Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 68, No. 421, November 1850

"His worship the judge."

"His worship the judge? My linen? What have you to do with my linen?"

"Dear Mrs Oberhage, I have already explained to you that you are allowed to take away from the farm only your own property – your own personal effects."

"And is not the linen my own property?"

"No."

"And what is it, then?"

"An appurtenance to the farm."

The woman burst into a laugh – a laugh of sudden and terrible rage. "My linen," she cried – "my linen, for which I and my mother, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother, and at odd times this girl too, have spun the yarn – which we ourselves have woven and bleached, and on whose every thread has fallen a drop of our sweat – my linen, you say, is an appurtenance of your farm, and belongs to you, or to the counsellor there." And she looked from the one to the other of the magistrates. Then, growing calmer, she added scornfully, "take some other notion into your heads, gentlemen; but my linen you shall not have."

"It is your treasure, your pride, Mrs Oberhage," replied the judge, with his everlasting friendliness: "every one knows that; but, unfortunately, there is no alternative. I am grieved on your account, but the linen belongs to the farm, and not to you."

The fury of the farmer's wife seemed about again to break out. Her lawyer stepped forward. "His worship is unfortunately in the right," he said. "The store of linen, inasmuch as it does not appear necessary to the personal wants of yourself and your children, is legally an appurtenance of the farm. You must make up your mind to give it up."

The woman cast a glance at her husband; but neither in that quarter did she find succour. He looked straight before him, like one absorbed in thought.

"Take it then," said she resolutely. And making an energetic effort to conceal a violent trembling that came over her, she returned to her work. Aided by her daughter, by the weeping servants, and by the neighbours, the packing was soon done. The carts, laden with the whole earthly goods of the expelled farmer, were at the door, ready to start. The neighbours stood around, deep sympathy and suppressed anger upon their stern countenances. The farm-servants – men and maids, big and little, boys who had been but lately taken on, and old men, bent by labour, who had perhaps served three generations upon that farm – stood on one side, also silent, but with grief in their faces. The gentlemen of the commission sat at the long table, under the elm, and breakfasted. The gendarmes and officers were near at hand.

The farmer, his wife, and children, had remained behind in the house. Presently they came out: first the farmer, then his wife, with her youngest child on her arm and leading the boy by the hand; last of all came the eldest daughter. In the countenances of the parents, as in that of the daughter, was to be discerned an expression of dignified resignation to a hard lot.

The man and his wife cast searching glances at the carts, and apparently found all things in order. They then approached a cart upon which seats had been reserved for them; and the woman set down the child upon the ground, the better, as it seemed, to take leave of the sympathising groups that stood around. She and her husband went first to the neighbours, then to the servants, and shook hands with every one. Not a word was spoken.

Whilst this farewell scene occurred, the little girl ran to a flock of chickens, which were pecking for food in the yard. A snow-white hen, with a tuft upon its head, came tamely to meet her. She took it up in her little arms, caressed and played with it.

Suddenly a thought came into the boy's head: he went up to his mother, who had just concluded her sorrowful leave-taking.

"Are we going away for good, mother?" he said.

"Yes, my child, never to return."

"Shall we not take my foal and calf? You promised me this morning that I should rear them."

"I did promise you, my child, but they no longer belong to us."

The firm character of the mother already manifested itself in the son. With scarcely a change of countenance.

"Mother," he said, "will they remain on the farm?"

"They will remain here."

He ran to the farm-servants, and begged them to take care of his calf and foal, and let them want for nothing. Then he returned contentedly to his mother's side. For the poor woman, however, yet another trial was in store.

"I take my white chicken with me, mother!" cried the little girl, pressing the pretty bird to her bosom.

"Does the fowl also belong to the inventory?" said the woman to the lawyer, who stood near her amongst the peasants.

"But, Mrs Oberhage, such a trifle!"

"Does the chicken belong to the inventory?"

"Yes."

"Child, we must leave the chicken here. I will give you another."

"I won't leave my chicken; I take my white chicken with me." The child was crying.

The little fat judge, observant of the incident, rose from his seat. "Mrs Oberhage, let the child have the chicken. With the permission of the Herr Regierungsrath I make you a present of it."

The child jumped for joy, and the chicken remained perched upon her little hands.

For a moment there was a struggle in the breast of the farmer's wife. She looked at her joyous child, she gazed around her at the house and farm she was about to quit; then, with sudden resolution, she went to the little girl, took the bird from her arms, and let it run away. "Judge," she said, turning to the magistrate, "sorry as I am for the poor child's sake, I nevertheless can accept nothing, as a gift, from you and the counsellor."

But she could hardly complete the sentence. The resolute woman's strength seemed suddenly broken, and hot tears gushed from her eyes. Snatching up the weeping child, she pressed it to her breast, and hid her agitated countenance in its rich golden curls.

It was dinner-time. At this hour, it was customary for a dozen poor persons, old women and grayheaded men, to repair to the farm, where, for long years past, they had received a daily meal. As usual, they had made their appearance, and now stood aloof with sad and downcast looks. The housewife perceived them. This was to be her last sorrow in the home that had hitherto been hers. She stepped towards them. "I can no longer give you a dinner," she said; "another master is now here."

