GERMAN HUMOR

Christian F. Gellert, a German poet of the early Eighteenth century, was also a lecturer and professor of philosophy.

His literary fame rests upon his sacred songs and his fables. One of the latter we quote.

THE PATIENT CURED

A man long plagued with aches in joint and limb

Did all his neighbors recommended him,

But, despite that, could nowise gain

Deliverance from his pain.

An ancient dame, to whom he told his case,

Cut an oracular grimace,

And thus announced a magic remedy:

“You must,” said she,

Mysteriously hissing in his ear,

And calling him “My dear,”

“Sit on a good man’s grave at early light,

And with the dew fresh-fallen over night

Thrice bathe your hands, your knee-joints thrice:

’Twill cure you in a trice.

Remember her who gave you this advice.”

The patient did just as the grandam said.

(What will not mortals do to be

Relieved of misery?)

He went right early to the burying-ground,

And on a tombstone—’twas the first he found—

These words, delighted, read:

“Stranger, what man he was who sleeps below,

This monument and epitaph may show.

The wonder of his time was he,

The pattern of most genuine piety;

And that thou all in a few words may’st learn,

Him church and school and town and country mourn.”

Here the poor cripple takes his seat,

And bathes his hands, his joints, his feet;

But all his labor’s worse than vain:

It rather aggravates his pain.

With troubled mind he grasps his staff,

Turns from the good man’s grave, and creeps

On to the next, where lowly sleeps

One honored by no epitaph.

Scarce had he touched the nameless stone,

When lo! each racking pain had flown;

His useless staff forgotten on the ground,

He leaves this holy grave, erect and sound.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “is there no line to tell

Who was this holy man that makes me well?”

Just then the sexton did appear,

Of him he asked, “Pray, who lies buried here?”

The sexton waited long, and seemed quite shy

Of making any sort of a reply.

“Well,” he began at last with mournful sigh,

“The Lord forgive him, ’twas a man

Placed by all honest circles under ban;

Whom scarcely they allowed a decent grave;

Whose soul naught but a miracle might save;

A heretic, and, what is worse,

Wrote plays and verse!

In short, to speak my full conviction,

And without fear of contradiction,

He was an innovator and a scound—”

“No!” cried the man. “No, I’ll be bound!

Not so, though all the world the lie repeat!

But that chap there, who sleeps hard by us,

Whom you and all the world call pious,

He was, for sure, a scoundrel and a cheat!”

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing was a celebrated German dramatist and critic. His collected works fill many volumes.

We quote a few of his Fables and Epigrams.

THE RAVEN

The raven remarked that the eagle sat thirty days upon her eggs. “That, undoubtedly,” said she, “is the reason why the young of the eagle are so all-seeing and strong. Good! I will do the same.”

And, since then, the raven actually sits thirty days upon her eggs; but, as yet, she has hatched nothing but miserable ravens.—Fables.

THE DECORATED BOW

A man had an excellent bow of ebony, with which he shot very far and very sure, and which he valued at a great price. But once, after considering it attentively, he said:

“A little too rude still! Your only ornament is your polish. It is a pity! However, that can be remedied,” thought he. “I will go and let a first-rate artist carve something on the bow.”

He went, and the artist carved an entire hunting-scene upon the bow. And what more fitting for a bow than a hunting-scene?

The man was delighted. “You deserve this embellishment, my beloved bow.” So saying, he wished to try it.

He drew the string. The bow broke!—Fables.

EPIGRAMS

From the grave where dead Gripeall, the miser, reposes,

What a villainous odor invades all our noses!

It can’t be his body alone—in the hole

They have certainly buried the usurer’s soul.

While Fell was reposing himself on the hay,

A reptile conceal’d bit his leg as he lay;

But all venom himself, of the wound he made light,

And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite.

So vile your grimace, and so croaking your speech,

One scarcely can tell if you’re laughing or crying;

Were you fix’d on one’s funeral sermon to preach,

The bare apprehension would keep one from dying.

Quoth gallant Fritz, “I ran away

To fight again another day.”

The meaning of his speech is plain,

He only fled to fly again.

“How strange, a deaf wife to prefer!”

“True, but she’s also dumb, good sir.”

Rudolph Erich Raspe was a German author who was also an Archæologist of note.

His best known work is the celebrated History of Baron Münchausen.

A HORSE TIED TO A STEEPLE

I set off from Rome on a journey to Russia, in the midst of winter, from a just notion that frost and snow must of course improve the roads, which every traveler had described as uncommonly bad through the northern parts of Germany, Poland, Courland, and Livonia. I went on horseback, as the most convenient manner of traveling. I was but lightly clothed, and of this I felt the inconvenience the more I advanced northeast. What must not a poor old man have suffered in that severe weather and climate, whom I saw on a bleak common in Poland, lying on the road, helpless, shivering, and hardly having wherewithal to cover his nakedness? I pitied the poor soul. Though I felt the severity of the atmosphere myself, I threw my mantle over him, and immediately I heard a voice from the heavens, blessing me for that piece of charity, saying:

“You will be rewarded, my son, for this in time.”

