    CONTENTS.


      DEDICATION

      PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

      PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION

      PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION

      PREFACE TO THE FIFTIETH EDITION


                   FIRST PART.

      HOW YOUNG WERNER RODE INTO THE SCHWARZWALD


                  SECOND PART.

      YOUNG WERNER WITH THE SCHWARZWALD PASTOR


                  THIRD PART.

      ST. FRIDOLIN'S DAY


                  FOURTH PART.

      YOUNG WERNER'S ADVENTURES ON THE RHINE


                  FIFTH PART.

      THE BARON AND HIS DAUGHTER


                  SIXTH PART.

      HOW YOUNG WERNER BECAME THE BARON'S TRUMPETER


                  SEVENTH PART.

      THE EXCURSION TO THE MOUNTAIN LAKE


                  EIGHTH PART.

      THE CONCERT IN THE GARDEN PAVILION


                   NINTH PART.

      TEACHING AND LEARNING


                   TENTH PART.

      YOUNG WERNER IN THE GNOME'S CAVE


                 ELEVENTH PART.

      THE HAUENSTEIN RIOT


                  TWELFTH PART.

      YOUNG WERNER AND MARGARETTA


                THIRTEENTH PART.

      WERNER SUES FOR MARGARETTA


                FOURTEENTH PART.

      THE BOOK OF SONGS

            YOUNG WERNER'S SONGS

            SONGS OF THE CAT HIDDIGEIGEI

            SONGS OF THE SILENT MAN

            SOME OF MARGARETTA'S SONGS

            WERNER'S SONGS. FIVE YEARS LATER


                 FIFTEENTH PART.

      THE MEETING IN ROME


                 SIXTEENTH PART.

      SOLUTION AND END


      NOTES.




                  DEDICATION.


      "Who is yonder light-haired stranger
      Who there like a cat is roaming
      O'er the roof of Don Pagano?"--
      Thus asked many honest burghers,
      Dwellers on the Isle of Capri,
      When they from the market turning
      Looked up at the palm-tree and the
      Low-arched roof of moorish fashion.

      And the worthy Don Pagano
      Said: "That is a strange queer fellow,
      And most strange his occupation.
      Came here with but little luggage,
      Lives here quite alone but happy,
      Clambers up the steepest mountains,
      Over cliffs, through surf is strolling,
      Loves to steal along the sea-shore.
      Also lately'mid the ruins
      Of the villa of Tiberius
      With the hermits there caroused.
      What's his business?--He's a German,
      And who knows what they are doing?
      But I saw upon his table
      Heaps of paper written over,
      Leaving very wasteful margins;
      I believe he is half crazy,
      I believe he's making verses."

        Thus he spoke.--And I myself was
      This queer stranger. Solitary
      I had on this rocky island
      Sung this song of my dear Schwarzwald.
      I went as a wand'ring scholar
      To far countries, to Italia;
      With much art became acquainted,
      Also with bad vetturinos,
      And with many burning flea-bites;
      But the sweet fruit of the lotus,
      Which doth banish love of country
      And the longing to return there,
      I have never found here growing.

        'Twas in Rome. Hard lay the winter
      On th' eternal sev'n-hilled city:
      Hard? for even Marcus Brutus
      Would have caught a bad catarrh then;
      And the rain seemed never-ending.
      Like a dream then rose the vision
      Of the Schwarzwald, and the story
      Of the young musician Werner
      And the lovely Margaretta.
      In my youth I have stood often
      By their graves close to the Rhine shore;
      Many things which lie there buried
      Are, however, long forgotten.
      But like one to whom a sudden
      Ringing in his ears betokens
      That at home of him they're thinking,
      So I heard young Werner's trumpet
      Through the Roman Winter, through the
      Carnival's gay flower-show--
      Heard it from afar, then nearer,
      Like the crystal which of vap'rous
      Fine materials is condensing
      And increases radiating;
      So the figures of this song grew--
      Even followed me to Naples.
      In the halls of the Museum
      Who should meet me but the Baron
      Shaking his big cane and smiling,
      And before Pompeii's gate sat
      The black tom-cat Hiddigeigei.
      Purring, quoth he: "Leave all study;
      What is all this ancient rubbish,
      E'en that dog there in mosaic
      In the tragic Poet's dwelling,
      In comparison with me--the
      Epic type of all cat-nature?"

        This I could no longer stand, so
      Now began this ghost to banish.
      From the brother of the lovely
      Luisella, from the crooked
      Cunning druggist of Sorrento
      Quantities of ink I ordered,
      And sailed o'er the bay to Capri.
      Here began my exorcisms.
      Many pale-gold  sea-fish,
      Many lobsters, many oysters,
      I ate up without compassion;
      Drank the red wine like Tiberius,
      Without mercy poetising;
      On the roof went up and down till
      All resounded metrically,
      And the charm was then accomplished:
      Chained up in four-measured trochees
      Lay those figures which so long now
      From my couch sweet sleep had banished.

        'Twas high time, too; Spring already
      Now gave signal of his coming--
      Buds were sprouting on the fig-trees;
      Shots were cracking, for with guns and
      Nets they were the quails pursuing,
      Who towards home their flight were taking;
      And the minstrel was in peril
      Then of seeing feathered colleagues
      Set upon the table roasted.
      This dread o'er him, pen and inkstand
      Flew against the wall together.
      Ready now and newly soled were
      My strong boots which old Vesuvius
      Had much damaged with his sulphur.
      Farther now I journey onward.
      Up, my good old Marinaro!
      Off from land! the waves with pleasure
      Bear light hearts and weightless freightage.

        But the song, which with such happy
      Spring-born feelings from my heart welled,
      Bears my greetings to my country
      And to you, my honoured parents.
      Many faults are in it, truly:
      Tragic pathos may be wanting,
      And a racy tendance; also,
      As in Amaranth, the fragrant
      Incense of a pious soul, its
      Sober but pretentious colouring.
      Take him, as he is, this ruddy.
      Rough, uncouth son of the mountains,
      With a pine branch on his straw hat.
      What he's wanting in, pray, cover
      With the veil of kind indulgence.
      Take him not as thanks, for always
      In your Book of Love I'm debtor,
      But as greeting and as witness,
      That a man whom worldly fortune
      Has not placed'mid smiling verdure,
      Yet can, happy as a lark pour
      Out his song on leafless branches.


      Capri, _May 1st_, 1853.




                    PREFACE


             TO THE SECOND EDITION.


      Five years, my merry song, have now rolled by
        Since thou didst venture thy first course to run,
      A simple strolling minstrel's chance to try,
        But no great laurels so far hast thou won.
      In circles of prosaic breathing mortals
        No praise was given thee of any kind--
      Where formal stiffness bars life's glowing portals,
        Thou and thy kindred can no quarter find.
    And in the coteries of hoops and laces
    Few were the readers, fewer still the praises.

      Not everything suits everyone: the hill
        Grows different flowers than the vale and lea:
      But here and there in German homes there will
        Be found some hearts who fondly turn to thee;
      Where merry fellows are their wine enjoying
        With cheerful songs, thy praises will resound;
      Near landscape-painters' easels thou art lying,
        And in a huntsman's bag thou oft art found,
    And e'en of pastors it has been reported
    To thee as to their prayer-books they've resorted.


      And many who have taken a young bride
        To spend the honeymoon'midst rural