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To Kevlaar went many on crutches,
Who now on the tight-rope bound; And many are playing the fiddle
Who had not a finger sound.
The mother has taken a candle,
And made of the wax a heart : “Give this to the Mother of God,
That so she may heal thy smaro
Sighing he took the token,
Sighing he knelt in his place; The words streamed out of his lips,
The tears streamed over his face.
From The Contemporary Review. THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR. [The earliest impression of “Die Wallfahrt nach Kev
laar" was accompanied by the following remarks on the part of Heine: “The matter of this Poem is wholly my own property. It originated in recollections of my Rhenish home. When a little boy, receiving in ihe Franciscan monastery at Düsseldorf my first training, learning to spell and to sit still, my place was frequently near another boy who was forever relating to me how his mother once took him to Kevlaar (the accent lies on the first syllable; the place itself is in the neighborhood of Gelder), how she had there offered for him a waxen foot, and how his own lame foot had thereby got healed. Once again I met this boy in the first class of the Gymnasium; and later, when we sat together in the Coliege of Philosophy of Rector Schallmeyer, he laughingly recalled to my memory his miracle iale; adding however, somewhat earnestly, that now he would offer to the mother of God a waxen heart. I heard later on that he had at this time been laboring under an unfortnnate love affair, and finally he passed quite out of my sight and my memory.
In the year 1919, when I was studying in Bonn, walking on one occasion in the neighborhood Godesberg on tl
ard in the distance the well-known Kevlaar songs, of which the best had the recurring refrain : “Gelobt seist du Maria!" On the procession drawing near, I recognized among the pilgrims my schoolfellow, in company of his aged mother. "She led
him by the hand, he looking very sick and pale.”) The mother stands at the window,
The son lies sick in the bed :
To see the procession?” she said.
“() thou who art high and blessed,
God's Maid without a stain, O thou who art Queen of Heaven,
Have pity on my pain !
“I live with my mother together
In the town of Köln on Rhine, The town that has hundreds of churches,
And many a chapel and shrine.
“And neighbor to us was Gretchen,
But she is dead; and now I bring thee, Mary, a waxen heart,
My wounded heart heal thou!
Fifth Series, Volume XXXIX.
No. 1989. — August 5, 1882.
Commonwealth : Lucy Hutchinson — Alice
Contemporary Review, .
THE WIDOW TO HER HOURGLASS,
PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY
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Ah ! dear one, I've been old so long,
It seems that age is loth to part,
Though days and years have never a song ; VANISHED HOURS.
And oh ! have hey still the art WHERE are they gone, those dear dead days,
That warmed the pulses of heart to heart? Those sweet past days of long ago,
Alas, so long! Whose ghosts go tloating to and fro
Ah! then was it all spring weather? When evening leads us through her maze?
Nay, but we were young and together. Where are they gone? Ab ! who can tell ? Who weave once more that long-passed Ah! dear one, you've been dead so long, spell ?
How long until we meet again,
Where hours may never lose their song They did exist when we were young,
Nor flowers forget the rain, We met our life with strength and trust, In glad noonlight that never shall wane ? We deemed all things were pure and just,
Alas, so long! Nor knew life had a double tongue.
Ah! still shall it be then spring weather? We lightly sang a happy song,
And ah! shall we be young together? Nor dreamed our way could e'er be wrong.
D. G. ROSSETTI.
From Blackwood's Magazine. roof; the former held itself high amid all AUTOBIOGRAPHIES.
manners of petty machinations and bour. IN THE TIME OF THE COMMONWEALTH: LUCY geois plots. We are obliged to admit, HUTCHINSON — ALICE THORNTON,
looking at both, that the lines of separa. There is no book which has been more tion were in no way hard and dry; but appreciated or applauded than the “ Life that, as happens continually in human of Colonel Hutchinson," written by his affairs, that two factions so closely wife. It is one of the many mémoires opposed to each other were at bottom pour servir, which illustrate so largely the same, merging on either side into an that eventful period of history, and one of indefinite mass, which held a little for the few which it is a pleasure to read, both, and which connected them by a opening for us, even in its most anxious thousand ties. strain of narrative, an escape into human Among the women the distinction was nature, which, in the midst of the din and still less complete. The prim Puritan conflict, is full of refreshment and con- dames, in whom fiction has always de. solation. Colonel Hutchinson was on the lighted, as a piquant contrast to the side which has always been unpopular | bravery of costume and ornament on the with poetry and romance. He belonged other side, must be sought for among the to the party which are supposed to be burghers, in a class altogether beneath enemies to beauty and to every manifes- that of the ruffling gallants who are so tation of art, the stern Puritans, for whom often, supposed to find hiding and safety even their defenders claim no grace or in the impression they made upon the gallant bearing - and was one of those daughters of their captors. Religion who joined in the condemnation of Charles made no such difference in these outward I., a man of prayer-meetings and psalm- details as we are pleased to suppose ; and singing. Romance, even when it takes the different ranks of society held to their the most favorable view of such a man, distinctions as stoutly on the one side as presents him to us under a semblance of on the other. Nor was the love of serawkward honesty, too good indeed for his mons, even, confined to one party. The tenets, but rude and rustic at the best, not prayers, the meditations, the devout exfit to hold a place among the accom-ercises that formed a continual accomplished Cavaliers, like Major Bridgenorth paniment to life, were to be found in the in “ Peveril of the Peak.” Mrs. Hutch-houses from which a little contingent inson's memoir, however, shows a very marched to join the king, as well as in different phase; and the noble gentleman those that held for the Parliament. The of her story, a stately figure, something Puritan gentleman “put on a scarlet between Chaucer's knight and the later cloak, very richly laced, such
