Arthur O'Leary: His Wanderings And Ponderings In Many Lands

One cannot see, unmoved, that rude chamber, with its simple furniture of massive oak, where the great monk meditated those tremendous truths that were to shake thrones and dynasties, and awake the world from the charmed sleep of superstition, in which, for centuries, it lay buried.

The force of his strong nature, his enthusiasm, and a kind of savage energy he possessed, frequently overbalanced his reason, and he gave way to wild rantings and ravings, which often followed on the longest efforts of his mental labour, and seemed like the outpourings of an overcharged intellect. The zeal with which he prosecuted his great task, was something almost miraculous – often for thirty, or even forty, hours, did he remain at the desk without food or rest, and then such was his exhaustion, bodily as well as mental, that he would fall senseless on the floor, and it required all the exertions of those about him to rally him from these attacks. His first sensations on recovering, were ever those of a deadly struggle with the evil one, by whose agency alone he believed his great work was interrupted; and then the scene which succeeded would display all the fearful workings of his diseased imagination. From these paroxysms, nothing seemed to awake him so readily, as the presence of his friend Melancthon, whose mild nature and angelic temperament were the exact opposites of his bold, impetuous character. The sound of his voice alone would frequently calm him in his wildest moments, and when the torrent of his thought ran onward with mad speed, and shapes and images flitted before his disordered brain, and earthly combats were mingled in his mind with more dreadful conflicts, and that he burst forth into the violent excesses of his passion – then, the soft breathings of Melancthon’s flute, would still the storm, and lay the troubled waters of his soul – that rugged nature would yield even to tears, and like a child, he would weep till slumber closed his eyes.

I lingered the entire day in the Wartburg – sometimes in the Rittersaal, where suits of ancient and most curious armour are preserved; sometimes in the chapel, where the rude desk is shown at which Luther lectured to the household of the “Schloss.” Here, too, is a portrait of him, which is alleged to be authentic. The features are such as we see in all his pictures; the only difference I could perceive, was, that he is represented with a moustache, which gives, what a Frenchman near me called an “air brigand” to the stern massiveness of his features. This circumstance, slight as it is, rather corroborates the authenticity of the painting, for it is well known that during his residence at the Wartburg, he wore his beard in this fashion, and to many retainers of the castle, passed for a Ritter, or a knight confined for some crime against the state.

With a farewell look at the old chamber, where stands his oaken chair and table, I left the Schloss, and as night was falling descended towards Eisenach – for a description of whose water-mills and windmills, whose cloth factories and toy shops, I refer you to various and several guide books – only begging to say, on my own account, that the “Reuten Kranta” is a seemly inn, and the host a pleasant German of the old school; that is, in other words, one whose present life is always about twenty years in advance of his thoughts, and who, while he eats and drinks in the now century, thinks and feels with that which is gone. The latest event of which he had any cognizance, was the retreat from Leipsic, when the French poured through the village for five days without ceasing. All the great features of that memorable retreat, however, were absorbed in his mind, by an incident which occurred to himself, and at which, by the gravity of his manner in relating it, I could not help laughing heartily.

When the commissariat arrived at Eisenach, to make arrangement for the troops on their march, they allowed the inhabitants the option – a pleasant one – of converting the billets, imposed upon them, for a certain sum of money, in virtue of which, they obtained an exemption from all intrusion on the part of men and officers, save those of the rank of colonel and upwards; and in evidence, a great placard was affixed to their door, setting forth the same, as a “general order,” Now as it was agreed that only one officer should be accommodated at a time, the privilege was worth paying for, particularly by our host of the “Rue Garland,” whose larder was always stored with delicacies, and whose cellar was famed for thirty miles round. He accordingly counted down his reichs-thalers, gulden, and groschen – with a heavy heart it is true, but to avert a heavier evil, and with his grand patent of immunity, hung out upon his sign post, he gave himself no farther trouble about the war or its chances. On the third evening of the retreat, however, a regiment of the Chasseurs de la Garde, conspicuous by their green coats and white facings, the invariable costume of the Emperor himself, entered the town, and bivouacked in the little square. The colonel, a handsome fellow of about five-and-thirty, or forty, looked about him sharply for a moment or two, irresolute where he should fix his resting-place; when a savoury odour of sausages frying in the “Reuten Krantz,” quickly decided his choice. He entered at once, and making his bow to mine host, with that admirable mixture of deference and command a Frenchman can always assume, ordered his dinner to be got ready, and a bed prepared for him.

