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Title: Zigzag Journeys in Northern Lands; - The Rhine to the Arctic; - A Summer Trip of the Zigzag Club Through Holland, Germany, Denmark, Norway, and Sweden
Author: Butterworth, Hezekiah, 1839-1905
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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                ZIGZAG JOURNEYS
                      IN
                NORTHERN LANDS.

           THE RHINE TO THE ARCTIC.

  _A SUMMER TRIP OF THE ZIGZAG CLUB THROUGH
      HOLLAND, GERMANY, DENMARK, NORWAY,
                 AND SWEDEN._


                      BY

             HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH,

  AUTHOR OF "YOUNG FOLKS' HISTORY OF AMERICA,"
       "YOUNG FOLKS' HISTORY OF BOSTON,"
       "ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN EUROPE," ETC.


             _FULLY ILLUSTRATED._


                   BOSTON:
              ESTES AND LAURIAT,
          301-305 WASHINGTON STREET.
                    1884.



  _Copyright, 1883_,
  BY ESTES AND LAURIAT.



  THE ZIGZAG SERIES.

  BY

  HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH,

  OF THE EDITORIAL STAFF OF THE "YOUTH'S COMPANION,"
  AND CONTRIBUTOR TO "ST. NICHOLAS" MAGAZINE.


  _Each volume complete in itself._


  NOW PUBLISHED.

    _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN EUROPE._
    _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN CLASSIC LANDS._
    _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE ORIENT._
    _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE OCCIDENT._


  New Volume for 1883.

  _ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN NORTHERN LANDS._


  --> _Over 100,000 volumes of the Zigzag books have
  already been sold._



    [Illustration: CARRYING SIEGFRIED'S BODY.]



PREFACE.


This fifth volume of the Zigzag books, in which history is taught by a
supposed tour of interesting places, might be called a German
story-book.

It was the aim of "ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN EUROPE" and "ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN
CLASSIC LANDS" to make history interesting by stories and pictures of
places. It was the purpose of "ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE ORIENT" to
explain the Eastern Question, and of "ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN THE OCCIDENT"
to explain Homesteading in the West.

The purpose of this volume is the same as in "EUROPE" and "CLASSIC
LANDS." A light narrative of travel takes the reader to the places
most conspicuously associated with German history, tradition,
literature, and art, and in a disconnected way gives a view of the
most interesting events of those Northern countries that once
constituted a great part of the empire of Charlemagne.

It is the aim of these books to stimulate a love of history, and to
_suggest_ the best historical reading. To this end popular stories and
pictures are freely used to adapt useful information to the tastes of
the young. But in every page, story, and picture, right education and
right influence are kept in view.

In this volume many German legends and fairy stories have been used,
but they are so introduced and guarded as not to leave a wrong
impression upon the minds of the young and immature.

                                                            H. B.



CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER                                               PAGE

       I. THE RIVER OF STORY AND SONG                     15

      II. GHOST STORIES                                   21

     III. A STORY-TELLING JOURNEY                         40

      IV. GERMAN STORIES                                  60

       V. THE SECOND MEETING OF THE CLUB                  76

      VI. NIGHT SECOND                                    92

     VII. EVENING THE THIRD                              104

    VIII. EVENING THE FOURTH                             122

      IX. FIFTH MEETING FOR RHINE STORIES                145

       X. NIGHT THE SIXTH                                165

      XI. COLOGNE                                        184

     XII. HAMBURG                                        206

    XIII. THE BELLS OF THE RHINE                         221

     XIV. THE SONGS OF THE RHINE                         253

      XV. COPENHAGEN                                     277

     XVI. NORWAY                                         288

    XVII. THE GREATER RHINE                              309



ILLUSTRATIONS.


                                                        PAGE

    Carrying Siegfried's Body                _Frontispiece._

    Introducing Christianity into the North               16

    Castle in Rhine Land                                  17

    Tower of Rüdesheim on the Rhine                       19

    Mountain Scenery in Southern Germany                  23

    "I've seen de Debble"                                 26

    Cat and Rat                                           27

    Grandmother Golden                                    29

    The Frightened Irishman                               30

    Duncan Asleep                                         34

    Witches                                               35

    The Grand-Ducal Castle, Schwerin                      41

    Ancient German Houses                                 43

    Ancient Religious Rites of the Peasants               45

    Old Fortress on the Rhine                             50

    St. Dunstan and the Devil                             53

    The Murder of Edward                                  58

    The Emperor William and Napoleon III                  63

    William before his Father                             64

    King William's Helmet                                 65

    Jamie at the Strange-looking House                    67

    Mountain Scene in Germany                             69

    Jamie rushing towards his Mother                      71

    The Dwarf and the Goose                               72

    Eberhard                                              74

    Bridge in the Via Mala                                77

    John Huss                                             79

    Bismarck                                              81

    Peter in the Forest                                   86

    Peter and the Manikin                                 88

    Peter surpassed the King of Dancers                   89

    Peter and the Giant                                   90

    A Village in the Black Forest                         93

    Peasant's House in the Black Forest                   95

    Von Moltke                                            97

    Fountain at Schaffhausen                              99

    The Old Woman's Directions                           101

    The Hen and the Trench                               102

    Strasburg Cathedral                                  103

    Platform of Strasburg Cathedral                      107

    Thus didst thou to the Vase of Soissons              109

    Street in Strasburg                                  111

    Clovis                                               113

    Monsieur Lacombe and the Organ                       115

    "Here is an Odd Treasure"                            120

    Palace at Heidelberg                                 123

    German Student                                       126

    Castle at Heidelberg                                 127

    German Students                                      131

    Entrance to Heidelberg Castle                        135

    Little Mook                                          137

    Amputation                                           139

    The Queer Old Lady who went to College               140

    "And it told to her the Truth"                       141

    "Not very, very plain"                               141

    "They you straightway in invite"                     141

    "He of the Philosophie"                              143

    A Battle between Franks and Saxons                   146

    Luther's House                                       147

    A tribe of Germans on an Expedition                  149

    The Murder of Siegfried                              151

    Mayence                                              153

    Bishop Hatto and the Rats                            155

    View on the Rhine                                    158

    The Lorelei                                          159

    Herman's Eyes were fixed on the Rock                 163

    Ehrenbreitstein                                      166

    Goethe's Promenade                                   167

    Faust Signing                                        171

    Faust and Mephistopheles                             172

    A Cleft in the Mountains                             175

    Voltaire                                             179

    The Unnerved Hussar                                  182

    Cathedral of Cologne                                 185

    The Mysterious Architect                             189

    St. Martin's Church, Cologne                         193

    Charlemagne in the School of the Palace              197

    Charlemagne inflicting Baptism upon the Saxons       201

    The Germans on an Expedition                         203

    Canal in Hamburg                                     207

    The Palace in Berlin                                 209

    Grotto                                               211

    Sans-Souci                                           213

    Peter the Wild Boy                                   217

    The Silent Castles                                   223

    Hotel de Ville, Ghent                                225

    Bell-Tower, Ghent                                    228

    Castle at Heidelberg                                 229

    Breslau                                              233

    Finishing the Bell                                   236

    At the Inn                                           237

    The Day of Execution                                 238

    Above the Town                                       241

    Old Peasant Costume                                  244

    The Old City                                         245

    Old Peasant Costume                                  247

    Old Peasant Costumes                                 248

    City Gate                                            249

    The Neckar                                           250

    An Old German Town                                   255

    The Rhinefels                                        257

    Mayence in the Olden Time                            262

    Beethoven's Home at Bonn                             268

    A City of the Rhine                                  271

    The River of Song                                    274

    The Palace of Rosenborg                              278

    View of Copenhagen                                   279

    Palace of Fredericksborg                             283

    The King in the Bag                                  286

    Gustavus Adolphus                                    289

    Death of Gustavus and his Page                       293

    Cascade in Norway                                    297

    Lazaretto                                            299

    The Naero Fiord                                      300

    Lake in Norway                                       303

    The Coast                                            307

    Niagara Falls                                        311

    A New England in the West                            315

    Near Quebec                                          317



ZIGZAG JOURNEYS IN NORTHERN LANDS.



CHAPTER I.

THE RIVER OF STORY AND SONG.


The Rhine! River of what histories, tragedies, comedies, legends,
stories, and songs! Associated with the greatest events of the history
of Germany, France, and Northern Europe; with the Rome of Cæsar and
Aurelian; with the Rome of the Popes; with the Reformation; with the
shadowy goblin lore and beautiful fairy tales of the twilight of
Celtic civilization that have been evolved through centuries and have
become the household stories of all enlightened lands!

A journey down the Rhine is like passing through wonderland; wild
stories, quaint stories, legendary and historic stories, are
associated with every rood of ground from the Alps to the ocean. It is
a region of the stories of two thousand years. The Rhine is the river
of the poet; its banks are the battle-fields of heroes; its forests
and villages the fairy lands of old.

When Rome was queen of the world, Cæsar carried his eagles over the
Rhine; Titus sent a part of his army which had conquered Jerusalem to
the Rhine; Julian erected a fortress on the Rhine; and Valentinian
began the castle-building that was to go on for a thousand years.

The period of the Goths, Huns, Celts, and Vandals came,--the conquerors
of Rome; and the Rhine was strewn with Roman ruins. Charlemagne cleared
away the ruins, and began anew the castle-building. A Christian soldier
in one of the legions that destroyed Jerusalem and tore down the temple,
first brought the Gospel to the Rhine. His name was Crescaitius. He was
soon followed by missionaries of the Cross. Christianity was established
upon the Rhine soon after it entered Rome.

    [Illustration: INTRODUCING CHRISTIANITY INTO THE NORTH.]

The great conquests of modern history are directly or indirectly
associated with the wonderful river; Cæsar, who conquered the world,
crossed the Rhine; Attila, who conquered the city of the Cæsars;
Clovis, who founded the Christian religion in France; and Charlemagne,
who established the Christian church in Germany. Frederick
Barbarossa and Frederick the Great added lustre to its growing
history, and Napoleon gave a yet deeper coloring to its thrilling
scenes.

    [Illustration: CASTLE IN RHINE LAND.]

When the Northern nations shattered the Roman power, people imagined
that the dismantled castles of the Rhine became the abodes of
mysterious beings: spirits of the rocks, forests, fens; strange
maidens of the red marshes; enchanters, demons; the streams were the
abodes of lovely water nymphs; the glens of the woods, of delightful
fairies.

    [Illustration: TOWER OF RÜDESHEIM ON THE RHINE.]

Into these regions of shadow, mystery, of heroic history, of moral
conflicts and Christian triumphs, it is always interesting to go. It
is especially interesting to the American traveller, for his form of
Christianity and republican principles came from the Rhine. Progress
to him was cradled on the Rhine, like Moses on the Nile. In the Rhine
lands Luther taught, and Robinson of Leyden lived and prayed; and from
those lands to-day comes the great emigration that is peopling the
golden empire of America in the West. "I would be proud of the Rhine
were I a German," said Longfellow. "I love rivers," said Victor Hugo;
"of all rivers I prefer the Rhine."

It is our purpose in this story-telling volume to relate why the
Zigzag Club was led to make the Rhine the subject of its winter
evening study, and to give an account of an excursion that some of its
members had made from Constance to Rotterdam and into the countries of
the North Sea.

    "All hail, thou broad torrent, so golden and green,
    Ye castles and churches, ye hamlets serene,
    Ye cornfields, that wave in the breeze as it sweeps,
    Ye forests and ravines, ye towering steeps,
    Ye mountains e'er clad in the sun-illumed vine!
    Wherever I go is my heart on the Rhine!

    "I greet thee, O life, with a yearning so strong,
    In the maze of the dance, o'er the goblet and song.
    All hail, beloved race, men so honest and true,
    And maids who speak raptures with eyes of bright blue!
    May success round your brows e'er its garlands entwine!
    Wherever I go is my heart on the Rhine!

    "On the Rhine is my heart, where affection holds sway!
    On the Rhine is my heart, where encradled I lay,
    Where around me friends bloom, where I dreamt away youth,
    Where the heart of my love glows with rapture and truth!
    May for me your hearts e'er the same jewels enshrine.
    Wherever I go is my heart on the Rhine!"

                    WOLFGANG MÜLLER.



CHAPTER II.

GHOST STORIES.

  THE ZIGZAG CLUB AGAIN.--SOME "GHOST" STORIES.


The Academy had opened again. September again colored the leaves of
the old elms of Yule. The Blue Hills, as lovely as when the Northmen
beheld them nearly nine hundred years ago, were radiant with the
autumn tinges of foliage and sky, changing from turquoise to sapphire
in the intense twilight, and to purple as the shades of evening fell.

The boys were back again, all except the graduating class, some of
whom were at Harvard, Brown, and Yale. Master Lewis was in his old
place, and Mr. Beal was again his assistant.

The Zigzag Club was broken by the final departure of the graduating
class. But Charlie Leland, William Clifton, and Herman Reed, who made
a journey on the Rhine under the direction of Mr. Beal, had returned,
and they had been active members of the school society known as the
Club.

We should say here, to make the narrative clear to those who have not
read "Zigzag Journeys in Classic Lands" and "Zigzag Journeys in the
Orient," that the boys of the Academy of Yule had been accustomed each
year to form a society for the study of the history, geography,
legends, and household stories of some chosen country, and during the
long summer vacation as many of the society as could do so, visited,
under the direction of their teachers, the lands about which they had
studied. This society was called the Zigzag Club, because it aimed to
visit historic places without regard to direct routes of travel. It
zigzagged in its travels from the associations of one historic story
to another, and was influenced by the school text-book or the works of
some pleasing author, rather than the guide-book.

The Zigzag books have been kindly received;[1] and we may here remark
parenthetically that they do not aim so much to present narratives of
travel as the histories, traditions, romances, and stories of places.
They seek to tell stories at the places where the events occurred and
amid the associations of the events that still remain. The Zigzag Club
go seeking what is old rather than what is new, and thus change the
past tense of history to the present tense.

    [1] More than one hundred thousand volumes have been sold.

Charlie Leland was seated one day on the piazza of the Academy, after
school, reading Hawthorne's "Twice-Told Tales." Master Lewis presently
took a seat beside him; and "Gentleman Jo," whom we introduced to our
readers in "Zigzags in the Occident," was resting on the steps near
them.

Gentleman Jo was the janitor. He was a relative of Master Lewis, and a
very intelligent man. He had been somewhat disabled in military
service in the West, and was thus compelled to accept a situation at
Yule that was quite below his intelligence and personal worth. The
boys loved and respected him, sought his advice often, and sometimes
invited him to meetings of their Society.

"Have you called together the Club yet?" asked Master Lewis of
Charlie, when the latter had ceased reading.

"We had an informal meeting in my room last evening."

"What is your plan of study?"

    [Illustration: MOUNTAIN SCENERY IN SOUTHERN GERMANY.]

"We have none as yet," said Charlie. "We are to have a meeting next
week for the election of officers, and for literary exercises we
have agreed to relate historic _ghost stories_. We asked Tommy Toby
to be present, and he promised to give us for the occasion his version
of 'St. Dunstan and the Devil and the Six Boy Kings.' I hardly know
what the story is about, but the title sounds interesting."

"What made you choose ghost stories?" asked Master Lewis, curiously.

"You gave us Irving and Hawthorne to read in connection with our
lessons on American literature. 'Rip Van Winkle,' 'Sleepy Hollow,' and
'Twice-Told Tales' turned our thoughts to popular superstitions; and,
as they made me chairman, I thought it an interesting subject just now
to present to the Club."

"More interesting than profitable, I am thinking. Still, the subject
might be made instructive and useful as well as amusing."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Did you ever see a ghost?" asked Charlie of Gentleman Jo, after
Master Lewis left them.

"We thought we had one in our house, when I was living with my sister
in Hingham, before the war. Hingham used to be famous for its ghost
stories; an old house without its ghost was thought to lack historic
tone and finish."

Gentleman Jo took a story-telling attitude, and a number of the pupils
gathered around him.


  GENTLEMAN JO'S GHOST STORY.

  I shall never forget the scene of excitement, when one morning
  Biddy, our domestic, entered the sitting-room, her head bobbing, her
  hair flying, and her cap perched upon the top of her head, and
  exclaimed: "Wurrah! I have seen a ghoust, and it's lave the hoose I
  must. Sich a night! I'd niver pass anither the like of it for the
  gift o' the hoose. Bad kick to ye, an' the hoose is haunted for
  sure."

  "Why, Biddy, what have you seen?" asked my sister, in alarm.

  "Seen? An' sure I didn't see nothin'. I jist shet me eyes and hid
  mesilf under the piller. But it was awful. An' the way it clanked
  its chain! O murther!"

  This last remark was rather startling. Spirits that clank their
  chains have a very unenviable reputation.

  "Pooh!" said my uncle. "What you heard was nothing but rats." Then,
  turning to me, he asked: "Where is the steel trap?"

  "Stolen, I think," said I. "I set it day before yesterday, and when
  I went to look to it it was gone."

  "An' will ye be givin' me the wages?" said Biddy, "afore I bid ye
  good-marnin'?"

  "Going?" asked my sister, in astonishment.

  "An' sure I am," answered Biddy. "Ye don't think I'd be afther
  stayin' in a house that's haunted, do ye?"

  In a few minutes I heard the front door bang, and, looking out, saw
  our late domestic, with a budget on each arm, trudging off as though
  her ideas were of a very lively character.

  A colored woman, recently from the South, took Biddy's place that
  very day, and was assigned the same room in which the latter had
  slept.

  We had invited company for that evening, and some of the guests
  remained to a very late hour.

  The sound of voices subsided as one after another departed, and we
  were left quietly chatting with the few who remained. Suddenly there
  was a mysterious movement at one of the back parlor doors, and we
  saw two white eyes casting furtive glances into the room.

  "What's wanted?" demanded my sister, of the object at the door.

    [Illustration: "I'VE SEEN DE DEBBLE."]

  Our new domestic appeared in her night clothes.

  "O missus, I've seen de debble, I done have," was her first
  exclamation.

  This, certainly, was not a sight that we should wish any one to see
  in our house, as desirable as a dignified spectre might have been.

  "Pooh!" said my sister. "What a silly creature! Go back to bed and
  to sleep, and do not shame us by appearing before company in your
  night clothes."

  "I don't keer nothing about my night clothes," she replied, with
  spirit. "Jes' go to de room and git de things dat belong to me, an'
  I'll leave, and never disturb you nor dis house any more. It's
  dreadful enough to be visited by dead folks, any way, but when de
  spirits comes rattling a chain it's a dreadful bad sign, you may be
  sure."

  "What did you see?" asked I.

  "See? I didn't see nothin'. 'Twas bad enough to hear it. I wouldn't
  hav' seen it for de world. I'll go quick--jest as soon as you gets
  de things."

  We made her a bed on a lounge below stairs. The next morning she
  took her bundles and made a speedy exit.

  We had a maiden aunt who obtained a livelihood by visiting her
  relations. On the morning when our last domestic left she arrived,
  bag and baggage, greatly to our annoyance. We said nothing about the
  disturbances to her, but agreed among ourselves that she should
  sleep in the haunted chamber.

  That night, about twelve o'clock, the household were awakened by a
  piercing scream above stairs. All was silent for a few minutes, when
  the house echoed with the startling cry of "Murder! Mur_der_!
  MurDER!" The accent was very strong on the last syllable in the last
  two words, as though the particular force of the exclamation was
  therein contained.

  I hurried to the chamber and asked at the door what was the matter.

  "I have seen an apparatus," exclaimed my aunt. "Mur_der_! Oh, wait a
  minute. I'm a dead woman."

    [Illustration: CAT AND RAT.]

  She unlocked the door in a delirious way and descended to the
  sitting-room, where she sat sobbing for a long time, declaring that
  she was a dead woman. _She_ had heard his chain rattle.

  And the next morning she likewise left.

  We now felt uneasy ourselves, and wondered what marvel the following
  night would produce. I examined the room carefully during the day,
  but could discover no traces of anything unusual.

  That night we were again awakened by noises that proceeded from the
  same room. They seemed like the footfalls of a person whose feet
  were clad in iron. Then followed sounds like a scuffle.

  I rose, and, taking a light, went to the chamber with shaky knees
  and a palpitating heart. I listened before the door. Presently there
  was a movement in the room as of some one dragging a chain. My
  courage began to ebb. I was half resolved to retreat at once, and on
  the morrow advise the family to quit the premises.

  But my better judgment at last prevailed, and, opening the door with
  a nervous hand, I saw an "apparatus" indeed.

  Our old cat, that I had left accidentally in the room, had in her
  claws a large rat, to whose leg was attached the missing trap, and
  to the trap a short chain.

"I knew the story would end in that way," said Charlie. "But that is
not a true colonial ghost story, if it did happen in old Hingham."

The sun was going down beyond the Waltham Hills. The shadows of the
maples were lengthening upon the lawns, and the chirp of the crickets
was heard in the old walls. Charlie seemed quite dissatisfied with
Gentleman Jo's story. The latter noticed it.

"My story does not please you?" said Gentleman Jo.

"No; I am in a different mood to-night."

Master Lewis smiled.

Just then a quiet old lady, who had charge of a part of the rooms in
the Academy, appeared, a bunch of keys jingling by her side, much like
the wife of a porter of a lodge in an English castle.

"Grandmother Golden," said Charlie,--the boys were accustomed to
address the chatty, familiar old lady in this way,--"you have seen
ghosts, haven't you? What is the most startling thing that ever
happened in your life?"

Grandmother Golden had seated herself in one of the easy piazza
chairs. After a few minutes she was induced to follow Gentleman Jo in
an old-time story.


  GRANDMOTHER GOLDEN'S ONLY GHOST STORY.

