land home into the half playful, half melancholy romance of the 'Trumpeter of Säkkingen.' The success of this poem was not immediate. Scheffel returned to Germany, determined to produce a scholarly work on the history of the Middle Ages. The 'Monumenta Germaniæ Historica' formed a part of his systematic studies; and in these his imagination was captivated by the Chronicles of St. Gall. At St. Gall, and at the foot of the Hohentwiel, he spent his Easter vacation, writing the opening chapters of 'Ekkehard.' It was finished at Heidelberg early in 1855. Upon the novel and the poem together his fame was firmly established. This period of his greatest productivity was the happiest period of his life. His high spirits found expression in the rollicking student songs which appeared under the title of 'Gaudeamus.' These songs are now the permanent possession of the university youth of Germany, to whom they have doubly endeared the poet's name. The volume has passed its sixtieth edition. But these happy days fled swiftly. The severe mental strain of two years of uninterrupted literary creation left Scheffel a nervous wreck. He planned several more historical works; but in each case his painstaking preparations broke down his weakened health, and his task was left unfinished. The death of his sister in 1857 was a blow from which his spirits never recovered. The gay poet and convivial student became gradually a morose and disappointed man. He married in 1864 Fräulein von Malzen, the daughter of the Bavarian ambassador; but his shattered nerves and erratic habits made him an incompatible companion, and a separation followed two years later. He wrote many more tales and novels, but none ever attained the popularity of the first two works. The poet's fiftieth birthday was celebrated by all Germany; and the Grand Duke of Baden conferred upon him a patent of hereditary nobility. The last years of his life were spent in melancholy retirement on his estate at Radolfszell on Lake Constance, where he had once been wont to play the generous but eccentric host. Soon after the attainment of his sixtieth birthday he died. On the great terrace of Heidelberg Castle stands his statue in bronze. It is only by comparison with 'Ekkehard' and the Trumpeter' that Scheffel's other works may be called unsuccessful. Frau Aventiure' (Lady Adventure) reached some twenty editions, and Juniperus' five. Both works are parts of a broadly planned attempt to portray the features of the olden time when the Nibelungenlied at last assumed its classic form. The scheme was never carried out, and the scholarly element in these detracts somewhat from their directness of appeal; but the graphic touch is not altogether lost. A lyric play called 'Der Brautwillkomm auf Wartburg (Welcoming the Bride on the Wartburg) was likewise a product of these mediæval studies, as were also the 'Bergpsalmen (Mountain Psalms). These psalms appeared in 1870. Ten years later came Waldeinsamkeit ' (Woodland Solitude); which with 'Der Henri von Steier' (Henry of Styria), and an ancient tale of Hugideo' (1884), completes the list of the poet's works. In a century which began with Scott and ends with Sienkiewicz, a discussion of the historical novel as an allowable form of art would be academic. In Germany, Hauff's 'Lichtenstein' (1826), modeled after Scott, was the first distinctively historical novel of importance. Conrad Ferdinand Meyer attained a high mastery of form in this genre; but it is to Scheffel that we must look for the one classic example and supreme achievement. In 'Ekkehard' he skillfully avoids the dangers of partisanship, in the delineation of well-known characters and in the interpretation of famous events, by seeking rather to show the thoughts, ambitions, and customs of the age in the daily life of convent and castle; while the onrush of history is heard only from afar,- coming for a moment, in the attack of the Huns, to the very gates of the monastery. The book is an authentic picture of the tenth century in Suabia. Even had such men and women, such conditions, such events, never had their actual counterparts, the work would be still instinct with life; for its vitality is in no wise dependent upon its historical setting. Scheffel in his own charming preface asserts that "neither history nor poetry will lose anything by forming a close alliance." This depends, it is true, upon the genius of the man who makes the treaty; but in 'Ekkehard' men will long continue to enjoy the vivid and faithful presentation of a picturesque age, in which the elements of poetry and history are exquisitely blended. The Trumpeter' is a romantic love tale full of playful humor and graceful trifling, sustained by a true and tender sentiment. Of course the humble trumpet-blower marries the high-born maiden in the end. In its rhythmic measures the poem reminds one of Heine's 'Atta Troll'; but it is kindlier and born of a serener mood than that brilliant piece of bitterness, in which the old Romantic School, expiring, laughed in frivolous self-ridicule. Gentleness, chivalry, and love are the themes of Scheffel's Rhineland romance; and the satirical blows of Hiddigeigei are delivered with velvet paws. Scheffel has himself declared that the ironical flavor of his poetry was the result of an underlying melancholy. The events of 1848, although he was an ardent advocate of a united Fatherland, failed to stir him; and the hopeless, reactionary period that followed made him a political pessimist. "My soul," he said, "took on a rust in those days which it will never wear off." His humor was a conscious concealment of an essentially melancholy disposition; and as the years wore on, he was less and less able to maintain his mental disguise. He lived in an atmosphere of mediævalism, and there is a natural touch of antiquity in his style which removes the last trace of pedantry from his historical pictures. His mild mockery and delightful drollery have an old-time flavor that mellows the effect; and