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For the catfish is the demon of the deep, and keeps things lively. After observing that, of all the spirits that deny, He finds a knave the least of a bore, the Lord proceeds: "Des Menschen Thätigkeit kann allzuleicht erschlaffen, Er liebt sich bald die unbedingte Ruh; Drum geb' ich ihm gern den Gesellen zu, Der reizt und wirkt und muss als Teufel, schaffen." Is not the parallel remarkable?
But we “gesellen” have plebeian appetites, and whatever dish may be set before us, as surely vanishes to its latest shred. The little patches of puff-paste, smeared with preserve, sent to us as Sunday treat, or the curious production in imitation of our English pie, and filled with maccaroni, are immolated at once without misgiving or remorse.
On entering the burg, should it have happened to be in time of peace and in daylight, the stranger would clear the drawbridge and the portcullis without much challenge; passing along streets lined with the houses and shops of the burghers, in whose open frontages the master and his apprentices and gesellen plied their trades, discussing eagerly over their work the politics of the town, and at this period probably the theological questions which were uppermost in men's minds, our visitor would make his way to some hostelry, in whose courtyard he would dismount from his horse, and, entering the common room, or Stube, with its rough but artistic furniture of carved oak, partake of his flagon of wine or beer, according to the district in which he was travelling, whilst the host cracked a rough and possibly coarse jest with the other guests, or narrated to them the latest gossip of the city.
German workmen! do not the very words recall to your memory old amber-coloured engravings of sturdy men, with waving locks, grasping the arm of the printing-press, by the side of Faust, Schœffer, and Gottenberg? Or, perhaps, the words of Schiller’s “Song of the Bell” may not be unknown to you, and hum in your ears: Frisch, gesellen, seyd zur hand! Von der stirne heiss, Rinnen muss der schweiss.
And our “Licht Braten?” Herr Sorgenpfennig rubs his short, fat hands, and his round eyes twinkle again, as he tells his little cluster of “Herren Gesellen” that there will be a feast, a sumptuous abendbrod, to inaugurate the commencement of candle-light. The “Licht Braten,” as this entertainment is called, is one of the old customs of Hamburg now falling into disuse.
Other of his compositions are: "Das Klagende Lied," for soli, chorus, and orchestra; "Das Lied von der Erde," for soli, and orchestra; "Kindertotenlieder," with orchestral accompaniment; "Lieder einer fahrenden Gesellen," with orchestral accompaniment; "Des Knaben Wunderhorn," twelve songs. Max Reger was born in Brand, Bavaria, March 19th, 1873.
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