  The custom in old times, when a person died, was for some one to sit
  in the room and watch with the dead body in the night, as long as it
  remained in the house. A good, pious custom it was, in my way of
  thinking, though it is not common now.

  Jemmy Robbin was a poor old man. They used to call him "Auld Robin
  Gray," after the song, and he lived and died alone. His sister
  Dorothea--Dorothy she was commonly called--took charge of the house
  after his death, and she sent for Grandfather Golden to watch one
  night with the corpse.

  We were just married, grandfather and I, and he wanted I should
  watch with him, for company; and as I could not bear that he should
  be out of my sight a minute when I could help it, I consented. I was
  young and foolish then, and very fond of grandfather,--we were in
  our honeymoon, you know.

  We didn't go to the house at a very early hour of the evening; it
  wasn't customary for the watchers to go until it was nearly time for
  the family to retire.

    [Illustration: GRANDMOTHER GOLDEN.]

  In the course of the evening there came to the house a traveller,--a
  poor Irishman,--an old man, evidently honest, but rather simple, who
  asked Dorothy for a lodging.

  He said he had travelled far, was hungry, weary, and footsore, and
  if turned away, knew not where he could go.

  It was a stormy night, and the good heart of Dorothy was touched at
  the story of the stranger, so she told him that he might stay.

  After he had warmed himself and eaten the food she prepared for him,
  she asked him to retire, saying that she expected company. Instead
  of going with him to show where he was to sleep, as she ought to
  have done, she directed him to his room, furnished him with a light,
  and bade him good-night.

  The Irishman, as I have said, was an old man and not very
  clear-headed. Forgetting his directions, and mistaking the room, he
  entered the chamber where lay the body of poor Jemmy Robbin. In
  closing the door the light was blown out. He found there was what
  seemed to be some other person in the bed, and, supposing him a live
  bedfellow, quietly lay down, covered himself with a counterpane, and
  soon fell asleep.

  About ten o'clock grandfather and I entered the room. We just
  glanced at the bed. What seemed to be the corpse lay there, as it
  should. Then grandfather sat down in an easy-chair, and I, like a
  silly hussy, sat down in his lap.

  We were having a nice time, talking about what we would do and how
  happy we should be when we went to housekeeping, when, all at once,
  I heard a snore. It came from the bed.

  "What's that?" said I.

  "That?" said grandfather. "Mercy! that was Jemmy Robbin."

  We listened nervously, but heard nothing more, and at last concluded
  that it was the wind that had startled us. I gave grandfather a
  generous kiss, and it calmed his agitation wonderfully.

  We grew cheerful, laughed at our fright, and were chatting away
  again as briskly as before, when there was a noise in bed. We were
  silent in a moment. The counterpane certainly moved. Grandfather's
  eyes almost started from his head. The next instant there was a
  violent sneeze.

  I jumped as if shot. Grandfather seemed petrified. He attempted to
  ejaculate something, but was scared by the sound of his own voice.

  "Mercy!" says I.

  "What was it?" said grandfather.

  "Let's go and call Dorothy," said I.

  "She would be frightened out of her senses."

  "I shall die with fright if I hear anything more," I said, half dead
  already with fear.

  Just then a figure started up in the bed.

  "And wha--and wha--and wha--" mumbled the object, gesticulating.

  I sprang for the door, grandfather after me, and, reaching the
  bottom of the stairs at one bound, gave vent to my terrors by a
  scream, that, for aught I know, could have been heard a mile
  distant.

  Both of us ran for Dorothy's room. There was a sound of feet and a
  loud ejaculation of "Holy Peter! The man is dead!"

  "It's comin'," shouted grandfather, and, sure enough, there were
  footsteps on the stairs.

  "Dorothy! Dorothy!" I screamed. Dorothy, startled from her sleep,
  came rushing to the entry in her night-dress.

    [Illustration: THE FRIGHTENED IRISHMAN.]

  "I have seen a ghost, Dorothy," said I.

  "A what?"

  "I have seen the awfullest--"

  "It's comin'," said grandfather.

  "Holy Peter!" said an object in the darkness. "There's a dead man in
  the bed!"

  "Why, it's that Irishman," said Dorothy, as she heard the voice.

  "What Irishman?" asked I. "A murdered one?"

  "No; he--there--I suspect that he mistook his room and went to bed
  with poor Jemmy."

  The mystery now became quite clear. Grandfather looked anything but
  pleased, and declared that he would rather have seen a ghost than to
  have been so foolishly frightened.

"Is that all?" asked Charlie.

"That is all," said Grandmother Golden. "Just hear the crickets chirp.
Sounds dreadful mournful."

"I have been twice disappointed," said Charlie. "Perhaps, Master
Lewis, you can tell us a story before we go in. Something fine and
historic."

"In harmony with books you are reading?"

"And the spirit of Nature," added Charlie.

"How fine that there boy talks," said Grandmother Golden. "Get to be a
minister some day, I reckon."

"How would the _True_ Story of Macbeth answer?" asked Master Lewis.

"That would be excellent: Shakspeare. The greatest ghost story ever
written."

"And if you don't mind, I'll just wait and hear that story, too," said
good-humored Grandmother Golden.


  MASTER LEWIS'S STORY OF MACBETH.

  More than eight hundred years ago, when the Roman wall divided
  England from Scotland, when the Scots and Picts had become one
  people, and when the countries of Northern Europe were disquieted by
  the ships of the Danes, there was a king of the Scots, named Duncan.
  He was a very old man, and long, long after he was dead, certain
  writers discovered that he was a very good man. He had two sons,
  named Malcolm and Donaldbain.

  Now, when Duncan was enfeebled by years, a great fleet of Danes,
  under the command of Suene, King of Denmark and Norway, landed an
  army on the Scottish coast. Duncan was unable to take the field
  against the invaders in person, and his sons were too young for such
  a trust. He had a kinsman, who had proved himself a brave soldier,
  named Macbeth. He placed this kinsman at the head of his troops; and
  certain writers, long, long after the event, discovered that this
  kinsman appointed a relation of his own, named Banquo, to assist
  him. Macbeth and Banquo defeated the Danes in a hard-fought battle,
  and then set out for a town called Forres to rest and to make merry
  over their victory.

  A thane was the governor of a province. The father of Macbeth was
  the thane of Glamis.

  There lived at Forres three old women, whom the people believed to
  be witches. When these old women heard that Macbeth was coming to
  the place they went out to meet him, and awaited his coming on a
  great heath. The first old woman saluted him on his approach with
  these words: "All hail, Macbeth--hail to thee, thane of Glamis!"

  And the second: "All hail, Macbeth--hail to thee, thane of Cawdor!"

  And the third: "All hail, Macbeth--thou shalt be king of Scotland!"

  Macbeth was very much astonished at these salutations; he expected
  to become thane of Glamis some day, and he aspired to be king of
  Scotland, but he had never anticipated such a disclosure of his
  destiny as this. The old women told Banquo that he would become the
  father of kings, and then they vanished, according to Shakspeare,
  "into the air."

  Macbeth and Banquo rode on very much elevated in spirits, when one
  met them who informed them that the thane of Glamis was dead. The
  melancholy event was not unwelcome to Macbeth; his spirits rose to a
  still higher pitch; one thing that the old women had foretold had
  speedily come to pass,--he was indeed thane of Glamis.

  As Macbeth drew near the town, a glittering court party came out to
  welcome the army. They hailed Macbeth as thane of Cawdor. He was
  much surprised at this, and asked the meaning. They told him that
  the thane of Cawdor had rebelled, and that the king had bestowed the
  province upon him. Macbeth was immensely delighted at this
  intelligence, feeling quite sure that the rest of the prophecy would
  come to pass, and that he would one day wear the diadem.

  Now the wife of Macbeth was a very wicked woman, and the prophecy of
  the witches quite turned her head, so that she could think of
  nothing but becoming queen. She was much concerned lest the nature
  of her husband should prove "too full of the milk of human kindness"
  to come to the "golden round." So she decided that should an
  opportunity offer itself for an interview with the king, she would
  somewhat assist in the fulfilment of the last prophecy.

  Then Macbeth made a great feast in the grand old castle of
  Inverness, and invited the king. Lady Macbeth thought this a golden
  opportunity for accomplishing the decrees of destiny, and when the
  old king arrived she told Macbeth that the time had come for him to
  strike boldly for the crown. As Shakspeare says:--

    "_Macbeth._ My dearest love, Duncan comes here to-night.

    _Lady M._ And when goes hence?

    _Macbeth._ To-morrow.

    _Lady M._ O never shall sun that morrow see."

  When this dreadful woman had laid her plot for the taking off of
  Duncan, she went to the banquet-hall and greeted the royal guest
  with a face all radiant with smiles, and called him sweet names, and
  told him fine stories, and brimmed his goblet with wine, so that he
  thought, we doubt not, that she was the most charming creature in
  all the world.

  It was a stormy night, that of the banquet; it rained, it
  thundered, and the wind made dreadful noises in the forests, which
  events, we have noticed in the stories of the old writers, were apt
  to occur in early times when something was about to happen. We are
  also informed that the owls hooted, which seems probable, as owls
  were quite plenty in those days.

  Duncan was conducted to a chamber, which had been prepared for him
  in great state, when the feast was done. Before retiring he sent to
  "his most kind hostess" a large diamond as a present; he then fell
  asleep "in measureless content."

  When all was still in the castle Lady Macbeth told her husband that
  the hour for the deed had come. He hesitated, and reminded her of
  the consequences if he should fail. She taunted him as being a
  coward, and told him to "screw his courage up to the sticking-place,
  and he would not fail." Then he took his dagger, and, according to
  Shakspeare, made a long speech over it, a speech which, I am sorry
  to say, stage-struck boys and girls have been mouthing in a most
  unearthly manner ever since the days of Queen Bess.

    [Illustration: DUNCAN ASLEEP.]

  Macbeth "screwed his courage up to the sticking-place" indeed, and
  then and there was the end of the life of Duncan. When the deed was
  done, he put his poniard into the hand of a sentinel, who was
  sleeping in the king's room, under the influence of wine that Lady
  Macbeth had drugged.

    [Illustration: WITCHES.]

  When the meal was prepared on the following morning, Macbeth and his
  lady pretended to be much surprised that the old king did not get
  up. Macduff, the thane of Fife, who was one of the royal party,
  decided at last to go to the king's apartment to see if the king was
  well. He returned speedily in great excitement, as one may well
  suppose. As Shakspeare continues the interesting narrative:--

    "_Macduff._ O horror! horror! horror!

    _Macbeth._ What's the matter?

    _Macd._ Confusion now hath made his masterpiece. Most sacrilegious
    murder hath broke ope the Lord's anointed temple and stole thence
    the life o' the building.

    _Macb._ What is 't you say? the life?"

  Macbeth appeared to be greatly shocked by the event, and, with a
  great show of fury and many hot words, he despatched the sentinels
  of the king, whom he feigned to believe had done the deed. Lady
  Macbeth fell upon the floor, pretending, of all things in the world
  for a woman of such mettle, to faint.

  So Macbeth came to the throne. But he remembered that the weird
  women had foretold that Banquo should become the father of kings,
  which made him fear for the stability of his throne. He thought to
  correct the tables of destiny somewhat, and so he induced two
  desperate men to do by Banquo as he had done by Duncan. The spirit
  of Banquo was not quiet like Duncan's, but haunted him, and twice
  appeared to him at a great feast that he gave to the thanes.

  Now Banquo had a son named Fleance, whom the murderers were
  instructed to kill, but who, on the death of his father, eluded his
  enemies and fled to France. The story-writers say that the line of
  Stuart was descended from this son.

  Macbeth, like all wicked people who accomplish their ends, was very
  unhappy. He lived in continual fear lest some of his relations
  should do by him as he had done by Duncan and Banquo. He became so
  miserable at last that he decided to consult the witches who had
  foretold his elevation, to hear what they would say of the rest of
  his life.

  He found them in a dark cave, in the middle of which was a caldron
  boiling. The old women had put into the pot a toad, the toe of a
  frog, the wool of a bat, an adder's tongue, an owl's wing, and many
  other things, of which you will find the list in Shakspeare. Now and
  then they walked around the pot, repeating a very sensible ditty:--

    "Double, double, toil and trouble;
    Fire, burn; and, caldron, bubble."

  They at last called up an apparition, who said that Macbeth should
  never be overcome by his enemies until Birnam wood should come to
  the castle of Dunsinane, the royal residence, to attack it.

    "Macbeth shall never vanquished be until
    Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill
        Shall come against him."

  Now, Birnam wood was twelve miles from Dunsinane (pronounced
  Dunsnan), and Macbeth thought that the language was a mystical way
  of saying that he always would be exempt from danger.

  Malcolm, the son of Duncan, the rightful heir to the throne, was a
  man of spirit, and he went to England to solicit aid of the good
  King Edward the Confessor against Macbeth. Macduff, having
  quarrelled with the king, joined Malcolm, and the English king,
  thinking favorably of their cause, sent a great army into Scotland
  to discrown Macbeth.

  When this army reached Birnam wood, on its way to Dunsinane, Macduff
  ordered the men each to take the bough of a tree, and to hold it
  before him as he marched to the attack, that Macbeth might not be
  able to discover the number and the strength of the assailants. Thus
  Birnam wood came against Dunsinane. When Macbeth saw the sight his
  courage failed him, and he saw that his hour had come. A battle
  ensued, in which he was conquered and killed.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Such is the story, and it seems a pity to spoil so good a story; but
  I fear that Shakspeare made his wonderful plot of much the same
  "stuff that dreams are made of."

  Duncan was a grandson of Malcolm II. on his father's side, and
  Macbeth was a grandson of the same king, though on the side of his
  mother. On the death of Malcolm, in 1033, each claimed the throne.
  Macbeth, according to rule of Scottish succession, had the best
  claim, but Duncan obtained the power. Macbeth was naturally
  dissatisfied, and the insolence of Malcolm, the son of Duncan, who
  placed himself at the head of an intriguing party in Northumberland,
  changed his dissatisfaction to resentment, and he slew the king. He
  once had a dream, which he deemed remarkable, in which three old
  women met him and hailed him as thane of Cromarty, thane of Moray,
  and finally as king. Upon this light basis genius has built one of
  the most powerful tales of superstition in the language.

  Duncan was slain near Elgin, and not in the castle of Inverness.
  Malcolm avenged his father's death, slaying Macbeth at a place
  called Lumphanan, and not at Dunsinane, as recorded in the play.

  And then Sir Walter Scott finds that "Banquo and his son Fleance"
  never had any real existence, which leaves no material out of which
  to construct a ghost.

"So there were no witches, after all?" said Charlie.

"No; no witches."

"No Banquo?"

"No Banquo."

"No ghost?"

"No ghost. Banquo never lived."

"Is that all?" asked Grandmother Golden.

"That is all."



CHAPTER III.

A STORY-TELLING JOURNEY.

  THE CLUB REORGANIZED.--THE RHINE AND THE LANDS OF THE BALTIC.--TOMMY
  TOBY'S STORY OF THE SIX BOY KINGS.


At the first formal meeting of the Club Charlie Leland was chosen
President. He was the intellectual leader among the boys, now that the
old Class had gone; he was a lad of good principles, bright, generous,
and popular. As may be judged from the somewhat discursive dialogue on
the piazza, he had a subject well matured in his mind for the literary
exercises of the Club.

"We all like stories," he said, "and the Rhine lands are regions of
stories, as are the countries of the Baltic Sea. The tales and
traditions of the Rhine would give us a large knowledge of German
history, and, in fact, of the great empire of Europe, over which
Charlemagne ruled, and which now is divided into the kingdoms of
Northern Europe. The stories of haunted castles, spectres, water
nymphs, sylvan deities, and fairies, if shapes of fancy, are full of
instruction, and I know of no subject so likely to prove intensely
interesting as the Rhine and the Baltic; and I would like to propose
it to the Club for consideration, although, owing to my position as
President, I do not make a formal motion that it be adopted."

    [Illustration: THE GRAND-DUCAL CASTLE, SCHWERIN.]

Charlie's picturesque allusion to the myths of the Rhine and the
Baltic seemed to act like magic on the minds of the Club; and a
formal motion that the Rhine and the Baltic be the subject of
future literary meetings was at once made, seconded, and unanimously
adopted.

    [Illustration: ANCIENT GERMAN HOUSES.]

Master Lewis had entered the room quietly while the business of the
Club was being thus happily and unanimously carried forward. The boys
had asked him to be present at the meeting, and to give them his
opinions of their plans.

"I think," he said, "that your choice of a subject for your literary
evenings is an excellent one, but I notice a tendency to place more
stress on the fine old fictions of Germany and the North than upon
actual history. These fictions for the most part grew out of the
disturbed consciences of bad men in ignorant and barbarous times. They
were shapes of the imagination."

He continued:--

"Let me prepare your minds a little for a proper estimate of these
alluring and entertaining stories."


  MASTER LEWIS ON POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

  The front of Northumberland House, England, used to be ornamented
  with the bronze statue of a lion, called Percy. A humorist, wishing
  to produce a sensation, placed himself in front of the building, one
  day, and, assuming an attitude of astonishment, exclaimed:--

  "It wags, it wags!"

  His eyes were riveted on the statue, to which the bystanders readily
  observed that the exclamation referred. Quite a number of persons
  collected, each one gazing on the bronze figure, expecting to see
  the phenomenon. Their imagination supplied the desired marvel, and
  presently a street full of people fancied that they could see the
  lion Percy wag his tail!

  An old distich runs something as follows:--

    "Who believe that there are witches, there the witches are;
    Who believe there aren't no witches, aren't no witches there."

  There is much more good sense than poetry in these lines. The
  marvels of superstition are witnessed chiefly by those who believe
  in them.

    [Illustration: ANCIENT RELIGIOUS RITES OF THE PEASANTS.]

  The sights held as supernatural are usually not more wonderful than
  those that arise from a disordered imagination. The spectres of
  demonology are not more fearful than those shapes of fancy produced
  by opium and dissipation; and the visions of the necromancer are
  not more wonderful than those that arise from a fever, or even from
  a troubled sleep.

  Yet it is a fact, and a very singular one, that, however at random
  the fancies of unhealthy intellects may appear on ordinary subjects,
  those fancies obtain a greater or less credit when they touch upon
  supernatural things. Instances of monomaniacs (persons insane on a
  single subject) who have imagined things quite as marvellous as the
  most superstitious, but whose illusions have been treated with the
  greatest ridicule, might be cited almost without limit.

  I once knew of an elderly lady, who thought that she was a goose.
  Making a nest in one corner of the room, she put in it a few kitchen
  utensils, which she supposed to be eggs, and began to incubate. She
  found the process of incubation, in her case, a very slow one; and
  her friends, fearing for her health, called in a doctor. He
  endeavored to reason with her, but she only replied to his
  philosophy by stretching out her neck, which she seemed to think was
  a remarkably long one, and hissing. The old lady had a set of
  gilt-band china cups and saucers, which, in her eyes, had been a
  sort of household gods. The knowledge of the fact coming to the ears
  of the physician, he advised her friends to break the precious
  treasures, one after another, before her eyes. The plan worked
  admirably. She immediately left her nest, and ran to the rescue of
  the china, and the excitement brought her back to her sense of the
  proprieties of womanhood.

  Another old lady, who also resided in a neighboring town, fancied
  she had become a veritable teapot. She used to silence those who
  attempted to reason with her by the luminous argument, "See, here
  (crooking one arm at her side) is the handle, and there (thrusting
  upward her other arm) is the spout!" What could be more convincing
  than that?

  Another lady, whose faculties had begun to decline, thought her toes
  were made of glass; and a comical figure she cut when she went
  abroad, picking up and putting down her feet with the greatest
  caution, lest she should injure her precious toes.

  Now these cases provoke a smile; but, had these ancient damsels
  fancied that they were bewitched, or that they were haunted, or that
  they held communion with the spirits of the invisible world, instead
  of exciting laughter and pity, they would have occasioned no small
  excitement among the simple-minded people of the neighborhood in
  which each resided.

  A young Scottish farmer, having been to a fair, was riding homeward
  on horseback one evening over a lonely road.

  He had been drinking rather freely at the fair, according to the
  custom, and his head was far from steady, and his conscience far
  from easy.

  It was moonlight, and he began to reflect what a dreadful thing it
  would be to meet a ghost. His fears caused him to look very
  carefully about him. As he was approaching the old church in
  Teviotdale, he saw a figure in white standing on the wall of the
  churchyard, by the highway.

  The sight gave him a start, but he continued his journey, hoping
  that it was his imagination that had invested some natural object
  with a ghostly shape. But the nearer he approached, the more
  ghostlike and mysterious did the figure appear.

  He stopped, hesitating what to do, and then concluded to ride
  slowly. There was no other way to his home than the one he was
  following. He knew well enough that his mind was somewhat unsettled
  by drinking, and what he saw might, after all, he thought, be
  nothing but an illusion. He would approach the object slowly and
  cautiously, and, when very near it, would put spurs to his horse and
  dash by.

  As he drew near, however, the figure showed unmistakable signs of
  life, gesticulating mysteriously, and uttering gibberish, that,
  although odd, sounded surprisingly human.

  It was a ghostly night: the dim moonlight filled the silent air, and
  the landscape was flecked with shadows; it was a ghostly
  place,--Teviotdale churchyard; and, in perfect keeping with the time
  and place, stood the figure, doing as a ghost is supposed to
  do,--talking gibberish to the moon.

  The young man's nerves were quite unstrung as he put spurs to his
  horse for a rush by the object of his fright. As he dashed past, his
  hair almost bristling with apprehension, the supposed phantom leaped
  upon the back of the horse and clasped the frightened man about his
  waist. His apprehensions were startling enough before, but now he
  was wrought to the highest pitch of terror.

