Zigzag Journeys in Northern Lands by Hezekiah Butterworth (books like harry potter TXT) đź“–
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But it is not of Bismarck’s policy I would first speak, but of that which few credit him with possessing,—his moral convictions. Strange as it may seem to those who know only the Chancellor, Bismarck is not only a religious man, but his religion is the foundation of his policy.
Dr. Busch, one of the statesman’s secretaries, in a recent book, “Bismarck in the Franco-German War,” narrates incidents and reports private conversations which justify this assertion.
On the eve of his leaving Berlin to join the army, the Chancellor partook of the Lord’s Supper. The solemn rite was celebrated in his own room, that it might not appear as an exhibition of official piety.
BISMARCK.
One morning Bismarck was called suddenly from his bed to see a French general. Dr. Busch, on entering the bedroom just after the chief had left it, found everything in disorder. On the floor was a book of devotion, “Daily Watchwords and Texts of the Moravian Brethren for 1870.” On the table by the bed was another, “Daily Refreshment for Believing Christians.”
“The Chancellor reads in them every night,” said Bismarck’s valet to Dr. Busch, seeing his surprise.
One day, while dining with his staff, several of whom were “free-thinkers,” Bismarck turned the conversation into a serious vein. A secretary had spoken of the feeling of duty which pervaded the German army, from the private to the general.
Bismarck caught the idea and tossed it still higher. “The feeling of duty,” he said, “in a man who submits to be shot dead on his post, alone, in the dark, is due to what is left of belief in our people. He knows that there is Some One who sees him when the lieutenant does not see him.”
“Do you believe, Your Excellency,” asked a secretary, “that they really reflect on this?”
“Reflect? no: it is a feeling, a tone, an instinct. If they reflect they lose it. Then they talk themselves out of it.
“How,” Bismarck continued, “without faith in a revealed religion, in a God who wills what is good, in a Supreme Judge, and in a future life, men can live together harmoniously, each doing his duty and letting every one else do his, I do not understand.”
There was a pause in the conversation, and the Chancellor then gave expression to his faith.
“If I were no longer a Christian,” he said, “I would not remain for an hour at my post. If I could not count upon my God, assuredly I should not do so on earthly masters.
“Why should I,” he continued, “disturb myself and work unceasingly in this world, exposing myself to all sorts of vexations, if I had not the feeling that I must do my duty for God’s sake? If I did not believe in a Divine order, which has destined this German nation for something good and great, I would at once give up the business of a diplomatist. Orders and titles have no charm for me.”
There was another pause, for the staff were silent before this revelation of their chief’s inner life. He continued to lay bare the foundations of his statesmanship.
“I owe the firmness which I have shown for ten years against all possible absurdities only to my decided faith. Take from me this faith, and you take from me my fatherland. If I were not a believing Christian, if I had not the supernatural basis of religion, you would not have had such a Chancellor.
“I delight in country life, in the woods, and in nature,” he said, in the course of the conversation. “Take from me my relation to God, and I am the man who will pack up to-morrow and be off to Varzin [his farm] to grow my oats.”
The surprise with which these revelations of a statesman’s inner life are read is due to their singularity. Neither history nor biography is so full of instances of statesmen confessing their faith in God and in Christianity, at a dinner-table surrounded by “free-thinkers,” as to prevent the reading of these revelations from being both interesting and stimulating.
“I live among heathen,” said the Chancellor, as he concluded this acknowledgment that his religion was the basis of his statesmanship. “I don’t seek to make proselytes, but I am obliged to confess my faith.”
Prince von Bismarck was born in 1813. His political history is similar to Emperor William’s, which I related at our last meeting. The Emperor and his Chancellor, in matters of state, have been as one man. Each has aimed to secure the unity of the German empire. Each has sought to disarm, on the one hand, that branch of the Catholic party who give their allegiance to Rome rather than the government, the so-called Ultramontanes; and the Socialists, on the other hand, who would overthrow the monarchy. The two strong men have ruled with a firm hand, but with much wisdom. Germany could hardly have a more liberal government, unless she became a republic.
The stories of the evening were chiefly selected from Hoffman. They were too long and terrible to be given here. Among them were “The Painter” and “The Elementary Spirit.” In introducing these stories, Mr. Beal related some touching and strange incidents of their author.
HOFFMAN.Hoffman died in Berlin. His career as a musical artist had been associated with the Prussian-Polish provinces, where he seems to have acquired habits of dissipation in brilliant but gay musical society.
Hoffman had exquisite refinement of taste, and sensitiveness to the beautiful in nature and art, but the exhilaration of the wine-cup was to him a fatal knowledge. It made him in the end a poor, despised, inferior man.
As he lost his self-mastery, he also seemed to lose his self-respect. He mingled with the depraved, and carried the consciousness of his inferiority into all his associations with better society.
