The Student's Tale - The Wayside Inn - Part Second



    I trust that somewhere and somehow
    You all have heard of Hagenau,
    A quiet, quaint, and ancient town
    Among the green Alsatian hills,
    A place of valleys, streams, and mills,
    Where Barbarossa's castle, brown
    With rust of centuries, still looks down
    On the broad, drowsy land below,--
    On shadowy forests filled with game,
    And the blue river winding slow
    Through meadows, where the hedges grow
    That give this little town its name.

    It happened in the good old times,
    While yet the Master-singers filled
    The noisy workshop and the guild
    With various melodies and rhymes,
    That here in Hagenau there dwelt
    A cobbler,--one who loved debate,
    And, arguing from a postulate,
    Would say what others only felt;
    A man of forecast and of thrift,
    And of a shrewd and careful mind
    In this world's business, but inclined
    Somewhat to let the next world drift.

    Hans Sachs with vast delight he read,
    And Regenbogen's rhymes of love,
    For their poetic fame had spread
    Even to the town of Hagenau;
    And some Quick Melody of the Plough,
    Or Double Harmony of the Dove,
    Was always running in his head.
    He kept, moreover, at his side,
    Among his leathers and his tools,
    Reynard the Fox, the Ship of Fools,
    Or Eulenspiegel, open wide;
    With these he was much edified:
    He thought them wiser than the Schools.

    His good wife, full of godly fear,
    Liked not these worldly themes to hear;
    The Psalter was her book of songs;
    The only music to her ear
    Was that which to the Church belongs,
    When the loud choir on Sunday chanted,
    And the two angels carved in wood,
    That by the windy organ stood,
    Blew on their trumpets loud and clear,
    And all the echoes, far and near,
    Gibbered as if the church were haunted.
    Outside his door, one afternoon,
    This humble votary of the muse
    Sat in the narrow strip of shade
    By a projecting cornice made,
    Mending the Burgomaster's shoes,
    And singing a familiar tune:--

     "Our ingress into the world
         Was naked and bare;
     Our progress through the world
         Is trouble and care;
     Our egress from the world
         Will be nobody knows where;
     But if we do well here
         We shall do well there;
     And I could tell you no more,
         Should I preach a whole year!"

    Thus sang the cobbler at his work;
    And with his gestures marked the time
    Closing together with a jerk
    Of his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme.
    Meanwhile his quiet little dame
    Was leaning o'er the window-sill,
    Eager, excited, but mouse-still,
    Gazing impatiently to see
    What the great throng of folk might be
    That onward in procession came,
    Along the unfrequented street,
    With horns that blew, and drums that beat,
    And banners flying, and the flame
    Of tapers, and, at times, the sweet
    Voices of nuns; and as they sang
    Suddenly all the church-bells rang.

    In a gay coach, above the crowd,
    There sat a monk in ample hood,
    Who with his right hand held aloft
    A red and ponderous cross of wood,
    To which at times he meekly bowed.
    In front three horsemen rode, and oft,
    With voice and air importunate,
    A boisterous herald cried aloud:
    "The grace of God is at your gate!"
    So onward to the church they passed.

    The cobbler slowly tuned his last,
    And, wagging his sagacious head,
    Unto his kneeling housewife said:
    "'Tis the monk Tetzel.    I have heard
    The cawings of that reverend bird.
    Don't let him cheat you of your gold;
    Indulgence is not bought and sold."

    The church of Hagenau, that night,
    Was full of people, full of light;
    An odor of incense filled the air,
    The priest intoned, the organ groaned
    Its inarticulate despair;
    The candles on the altar blazed,
    And full in front of it upraised
    The red cross stood against the glare.
    Below, upon the altar-rail
    Indulgences were set to sale,
    Like ballads at a country fair.
    A heavy strong-box, iron-bound
    And carved with many a quaint device,
    Received, with a melodious sound,
    The coin that purchased Paradise.

    Then from the pulpit overhead,
    Tetzel the monk, with fiery glow,
    Thundered upon the crowd below.
    "Good people all, draw near!" he said;
    "Purchase these letters, signed and sealed,
    By which all sins, though unrevealed
    And unrepented, are forgiven!
    Count but the gain, count not the loss
    Your gold and silver are but dross,
    And yet they pave the way to heaven.
    I hear your mothers and your sires
    Cry from their purgatorial fires,
    And will ye not their ransom pay?
    O senseless people! when the gate
    Of heaven is open, will ye wait?
    Will ye not enter in to-day?
    To-morrow it will be too late;
    I shall be gone upon my way.
    Make haste! bring money while ye may!'

    The women shuddered, and turned pale;
    Allured by hope or driven by fear,
    With many a sob and many a tear,
    All crowded to the altar-rail.
    Pieces of silver and of gold
    Into the tinkling strong-box fell
    Like pebbles dropped into a well;
    And soon the ballads were all sold.
    The cobbler's wife among the rest
    Slipped into the capacious chest
    A golden florin; then withdrew,
    Hiding the paper in her breast;
    And homeward through the darkness went
    Comforted, quieted, content;
    She did not walk, she rather flew,
    A dove that settles to her nest,
    When some appalling bird of prey
    That scared her has been driven away.