as he type of Grandison, gives a curious con- usually wore; ” the Puritan ladies looked tradiction to all the prejudices and con- upon Cromwell and his court something ventional ideas in which we have been as the Faubourg St. Germain contembred. It has perhaps served the purpose plated ces-gens là at the Tuileries in the of literature better to draw a broad line early days of the last empire – com. of demarcation between the two parties, menting upon the manner in which “his and represent the one as appropriating wife and children were setting up for all the graces, while the other had all the principality, which suited no better with piety, of the time. But nothing could be any of them than scarlet on the ape;” less true. No tiner gentleman than John although they might admit that, "to Hutchinson ever added ornament to an speak the truth of himself, he had much age, and no more tender piety than that natural greatness, and well became the which flourished in many of the highest place he had usurped.” In short, nothing Cavalier houses could be found even could have been more aristocratic than among the ranks of the martyrs. The the republican, and nowhere was there latter coexisted with the most boundless more psalm-singing or devout sermons depravity, living meekly under the same than in some houses of the Cavaliers.
Mrs. Hutchinson's memoirs were not sad particulars of his death. The sons intended for the public. The compila. and daughters for whom it was written tion of family histories was a fancy of the all vanished without a name, leaving no time. In the leisure of widowhood and track behind them ; but the story of John age, when her children were out in the Hutchinson has now become the propworld and her noonday over, a woman erty of the world. The writer, Lucy Apswho had been full of sancy and vivacity ley, was born of an honorable lineage, all her life — without leisure, in the vicis. the daughter of Sir Allen Apsley, a man situdes of an active carcer, for more than of various adventures, who, after two a copy of verses now and then, or a reli. previous inarriages, according to the fashgious meditation, jotted down among the ion of the time, fell in love at forty-eight simples in her recipe book would amuse with the beautiful young daughter of herself in the ease of her later days by Sir John St. John, a girl of sixteen. It writing down all that happened, if not to was of this marriage, and in so grim a herself, "10 your father,” in all the princi. scene as the Tower of London, of which pal chapters of his existence. So Mar- her father was governor, that Lucy was garet of Newcastle, that incomparable born. The parents are described with all princess, wrote a very short sketch of the affectionate panegyric which was genherself, but a prolonged life of her hus. eral in those days. It would be appropri. band, with full description of all his qual- ate now, were such a chronicle made, that ities. In the solitude of Owthorpe, when the filial biographer, clear-sighted and imall was over for her personally in this partial, should set before the reader the world, she who had stood by her hus. defects of his progenitors, and add to band's side through a hundred dangers, the human interest of the story by an who had nursed the prisoners when he analysis of their character, perhaps not was governor of Nottingham, and borne much to their credit; but the fashion of himself company in the Tower, — Mrs. former ages was not so, and the Apsley's Hutchinson set herself to make a chroni. are placed before us as scarcely, if at cle of his deeds, his wisdom, bis finc all, inferior to Colonel Hutchinson him. Grandison presence, his magnanimiry; self. “His life was a continual exercise and even of his person, his shape “slen. of faith and charity,” his daughter says der, and exactly well-proportioned in all of Sir Allen ; while her mother became a parts,” bis "eyes of lively grey,” his sort of guardian angel to the prisoners, “ teeth of purest ivory,” his admirable serving them in every way, paying the dancing – though this he made no prac. expenses of the chemical experiments tice of, the lady allows. The composition with which Sir Walter Raleigh amused of the chronicle in itself affords a pretty himself during his confinement, as well picture. Owthorpe was handsome as ministering to less eminent persons in house in Nottinghamshire, the home of commoner ways. The daughter of this the family. The great ball, which is de- excellent pair was distinguished from hier scribed by the editor, with three large birth by the quickness of her intelligence, chambers for the entertainment of guests At four she read English perfectly; at opening out of it, must have been still and seven “ bad at one time eight tutors in deserted when the solitary woman
qualities - languages, music, der a command not to grieve at the com- dancing, writing, and needlework; but mon rate of desolate women,” she says, my genius was averse from all but iny with pathetic pride and courage went book.” But these details are but a prefback in the silence upon her old recollec. ace to the'story of her life, which is not tions, so bright, so living, far more real her own story. The rest of Lucy Aps. in their morning and noonday glory than ley's autobiography is given under anthat dim gentle evening, and wrote down other name. their early tale of love, the story of his While this flower of grace was growing noble manhood, her own struggles and up against the dark background of the terrors for hiin, their life in prison, the l Tower, very attentive to sermons and