  He drove his spurs into his horse, and the animal flew over the
  earth like a phantom steed. Such riding never before was seen in the
  winding road of Teviotdale.

  In a wonderfully short time the reeking animal stood trembling and
  panting before his master's gate. The young man called lustily for
  his servants, who, coming out, were commanded in frantic tones to
  "Tak aff the ghaist, tak aff the ghaist!" And "tak aff the ghaist"
  they did, which proved to be a young lady well known in Teviotdale
  for her unfortunate history.

  She had married an estimable young man, to whom she was very
  strongly attached, and the brightest worldly prospects seemed
  opening before her. Her husband was taken ill, and suddenly died.
  She had confided in him so fondly that the world lost its
  attractions for her on his decease, and she moodily dwelt upon her
  misfortune until she became deranged.

  Her husband was buried in Teviotdale churchyard, and she was in the
  habit of stealing away from her friends at night, to weep over his
  grave. These melancholy visits had the effect of giving a new
  impetus to her malady, making her for a time the victim of any fancy
  that chanced to enter her mind.

  On the night of our story she imagined that the young farmer was her
  husband, and awaited his approach with great exhilaration of
  spirits, determined to give him an affectionate greeting.

  The fright came near costing the young man his life. He was taken
  from his saddle to his bed, where he lay for weeks prostrated by a
  high nervous fever.

  An eminent writer, after relating the above authentic story,
  remarks:--

  "If this woman had dropped from the horse unobserved by the rider,
  it would have been very hard to convince the honest farmer that he
  had not actually performed a part of his journey with a ghost behind
  him."

  True. Teviotdale churchyard would have obtained the reputation of
  being haunted, and would have been a terror to weak-minded people
  for many years to come.

  The ignorant and simple are not alone subject to illusions of fancy.
  The great and learned Pascal, than whom France has produced no more
  worthy philosopher, believed that an awful chasm yawned by his side,
  into which he was in danger of being thrown. This dreadful vision,
  with other fancies as gloomy, cast a shadow over an eventful period
  of his life, and gave a dark coloring to certain of his writings.
  Yet Pascal, on most subjects, was uncommonly sound in judgment. How
  unfavorable might have been the influence, had his disorder assumed
  a different form, and placed before him the delusion of a ghost!

  Before giving credit to stories of supernatural events, even from
  sources that seem to be trustworthy, I hope my young friends will
  consider duly how liable to error are an unhealthy mind and an
  excited imagination. Every man is not a knave or a cheat who claims
  to have witnessed unnatural phenomena, but the judgment of very
  excellent persons is liable to be infected by illusions of the
  imagination.

  I do not say that we may not receive impressions from the spiritual
  world. As the geologist, the botanist, the chemist, sees things in
  nature that the unschooled and undeveloped do not see, so it may be
  that a spiritually educated mind may know more of the spiritual
  world than the gross and selfish mind. I will not enlarge upon this
  topic or discuss this question; it might not be proper for me so to
  do.

Master Lewis had aimed to make clear to the boys that it is easy to
start a superstitious story, and to suggest that such stories in
ignorant times became _legends_.

    [Illustration: OLD FORTRESS ON THE RHINE.]

"I propose," said Willie Clifton, "that the first seven meetings of
the Club be devoted to the Rhine."

"We might call this series of meetings _Seven Nights on the Rhine_,"
added Herman Reed.

"The old members of the Club who made the Rhine journey with Mr. Beal
might give us an account of that journey," suggested one of the new
boys.

The plans suggested by these remarks met with approval, and a
committee was appointed to arrange the literary exercises for seven
meetings of the Club, to be known as _Seven Nights on the Rhine_.

The literary exercises for the present evening consisted of the
relation of historic ghost stories, chiefly by members of the old
Club. Among these were the Province House Stories of Hawthorne, the
tradition of Mozart's Requiem, the Cock Lane Ghost, and several
incidents from Scott's novels.

The principal story, however, was given by Tommy Toby, an old member
of the Club, and a graduate of the Academy.


  TOMMY TOBY'S STORY OF ST. DUNSTAN AND THE DEVIL AND THE SIX BOY
  KINGS.

  A splendid court had Athelstane, and foreign princes came there to
  be educated. Among these princes was Louis, the son of Charles the
  Simple, of France, who, by his long residence in England, obtained
  the pretty name of _Louis d'Outremer_.

  Splendid weddings were celebrated there. The king married one of his
  sisters to the King of France, another to the Emperor of Germany,
  another to Hugo the Great, Count of Paris, and another to the Duke
  of Aquitaine.

  After the fight with the Cornish men, all of the land was at peace
  for many years, and the nobility became very scholarly and the
  people very polite.

  Athelstane had a favorite, a friar, who made more mischief in his
  day and generation than any other man. This man is known in history
  by the name of St. Dunstan.

  When Dunstan was a boy, he was taken very ill of a fever. One night,
  being delirious, he got up from his bed, and walked to Glastonbury
  church, which was then repairing, and ascended the scaffolds and
  went all over the building; and because he did not tumble off and
  break his neck, people said that he had performed the feat under the
  influence of inspiration, being directed by an angel.

  This was called Dunstan's first miracle.

  When he recovered from the fever, and heard of the miracle that he
  was said to have wrought, he was greatly pleased, and thought to
  turn the good opinion of people to his own advantage by performing
  other miracles.

  So he made a harp that played in the wind,--now soft, now loud; now
  sweet, now solemn. He said that the harp played itself. The people
  heard the sounds, full of seeming expression, as though touched by
  airy fingers, and, as they could not discredit the evidence of their
  own ears, they too reported that the harp played itself. And great
  was the fame of Dunstan's harp.

  But Dunstan, according to old history, became a very bad man; so bad
  that I cannot tell you the worst things that he did. He discovered
  his true character at last, notwithstanding his sweetly playing
  harp.

  He pretended to be a magician. Now a magician, in those old times,
  was one who was supposed to know things beyond the reach of common
  minds, who pretended to calculate the influence of the stars on a
  person's destiny, and who understood the effects of poisonous
  vegetables and minerals. The Saxon magicians were chiefly nobles and
  monks, and all of their great secrets which are worth knowing are
  now understood as simple matters of science, even by schoolboys.

  Athelstane's conscience must have been rather restless, I fancy,
  concerning young Edwin, his brother, whom he caused to be drowned;
  and people with unquiet conscience are usually very superstitious.
  At any rate, he made a bosom friend of Dunstan, after the latter
  took up the black art, and became greatly interested in magic, much
  to the sorrow of the people.

  At last a party of the king's friends resolved that the bad
  influence of the wily prelate should come to an end. They waylaid
  him one dark night, in an unfrequented place, and, binding him hand
  and foot, threw him into a miry marsh. But the water was shallow,
  and Dunstan kept his nose above the mire, and, after shouting
  lustily for help, and floundering about for a long time, he
  succeeded in getting out, to make a great deal of noise and trouble
  in the world, and we have some strange stories to tell you about him
  yet.

  Athelstane died in the year 940, and he was succeeded upon the
  throne by his half-brother, Edmund, who was the first of the six boy
  kings.

  Edmund was eighteen years of age when he took his place on the
  honorable Saxon throne of Alfred the Great. He was a high-spirited
  young man, warm-hearted and brave. He conquered Cumberland from the
  Ancient Britons, and protected his kingdom against the fierce
  sea-kings of the North. Like his great ancestor, King Alfred, he was
  fond of learning and art. He improved and adorned public places and
  buildings. He made a very elegant appearance, and held a showy
  court, and they called him the Magnificent.

  But Edmund was fond of convivial suppers, and used himself to drink
  deeply of wine. He lived fast, and his friends lived fast, though
  they appeared to live very happily and merrily.

  But young men given to festive suppers and to wine are not apt to
  make a long history; and the history of Edmund the Magnificent, the
  first boy king, was a short one.

  Edmund was succeeded in the year 946 by Edred, his brother, a
  well-meaning youth, who was the second of the six boy kings of
  England.

  Dunstan had become abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, the church where he
  performed the miracle when he was sick of the fever. He was very
  ambitious to meddle in affairs of state, but his bad name had
  weakened his influence with Edmund, and it seemed likely to do the
  same with well-intentioned Edred. He desired to create a public
  impression again that he was a saint.

  He retired to a cell and there spent his time working very hard as a
  smith, and--so the report went--in devotion.

    [Illustration: ST. DUNSTAN AND THE DEVIL.]

  Then the people said: "How humble and penitent Dunstan is! He has
  the back-ache all day, and the leg-ache all night, and he suffers
  all for the cause of purity and truth."

  Then Dunstan told the people that the Devil came to tempt him,
  which, with his aches for the good cause, made his situation very
  trying.

  The Devil, he said, wanted him to lead a life of selfish
  gratification, but he would not be tempted to do a thing like that;
  he never thought of himself,--oh, no, good soul, not he.

  The people said that Dunstan must have become a very holy man, or
  the Devil would not appear to him bodily.

  One day a great noise was heard issuing from the retreat of this
  man, and filling all the air for miles, the like of which was never
  known before. The people were much astonished. Some of them went to
  Dunstan to inquire the cause. He told them a story of a miracle more
  marvellous than any that he had previously done.

  The Devil came to him, he said, as he was at work at his forge, and
  tempted him to lead a life of pleasure. He quickly drew his pincers
  from the fire, and seized his tormentor by the nose, which put him
  in such pain that he bellowed so lustily as to shake the hills. The
  people said that it was the bellowing of the Evil One that they had
  heard.

  This wonderful story ended to Dunstan's liking, for the artful do
  flourish briefly sometimes.

  The boy king Edred was in ill-health, and suffered from a lingering
  illness for years. He felt the need of the counsel of a good man. He
  said to himself,--

  "There is Dunstan, a man who has given up all selfish feelings and
  aspirations, a man whom even the Devil cannot corrupt. I will bring
  him to court, and will make him my adviser."

  Then pure-hearted Edred brought the foxy prelate to his court, and
  made him--of all things in the world!--the royal treasurer.

  Edred died in the year 955, having for nine years aimed to do justly
  and to govern well. His decease, like his brother's before him, was
  sincerely lamented.

  He left a well-ordered government, except in the department of the
  treasury. Some remarkable "irregularities"--as stealing is sometimes
  called nowadays--had taken place there, some of the public money
  having become mixed up with Dunstan's.

  The next of the six boy kings of England was Edwy the Fair,--fifteen
  years of age when he ascended the throne.

  He was the son of Edmund,--a handsome boy, and as good at heart as
  he was handsome. Though so young, he had married a beautiful
  princess, named Elgiva. So we have here a boy king and a girl queen.

  As if one bad prelate were not enough, there was, besides Dunstan,
  another great mischief-maker, Odo, the Dane, Archbishop of
  Canterbury.

  The coronation of Edwy was the occasion of great rejoicing. They had
  a sumptuous feast in the evening, attended by all the prelates and
  thanes. Edwy liked the society of the girl queen better than that of
  these rude people, and in the midst of the festivities he retired to
  the queen's apartment to see her and the queen mother.

  Odo, the archbishop, noticed that the boy king had left his place at
  the tables. He rightly guessed the reason, and deemed such conduct
  disrespectful to himself and to the guests. So he went and made
  complaint to Dunstan, and Dunstan went to look for the missing king.
  When the latter came to the queen's apartment, and was refused
  admittance, he broke open the door, upbraided Edwy for his absence
  from the feast, and, seizing him by the collar, dragged and pushed
  him roughly back to the banqueting-hall.

  Edwy, of course, resented this treatment. Dunstan replied by
  accusing him of great impropriety, and talked in a very overbearing
  way, and Edwy, though a considerate boy, and of a mild disposition,
  at last lost his temper.

  "You have a very nice sense of propriety," he said. "You were the
  treasurer in the last reign, I believe. I intend to call you to
  account for the way that you fulfilled your trust."

  Dunstan was greatly astonished, and, guilty man that he was, he
  began to feel very unsafe.

  The boy king made the attempt which he had threatened, to call
  Dunstan to account for his late doings in the treasury. But the
  latter, when he found that Edwy was in earnest, fled to Ghent.

  The nobles saw somewhat into his true character when he thus
  disappeared from court, and a party of men was sent in pursuit of
  him to put out his eyes. But he was too foxy to be caught, and
  arrived safely in Belgium at last, to make a great deal of trouble
  in the world yet.

  Incited by Dunstan, Odo raised a rebellion. When he had drawn to
  himself a sufficient party to insure his personal safety, he
  proclaimed Edgar, the younger brother of Edwy, king.

  Dunstan returned to England, and joined Odo, and this precious pair
  soon discovered the value of their piety, as you shall presently
  see.

  Edwy the Fair loved the girl queen. She was beautiful as well as
  amiable, and was as devoted to her husband as she was lovely. Odo
  and Dunstan wished to break the spirit of Edwy, and thought to
  accomplish their end by capturing the queen. They caused her to be
  stolen from one of the royal palaces, and her cheeks to be burned
  with hot irons, in order to destroy the beauty that had so enchanted
  the boy king. They then sent her to Ireland, and sold her as a
  slave.

  The Irish people pitied the weeping maiden, and loved her. They
  healed the scars on her cheeks, that the hot irons had made. When
  her beauty returned, she grew light-hearted again, and all her
  dreams were of the king.

  Then the Irish people released her from bondage, and gave her money
  to return to Edwy.

  She entered England full of joyful anticipations, and made rapid
  journeys towards the place where Edwy held his court. But Odo and
  Dunstan, who had been apprised of her coming, intercepted her, and
  ordered that she should be tortured and put to death. They caused
  the cords of her limbs to be severed, so that she was unable to walk
  or move. The beautiful girl survived the cutting and maiming but a
  few days.

  Weeping continually over her disappointments and sorrows, and
  shrieking at times from the acuteness of her pain, she died at
  Gloucester,--perhaps the most unfortunate princess who ever came to
  the English throne.

  When Edwy heard of her death, he ceased to struggle for his right;
  he cared for nothing more. He grew paler and thinner day by day, his
  beauty faded, his thoughts turned heavenward, and he aspired to a
  better crown and kingdom. He died of a broken heart before he
  reached the age of twenty, having aimed for three years to govern
  well.

  Edwy's short reign was followed by that of his brother Edgar, who
  succeeded to the Anglo-Saxon throne in the year 959, and was an
  unprincipled and dissolute king.

  He was fifteen years of age when he began to reign. One of his first
  acts was to reward the intriguing Dunstan for his crimes by
  bestowing upon him the archbishopric of Canterbury. Think of
  conferring an archbishopric as the price of a brother's ruin and
  death! Ah, better to be Edwy the Fair in his early grave, with the
  birds singing and the violets waving above him, than the cruel boy
  Edgar upon the throne.

  He resigned the government almost wholly to Dunstan, his primate,
  and spent his time in gayety, pleasure, and ease. He was unstable,
  profligate, and vicious. He once broke into a convent and carried
  off a beautiful nun, named Editha. For this violation of the
  sanctuary, Dunstan commanded him not to wear his crown for seven
  years, which was no great punishment, as he could ornament his head
  as well in some other way.

  Dunstan certainly possessed great ability as a statesman. He
  employed the vast armaments of England against the neighboring
  sovereigns, and compelled the King of Scotland and the Princes of
  Wales, of the Isle of Man, and of the Orkneys, to do homage to
  Edgar.

  The boy king annually made a voyage around England in great state,
  accompanied by princes and nobles.

  On one of these occasions, when he wished to visit the Abbey of St.
  John the Baptist, on the River Dee, he appointed eight crowned kings
  to pull the oars of his barge, while he himself acted as steersman.

  The vainglorious young sovereign then went into the grand old abbey
  and said his prayers, after which he returned in the same pomp,
  rowed by the eight subject kings.

  This event is celebrated in the songs and ballads of the olden time,
  which tell of the glory of England, when the eight crowns glimmered
  on the sun-covered waters of the Dee.

  Edgar, who was King of England up to the year 975, married twice,
  and left two sons. The elder of these was named Edward, the son of a
  good queen, Ethelfreda; the other was named Ethelred, the son of the
  bad queen, Elfrida.

  Edward had the best claim to the throne, but the intriguing Elfrida
  endeavored to secure the succession to her own son, Ethelred, a boy
  about seven years old. Dunstan decided against her, and caused
  Edward to be crowned. The boy king was at this time thirteen years
  of age.

  He was an amiable, susceptible boy, loving every one, and wishing
  every one well, and believing, with childish simplicity, that all
  the world was as pure at heart and as unselfish as himself.

  But Elfrida hated him, and resolved that his reign should be a short
  one, if it was within the reach of her arts to make it so.

  She retired with little Ethelred to Crofe Castle, a beautiful
  country seat in Dorsetshire. Green forests waved around it, and blue
  hills seemed to semicircle the sky. The silver horn of the hunter
  often echoed through the stream-cleft woodlands, and merrily blew
  before the castle gate.

  Edward and a youthful court party went hunting one day in the dreamy
  old forests of Dorsetshire. Chancing to ride near Crofe Castle,
  Edward thought that he would like to see Elfrida and his little
  brother. So he separated himself from his attendants, rode to the
  castle, and blew his horn.

  Elfrida presently appeared, her face glowing with smiles.

  "Thou art welcome, dear king," she said, in a winning way. "Pray
  dismount and come in, and we will have pleasant talk and good
  cheer."

  "No, madam," said Edward. "My company would notice my absence, and
  think that some evil had befallen me. Please bring me a cup of wine,
  and I will drink to your health and to my little brother's, in my
  saddle, and then I must away with speed."

  Elfrida turned away to order the wine. She gave another order at the
  same time in a whisper to an armed attendant.

  The wine was brought. Elfrida filled the cup and handed it to the
  boy king. As he held it up it sparkled in the light. Elfrida stood
  in the gateway, holding little Ethelred by the hand.

  "Health," said Edward, putting the bright cup to his lips.

  There crept up behind him softly an armed man, whose muscles stood
  out like brass, and whose eyes burned like fire. He sprang upon the
  boy king and stabbed him in the back. The affrighted horse dashed
  away, dragging the bleeding body by the stirrup,--on, on, on, over
  rut and rock, bush and brier.

  They tracked him by his blood. They found his broken body at last.
  They took it up tenderly and with many tears, and laid it beneath
  the moss and fern.

    [Illustration: THE MURDER OF EDWARD.]

  When little Ethelred saw his brother stabbed and bleeding, and
  dragged over the rough earth, he began to weep. Elfrida beat him and
  sent him to his chamber.

  What a night was that when the moon silvered the forest! One boy
  king mangled and dead on the cold ground, and another boy king
  weeping in the forest castle, and beaten and bruised for being
  touched at heart at the murder of his bright, innocent brother.

  Ethelred came to the English throne at the age of ten. He was the
  last of the six boy kings.

  The people held him in disfavor from the first on account of his bad
  mother, and when Dunstan put the crown on his head at Kingston, he
  pronounced a curse instead of a blessing. Neither the blessing nor
  the curse of a man like Dunstan could be of much account, and we do
  not believe that the latter did the little boy Ethelred any harm.

  Dunstan was now old and as full of craft and wickedness as he was
  full of years. He continued to practise jugglery, which he called
  performing miracles, whenever he found his influence declining, or
  had an important end to accomplish.

  In the reign of Ethelred Dunstan died. As he had used politics to
  help the church, he was made a saint. This was in a rude and
  ignorant age.

  Poor boy kings! Edmund was murdered; Edwy died of a broken heart;
  Edward was stabbed and dragged to death at his horse's heels; and
  Ethelred lost his kingdom. Three of them were good and three were
  bad. Only one of them was happy.

  Edmund, eighteen years of age, reigned from 940 to 946; Edred, 946
  to 955; Edwy, fifteen years of age, 955 to 958; Edgar, fifteen years
  of age, 958 to 975; Edward, thirteen years of age, 975 to 979;
  Ethelred, ten years of age, 979 to 1016.

  So the boy kings reigned in all seventy-six years, and governed
  England in their youth for nearly fifty years.

"I like your story, Master Toby," said Master Lewis; "as a story, I
mean. The historic facts are mainly as you have given them, but I
think St. Dunstan's intentions may have been good, after all. He lived
in an age of superstition, when it was believed that any political act
was right that would increase the power of the church. Christianity
then was not what it had been in the early church nor what it is
to-day. Men must be somewhat regarded in the light of the times in
which they lived."

The literary exercises for the evening were thus closed.



CHAPTER IV.

GERMAN STORIES.

  THE STORY OF THE EMPEROR WILLIAM.--THE STORY OF "SNEEZE WITH
  DELIGHT."--POEM-STORIES.


At the first meeting of the Club to study the history and to relate
stories of the Rhine and the North, Master Lewis was present, and,
after the preliminary business had been transacted, said that he had
some suggestions in mind which he wished to make.

"I notice," he said, "that many of you have been obtaining from the
Boston Public Library English translations of the works of Hauff,
Hoffman, Baron de La Motte Fouqué, Grimm, Schiller, and Tieck, and I
think that there is danger that story-reading and story-telling may
occupy too much of your time and thought. Let me propose that a brief
history of each author be given with the story at the meetings of the
Club, so that you may at least obtain some knowledge of German
literature."

The suggestion met with the approval of all, and it was voted that at
future meetings the biographies of authors should be given with the
stories, and that only the stories of the best authors should be
selected, except in the case of legends of places.

"I have another proposal to make," said Master Lewis. "You are not
very familiar with German politics. Suppose you let me give you from
time to time some short talks about the German Government and its
ministers,--King William, Count Bismarck, and Count Von Moltke."

This kind offer was received with cheers and placed upon record with
thanks.

"Perhaps you may be willing to open our exercises to-night with one of
the talks you have planned," said the President. "It would be a
helpful beginning, which we would appreciate."

