"With our own ears we have heard on your premises the neighing of the devilish crew, as with horns, tails, and claws it dashed past the sergeant lying on the ground." "Seest thou, George, the mischief thou hast done?" interrupted the miller, again seizing his boy by the arm and shaking him." He is the one that imitated the hellish voices, to make sport of your fears; no other devils are to be found in my house. You will be ridiculous when it comes out that you were fooled by a child." Hartmann Hartmanni turned with dignity to the red-headed George, who, with a silly look, stood by the fence, not realizing the gravity of the situation: "In that case he, too, goes to Heidelberg; and, if he is not found guilty of devilish arts, he will receive for contempt of the district court quantum satis with the hazel rod." "You would not put a child in the witch-tower on account of a boyish trick for which he has already been punished?" exclaimed the miller. "What would become of the boy in the horrible dungeon? He would be frightened to death." "You will keep him company," broke in the Jesuit." Sir magistrate, I accuse this Anabaptist of intriguing for his sect, contrary to the Electoral mandate. Of late he has made use of the panic about the pestilence; and in Schönau, too, he has given various families in the Steinach the second baptism. Besides, you yourself are witness that he holds commerce with the witch who is to be met on all crossroads." The miller drew himself up to his full height. "And thou, priest of Baal, darest speak of cross roads !" cried the old man, in flaming wrath. "Who invites innocent virgins at sunset to cross-roads,ay, the most notorious of all the region, where evil spirits, or evil lusts, abound?" And once more the miller thrust his son forward, and exclaimed, "Here, look closer at the boy to whom thou gavest thine unclean messages!" Paul, growing pale, retreated a step. If all his clothes had dropped from him in good society he would hardly have experienced such terror as at the feeling of moral nakedness that now overpowered him. : A painful pause ensued, the more crushing for the young priest as the circle of listeners had long been widening the Heidelberg physicians, with the laborers and numerous peasant women attracted by the noise, had crowded thither. All waited with suspense for Paul's words, to know what he would have to answer to such a heavy accusation. But he was silent. him that he had suddenly become transparent and that mocking eyes looked from all sides into his unsavory secrets. It seemed to Here the witch on the ground chuckled: "He it was who enticed Master Erastus's blonde daughter to the Holtermann in the dark night." "What sayest thou of my daughter?" shouted Erastus, stepping, horrified, toward the old woman. "Well, the counsellor will know best where his daughter broke her dainty foot. Master Preacher wished to wed her on the cross-road, there where the Black One visits his love every night. But others got ahead of the gentleman, and the bride sprung into the pagan hole; and that was too wet a bridal chamber for Master Preacher." "Do keep still, old dragon!" whispered the miller, touching with his foot the prostrate witch; but with redoubled vigor the prisoner screamed out to the people her strange tale. Erastus's face became distorted; he laughed in his excitement. Now, with his maddening pain, he really looked, as his enemies had said, like a devil,—his light hair dishevelled, his face swarthy, and the whites of his eyes wildly gleaming out from his dark features. The craven magistrate stepped back, terrified. Among what kind of people was he? That Erastus was a heretic he had long known; but now his daughter was a witch, and Erastus himself perhaps a sorcerer. The uncanny man entirely looked the character at this moment. Then, too, the foreign preacher, whom the magistrate had never trusted, and who, as the court had just discovered, also dealt in witches' wares, held converse with the Evil One on the cross-road, and lured young girls to him for the nightly dance, and, besides these, the Anabaptist, with his demoniac boy, and the bound witch herself, who glared at him with wicked eyes, -all who stood here must go to the witch-tower by the Zwinger; but for this he needed a warrant from the Elector. He must also advance into the valley with at least half a company of arquebusiers to root out the heresy and witchcraft. So, without saying a word, he mounted his horse and rode beyond range of his unpleasant neighbors. His men bring in the witch for torture. The miller escapes to the frontier, and Paul steals away. The cup of the good Erastus runs over. On his return from the stricken villages, he finds himself under ban, charged by the Calvinist council with being the head of the Arian conspiracy. The charges seem confirmed. There is even a safe-conduct in his own handwriting. After a pathetic conference with the