No More Learning

Jack-That will do rarely.
Serjeant-Let the defense be a secret; for I see we have able
people to deal with. But come, child, not to lose time, have you
carefully conned those instructions I gave you?
Jack-Yes, sir.
Serjeant - Well, that we shall see. How many points are the
great object of practice?
Jack-Two.
Serjeant-Which are they?
Jack-The first is to put a man into possession of what is
his right.


## p. 5881 (#469) ###########################################

SAMUEL FOOTE
5881
Serjeant - The second'
Jack-Either to deprive a man of what is really his right, or
to keep him as long as possible out of possession.
Serjeant-Good boy! To gain the last end, what are the best
means to be used?
Jack-Various and many are the legal modes of delay.
Serjeant-Name them.
Jack-Injunctions, demurrers, sham pleas, writs of error,
rejoinders, sur-rejoinders, rebutters, sur-rebutters, re-plications,
exceptions, essoigns, and imparlance.
-
Serjeant [to himself]- Fine instruments in the hands of a
man who knows how to use them. But now, Jack, we come to
the point: if an able advocate has his choice in a cause, which if
he is in reputation he may readily have, which side should he
choose, the right or the wrong?
Jack A great lawyer's business is always to make choice of
the wrong.
Serjeant — And prithee, why so?
Jack-Because a good cause can speak for itself, whilst a bad
one demands an able counselor to give it a color.
Serjeant - Very well.
But in what respects will this answer
to the lawyer himself?
Jack-In a twofold way. Firstly, his fees will be large in
proportion to the dirty work he is to do.
Serjeant-Secondly?
Jack-His reputation will rise, by obtaining the victory in a
desperate cause.
Serjeant-Right, boy. Are you ready in the case of the cow?
Jack-Pretty well, I believe.
Serjeant-Give it, then.
--
Jack First of April, anno seventeen hundred and blank, John
a-Nokes was indicted by blank, before blank, in the county of
blank, for stealing a cow, contra pacem, etc. , and against the
statute in that case provided and made, to prevent stealing of
cattle.
Serjeant-Go on.
Jack-Said Nokes was convicted upon the said statute.
Serjeant - What followed upon?
Jack-Motion in arrest of judgment, made by Counselor Puz-
zle. First, because the field from whence the cow was conveyed
is laid in the indictment as round, but turned out upon proof to
be square.


## p. 5882 (#470) ###########################################

5882
SAMUEL FOOTE
Serjeant-That's well.
That's well. A valid objection.
Jack-Secondly, because in said indictment the color of the
cow is called red; there being no such things in rerum natura
as red cows, no more than black lions, spread eagles, flying
griffins, or blue boars.
Serjeant-Well put.
Jack-Thirdly, said Nokes has not offended against form of
the statute; because stealing of cattle is there provided against:
whereas we are only convicted of stealing a cow. Now, though
cattle may be cows, yet it does by no means follow that cows
must be cattle.
-
Serjeant - Bravo, bravo! buss me, you rogue; you are your
father's own son! go on and prosper. I am sorry, dear Jack, I
must leave thee. If Providence but sends thee life and health, I
prophesy thou wilt wrest as much land from the owners, and
save as many thieves from the gallows, as any practitioner since
the days of King Alfred.
Jack I'll do my endeavor. [Exit Serjeant. ]
A MISFORTUNE IN ORTHOGRAPHY
From The Lame Lover'
STR
-
IR LUKE-A pox o' your law; you make me lose sight of my
story. One morning Welsh coach-maker came with his
bill to my lord, whose name was unluckily Lloyd. My lord
had the man up: "You are called, I think, Mr. Lloyd? "— “At
your Lordship's service, my lord. " "What, Lloyd with an L? "
"It was with an L indeed, my lord. ". "Because in your part
of the world I have heard that Lloyd and Floyd were synony
mous, the very same names. " "Very often indeed, my Lord. ”
-"But you always spell yours with an L? " "Always. " —
"That, Mr. Lloyd, is a little unlucky; for you must know I am
now paying my debts alphabetically, and in four or five years
you might have come in with an F; but I am afraid I can give
you no hopes for your L. Ha, ha, ha! "
-
――
-