"I am not as well prepared as I would like," said the teacher; "but as
I believe in making a first meeting of this kind a sort of a model in
its plan and purpose, I will in a free way tell you something of


  THE STORY OF THE EMPEROR WILLIAM.

  The life of the Emperor of Germany has been full of thrilling and
  dramatic scenes.

  When he was a boy, Germany--the great Germany of Charlemagne--was
  divided into states, each having its own ruler. His father was
  Frederick William III., King of Prussia, and his mother was Louise,
  an excellent woman; his youth was passed amid the excitements of
  Napoleon's conquests. Russia and Prussia combined against Napoleon;
  Russia was placed at a disadvantage in two doubtful battles, when
  she deserted the Prussian cause, and made a treaty of peace.

  Napoleon then sent for the King of Prussia, to tell him what he
  would leave him.

  The lovely Queen Louise went with the unfortunate king to meet the
  French conqueror, hoping thereby to obtain more favorable terms. But
  Napoleon treated her with scorn, boasting that he was like "waxed
  cloth to rain."

  He, however, offered the queen a rose, in a softer moment.

  "Yes," said Louise, thinking of her kingdom, "but with Magdeburg."

  "It is _I_ who give, and _you_ who take," answered Napoleon
  haughtily.

  Napoleon took away from Prussia all the lands on the Elbe and the
  Rhine, and, uniting these to other German states, formed a kingdom
  for his brother Jerome.

  The good Queen Louise pined away with grief and shame at her
  country's losses, and died two years after of a broken heart. So the
  boyhood of William was very sad.

  It is said that children fulfil the ideals of their mothers. Poor
  Louise little thought that her second son would one day be crowned
  Emperor of all Germany in the palace of the French kings at
  Versailles.

  William was born in 1797; he ascended the throne as King of Prussia
  in 1861. How widely these dates stand apart!

  On the day of his coronation as King of Prussia, he exhibited his
  own character and religious faith by putting the crown on his own
  head. "I rule," he said, "by the favor of God and no one else."

  Under his vigorous rule Prussia grew in military power, and excited
  the jealousy of the French people. Napoleon III., on a slight
  pretext, declared war with Prussia. In this war Prussia was
  victorious.


  A MEMORABLE HOUR.

  That was indeed a memorable hour in the emperor's life when he met
  the fallen Emperor of the French in the Chateau Bellevue, on a hill
  of the Meuse overlooking Sedan. The king and the emperor had met
  before; they then were equals, brother rulers of two of the most
  powerful nations on earth. They met now as conqueror and captive,
  and the one held the fate of the other in his hands.

  "We were both moved at seeing each other again under such
  circumstances," said King William. "I had seen Napoleon only three
  years before, at the summit of his power. What my feelings were is
  more than I can describe."

  The king spoke first.

  "God has given victory to me in the war that has been declared
  against me."

  "The war," said Napoleon, "was not sought by me. I did not desire
  it. I declared it in obedience to the public sentiment of France."

  "Your Majesty," said the king, "made the war to meet public opinion;
  but your ministers created that public opinion."

  "Your artillery, sire, won the battle. The Prussian artillery is the
  finest in the world."

  "Has your Majesty any conditions to propose?"

  "None: I have no power; I am a prisoner."

  "Where is the government in France with which I can treat?"

  "In Paris: the empress and the ministers. I am powerless."

  King William, as you know, marched to Paris, and at last made
  conditions of peace almost as hard as Napoleon I. had made with his
  father. The German princes in his hour of victory offered him the
  crown of Southern Germany, and he was crowned at Versailles, in the
  great hall of mirrors, Emperor of Germany.

  Let me now speak of the kaiser's


  MILITARY CAREER.

  It is rare that men and women live to celebrate their seventy-fifth
  birthday. The age allotted to mortals by the Psalmist is threescore
  and ten.

    [Illustration: THE EMPEROR WILLIAM AND NAPOLEON III.]

  But the hale old Emperor of Germany has not only recently
  commemorated the completion of his eighty-sixth year, but--what is
  still more striking--at the same time marked the seventy-sixth year
  of his service as an officer in the Prussian army.

  It is related that, on the 22d of March, 1807, on which day William
  was just ten years old, his father, then King of Prussia, called him
  into his study and said,--

  "My son, I appoint you an officer in my army. You will serve in
  Company No. 1 of the First Guard Regiment."

  The little prince drew himself up, gave his father a prompt military
  salute, and retired. An hour later he reappeared before the king,
  attired in the uniform of his new rank; and, repeating the salute,
  announced to his royal father that "he was ready for duty."

    [Illustration: WILLIAM BEFORE HIS FATHER.]

  Even at so early an age, William was no fancy soldier, holding rank
  and title, and leaving to humbler officers the duties and hardships.
  He at once devoted himself to the task of a junior ensign; and from
  that time onward became an officer in truth, laboring zealously to
  master the military science, and rising step by step, not by favor,
  but by merit and seniority.

  At the age of eighteen, William was in Blucher's army at Waterloo,
  taking an active part in the overthrow of Napoleon, and witnessing
  that mighty downfall. A little later, he was promoted to the rank of
  major for cool courage under heavy fire; and from that time on, for
  nearly half a century, William devoted himself wholly to the
  military profession.

  When he ascended the Prussian throne, there was no more unpopular
  man in the kingdom. He had put down the revolutionary rising in
  Berlin with grim and relentless hand; and the people believed that
  their new monarch was a cruel and haughty tyrant.

  It was not until after the great triumph over Austria, in 1866, that
  the Prussians began to discover that King William was not only a
  valiant soldier, but an ardent lover of his country, and a
  kind-hearted, whole-souled father of his people.


  THE STATESMAN.

  For the last sixteen years, no sovereign in Europe has been more
  devotedly beloved and revered by his subjects. Although William is
  autocratic, and believes in his "divine right" to rule as sturdily
  as did his mediæval ancestors, and has not a little contempt for
  popular clamors and popular rights, his reign has been on the whole
  brilliantly wise and successful. While this has been in a great
  measure due to the presence of a group of great men around
  him,--notably of Bismarck and Von Moltke,--the emperor himself has
  had no small share in promoting the power and towering fortunes of
  Germany.

  His paternal ways with his people, his military knowledge, his fine,
  frank, hearty, chivalrous nature, his sound sense in the choice of
  his advisers, and his perception of the wisdom of their counsels,
  have much aided in raising Prussia and Germany to their present
  height in Europe.

    [Illustration: KING WILLIAM'S HELMET.]

  Beneath his commanding and rugged exterior there beats a very kindly
  heart. Many incidents have been related to show the simple
  good-nature of his character. In his study, on the table at which he
  writes, there has long remained a rusty old cavalry helmet, the
  relic of some military association of the emperor.

  Whenever the death-warrant of a condemned criminal is brought to him
  to sign, the emperor looks at it, and then slyly slips the fatal
  document under the helmet. Sometimes his ministers, anxious that the
  warrants should be signed, take occasion, in his absence from the
  study, to pull the papers out from beneath the helmet, just enough
  to catch their master's eye.

  Most often, however William, on perceiving them, quietly pushes them
  back again, without a word. So great is his repugnance to dooming
  even a hardened criminal to death, by a mere scratch of his pen.

  At eighty-six, the stalwart old kaiser cannot hope to dwell much
  longer among his people; but it will be very long before his fine
  qualities, soldierly courage, and affectionate nature will grow dim
  in the memory of the fatherland.

The stories related at this meeting were largely from Grimm and
Fouqué, and are to be found in American books.

The most pleasing of the stories, told by Herman Reed, is not so well
known, and we give it here.


  SNEEZE WITH DELIGHT.

  Many, many years ago there lived in an old German town a good
  cobbler and his wife. They had one child, Jamie, a handsome boy of
  some eight years. They were poor people; and the good wife, to help
  her husband, had a stall in the great market, where she sold fruit
  and herbs.

  One day the cobbler's wife was at the market as usual, and her
  little boy was with her, when a strange old woman entered the
  stalls.

  The woman hardly seemed human. She had red eyes, a wizened,
  pinched-up face, and her nose was sharp and hooked, and almost
  reached to her chin. Her dress was made up of rags and tatters.
  Never before had there entered the market such a repulsive-looking
  person.

  "Are you Hannah the herb-woman?" she asked, bobbing her head to and
  fro. "Eh?"

  "Yes."

  "Let me see, let me see; you may have some herbs I want."

  She thrust her skinny hands into the herbs, took them up and smelled
  of them, crushing them as she did so.

  Having mauled them to her heart's content, she shook her head,
  saying,--

  "Bad stuff; rubbish; nothing I want; rubbish, rubbish,--eh?"

  "You are an impudent old hag," said the cobbler's boy, Jamie; "you
  have crushed our herbs, held them under your ugly nose, and now
  condemn them."

  "Aha, my son, you do not like my nose,--eh? You shall have one, too,
  to pay for this,--eh?"

  "If you want to buy anything, pray do so at once," said the
  cobbler's wife; "you are keeping other customers away."

  "I _will_ buy something," said the hag viciously; "I _will_ buy. I
  will take these six cabbages. Six? That is more than I can carry,
  as I have to lean upon my stick. You must let your boy take them
  home for me."

  This was but a reasonable request, and the cobbler's wife consented.

  Jamie did as he was bid, and followed the hag to her home. It was a
  long distance there. At last the beldam stopped in an out-of-the-way
  part of the town, before a strange-looking house. She touched a
  rusty key to the door, which flew open, and, as the two entered, a
  most astonishing sight was revealed to Jamie's eyes.

  The interior of the house was like a throne-room in a palace, the
  ceilings were of marble and gold, and the furniture was jewelled
  ebony.

  The old woman took a silver whistle and blew it. Little
  animals--guinea pigs and squirrels--answered the call. They were
  dressed like children, and walked on two legs; they could talk and
  understand what was said to them. Was the beldam an enchantress, and
  were these little animals children, whom she had stolen and made
  victims of her enchantments?

    [Illustration: JAMIE AT THE STRANGE-LOOKING HOUSE.]

  "Sit down, child," said the old woman, in a soft voice, "sit down;
  you have had a heavy load to carry. Sit down, and I will make you a
  delicious soup; one that you will remember as long as you live. It
  will contain some of the herb for which I was looking in the market
  and did not find. Sit down."

  The beldam hurried hither and thither, and with the help of the
  guinea pigs and squirrels quickly made the soup.

  "There, my child, eat that. It contains the magic herb I could not
  find in the market. Why did your mother not have it? Whoever eats
  that will become a magic cook."

  Jamie had never tasted such delicious soup. It seemed to intoxicate
  him. It produced a stupor. He felt a great change coming over him.
  He seemed to become one of the family of guinea pigs and squirrels,
  and, like them, to serve their mistress. Delightful little people
  they were,--he came to regard them as brothers; and time flew by.

  Years flew by, and other years, when one day the dame took her
  crutch and went out. She left her herb-room open, and he went in. In
  one of the secret cupboards he discovered an herb that had the same
  scent as the soup he had eaten years before. He examined it. The
  leaves were blue and the blossoms crimson. He smelt of it.

  He began to sneeze,--such a delightful sneeze! He smelt, and sneezed
  again. Suddenly he seemed to awake, as from a dream,--as though some
  strange enchantment had been broken.

  "I must go home," he said. "How mother will laugh when I tell her my
  dream! I ought not to have gone to sleep in a strange house."

  He went out into the street. The children and idlers began to follow
  him.

  "Oho, oho! look, what a strange dwarf! Look at his nose! Never the
  like was seen before."

  Jamie tried to discover the dwarf, but could not see him.

  He reached the market. His mother was there, a sad old woman, in the
  same place. She seemed altered; looked many years older than when he
  left her. She leaned her head wearily on her hand.

  "What is the matter, mother dear?" he asked.

  She started up.

  "What do you want of me, you poor dwarf? Do not mock me. I have had
  sorrow, and cannot endure jokes."

  "But, mother, what has happened?"

  He rushed towards her to embrace her, but she leaped into the air.

  The market-women came to her and drove him away.

  He went to his father's cobbler's shop. His father was there, but he
  looked like an old man.

  "Good gracious! what is that?" said he wildly, as Jamie appeared.

  "How are you getting on, master?" asked Jamie.

  "Poorly enough. I'm getting old, and have no one to help me."

  "Have you no son?"

  "I _had_ one, years ago."

    [Illustration: MOUNTAIN SCENE IN GERMANY.]

  "Where is he now?"

  "Heaven only knows. He was kidnapped one market-day, seven years
  ago."

  "Seven years ago!"

  Jamie turned away. The people on the street stared at him, and the
  ill-bred children followed him. He chanced to pass a barber's shop,
  where was a looking-glass in the window. He stopped and saw himself.

  The sight filled him with terror. He was a dwarf, _with a nose like
  that of the strange old woman_.

  What should he do?

  He remembered that the old woman had said that the eating of the
  magic soup that contained the magic herb would make him a magic
  cook.

  He went to the palace of the duke and inquired for the major domo.
  He was kindly received, as dwarfs are in such places, and he asked
  to be employed in the kitchen, and allowed to show his skill in
  preparing some of the rare dishes for the table.

  No one in the ducal palace was able to produce such food as he. He
  was made chief cook in a little time, and enjoyed the duke's favor
  for two years. He grew fat, was honored at the great feasts, and
  became the wonder of the town.

  Now happened the strangest thing of his strange life.

  (Ye that have eyes, prepare to open them now.)

    [Illustration: JAMIE RUSHING TOWARDS HIS MOTHER.]

  One morning he went to the goose market to buy some nice fat geese,
  such as he knew the duke would relish. He purchased a cage of three
  geese, but he noticed that one of the geese did not quack and gabble
  like the others.

  "The poor thing must be sick," he said; "I will make haste to kill
  her."

  To his great astonishment, the goose made answer:--

    "Stop my breath,
    And I will cause your early death."

  Then he knew that the goose was some enchanted being, and he
  resolved to spare her life.

  "You have not always had feathers on you, as now?" said the dwarf.

  "No; I am Mimi, daughter of Waterbrook the Great."

  "Prithee be calm; I will be your friend; I know how to pity you. I
  was once a squirrel myself."

  Now the duke made a great feast, and invited the prince. The prince
  was highly pleased with the ducal dishes, and praised the cook.

  "But there is one dish that you have not provided," said the prince.

  "What is that?" asked the duke.

  "_Pâté Suzerain._"

  The duke ordered the dwarf to make the rare dish for the next
  banquet.

  The dwarf obeyed.

  When the prince had tasted, he pushed it aside, and said,--

  "There is one thing lacking,--one peculiar herb. It is not like that
  which is provided for my own table."

  The duke, in a towering passion, sent for the dwarf.

  "If you do not prepare this dish rightly for the next banquet," he
  said, "you shall lose your head."

  Now the dwarf was in great distress, and he went to consult with the
  goose.

  "I know what is wanting," said the goose; "it is an herb called
  Sneeze with Delight. I will help you find it."

    [Illustration: THE DWARF AND THE GOOSE.]

  The dwarf took the goose under his arm, and asked of the guard, who
  had been placed over him until he should prepare the dish,
  permission to go into the garden.

  They were allowed to go. They searched in vain for a long time; but
  at last the goose spied the magic leaf across the lake, and swam
  across, and returned with it in her bill.

  "'Tis the magic herb the old woman used in the soup," said the
  dwarf. "Thank the Fates! we may now be delivered from our
  enchantment."

  He took a long, deep sniff of the herb. He then sneezed with
  delight, and lo! he began to grow, and his nose began to shrink, and
  he was transformed to the handsomest young man in all the land.

  He took the goose under his arm, and walked out of the palace yard.
  He carried her to a great magician, who delivered her from her
  enchantment, and she sneezed three sneezes, and became the
  handsomest lady in all the kingdom.

  Now, Mimi's father was very rich, and he loaded Jamie with
  presents, which were worth a great fortune.

  Then handsome Jamie married the lovely Mimi; and he brought his old
  father and mother to live with them in a palace, and they were all
  exceedingly happy.

"What is the moral of such a tale as that?" asked one of the Club.

"If you have any crookedness, to find the magic herb," said Charlie.

Charlie Leland, the President, closed the exercises with some
translations of his own, which he called "Stories in Verse." We give
two of them here; each relates an incident of Eberhard, the good
count, whom German poets have often remembered in song.


  THE RICHEST PRINCE.

    In a stately hall in the city of Worms,
      A festive table was laid;
    The lamps a softened radiance shed,
      And sweet the music played.

    Then the Saxon prince, and Bavaria's lord,
      And the Palsgrave of the Rhine,
    And Würtemberg's monarch, Eberhard,
      Came into that hall to dine.

    Said the Saxon prince, with pride elate,
      "My lords, I have wealth untold:
    There are gems in my mountain gorges great;
      In my valleys are mines of gold."

    "Thou hast boasted well," said Bavaria's lord,
      "But mine is a nobler land:
    I have famous cities, and castled towns,
      And convents old and grand."

    "And better still is my own fair land,"
      Said the Palsgrave of the Rhine:
    "There are sunny vineyards upon the hills;
      In the valleys are presses of wine."

    Then bearded Eberhard gently said,
      "My lords, I have neither gold,
    Nor famous cities, nor castled towns,
      Nor convents grand and old.

    "I have no vineyards upon the hills,
      In the valleys no presses of wine;
    But God has given a treasure to me
      As noble as any of thine.

    [Illustration: EBERHARD.]

    "I wind my horn on the rocky steep,
      In the heart of the greenwood free,
    And I safely lay me down and sleep
      On any subject's knee."

    Oh, then the princes were touched at heart,
      And they said, in that stately hall,
    "Thou art richer than we, Count Eberhard;
      Thy treasure is greater than all."


  EQUALITY.

    The banners waved, the bugles rung,
      The fight was hot and hard;
    Beneath the walls of Doffingen,
    Fast fell the ranks of Suabian men
      Led on by Eberhard.

    Count Ulric was a valiant youth,
      The son of Eberhard;
    The banners waved, the bugles rung,
    His spearmen on the foe he flung,
      And pressed them sore and hard.

    "Ulric is slain!" the nobles cried,--
      The bugles ceased to blow;
    But soon the monarch's order ran:
    "My son is as another man,
      Press boldly on the foe!"

    And fiercer now the fight began,
      And harder fell each blow;
    But still the monarch's order ran:
    "My son is as another man,
      Press, press upon the foe!"

    Oh, many fell at Doffingen
      Before the day was done;
    But victory blessed the Suabian men,
    And happy bugles played again,
      At setting of the sun.



CHAPTER V.

THE SECOND MEETING OF THE CLUB.

  CONSTANCE.--THE STORY OF HUSS.--BISMARCK AND THE GERMAN
  GOVERNMENT.--THE STORY OF THE HEART OF STONE.--POEM.--SEVEN NIGHTS
  ON THE RHINE: NIGHT FIRST.


The second meeting of the Club was opened by Mr. Beal with an account
of Constance, and of the great Council that convened there in 1414.

       *       *       *       *       *

"_Via Mala!_ So the old Romans called the road near the source of the
Rhine. It passed over and through dark and awful chasms, that the
river, as it came down from the Alps, had been tunnelling for
thousands of years.

"The Rhine is the gift of the Alps, as Egypt is the gift of the Nile.
From its source amid the peaks of the clouds to its first great
reservoir, the Lake of Constance, it passes through one of the wildest
and most picturesque regions in the world. It is not strange that the
Romans should have called their old Swiss road _Via Mala_.

"Lake Constance! How our heads bent and our feelings kindled and
glowed when we beheld it! It is the most beautiful lake that Germany
possesses. It is walled by snow-capped mountains, whose tops seem like
islands in the blue lakes of the skies. Quaint towns are nestled among
the groves of the shore; towers, with bells ringing soft and melodious
in the still air. The water is like emerald. Afar, zigzagging sails
flap mechanically in the almost pulseless air.

"There is color everywhere, of all hues: high, rich tones of color;
low tones. Piles of gems on the mountains, gloomy shadows in the
groves; a deep cerulean sky above, that the sunlight fills like a
golden sea. At sunset the lake seems indeed like the vision that John
saw,--'a sea of glass, mingled with fire.'

    [Illustration: BRIDGE IN THE VIA MALA.]

"The town of Constance, once a great city, is as old as the period of
Constantine. When Charlemagne went to Rome to receive the imperial
crown, he rested here. Here a long line of German kings left the
associations of great festivities; here those kings passed their
Christmases and Easters. Here convened brilliant regal assemblies.
Here the ambassadors from Milan appeared before Barbarossa, and
delivered to him the golden key of the Italian states.

"But these events are of comparatively small importance in comparison
with the so-called Holy Council of Constance, in 1414. It was a time
of spiritual dearth in the world. Arrogance governed the Church, and
immorality flourished in it. There were three popes, each at war with
the others,--John XXIII., Benedict XII., and Gregory XII.

"The Council was called to choose a pope, and to reform the Church.
The town for four years became the centre of European history. Hither
came kings and princes; the court of the world was here.

"The town filled, and filled. It was like a great fair. Delegates came
from the North and the South, the East and the West. There were
splendid fêtes; luxury and vainglory. At one time there were present a
hundred thousand men.

"The Council accomplished nothing by way of reform, except to induce
the three rival popes to relinquish their claims to a fourth; but it
stained its outward glory with a crime that will never be forgotten.

"When we were in Florence,--beautiful Florence!--the tragedy of
Savonarola rose before us like a spectre in the history of the past.
Savonarola tried to reform the conduct of the clergy and to maintain
the purity of the Church, but failed. He made the republic of Florence
a model Christian commonwealth. Debauchery was suppressed, gambling
was prohibited, the licentious factions of the times were there
publicly destroyed. He arraigned Rome for her sins. The Roman party
turned against him and accused him of heresy, the punishment of which
was death. He declared his innocence, and desired to test it with his
accusers by walking through a field of living fire. He believed God
would protect him from the flames, like the worthies of old. His
enemies were unwilling to go with him into the fiery ordeal. He was
condemned and executed. The martyr of Florence in after years became
one of its saints.

