"Hans Breitmann a donné une soirée, où est cette soirée maintenant? où est l'aimable nuage d'or qui flottait au front de la montagne? Où est l'étoile qui brillait au ciel, lumière de l'esprit? Tous sont passés comme la bonne bière, passés dans l'éternité."

When the Breitmann excitement was at its height, the author of the Ballads, who had broken down from years of overwork, and who had now, by the death of his father, come into an independent fortune, arrived in London. He was received with no less enthusiasm than Breitmann; indeed was received as Hans Breitmann, - the one "thorn in his cushion," for he resented nothing so much as being identified with the disreputable old adventurer, who was no more like him than the Heathen Chinee was like Bret Harte. "Breitmann has become my autocrat who rules me with a rod of iron, and has imposed his accursed name on me and thou helpest him!" he wrote once to Mr. Fisher Unwin, who, publishing his photograph, had printed "Hans Breitmann" below. Indeed, knowing Indeed, knowing him as I did, I can fancy him wincing even under that prettily turned welcome from Dr. Holmes. A more cordial reception was seldom given to an American in England in the days before the English had begun to talk of the "blood that is thicker than water," and to sentimentalize over the entente cordiale. The miracle is, how Breitmann survived,—a smaller success has crushed many verses as gay. But Breitmann had the secret of perennial youth, he was a true cosmopolite. That was why he retained his freshness in every fresh adventure found for him by the Rye,― really, I can no longer call my Uncle by any other name, for it was while Breitmann was winning him fame in England that, on the English roads, he was beginning his Romany studies and making himself known and loved as "the Rye," not only by every Gypsy in the land, but by his friends; it was the name I best knew him by, and probably half the letters to him that have VOL. 95 - NO. 1

come into my hands begin "My dear Rye." The Rye, then, could send his hero everywhere he went himself, without risk of repetition. He had already set Breitmann to singing a Gypsy song, had sent him back to Munich Bier Kellers and to the Latin Quarter haunts, had started him on travels through Belgium and Holland, down the Rhine, to Rome. But I have always thought that Breitmann's vitality never asserted itself so triumphantly as in 1882, when the Rye was back in Philadelphia and Philadelphia was celebrating its Bicentennial, with a big Bicycle Meet among other ceremonies. To this Meet, or its dinner, or reception, or whatever its very special function may have been, my husband (not yet my husband) invited the Rye, as the author of the first bicycle poem: Schnitzerl's Philosopede of fifteen years earlier. The Rye, who, socially, was just then living a hermit's life, refused, but to make up for it wrote for the occasion two new verses, practically a third part to the poem, and made a drawing of Breitmann on his "crate philosopede." Whoever has read Breitmann remembers this philosopede, a copy of Schnitzerl's wonderful original:Von of de pulleyest kind;

It vent mitout a vheel in front,
And had n't none pehind.

The ballad is one of the best and gayest, one in which Breitmann surpassed even himself in his philosophical flights and lyrical outbursts. It was therefore with delight that I chanced upon the rough copy of the two new verses, and, as they have never been printed before, I am glad to print them now. Schnitzerl's philosopede, it will be recalled, had

pounded onward till it vent Gans tyfelwards afay.

But the new verses explain that

Joost now and den id makes a halt
Und cooms to oos adown,
To see how poys mit pysickles

On eart' are kitten on,
Und if he pees mit us to-day

We gifes him our abblause,
De foorst crate martyr in de vorld
Who berished in our cause.

Dere's lessons in de foamin' sea,

Und in de foamin' bier,

In every dings dots in our life

Und all dat is n't here,

Und dis is vot der Schnitzerl taught
Oopon dis eardly ball,
It's petter to be cut in dwo

Dan nefer cut at all.

The whole incident pleased the Rye. When, in 1885, he wrote an introduction in verse for the account my husband and I had made of a tricycle ride from Florence to Rome, he boasted in it that he

was the first man of modern time Who on the bicycle e'er wrote a Rime.

And in the 1889 edition of Breitmann, the marginal note to Schnitzerl's Philosopede ends by saying, "I believe it is the first bicycle poem ever written." I do not know why the success of Breitmann's prophecy should have put him in the mood to write Breitmann's Last Ballad, but in the year of this introduction (1885) he wrote for Mrs. Alec Tweedie, then Miss Ethel B. Harley, what he called Breitmann's Allerletztes Lied,which also as far as I know-has never been printed before. Here are two verses, the first and last:

luck in California and his hand at Gypsy and Witch ballads, and he had five new adventures, or poems, to add to the 1889 edition. Memories of his old Barty haunted him, and another verse for it is written on the margin of the 1871 annotated edition. It should not be left unpublished, though the Barty may "reach de perfect" without it.