## p. 5883 (#471) ###########################################

SAMUEL FOOTE
5883
FROM THE MEMOIRS'
A CURE FOR BAD POETRY
A
PHYSICIAN of Bath told him that he had a mind to publish
his own poems; but he had so many irons in the fire he
did not well know what to do.
"Then take my advice, doctor," said Foote, "and put your
poems where your irons are. ”
THE RETORT COURTEOUS
FOLLOWING a man in the street, who did not bear the best of
characters, Foote slapped him familiarly on the shoulder, think-
ing he was an intimate friend. On discovering his mistake he
cried out, "Oh, sir, I beg your pardon! I really took you for a
gentleman who-»
"Well, sir," said the other, "and am I not a gentleman ? »
"Nay, sir," said Foote, "if you take it in that way, I must
only beg your pardon a second time. "
ON GARRICK'S STATURE
PREVIOUSLY to Foote's bringing out his 'Primitive Puppet
Show' at the Haymarket Theatre, a lady of fashion asked him,
"Pray, sir, are your puppets to be as large as life? "
"Oh dear, madam, no. Not much above the size of Garrick ! "
CAPE WINE
BEING at the dinner-table one day when the Cape was going
round in remarkably small glasses, his host was very profuse on
the excellence of the wine, its age, etc. "But you don't seem to
relish it, Foote, by keeping your glass so long before you. "
"Oh, yes, my lord, perfectly well. I am only admiring how
little it is, considering its great age.
>>
THE GRACES
OF AN actress who was remarkably awkward with her arms,
Foote said that "she kept the Graces at arm's-length. "


## p. 5884 (#472) ###########################################

5884
SAMUEL FOOTE
THE DEBTOR
OF A young gentleman who was rather backward in paying
his debts, he said he was "a very promising young gentleman. "
AFFECTATION
AN ASSUMING, pedantic lady, boasting of the many books which
she had read, often quoted 'Locke Upon Understanding,' a work
she said she admired above all things, yet there was one word
in it which, though often repeated, she could not distinctly make
out; and that was the word ide-a (pronouncing it very long):
"but I suppose it comes from a Greek derivation. "
"You are perfectly right, madam," said Foote, "it comes from
the word ideaousky. "
"And pray, sir, what does that mean? "
"The feminine of idiot, madam. "
ARITHMETICAL CRITICISM
A MERCANTILE man of his acquaintance, who would read a
poem of his to him one day after dinner, pompously began: —
"I am," said Foote.
"Hear me, O Phoebus! and ye Muses nine!
Pray be attentive. "
"Nine and one are ten: go on. "
THE DEAR WIFE
A GENTLEMAN just married, telling Foote that he had that
morning laid out three thousand pounds in jewels for his "dear
wife": "Well," said the other, "you have but done her justice,
as by your own reckoning she must be a very valuable woman. "
GARRICK AND THE GUINEA
FOOTE and Garrick, supping together at the Bedford, the for-
mer in pulling out his purse to pay the reckoning dropped a
guinea, which rolled in such a direction that they could not
readily find it.
"Where the deuce," says Foote, «< can it be gone to? "
"Gone to the Devil, I suppose," said Garrick.
"Well said, David; you are always what I took you for, ever
contriving to make a guinea go farther than any other man. ”


## p. 5885 (#473) ###########################################

SAMUEL FOOTE
5885
DR. PAUL HIFFERMAN
One day
PAUL was fond of laying, or rather offering, wagers.
in the heat of argument he cried out, "I'll lay my head you are
wrong upon that point. "
"Well," said Foote, "I accept the wager. Any trifle, among
friends, has a value. "
FOOTE AND MACKLIN
ONE night, when Macklin was formally preparing to begin a
lecture, hearing Foote rattling away at the lower end of the
room, and thinking to silence him at once, he called out in his
sarcastic manner, "Pray, young gentleman, do you know what I
am going to say? "
"No, sir," said Foote quickly: "do you? "
BARON NEWMAN
THIS celebrated gambler (well known about town thirty years
ago by the title of the left-handed Baron), being detected in the
rooms at Bath in the act of secreting a card, the company in the
warmth of their resentment threw him out of the window of a
one-pair-of-stairs room, where they were playing. The Baron,
meeting Foote some time afterward, loudly complained of this
usage, and asked him what he should do to repair his injured
honor.
"Do? " said the wit; "why, 'tis a plain case: never play so
high again as long as you live. "
MRS. ABINGTON
WHEN Mrs. Abington returned from her very first successful
trip to Ireland, Foote wished to engage her for his summer thea-
tre; but in the mean time Garrick secured her for Drury Lane.
Foote, on hearing this, asked her why she gave Garrick the
preference.
"I don't know how it was," said she: "he talked me over
by telling me that he would make me immortal, so that I did
not know how to refuse him. "
"Oh! did he so? Then I'll soon outbid him that way; for
come to me and I will give you two pounds a week more, and
charge you nothing for immortality. "