perplexed Elector, he is lodged in the great tower, and with him Lydia, for collusion with witches. The fiery Felix, after an amusing interview with Frau Belier, tries by force to rescue Klytia and her father, and finds that Pigavetta has but made him a tool to set free an imprisoned preacher whom he wishes out of the way. Paul gets no He has been the means of bringing many into trouble, and he imagines that all men know he has fallen. He meets Werner, who denounces him for his sins, which seem to Paul crimes, and for failing to go before the tribunal and confess his wrong regarding Klytia. He appears at the dungeon to give himself up, learns that the witch has just been tortured to death, and, refusing Pigavetta's demand that he swear falsely at the trial, is bound-though not yet tortured-upon the rack, and left alone in the torture-chamber with the supposed corpse of the witch. But her life flares up once more, long enough for her peace. | to retract her extorted confessions, and she dies. This is a tragical scene. Later, Paul is tortured, but accuses Pigavetta, and heroically persists in his statement that the witch took back all her charges implicating Lydia. The Elector gets out of patience, the magistrate is dismissed, the evil spirit Pigavetta escapes, Erastus is fully restored to confidence, and Paul, grievously maimed, is taken to Frau Belier's house to recover. Felix models Lydia in clay as the Klytia looking up to her sun-god, Paul, and, true to his honest good nature, thus gives her up without a spoken word. Paul, nursed by Klytia, recovers, and, cleansed as by fire, becomes a new man and a Protestant. There are hints of a marriage, which we are sure takes place. Felix, the artist of the South, cannot leave the splendors of Catholicism, and returns to Italy. Here we have the German historical novel, and, indeed, the historical novel of any country, at its best. There is but one historical personage, the Elector; and, it may be asked, where is the history? This is so skilfully wrought into the life and human interest of the story that the reader scarcely suspects that he is getting a vivid portrayal of actual scenes and a most painstaking reproduction of points of view and habits of thought at a time much farther removed from the present by opinions than by centuries. And these types are created by a master whose studies and learning enable him to put himself into the spirit of the age. His exceptional talent, dramatic sense, and imagination appear in the prominence which he gives to personal sympathies and interests. The chapter describing Paul's training, and incidentally depicting the Society of Jesus, is perhaps disproportionately long, but it is never dull or pedantic, as are many German attempts of this sort. Perhaps the most satisfactory character is Felix, whose cheery presence pervades the book, as a contrast to the morbid Paul. This is now especially noteworthy, when it is the fashion in fiction to make artists cynical, gentlemanly young men in search of types. Humor in Teutonic novels is rare; indeed, humor in the American sense does not exist in Germany. But the scenes in which Frau Belier, the miller Werner and his son, the quixotic magistrate, and the convent life are depicted are very humorous. The wooing of Felix, as well as his renunciation of Klytia, is touched with the steady charm of light poetical humor. We are accustomed in the older German novels to much vague sentiment: here the characters live and move, and much is left to the reader's intuition. If Paul is afflicted by a certain Daniel-Deronda-like habit of introspection, this is in harmony with the powerful incitements of Jesuitism acting upon a sensitive mind. The personages live in an age of witchcraft and dogma, of persecution, absolutism, and violence; yet they are concrete and clearly defined. With Auerbach and Freytag, and a dozen others, we know that the idea, the purpose, the lesson, are uppermost. They can be kept down neither by force nor by imitation of English models. Here we have simply a group of diverse men and women in surroundings which only the historian of religion can venture to set before us. The purpose is to form real human beings, and to make costume, scene, and sentiment correct. This constitutes, in the first place, what any novel should be; combined with the second quality, what an historical novel should be. The scenery of nature is so well blended that we could wish for more,-a rare effect. As our outline shows, the story has symmetry, a beginning, a middle, and an end. | tales by Heyse. Ebers and Dahn and Hausrath enjoy a prestige as scholars and archæologists, and no one acquainted with the standards of a German professor would doubt that these men regard their novel-writing as secondary, nay, frivolous, compared with their graver work. It is as if Freeman or Stubbs or Bancroft should, in their spare moments, produce a novel worthy to be