Hans Breitmann gife a barty,

Gott's blitz-vot foon we had!
Ve blayed at Küss im Ringe
Dill de gals vos almost mad!
And ven indo de gorner

Py Tilda I vos dook,
Mine eyes vos boost in Thränen

To dink how schweet she look.

And Breitmann went to the Tyrol, in the more peaceful occupation of courier or guide, and wrote a whole book about it, mostly in prose, published by Mr. Fisher Unwin in 1895. Beer flows freely in the Tyrol, and Breitmann's spirits always flow as freely with it. But somehow, this Breitmann book does not give the same impression of reckless enjoyment, perhaps because of the prose, or perhaps because the old "Bummer" and "Uhlan" was cast down by the mildness of his new adventures. And Breitmann even had an eye to affairs in South Africa. For the Rye, a very old man in Florence when the Boer War broke out, in looking back to his many years in England, remembered only the pleasures they had brought him, and sent, as his special envoy to the English, Breitmann, with a word of sympathy. These verses were published in Flaxius (1902), a book brought out a few months before his death. There they were called Breitmann's Last Ballad, and this time they really were. Breitmann has passed through his last adventure, through his last debauch of beer and pure reason. But he still lives, he surely always will live as long as the American retains his sense of humor, and that will be as long as America is America.

New Year's

Jan. 1, 1836. Friday. Day. O may it be a happy New Year for me, for my family, and for all the families of this town. May I be diligent, faithful, and persevering, not daub with untempered mortar, but be always plain and pungent.

Dec. 31, 1836. Saturday. This day closes the year. I and my family have enjoyed good health, and my farm has vielded abundance. Notwithstanding I have received some abuse by the way of tattling and slander, yet I can imagine that it will be all for the best. It is only for me to be still and God will order all things aright.

Jan. 1, 1837. Sabbath. A cold snow storm. This year will no doubt be pregnant with great events. A new president will be introduced into the chair, and Jackson will retire from his labors as chief magistrate.

March 4, 1837. Saturday. Went into the city. All bluster and noise. Some rejoicing at the political death of Jackson, and that Van Buren takes the chair, others mourning at his elevation. Hope he will be a whole president, and show no more affection nor favor for one political party than another.

March 11, 1837. Saturday. The inquiry is, "Have you seen Jackson's dying speech?" "No, and don't wish to." "Have you seen Martin Van Buren's inaugural address ?" "No, but have it in my pocket, and shall look at it at my lei

sure." "Well, you will find it rather a smooth kind of thing. He will not consent to a law to emancipate the slaves in the District of Columbia, unless the slaveholding states wish for it." So he has committed himself.

Dec. 31, 1837. Sabbath. Rather a warm day. It has been a year of pressure, money scarce, provisions high, flour eleven dollars and sometimes twelve dollars a barrel. This year will be remembered as the political death of Andrew Jackson, who has been a Dictator and Tyrant for eight years past. I consider him as having been raised up as a scourge and a curse.

Jan. 1, 1838. Monday. The salutation a "Happy New Year" echoes and reëchoes through the land. I would sincerely wish prosperity temporal and spiritual to my wife, to my children, to the families with whom I am connected by the ties of nature, or the bonds of friendship, to my town, to my state, to my country, to the world.

The Abolition question is put aside for a moment, but it must be disposed of sooner or later. Lord hasten the time. Another matter will soon come before Congress, the annexation of Texas. O may we be kept from having any political connection with that portion of the continent, whose inhabitants, many of them, are made up of the offscouring of creation. Thieves, robbers, murderers, man-stealers, and the like characters, such are the

inhabitants of Texas. The Lord have them!

mercy upon

March 12, 1838. Tuesday. Fine summer day, my birthday. I must be sixtysix years old. Is it possible that I have lived so long and to so little purpose? I have preached much, prayed much, visited many sick chambers, conversed with many dying, and pointed to the sinner the way to Heaven. It can't be known in this life how much good or harm I have been the means of doing. I have had remarkable health, a good support, much enjoyment, some anxiety, some patience, some irritation. I have had my share of comfort. Laus Deo.

Dec. 31, 1838. Monday. The gone as a tale that is told.

Jan. 1, 1839. Tuesday.

year is

Our days run thoughtlessly along,
Without a moment's stay,
Just like a story or a song

We pass our lives away. Dec. 31, 1839. Tuesday. Very cold. Evening at the City Hall to hear the report of the Harrisburg delegation, who had returned after having nominated a president and vice president for the next four years. John Neal made the report, and was very animating in his remarks. I hope the result will be equal to his wishes.

Jan. 1, 1840. Wednesday. Happy New Year to us all, and it will be if we live as we ought.

Dec. 31, 1840. Thursday. While writing this, it is moderating, and the weather mild. The early part of the year there was a great religious excitement. Then politics took the front seat. The presidential election became the engrossing subject, and the great question was, who shall be the next President. The first Wednesday in this month closed the scene, and William Henry Harrison was said to be elected.