I went on. Night and darkness overtook me. No village was to be seen. The country was covered with snow, and I was unacquainted with the road.

Tired out, I alighted, and fastened my horse to something like the pointed stump of a tree which appeared above the snow. For the sake of safety I placed my pistols under my arm, and laid down on the snow, where I slept so soundly that I did not open my eyes till full daylight. It is not easy to conceive my astonishment at finding myself in the midst of a village, lying in a churchyard. Nor was my horse to be seen; but I heard him soon after neigh somewhere above me. On looking upward, I beheld him hanging by his bridle to the weathercock of the steeple. Matters were now quite plain to me. The village had been covered with snow overnight; a sudden change in the weather had taken place; I had sunk down to the churchyard while asleep at the same rate as the snow had melted away; and what in the dark I had taken to be a stump of a little tree appearing above the snow, to which I had tied my horse, proved to have been the cross or weathercock of the steeple!

Without long consideration, I took one of my pistols, shot the bridle in two, brought down the horse, and proceeded on my journey.—Adventures of Baron Münchausen.

A RATHER LARGE WHALE

I embarked at Portsmouth, in a first-rate English man-of-war of one hundred guns and fourteen hundred men, for North America. Nothing worth relating happened till we arrived within three hundred leagues of the river St. Lawrence, when the ship struck with amazing force against (as we supposed) a rock. However, upon heaving the lead, we could find no bottom, even with three hundred fathoms. What made this circumstance the more wonderful, and indeed beyond all comprehension, was, that the violence of the shock was such that we lost our rudder, broke our bowsprit in the middle, and split all our masts from top to bottom, two of which went by the board. A poor fellow, who was aloft furling the main-sheet, was flung at least three leagues from the ship; but he fortunately saved his life by laying hold of the tail of a large sea-gull, which brought him back and lodged him on the very spot whence he was thrown. Another proof of the violence of the shock was the force with which the people between decks were driven against the floors above them. My head particularly was pressed into my stomach, where it continued some months before it returned to its natural situation.

While we were all in a state of astonishment at the general and unaccountable confusion in which we were involved, the whole was suddenly explained by the appearance of a large whale, which had been basking, asleep, within sixteen feet of the surface of the water. This animal was so much displeased with the disturbance which our ship had given him—for in our passage we had with our rudder scratched his nose—that he beat in all the gallery and part of the quarter-deck with his tail, and almost at the same instant took the main-sheet anchor, which was suspended, as it usually is, from the head, between his teeth, and ran away with the ship at least sixty leagues, at the rate of twelve leagues an hour, when, fortunately, the cable broke, and we lost both the whale and the anchor. However, upon our return to Europe, some months after, we found the same whale within a few leagues of the same spot, floating dead upon the water. It measured above half a mile in length. As we could take only a small quantity of such a monstrous animal on board, we got our boats out, and with much difficulty cut off his head, where, to our great joy, we found the anchor, and above forty fathoms of the cable, concealed on the left side of his mouth, just under his tongue. Perhaps this was the cause of his death, as that side of his tongue was much swelled with severe inflammation.

This was the only extraordinary circumstance that happened on this voyage. One part of our distress, however, I had like to have forgot. While the whale was running away with the ship she sprang a leak, and the water poured in so fast that all our pumps could not keep us from sinking. It was, however, my good fortune to discover it first. I found a large hole about a foot in diameter, and you will naturally suppose this circumstance gives me infinite pleasure, when I inform you that this noble vessel was preserved, with all its crew, by a most happy thought of mine. In short I sat down over it, and could have covered it had it been even larger. Nor will you be surprised at this when I inform you that I am descended from Dutch parents.

My situation, while I sat there, was rather cool, but the carpenter’s art soon relieved me.

—Adventures of Baron Münchausen.

Matthias Claudius was another maker of Poetical Fables and Folk Songs.

THE HEN AND THE EGG

A famous hen’s my story’s theme,

Who ne’er was known to tire

Of laying eggs, but then she’d scream

So loud o’er every egg, ’twould seem

The house must be on fire.

A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk,

A wiser bird, and older,

Could bear’t no more, so off did stalk

Right to the hen, and told her:

“Madam, that scream, I apprehend,

Does not affect the matter;

It surely helps the eggs no whit;

So, lay your egg—and done with it!

I pray you, madam, as a friend,

Cease that superfluous clatter.

You know not how’t goes through my head!”