    The days went by, the monk was gone,
    The summer passed, the winter came;
    Though seasons changed, yet still the same
    The daily round of life went on;
    The daily round of household care,
    The narrow life of toil and prayer.
    But in her heart the cobbler's dame
    Had now a treasure beyond price,
    A secret joy without a name,
    The certainty of Paradise.
    Alas, alas!    Dust unto dust!
    Before the winter wore away,
    Her body in the churchyard lay,
    Her patient soul was with the Just!
    After her death, among the things
    That even the poor preserve with care,--
    Some little trinkets and cheap rings,
    A locket with her mother's hair,
    Her wedding gown, the faded flowers
    She wore upon her wedding day,--
    Among these memories of past hours,
    That so much of the heart reveal,
    Carefully kept and put away,
    The Letter of Indulgence lay
    Folded, with signature and seal.

    Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved and pained,
    Waited and wondered that no word
    Of mass or requiem he heard,
    As by the Holy Church ordained;
    Then to the Magistrate complained,
    That as this woman had been dead
    A week or more, and no mass said,
    It was rank heresy, or at least
    Contempt of Church; thus said the Priest;
    And straight the cobbler was arraigned.

    He came, confiding in his cause,
    But rather doubtful of the laws.
    The Justice from his elbow-chair
    Gave him a look that seemed to say:
    "Thou standest before a Magistrate,
    Therefore do not prevaricate!"
    Then asked him in a business way,
    Kindly but cold: "Is thy wife dead?"
    The cobbler meekly bowed his head;
    "She is," came struggling from his throat
    Scarce audibly.    The Justice wrote
    The words down in a book, and then
    Continued, as he raised his pen:
    "She is; and hath a mass been said
    For the salvation of her soul?
    Come, speak the truth! confess the whole!"
    The cobbler without pause replied:
    "Of mass or prayer there was no need;
    For at the moment when she died
    Her soul was with the glorified!"
    And from his pocket with all speed
    He drew the priestly title-deed,
    And prayed the Justice he would read.

    The Justice read, amused, amazed;
    And as he read his mirth increased;
    At times his shaggy brows he raised,
    Now wondering at the cobbler gazed,
    Now archly at the angry Priest.
    "From all excesses, sins, and crimes
    Thou hast committed in past times
    Thee I absolve!    And furthermore,
    Purified from all earthly taints,
    To the communion of the Saints
    And to the sacraments restore!
    All stains of weakness, and all trace
    Of shame and censure I efface;
    Remit the pains thou shouldst endure,
    And make thee innocent and pure,
    So that in dying, unto thee
    The gates of heaven shall open be!
    Though long thou livest, yet this grace
    Until the moment of thy death
    Unchangeable continueth!"

    Then said he to the Priest: "I find
    This document is duly signed
    Brother John Tetzel, his own hand.
    At all tribunals in the land
    In evidence it may be used;
    Therefore acquitted is the accused."
    Then to the cobbler turned: "My friend,
    Pray tell me, didst thou ever read
    Reynard the Fox?"--"O yes, indeed!"--
    "I thought so.    Don't forget the end."


    "What was the end?    I am ashamed
    Not to remember Reynard's fate;
    I have not read the book of late;
    Was he not hanged?" the Poet said.
    The Student gravely shook his head,
    And answered: "You exaggerate.
    There was a tournament proclaimed,
    And Reynard fought with Isegrim
    The Wolf, and having vanquished him,
    Rose to high honor in the State,
    And Keeper of the Seals was named!"

    At this the gay Sicilian laughed:
    "Fight fire with fire, and craft with craft;
    Successful cunning seems to be
    The moral of your tale," said he.
    "Mine had a better, and the Jew's
    Had none at all, that I could see;
    His aim was only to amuse."

    Meanwhile from out its ebon case
    His violin the Minstrel drew,
    And having tuned its strings anew,
    Now held it close in his embrace,
    And poising in his outstretched hand
    The bow, like a magician's wand,
    He paused, and said, with beaming face:
    "Last night my story was too long;
    To-day I give you but a song,
    An old tradition of the North;
    But first, to put you in the mood,
    I will a little while prelude,
    And from this instrument draw forth
    Something by way of overture."

    He played; at first the tones were pure
    And tender as a summer night,
    The full moon climbing to her height,
    The sob and ripple of the seas,
    The flapping of an idle sail;
    And then by sudden and sharp degrees
    The multiplied, wild harmonies
    Freshened and burst into a gale;
    A tempest howling through the dark,
    A crash as of some shipwrecked bark.
    A loud and melancholy wail.

    Such was the prelude to the tale
    Told by the Minstrel; and at times
    He paused amid its varying rhymes,
    And at each pause again broke in
    The music of his violin,
    With tones of sweetness or of fear,
    Movements of trouble or of calm,
    Creating their own atmosphere;
    As sitting in a church we hear
    Between the verses of the psalm
    The organ playing soft and clear,
    Or thundering on the startled ear.


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