"At Constance a like tragedy haunted us. Constance has been called
'the city of Huss.'

"Among the mighty ones who wended their way to the city of the lake,
to attend the great Council, was a pale, thin man, in mean attire. He
had been invited to the Council by the Emperor Sigismund, who promised
to protect his person and his life. He was a Bohemian reformer; a
follower of Wycliffe. He was graciously received, but was soon after
thrown into prison on the charge of heresy.

"They led him in chains before the Council, which assembled in an old
hall, which is still shown. The emperor sat upon the throne as
president.

"He confessed to having read and disseminated the writings of
Wycliffe.

    [Illustration: JOHN HUSS.]

"He was required to denounce the English reformer as one of the souls
of the lost.

"'If he be lost, then I could wish my soul were with his,' he said
firmly.

"This was pronounced to be heresy.

"The emperor declared that he was not obliged to keep his word to
heretics, and that his promise to protect the life of the Bohemian was
no longer binding.

"He was condemned to death. He was stripped of his priestly robes, and
the cup of the sacrament was taken from his hands with a curse.

"'I trust I shall drink of it this day in the kingdom of heaven,' he
said.

"'We devote thy soul to the devils in hell,' was the answer of the
prelates.

"He was led away, guarded by eight hundred horsemen, to a meadow
without the gates. Here he was burned alive, and triumphed in soul
amid the flames.

"Such was the end of John Huss, the Savonarola of Constance.

"We made an excursion upon the lake. The appearance of the old city
from the water is one of the most beautiful that can meet the eye. It
seems more like an artist's dream than a reality,--floating towers in
a crystal atmosphere.

    "'Girt round with rugged mountains,
      The fair Lake Constance lies.'

"The lake is walled with mountains, and wears a chain of castle-like
towns, like a necklace.

"It would be delightful to spend a summer there. Excursions on the
steamers can be made at almost any time of the day. One can visit in
this way five different old countries,--Baden, Würtemberg, Bavaria,
Austria, and Switzerland."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Beal's succinct account of the old city led to a discussion of the
gains of civilization from martyrdoms for principle and progress. He
was followed by Master Lewis, who gave the Class some account of


  BISMARCK AND THE GERMAN GOVERNMENT.

  In the eyes of the multitude, Bismarck is a great but unscrupulous
  statesman, intent upon uniting Germany and making it the leading
  nation of Europe. As a man, he seems hard-headed, self-willed, and
  iron-handed. As a ruler, he is looked upon as the incarnation of the
  despotic spirit,--a believer in force, an infidel as to moral
  suasion.

  Many persons who sympathize with his policy censure the means by
  which he executes it. They do not consider that so long as that
  policy is threatened from within and without, the Chancellor must
  trust in force; nor do they read the lesson of the
  centuries,--_Force_ must rule until _Right_ reigns.

  The fact is not apprehended by the unthinking multitude, that the
  work of grafting a statesman's policy into the life of a nation
  requires, like grafting a fruit-tree, excision, incision, pressure,
  and time.

  But it is not of Bismarck's policy I would first speak, but of that
  which few credit him with possessing,--his moral convictions.
  Strange as it may seem to those who know only the Chancellor,
  Bismarck is not only a religious man, but his religion is the
  foundation of his policy.

  Dr. Busch, one of the statesman's secretaries, in a recent book,
  "Bismarck in the Franco-German War," narrates incidents and reports
  private conversations which justify this assertion.

  On the eve of his leaving Berlin to join the army, the Chancellor
  partook of the Lord's Supper. The solemn rite was celebrated in his
  own room, that it might not appear as an exhibition of official
  piety.

    [Illustration: BISMARCK.]

  One morning Bismarck was called suddenly from his bed to see a
  French general. Dr. Busch, on entering the bedroom just after the
  chief had left it, found everything in disorder. On the floor was a
  book of devotion, "Daily Watchwords and Texts of the Moravian
  Brethren for 1870." On the table by the bed was another, "Daily
  Refreshment for Believing Christians."

  "The Chancellor reads in them every night," said Bismarck's valet to
  Dr. Busch, seeing his surprise.

  One day, while dining with his staff, several of whom were
  "free-thinkers," Bismarck turned the conversation into a serious
  vein. A secretary had spoken of the feeling of duty which pervaded
  the German army, from the private to the general.

  Bismarck caught the idea and tossed it still higher. "The feeling of
  duty," he said, "in a man who submits to be shot dead on his post,
  alone, in the dark, is due to what is left of belief in our people.
  He knows that there is Some One who sees him when the lieutenant
  does not see him."

  "Do you believe, Your Excellency," asked a secretary, "that they
  really reflect on this?"

  "Reflect? no: it is a feeling, a tone, an instinct. If they reflect
  they lose it. Then they talk themselves out of it.

  "How," Bismarck continued, "without faith in a revealed religion, in
  a God who wills what is good, in a Supreme Judge, and in a future
  life, men can live together harmoniously, each doing his duty and
  letting every one else do his, I do not understand."

  There was a pause in the conversation, and the Chancellor then gave
  expression to his faith.

  "If I were no longer a Christian," he said, "I would not remain for
  an hour at my post. If I could not count upon my God, assuredly I
  should not do so on earthly masters.

  "Why should I," he continued, "disturb myself and work unceasingly
  in this world, exposing myself to all sorts of vexations, if I had
  not the feeling that I must do my duty for God's sake? If I did not
  believe in a Divine order, which has destined this German nation for
  something good and great, I would at once give up the business of a
  diplomatist. Orders and titles have no charm for me."

  There was another pause, for the staff were silent before this
  revelation of their chief's inner life. He continued to lay bare the
  foundations of his statesmanship.

  "I owe the firmness which I have shown for ten years against all
  possible absurdities only to my decided faith. Take from me this
  faith, and you take from me my fatherland. If I were not a believing
  Christian, if I had not the supernatural basis of religion, you
  would not have had such a Chancellor.

  "I delight in country life, in the woods, and in nature," he said,
  in the course of the conversation. "Take from me my relation to
  God, and I am the man who will pack up to-morrow and be off to
  Varzin [his farm] to grow my oats."

  The surprise with which these revelations of a statesman's inner
  life are read is due to their singularity. Neither history nor
  biography is so full of instances of statesmen confessing their
  faith in God and in Christianity, at a dinner-table surrounded by
  "free-thinkers," as to prevent the reading of these revelations from
  being both interesting and stimulating.

  "I live among heathen," said the Chancellor, as he concluded this
  acknowledgment that his religion was the basis of his statesmanship.
  "I don't seek to make proselytes, but I am obliged to confess my
  faith."

  Prince von Bismarck was born in 1813. His political history is
  similar to Emperor William's, which I related at our last meeting.
  The Emperor and his Chancellor, in matters of state, have been as
  one man. Each has aimed to secure the unity of the German empire.
  Each has sought to disarm, on the one hand, that branch of the
  Catholic party who give their allegiance to Rome rather than the
  government, the so-called Ultramontanes; and the Socialists, on the
  other hand, who would overthrow the monarchy. The two strong men
  have ruled with a firm hand, but with much wisdom. Germany could
  hardly have a more liberal government, unless she became a republic.

The stories of the evening were chiefly selected from Hoffman. They
were too long and terrible to be given here. Among them were "The
Painter" and "The Elementary Spirit." In introducing these stories,
Mr. Beal related some touching and strange incidents of their author.


  HOFFMAN.

  Hoffman died in Berlin. His career as a musical artist had been
  associated with the Prussian-Polish provinces, where he seems to
  have acquired habits of dissipation in brilliant but gay musical
  society.

  Hoffman had exquisite refinement of taste, and sensitiveness to the
  beautiful in nature and art, but the exhilaration of the wine-cup
  was to him a fatal knowledge. It made him in the end a poor,
  despised, inferior man.

  As he lost his self-mastery, he also seemed to lose his
  self-respect. He mingled with the depraved, and carried the
  consciousness of his inferiority into all his associations with
  better society.

  "I once saw Hoffman," says one, "in one of his night carouses. He
  was sitting in his glory at the head of the table, not stupidly
  drunk, but warmed with wine, which made him madly eloquent. There,
  in full tide of witty discourse, or, if silent, his hawk eye
  flashing beneath his matted hair, sat this unfortunate genius until
  the day began to dawn; then he found his way homeward.

  "At such hours he used to write his wild, fantastic tales. To his
  excited fancy everything around him had a spectral look. The shadows
  of fevered thought stalked like ghosts through his soul."

  This stimulated life came to a speedy conclusion. He was struck with
  a most strange paralysis at the age of forty-six.

  His disease first paralyzed his hands and feet, then his arms and
  legs, then his whole body, except his brain and vital organs.

  In this condition it was remarked in his presence that death was not
  the worst of evils. He stared wildly and exclaimed,--

  "Life, life, only life,--on any condition whatsoever!"

  His whole hope was centred in the gay world which had already become
  to him as a picture of the past.

  But the hour came at last when he knew he must die. He asked his
  wife to fold his useless hands on his breast, and, looking at her
  pitifully, he said, "And we must think of God also."

  Religion, in his gay years, as a provincial musician, and as a poet
  in the thoughtless society of the capital, had seldom occupied his
  thoughts.

  His last thought was given to the subject which should have claimed
  the earliest and best efforts of his life.

  "God also!" It was his farewell to the world. The demons had done
  their work. Life's opportunities were ended.

  The words of his afterthought echo after him, and, like his own
  weird stories, have their lesson.

Herman Reed presented a story from a more careful writer. It is a
story with an aim, and left an impressive lesson on the minds of all.
If it be somewhat of an allegory, it is one whose meaning it is not
hard to comprehend.


  THE HEART OF STONE.

  The Black Forest, from time out of mind, has abounded with stories
  of phantoms, demons, genii, and fairies. The dark hue of the hills,
  the shadowy and mysterious recesses, the lonely ways, the beautiful
  glens, all tend to suggest the legends that are associated with
  every mountain, valley, and town. The old legends have filled
  volumes. One of the most popular of recent stories of the Black
  Forest is the "Marble Heart; or, the Stone-cold Heart," by Hauff.

  Wilhelm Hauff, a writer of wonderful precocity, genius, and
  invention, was born at Stuttgart in 1809. He was designed for the
  theological profession, and entered the University of Tübingen in
  1820. He had a taste for popular legends, and published many
  allegorical works. He died before he had completed his twenty-sixth
  year.

  There once lived a widow in the Black Forest, whose name was Frau
  Barbara Munk. She had a boy, sixteen years old, named Peter, who was
  put to the trade of charcoal-burner, a common occupation in the
  Black Forest.

  Now a charcoal-burner has much time for reflection; and as Peter sat
  at his stack, with the dark trees around him, he began to cherish a
  longing to become rich and powerful.

  "A black, lonely charcoal-burner," he said to himself, "leads a
  wretched life. How much more respected are the glass-blowers, the
  clock-makers, and the musicians!"

  The raftsmen of the forest, too, excited his envy. They passed like
  giants through the towns, with their silver buckles, consequential
  looks, and clay pipes, often a yard long. There were three of these
  timber-dealers that he particularly admired. One of them, called
  "Fat Hesekiel," seemed like a mint of gold, so freely did he use his
  money at the gaming-tables at the tavern. The second, called "Stout
  Schlurker," was both rich and dictatorial; and the third was a
  famous dancer.

  These traders were from Holland. Peter Munk, the young coal-burner,
  used to think of them and their good fortune, when sitting alone in
  the pine forests. The Black Foresters were people rich in generous
  character and right principle, but very poor in purse. Peter began
  to look upon them and their homely occupations with contempt.

  "This will do no longer," said Peter, one day. "I must thrive or
  die. Oh, that I were as much regarded as rich Hesekiel or powerful
  Schlurker, or even as the King of the Dancers! I wonder where they
  obtain their money!"

  There were two Forest spirits, of whom Peter had heard, that were
  said to help those who sought them to riches and honor. One was
  Glassmanikin, a good little dwarf; and the other was Michael the
  Dutchman,--dark, dangerous, terrible, and powerful,--a giant ghost.

  Peter had heard that there was a magic verse, which, were he to
  repeat it alone in the forest, would cause the benevolent dwarf,
  Glassmanikin, to appear. Three of the lines were well known,--

    "O treasure-guarder, 'mid the forests green,
    Many, full many a century hast thou seen:
    Thine are the lands where rise the dusky pine--"

  He did not know the last line, and, as he was but a poor poet, he
  was unable to make a line to fill the sense, metre, and rhyme.

  He inquired of the Black Foresters about the missing line, but they
  only knew as much as he, else many of them would have called the
  fairy banker to their own service.

  One day, as he was alone in the forest, he resolved to repeat, over
  and over, the magic lines, hoping that the fourth line would in some
  way occur to him.

    "O treasure-guarder, 'mid the forests green,
    Many, full many a century hast thou seen:
    Thine are the regions of the dusky pine."

  As he said these words he saw, to his astonishment, a little fellow
  peep around the trunk of a tree; but, as the fourth line did not
  come to him, Mr. Glassmanikin disappeared.

  Peter went home, with his mind full of visions. Oh, that he were a
  poet! He consulted the oldest wood-cutters, but none of them could
  supply the missing line.

  Soon after, Peter again went into the deep forest, his brain aching
  for a rhyme with _pine_. As he was hurrying along, a gigantic man,
  with a pole as big as a mast over his shoulder, appeared from behind
  the pine-trees. Peter was filled with terror, for he felt that it
  was none other than the giant-gnome, Michael the Dutchman.

    [Illustration: PETER IN THE FOREST.]

  "Peter Munk, what doest thou here?" he thundered.

  "I want to pass this road on business," said Peter, in increasing
  alarm.

  "Thou liest. Peter, you are a miserable wight, but I pity you. You
  want money. Accept my _conditions_, and I will help you. How many
  hundred thalers do you want?"

  "Thanks, sir; but I'll have no dealings with you: I am afraid of
  your _conditions_. I have heard of you already."

  Peter began to run.

  The giant strode after him; but there was a magic circle in the
  forest that he could not pass, and, as he was near it, Peter was
  able to escape.

  A great secret had been revealed to Peter, and he now thought he had
  the clew to the charm. The good dwarf, Glassmanikin, only helped
  people who were born on Sunday.

  Possessed of this fact, Peter again ventured on into the deep
  forest. He found himself at last under a huge pine. He stopped there
  to rest, when suddenly a perfect line and rhyme occurred to him. He
  leaped into the air with joy, and exclaimed:--

    "O treasure-guarder, 'mid the forests green,
    Many, full many a century hast thou seen:
    Thine are the regions of the dusky pine,
    And children born on Sabbath-days are thine."

  A little old manikin arose from the earth at the foot of the pine.
  He wore a black jerkin, red stockings, and a peaked hat. His face
  had a kindly expression, and he sat down and began to smoke a blue
  glass pipe.

  "Peter, Peter," said the fairy, "I should be sorry to think that the
  love of idleness has brought you hither to me."

  "No; I know that with idleness vice begins. But I would like a
  better trade. It is a low thing to be a charcoal-burner. I would
  like to become a glass-blower."

  "To every Sunday-child who seeks my aid, I grant three wishes. If,
  however, the last wish is a foolish one, I cannot grant it. Peter,
  Peter, what are your wishes? Let them be good and useful."

  "I wish to dance better than the King of Dancers."

  "One."

  "Secondly, I would always have as much money in my pocket as 'Fat
  Hesekiel.'"

  "Oh, you poor lad!" said the gnome sadly. "What despicable things to
  wish for! To dance well, and have money to gamble! What is your
  third wish?"

  "I should like to own the finest glass factory in the forest."

  "O stupid Charcoal Peter! you should have wished for wisdom. Wealth
  is useless without wisdom to use it. Here are two thousand guldens.
  Go."

  Peter returned home. At the frolics at the inn, he surpassed the
  King of Dancers in dancing, and he was hailed with great admiration
  by the young. He began to gamble at the ale-houses, and was able to
  produce as much money as Fat Hesekiel himself. People wondered. He
  next ordered a glass factory to be built, and in a few months Peter
  Munk was rich and famous and envied. People said he had found a
  hidden treasure.

  But Peter did not know how to use his money. He spent it at the
  alehouse; and at last, when the money in the pockets of Fat
  Hesekiel, for some reason, was low, he was unable to pay his debts,
  and the bailiffs came to take him to prison.

    [Illustration: PETER AND THE MANIKIN.]

  In his troubles he resolved to go again into the deep forest, and
  seek the aid of the forest gnomes.

  "If the good little gnome will not help me," he said, "the big one
  will."

  As he passed along, ashamed of his conduct in not having better
  deserved of the good fairy, he began to cry,--

  "Michael the Dutchman! Michael the Dutchman!"

  In a few moments the giant raftsman stood before him.

  "You've come to me at last," he said. "Go with me to my house, and I
  will show you how I can be of service to you."

  Peter followed the giant to some steep rocks, and down into an
  abyss; there was the gnome's palace.

  "Your difficulties come from _here_," said the gnome, placing his
  hands over the young man's heart. "Let me have your heart, and you
  shall have riches."

  "Give you my heart?" said Peter; "I should die."

  "No; follow me."

  He led Peter into a great closet, where were jars filled with
  liquid. In them were the hearts of many who had become rich. Among
  them were the hearts of the King of the Dancers and of Fat Hesekiel.

  "The hinderance to wealth is feeling. I have taken, as you see, the
  hearts of these rich men. I have replaced them by hearts of stone.
  You see how _they_ flourish. _You_ may do the same."

    [Illustration: PETER SURPASSED THE KING OF DANCERS.]

  "A heart of stone must feel very cold within," said Peter.

  "But what is the use of a heart of feeling, with poverty? Give me
  your heart, and I will make you rich."

  "Agreed," said Peter.

  The giant gave him a drug, which caused stupor. When Peter awoke
  from the stupor his heart seemed cold. He put his hand on his
  breast: there was no motion. Then he knew that he had indeed a heart
  of stone.

  Nothing now brought him pleasure or delight. He loved nothing;
  pitied no one's misfortunes. Beauty was nothing. He cared not for
  relatives or friends; but he had money, money. The supply never
  failed.

  He travelled over the world, but everything seemed dead to him.
  Sentiment was dead within him. He lied, he cheated. He filled many
  homes with wretchedness and ruin.

  At last he became weary of life.

    [Illustration: PETER AND THE GIANT.]

  "I would give all my riches," he said, "to feel once again love in
  my heart."

  He resolved to go into the woods and consult the good fairy.

  He came to the old pine-tree,--

    "O treasure-guarder, 'mid the forests green,
    Many, full many a century thou hast seen;
    Thine are the regions of the dusky pine,
    And children born on Sabbath-days are thine."

  The Glassmanikin came up again, as before. He met Peter with an
  injured look.

  "What wouldst thou?"

  "That thou shouldst give me a feeling heart."

  "I cannot. I am not Michael the Dutchman."

  "I can live no longer with this stone heart."

  "I pity you. Take this cross, and go to Michael. Get him to give you
  back your heart, under some pretext, and when he demands it again
  show him this cross, and he will be powerless to harm you."

  Peter took the cross and hurried into the deep forest. He called,--

  "Michael the Dutchman! Michael the Dutchman!"

  The giant appeared.

  "What now, Peter Munk?"

  "There is feeling in my heart. Give me another. You have been
  deceiving me."

  "Come to my closet, and we will see."

  The gnome took out the stone heart, and replaced it for a moment by
  the old heart from the jar. It began to beat. Peter felt joy again.
  How happy he was! A heart, even with poverty, seemed the greatest of
  blessings. He would not exchange his heart again for the world.

  "Let me have it now," said the gnome.

  But Peter held out the cross. The gnome shrank away, faded, and
  disappeared.

  Peter put his hand on his breast. His heart was beating. He became a
  wise, thrifty, and prosperous man.



CHAPTER VI.

NIGHT SECOND.

  SEVEN NIGHTS ON THE RHINE:--BASLE.--MARSHAL VON MOLTKE.--THE STORY
  OF THE ENCHANTED HEN.


Our second night on the Rhine was passed at Basle. Leaving Lake
Constance, the Rhine, full of vivid life, starts on its way to the
sea. At the Rhinefall at Schaffhausen the water scenery becomes noble
and exciting. A gigantic rock, over three hundred feet wide, impedes
the course of the river, and over it the waters leap and eddy and
foam, and then flow calmly on amid green woods, and near villages
whose windows glitter in the sun.

We rode through the so-called Forest towns. High beeches stood on each
side of the river, and the waters here were as blue as the sky, and so
clear we could see the gravelly bed.

The river hastened to Basle. We hastened on like the river. Basle is
the first town of importance on the Rhine.

Here we obtained a fine view of the Black Forest range of hills, and
beheld the distant summits of the Jura and the Vosges.

    [Illustration: A VILLAGE IN THE BLACK FOREST.]

Basle was a Roman fortified town in the days of the struggles of Rome
with the Barbarians. It is gray with history,--with the battles of
Church and State, battles of words, and battles of deeds and blood.
But the sunlight was poured upon it, and the Rhine flowed quietly by,
and the palaces of peace and prosperity rose on every hand, as
though the passions of men had never been excited there, or the soil
reddened with blood.

    [Illustration: PEASANT'S HOUSE IN THE BLACK FOREST.]

We took a principal street on our arrival, and followed the uncertain
way. It led to the cathedral, on high ground. At the entrance to the
grand old church stood the figures of St. George and St. Martin on
prancing horses. The interior was high and lofty, with an imposing
organ. Here we read on one of the tombs, "Erasmus of Rotterdam."