“Humph! Very likely!” madam said,

Then, proudly putting forth a leg:

“Uneducated barnyard fowl,

You know no more than any owl

The noble privilege and praise

Of authorship in modern days!

I’ll tell you why I do it:

First, you perceive, I lay my egg,

And then—review it.”

Friedrich von Schiller was among the most famous of Germany’s writers. Poet, dramatist and historian he left numerous works of varied value.

His humor, like that of all his countrymen, is heavy and rather labored.

PEGASUS IN THE YOKE

Into a public fair—a cattle-fair, in short,

Where other things are bought and sold—ah, sad to tell!

A hungry poet one day brought

The Muse’s Pegasus to sell.

Shrill neighed the hippogriff and clear,

And pranced, and reared, displaying his proud frame,

Till all exclaimed in wonder, who stood near,

“The noble, royal beast! But what a shame

His slender form by such a hateful pair

Of wings is spoiled! He’d set off a fine post-team well.”

“The race,” say others, “would be rare;

But who’s go posting through the air?”

And lose his money no one will.

A farmer mustered courage, though, at length,

“The wings, indeed,” he says, “will be no profit;

But them one might tie down, or crop them off; it

Then were a good horse for drawing—it has strength.

I’ll give you twenty pounds, sir, win or lose.”

The seller, too delighted to refuse,

Cried out, “Agreed!” and eagerly the offer seized.

Hans with his bargain trudged off home, well pleased.

The noble beast was harnessed in,

But felt th’ unwonted burden to be light,

And off he set with appetite for flight,

And soon his wild careering would begin,

And hurled the cart in proudest rage

Over a precipice’s edge.

“Well done!” thought Hans. “We wisdom from experience borrow;

I’ll trust the mad beast with no loads again.

I’ve passengers to take to-morrow;

He shall be put in leader of the train.

By using him, two horses I shall spare;

He’ll learn in time the collar, too, to bear.”

They went on well awhile. The horse was fleet,

And quickened up the rest; and arrow-swift the carriage flies.

But now, what next? With look turned to the skies,

And unaccustomed with firm hoof the ground to beat,

He leaves the sure track of the wheels,

True to the stronger nature which he feels,

And runs through marsh and moor, o’er planted field and plain;

And the same fury seizes all the train.

No call will help, no bridle hold them in,

Till, to the mortal fright of all within,

The coach, well shaken and well smashed, brings up

In sad plight on a steep hill’s top.

“This is not quite the thing! No, no!”

Says Hans, considering, with a frown.

“In this way I shall never make it go.

Let’s see if ’twill not tame the wild-fire down,

To work him hard, and keep him low.”

The trial’s made. The beast, so fair and trim,

Before three days are gone looks gaunt and grim,

And to a shadow shrunk. “I have it! I have found it now!”

Cries Hans. “Come on, now. Yoke me him

Beside my strongest ox before the plow.”

So said, so done. In droll procession now,

See ox and wingèd horse before the plow.

Unwilling steps the griffin, strains what little might

Of longing’s left in him, to take his fond old flight.

In vain: deliberately steps his neighbor,

And Phœbus’ high-souled steed must bend to his slow labor,

Till now, by long resistance spent his force,

His trembling limbs he can no longer trust,

And, bowed with shame, the noble, godlike horse

Falls to the ground, and rolls him in the dust.

“You cursèd beast!” Hans breaks out furious now,

And scolds and blusters, while he lays the blows on;

“You are too poor, then, even for the plow!

You rascal, so my ignorance to impose on!”

And while in this way angrily he goes on,

And swings the lash, behold! upon the way

A pleasant youth steps up so smart and gay.

A harp shakes ringing in his hand,

And through his glossy, parted hair

Winds glittering a golden band.

“Where now, friend, with that wondrous pair?”

From far off to the boor he spoke.

“The bird and ox together in that style?

I pray you, man, why, what a yoke!

But come, to try a little while,

Will you entrust your horse to me?

Look well: a wonder you shall see.”

The hippogriff’s unyoked, and with a smile

The youth springs lightsomely upon his back.

Scarce feels the beast the master’s certain hand,

But gnashes at his wings’ confining band,

And mounts, with lightning-look, the airy track.

No more the being that he was, but royally,

A spirit now, a god, up mounteth he;

Unfurls at once, as for their far storm-flight,

His splendid wings, and shoots to heaven with fierce, wild neigh;

And ere the eye can follow him, away

He melts into the clear blue height.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the greatest name in German literature, is hardly to be classed among the humorists.

But a short extract from his Reynard the Fox is quoted.

“But I am rather bad in my inside.

By what I’ve eaten I am quite upset,

And nowise fitted for a journey yet.”

“What was it?” asked Sir Bruin, quite prepared,

For Reynard had not thrown him off his guard.