## p. 5886 (#474) ###########################################

5886
SAMUEL FOOTE
GARLIC-EATERS
LAUGHING at the imbecilities of a common friend one day,
somebody observed, "It was very surprising; and Tom D
knew him very well, and thought him far from being a fool. "
"Ah, poor Tom! " said Foote, "he is like one of those people
who eat garlic themselves, and therefore can't smell it in a com-
panion. "
MODE OF BURYING ATTORNEYS IN LONDON
A GENTLEMAN in
country, who had just buried a rich
relation who was an attorney, was complaining to Foote, who
happened to be on a visit with him, of the very great expense of
a country funeral in respect to carriages, hat-bands, scarves, etc.
"Why, do you bury your attorneys here? " asked Foote
gravely.
«< Yes, to be sure we do; how else?
"Oh, we never do that in London. »
"No? " said the other much surprised, "how do you man-
age? »
"Why, when the patient happens to die, we lay him out in a
room over night by himself, lock the door, throw open the sash,
and in the morning he is entirely off. "
"Indeed! " said the other in amazement; what becomes of
«<
him? "
"Why, that we cannot exactly tell, not being acquainted with
supernatural causes. All that we know of the matter is, that
there's a strong smell of brimstone in the room the next morn-
ing. "
DINING BADLY
FOOTE, returning from dinner with a lord of the admiralty,
was met by a friend, who asked him what sort of a day he had
had. "Very indifferent indeed; bad company and a worse din-
ner. "
"I wonder at that," said the other, "as I thought the admiral
a good jolly fellow. "
"Why, as to that, he may be a good sea lord, but take it from
me, he is a very bad landlord. "


## p. 5887 (#475) ###########################################

SAMUEL FOOTE
5887
DIBBLE DAVIS
DIBBLE DAVIS, one of Foote's butts-in-ordinary, dining with
him one day at North-end, observed that "well as he loved por-
ter, he could never drink it without a head. "
"That must be a mistake, Dibble,” returned his host, "as you
have done so to my knowledge alone these twenty years.
>>>
AN EXTRAORDINARY CASE
BEING at the levee of Lord Townsend, when that nobleman
was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, he thought he saw a person in
his Excellency's suite whom he had known to have lived many
years a life of expediency in London. To convince himself of
the fact, he asked his Excellency who it was.
"That is Mr. T, one of my gentlemen at large," was the
answer. "Do you know him? ”
"Oh, yes! perfectly well," said Foote, "and what your Excel-
lency tells me is doubly extraordinary: first, that he is a gentle-
man; and next, that he is at large. "
MUTABILITY OF THE WORLD
BEING at dinner in a mixed company soon after the bank-
ruptcy of one friend and the death of another, the conversation
naturally turned on the mutability of the world.
« Can you
account for this? " said S- a master builder, who happened
to sit next to Foote. "Why, not very clearly," said the other;
«< except we could suppose the world was built by contract. "
"
AN APPROPRIATE MOTTO
DURING one of Foote's trips to Dublin, he was much solicited
by a silly young man of fashion to assist him in a miscellany of
poems and essays which he was about to publish; but when he
asked to see the manuscript, the other told him "that at present
he had only conceived the different subjects, but had put none of
them to paper. "
"Oh! if that be the state of the case," replied Foote, "I will
give you a motto from Milton for the work in its present state:
'Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. »»


## p. 5888 (#476) ###########################################

5888
SAMUEL FOOTE
REAL FRIENDSHIP
A YOUNG gentleman, making an apology to his father for
coming late to dinner, said "that he had been visiting a poor
friend of his in St. George's Fields. " "Ah! a pretty kind of
friend indeed," says the father, "to keep us waiting for dinner
in this manner. "
"Aye, and for the best kind, too," said Foote: "as you know,
my dear sir, a friend in need is a friend indeed. "
ANECDOTE OF AN AUTHOR
AN AUTHOR was boasting that as a reviewer he had the
power of distributing literary reputations as he liked. "Take
care," said Foote, "you are not too prodigal of that, or you may
leave none for yourself. "
DR. BLAIR
WHEN Foote first heard of Dr. Blair's writing 'Notes on
Ossian' (a work the reality of which has always been much
doubted), he observed, "The publishers ought to allow a great
discount to the purchaser, as the notes required such a stretch of
credit. "
ADVICE TO A DRAMATIC WRITER
A DULL dramatic writer, who had often felt the severity of the
public, was complaining one day to Foote of the injustice done.
him by the critics; but added, "I have, however, one way of
being even with them, by constantly laughing at all they say. "
"You do perfectly right, my friend," said Foote; "for by this
method you will not only disappoint your enemies, but lead the
merriest life of any man in England. "
THE GRAFTON MINISTRY
A GENTLEMAN coming into the Cocoa-Tree one morning during
the Duke of Grafton's administration, was observing "that he
was afraid the poor ministry were at their wits' end. "
"Well, if it should be so," said Foote, "what reason have
they to complain of so short a journey? "