It was well worth the host’s while to stand on good terms with the officers of rank, who could repress, or wink, at the liberties of the men, as occasion served, and so the “Rue Garland” did its utmost that day to surpass itself.

“Je dois vous prévenir,” said the colonel, laughing as he strolled from the door, after giving his directions, “Je dois vous prévenir, que je mange bien, et beaucoup.”

“Monsieur shall be content,” said the host, with a tap on his own stomach, as though to say, – “The nourishment that has sufficed for this, may well content such a carcass as thine – ”

“And as for wine – continued the colonel.

“Zum kissen!” cried the host, with a smack of his lips, that could be heard over the whole Platz, and which made a poor captain’s mouth water, who guessed the allusion.

I shall not detail for my reader, though I most certainly heard myself the long bill of fare, by which the Rue Branch intended to astonish the weak nerves of the Frenchman, little suspecting, at the time, how mutual the surprise was destined to be. I remember there was “fleisch” and “braten” without end, and baked pike, and sausages, and boar’s head, and eels, and potted mackerel, and brawn, and partridges; not to speak of all the roots that ever gave indigestion since the flood, besides sweetmeats and puddings, for whose genera and species it would take Buffon and Cuvier to invent a classification. As I heard the formidable enumeration, I could not help expressing my surprise at the extent of preparations, so manifestly disproportionate to the amount of the company; but the host soon satisfied me on this head, by saying, “that they were obliged to have an immense supply of cold viands always ready to sell to the other officers throughout the town, whom,” he added in a sly whisper, “they soon contrived to make pay for the heavy ransom imposed on themselves.” The display, therefore, which did such credit to his hospitality, was made with little prospect of injuring his pocket – a pleasant secret, if it only were practicable.

The hour of dinner arrived at last, and the Colonel, punctual to the moment, entered the salon, which looked out by a window on the Platz – a strange contrast, to be sure, for his eyes; the great side-board loaded with luscious fare, and covered by an atmosphere of savoury smoke; and the meagre bivouack without, where groups of officers sat, eating their simple rations, and passing their goblets of washy beer from hand to hand.

Rouchefoucauld says, “There is always something pleasant in the misfortunes of our best friends;” and as I suppose he knew his countrymen, I conclude that the Colonel arranged his napkin on his knee with a high sense of enjoyment for the little panorama which met his eyes on the Platz.

It must certainly have been a goodly sight, and somewhat of a surprise besides, for an old campaigner to see the table groaning under its display of good things; amid which, like Lombardy poplars in a Flemish landscape, the tall and taper necks of various flasks shot up – some frosted with an icy crest, some cobwebbed with the touch of time.

Ladling the potage from a great silver tureen of antique mould, the host stood beside the Colonel’s chair, enjoying – as only a host can enjoy – the mingled delight and admiration of his guest; and now the work began in right earnest. What an admirable soup, and what a glass of “Niederthaler” – no hock was ever like it; and those pâtés – they were “en bechamelle.” “He was sorry they were not oysters, but the Chablis, he could vouch for.” And well he might; such a glass of wine might console the Emperor for Leipsic.

“How did you say the trout was fried, my friend?”

“In mushroom gravy, dashed with anchovy.”

“Another slice, if you’ll permit me,” pop! “That flask has burst its bonds in time; I was wishing to taste your ‘OEil de Perdrix.’”

The outposts were driven in by this time, and the heavy guns of the engagement were brought down; in other words, the braten, a goodly dish of veal, garnished with every incongruity the mind of man could muster, entered; which, while the host carved at the side-board, the Colonel devoured in his imagination, comforting himself the while by a salmi of partridges with truffles.

Some invaluable condiment had, however, been forgotten with the veal, and the host bustled out of the room in search of it. The door had not well closed, when the Colonel dashed out a goblet of Champagne, and drank it at a draught; then, springing from the window into the Platz, where already the shadow of evening was falling, was immediately replaced by the Major, whose dress and general appearance were sufficiently like his own to deceive any stranger.