“Ah,” quoth the Fox, “what boots it to explain?

E’en your kind pity could not ease my pain.

Since flesh I have abjured, for my soul’s weal,

I’m often sadly put to’t for a meal.

I bear my wretched life as best I can;

A hermit fares not like an alderman.

But yesterday, as other viands failed,

I ate some honey—see how I am swelled!

Of that there’s always to be had enough.

Would I had never touched the cursed stuff!

I ate it out of sheer necessity;

Physic is not so nauseous near to me.”

“Honey!” exclaimed the Bear; “did you say honey!

Would I could any get for love or money!

How can you speak so ill of what’s so good?

Honey has ever been my fav’rite food;

It is so wholesome, and so sweet and luscious,

I can’t conceive how you can call it nauseous.

Do get me some o’t, and you may depend

You’ll make me evermore your steadfast friend.”

“You’re surely joking, uncle!” Reynard cried.

“No, on my sacred word!” the Bear replied;

“I’d not, though jokes as blackberries were rife,

Joke upon such a subject for my life.”

“Well, you surprise me!” said the knavish beast.

“There’s no accounting, certainly, for taste;

And one man’s meat is oft another’s poison.

I’ll wager that you never set your eyes on

Such store of honey as you soon shall spy

At Gaffer Joiner’s, who lives here hard by.”

In fancy o’er the treat did Bruin gloat,

While his mouth fairly watered at the thought.

“Oh, take me, take me there, dear coz,” quoth he,

“And I will ne’er forget your courtesy!

Oh, let me have a taste, if not my fill;

Do, cousin.” Reynard grinned, and said, “I will.

Honey you shall not long time be without.

’Tis true just now I’m rather sore of foot;

But what of that? The love I bear to you

Shall make the road seem short, and easy too

Not one of all my kith or kin is there

Whom I so honor as th’ illustrious Bear.

Come, then, and in return I know you’ll say

A good word for me on the council day.

You shall have honey to your heart’s content,

And wax, too, if your fancy’s that way bent.”

Whacks of a different sort the sly rogue meant.

Off starts the wily Fox, in merry trim,

And Bruin blindly follows after him.

“If you have luck,” thought Reynard, with a titter,

“I guess you’ll find our honey rather bitter.”

When they at length reached Goodman Joiner’s yard,

The joy that Bruin felt he might have spared.

But hope, it seems, by some eternal rule,

Beguiles the wisest as the merest fool.

’Twas ev’ning now, and Reynard knew, he said,

The goodman would be safe and sound in bed.

A good and skilful carpenter was he;

Within his yard there lay an old oak-tree,

Whose gnarled and knotted trunk he had to split.

A stout wedge had he driven into it;

The cleft gaped open a good three foot wide;

Toward this spot the crafty Reynard hied.

“Uncle,” quoth he, “your steps this way direct;

You’ll find more honey here than you suspect.

In at this fissure boldly thrust your pate;

But I beseech you to be moderate.

Remember, sweetest things the soonest cloy,

And temperance enhances every joy.”

“What!” said the Bear, a shock’d look as he put on

Of self-restraint; “d’ye take me for a glutton?

With thanks I use the gifts of Providence,

But to abuse them count a grave offense.”

And so Sir Bruin let himself be fooled—

As strength will be whene’er by craft ’tis ruled.

Into the cleft he thrust his greedy maw

Up to the ears, and either foremost paw.

Reynard drew near, and tugging might and main

Pulled forth the wedge, and the trunk closed again.

By head and foot was Bruin firmly caught,

Nor threats nor flatt’ry could avail him aught.

He howled, he raved, he struggled, and he tore,

Till the whole place re-echoed with his roar,

And Goodman Joiner, wakened by the rout,

Jumped up, much wond’ring what ’twas all about.

He seized his ax, that he might be prepared,

And danger, if it came, might find him on his guard.

Still howled the Bear, and struggled to get free

From the accursed grip of that cleft tree.

He strove and strained, but strained and strove in vain;

His mightiest efforts but increased his pain;

He thought he never should get loose again.

And Reynard thought the same, for his own part,

And wished it, too, devoutly from his heart

And as the joiner coming he espied,

Armed with his ax, the jesting ruffian cried:

“Uncle, what cheer? Is th’ honey to your taste?

Don’t eat too quick; there’s no such need of haste.

The joiner’s coming, and I make no question,

He brings you your dessert, to help digestion.”

Then, deeming ’twas not longer safe to stay,

To Malepartus back he took his way.

Carl Arnold Kortum, a German poet, wrote a long rigmarole of burlesque, called The Jobsiad. This was exceedingly popular and became a German classic. It is dull for the most part, but shows flashes of real drollery.