## p. 5889 (#477) ###########################################

5889
JOHN FORD
(1586-? )
HE dramatic genius of the English Renaissance had well-nigh
spent itself when the sombre creations of John Ford ap-
Speared upon a stage over which the clouds of the Civil War
were fast gathering. Little is known of this dramatist, who repre-
sents the decadent period which followed the age of Shakespeare.
He was born in 1586; entered the Middle Temple in 1602; after 1641
he is swallowed up in the turmoil of the time. The few scattered
records of his life add nothing to, nor do they take anything from, the
John Ford of 'The Broken Heart' and 'Perkin Warbeck. '
His plays are infected with a spirit alien to the poise and beauty
of the best Elizabethan drama. His creations tell of oblique vision;
of a disillusioned genius, predisposed to abnormal or exaggerated forms
of human experience. He breaks through the moral order, in his love
for the eccentricities of passion. He weaves the spell of his genius
around strange sins.
The problems of despair which Ford propounds but never solves,
form the plot of The Broken Heart'; Calantha, Ithocles, Penthea,
Orgilus, are wan types of the passive suffering which numbs the soul
to death. Charles Lamb has eulogized the final scene of this drama.
To many critics, the self-possession of Calantha savors of the theatri-
cal. The scene between Penthea and her brother Ithocles, who had
forced her to marry Bassanes though she loved Orgilus, is replete
with the tenderness, the sense of subdued anguish, of which Ford was
a master. He is the dramatist of broken hearts, whose waste places
are unrelieved by a touch of sunlight. His love of "passion at war
with circumstance" again finds expression in 'Love's Sacrifice,' a
drama of moral confusions. In 'The Lover's Melancholy' sorrow has
grown pensive. A quiet beauty rests upon the famous scene in which
Parthenophil strives with the nightingale for the prize of music.
'The Lady's Trial,' 'The Fancies Chaste and Noble,' 'The Sun's
Darling' (written in conjunction with Dekker), are worthy only of
passing notice. They leave but a pale impression upon the mind.
In 'Perkin Warbeck,' the one historical play of Ford, he exhibits his
mastery over straightforward, sinewy verse. The Witch of Edmon-
ton,' of which he wrote the first act, gives a signal example of his
modern style and spirit.
X-369


## p. 5890 (#478) ###########################################

5890
JOHN FORD
With the exception of 'Perkin Warbeck,' his dramas are destitute
of outlook. This moral contraction heightens the intensity of passion,
which in his conception of it has always its ancient significance of
suffering. His comic scenes are contemptible. He is at his greatest
when dealing with the subtleties of the human heart. Through him
we enter into the darker zones of the soul; we apprehend its remoter
sufferings.
Confusion of spiritual vision, blended with the tyranny of
passion, produce his greatest scenes. His are the tragedies of "unful-
filled desire. "
The verse of Ford is measured, passionless, polished. There is a
subtle music in his lines which haunts the memory.
With Ford the sun-born radiance of the noblest Elizabethan drama
fades from the stage. An artificial light, thereafter, replaced it.
FROM PERKIN WARBECK'
[Perkin Warbeck and his followers are presented to King Henry VII. by
Lord Dawbeny as prisoners. ]
D^
AWBENY
King Henry-
Dawbeny-
"Parthenophil is lost, and I would see him;
For he is like to something I remember,
A great while since, a long, long time ago. "
Life to the King, and safety fix his throne.
I here present you, royal sir, a shadow
Of Majesty, but in effect a substance
Of pity; a young man, in nothing grown
To ripeness, but th' ambition of your mercy;
Perkin, the Christian world's strange wonder!
Dawbeny-
King Henry-
We observe no wonder; I behold ('tis true)
An ornament of nature, fine and polished,
A handsome youth, indeed, but not admire him.
How come he to thy hands?
From sanctuary.
At Bewley, near Southampton; registered,
With these few followers, for persons privileged.
Dawbeny,
I must not thank you, sir! you were to blame
To infringe the liberty of houses sacred;
Dare we be irreligious?
Gracious lord!
They voluntarily resigned themselves,
Without compulsion.