compared with the work of specialists in fiction. The appearance of this historical school will have to be accounted for by the future historian of literature. It shows a clearly-defined tendency in German belles-lettres, which as yet has been scarcely recognized. But it becomes almost startlingly distinct when we compare these novels with those foremost fifty years ago, when the romantic school produced its literary monstrosities. If we look back to the grotesque "Fortunatus" of Tieck, to the licentious, spasmodic "Lucinde" of Friedrich Schlegel, the mystical "Heinrich von Osterdingen" of Novalis, the cynical, powerful "Epigonen" of Immermann, the fantastic, almost savage "Kronenwachter" of Ludwig von Arnim, we appreciate the gap that separates them from the bright and dignified novels of our day. There is morbidness still, but it is mild beside the ghastly revels of the romanticists. The venerable Freytag, whose life spans this entire period, is scarcely touched by the new influence; he has his theories of life, of the relations of classes, of letters; and in his books the theory crops out, in spite of him, as the thing of first imSuch is one of the romances that ap- portance. Gottschall, also an old man, peal to the taste of the chief book-critic, poet, dramatist, and literary hisloving, book-producing nation. In 1882 torian,-does not write for the taste of the number of books published in Ger- his youth. Gutzkow-when he died, many was fourteen thousand seven hun- four years ago-had seen an activity of dred and ninety-four. Of these, novels fifty years. His novels voice the vigorand tales comprised their full share; and ous thought of a man of ideas; but the this was doubtless true of the past year. subjective notions of the man pervade No greater novel than "Klytia" appeared his books, not the creative power of the in that year, though it saw the issue artist invisible, as in the greatest novels. of Ebers's "Ein Wort," Felix Dahn's All of these, however, belong to the "Felicitas," Alfred Meissner's "Prin- present of German fiction, and easily cessin von Portugal," Spielhagen's blend with the historical school. Uhlenhans," and another volume of VOL. VII. N. S.-27 HORACE M. KENNEDY. BEP APRIL FISH. EPPI STEFANO was eighteen years old, but his doting old father and mother still called him a baby, and treated him as such. As lads went, among the peasants of Brozzi, where he lived, he was bright and intelligent. Then, his father owned the little farm on which they lived, and, as Beppi was the only child, it would of course be his. This prospect of wealth added not a little to the boy's popularity, and tended to convince himself, as well as others, that whatever he said or did was of especial importance. His wit was so frequently remarked upon that it is no wonder he at last thought that there was no such thing as catching Beppi Stefano asleep. No doubt of his own shrewdness ever crossed his mind, except during his rare visits to Florence with his father on market-days. There was something in the air and manner of city - bred youth that disposed him to silence. He was of an indolent temperament. While his father was haggling in the market-place, he would lounge about the squares. If he were going to stand any number of minutes to talk or to look in a shop-window, he always found it convenient to back up against a lamp-post or building for support; for one might just as well be comfortable. Still, in spite of his love of physical ease, there rankled in his bosom a certain grudge against these city people, none of whom had ever acknowledged his superiority. Babo," he would say to his father, while jogging home on the road from Florence to Brozzi, "if one of these city fellows ever meddles with me, he will find that a live ass is better than a dead doctor. Eh?" "True, true, my boy; the blessed saints protect him!- he wouldn't be worth a fig when you finished with him." Then old farmer Stefano would chuckle and approvingly pat his son's back. Beppi could not conquer his longing to match his wit with that of some city youth, and his opportunity at last came. It was the first day of April. In Italy, when one has been duped by any of those facetious snares to entangle the unwary which are set on this inauspicious day, he is termed an "April Fish," probably because the fish is considered the most gullible of animals. Now, Beppi felt quite sure that if he could spend this day in Florence he should angle in pleasant waters and catch a quantity of this sort of fish, and also allay that grudge which itched in his gentle breast. Consent was gained. It was the first time he had ever departed for the city alone. He was going to walk the four miles of good road that led to the Porta al Prato. His parents followed him to the door with many parting injunctions. "The good saints guard you!" said his mother. "Take care of your pocketbook. Greetings to your aunt and