I hold the same volume again in my hands, but twenty years have flown
since then, and I have seen much and learned much. I no longer believe
in headless human beings, and the old ghost story has no longer power to
move me. The house wherein I sit and read is situated on the Boulevard
Montmartre; the fiercest turmoil of the day breaks in tumultuous billows
around this spot, and loud and shrill are heard the voices of the modern
epoch. First, a burst of laughter; then a heavy rumbling; next, drums
beating quick time; and then, like a flash, the national guards dash by
in quick march; and every one speaks French. And is this the place to
read Uhland's poems? Thrice have I again declaimed the concluding lines
of the same poem, but I do not feel the keen, unspeakable pain that once
thrilled me when the little princess died, and the handsome shepherd lad
so pathetically calls to her, "Oh, welcome! welcome! princess fair!"