## p. 5891 (#479) ###########################################

JOHN FORD
5891
King Henry-
Warbeck-
Dawbeny-
King Henry
Warbeck
.
So? 'twas very well
Turn now thine eyes,
'Twas very well.
Young man! upon thyself and thy past actions:
What revels in combustion through our kingdom
A frenzy of aspiring youth has danced;
Till wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt
To break thy neck.
Warbeck-
But not my heart; my heart
Will mount till every drop of blood be frozen
By death's perpetual winter. If the sun
Of Majesty be darkened, let the sun
Of life be hid from me, in an eclipse
Lasting and universal. Sir, remember
There was a shooting in of light when Richmond
(Not aiming at the crown) retired, and gladly,
For comfort to the Duke of Bretagne's court.
Richard, who swayed the sceptre, was reputed
A tyrant then; yet then, a dawning glimmer'd
To some few wand'ring remnants, promising day
When first they ventur'd on a frightful shore
At Milford Haven.
Whither speeds his boldness?
Check his rude tongue, great sir.
Oh, let him range:
The player's on the stage still; 'tis his part:
He does but act. - What followed?
______
-
King Henry-
Bosworth Field:
Where at an instant, to the world's amazement,
A morn to Richmond and a night to Richard
Appear'd at once. The tale is soon applied:
Fate which crowned these attempts, when least assured,
Might have befriended others, like resolved.
A pretty gallant! thus your aunt of Burgundy,
Your duchess aunt, informed her nephew: so
The lesson, prompted, and well conned, was molded
Into familiar dialogue, oft rehearsed,
Till, learnt by heart, 'tis now received for truth.
Truth in her pure simplicity wants art
To put a feigned blush on; scorn wears only
Such fashion as commends to gazers' eyes
Sad ulcerated novelty, far beneath; in such a court
Wisdom and gravity are proper robes
By which the sovereign is best distinguished
From zanies to his greatness.


## p. 5892 (#480) ###########################################

5892
JOHN FORD
King Henry-
Warbeck-
-
Warbeck
Your antic pageantry, and now appear
In your own nature; or you'll taste the danger
Of fooling out of season.
King Henry-
Sirrah, shift
I expect
No less than what severity calls justice,
And politicians safety; let such beg
As feed on alms: but if there can be mercy
In a protested enemy, then may it
Descend to these poor creatures whose engagements
To the bettering of their fortunes have incurred
A loss of all to them, if any charity
Flow from some noble orator; in death
I owe the fee of thankfulness.
King Henry-
So brave?
What a bold knave is this!
We trifle time with follies.
Urswick, command the Dukeling and these fellows
To Digby, the Lieutenant of the Tower.
Meet freedom in captivity: the Tower,
Our childhood's dreadful nursery!
Noble thoughts
Was ever so much impudence in forgery?
The custom, sure, of being styled a king
Hath fastened in his thought that he is such.
PENTHEA'S DYING SONG
From The Broken Heart ›
OH
H, NO more, no more,- too late;
Sighs are spent; the burning tapers
Of a life as chaste as fate,
Pure as are unwritten papers,
Are burnt out; no heat, no light
Now remains; 'tis ever night.
Love is dead; let lovers' eyes
Locked in endless dreams,
Th' extremes of all extremes,
Ope no more, for now Love dies;
Now Love dies - implying
Love's martyrs must be ever, ever dying.


## p. 5893 (#481) ###########################################

JOHN FORD
5893
Amethus-
ENAPHON - Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales
M Which poets of an elder time have feigned
To glorify their Temple, bred in me
Desire of visiting that paradise.
To Thessaly I came; and living private
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,
Amethus
Menaphon-
Menaphon
Amethus-
FROM THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY
AMETHUS AND MENAPHON
I day by day frequented silent groves
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encountered me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention
That art and nature ever were at strife in.
I cannot yet conceive what you infer
By art and nature.
I shall soon resolve ye.
A sound of music touched my ears, or rather
Indeed entranced my soul. As I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw
This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute,
With strains of strange variety and harmony,
Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a challenge
To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds,
That, as they flocked about him, all stood silent,
Wondering at what they heard: I wondered too.
And so do I: good, on!
A nightingale,
Nature's best skilled musician, undertakes
The challenge, and for every several strain
The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own;
He could not run division with more art
Upon his quaking instrument than she,
The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to: for a voice and for a sound,
Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe
That such they were than hope to hear again.
How did the rivals part?


## p. 5894 (#482) ###########################################

5894
JOHN FORD
You term them rightly;
For they were rivals, and their mistress harmony.
Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird,
Menaphon-
Amethus-
Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice.
To end the controversy, in a rapture
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly
So many voluntaries and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.
Now for the bird.
Menaphon-
The bird, ordained to be
Music's first martyr, strove to imitate
'These several sounds; which when her warbling throat
Failed in, for grief down dropped she on his lute,
And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness,
To see the conqueror upon her hearse
To weep a funeral elegy of tears;
That trust me, my Amethus, I could chide
Mine own unmanly weakness that made me
A fellow mourner with him.
Amethus-
Menaphon-
I believe thee.
He looked upon the trophies of his art,
Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed and cried:-
"Alas, poor creature! I will soon revenge
This cruelty upon the author of it;
Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood,
Shall never more betray a harmless peace
To an untimely end:" and in that sorrow,
As he was pushing it against a tree,
I suddenly stept in.