An old man limped forward, supported upon crutches. "To-day," he said, "we are here only to thank you, and to pray God that he may repay you what you, and your husband, and your children, and your fathers before you, upon this farm, have given to the poor. We have heard of the injustice done you; but the injustice of men is the blessing of heaven. Farewell, go in peace to your new home. And may the Lord bless you there and for ever."

He hobbled back amidst the group of beggars, who stood praying, with clasped hands. The housewife gave to every one of them an ample dole. "The Lord be with you also," she said. Then she went to the cart in which the children were already seated. Without another word, she got in. Her husband followed her, and his brother, who accompanied them, was the last. She took her little girl upon her lap, and drew down her kerchief far over her face, so that none could distinguish her features.

The cart drove slowly out of the farm-yard. It was met by a servant on horseback, who dashed past at a gallop, and handed to the Counsellor, Baron Von Eilenthal, a letter with a large seal. That distinguished functionary eagerly opened it, as with a foreboding of good news.

The judge looked inquisitively over his shoulder.

"Ah, my humblest congratulations, Herr President. Delighted to be the first to give you joy. I recommend myself to your further favour."

In front of the house, the beggars struck up in slow and solemn strains the hymn from the Psalm-book —

"Meine Seele, lass es gehen,
Wie in dieser Welt es geht.
Lass auch gerne das geschehen,
Was Dem Herz hier nicht versteht.
Arme Seele, fromm und stille,
Denk, es waltet Gottes Wille."

We have preserved, as dramatic and characteristic, the terminations of the two chapters from which we have extracted. The last was worth giving entire, being perhaps the most carefully finished in the book, but its length compelled compression. As regards its truthfulness, and the state of things it is intended to illustrate, we need hardly inform persons acquainted with the social and political condition of Germany, that acts of corruption and oppression, similar to those above set forth, have been of no rare occurrence, up to a very recent date, in more than one sovereign state of that extensive country. The time of the story of Anna Hammer is 1830, the period when things were probably at the worst, before the petty despots of Germany had been warned and alarmed by the second French revolution, and by other evidences of the growing spirit, throughout Europe, of resistance to tyrannical and irresponsible rule. The book hinges on the supposed existence of a secret association, having extensive ramifications, for the purpose of establishing constitutional government throughout Germany. Three of the earliest members of the society have lingered, at the date of the story's commencement, for five years in a state prison. These three men are Anna Hammer's brother-in-law, Madame Von Horberg's husband, and a certain Count Arnstein, whose son, after passing four years in the United States, returns to Germany, in the character of an American, and under the assumed name of Bushby, with the double purpose of assisting the plans of the conspirators, and of accomplishing his father's escape. The place of imprisonment of the three political offenders is, however, a mystery which one of the most active and intelligent of the confederates has for years been in vain endeavouring to solve. It is at last discovered by the ingenuity of Geigenfritz, an old soldier, and trusty agent of the society, who then contrives to introduce Anna Hammer into the fortress, in the capacity of servant girl to the commandant's housekeeper. The housekeeper, Miss Bluestone, who has lived in a military prison until she has acquired the tone, and much of the appearance, of a grenadier, and her comrade, Corporal Long, a veteran converted into a gaoler, who divides his affections between the wine barrel and a huge bunch of keys, are capitally hit off. The account of Von Horberg's dungeon, and of the means of communication he contrives with a prisoner lodged in the lower floor of the tower, in which he occupies an upper cell, is very well done. Indeed this, the first chapter of the second volume, entitled Dungeon Life, is one of the best of the book, and reminds us not a little of Baron Treuck's exciting prison narratives. It acquires additional interest from the circumstance that Anna Hammer is said to have been written in a prison, where the author was long confined on political charges, of which he was ultimately found guiltless. Before coming to the prisons, however, we are taken to court, and are introduced to the old prince-regnant, to his dissolute grandson and heir, and to his amiable granddaughter, who is in love with Arnstein alias Bushby. For a final extract, we select a scene in the grounds of the country residence of the sovereign, who has just installed himself there for the fine season, and where two important personages of the novel – the crown-prince and Geigenfritz – are first brought before the reader.

The park behind the palace was of great extent. Gardens, pieces of water, slopes planted with vines, thick shrubberies and tracts of woodland, were there mingled in an apparently wild disorder which was in reality the result of careful arrangement and consideration. The whole was surrounded by a lofty wall, in which were three or four small doors. A thick forest came close up to the outside of the wall, and was intersected by several roads.

Along one of these roads drove an elegant travelling carriage, drawn by two extremely swift and powerful horses. A bearded man, of Jewish aspect, muffled in a huge coachman's coat, sat upon the box. The shutters of the vehicle were drawn up, so that it could not be seen into. It stopped at the edge of the forest. The door opened, and a little man, also of Israelitish appearance, but very richly dressed, got out. He left the door open.

"Turn round, Abraham!" said he in Jewish jargon to the driver.

The coachman obeyed, so that the horses' heads were in the direction whence they came.