cousin." "Yes, show your mettle to your cousin Aquila," added the farmer; "for, you know, she is to be our daughter." Now, nothing could have been more disheartening to Beppi than that allusion to his cousin Aquila, who was about the only person in the world whom he really disliked. She and her dowry of three thousand francs had been dinged into his ears ever since he could remember, until he hated the very mention of either. On arriving in Florence, he proceeded directly to his aunt's house, in Via Lambertesca. In paying his respects to his aunt, whom he neither liked nor disliked, he would be obliged to salute his cousin Aquila; but then, in compensation, there was Rina, a niece of his aunt's, for whom, though in no way related to him, he felt a more than cousinly regard, though he dared not manifest it. He passed through the city gate and along the Arno, which, swollen with the spring floods and surging and glancing | tell her that he loved her, and her only, in the morning sunlight, reanimated his hope of a fine day's sport. When he gained his aunt's house, the little family of three had one after another finished their breakfast,—if breakfast it could be called, that hasty swallowing of a cup of coffee and choking down a piece of bread. His aunt, as ever, was lavish in her greeting. His cousin Aquila, decked out with an unusual display of beads, ribbons, and puffs for the occasion, wore her accustomed air of conscious merit, and her salutation was of that off-hand sort which denotes undisputed proprietorship. Beppi thought he had never seen her more detestable than now. He had often said to himself that she was rightly named Aquila, for she resembled an eagle, a bird of prey, with her long, hooked nose, narrow face, and round eyes; but, then, who ever saw a crosseyed bird? When she talked to him, he was never sure that she was looking at him, this was something of a comfort; but then, again, at other times he was never sure that she was not looking at him. So, this cross of her eyes was a serious cross to him. Rina, however, was present, and already bent over her sewing for the day; for she was a seamstress in white work. It was her custom to stitch from morning till night, while her cousin Aquila amused herself doing nothing; for, as her aunt frequently told her, she was a poor girl, who had not a soldo to her name, while her cousin, with a dowry of three thousand francs, was a lady. Beppi would have given worlds to address the poor girl cordially, but she scarcely raised her eyes on his entrance; and, then, it was not expected that he should notice Rina. Rina was nobody. He had, however, gained sly opportunities of seeing her unknown to her two keepers; for Rina, being nobody, was not subject to the same vigilance as her cousin. She was permitted to go into the streets alone. This was a fine thing for her on certain market-days when she would be sure to meet Beppi in the square, and he would be sure to and that he wished that cross-eyed Aquila in the shades, with her three thousand francs. But this going out alone had also its disadvantages. Many a time after dark Rina was obliged to carry home her work to the shop in Vigna Nuova, and the dashing young officers and the Florentine signori, seeing that she was only a poor girl of the people, would whisper in her ear, clasp her hand in passing, or frighten her with a familiar embrace, at which she dared not cry out, as it would have been the worse for her, but could only struggle to free herself, while hot tears of shame and indignation blinded her eyes. Beppi, however, knew nothing of all this, or his grudge against the city signori would have stung him on to some fierce revenge. He only saw her in the bright hours of the day, and his heart was then so light that he did not feel the weight of the parcel which he carried for her to the shop-door. The pile of unfinished work in her basket seemed to indicate that she would not go forth to-day. Perhaps he could give her a hint to make some errand for the evening. He would hope: he was coming back to dine at six. He swallowed so hastily a cup of hot coffee served by Aquila that the tears were still in his eyes when he uttered, "A rivederci," and sallied forth into the street, ready for his day's sport. It was a pleasant day, and many people were abroad. He felt cheerful and complacent. He caught his reflection in a shop-window. He did not look amiss. He was in holiday attire, radiant in purple and yellow stripes from head to foot, with a yellow necktie, the broad ends flapping as he walked, a scarlet sash around his waist, and a short, stiff feather standing erect in his purple felt hat. He saw no one dressed as handsomely as himself. These city people had better call upon the good saints, for it was the first day of April, and Beppi Stefano was abroad. It would go hard with him if he did not catch more fish than were ever before netted in Florentine waters. |