Contains the copy of a letter, which, among many others, the student Hieronimus did write to his parents:

Dear and Honored Parents,

I lately

Have suffered for want of money greatly;

Have the goodness, then, to send without fail,

A trifle or two by return of mail.

I want about twenty or thirty ducats;

For I have not at present a cent in my pockets;

Things are so tight with us this way,

Send me the money at once, I pray.

And everything is growing higher,

Lodging and washing, and lights and fire,

And incidental expenses every day—

Send me the ducats without delay.

You can hardly perceive the enormous expenses

The college imposes on all pretenses,

For text-books and lectures so much to pay—

I wish the ducats were on their way!

I devote to my studies unremitting attention—

One thing I must not forget to mention:

The thirty ducats, pray send them straight

For my purse is in a beggarly state.

Boots and shoes, and stockings and breeches,

Tailoring, washing, and extra stitches,

Pen, ink and paper, are all so dear,

I wish the thirty ducats were here!

The money—(I trust you will speedily send it!)

I promise faithfully to spend it;

Yes, dear parents, you never need fear,

I live very strictly and frugally here.

When other students revel and riot,

I steal away into perfect quiet,

And shut myself up with my books and light

In my study-chamber, till late at night.

Beyond the needful supply of my table,

I spare, dear parents, all I am able;

Take tea but rarely, and nothing more,

For spending money afflicts me sore.

Other students, who’d fain be called mellow,

Set me down for a niggardly fellow,

And say: there goes the dig, just look!

How like a parson he eyes his book!

With jibes and jokes they daily beset me,

But none of these things do I suffer to fret me;

I smile at all they can do or say—

Don’t forget the ducats, I pray!

Ten hours each day I spend at the college,

Drinking at the fount of knowledge,

And when the lectures come to an end,

The rest in private study I spend.

The Professors express great gratification

Only they hope I will use moderation,

And not wear out in my studiis

Philosophicis et theologicis.

It would savor, dear parents, of self-laudation,

To enter on an enumeration

Of all my studies—in brief, there is none

More exemplary than your dear son.

My head seems ready to burst asunder,

Sometimes, with its learned load, and I wonder

Where so much knowledge is packed away:

(Apropos! don’t forget the ducats, I pray!)

Yes, dearest parents, my devotion to study

Consumes the best strength of mind and body,

And generally even the night is spent

In meditation deep and intent.

In the pulpit soon I shall take my station

And try my hand at the preacher’s vocation

Likewise I dispute in the college-hall

On learned subjects with one and all.

But don’t forget to send me the ducats,

For I long so much to replenish my pockets;

The money one day shall be returned

In the shape of a son right wise and learn’d.

Then my Privatissimum (I’ve been thinking on it

For a long time—and in fact begun it)

Will cost me twenty Rix-dollars more,

Please send with the ducats I mentioned before.

I also, dear parents, inform you sadly,

I have torn my coat of late very badly,

So please enclose with the rest in your note

Twelve dollars to purchase a new coat.

New boots are also necessary,

Likewise my night-gown is ragged, very;

My hat and pantaloons, too, alas!

And the rest of my clothes are going to grass.

Now, as all these things are needed greatly,

Please enclose me four Louis d’ors separately,

Which, joined to the rest, perhaps will be

Enough for the present emergency.

My recent sickness you may not have heard of;

In fact, for some time, my life was despaired of,

But I haste to assure you, on my word,

That now my health is nearly restored.

The Medicus, for services rendered,

A bill of eighteen guilders has tendered,

And then the apothecary’s will be,

In round numbers, about twenty-three.

Now that physician and apothecary

May get their dues, it is necessary

These forty-one guilders be added to the rest,

But, as to my health, don’t be distressed.

The nurse would also have some compensation,

Who attended me in my critical situation,

I, therefore, think it would be best

To enclose seven guilders for her with the rest.

For citrons, jellies and things of that nature,

To sustain and strengthen the feeble creature,

The confectioner, too, has a small account,

Eight guilders is about the amount.

These various items of which I’ve made mention,

Demand immediate attention;

For order, to me, is very dear,

And I carefully from debts keep clear.

I also rely on your kind attention,

To forward the ducats of which I made mention

So soon as it can possibly be—

One more small item occurs to me:—

Two weeks ago I unluckily stumbled,

And down the length of the stairway tumbled,

As in at the college door I went,

Whereby my right arm almost double was bent.

The Chirurgus who attended on the occasion,

For his balsams, plasters and preparation

Of spirits, and other things needless to name,

Charges twelve dollars; please forward the same.

But, that your minds may be acquiescent,

I am, thank God, now convalescent;

Both shoulder and shin are in a very good way,

And I go to lecture every day.

My stomach is still in a feeble condition,

A circumstance owing, so thinks the physician,

To sitting so much, when I read and write,

And studying so long and so late at night.