Helping himself without loss of time to the salmi, he ate away, like one whose appetite had suffered a sore trial from suspense.

The salmi gave place to the veal, and the veal to the baked pike; for so it is, the stomach, in Germany, is a kind of human ark, wherein, though there is little order in the procession, the animals enter whole and entire. The host watched his guest’s performance, and was in ecstasies – good things never did meet with more perfect appreciation; and as for the wine, he drank it like a Swabian, whole goblets full at a draught. At length, holding up an empty flask, he cried out “Champagne!” And away trotted the fat man to his cellar, rather surprised, it is true, how rapidly three flasks of his “Aï Mousseux” had disappeared.

This was now the critical moment, and with a half-sigh of regret, the Major leaped into the street, and the first Captain relieved the guard.

Poor fellow, he was fearfully hungry, and helped himself to the first dish before him, and drank from the bottle at his side, like one whose stomach had long ceased to be pampered by delicacies.

“Du Heiliger!” cried the host to himself, as he stood behind his chair, and surveyed the performance. “Du Heiliger! how he does eat, one wouldn’t suppose he had been at it these fifty minutes; art ready for the capon now?” continued he, as he removed the keel and floor timbers of a saddle of mutton.

“The capon,” sighed the other; “Yes, the capon, now.” Alas! he knew that delicious dish was reserved for his successor. And so it was; before the host re-entered, the second Captain had filled his glass twice, and was anxiously sitting in expectation of the capon.

Such a bird as it was! – a very sarcophagus of truffles – a mine of delicious dainties of every clime and cuisine.

“Good – eh?”

“Delicious!” said the second Captain, filling a bumper, and handing it to the host, while he clinked his own against it in friendly guise.

“A pleasant fellow, truly,” said the host, “and a social – but, Lord, how he eats! There go the wings and the back! Himmel und Erde! if he isn’t at the pasty now!”

“Wine!” cried the Frenchman, striking the table with the empty bottle, “Wine.”

The host crossed himself, and went out in search of more liquor, muttering as he shuffled along, “What would have become of me, if I hadn’t paid the indemnity!”

The third Captain was at his post before the host got back, and whatever the performance of his predecessors, it was nothing to his. The pasty disappeared like magic, the fricandeau seemed to have melted away like snow before the sun; while he drank, indiscriminately, Hock, Hermitage, and Bordeaux, as though he were a camel, victualling himself for a three weeks’ tramp in the desert.

The poor host now walked round the board, and surveyed the “débris” of the feast, with a sad heart. Of all the joints which he hoped to have seen cold on the shelves of his larder, some ruined fragments alone remained. Here was the gable end of a turkey – there, the side wall of a sirloin; on one side, the broken roof of a pasty; on the other, the bare joists of a rib of beef. It was the Palmyra of things eatable, and a sad and melancholy sight to gaze on.

“What comes next, good host?” cried the third Captain, as he wiped his lips with his napkin.

“Next!” cried the host, in horror, “Hagel und regen! thou canst not eat more, surely!”

“I don’t know that,” replied the other, “the air of these mountains freshens the appetite – I might pick a little of something sweet.”

With a groan of misery, the poor host placed a plum pie before the all-devouring stranger, and then, as if to see that no legerdemain was practised, stationed himself directly in front, and watched every morsel, as he put it into his mouth. No, the thing was all fair, he ate like any one else, grinding his food and smacking his lips, like an ordinary mortal. The host looked down on the floor, and beneath the cloth of the table – what was that for? Did he suspect the stranger had a tail?

“A glass of mulled claret with cloves!” said the frenchman, “and then you may bring the dessert.”

“The Heavens be praised!” cried the host as he swept the last fragments of the table into a wide tray, and left the room.

“Egad! I thought you had forgotten me altogether, Captain,” said a stout, fat fellow, as he squeezed himself with difficulty through the window, and took his seat at the table. This was the Quarter-master of the Regiment, and celebrated for his appetite throughout the whole brigade.

“Ach Gott! how he is swelled out!” was the first exclamation of the host, as he re-entered the room; “and no wonder either, when one thinks of what he has eaten.”