The famous Black Forest is comprised within the lines of an isosceles
triangle, which has Basle and Constance at each end of the line of
base. The Rhine turns toward the north at Basle, and very nearly
follows two lines of the figure. The forest covers an area of about
twelve hundred square miles. It is a romantic seclusion, having Basle,
Freiburg, and Baden-Baden for its cities of supply and exchange; full
of pastoral richness, lonely grandeur; a land of fable and song.

The Black Forest Railway is one of the great triumphs of engineering
skill. It is ninety-three miles long, and has some forty tunnels. It
takes the traveller from Baden at once into the primeval solitudes.
Freiburg, a very quaint town, is situated in the forest.

       *       *       *       *       *

Master Lewis spoke briefly to the Club of Von Moltke, the great
Prussian general.


  MARSHAL VON MOLTKE.

  Never was a nation more fortunate in its leaders than was Prussia
  when she aimed to achieve German unity. It is often the case that
  when some great crisis comes upon a country, men able to deal with
  it rise and become the guides of the people. This was never more
  true than it was of Prussia when, thirteen years ago, she entered
  upon the war with France which was to decide not only her own
  destiny, but that of the whole German people.

  Three Prussians towered, at that time, far above the rest,--William,
  the wise and energetic king; Bismarck, the resolute and far-seeing
  statesman; and Von Moltke, the skilful and consummate soldier. It
  was the united action of these three, as much as the valor of the
  Prussian army, which not only won the victory, but gathered and
  garnered its fruits.

  All three of these men are still living (1882-83), and still active,
  each in his own sphere. The hale old king, now emperor, shows, at
  the age of eighty-six, little lessening of his sturdy powers.
  Bismarck, at seventy, still sways with his strong and stubborn will
  the affairs of the youthful empire. Von Moltke, at eighty-two,
  remains the foremost military figure of Germany.

  Von Moltke is a very interesting personage. From his earliest youth
  he has followed the profession of arms. He has always been every
  inch a soldier. In the course of years, he became an absolute master
  of his art. He had military science at his fingers' ends. In every
  emergency he knew just what to do.

    [Illustration: VON MOLTKE.]

  To be sure, he has not been one of those brilliant and dashing
  military chiefs who, by their daring exploits and sudden triumphs,
  become heroes in the eyes of men. He has been a careful, studious,
  deliberate commander, losing sight of nothing, ready for every
  exigency, looking well ahead, and closely calculating upon every
  possibility of events.

  Yet the sturdy old soldier is by no means a dull man outside of his
  quarters or the barracks. In a quiet way, he enjoys life in many of
  its phases. He has always been a great reader on a great variety of
  subjects. He is known as one of the most delightful letter-writers
  in Germany. He is fond, too, of poetry, and reads history and
  fiction with much delight.

  There is a Roman simplicity about Von Moltke's daily life. He lives
  in a building which serves as the headquarters of the general staff
  of the army in Berlin. Promptly at seven o'clock every morning,
  summer and winter, he enters his study, a plain room, with a table
  in the centre, covered with maps, papers, and books.

  There he takes his coffee, at the same time smoking a cigar. He
  proceeds at once to work, and keeps at it till nine, when his mail
  is brought to him. At eleven he takes a plain breakfast, after which
  he again works steadily till two, when he holds a reception of
  officers.

  The afternoon is devoted to work. After dinner, for the first time,
  this man of eighty-two enjoys some rest and recreation until eleven,
  at which hour he retires.

  In personal appearance, Von Moltke is tall, thin, and slightly
  stooping. On horseback, however, he straightens up, and bears
  himself as erect as a man of thirty. His close-shaven face is much
  wrinkled, and his profile somewhat reminds one of that of Julius
  Cæsar. He never appears in any other than a military dress; and is
  often seen walking alone in the Thiergarten at Berlin, his hands
  clasped behind him and his head bent forward, after the manner of
  the great Napoleon.

  Von Moltke married, some years ago, an English girl many years
  younger than himself. She died suddenly in 1868; and this event cast
  a shadow over all his later life. He has always since worn a sad and
  thoughtful face. He often visits his wife's grave in the country;
  and on the mausoleum which he erected to her memory, he has caused
  to be engraved the sentence, "Love is the fulfilling of the law."

The rest of the evening was spent in rehearsing Black Forest tales,
one of the most interesting of which we give here.


  SCRATCH GRAVEL; OR, THE ENCHANTED HEN.

  Queer stories, as well as tragic ones, are related of the Black
  Forest; and one of the most popular legends of enchantment, the Hen
  Trench, is as absurd as it is amusing. Children like this story, for
  among German children the industrious and useful hen is something of
  a pet. Where, except in Germany, did there ever originate an heroic
  legend of a _hen_?

  The main line of the Baden railway runs southward towards Freiburg,
  amid some of the most picturesque mountain scenery of the Black
  Forest. The second station is Bühl, from which a delightful
  excursion may be made to Forbach and the Murg Valley.

  Here may be seen the extensive ruins of the old castle of Windeck,
  which was destroyed in the year 1561, about which a very remarkable
  story is told.

  The old lords of Windeck were very quarrelsome people. They had feud
  after feud with the neighboring lords, and were continually at war
  with the Prince Bishops of Strasburg.

    [Illustration: FOUNTAIN AT SCHAFFHAUSEN.]

  Queer times were those, and queer relations existed between the
  Church and State. The Lord of Windeck was at one time kidnapped by
  the Bishop of Strasburg, and confined in a tower three years,--a
  thing that would not be regarded as a very clerical or spiritual
  proceeding to-day. A little later the Dean of Strasburg was
  surprised by the retainers of the Lord of Windeck, and was in turn
  carried a prisoner to the gray old castle of Windeck.

  The captive dean had a niece, a lovely girl, who was deeply
  attached to him. When she heard of his captivity she was much
  grieved, and set herself to devising plans for his release.

  At the foot of the grim old castle, in the Black Forest, there lived
  an old woman. She was wiser than her neighbors, and was regarded as
  a witch. She was able to tell inquirers whatever they wished to
  know, and so was as useful as a newspaper, in her day and
  generation.

  She was the last of her family. She lived alone, and her only
  society was some pure white hens, so large that the biggest of
  modern Shanghai fowls must have been mere pygmies to them.

  The people of the region were very shy of the old woman and her
  strange hens. The timid never ventured past her door after dark,
  after her hens went to roost.

  She was surprised one winter evening by a rap at her door.

  She listened.

  Tap, tap, tap!

  "Come in."

  A fair young girl lifted the latch.

  "I am belated in the forest. Will you give me shelter?"

  "Come in and sit down. Whence did you come?"

  "I am on my way to the castle, but night has overtaken me."

  "You are very near it. If it were light, I could show you its
  towers. But what can a dove like you be seeking in that vulture's
  nest?"

  "My dear uncle, the Dean of Strasburg, is a prisoner there."

  "I saw him when he was dragged into the castle, and very distressed
  and woe-begone the good man looked."

  "I am going there to pray for his release."

  "Umph. At that castle they don't give something for nothing. What
  ransom can you offer?"

  "Nothing. I hope by prayers and tears to move the count's heart."

  "I am wiser than you in the world's ways,--let me advise you. Cry
  with those pretty eyes, plead with your sweet voice, but not to the
  old count."

  "To whom?"

  "To his son."

  "Will he influence his father?"

  "Girl, I have taken a liking to you. You have a kind heart; I can
  see your disposition; I have met but few like you in the world. I
  will tell you what I will do. I will give you one of my white hens."

  "A _hen_?"

  "Yes. Go with the hen to the castle and inquire for Bernard, the
  count's son. Tell him that at daybreak the Count of Eberstein has
  planned an attack on the castle, and that you have come to warn him.
  Bid him fear nothing. Say that what he needs is a trench; and when
  he asks how one is to be made, tell him that you have brought him
  Scratch Gravel, the hen, who will immediately dig one for him."

    [Illustration: THE OLD WOMAN'S DIRECTIONS.]

  "How will that rescue my uncle?"

  "You shall see."

  The maiden took the white hen, and went out into the night. The old
  woman pointed out to her the way to the castle.

  As she drew near the castle, she heard a great noise in the highway.
  The count's son was returning late from the chase. As he drew near
  her on horseback, he accosted her politely and asked her errand.

  The beautiful girl related the story the old woman had told her.

  "I will take you to my father."

  She related her story to the count, and showed him the white hen.

  "Pooh! pooh!" said the count.

  "I think her story is true," said the young man.

  "Why?"

  "I see truth written on her beautiful face."

  "Is that so? I don't see it. Perhaps my eyes are not as good as they
  used to be. Well, well; let us see what the white hen will do."

  They took the hen outside the castle, and put her down. Presently
  the gravel began to fly. It was like a storm. The air was filled
  with earth and stones, and the old count was filled with
  astonishment.

  "The hen is bewitched," said the count.

  "Did I not tell you that the girl is honest?"

  "And handsome?"

  "And handsome."

  Before daybreak the white hen had dug a deep trench around the
  castle. The trench is shown to travellers to-day, a very remarkable
  proof of the truth of the story, with only one missing link in the
  chain of evidence.

  The next morning the enemy appeared, but when he came to the trench
  he forbore to storm the castle.

    [Illustration: THE HEN AND THE TRENCH.]

  The old count called the maiden into his presence.

  "What reward do you ask for so great a service?"

  "That you call the Dean of Strasburg to give thanks in the chapel."

  The count called the bishop, and attended the service. When it was
  over, he did not remand the good man to his cell.

  "I have one request to make of you," said Bernard to the maid, as
  they left the church.

  "Name it."

  "You promise to grant it?"

  "Name it."

  "That you make your home in the castle."

  "On one condition."

  "Name it."

  "That the dean is released."

  The young count went to his father.

  "The maiden has one request to make."

  "She shall have her request."

  So the dean was released and went back to Strasburg. The maid became
  the wife of the young count, but what became of the hen the
  chroniclers do not tell.

  But the trench remains,--the _Henne-Graben_,--and all that is
  wanting to make the evidence of the story sure is to connect the hen
  with the trench, after four hundred years. This may not be hard;
  geologists make connections in like cases after the lapse of a
  thousand years. Do they not?



CHAPTER VII.

EVENING THE THIRD.

  STRASBURG.--A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS.--THE STORY OF THE LOST ORGANIST.


Our third night upon the Rhine was spent at Strasburg.

"The cathedral is the wonder of the city. The excursionist thinks of
but little else during his stay there. Wherever he may be, the
gigantic church is always in view. He beholds it towering over all.

"Its history is that of Germany. It grew with the German empire, and
has shared all its triumphs and reverses. It was founded by Clovis. It
has been imperilled by lightning some fifty times, and has as often
repelled the shocks of war. In the tenth century it was burned; in the
eleventh, plundered; and five years after it was nearly demolished by
lightning.

"It was after the last calamity that the present structure was begun.
At one time a _hundred thousand_ men were employed upon it: can we
wonder that it is colossal?

"The giant grew. In 1140, 1150, and 1176 it was partly burned, but it
rose from the flames always more great, lofty, and splendid.

    [Illustration: STRASBURG CATHEDRAL.]

"Indulgences were offered to donors and workmen; to contributors of
all kinds. Men earned, or thought they earned, their salvation by
adding their mites to the spreading magnificence. In 1303 it is said
that all the peasants of Alsace might be seen drawing stone into
Strasburg for the cathedral. Master builder succeeded master
builder,--died,--but the great work went on. In the French Revolution
the Jacobins tore from the cathedral the statues of two hundred and
thirty saints; but it was still a city of saints in stone and marble.
In 1870, in the Franco-Prussian war, its roof was perforated with
shells, and on the 25th of August it burst into flames, and it was
telegraphed over the world that the great cathedral was destroyed. But
it stands to-day, majestic, regal, and beautiful, its spire piercing
the sky.

    [Illustration: PLATFORM OF STRASBURG CATHEDRAL.]

"We visited the cathedral in the afternoon. We were at once filled
with wonder at the windows. They burned with color, and seemed to hang
in air amid the shadows of the lofty walls. They represented
scriptural subjects.

"I was standing in awe, gazing upon a gorgeous circular window that
seemed to blaze in the air like a planet, when Charlie touched my arm.

"'The clock?'

"'What?'

"'Can we not go up and see the fixings, and how it is all done?'

"'I am not thinking of that _toy_,' said I; 'you stand in a monument
of art that it has taken a thousand years to build.'

"'Yes; I hope we shall be here to-morrow when the Twelve Apostles come
out and the cock crows _at_ Peter.'"


  A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS.

  The soldiers of Aurelian, the Roman emperor, used to sing,--

    "We have slain a thousand Franks."

           *   *   *   *   *

    "We have cut off the heads of a thousand, thousand, thousand,
        thousand.
    One man hath cut off the heads of a thousand, thousand, thousand,
        thousand, thousand;
    May he live a thousand years."

  The Franks came out of the North, and established themselves in Gaul
  and Germania during the period of the early Roman emperors. Their
  most renowned king was Clovis, with whom began the empire of France.
  He was a savage and passionate man, born to command and to conquer.
  He was a heathen. It is related of him that once, when he had
  enriched himself with spoils from some of the early Christian
  churches, the Bishop of Rheims desired that he would return a valued
  vase that had been taken from the cathedral.

  "Follow us to Soissons," said Clovis; "there the booty will be
  divided."

  In the division of the booty, a high-spirited and selfish Frankish
  chieftain objected to the bishop's claim, and, to show his contempt
  for him and the Church, struck the vase with his battle-axe. Clovis
  was offended. He gave the bishop the vase, and soon after avenged
  the insult by striking the chieftain dead with his own battle-axe,
  saying,--

  "Thus didst thou to the vase at Soissons."

  His wife, Clotilde, was a Christian, and she often tried to persuade
  him to embrace the Christian faith.

  In 496 the Allemannians, a German confederation, who had been
  assailing the Roman colonies on the Rhine, crossed the river, and
  invaded the territory of the Franks. Clovis met the invaders near
  Cologne. A severe battle followed. Clovis was hard pressed.

    [Illustration: THUS DIDST THOU TO THE VASE OF SOISSONS.]

  He called upon his gods, but they did not answer him. He saw he
  was in danger of being utterly defeated and losing his army.

  He had with him a servant of the queen.

  "My Lord King," said this man, "believe only on the Lord of heaven,
  whom the queen, my mistress, preacheth."

  Clovis raised his eyes in hope towards heaven,--

  "Christ Jesus, thou whom my queen Clotilde calleth the Son of God, I
  have called upon my own gods, and they have left me. Thee I invoke.
  Give me victory, and I will believe in thee, proclaim thee to my
  people, and be baptized in thy name."

  The tide of battle now suddenly turned, the Allemannians were
  beaten, and their king was slain.

  When his queen had learned of his vow, she sent for the Bishop of
  Rheims to instruct him in Christianity. He publicly renounced his
  gods, and his people at the same time accepted the queen's faith.

    [Illustration: STREET IN STRASBURG.]

  Christmas Day, 496, will be ever memorable in Christian history; it
  was on that day that the King of the Franks was baptized.

  The occasion was one of barbaric splendor, and such as might be
  expected of a warlike king in those rude times. The road from the
  palace to the baptistery, over which the king was to pass, was
  curtained with silk, mottoes, and banners, like a triumphal way. The
  houses of Rheims were hung with festive ornaments, and the
  baptistery itself was sprinkled with balm and "all manner of
  perfume."

  The procession moved from the palace like a pageant for a feast of
  victory. The clergy led, bearing the Gospels, standards, and cross.
  Hymns were chanted, as they swept along. Then came the Bishop of
  Rheims, leading the king; after him, the rejoicing queen; and lastly
  the neophytes who were to receive baptism with the king.

  On the way, the king seemed impressed with the glittering pageant.

  "Is this kingdom promised me?" he asked.

  "No," said the bishop; "but it is the entrance to the road that
  leads to it."

  At the baptistery the bishop said to the king,--

  "Lower your head with humility; adore what thou hast burned; burn
  what thou hast adored."

  Clovis was then solemnly baptized, and with him three thousand
  warriors. With the imposing rite, Christianity in France began, and
  with him began that great monument of the faith, Strasburg
  Cathedral.

    [Illustration: CLOVIS.]

Charlie Leland furnished the most interesting story on this evening.
It well illustrated features of German and French musical life that
are unknown in America. In Germany and in the French provinces the
organist of the town is a very important person. The choice of an
organist in these towns is a very interesting event, and during the
last century excited more discussion than at the present time.


  THE YOUNG ORGANIST: A MYSTERY.

  The towns on the Rhine are all famous for their organs, and proud of
  the eminent organists they have had in the past. Each town points
  with pride to some musical legend and history.

  The story I have to tell is associated with an ancient provincial
  town.

  It is now hardly more than a small town, and possesses not above a
  thousand inhabitants; but in the latter part of the last century it
  was more than ten times its present size, and its church, now in
  ruins, was then one of the most beautiful ever seen in that part of
  the country.

  This church was finished in the year 1795, and was for a long time
  the great object of curiosity for miles around. It was of the Gothic
  and Romanesque style of architecture, and was not only finely
  proportioned on the exterior, but had within a magnificence of
  decoration that astonished one more and more the longer he gazed
  upon it.

  The church, unlike some of the older ones standing at that time, had
  a magnificent organ. This had been paid for by a separate
  subscription, raised in small sums by the common people, and, having
  been built by skilful workmen in Bordeaux, was at length set up in
  the church amid considerable enthusiasm and excitement.

  But who should play this grand instrument? How should a competent
  organist be selected?

  The people were greatly interested in the matter, and discussed it
  on the corner of the _rues_, in the _brasseries_ or taverns; and for
  a period of six or eight weeks you might be sure, if you saw more
  than two people talking earnestly together, that they were
  deliberating upon the choice of an organist.

  Since the people, both high and low, had so freely contributed for
  the purchase of the organ, it was thought very proper that they
  should be allowed to choose a person to play it. And, the decision
  being thus left to the multitude, the most feasible plan that was
  suggested was that all should go, on an appointed day, to the
  church, and should then listen to the playing of the various
  candidates.

  There were, in all, nearly a score of aspiring musicians in and near
  the town; and each of these, hoping for a favorable decision for
  himself, gave no end of little suppers and parties, so that the
  influential ones among the townsmen fared sumptuously from all.

  But out of the entire number there were two, between whom the choice
  really lay. These were Baptiste Lacombe and Raoul Tegot.

  The former of these had lived in the town only five years. He had
  come from Bruges, so he said; and although he astonished everybody
  by his skill, he had not been liked from the first. He was very
  reserved and parsimonious, and his eye never met frankly the person
  with whom he talked. But no harm was known of him, and he found in
  Tranteigue plenty of exercise for his art.

  Raoul Tegot, on the contrary, was a native of the town; and,
  together with his young son, François, was beloved by all. He had
  married one of the village maidens, and had been so inconsolable at
  her death, which occurred when François was a baby, that he never
  thought more of marriage, but devoted himself to his child and his
  art.

  He was certainly a very able musician, and, being so universally
  liked, many people urged that a public performance be dispensed
  with, and that he be elected at once. But although Baptiste Lacombe
  was not _liked_, his _skill_ found many admirers; and, besides, it
  was flattering to the worthy countryfolk to think of sitting
  solemnly in judgment at the great church; and so the proposed plan
  was adhered to.

    [Illustration: MONSIEUR LACOMBE AND THE ORGAN.]

  Finally, the weeks of anticipation came to an end, the appointed day
  was at hand, and, according to the arrangements previously made, at
  nine o'clock in the forenoon the three great doors of the church
  were swung open, and the throng, orderly and even dignified, entered
  and filled the edifice.

  The seats, which in French churches and cathedrals are movable, had
  all been taken away, and the crowd quite filled the whole space. All
  male inhabitants of the town who were over twenty years of age were
  to vote, and each, the town officials and the poorest artisans
  alike, had one ballot.

  The great and beautiful organ took up nearly the whole of the large
  gallery over the entrance, and extended up and up into the
  clear-story until it was mingled with the supports of the roof.

  In the organ-loft the candidates were crowded together in eager
  expectation, and the glances that passed from one to another were
  not the kindliest. Each of them had been allowed several hours, at
  some time during the past week, for practice on the instrument; and
  each doubtless considered himself deserving of the position.

  Presently, when all was still, Monseigneur Jules Émile Gautier, a
  very learned gentleman of the town, who had been chosen for that
  purpose, ascended two steps of the stairway which curved up and
  around the richly carved pulpit, and announced the name of the
  person who was to begin.

  I should not be able to give, in detail, the progress of the trial;
  for the history of the affair is not minute enough for that. But
  suffice it to say that the last name on the list was Raoul Tegot;
  and the name immediately preceding it was that of Baptiste Lacombe.

  At length, in his turn, Monsieur Lacombe, his iron-gray hair
  disordered, his hands rubbing together nervously, and his eyes
  flashing--as was afterwards remarked upon--with a malicious fire,
  stepped forward and along to the organ-seat, and for a few moments
  arranged his stops.

  Then he began lightly and delicately, creeping up through the varied
  registers of the noble instrument, blending the beautiful sounds
  into wonderful combinations, now and then working in a sweet melody,
  and then again upward until the grand harmonies of the full organ
  rolled forth. There was something mysterious and awe-inspiring in
  the effort. It seemed to the people that they had never heard music
  before.

  The music ceased. The people came back to their prosaic selves
  again, looked in each other's faces, and said, with one breath,
  "Wonderful!"

  Gradually they recovered their sober judgment, and then, mingled
  with the murmurs of admiration, were heard the remarks, "That is
  fine, but Raoul Tegot will make us forget it!" "Yes, wait until you
  hear Raoul Tegot!"

  Soon Gautier ascended the two steps of the pulpit, and called the
  name of their kind, generous townsman.