He, therefore, earnestly advises

Burgundy wine, with nutmeg and spices,

And every morning, instead of tea,

For the stomach’s sake, to drink sangaree.

Please send, agreeably to these advices,

Two pistoles for the wine and spices,

And be sure, dear parents, I only take

Such things as these for the stomach’s sake.

Finally, a few small debts, amounting

To thirty or forty guilders (loose counting),

Be pleased, in your letter, without fail,

Dear parents, to enclose this bagatelle.

And could you, for sundries, send me twenty

Or a dozen Louis d’or (that would be plenty),

’Twould be a kindness seasonably done,

And very acceptable to your son.

This letter, dear parents, comes hoping to find you

In usual health—I beg to remind you

How much I am for money perplexed,

Please, therefore, to remit in your next.

Herewith I close my letter, repeating

To you and all my friendly greeting,

And subscribe myself, without further fuss,

Your obedient son,

Hieronimus.

I add in a postscript what I neglected

To say, beloved and highly respected

Parents, I beg most filially,

That you’ll forward the money as soon as may be.

For I had, dear father (I say it weeping),

Fourteen French Crowns laid by in safe keeping

(As I thought) for a day of need—but the whole

An anonymous person yesterday stole:

I know you’ll make good, unasked, each shilling,

Your innocent son has lost by this villain;

For a man so considerate must be aware

That I such a loss can nowise bear.

Meanwhile, I’ll take care that, to-day or to-morrow,

Mr. Anonymous shall, to his sorrow

And your satisfaction, receive the reward

Of his graceless trick with the hempen cord.

Adelbert von Chamisso, German author and poet, came of an old French family. His principal work is in prose, The Wonderful History of Peter Schlemihl, the man who sold his shadow.

An amusing poem is in nonsense vein.

THE PIGTAIL

There lived a sage in days of yore,

And he a handsome pigtail wore;

But wondered much, and sorrowed more,

Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case,

And swore he’d change the pigtail’s place,

And have it hanging at his face,

Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, “The mystery I’ve found;

I’ll turn me round.” He turned him round,

But still it hung behind him.

Then round, and round, and out, and in,

All day the puzzled sage did spin;

In vain—it mattered not a pin—

The pigtail hung behind him.

And right, and left, and round about,

And up, and down, and in, and out

He turned. But still the pigtail stout

Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack,

And though he twist, and whirl, and tack,

Alas! still faithful to his back

The pigtail hangs behind him!

Wilhelm Müller, a lyric poet of promise, died young. Many of his songs were set to music by Schubert. His humorous verse was rollicking and popular.

THE DRUNKARD’S FANCY

Straight from the tavern door

I am come here;

Old road, how odd to me

Thou dost appear!

Right and left changing sides,

Rising and sunk;

Oh, I can plainly see,

Road, thou art drunk!

Oh, what a twisted face

Thou hast, oh, moon!

One eye shut, t’other eye

Wide as a spoon.

Who could have dreamed of this?

Shame on thee, shame!

Thou hast been fuddling,

Jolly old dame!

Look at the lamps again:

See how they reel!

Nodding and flickering

Round as they wheel.

Not one among them all

Steady can go;

Look at the drunken lamps

All in a row.

All in an uproar seem

Great things and small;

I am the only one

Sober at all.

But there’s no safety here

For sober men;

So I’ll turn back to

The tavern again.

The brothers, Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm, wrote much in collaboration beside their well-known Märchen or Fairy Tales.

Their humor is of the heavier sort, but their versatile erudition found opportunities for witty conceits.

EXCERPT FROM CLEVER GRETHEL

One day her master said to her, “Grethel, I have invited some friends to dinner to-day; cook me some of your best chickens.”

“That I will, master,” she replied.

So she went out, and killed two of the best fowls and prepared them for roasting.

In the afternoon she placed them on the spit before the fire, and they were all ready, and beautifully hot and brown by the proper time, but the visitors had not arrived. So she went to her master, and said, “The fowls will be quite spoiled if I keep them at the fire any longer. It will be a pity and a shame if they are not eaten soon!”

Then said her master, “I will go and fetch the visitors myself,” and away he went.

As soon as his back was turned Grethel put the spit with the birds on one side, and thought, “I have been standing by the fire so long that it has made me quite thirsty. Who knows when they will come? While I am waiting I may as well run into the cellar and have a little drop.” So she seized a jug, and said, “All right, Grethel, you shall have a good draft. Wine is so tempting!” she continued, “and it does not do to spoil your draft.” And she drank without stopping till the jug was empty.