“How now, what’s this?” shouted the Quarter-master, as he saw the dessert arranging on the table, “Sacré tonnerre! what’s all this?”

“The dessert – if you can eat it,” said the host, with a deep sigh.

“Eat it! – no – how the devil should I?”

“I thought not,” responded the other, submissively, “I thought not, even a shark will get gorged at last!”

“Eh, what’s that you say?” replied the Quarter-master, roughly, “you don’t expect a man to dine on figs and walnuts, or dried prunes and olives, do you?”

“Dine!” shouted the host, “and have you not dined?”

“No, mille bombes, that I haven’t – as you shall soon see!”

“Alle Gute Geisten loben den Hernn!” said the host, blessing himself, “An thou be’st the Satanus, I charge thee keep away!”

A shout of laughter from without, prevented the Quartermaster’s reply to this exorcism being heard; while the trumpet sounded suddenly for “boot and saddle.”

With a bottle of wine stuffed in each pocket, the Quartermaster rose from table, and hurried away to join his companions, who had received sudden orders to push forward towards Cassel, and as the bewildered host stood at his window, while the regiment filed past, each officer saluted him politely, as they cried out in turn, “Adieu, Monsieur! my compliments to the braten” – “the turkey was delicious” – “the salmi perfect” – “the capon glorious” – “the venison a chef-d’ouvre!” down to the fat Quarter-master, who, as he raised a flask to his lips, and shook his head reproachfully, said, “Ah! you old screw, nothing better than nuts and raisins to give a hungry man for his dinner!” And so they disappeared from the Platz, leaving mine host in a maze of doubt and bewilderment, which it took many a day and night’s meditation to solve to his own conviction.

Though I cannot promise myself that my reader will enjoy this story as much as I did, I could almost vouch for his doing so, if he heard it from the host of the “Reuten Krantz” himself, told with the staid gravity of German manner, and all the impressive seriousness of one who saw in the whole adventure, nothing ludicrous whatever, but only a most unfair trick, that deserved the stocks, or the pillory.

He was indeed a character in his way, his whole life had only room for three or four incidents, about, and around which, his thoughts revolved, as on an axis, and whose impression was too vivid to admit of any occurrence usurping their place. When a boy, he had been in the habit of acting as guide to the “Wartburg” to his father’s guests – for they were a generation of innkeepers, time out of mind, and even yet, he spoke of those days with transport.

It was amusing, too, to hear him talk of Luther, as familiarly as though he had known him personally, mentioning little anecdotes of his career, and repeating his opinions as if they were things of yesterday; but indeed his mind had little more perspective than a Chinese tea-tray – everything stood beside its neighbour, without shadow, or relief of any kind, and to hear him talk, you would say that Melancthon and Marshal Macdonald might have been personal friends, and Martin Luther and Ney passed an evening in the blue salon of the Reuten Krantz. As for Eisenach and all about it, he knew as little as though it were a city of Egypt. He hoped there was a public library now – he knew there was in his father’s time, but the French used to make cartridges with the books in many towns they passed through – perhaps they had done the same here. These confounded French – they seemed some way to fill every avenue of his brain – there was no inlet of his senses, without a French sentinel on guard over it.

Now, – for my sins, I suppose, – it so chanced that I was laid up here for several weeks, with a return of an old rheumatism I had contracted in one of my wanderings. Books, they brought me, but alas! the only volumes a German circulating library ever contains are translations of the very worst French and English works. The weather was, for the most part, rainy and broken, and even when my strength permitted me to venture into the garden, I generally got soundly drenched before I reached the house again. What insupportable ennui is that which inhabits the inn of a little remote town, where come few travellers, and no news! What a fearful blank in existence is such a place. Just think of sitting in the little silent and sanded parlour, with its six hard chairs, and one straight old sofa, upholstered with flock and fleas; counting over the four prints in black wood frames, upon the walls. Scripture subjects, where Judith, with a quilted petticoat and sabots, cuts the head off a Holofernes in buckskins and top boots, and catches the blood in a soup tureen; an Abraham with a horse pistol, is threatening a little Isaac in jacket and trowsers, with a most villanous expression about the corners of his eyes; and the old looking-glass, cracked in the middle, and representing your face, in two hemispheres, with a nose and one eye to each – the whole tinged with a verd antique colouring that makes you look like a man in bronze.