## p. 5895 (#483) ###########################################

5895
FRIEDRICH, BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
(1777-1843)
HE romantic school had many false and erratic tendencies,
but it produced some of the most fanciful and poetic crea-
tions of literature. Fouqué was called the Don Quixote of
the Romanticists, and his early romances of chivalry were devoured
by the public as quickly as they appeared. But his fame proved to
be a passing fancy; and his later works scarcely found a publisher.
This was owing partly to a change in public taste, and partly to
his mannerisms. His descriptions often deteriorate into tediousness,
and the narrative is broken by far-fetched
digressions. He was so imbued with the
spirit of chivalry that he became one-sided,
and his scenes were always laid in "the
chapel or the tilt-yard. " Critics of his time
speak of his mediæval romances as "full of
sweet strength and lovely virtue. " Others
say "the heroes are almost absurd, and do
not arouse enthusiasm. " Heine asserts that
Fouqué's laurel is genuine; Coleridge places*
him above Walter Scott; Thomas Carlyle
compares him to Southey, and describes
him as a man of genius, with little more
than an ordinary share of talent. Fouqué
was introduced to romanticism by Wilhelm
von Schlegel, and drew his first inspiration from Cervantes. What-
ever his shortcomings, it cannot be denied that he succeeded in catch-
ing the spirit of chivalry. His knights may be unreal and quixotic,
but he delineates his characters with the irresistible touch of a poet,
and his work displays noble thoughts and depth of feeling.
FOUQUÉ
Friedrich, Baron de la Motte Fouqué, was descended from a
French family that had emigrated to Prussia, and his grandfather
was a general under Frederick the Great. Fouqué was born at Bran-
denburg, February 12th, 1777, and was a thorough German at heart.
He received a military education, and at the age of nineteen proved
himself a brave soldier in the campaign of the Rhine. He served
under the Duke of Weimar, and his friend and comrade in arms was,
the wonderfully gifted but unfortunate Heinrich von Kleist.
He was
obliged to resign on account of ill health, and withdrawing to his



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FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
estates he devoted himself to literary pursuits. Once again, how-
ever, in the exciting times of the war against Napoleon, his sword
defended his country. He enlisted as a volunteer, and was after-
wards honorably retired with the rank of major. and decorated with
the Order of St. John. One of his patriotic poems, 'Frisch auf zum
Fröhlichen Jagen' (Come, rouse ye for the merry hunt), with refer-
ence to the rising against Napoleon, is still a popular song. In
Halle, Fouqué delivered lectures on history and poetry which at-
tracted much attention and admiration. In 1842 he was called to
Berlin by Frederick William IV. , but his literary efforts were at an
end. He died in Berlin, January 23d, 1843.
At the beginning of this century, Fouqué was one of the most cele-
brated authors. At the present day, with a few brilliant exceptions,
all of his plays, romances, and poems have been relegated to obliv-
ion. There is one work, however, a gem in German literature, that
has won for its author an enduring place in the memory of readers;
and that is the charming and graceful narrative of 'Undine. ' It af-
fords an example of the writer's best style of production; it breathes
the fresh fragrance of the woods, and is animated by the beautiful
thought that peoples the sea and air with nymphs and spirits. With
exquisite tenderness Fouqué portrays the beautiful character of Un-
dine. At first her nature reflects all the capriciousness of the ele-
ments, then, gradually growing more human through her love, her
soul expands and she becomes an ideal of womanly love, devotion,
and unselfishness.
The real and unreal are so perfectly blended in this story, that
the suffering of Undine excites deep sympathy. Undine, the foster-
daughter of a good old fisherman and his wife, is a water nymph, and
as such is born without a soul. The knight Huldbrand von Ring-
stetten is sent by Bertalda in quest of adventure, and riding through
an enchanted forest he reaches the fisherman's hut, where he is
detained by a storm. He falls in love with the laughing, wayward
Undine, and marries her. At once the bewitching maiden gives up
her wild pranks, grows gentle, and is devoted to the knight with all
her heart; for through her marriage to a human being she receives
a soul. Her uncle Kühleborn, a forest brook, tries to entice her back
to her native element the sea.
The bridal couple go to their castle, where Bertalda joins them,
doing much to disturb their happiness. Huldbrand, though he still
loves his beautiful wife, cannot at times suppress an instinctive shud-
der, and he is attracted to Bertalda, whose nature is more akin to his
. own.
One day, while they are sailing on the Danube, Kühleborn man-
ages to steal away a necklace with which Bertalda is playing in the