After this she went into the kitchen, and placed the fowls again before the fire, basted them with butter, and rattled the spit round so furiously that they browned and frizzled with the heat. “They would never miss a little piece if they searched for it ever so carefully,” she said to herself. Then she dipped her finger in the dripping-pan to taste, and cried, “Oh, how nice these fowls are! It is a sin and a shame that there is no one here to eat them!”

She ran to the window to see if her master and the guests were coming; but she could see no one. So she went and stood again by the fowls, and thought, “The wing of that fowl is a little burned. I had better eat it out of the way.” She cut it off as she thought this, and ate it up, and it tasted so nice that when she had finished it she thought, “I must have the other. Master will never notice that anything is missing.”

After the two wings were eaten, Grethel again went to look for her master, but there were no signs of his appearance.

“Who knows?” she said to herself; “perhaps the visitors are not coming at all, and they have kept my master to dinner, so he won’t be back. Hi, Grethel! there are lots of good things left for you; and that piece of fowl has made me thirsty. I must have another drink before I come back and eat up all these good things.”

So she went into the cellar, took a large draft of wine, and returning to the kitchen, sat down and ate the remainder of the fowl with great relish.

There was now only one fowl left, and as her master did not return, Grethel began to look at the other with longing eyes. At last she said, “Where one is, there the other must be; for the fowls belong to each other, and what is right for one is also fair and right for the other. I believe, too, I want some more to drink. It won’t hurt me.”

The last draft gave her courage. She came back to the kitchen and let the second fowl go after the first.

As she was enjoying the last morsel, home came her master.

“Make haste, Grethel!” he cried. “The guests will be here in a few minutes.”

“Yes, master,” she replied. “It will soon be all ready.”

Meanwhile the master saw that the cloth was laid and everything in order. So he took up the carving-knife with which he intended to carve the fowl, and went out to sharpen it on the stones in the passage.

While he was doing so, the guests arrived and knocked gently and courteously at the house door. Grethel ran out to see who it was, and when she caught sight of the visitors she placed her finger on her lips, and whispered, “Hush! Hush! Go back again as quickly as you came! If my master should catch you it would be unfortunate. He did invite you to dinner this evening, but with no other intention than to cut off both the ears of each of you. Listen; you can hear him sharpening his knife.”

The guests heard the sound, and hastened as fast as they could down the steps, and were soon out of sight.

Grethel was not idle. She ran screaming to her master, and cried, “You have invited fine visitors, certainly!”

“Hi! Why, Grethel, what do you mean?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “they came here just now, and have taken my two beautiful fowls from the dish that I was going to bring up for dinner, and have run away with them.”

“What strange conduct!” said her master, who was so sorry to lose his nice dinner that he rushed out to follow the thieves. “If they had only left me one, or at least enough for my own dinner!” he cried, running after them. But the more he cried to them to stop the faster they ran; and when they saw him with the knife in his hand, and heard him say, “Only one! only one!”—he meant, if they had left him “only one fowl,” but they thought he spoke of “only one ear,” which he intended to cut off—they ran as if fire were burning around them, and were not satisfied till they found themselves safe at home with both ears untouched.

Friedrich Rückert was a prolific writer and left many volumes of his collected poems.

A scathing bit of satire is here quoted.

ARTIST AND PUBLIC

The dumb man asked the blind man:

“Canst do a favor, pray?

Could I the harper find, man?

Hast seen him pass to-day?

I take, myself, small pleasure

In harp-tones—almost none—

Yet much I’d like a measure

Played for my deaf young son.”

The blind man quick made answer:

“I saw him pass my gate;

I’ll send my lame young man, sir,

To overtake him straight.”

At one look from his master,

Away the cripple ran,

And faster, ever faster,

He chased the harper-man.

The harper came, elated,

And straight to work he went;

His arms were amputated;

His toes to work he bent.

All hearts his playing captured;

The deaf man was all ear;

The blind man gazed, enraptured;

The dumb man shouted, “Hear!”

The lame boy fell to dancing,

And leaped with all his might;

The scene was so entrancing,

They stayed till late at night.

And when the concert ended,

The public, justly proud,

The artist’s powers commended,

Who, deeply grateful, bowed.

Heinrich Heine, the celebrated lyric poet, rarely showed any humor in his poetry. But some of his prose works are broadly ludicrous, and his observations witty and cynical.

THE TOWN OF GÖTTINGEN

The town of Göttingen, famous by reason of its university and its sausages, belongs to the kingdom of Hanover, and contains 999 fire-stations, divers churches, a lying-in hospital, an observatory, an academic prison, a library, and an underground tavern—where the beer is excellent. The brook that flows past the town is called the Leine, and serves for bathing in summer; the water is very cold, and at some places the brook is so wide that one cannot jump across it without some exertion. The town is very handsome, and pleases me best when my back is turned to it. It must be very old, for I remember that when I matriculated (and was soon afterward rusticated), five years ago, it had the same gray, ancient appearance, and was as thoroughly provided, as it is now, with poodle dogs, dissertations, laundresses, anthologies, roast pigeon, Guelph decorations, pipe-bowls, court councilors, privy councilors and silly counts....