  All waited breathlessly. All eyes were turned towards the
  organ-loft. The musicians there looked around and at each other.
  But poor Raoul Tegot could not be seen.

  Where was he? The people waited and wondered, but he did not come.
  Monsieur Baptiste Lacombe was greatly excited, and was wiping the
  perspiration from his heated face. "Perhaps he was afraid to come,"
  he ventured to remark to a man near him, at the same time looking
  out of a window.

  Several noticed his agitation; but they only said, "Ah, mon Dieu,
  how he did play! No wonder that he is nervous."

  The disquiet and confusion in the nave and aisles increased.

  A messenger had been sent to look for the missing man; but he could
  not be found.

  What was to be done?

  Finally, some friends of Monsieur Lacombe made bold to urge his
  immediate election, declaring that he had far surpassed all
  competitors; and they even hinted at cowardice on the part of Raoul
  Tegot.

  This insinuation was indignantly denied by Tegot's friends, who were
  very numerous but helpless; they knew their friend too well to
  believe him capable of such conduct. He was, they said, probably
  detained somewhere by an accident.

  But, wherever he was, he was _not_ present; and when a vote was
  taken, hastily, by a showing of hands, Monsieur Baptiste Lacombe had
  ten times as many ballots as any other person, and, of course, poor
  Monsieur Tegot, not having competed, was not balloted for at all.

  The people dispersed to their homes; some in vexation that their
  favorite had not appeared, others in a little alarm at his strange
  absence. Young François Tegot had not seen his father since early
  morning, and could not conjecture where he might be.

  The next day the missing organist did not appear, and his friends
  began to inquire and to search for him; but they were wholly
  unsuccessful. A little boy said that he had seen him go into the
  church with Monsieur Lacombe early that morning; but Monsieur
  Lacombe said, very distinctly and with some vehemence, that the
  missing man had left the church an hour later to go to a cottage at
  the edge of the town, where he was to give a lesson in singing.

  So the affair lay wrapped in mystery. There were many surmises, but
  nothing definite was known. A few expressed suspicion of the rival
  candidate; but the suspicion was too great to be thrown rashly upon
  anybody. Thus no progress in the inquiry was made. A human life did
  not mean so much in those stormy days after the Revolution as
  formerly; and the mysterious disappearance, without being in the
  least cleared up, gradually faded from men's minds and passed out of
  their conversation.

  Months and years passed away, and nothing was known of the poor man.
  His son, now come to the years of manhood, always declared that his
  father would not have been absent from the trial willingly; and he
  firmly believed that he had met with a violent death. More than this
  he would not say; but sometimes when he looked towards Monsieur
  Baptiste Lacombe,--still the respected organist of the church,--his
  eyes were observed to flash meaningly.

  There was to be a grand _fête_ in the church, and great preparation
  was made. As the organ needed repairs, it was decided to repair it
  thoroughly; and one of the builders from Bordeaux was sent for.

  He was to come on Thursday; but he chanced to arrive the day before,
  and was to begin work early the following morning. That night a
  light glimmered out of the darkness of the gallery of the church.

  Two days passed. The repairing of the organ went on; but there was
  much to be done, and it might take a week. One afternoon, as
  François passed through the centre of the village, two men came
  hurriedly out of the town-house, and hastened away towards the
  church. It was the organ-builder, very much excited, and one of the
  officials of the town. The young man, venturing on his well-known
  skill as an organist, followed them; and the three entered the
  building. A few worshippers were at the great altar, and the sacred
  edifice seemed unusually quiet and peaceful.

  The organ-builder seemed too agitated to answer the questions that
  the town official asked him, but led the way quickly to the
  organ-loft. "Put your foot on that pedal!" he said excitedly,
  pointing to a particular one of the scale.

  The official was too bewildered to comply, and François did it for
  him.

  "Now try the next one!" said he.

  François did so, but no sound came; only a queer, intermittent
  rumbling, like a bounding and rebounding.

  "It does not sound," said the organ-builder. "Follow me and I will
  show you why."

  "It never has sounded since the great trial-day, years ago,"
  muttered the young man. But he followed on.

  They clambered up a rickety staircase, a still more rickety ladder,
  and came to a platform at a level with the top of the organ; and all
  around them, reaching up out of the dim light below, were the open
  pipes. Passing hurriedly around, on a narrow plank, to the back of
  the organ, their agitated guide paused before a row of immense pedal
  pipes, and, without allowing his own eyes to look, he held the light
  that he carried for the others.

  Both looked down into the cavernous tube that he indicated, and
  both started back in surprise and fear.

  "It is a man's legs!" gasped the frightened town official.

  After the first moment of surprise had passed, they began to get
  back their wits; and the young man advised that they send for
  several strong men and lift out the pipe.

    [Illustration: "HERE IS AN ODD TREASURE."]

  This seemed sensible, and in a half-hour the men were at hand and
  the pipe was drawn down to the level of the organ-loft and laid
  horizontally. The workmen had been informed of the nature of their
  work, and all were under intense excitement. The pipe was very long,
  and the body was at least five feet from the top. One of the workmen
  reached in a pole having a hook at the end, and the next minute drew
  forth the dead body of the sinister old organist, Baptiste Lacombe.

  There was a pause of silent horror. Nobody cared particularly for
  the dead man, but the manner of his death was terrible.

  "How did it happen?" whispered one.

  "Perhaps it was suicide," answered another.

  They began more closely to examine the huge tube. François Tegot,
  who, although thus far cooler than the others, now seemed unable to
  stand, pointed to the hand of the dead man, which was tightly
  clenched upon a small cord. One of the workmen approached, and with
  some difficulty drew out the line: and a new thrill of expectation
  went through the silent company when they saw, attached to the end
  of the line, an old leather bundle covered with dust.

  Young Tegot now seemed to master himself by a great effort, and,
  motioning the workman back, he advanced, and, lifting the bag
  tenderly out into a more convenient position, he said solemnly, as
  if to himself, "I have long suspected something was wrong, and now I
  shall know."

  Then he examined the bag, and at length took from his pocket a knife
  and carefully cut open one side.

  Despite the fact that he expected the revelation that now came, he
  started back, for the opening revealed a piece of cloth,--a coat,
  which even the town official could recollect to be the coat of the
  long-lost organist, Raoul Tegot, François's father.

  The young man stepped back and sank again into his seat, and the
  others, coming forward, laid the bag quite open, and drew forth a
  watch and an embroidered vest; in a pocket of the coat was found a
  purse. "Here is an odd treasure," said one of the workmen, holding
  up a locket of dull gold.

  François seized it and opened it. The color forsook his face and his
  eyes filled with tears. He simply said,--

  "My mother."

  The town official now whispered to the surprised organ-builder, that
  the villanous Lacombe had killed poor Tegot on the morning of the
  trial, and had secreted the body in some unknown place and hidden
  the valuables here. Frightened by the fear of discovery, he had
  attempted to remove the treasures, had fallen into the pipe, and had
  thus met a horrible death.

  "There is nothing secret," said François, "but shall be revealed.
  Sin is its own detector, and its secrets cannot rest."

  The excitement among the townspeople was for many days even greater
  than it had been at the time of Tegot's disappearance, and many and
  bitter were the reproaches heaped upon the wicked organist's memory.

  François was immediately chosen organist, and held the position
  during his entire life.



CHAPTER VIII.

EVENING THE FOURTH.

  SEVEN NIGHTS ON THE RHINE:--HEIDELBERG.--STUDENTS.--STUDENT
  SONGS.--THE STORY OF LITTLE MOOK.--THE QUEER OLD LADY WHO WENT TO
  COLLEGE.


"Heidelberg," said Mr. Beal, "stands bright and clear beside Neckar, a
branch of the Rhine, as though it loved the river. It is semicircled
with blue mountain-walls, and is full of balmy air and cheerful faces.
The streets have an atmosphere of hospitality. Its history dates from
the Roman monuments on its hills, and is associated with the romantic
times of the counts-palatine of the Rhine.

"The world-wide fame of Heidelberg arises from its university. This
was founded in 1386, and is the oldest in Germany. It made Heidelberg
a student-town; there art flourished and free thought grew, and it
became the gem of German cities.

"The ancient Castle of Heidelberg is one of the wonders of Germany. It
is like a ruined town of palaces, and historic and poetic associations
are as thick as are the violets among its ruins. It is said that
Michael Angelo designed it: we cannot tell. The names of the masters
who upreared the pile of magnificence for centuries and peopled it
with statues are lost. The ivy creeps over their conceptions in stone
and marble, and the traveller exclaims in awe, 'Can it be that all
this glory was created for destruction?'

    [Illustration: PALACE AT HEIDELBERG.]

"We visited the castle at noon. A ruin green with ivy rose before
us. The sunlight fell through the open doorways, and the swallows
flitted in and out of the window-frames into roofless chambers.

"I was dreaming of the past: of the counts-palatine of the Rhine, of
stately dames, orange-gardens, and splendid festivals, when one of the
boys recalled my thoughts to the present.

"'Where is the tun?'

"'What tun?'

"'The one _we have come to see_,--the big wine-cask. It is said to
hold two hundred and thirty-six thousand bottles of wine, or did in
the days of the nobles.'

"'I remember: when I was a boy my mental picture of Heidelberg was a
big wine-cask.'

"'Yes; well, please, sir, I am a boy now.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Beal then gave a brief account of


  GERMAN STUDENT LIFE.

  The town of Heidelberg nestles in one of the loveliest valleys in
  Europe. The Neckar winds between a series of steep, high, thickly
  wooded hills.

  It is amid such pleasant scenes that the famous university is
  situated, and that several hundred German students are gathered to
  pursue their studies.

  One of my chief objects in visiting Heidelberg was to see the
  university, and to observe the curious student customs of which I
  had heard so much; and my journey was amply repaid by what I saw.

  The university itself was far less imposing than I had imagined;
  compared with the picturesque and hoary old college palaces of
  Oxford and Cambridge, or even with our own cosey Harvard and Yale
  edifices and greens, it seemed very insignificant.

  The buildings occupy a cheerless square in a central part of the
  quaint old German town. They are very plain, modest, and
  unpretending. The lecture-rooms are on one side of the square; in
  the rear are the museum and reading room, while opposite the
  lecture-rooms is a row of jewelry, clothing, confectionery, and
  other shops. I was most interested, however, in the students and
  their ways.

  As soon as you enter the town and pass up the main street, you espy
  groups of the students here and there. You are at once struck with
  the contrast they present to American or English students. Very odd
  to American eyes are their dress and manners. Let me describe one to
  you as an example.


  THE GERMAN STUDENT.

  The Heidelberg student is a rather large, heavy-looking fellow, with
  round face, broad shoulders, and a very awkward gait. His hair is
  cropped close to his head, and on one side of the head, in jaunty
  fashion, he wears a small round cap,--too small by far to cover it,
  as caps generally do. It is of red or blue or green, and worked with
  fanciful figures of gold or silver thread.

  On his feet are heavy boots, which rise, outside his trousers,
  nearly to the knees. His body is covered with a gay frock-coat, of
  green or gray or black. As he walks the street with his college
  mates, he puffs away on a very curious long pipe, the bowl being of
  porcelain, on which is painted some fanciful scene, or perhaps a
  view of the grand old castle. Sometimes the stem of the pipe is two
  or three feet long. In his hand he carries a cane, or rather stick
  (for it is too short to be used as a cane), with some curiously
  carved figure for a handle.

    [Illustration: GERMAN STUDENT.]

  Many of the Heidelberg students are attended, wherever they go, by a
  companion who is apt to produce fear and dislike in those who are
  not accustomed to him. This is a small, blear-eyed, bullet-headed,
  bloodthirsty-looking bull-dog, with red eyes and snarling mouth. You
  see such dogs everywhere with the students, running close to their
  heels, and ready, at an instant's notice, to defend their masters.

    [Illustration: CASTLE AT HEIDELBERG.]

  Almost every Heidelberg student belongs to one of the social
  societies, of which some are called "Verbindungs," and others
  "Corps;" and the caps they wear designate the particular societies
  of which they are members.

  These societies are both patriotic and social. The members devote
  themselves to "the glory of the Fatherland;" and they pledge
  themselves by oaths to defend and aid each other.

  Besides the cap, the students betray to what society they belong by
  various colored ribbons across their breasts or hung to their
  watch-chains. There is a great deal of rivalry among the societies,
  which results in frequent difficulties.

  The pastimes of the Heidelberg students are almost entirely confined
  to the "good times" they have in their "Verbindungs," in which they
  meet two nights in the week to sing, make funny speeches, and
  perform certain curious ceremonies.

  The students often make excursions to a beautiful spot on the
  Neckar, called "Wolfsbrunnen," where they obtain trout fresh from a
  pond, and eat them, nicely cooked, on tables set out under the trees
  near the river-side.

  Another frequent recreation is to attend the peasant fairs in the
  neighboring villages, and to take jaunts to the lovely Swetzingen
  gardens, or to the top of the Konigsthul hill, back of the castle,
  from which a most beautiful view of the Black Forest and Hartz
  Mountains, with the broad valley of the Rhine, is to be seen.

  On this hill is an inn where many resort to drink whey. Many of the
  students are too poor to enjoy the pastimes of the others, or even
  to live at the university without doing something to support
  themselves.

  These go wandering about the country in vacation time, on foot,
  singing in the villages, and receiving money from the kindly
  disposed, with which to pay the expenses of their education. As you
  pass through Germany you frequently meet parties of these poor
  students, who go about merrily; and to give them a few kreuzers is
  always a pleasure.

Mr. Beal gave from translations a few specimens of these German
student songs. The first was


  GAUDEAMUS.

    Let us then rejoice, ere youth
      From our grasp hath hurried;
    After cheerful youth is past,
    After cheerless age, at last,
      In the earth we're buried.

    Where are those who lived of yore,
      Men whose days are over?
    To the realms above thee go,
    Thence unto the shades below,
      An' thou wilt discover.

    Short and fleeting is our life,--
      Swift away 'tis wearing;
    Swiftly, too, will death be here,
    Cruel, us away to tear,
      Naught that liveth sparing.

    Long live Academia,--
      And our tutors clever;
    All our comrades long live they,
    And our female comrades gay,
      May they bloom forever.

    Long live every maiden true,
      Who has worth and beauty;
    And may every matron who
    Kind and good is, flourish, too,--
      Each who does her duty.

    Long may also live our state,
      And the king who guides us;
    Long may live our town, and fate
    Prosper each Mecænas great,
      Who good things provides us.

    Perish melancholy woe,
      Perish who derides us;
    Perish fiend, and perish so
    Every antiburschian foe
      Who for laughing chides us.

    [Illustration: GERMAN STUDENTS.]

Mr. Beal, finding the Class interested, continued the subject by some
account of one of the most popular writers of German songs.


  HEINE.

  The songs of Heine are unmatched in German literature, and have been
  translated into all European tongues. Their beauty of expression,
  and suggestive and evasive meanings, have made them household
  words in Germany, and favorite quotations in France and England.

  The career of Heine was exceptionably brilliant, and he won tributes
  of admiration that have seldom been equalled. It is said that on the
  appearance of his "Reisebilder" in 1826-31, "young Germany became
  intoxicated with enthusiasm." His writings on republicanism not only
  won the heart of the people, but carried his influence into other
  countries.

  From his youth Heine was troubled by thoughts of personal religious
  responsibility. There were periods when he earnestly sought to know
  man's true relations to God. He sought the evidence of truth,
  however, more from nature, philosophy, and history, than by the
  prayers and the faith which God's Word inculcates.

  He was born a Jew, but abandoned Judaism and was baptized in the
  Lutheran Church. Then he became a free-thinker. He studied various
  philosophies and systems of belief, but was not able to arrive at
  any satisfactory conclusions.

  In 1847 he was attacked by a strange disease. It paralyzed his body,
  and confined him for many years to his chair. For seven years he was
  propped up by pillows, and read his praises on a couch of suffering,
  and they made his life more sad.

  "What good," he said, in despair, "does it do me to hear that my
  health is drunk in cups of gold, when I can only wet my lips with
  barley-water?"

  In this condition he read "Uncle Tom's Cabin." It revealed to him
  the truth that religion is a matter of experience rather than
  philosophy, and that the humblest may receive the evidence of its
  truth through simple faith in Christ.

  "With all my learning," he said, "the poor negro knew more about
  religion than I do now, and I must come to a knowledge of the truth
  in the same humble way as poor Uncle Tom."

  He left this testimony in his will: "I have cast aside all
  philosophical pride, and have again felt the power of religious
  truth."

  I will recite to you one of the songs of Heine, which is popular
  among the German students.


  THE LORELEI.

    I know not whence it rises,
      This thought so full of woe;
    But a tale of times departed
      Haunts me, and will not go.

    The air is cool, and it darkens,
      And calmly flows the Rhine;
    The mountain-peaks are sparkling
      In the sunny evening-shine.

    And yonder sits a maiden,
      The fairest of the fair;
    With gold is her garment glittering,
      And she combs her golden hair:

    With a golden comb she combs it;
      And a wild song singeth she,
    That melts the heart with a wondrous
      And powerful melody.

    The boatman feels his bosom
      With a nameless longing move;
    He sees not the gulfs before him,
      His gaze is fixed above,

    Till over boat and boatman
      The Rhine's deep waters run:
    And this, with her magic singing,
      The Lorelei has done!

Among the pleasing stories related on this evening was "Little Mook,"
by Hauff, and a poetic account of a "Queer Old Lady who went to
College."


  LITTLE MOOK.

  There once lived a dwarf in the town of Niceu, whom the people
  called Little Mook. He lived alone, and was thought to be rich. He
  had a very small body and a very large head, and he wore an enormous
  turban.

  He seldom went into the streets, for the reason that ill-bred
  children there followed and annoyed him. They used to cry after
  him,--

    "Little Mook, O Little Mook,
    Turn, oh, turn about and look!
    Once a month you leave your room,
    With your head like a balloon:
    Try to catch us, if you can;
    Turn and look, my little man."

    [Illustration: ENTRANCE TO HEIDELBERG CASTLE.]

  I will tell you his history.

  His father was a hard-hearted man, and treated him unkindly because
  he was deformed. The old man at last died, and his relatives drove
  the dwarf away from his home.

  He wandered into the strange world with a cheerful spirit, for the
  strange world was more kind to him than his kin had been.

  He came at last to a strange town, and looked around for some face
  that should seem pitiful and friendly. He saw an old house, into
  whose door a great number of cats were passing. "If the people here
  are so good to cats, they may be kind to me," he thought, and so he
  followed them. He was met by an old woman, who asked him what he
  wanted.

  He told his sad story.

  "I don't cook any but for my darling pussy cats," said the beldame;
  "but I pity your hard lot, and you may make your home with me until
  you can find a better."

  So Little Mook was employed to look after the cats and kittens.

    [Illustration: LITTLE MOOK.]

  The kittens, I am sorry to say, used to behave very badly when the
  old dame went abroad; and when she came home and found the house in
  confusion, and bowls and vases broken, she used to berate Little
  Mook for what he could not help.

  While in the old lady's service he discovered a secret room in which
  were magic articles, among them a pair of enormous slippers.

  One day when the old lady was out the little dog broke a crystal
  vase. Little Mook knew that he would be held responsible for the
  accident, and he resolved to escape and try his fortune in the world
  again. He would need good shoes, for the journey might be long; so
  he put on the big slippers and ran away.

  Ran? What wonderful slippers those were! He had only to say to
  them, "Go!" and they would impel him forward with the rapidity of
  the wind. They seemed to him like wings.

  "I will become a courier," said Little Mook, "and so make my
  fortune, sure."

  So Little Mook went to the palace in order to apply to the king.

  He first met the messenger-in-ordinary.

  "What!" said he, "you want to be the king's messenger,--you with
  your little feet and great slippers!"

  "Will you allow me to make a trial of speed with your swiftest
  runner?" asked Little Mook.

  The messenger-in-ordinary told the king about the little man and his
  application.

  "We will have some fun with him," said the king. "Let him run a race
  with my first messenger for the sport of the court."

  So it was arranged that Little Mook should try his speed with the
  swiftest messenger.

  Now the king's runner was a very tall man. His legs were very long
  and slender; he had little flesh on his body. He walked with
  wonderful swiftness, looking like a windmill as he strode forward.
  He was the telegraph of his times, and the king was very proud of
  him.

  The next day the king, who loved a jest, summoned his court to a
  meadow to witness the race, and to see what the bumptious pygmy
  could do. Everybody was on tiptoe of expectation, being sure that
  something amusing would follow.

  When Little Mook appeared he bowed to the spectators, who laughed at
  him. When the signal was given for the two to start, Little Mook
  allowed the runner to go ahead of him for a little time, but when
  the latter drew near the king's seat he passed him, to the wonder of
  all the people, and easily won the race.

  The king was delighted, the princess waved her veil, and the people
  all shouted, "Huzza for Little Mook!"

  So Little Mook became the royal messenger, and surpassed all the
  runners in the world with his magic slippers.

  But Little Mook's great success with his magic slippers excited
  envy, and made him bitter enemies, and at last the king himself came
  to believe the stories of his enemies, and turned against him and
  banished him from his kingdom.

  Little Mook wandered away, sore at heart, and as friendless as when
  he had left home and the house of the old woman. Just beyond the
  confines of the kingdom he came to a grove of fig-trees full of
  fruit.

  He stopped to rest and refresh himself with the fruit. There were
  two trees that bore the finest figs he had ever seen. He gathered
  some figs from one of them, but as he was eating them his nose and
  ears began to _grow_, and when he looked down into a clear, pure
  stream near by, he saw that his head had been changed into a head
  like a donkey.

  He sat down under the _other_ fig-tree in despair. At last he took
  up a fig that had fallen from this tree, and ate it. Immediately his
  nose and ears became smaller and smaller and resumed their natural
  shape. Then he perceived that the trees bore magic fruit.