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FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5897
water. Undine richly compensates Bertalda for her loss by a much
rarer gift, but Huldbrand angrily upbraids her for continuing to hold
intercourse with her uncanny relatives. In tears she parts from him,
and vanishes in the waves. The knight marries Bertalda, but on the
wedding-day, Undine, deeply veiled, rises from the sea to claim her
husband, and with a kiss she takes away his life.
Heine says of 'Undine':-
"A wondrous lovely poem. The genius of Poetry kissed slumbering Spring,
and smiling he opened his eyes, and all the roses and the nightingales sang;
and what the fragrant roses said and what the nightingales sang, our worthy
Fouqué put into words and called it 'Undine. »»
THE MARRIAGE OF UNDINE
From Undine'
B
EFORE the nuptial ceremony, and during its performance, Un-
dine had shown a modest gentleness and maidenly reserve;
but it now seemed as if all the wayward freaks that effer-
vesced within her burst forth with an extravagance only the
more bold and unrestrained. She teased her bridegroom, her
foster-parents, and even the priest, whom she had just now
revered so highly, with all sorts of childish tricks; but when the
ancient dame was about to reprove her too frolicsome spirit, the
knight in a few words imposed silence upon her by speaking of
Undine as his wife.
The knight was himself indeed just as little pleased with Un-
dine's childish behavior as the rest; but all his looks and half-
reproachful words were to no purpose. It is true, whenever the
bride observed the dissatisfaction of her husband- and this occa-
sionally happened-she became more quiet, and placed herself
beside him, stroked his face with caressing fondness, whispered
something smilingly in his ear, and in this manner smoothed the
wrinkles that were gathering on his brow. But the moment after,
some wild whim would make her resume her antic movements;
and all went worse than before.
The priest then spoke in a kind although serious tone:-
"My fair young maiden, surely no one can look on you with-
out pleasure; but remember betimes so to attune your soul, that
it may produce a harmony ever in accordance with the soul of
your wedded bridegroom. "
-


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FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
"Soul! " cried Undine, with a laugh. "What you say has a
remarkably pretty sound; and for most people, too, it may be a
very instructive and profitable caution. But when a person has
no soul at all, how, I pray you, can such attuning be then pos-
sible? And this in truth is just my condition. "
The priest was much hurt, but continued silent in holy dis-
pleasure, and turned away his face from the maiden in sorrow.
She went up to him, however, with the most winning sweetness,
and said:
-
"Nay, I entreat you, first listen to me, before you are angry
with me; for your anger is painful to me, and you ought not to
give pain to a creature that has not hurt you. Only have patience
with me, and I will explain to you every word of what I meant. "
It was evident that she had come to say something important;
when she suddenly faltered as if seized with inward shuddering,
and burst into a passion of tears. They were none of them able
to understand the intenseness of her feelings; and with mingled
emotions of fear and anxiety, they gazed on her in silence.
Then wiping away her tears and looking earnestly at the priest,
she at last said:
"There must be something lovely, but at the same time some-
thing most awful, about a soul. In the name of God, holy man,
were it not better that we never shared a gift so mysterious?
Again she paused, and restrained her tears, as if waiting for
an answer. All in the cottage had risen from their seats, and
stepped back from her with horror. She, however, seemed to
have eyes for no one but the holy man; an awful curiosity was
painted on her features, which appeared terrible to the others.
«< Heavily must the soul weigh down its possessor," she pur-
sued, when no one returned her any answer "very heavily! for
already its approaching image overshadows me with anguish and
mourning. And alas, I have till now been so merry and light-
hearted! » and she burst into another flood of tears and covered
her face with her veil.
The priest, going up to her with a solemn look, now addressed
himself to her, and conjured her, by the name of God most holy,
if any spirit of evil possessed her, to remove the light covering
from her face. But she sank before him on her knees, and
repeated after him every sacred expression he uttered, giving
praise to God, and protesting that she "wished well to the whole
world. "


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FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5899
The priest then spoke to the knight: "Sir bridegroom, I
leave you alone with her whom I have united to you in mar-
riage. So far as I can discover there is nothing of evil in her,
but assuredly much that is wonderful. What I recommend to
you is prudence, love, and fidelity. "
Thus speaking, he left the apartment; and the fisherman with
his wife followed him, crossing themselves.
Undine had sunk upon her knees. She uncovered her face,
and exclaimed, while she looked fearfully round upon Huldbrand,
"Alas, you will now refuse to look upon me as your own; and
I still have done nothing evil, poor unhappy child that I am! "
She spoke these words with a look so infinitely sweet and touch-
ing, that her bridegroom forgot both the confession that had
shocked and the mystery that had perplexed him; and hastening
to her, he raised her in his arms. She smiled through her tears;
and that smile was like the morning light playing upon a small
stream. "You cannot desert me! " she whispered confidingly,
and stroked the knight's cheeks with her little soft hands. He
turned away from the frightful thoughts that still lurked in the
recesses of his soul, and were persuading him that he had been
married to a fairy, or some spiteful and mischievous being of the
spirit world. Only the single question, and that almost unawares,
escaped from his lips: -
"Dearest Undine, tell me this one thing: what was it you
meant by 'spirits of earth' and 'Kühleborn,' when the priest
stood knocking at the door? »
"Tales! mere tales of children! " answered Undine laughing,
now quite restored to her wonted gayety. "I first frightened you.
with them, and you frightened me. This is the end of my
story, and of our nuptial evening.
"Nay, not so," replied the enamored knight, extinguishing
the tapers, and a thousand times kissing his beautiful and be-
loved bride; while, lighted by the moon that shone brightly
through the windows, he bore her into their bridal apartment.
The fresh light of morning woke the young married pair: but
Huldbrand lay lost in silent reflection. Whenever, during the
night, he had fallen asleep, strange and horrible dreams of spec-
tres had disturbed him; and these shapes, grinning at him by
stealth, strove to disguise themselves as beautiful females; and
from beautiful females they all at once assumed the appearance
of dragons. And when he started up, aroused by the intrusion


