and many other sage thoughts.
The tales are sometimes very prettily told. We have thought it worth while to translate one, which we believe, has not yet been seen in an English dress.
As far as possible we have adhered to the abruptness and quaintness of the original.
“At one time there was a king, who had but one son, who was very dear to him; the son demanded leave of absence from his father, and said that he wished to see the world, and wished to make friends. Then the king spoke ‘that pleases me well; but see that you do not have your labor in vain.’ The son was made ready for his journey, and remained seven years away; after that he returned to his home and his father, which pleased the father very much, and he said,—‘Dear son: how many friends hast thou earned in these three years? Then the son answered ‘only three; the first I love better than myself; the second as much as myself; and the third, not as well as myself.’ The father said ‘It is well to have friends, and it is well to try them; I counsel you to kill a hog, and put it in a sack, and go in the night to your friends and say, you met an old enemy on the street and killed him, and are afraid that if the dead body should be found on you, it would cost you your life, and beg him that he should, in such extremity, help you, and that he will allow you to bury the body in his house, that it may not be found on you; so you shall find out if you have good friends.’
This advice pleased the son well, so he went back again to the city where he knew he should find his friends; and killed one night, a hog, and did as his father had advised him to, and came to the friend whom he loved better than himself. When this one had heard his story, he said:—‘you killed him yourself, so suffer for it yourself; if it were found by me it would cost me my life; but because we are good friends and comrades, when you are caught, and when they are about to bill you, I will go to you, and will console you, and will buy many ells of cloth for you, wherein they may wind you and bury you; because you loved me more than yourself.’ When he heard this, he answered nothing but went to the other friend whom he loved as much as himself, and knocked at his door with the same tale as he had told to the first; this one said:—‘Dear one! do you suppose I am such a simpleton that I want to die for you? If it is found here then I must die; but if they kill you, then I will comfort you, because that we are friends, and will do it the best I can, since we must all die.’ When he heard this, he parted from him, and came to the third friend whom he did not love as well as himself. This one asked what was in the sack, which he came with. He said:—‘I can not say well, but I need help in this day; yet know that it has been my fate to kill a man, and I carry his body on my back, and if it is caught by me, then I must die, therefore I call on you for counsel; This one spoke;—‘Give me here the body, and let me carry it myself, for I will even die for you,’ and when he opened the sack he found that only a dead hog lay therein. After that the son went home and told the whole story to his father.”[276]
The end is of rather startling abruptness; we should have liked to have heard of the rewards and punishment, a la modern novel.
One song took its rise at this time which is even to-day a popular one, the world over. We refer to the music of the song now known as, “We won’t go Home till morning,” or “For he’s a jolly good fellow;” and known in France as “Malbrook s’en va-t-en Guerre.” This was a favorite air at the time of the crusades, and the crusaders often made it resound before Jerusalem.
The Arabs first knew the melody and have retained it to this day. The Arab fellahs will listen apathetically to the whole repertoire of a European orchestra; but the moment that the above tune is played, the whole aspect changes, and instead of a lifeless audience, the performers have the most enthusiastic of listeners.[277] In the course of descent from the Crusaders and ancient musicians, the tune has become a little quicker but is not changed in any material respect.
Some time after the decline of Minne-singing, an attempt was made to revive its glories, by musical competitions, somewhat similar in style; but the essence of the real “Minne” was gone; it was no longer the knight singing to his love, or telling in unaffected verse, the beauties of Nature. Instead of this, there was a competition of burgers and tradespeople, affecting a passion foreign to their nature, and caring far more for a stilted style of verse, than for the subject of it. Such were the Meister-singers;[278] Nuremburg was their chief seat, and like all the tradesmen of that age, they made their Guild a very close one. No one could be admitted as a Master, unless he invented a new style of rhyme. Almost all the members came from the lower classes, and the result of such tyros endeavoring to strike out paths which would have been difficult even to genius, can be imagined.
Hans Sachs (a Nuremberg shoe-maker) and a couple of others, were probably all that sang with real poetic feeling.