Jan. 1, 1841. Friday. Warm and moderate. I wish to all who cast their eyes upon this page, whether it be this year, or the next, or twenty years hence, or forty, or a hundred, a happy New Year. I have bid farewell to last year. May

whatever I did amiss be forgotten and forgiven.

A cold

March 4, 1841. Thursday. day, a day of roaring of cannon, of ringing of bells, of playing of fife and beating of drums. This day William Henry Harrison becomes the chief magistrate of the nation.

April 7, 1841. Wednesday. This moment we have heard that General Harrison is dead. A great calamity. At noon the bells began to toll and the minute guns to fire, and continued till one.

April 10, 1841. Saturday. Tyler has assumed the presidential chair. We hear he intends to follow Harrison's plans. If he does, all will be well.

April 21, 1841. Wednesday. A violent rain storm. The principal business going on through the country is honoring the memory of General Harrison by parades, sermons, and orations. All political parties unite in commemorating his death. No man has been more popular since the days of Washington, and perhaps no man more deserving. He has gone to his God and his widow is desolate. Dec. 31, 1841. Friday. Warm and pleasant. A meeting of the church in conference. Seven male members present and eleven females. All the male members prayed. The question was asked again and again, what can be done to promote a revival of religion. At length I concluded to reply, and I remarked, that if every member would make it a matter of conscience to attend to all the requirements to which he had obligated himself, we might hope to have a revival. Therefore the first step was to make confession of our sins and to love and forgive one another.

Jan. 1, 1842. Saturday. Happy New Year to my wife and children, and all connected with the family. Happy New Year to Westbrook, to the ministers, churches, to the county, state, and all the habitable world.

People are moving about, as it were, on the wings of the wind. Railroads and steamboats are multiplying. Candles are

made in New Bedford in the morning, and at evening these same candles light up the stores and parlors in the city of Albany, over two hundred miles distant.

Dec. 31, 1842. Saturday. To-day closes another great portion of time. What changes do we find as to circumstances and situations of multitudes. Thousands of thousands have passed through the bankrupt mill without paying any toll. Does this free them from moral obligation to pay their honest debts? By no means. They will always be bound to do this till it is done. This has been a year of much enterprise. A railroad from Portland to Boston has been completed, also one from Boston to Albany, also the great work of bringing water into the city of New York. A great change this year among the ministers. Formerly ministers could remain with their congregation forty, fifty, and sixty years, and do an immense amount of good. Now their race is soon run. One happy event must not be left unrecorded: the North-Eastern Boundary, so long a bone of contention between us and Great Britain, is settled to the satisfaction of both parties concerned. This was accomplished by Daniel Webster on the part of America, and by Lord Ashburton on the part of England.

Jan. 1, 1843. Sabbath. A happy New Year to all who may cast a glance upon this page. What time this world is to be burned by fire we do not certainly know. We are told that 1843 will wind up its concerns. Many are spending their whole time in what they call a preparation to meet the Saviour, expecting to see him descend from Heaven in a cloud, with the voice of an Archangel and with the trump of God.

Dec. 31, 1843. Sabbath. It is six o'clock in the evening. Have just returned from the poorhouse, where I preached. Spoke of the shortness of human life; a kind of funeral discourse, a corpse being present, a woman who died suddenly, Mrs. Blake, aged sixty-six. It was a solemn occasion.

Jan. 1, 1844. Monday. A happy New Year to everybody.

Oct. 11, 1844. Friday. A fine day. The political excitement increases, all eyes and ears are open. What news! Who do you think will be President. Clay, I hope; and he will be, if the Whigs do their duty. Millerism grows hotter and hotter. Yesterday was the time appointed for the advent and ascension, but it did not take place. It was put off till the 22d, which I understand is to be the day of all days, when the sea is to give up the dead which is in it, and death and hell are to give up the dead which are in them, and those who are alive, to be caught up to meet the Lord in the air.

Nov. 4, 1844. Monday. The election swallows up everything. A discouraging time for ministers. How hard to preach when their hearers are all inquiring, who has carried the day, Polk, or Clay? Sad state of things.

Nov. 14, 1844. Thursday. The political strife is over. I don't expect this election of Polk is going to alter the order of nature. The grass will still grow, the sun rise and set as usual. All is for the best.

Dec. 31, 1844. Tuesday. The year has been one of great excitement politically. Let it be remembered that Polk, the President elect, was not chosen by the American people, but by foreign paupers and criminals, sent to this country, instead of to Botany Bay, and made voters for the purpose of voting for Polk. O tempora, O mores!

Jan. 1, 1845. Wednesday. Happy New Year, wife, happy New Year, chil