In general, the inhabitants of Göttingen may be divided into students, professors, Philistines, and cattle. The cattle class is numerically the strongest. To place on record here the names of all professors and students would take me too far afield, nor can I even, at this moment, remember the name of every student; while among the professors there are many who have as yet made none. The number of Philistines in Göttingen must be like that of the sands—or rather the mud—of the sea. Truly, when they appear in the morning with their dirty faces and their white bills at the gates of the academic court, one wonders how God could have had the heart to create such a pack of scoundrels!

More thorough information concerning Göttingen is easily obtainable by reference to the “Topography” of the town, by K. F. H. Marx. Although I am under the deepest obligations to the author, who was my physician and did me many kindnesses, I cannot praise his work without reserve. I must blame him for not having opposed in terms sufficiently strong the heresy that the ladies of Göttingen have feet of spacious dimensions. I have been engaged for a long time upon a work which is to destroy this erroneous idea once and forever. For this purpose I have studied comparative anatomy, have made excerpts from the rarest books in the library, and have for hours and hours observed the feet of the passing ladies in Weender Street. In my learned treatise I intend to deal with the subject as follows:

I am the most peaceable of mortals. My wishes are: A modest dwelling, a thatched roof, but a good bed, good fare, milk and butter (the latter very fresh), flowers at the window, and a few fine trees before my gate. And if the Lord would fill the cup of my happiness, He would let me live to see the day when six or seven of my enemies are hung on the trees. With softened heart I would then forgive them all the evil they have done me. Yes, one must forgive one’s enemies, but not before they are hung.

A. If I were of the race of Christ, I should boast of it, and not be ashamed.

B. So would I, if Christ were the only member of the race. But so many miserable scamps belong to it that one hesitates to acknowledge the relationship.

Gervinus, the literary historian, set himself the following problem: To repeat in a long and witless book what Heinrich Heine said in a short and witty one. He solved the problem.

De mortuis nil nisi bene. One should speak only evil of the living.

Heinrich Hoffman, a Frankfort doctor, wrote the popular tales for children about Struwelpeter, which are nursery classics in many languages. These stories have an added interest from the clever illustrations by their author.

Wilhelm Busch, also a comic artist, born near Hanover, is the creator of the Max and Maurice stories and pictures.

He was a well-known contributor to the Fliegende Blätter, the popular comic paper of Germany.

A distinct type of German humor is found in their Student Songs. These, oftener than not, are in praise of merrymaking and good cheer.

POPE AND SULTAN

The Pope he leads a happy life;

He fears not married care nor strife;

He drinks the best of Rhenish wine—

I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine.

CHORUS

He drinks the best of Rhenish wine—

I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine.

But then, all happy’s not his life;

He has not maid nor blooming wife,

Nor child has he to raise his hope—

I would not wish to be the Pope.

The Sultan better pleases me;

His is a life of jollity;

His wives are many as his will—

I would the Sultan’s throne then fill.

But even he’s a wretched man;

He must obey his Alcoran;

And dares not drink one drop of wine—

I would not change his lot for mine.

So, then, I’ll hold my lowly stand,

And live in German fatherland;

I’ll kiss my maiden fair and fine,

And drink the best of Rhenish wine.

Whene’er my maiden kisses me,

I’ll think that I the Sultan be;

And when my cheery glass I tope,

I’ll fancy then I am the Pope.

CREDO

For the sole edification

Of this decent congregation,

Goodly people, by your grant

I will sing a holy chant,

I will sing a holy chant.

If the ditty sound but oddly,

’Twas a father, wise and godly,

Sang it so long ago.

Then sing as Martin Luther sang:

“Who loves not woman, wine, and song,

Remains a fool his whole life long!”

He, by custom patriarchal,

Loved to see the beaker sparkle;

And he thought the wine improved,

Tasted by the lips he loved,

By the kindly lips he loved.

Friends, I wish this custom pious

Duly were observed by us,

To combine love, song, wine,

And sing as Martin Luther sang,

As Doctor Martin Luther sang:

“Who loves not woman, wine and song,

Remains a fool his whole life long!”

Who refuses this our Credo,

And who will not sing as we do,

Were he holy as John Knox,

I’d pronounce him heterodox,

I’d pronounce him heterodox,

And from out this congregation,

With a solemn commination,

Banish quick the heretic,

Who’ll not sing as Luther sang,

As Doctor Martin Luther sang:

“Who loves not woman, wine and song,

Remains a fool his whole life long!”