“My mother left it to me in her turn,
“A common-looking article;
“And yet for the whole of Rothschild’s gold
“I wouldn’t surrender one particle.
“Behold, in yon corner stands a chair,
“Both old and weather-beaten;
“The leather that covers its arms is torn,
“And the cushion is sadly moth-eaten.
“Approach it now, and gently lift
“The cushion from the settle;
“Thou’lt see an oval opening then,
“And under it a kettle.
“That is a magic kettle wherein
“The magic forces are brewing;
“On placing thy head in the aperture, soon
“The future thou’lt clearly be viewing.
“Yes, Germany’s future there thou’lt see,
“Like wondrously rolling phantasmas;
“But shudder not, if out of the filth
“Arise any foul miasmas!”
She spoke, and she laugh’d a singular laugh
But I undauntedly hasted
To hold my head over the terrible hole,
And there I eagerly placed it.
I’ll not betray, for silence I vow’d,
The things that I saw and felt there;
I scarcely dare to utter a word,
Good heavens, of what I smelt there!
With deep disgust I think to this day
Of that smell, which blended together,
In vile and accursèd union, a stench
Of old cabbage and Russia leather.
And heavens! the stink that afterwards rose
Was still more filthy and dirty;
’Twas as though they had swept together the soil
From closets six and thirty.
I know full well what was said by Saint Just
In the famous Committee of Safety:
“Great illnesses cannot be cured by musk
“And rose-oil,” he told them with naïveté.