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The faded pageantry of Ratisbon and Frankfurt was all that remained of the glories of the realm of Charlemagne: the medley of States which owned him as elected lord cared not for the decrees of this ghostly realm; and Goethe might well place in the mouth of his jovial toper, in the cellar scene of "Faust," the words: "Dankt Gott mit jedem Morgen Dass Ihr nicht braucht für's Röm'sche Reich zu sorgen!"
Then we would hear "Wir sollen Ihr lehren Ihre Canadian Schwein! Uns Neuve Chapelle, zu sagen." "We'll teach you Canadian swine to boast about Neuve Chapelle." Then like one man they would turn and dash madly back to their parapets, leaving the trampled clay of the devil's strip heaped with writhing figures of wounded and dead.
D'ye think I decorate the shop with 'em to make it look pretty? What d'ye take me for a prize idiot?" I have always maintained that these conversation books are never of any real use. What we wanted was some English equivalent for the well-known German idiom: "Behalten Sie Ihr Haar auf." Nothing of the sort was to be found in the book from beginning to end.
In that rich treasury of sacred song, Hymns from the Land of Luther, is included the translation of a noble hymn by Simon Dach, O wie selig seid ihr doch, ihr Frommen, "O how happy are ye, saints forgiven." That hymn beautifully illustrates this verse. It is written responsively all through. One stanza, sung upward, is the utterance from below of the pilgrim Church, longing for her rest.
The finest effort to reanimate the past is of course only approximative—is always more or less an infusion of the modern spirit into the ancient form— Was ihr den Geist der Zeiten heisst, Das ist im Grund der Herren eigner Geist, In dem die Zeiten sich bespiegeln.
"Was ist ihr regiment?" called Major Bullivant. I took it that the major was asking the youngster to what regiment he belonged. The British private and his prisoner stopped. The boy Boche smiled sheepishly, yet rather pleasantly, and said something which I didn't understand, and don't believe Major Bullivant did either. There was a half-minute pause.
And bending over the music-book, she read in an undertone: "Wer nie sein Brod mit Thranen ass, Wer nie die kummervollen Nachte Auf seinem Bette einsam sass, Der kennt euch nicht, Ihr himmlischen Machte!" "Say yourself, Mr. Himmel, is not that beautiful and touching?" she asked, looking up again to her teacher.
With an effort, biting her lip and screwing up her eyes, she drew the blade out of the scabbard and put it to her nose. "Oh, how blunt! I can kill you with it in a minute!" She waved it at Kuzma Vassilyevitch. He pretended to be frightened and laughed. She laughed too. "Ihr habt pardon, you are pardoned," she pronounced, throwing herself into a majestic attitude. "There, take your weapon!
Again we see that force is the ultimate resort; nor could it be otherwise after Bakunin had uncompromisingly rejected every attempt to arrive gradually at his ideal end by means of political and intellectual progress. In the Letter to a Frenchman he confesses the true character of the revolution which he advocates: Testut Oscar, Die Internationale, ihr Wesen und ihre Bestrebungen.
The plump person on the opposite seat, who had been shaking her head violently all this time here threatened to burst if not encouraged to speak. Fanny nodded to her. Whereupon the flood broke. "Wunderbar, nicht war! Ich kuss' die handt, gnadiges Fraulein." She actually did it, to Fanny's consternation. "Ich hab' ihr das gelernt, Gnadige. Selbst. Ist es nicht ganz entzuckend! Tante Fanny.
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