“‘Modesty’s the muse we worship, “‘And the drawers she wears are made of “‘Thickest leather--Ah, good madam, “‘Do not violate my virtue! “‘Other poets boast of genius, “‘Others fancy, others passion, “‘But the pride of Swabian poets “‘Is especially their virtue. “‘That’s the only wealth we boast of! “‘Do not rob me of the modest “‘And religious simple garment “‘Which my nakedness doth cover!’ “Thus I spoke, and yet the woman “Smiled ironically; smiling “She a switch of mistletoe “Took, and then my head touch’d with it. “Thereupon I felt a chilly “Strange sensation, like a goose-skin “Being o’er my members drawn; “Yet in truth a goose-skin ’twas not-- “On the contrary, a dog-skin “Was it rather; since that fearful “Moment have I been converted “As thou see’st me, to a pug-dog!” Poor young fellow! Through his sobbing Not a word more could he utter; And he wept with so much fervour, That in tears wellnigh dissolved he. “Listen now,” I said with pity: “Can I possibly relieve you “Of your dog-skin, and restore you “To humanity and verses?” But the other raised his paws up In the air disconsolately And despairingly; at length he Spake with sighing and with groaning: “Till the Judgment Day, alas! I “In this dog-skin must be prison’d, “If I’m freed not from enchantment “By a virgin’s self-devotion. “Yes, a pure unsullied virgin, “Who ne’er touch’d a human being, “And the following condition “Truly keeps, alone can free me. “This unsullied virgin must, “In the night of Saint Sylvester, “Read Gustavus Pfizer’s[35] poems, “And not go to sleep one moment! “If she keeps awake while reading, “And her modest eye ne’er closes,-- “Then shall I be disenchanted, “Be a man,--yes, be undogg’d!” “In that case, good friend,” replied I, “I at any rate can never “Undertake to disenchant you, “For I’m no unsullied virgin; “And still less should I be able “To fulfil the task of reading “All Gustavus Pfizer’s poems, “And not fall asleep instanter!” CAPUT XXIII. From the witch’s entertainment To the valley we descended, And our footsteps to the region Of the Positive return’d. Hence, ye spirits! Nightly spectres! Airy figures! Fev’rish visions! We find rational employment Once again with Atta Troll. In the cavern, by his young ones, Lies the old bear, soundly sleeping, With the snore of conscious virtue, And at length he wakes with gaping. Near him squats young Master One-ear And his head he’s gently scratching. Like a bard whose rhyme is wanting, And upon his paws he’s scanning. Likewise by their father’s side On their backs are dreaming lying Innocent four-footed lilies, Atta Troll’s belovèd daughters.