Outside the door, but near enough for every purpose of annoyance, stands a great hulking old clock, that ticks away incessantly – true type of time that passes on its road whether you be sick or sorry, merry or mournful. With what a burr the old fellow announces that he is going to strike – it is like the asthmatic wheezing of some invalid, making an exertion beyond his strength, and then, the heavy plod of sabots, back and forward through the little hall, into the kitchen, and out again to the stable yard; with the shrill yell of some drabbled wench, screaming for “Johann” or “Jacob;” and all the little platitudes of the “ménage” that reach you, seasoned from time to time by the coarse laughter of the boors, or the squabbling sounds that issue streetwards, where some vender of “schnaps” or “kirch-wasser” holds his tap.

What a dreary sensation comes over one, to think of the people who pass their lives in such a place, with its poor little miserable interests and occupations! and how one shudders at the bare idea of sinking down to the level of such a stagnant pool – knowing the small notorieties, and talking like them; and yet, with all this holy horror, how rapidly, and insensibly, is such a change induced. Every day rubs off some former prejudice, and induces some new habit, and, as the eye of the prisoner, in his darksome dungeon, learns to distinguish each object clear, as if in noon-day; so will the mind accommodate itself to the moral gloom of such a cell as this, ay, and take a vivid interest in each slight event that goes on there, as though he were to the “manner born.”

In a fortnight, or even less, I lay awake, conjecturing why the urchin who brought the mail from Gotha, had not arrived; – before three weeks I participated in the shock of the town, at the conduct of the Frow von Bütterwick, who raised the price of Schenkin or Schweinfleisch, I forget which – by some decimal of a farthing; and fully entered into the distressed feelings of the inhabitants, who foretold a European war, from the fact that a Prussian corporal with a pack on his shoulders, was seen passing through the town, that morning, before day-break.

When I came to think over these things, I got into a grievous state of alarm. “Another week, Arthur,” said I, “and thou art done for: Eisenach may claim thee as its own; and the Grand Duke of – , Heaven forgive me! but I forget the Potentate of the realm, – he may summon thee to his counsels, as the Hoch Wohlgeborner und Gelehrter, Herr von O’Leary; and thou may’st be found here some half century hence, with a pipe in thy mouth, and thy hands in thy side pockets, discoursing fat consonants, like any Saxon of them all. Run for it, man, run for it; away, with half a leg, if need be; out of the kingdom with all haste; and if it be not larger than its neighbours, a hop, step, and jump, ought to suffice for it.”

Will any one tell me – I’ll wager they cannot – why it is, that if you pass a week or a month, in any out-of-the-way place, and either from sulk or sickness, lead a solitary kind of humdrum life; that when you are about to take your leave, you find half the family in tears. Every man, woman, and child, thinks it incumbent on them to sport a mourning face. The host wipes his eye with the corner of the bill; the waiter blows his nose in the napkin; the chambermaid holds up her apron; and boots, with a side wipe of his blacking hand, leaves his countenance in a very fit state for the application of the polishing brush. As for yourself, the position is awkward beyond endurance.

That instant you feel sick of the whole household, from the cellar to the garret. You had perilled your soul in damning them all in turn; and now it comes out, that you are the “enfant chéri” of the establishment. What a base, blackhearted fellow you must be all the time; in short, you feel it; otherwise, why is your finger exploring so low in the recesses of your purse. Confound it, you have been very harsh and hasty with the good people, and they did their best after all.

Take up your abode at Mivart’s or the Clarendon; occupy for the six months of winter, the suite of apartments at Crillons or Meurice; engage the whole of the “Schwann” at Vienna; aye, or even the Grand Monarque, at Aix; and I’ll wager my head, you go forth at the end of it, without causing a sigh in the whole household. Don’t flatter yourself that Mivart will stand blubbering over the bill, or Meurice be half choked with his sobs. The Schwann doesn’t care a feather of his wing, and as for the Grand Monarque, you might as well expect his prototype would rise from the grave to embrace you. A civil grin, that half implies, “You’ve been well plucked here,” is the extent of parting emotion, and a tear couldn’t be had for the price of Tokay.