“I once saw Hoffman,” says one, “in one of his night carouses. He was sitting in his glory at the head of the table, not stupidly drunk, but warmed with wine, which made him madly eloquent. There, in full tide of witty discourse, or, if silent, his hawk eye flashing beneath his matted hair, sat this unfortunate genius until the day began to dawn; then he found his way homeward.
“At such hours he used to write his wild, fantastic tales. To his excited fancy everything around him had a spectral look. The shadows of fevered thought stalked like ghosts through his soul.”
This stimulated life came to a speedy conclusion. He was struck with a most strange paralysis at the age of forty-six.
His disease first paralyzed his hands and feet, then his arms and legs, then his whole body, except his brain and vital organs.
In this condition it was remarked in his presence that death was not the worst of evils. He stared wildly and exclaimed,—
“Life, life, only life,—on any condition whatsoever!”
His whole hope was centred in the gay world which had already become to him as a picture of the past.
But the hour came at last when he knew he must die. He asked his wife to fold his useless hands on his breast, and, looking at her pitifully, he said, “And we must think of God also.”
Religion, in his gay years, as a provincial musician, and as a poet in the thoughtless society of the capital, had seldom occupied his thoughts.
His last thought was given to the subject which should have claimed the earliest and best efforts of his life.
“God also!” It was his farewell to the world. The demons had done their work. Life’s opportunities were ended.
The words of his afterthought echo after him, and, like his own weird stories, have their lesson.
Herman Reed presented a story from a more careful writer. It is a story with an aim, and left an impressive lesson on the minds of all. If it be somewhat of an allegory, it is one whose meaning it is not hard to comprehend.
THE HEART OF STONE.The Black Forest, from time out of mind, has abounded with stories of phantoms, demons, genii, and fairies. The dark hue of the hills, the shadowy and mysterious recesses, the lonely ways, the beautiful glens, all tend to suggest the legends that are associated with every mountain, valley, and town. The old legends have filled volumes. One of the most popular of recent stories of the Black Forest is the “Marble Heart; or, the Stone-cold Heart,” by Hauff.
Wilhelm Hauff, a writer of wonderful precocity, genius, and invention, was born at Stuttgart in 1809. He was designed for the theological profession, and entered the University of TĂĽbingen in 1820. He had a taste for popular legends, and published many allegorical works. He died before he had completed his twenty-sixth year.
There once lived a widow in the Black Forest, whose name was Frau Barbara Munk. She had a boy, sixteen years old, named Peter, who was put to the trade of charcoal-burner, a common occupation in the Black Forest.
Now a charcoal-burner has much time for reflection; and as Peter sat at his stack, with the dark trees around him, he began to cherish a longing to become rich and powerful.
“A black, lonely charcoal-burner,” he said to himself, “leads a wretched life. How much more respected are the glass-blowers, the clock-makers, and the musicians!”
The raftsmen of the forest, too, excited his envy. They passed like giants through the towns, with their silver buckles, consequential looks, and clay pipes, often a yard long. There were three of these timber-dealers that he particularly admired. One of them, called “Fat Hesekiel,” seemed like a mint of gold, so freely did he use his money at the gaming-tables at the tavern. The second, called “Stout Schlurker,” was both rich and dictatorial; and the third was a famous dancer.
These traders were from Holland. Peter Munk, the young coal-burner, used to think of them and their good fortune, when sitting alone in the pine forests. The Black Foresters were people rich in generous character and right principle, but very poor in purse. Peter began to look upon them and their homely occupations with contempt.
“This will do no longer,” said Peter, one day. “I must thrive or die. Oh, that I were as much regarded as rich Hesekiel or powerful Schlurker, or even as the King of the Dancers! I wonder where they obtain their money!”
There were two Forest spirits, of whom Peter had heard, that were said to help those who sought them to riches and honor. One was Glassmanikin, a good little dwarf; and the other was Michael the Dutchman,—dark, dangerous, terrible, and powerful,—a giant ghost.
Peter had heard that there was a magic verse, which, were he to repeat it alone in the forest, would cause the benevolent dwarf, Glassmanikin, to appear. Three of the lines were well known,—
Many, full many a century hast thou seen:
Thine are the lands where rise the dusky pine—”
He did not know the last line, and, as he was but a poor poet, he was unable to make a line to fill the sense, metre, and rhyme.
He inquired of the Black Foresters about the missing line, but they only knew as much as he, else many of them would have called the fairy banker to their own service.
One day, as he was alone in the forest, he resolved to repeat, over and over, the magic lines, hoping that the fourth line would in some way occur to him.
Many, full many a century hast thou seen:
Thine are the regions of the dusky pine.”
As he said these words he saw, to his astonishment, a little fellow peep around the trunk of a tree; but, as the fourth line did not come to him, Mr. Glassmanikin disappeared.
Peter went home, with his mind
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