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FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
of these hideous forms, the moonlight shone pale and cold before
the windows without. He looked affrighted at Undine, in whose
arms he had fallen asleep: and she was reposing in unaltered
beauty and sweetness beside him. Then pressing her rosy lips
with a light kiss, he again fell into a slumber, only to be
awakened by new terrors.
When fully awake he had thought over this connection. He
reproached himself for any doubt that could lead him into error
in regard to his lovely wife. He also confessed to her his injust-
ice; but she only gave him her fair hand, sighed deeply, and
remained silent. Yet a glance of fervent tenderness, an expres-
sion of the soul beaming in her eyes, such as he had never wit-
nessed there before, left him in undoubted assurance that Undine
bore him no ill-will.
He then rose joyfully, and leaving her, went to the common
apartment, where the inmates of the house had already met.
The three were sitting round the hearth with an air of anxiety
about them, as if they feared trusting themselves to raise their
voice above a low, apprehensive undertone. The priest appeared
to be praying in his inmost spirit, with a view to avert some
fatal calamity. But when they observed the young husband come
forth so cheerful, they dispelled the cloud that remained upon
their brows: the old fisherman even began to laugh with the
knight, till his aged wife herself could not help smiling with
great good-humor.
Undine had in the mean time got ready, and now entered the
room: all rose to meet her, but remained fixed in perfect admi-
ration- she was so changed, and yet the same. The priest,
with paternal affection beaming from his countenance, first went
up to her; and as he raised his hand to pronounce a blessing, the
beautiful bride sank on her knees before him with religious awe;
she begged his pardon in terms both respectful and submissive
for any foolish things she might have uttered the evening
before, and entreated him with emotion to pray for the welfare
of her soul. She then rose, kissed her foster-parents, and after
thanking them for all the kindness they had shown her, said:
"Oh, I now feel in my inmost heart how much, how infinitely
much, you have done for me, you dear, dear friends of my
childhood! "
At first she was wholly unable to tear herself away from their
affectionate caresses; but the moment she saw the good old


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5901
mother busy in getting breakfast, she went to the hearth, ap-
plied herself to cooking the food and putting it on the table, and
would not suffer her to take the least share in the work.
She continued in this frame of spirit the whole day: calm,
kind, attentive-half matronly and half girlish. The three who
had been longest acquainted with her expected every instant to
see her capricious spirit break out in some whimsical change or
sportive vagary. But their fears were quite unnecessary. Undine
continued as mild and gentle as an angel. The priest found it
all but impossible to remove his eyes from her; and he often
said to the bridegroom:-
"The bounty of Heaven, sir, through me its unworthy instru-
ment, intrusted to you yesterday an invaluable treasure: cherish
it as you ought, and it will promote your temporal and eternal
welfare. "
―――
Toward evening Undine was hanging upon the knight's arm
with lowly tenderness, while she drew him gently out before the
door, where the setting sun shone richly over the fresh grass and
upon the high slender boles of the trees. Her emotion was vis-
ible; the dew of sadness and love swam in her eyes, while a
tender and fearful secret seemed to hover upon her lips, but was
only made known by hardly breathed sighs. She led her hus-
band farther and farther onward without speaking. When he
asked her questions, she replied only with looks, in which, it is
true, there appeared to be no immediate answer to his inquiries,
but a whole heaven of love and timid devotion. Thus they
reached the margin of the swollen forest stream, and the knight
was astonished to see it gliding away with so gentle a murmur-
ing of its waves, that no vestige of its former swell and wildness
was now discernible.
"By morning it will be wholly drained off," said the beautiful
wife, almost weeping, "and you will then be able to travel,
without anything to hinder you, whithersoever you will. "
"Not without you, dear Undine,” replied the knight, laugh-
ing: "think only, were I disposed to leave you, both the Church
and the spiritual powers, the emperor and the laws of the realm,
would require the fugitive to be seized and restored to you. "
"All this depends on you-all depends on you," whispered
his little companion, half weeping and half smiling.