Excerpt from DE L’ALLEMAGNE – “Germany” by Madame Germaine de Staél-Holstein (published 1810, the 1813 John Murray translation), Vol. I. Illustrationen zu Bürgers Werk.
Burger has written another story, less celebrated, but also extremely original, entitled “The Wild Huntsman.” Followed by his servants and a large pack of hounds, he sets out for the chase on a Sunday, just as the village bell announces divine service.
A knight in white armour presents himself, and conjures him not to profane the Lord’s day. Another knight, arrayed in black armour, makes him ashamed of subjecting himself to prejudices which are suitable only to old men and children.
The huntsman yields to these evil suggestions. He sets off and reaches the field of a poor widow. She throws herself at his feet, imploring him not to destroy her harvest by trampling down her corn with his attendants.
The knight in white armour entreats the huntsman to listen to the voice of pity. The black knight laughs at a sentiment so puerile; the huntsman mistakes ferocity for energy, and his horses trample on the hope of the poor and the orphan.
At length the stag, pursued, seeks refuge in the hut of an old hermit. The huntsman wishes to set it on fire in order to drive out his prey. The hermit embraces his knees, and endeavors to soften the ferocious being who thus threatens his humble abode. For the last time, the good genius, under the form of the white knight, again speaks to him. The evil genius, under that of the black knight, triumphs. The huntsman kills the hermit, and is at once changed into a phantom, pursued by his own dogs, who seek to devour him.
This story is derived from a popular superstition. It is said, that at midnight in certain seasons of the year, a huntsman is seen in the clouds, just over the forest where this event is supposed to have passed, and that he is pursued by a furious pack of hounds till day-break.
What is truly fine in this poem of Bürger’s is his description of the ardent will of the huntsman: It is at first innocent, as are all the faculties of the soul; but it becomes more and more depraved, as often as he resists the voice of conscience and yields to his passions. His headstrong purpose was at first only the intoxication of power. It soon becomes that of guilt, and the earth can no longer sustain him. The good and evil inclinations of men are well characterized by the white and black knights; the words, always the same, which are pronounced by the white knight to stop the career of the huntsman, are also very ingeniously combined.
The ancients, and the poets of the middle ages, were well acquainted with the kind of terror caused in certain circumstances by the repetition of the same words; it seems to awaken the sentiment of inflexible necessity. Apparitions, oracles, all supernatural powers, must be monotonous: what is immutable is uniform; and in certain fictions it is a great art to imitate by words that solemn fixedness which imagination assigns to the empire of darkness and of death.
We also remark in Bürger a certain familiarity of expression, which does not lessen the dignity of the poetry, but, on the contrary, singularly increases its effect. When we succeed in exciting both terror and admiration without weakening either, each of those sentiments is necessarily strengthened by the union: it is mixing, in the art of painting, what we see continually with that which we never see; and from what we know, we are led to believe that which astonishes us.
Excerpt from DE L’ALLEMAGNE – “Germany” by Madame Germaine de Staél-Holstein (published 1810, the 1813 John Murray translation), Vol. I. Illustrationen zu Bürgers Werk..
.The detached pieces of poetry among the Germans are, it appears to me, still more remarkable than their poems, and it is particularly that writing on which the stamp of originality is impressed. It is also true that the authors who have written most in this manner, Goethe, Schiller, Bürger, etc, are of the modern school, which alone bears a truly national character. Goethe has most imagination, and Schiller most sensibility; but Gottfried August Bürger is more generally admired than either…
We have not yet spoken of an inexhaustible source of poetical effect in Germany, which is terror: stories of apparitions and sorcerers are equally well received by the populace and by men of more enlightened minds. It is a relick of the northern mythology; a disposition naturally inspired by the long nights of a northern climate; and besides, though Christianity opposes all groundless fears, yet popular superstitions have always some sort of analogy to the prevailing religion. Almost every true opinion has its attendant error, which like a shadow places itself at the side of the reality: it is a luxuriance or excess of belief, which is commonly attached both to religion and to history, and I know not why we should disdain to avail ourselves of it.