his work is wholesome and refreshing through its pure and healthy sentiment. E REJECTION AND FLIGHT From 'Ekkehard.' Copyright 1895, by Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. KKEHARD remained long sitting in the garden bower; then he rushed out into the darkness. He knew not whither his feet were carrying him. In the morning he found himself on the top of the Hohenkrähen, which had stood silent and deserted since the forest woman's departure. The remains of the burnt hut lay in a confused heap. Where the living-room had once been, the Roman stone with the Mithras was still to be seen. Grass and ferns grew over it, and a blindworm was stealthily creeping up on the old weather-beaten idol. Ekkehard burst into a wild scornful laugh. "The chapel of St. Hadwig!" he cried, striking his breast with his clenched hand. "Thus it must be!" He upset the old Roman stone, and then mounted the rocky crest of the hill. There he threw himself down and pressed his forehead against the cool ground, which had once been touched by Frau Hadwig's foot. There he remained for a long time. When the scorching rays of the midday sun fell upon him, he still lay there, and slept. Toward evening he came back to the Hohentwiel, hot and haggard, and with an unsteady gait. Blades of grass clung to the woolen texture of his cowl. The people of the castle timidly stepped out of his way, as if before one on whose forehead ill-luck had set her seal. In other times they had been wont to come toward him to entreat his blessing. The duchess had noticed his absence, but made no inquiries about him. He went up to his tower, and seized a parchment, « Will as if he would read. It was Gunzo's attack upon him. ingly I would exhort you to aid him with healing medicine; but I fear, I sadly fear, that his disease is too deeply rooted," was what he read. He laughed. The arched ceiling threw back an echo; he leaped to his feet as if he wanted to find out who had laughed. at him. Then he went to the window, and looked down into the depths below. It was deep, deep down: a sudden giddiness came over him; he started back. The small phial which the old Thieto had given him stood near his books. It made him melancholy. He thought of the blind old man! "The service of women is an evil thing for him who wishes to remain good," he had said when Ekkehard took leave. He tore the seal off from the phial, and poured the Jordan water over his head and drenched his eyes. It was too late. Whole floods of holy water will not extinguish the inward fire, unless one plunges in never to rise again. Yet a mo mentary feeling of quiet came over him. "I will pray," said he. "It is a temptation." He threw himself on his knees: but soon it seemed to him as if the pigeons were swarming round his head, as they did on the day when he first entered the tower room; but now they had mocking faces, and wore a contemptuous look about their beaks. He got up and slowly descended the winding staircase to the castle chapel. The altar below had been a witness of earnest devotions on many a happy day. The chapel was, as before, dark and silent. Six ponderous pillars, with square capitals adorned with leaf-work, supported the vault. A faint streak of daylight fell in through the narrow windows. The recesses of the niche where the altar stood were but faintly illuminated; the golden background of the mosaic picture of the Redeemer alone shone with a soft glitter. Greek artists had transplanted the forms of their church ornaments to the German rock. In a white flowing garment, with a gold-red aureole round his head, the Savior's emaciated figure stood there, with the fingers of the right hand extended in the act of blessing. Ekkehard bowed before the altar steps; his forehead rested on the stone flags. Thus he remained, wrapt in prayer. "O Thou who hast taken the sorrows of the world on thyself, send out one ray of thy grace on me unworthy." He raised his head and gazed up, as if he expected the earnest figure to step down from the wall and hold out his hand to him. "I am here at thy feet, like Peter, surrounded by tempest, and the waves will not bear me up! Save me, O Lord! save me as thou didst him when thou didst walk over the raging billows, extending thy hand to him and saying, 'O thou of little faith, wherefore dost thou doubt ?>» But no sign was given him. Ekkehard's brain was giving way. There was a rustling through the chapel like that of a woman's garments. He heard nothing. Frau Hadwig had come down under the impulse of a strange mood. Since she had begun to bear a grudge against the monk, the image of her late husband recurred oftener to her mind. Naturally, as the one receded into the background, the other must come forward again. The later reading of Virgil had also been responsible for this, as there had been said so much about the memory of Sichæus. The following day was the anniversary of Herr Burkhard's death. With his lance and shield by his side, the old duke lay buried in the chapel. His tomb at the right of the altar was covered by a rough stone slab. The eternal lamp burned dimly over it. A sarcophagus of gray sandstone stood near it, resting on small clumsy pillars with Ionic capitals; and these again rested on grotesque stone animals. This stone coffin Frau Hadwig had had made for herself. Every year, on the anniversary of the duke's death, she had it carried up and filled with corn and fruits, which were distributed among the poor,- the means of living coming from the resting-place of the dead. It was a pious ancient custom. To-day it was her purpose to pray on her husband's grave. The duskiness of the place concealed Ekkehard's kneeling figure. She did not see him. Suddenly she was startled from her devotions. A laugh, subdued yet piercing, struck her ear. She knew the voice. Ekkehard had risen and recited the following words of the Psalms: "Hide me under the shadow of thy wings, From the wicked that oppress me, From my deadly enemies who compass me about. |