The Cobbler of Hagenau

I trust that somewhere and somehowYou all have heard of Hagenau,A quiet, quaint, and ancient townAmong the green Alsatian hills,A place of valleys, streams, and mills,Where Barbarossa's castle, brownWith rust of centuries, still looks downOn the broad, drowsy land below,--On shadowy forests filled with game,And the blue river winding slowThrough meadows, where the hedges growThat give this little town its name.

It happened in the good old times,While yet the Master-singers filledThe noisy workshop and the guildWith various melodies and rhymes,That here in Hagenau there dweltA 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 mindIn this world's business, but inclinedSomewhat to let the next world drift.

Hans Sachs with vast delight he read,And Regenbogen's rhymes of love,For their poetic fame had spreadEven 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 earWas 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 museSat in the narrow strip of shadeBy a projecting cornice made,Mending the Burgomaster's shoes,And singing a familiar tune:--

"Our ingress into the worldWas naked and bare;Our progress through the worldIs trouble and care;Our egress from the worldWill be nobody knows where;But if we do well hereWe 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 timeClosing together with a jerkOf his waxed thread the stitch and rhyme.Meanwhile his quiet little dameWas leaning o'er the window-sill,Eager, excited, but mouse-still,Gazing impatiently to seeWhat the great throng of folk might beThat onward in procession came,Along the unfrequented street,With horns that blew, and drums that beat,And banners flying, and the flameOf tapers, and, at times, the sweetVoices of nuns; and as they sangSuddenly 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 aloftA 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 heardThe 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 groanedIts inarticulate despair;The candles on the altar blazed,And full in front of it upraisedThe red cross stood against the glare.Below, upon the altar-railIndulgences were set to sale,Like ballads at a country fair.A heavy strong-box, iron-boundAnd 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 unrevealedAnd unrepented, are forgiven!Count but the gain, count not the lossYour gold and silver are but dross,And yet they pave the way to heaven.I hear your mothers and your siresCry from their purgatorial fires,And will ye not their ransom pay?O senseless people! when the gateOf 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 goldInto the tinkling strong-box fellLike pebbles dropped into a well;And soon the ballads were all sold.The cobbler's wife among the restSlipped into the capacious chestA golden florin; then withdrew,Hiding the paper in her breast;And homeward through the darkness wentComforted, quieted, content;She did not walk, she rather flew,A dove that settles to her nest,When some appalling bird of preyThat 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 sameThe 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 dameHad 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 thingsThat even the poor preserve with care,--Some little trinkets and cheap rings,A locket with her mother's hair,Her wedding gown, the faded flowersShe 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 layFolded, with signature and seal.

Meanwhile the Priest, aggrieved and pained,Waited and wondered that no wordOf mass or requiem he heard,As by the Holy Church ordained;Then to the Magistrate complained,That as this woman had been deadA week or more, and no mass said,It was rank heresy, or at leastContempt 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-chairGave 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 throatScarce audibly. The Justice wroteThe words down in a book, and thenContinued, as he raised his pen:"She is; and hath a mass been saidFor 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 diedHer soul was with the glorified!"And from his pocket with all speedHe 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 crimesThou hast committed in past timesThee I absolve! And furthermore,Purified from all earthly taints,To the communion of the SaintsAnd to the sacraments restore!All stains of weakness, and all traceOf shame and censure I efface;Remit the pains thou shouldst endure,And make thee innocent and pure,So that in dying, unto theeThe gates of heaven shall open be!Though long thou livest, yet this graceUntil the moment of thy deathUnchangeable continueth!"

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