Shakespeare has produced wonderful effects from the introduction of spectres and magic; and poetry cannot be popular when it despises that which exercises a spontaneous empire over the imagination. Genius and taste may preside over the arrangement of these tales, and in proportion to the commonness of the subject, the more skill is required in the manner of treating it; perhaps it is in this union alone that the great force of a poem consists. It is probable that the great events recorded in the Iliad and Odyssey were sung by nurses, before Homer rendered them the chef-d’oeuvre of the poetical art.
Of all German writers, Bürger has made the best use of this vein of superstition which carries us so far into the recesses of the heart. His tales are therefore well known throughout Germany. “Leonora,” which is most generally admired, is not yet translated into French, or at least, it would be very difficult to relate it circumstantially either in our prose or verse.
A young girl is alarmed at not hearing from her lover who is gone to the army. Peace is made, and the soldiers return to their habitations. Mothers again meet their sons, sisters their brothers, and husbands their wives. The warlike trumpet accompanies the songs of peace, and joy reigns in every heart.
Leonora in vain surveys the ranks of the soldiers, she sees not her lover, and no one can tell her what is become of him.
She is in despair: her mother attempts to calm her; but the youthful heart of Leonora revolves against the stroke of affliction, and in its frenzy she accuses Providence.
From the moment in which the blasphemy is uttered, we are sensible that the story is to have something fatal in it, and this idea keeps the mind in constant agitation.
At midnight, a knight stops at the door of Leonora’s house. She hears the neighing of the horse and the clinking of the spurs. The knight knocks, she goes down and beholds her lover.
He tells her to follow him instantly, having not a moment to lose, he says, before he returns to the army. She presses forward; he places her behind him on his horse, and sets off with the quickness of lightning.
During the night he gallops through barren and desert countries: his youthful companion is filled with terror, and continually asks him why he goes so fast. The knight still presses on his horse by his hoarse and hollow cries, and in a low voice says, “The dead go quick the dead go quick.”
Leonora answers, “Ah! Leave the dead in peace!” But whenever she addresses to him any anxious question, he repeats the same appalling words.
In approaching the church, where he says he is carrying her to complete their union, the frosts of winter seem to change nature herself into a frightful omen: priests carry a coffin in great pomp, and their black robes train slowly on the snow, the winding sheet of the earth.
Leonora’s terror increases, and her lover cheers her with a mixture of irony and carelessness which makes one shudder. All that he says is pronounced with a monotonous precipitation, as if already, in his language, the accents of life were no longer heard.
He promises to bring her to that narrow and silent abode where their union was to be accomplished. We see at a distance the church-yard by the side of the church.
The knight knocks, and the door opens. He pushes forward with his horse, making him pass between the tombstones. He then by degrees loses the appearance of a living being, is changed into a skeleton, and the earth opens to swallow up both him and his mistress.
I certainly do not flatter myself that I have been able in this abridged recital to give a just idea of the astonishing merit of this tale. All the imagery, all the sounds connected with the situation of the soul, are wonderfully expressed by the poetry: the syllables, the rhymes, all the art of language is employed to excite terror. The rapidity of the horse’s pace seems more solemn and more appalling than even the slowness of a funeral procession. The energy with which the knight quickens his course, that petulance of death, causes an inexpressible emotion; and we feel ourselves carried off by the phantom, as well as the poor girl whom he drags with him into the abyss.
There are four English translations of this tale of Leonora [as of 1810], but the best beyond comparison is that of William Spencer, who of all English poets is best acquainted with the true spirit of foreign languages. The analogy between the English and the German allows a complete transfusion of the originality of style and versification of Bürger; and we not only find in the translation the same ideas as in the original, but also the same sensations; and nothing is more necessary than this to convey the true knowledge of a literary production. It would be difficult to obtain the same result in French, where nothing strange or odd seems natural.
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Excerpt, “Specimens of the German Lyric Poets: Consisting of Translations in Verse, From the Works of Bürger, Goethe, Klopstock, Schiller, etc., Interspersed with Biographical Notices, and Ornamented with Engravings on Wood by the First Artists.” Translated by Benjamin Beresford, Joseph Charles Mellish. 1822
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THE BRAVE MAN
High sounds the song of the valiant man,
Like clang of bells and organ-tone.
Him, whose high soul brave thoughts control,
Not gold rewards, but song alone.
Thank Heaven for song and praise, that I can
Thus sing and praise the valiant man!
The thaw-wind came from southern sea,
Heavy and damp, through Italy,
And the clouds before it away did flee,
Like frighted herds, when the wolf they see.
It sweeps the fields, through the forest breaks,
And the ice bursts away on streams and lakes.
On mountain-top dissolved the snow;
The falls with a thousand waters dashed;
A lake did o’erflow the meadow low,
And the mighty river swelled and splashed.
Along their channel the waves rolled high,
And heavily rolled the ice-cakes by.
On heavy piers and arches strong,
Below and above of massive stone,
A bridge stretched wide across the tide,
And midway stood a house thereon.
There dwelt the tollman, with child and wife;
O tollman! Tollman! Flee for thy life!
And it groaned and droned, and around the house
Howled storm and wind with a dismal sound;
And the tollman aloof sprang forth on the roof,
And gazed on the tumult around:
“O merciful Heaven! Thy mercy show!
Lost, lost, and forlorn! Who shall rescue me now?”
Thump! Thump! The heavy ice-cakes rolled,
And piled on either shore they lay;
From either shore the wild waves tore
The arches with their piers away.
The trembling tollman, with wife and child,
He howled still louder than storm-winds wild.
Thump! Thump! The heavy ice-cakes rolled,
And piled at either end they lay;
All rent and dashed, the stone piers crashed,
As one by one they shot away.
To the middle approaches the overthrow!
O merciful Heaven! Thy mercy show!
High on the distant bank there stands
A crowd of peasants great and small;
Each shrieking stands, and wrings his hands,
But there’s none to save among them all
The trembling tollman, with wife and child,
For rescue howls through the storm-winds wild.
When soundest thou, song of the valiant man,
Like clang of bells and organ-tone?
Say on, say on, my noble song!
How namest though him, the valiant one?
To the middle approaches the overthrow!
O brave man! Brave man! Show thyself now!
Swift galloped a count forth from the crowd,
On gallant steed, a count full bold.
In his hand so free what holdeth he?
It is a purse stuffed full of gold.
“Two hundred pistoles to him who shall save
Those poor folks from death and a watery grave!”
Who is the brave man? Is it the count?
Say on, my noble song, say on!
By Him who can save! The count was brave,
And yet do I know a braver one.
O brave man! Brave man! Say, where art thou?
Fearfully the ruin approaches now!
And ever higher swelled the flood,
And ever louder roared the blast,
And ever deeper sank the heart of the keeper; –
Preserver! Preserver! Speed thee fast!
And as pier after pier gave way in the swell,
Loud cracked and dashed the arch as it fell.
“Halloo! Halloo! To the rescue speed!”
Aloft the count his purse doth wave;
And each one hears, and each one fears;
From thousands none steps forth to save,
In vain doth the tollman, with wife and child,
For rescue howl through the storm-winds wild.
See, stout and strong, a peasant man,
With staff in hand, comes wandering by;
A kirtle of gray his limbs array;
In form and feature, stern and high.
He listened, the words of the count to hear,
And gazed on the danger that threatened near.
And boldly, in Heaven’s name, into
The nearest fishing-boat spray he;
Through the whirlwind wide, and the dashing tide,
The preserver reaches them happily.
But, alas! The boat is too small, too small,
At one to receive and preserve them all!
And thrice he forced his little boat
Through whirlwind, storm, and dashing wave;
And thrice came he full happily,
Till there was no one left to save.
And hardly the last in safety lay,
When the last of the ruins rolled away.
Who is, who is the valiant man?
Say on, my noble song, say on!
The peasant, I know, staked his life on the throw,
But for the sake of gold’t was done.
Had the count not promised the gold to him,
The peasant had risked neither life nor limb.
“Here,” said the count, “my valiant friend,
Here is thy guerdon, take the whole!”
Say, was not this high-mindedness?
By Heaven! The count hath a noble soul!
But higher and holier, sooth to say,
Beat the peasant’s heart in his kirtle gray.
“My life cannot be bought and sold;
Though poor, I’m not by want oppressed;
But the tollman old stands in need of thy gold;
He has lost whatever he possessed.”
Thus cried he, with hearty, honest tone,
And, turning away, went forth alone.
High soundest thou, song of the valiant man,
Like clang of bells and organ-tone.
Him, whose high soul brave thoughts control,
Not gold rewards, but song alone.
Thank Heaven for song and praise, that I can
Thus sing and praise the valiant man!
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