  "Happy thought!" said Little Mook. "I will go back to the palace and
  sell the fruit of the first tree to the royal household, and then I
  will turn doctor, and give the donkeys the fruit of the second tree
  as medicine. But I will not give the old king any medicine."

    [Illustration: AMPUTATION.]

  Little Mook gathered the two kinds of figs, and returned to the
  palace and sold that of the first tree to the butler.

  Oh, then there was woe in the palace! The king's family were seen
  wandering around with donkeys' heads on their shoulders. Their noses
  and ears were as long as their arms. The physicians were sent for
  and they held a _consultation_. They decided on amputation; but as
  fast as they cut off the noses and ears of the afflicted household,
  these troublesome members grew out again, longer than before.

  Then Little Mook appeared with the principles and remedies of
  homoeopathy. He gave one by one of the sufferers the figs of the
  _second_ tree, and they were cured. He collected his fees, and
  having relieved all but the king he fled, taking his homoeopathic
  arts with him. The king wore the head of a donkey to his latest day.


  THE QUEER OLD LADY WHO WENT TO COLLEGE.

    [Illustration: THE QUEER OLD LADY WHO WENT TO COLLEGE.]

    There was a queer old lady, and she had lost her youth;
      She bought her a new mirror,
    And it told to her the truth.
      Did she break the truthful mirror?
          Oh, no, no; no, no, no, no.
    But she bought some stays quite rare,
    Some false teeth and wavy hair,
    Some convex-concave glasses such as men of culture wear,
      And then she looked again,
      And she said, "I am not plain,--
      I am not plain, 'tis plain,
      Not very, very plain,
    I did not think that primps and crimps
      Would change a body so.
    I'll take a book on Art,
    And press it to my heart,
    And I'll straightway go to college,
      Where I think I'll catch a beau."

    [Illustration: "And it told to her the truth."]

    [Illustration: "Not very, very plain."]

  II.

    She made her way to college just as straight as straight could be,
    And she asked for the Professor of the new philosophie;
      He met her with a smile
      And said, "Pray rest awhile,
    And come into my parlor and take a cup of tea.
      We will talk of themes celestial,--
    Of the flowery nights in June
      When blow the gentle zephyrs;
    Of the circle round the moon;
      Of the causes of the causes."
    These college men are quite and very much polite,
    And when you call upon them they you straightway in invite.

    [Illustration: "They you straightway in invite."]

  III.

    But the lady she was modest,
      And she said, "You me confuse;
    I have come, O man of wisdom,
      To get a bit of news.
    There's a problem of life's problems
      That often puzzles me:
    Tell me true, O man of Science,
      When my wedding-day will be."

  IV.

    Quick by the hand he seized her,
      He of the philosophie,
    And his answer greatly pleased her
      When they had taken tea:
    "'Twill be, my fair young lady,
      When you are _twenty-three_!"

  V.

    At her window, filled with flowers,
    Then she waited happy hours,
    Scanned the byways and the highways
      To see what she could see.
    If the postman brought a letter,
    It was sure to greatly fret her,--
    Fret her so her maid she'd frighten,
      If a dun it proved to be.
    If it came not from a lover,
    Sadly she her face would cover,
    Hide her face and say in sorrow,
    "Truly _he_ will come to-morrow,
    For he knew, that man of science,
      And I'm _almost_ twenty-three."

  VI.

    He deceived her, he deceived her,
    Oh, that too kind man deceived her,--
    He of compasses and lenses,
    He of new-found influences,
      He of the philosophie.
    Oh the chatterer, oh the flatterer,
    Oh the smatterer in science,
      To whom all things clear should be!
    Had he taken the old almanac,
    That true guide to worldly wisdom,
    He would have seen that there was something--
    Some stray figure, some lost factor,
    Something added the extractor--
      Wrong in his chronologie,
      In his learned chronologie.

  MORAL.

    There are few things, one, two, three,
    In the earth, the air, and sea,
    That the schoolmen do not know.
    When you're going to catch a beau,
    And a few like occultations,
      In a few things here below,
      Men of wisdom do not know;
    And to them for these few items
      It is never wise to go.

    [Illustration: "HE OF THE PHILOSOPHIE."]



CHAPTER IX.

FIFTH MEETING FOR RHINE STORIES.

  SEVEN NIGHTS ON THE RHINE:--WORMS.--LUTHER'S MONUMENT.--THE STORY OF
  SIEGFRIED AND THE DRAGON.--MAYENCE.--BOAT JOURNEY.--STORIES OF THE
  CASTLES ON THE MIDDLE RHINE.--THE WONDERFUL STORY OF THE
  LORELEI.--KERNER.


Mr. Beal continued the narrative of travel at the fifth meeting of the
Club for the rehearsal of Rhine stories.

       *       *       *       *       *

"We passed over a road along the right bank of the Rhine towards
Worms. We journeyed amid green forests, and past fields which had
heaped up harvests for a thousand years. Spires gleamed on the
opposite bank, and in the flat landscape Worms came to view, the Rhine
flowing calmly by.

"We stopped at Worms to see the cathedral and the Luther Monument. It
is a dull town. We recalled that it was here great Cæsar stood, and
Attila drove his cavalry of devastation over the Rhine. Here lived the
hero of German classic song,--Siegfried. The cathedral has a
monumental history. In 772 war was declared in it against the Saxons.
Here was held the famous Diet of Worms at which Luther appeared, and
said,--

"'Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise. God help me.'

"The cathedral is of the style called Romanesque. It is lofty and
gloomy. Worms itself is a shadowy and silent city as compared with the
past.

"The Luther Monument is a history of Protestantism in stone and
bronze. It is one of the noblest works of art of modern times, and its
majesty and unity are a surprise to the traveller. Luther is of course
the central figure. He stands with his Bible in his hands, and his
face upturned to heaven. Around him are the figures of the great
reformers before the Reformation: Wycliffe, of England; Waldo, of
France; Huss, of Bohemia; and Savonarola, of Italy. The German princes
who befriended and sustained the Reformer occupy conspicuous places,
and the immense group presents a most impressive scene, associated
with lofty character and commanding talent.

    [Illustration: A BATTLE BETWEEN FRANKS AND SAXONS.]

"We went to the place where Luther sat beneath a tree, when his
companions sought to dissuade him from entering Worms.

"'I would go to Worms,' he said, 'were there as many devils as there
are tiles upon the roofs.'

"The high pitched roofs and innumerable tiles on them everywhere met
our eyes, and recalled the famous declaration.

    [Illustration: LUTHER'S HOUSE.]

"I should here tell you the


  STORY OF SIEGFRIED AND THE NIBELUNG HEROES.

  The early nations of Europe seem to have come out of the northwest
  of Asia. The Celts or Gauls came first; other tribes followed them.
  These latter tribes called themselves _Deutsch_, or _the people_.
  They settled between the Alps and the Baltic Sea. In time they came
  to be called Ger-men, or war-men. They lived in rude huts and held
  the lands in common. They were strong and brave and prosperous.

    [Illustration: A TRIBE OF GERMANS ON AN EXPEDITION.]

  They worshipped the great god Woden. His day of worship was the
  fourth of the week; hence Woden's-day, or Wednesday.

  Woden was an all-wise god. Ravens carried to him the news from
  earth. His temples were stone altars on desolate heaths, and human
  sacrifices were offered to him.

  Woden had a celestial hall called Valhall, and thither he
  transported the souls of the brave; hence the name Valhalla.

  There were supposed to be water gods in the rivers and elves
  throughout the forest. The heavens were peopled with minor gods, as
  well as the great gods, and the spirits of the unseen world could
  make themselves visible or invisible to men as they chose.

  Most great nations have heroes of song sung by the poets, like
  those of Homer and Virgil. The early German hero was Siegfried, and
  the song or epic that celebrates his deeds is called the _Nibelungen
  Lied_. Its story is as follows.

  In the Land of Mist there was a lovely river, where dwelt little
  people who could assume any form they wished. One of them was
  accustomed to change himself into an otter when he went to the river
  to fish. As he was fishing one day in this form he was caught by
  Loki, one of the great gods, who immediately despatched him and took
  off his skin.

  When his brothers Fafner and Reginn saw what had been done, they
  reproved Loki severely, and demanded of him that he should fill the
  otter's skin with gold, and give it to them as an atonement for his
  great misdeed.

  "I return the otter skin and give you the treasure you ask," said
  Loki; "but the gift shall bring you evil."

  Their father took the treasure, and Fafner murdered his father to
  secure it to himself, and then turned into a dragon or serpent to
  guard it, and to keep his brother from finding it.

  Reginn had a wonderful pupil, named Siegfried, a Samson among the
  inhabitants of the land. He was so strong that he could catch wild
  lions and hang them by the tail over the walls of the castle. Reginn
  persuaded this pupil to attack the serpent and to slay him.

  Now Siegfried could understand the songs of birds; and the birds
  told him that Reginn intended to kill him; so he slew Reginn and
  himself possessed the treasure.

  Serpents and dragons were called _worms_ in Old Deutsch, and the
  Germans called the town where Siegfried lived Worms.

  Siegfried had bathed himself in the dragon's blood, and the bath
  made his skin so hard that nothing could hurt him except in one
  spot. A leaf had fallen on this spot as he was bathing. It was
  between his shoulders.

  Siegfried, like Samson, had a curious wife. His romances growing out
  of his love for this woman would fill a volume. She had learned
  where his one vulnerable spot lay. But she was a lovely lady, and
  the wedded pair lived very happily together at Worms.

  At last a dispute arose between them and their relatives, and the
  latter sought to destroy Siegfried's life. His wife went for counsel
  to a supposed friend, but real enemy, named Hagen.

  "Your husband is invulnerable," said Hagen.

  "Yes, except in one spot."

  "And you know the place?"

  "Yes."

  "Sew a patch on his garment over it, and I shall know how to protect
  him."

  The poor wife had revealed a fatal secret. She sewed a patch on her
  husband's garment between the shoulders, and now thought him doubly
  secure.

    [Illustration: THE MURDER OF SIEGFRIED.]

  There was to be a great hunting-match, and Siegfried entered into it
  as a champion. He rode forth in high spirits, but on his back was
  the fatal patch.

  Hagen contrived that the wine should be left behind.

  "That," he said, "will compel the hunters to lie down on their
  breasts to drink from the streams when they become thirsty. Then
  will come my opportunity."

  He was right in his conjecture.

  Siegfried became tired and thirsty. He rode up to a stream. He threw
  himself on his breast to drink, exposing his back, on which was the
  patch, revealing the vulnerable place.

  There he was stabbed by a conspirator employed by Hagen.

  They bore the dead body of the hero down the Rhine, and lamented the
  departed champion as the barque drifted on. The scene has been
  portrayed in art and song, and has left its impress on the poetic
  associations of the river. You will have occasion to recall this
  story again in connection with Drachenfels.

"Our fifth night on the Rhine was passed at Mayence, at the Hôtel de
Hollande, near the landing-place of the Rhine steamers. The balconies
and windows of the hotel afforded fine views of the river and of the
Taunus Mountains.

"Mayence is said to have arisen by magic. The sorcerer Nequam wished
for a new city; he came to this point of the Rhine, spoke the word,
and the city rose. It is almost as old as the Christian era. Here the
Twenty-second Roman legion came, after its return from the conquest of
Jerusalem, and brought Christianity with it, through some of its early
converts. It was one of the grand cities of Charlemagne, who erected a
palace at Lower Ingelheim, and introduced the cultivation of the vine.
Here lived Bishop Hatto, of bad repute, and good Bishop Williges.

"Here rose Gutenberg, the inventor of printing, and here Thorwaldsen's
statue of the great inventor announces to the traveller what a great
light of civilization appeared to the world.

"At Mayence we began the most delightful zigzag we had ever made,--a
boat journey on the Rhine.

"'If you would see the Rhine of castles and vineyards.' said an
English friend, 'hire a boat. The most famous river scenery in the
world lies between Mayence and Cologne. If you take the railroad you
will merely _escape_ it in a few hours; if a steamboat, your curiosity
will be excited, but not gratified; it will all vanish like a dream:
take a boat, my good American friend,--take a boat.'

"Between Mayence and Bingen the Rhine attains its greatest breadth. It
is studded with a hundred islands. Its banks are continuous
vineyards. Here is the famous district called the Rheingau, which
extends along the right bank of the river, where the Rhine wines are
produced.

    [Illustration: MAYENCE.]

"It is all a luxurious wine-garden,--the Rheingau. The grapes purple
beside ruins and convents, as well as on their low artificial
trellises, and everywhere drink in the sunshine and grow luscious in
the mellow air.

"Castles, palaces, ruins, towers, and quaint towns all mingle with the
vineyards. A dreamy light hangs over the scene; the river is calm, and
the boat drifts along in an atmosphere in which the spirit of romance
seems to brood, as though indeed the world's fairy tales were true.

"We came in sight of Bingen.

"'We must stop there,' said Willie Clifton.

"'Why?' I asked curiously.

"'Because--well--

    "For I was born at Bingen,--at Bingen on the Rhine."'

"He then repeated slowly and in a deep, tender voice the beginning of
a poem that almost every schoolboy knows:--

    'A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
    There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
    But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
    And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
    The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,
    And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land:
    Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine;
    For I was born at Bingen,--at Bingen on the Rhine."'

"Bingen is a town of about seven thousand inhabitants, and is engaged
in the wine trade. We visited the chapel of St. Rochus, on a hill near
the town, because one of our party had somewhere read that Bulwer had
said that the view from St. Rochus was the finest in the world.

"Again upon the river, all the banks seemed filled with castles,
villages, and ruins. Every hill had its castle, every crag its gray
tower. We drifted by the famous Mouse Tower, which stands at the end
of an island meadow fringed with osier twigs. It is little better
than a square tower of a common village church, nor is there any truth
in the story that Southey's poem has associated with it. Poor Bishop
Hatto, of evil name and memory! He died in 970, and the tower was not
built until the thirteenth century. For aught that is known, he was a
good man; he certainly was not eaten up by rats or mice. The legend
runs:--

    [Illustration: BISHOP HATTO AND THE RATS.]

"In the tenth century Hatto, Bishop of Fulda, was raised to the
dignity of Archbishop of Mayence. He built a strong tower on the
Rhine, wherein to collect tolls from the vessels that passed.

"A famine came to the Rhine countries. Hatto had vast granaries, and
the people came to him for bread. He refused them, and they importuned
him. He bade them go into a large granary, one day, promising them
relief. When they had entered the building, he barred the doors and
set it on fire, and the famishing beggars, among whom were many women
and children, were consumed.

"The bishop listened to the cries of the dying for mercy as the
building was burning.

"'Hark!' he said, 'hear the rats squeak.'

"When the building fell millions of rats ran from the ruins to the
bishop's palace. They filled all the rooms and attacked the people.
The bishop was struck with terror.

    '"I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he;
    "'Tis the safest place in Germany:
    The walls are high, and the shores are steep,
    And the stream is strong, and the water deep."

    'Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away,
    And he crossed the Rhine without delay,
    And reached his tower, and barred with care
    All windows, doors, and loopholes there.

    'He laid him down and closed his eyes;
    But soon a scream made him arise:
    He started, and saw two eyes of flame
    On his pillow, from whence the screaming came.

    'He listened and looked; it was only the cat:
    But the bishop he grew more fearful for that;
    For she sat screaming, mad with fear
    At the army of rats that were drawing near.

    'For they have swam over the river so deep,
    And they have climbed the shores so steep;
    And up the tower their way is bent,
    To do the work for which they were sent.

    'They are not to be told by the dozen or score;
    By thousands they come, and by myriads and more:
    Such numbers had never been heard of before,
    Such a judgment had never been witnessed of yore.

    'Down on his knees the bishop fell,
    And faster and faster his beads did tell,
    As, louder and louder drawing near,
    The gnawing of their teeth he could hear.

    'And in at the windows, and in at the door,
    And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour,
    And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor,
    From the right and the left, from behind and before,
    From within and without, from above and below,
    And all at once to the bishop they go.

    'They have whetted their teeth against the stones;
    And now they pick the bishop's bones:
    They gnawed the flesh from every limb;
    For they were sent to do judgment on him!'

"We passed ruin after ruin which the boatman said were 'robber
castles.'

"'And what do you mean by _robber_ castles?' asked Herman.

"'The old lords of the Rhine used to collect tolls from the vessels
that passed their estates. The tax was regarded as unjust, and hence
the lords were themselves called robbers, and their castles robber
castles.'

"One of these castles, called the _Pfalzgrafenstein_, is said to
resemble a stone ship at anchor in the river. It was formerly a rock,
with one little hut upon it, and it was associated with a touching
incident of history.

"Louis le Debonnaire, the son of Charlemagne, became weary of
state-craft and the crown. He felt that his end was near. He desired
to die where he could hear the waves of the Rhine. He was taken to
this rock, and there with the ebb of the river his troubled life ebbed
away.

"Most of the old castles are built on the narrows of the river. These
narrows are between high rocks and rocky hills. They are in the Middle
Rhine, or between Mayence and Bonn. The Middle Rhine has some thirty
conspicuous castles on its banks. It is sometimes called the
Castellated Rhine, and its narrows are termed the Castellated Rhine
Pass.

    [Illustration: VIEW ON THE RHINE.]

"On, on we drifted. Every high rock seemed a gateway to some new scene
of beauty; wonder followed wonder.

"And now the water seemed agitated. Dark rocks projected into the
river; the view was intercepted.

"The boatman conversed in an animated way with me, and I looked up to
a high rock with an interested expression and an incredulous smile.

"He turned to us quietly and said,--

"'This is the Lorelei Pass.'

"He presently added,--

"'That is the Lorelei.'

    [Illustration: THE LORELEI.]


  THE WONDERFUL STORY OF THE LORELEI.

  Who has not heard it, repeated it in verse, echoed it in song?

  It is the best known of the Rhine tales, not because it is the most
  interesting, but because it is associated with the noblest scenery
  of the river, with poetry and music. It is hardly equal to such
  legends as the "Drachenfels" and the "Two Brothers," but it is
  lifted into historic prominence by its associations.

  Still the story is richer in incident than the mere song would
  indicate. The origin and development of the popular legend is as
  follows:--

  In the shadowy days of the Palatines of the Rhine,--shadowy because
  of ignorance and superstition,--the boatmen among the rocks above
  St. Goar on the Rhine used to fancy that they could see at night the
  form of a beautiful nymph on the "Lei," or high rock of the river.
  Her limbs were moulded of air; a veil of mist and gems covered her
  face; her hair was long and golden, and her eyes shone like the
  stars. Her robe was blue and glimmering like the waves, decked with
  water flowers and zoned with crystals. She was most distinctly seen
  by pale moonlight.

  They called this recurring vision of mist and gems Lore, the
  enchantress. They believed that her favor brought good luck, but her
  ill will destruction.

  Nothing could be more natural than for the simple fishermen to think
  that they saw a form of mist, very bright and lovely, above the
  rocks at night, when once the story had been told them.

  In the days of superstition such a story was sure to grow.

  It was said that this Undine of the Rhine, the enchantress Lore, had
  a most melodious and seductive voice. When she sang those who heard
  her listened spellbound. If the boatmen displeased her, she
  entranced them by her song, and drew them into the whirlpools under
  the rocks, where they disappeared forever. To the landsmen who
  offended her, she made the river appear like a road, and led them to
  fall over the rocks to destruction. With all her beauty and charms,
  she was the evil genius of the place.

  Herman, the only son of the last Palatine, a youth of some fifteen
  summers, was delicate in health. Instead of devoting himself to
  chivalrous exercises, he gave his attention to music and song.

  One night he and his father were descending the Rhine, when he felt
  an inspiration come over him to sing. His voice was silvery and
  flute-like, and breathed the emotional sentiment of the heart of
  youth. As the boat drew near the Lei, Lore, the enchantress, heard
  the song, and she herself became spellbound by the sentiment and
  deep feeling expressed in the mellifluent music.

  She tried to answer him, but her voice failed.

  As Herman grew to manhood his ill health disappeared, and his
  character changed. He became rugged and manly, and abandoned the
  arts for the chase, horsemanship, and the preparations for martial
  contests.

  He became a renowned hunter. He rode the wildest steeds, and
  ventured into places and merrily blew his horn where no huntsman
  dared follow him.

  The enchantress Lore, from the time she had heard his song,
  disappeared from the rocks. The change that came over his person and
  character seemed like enchantment: was the siren invisibly following
  him?

  And now a strange thing began to startle him by its mystery. When
  alone, crossing a wild mountain or a ravine, he would seek to keep
  up a communication by shouting through his hands,--

  "Hillo-ho-o-o-o!"

  Immediately a sweet voice would answer,--

  "Ho-o-o-o!"

  He would follow the sound.

  "Hillo-ho-o-o-o!"

  "Ho-o-o-o!"

  It always led him towards the Lei.

  He became alarmed at this occurrence. He believed that he was
  followed by a spirit, and that a spell was upon him, which boded
  destruction. He resolved to abandon the chase and devote himself to
  the arts again.

  He was sitting by the window of the castle on a summer evening. A
  purple mist lay on the forests and river, and the moon poured her
  light over it, making all things appear like an enchanted realm.

  He heard a nightingale singing in the woods. Did ever a bird sing
  like that? He listened. There was a witchery in the song. He rose
  and went into the woods. The song filled the air like a shower of
  golden notes. He followed it. It retreated. He went on. But the
  song, more and more enchanting and alluring, floated into the
  shadowy distance. He found himself at last on the Lei.

  He beheld there a dazzling grotto, full of stalactites, and a nymph
  of wondrous beauty on a coral throne. He felt his being thrill with
  love. He was about to enter the grotto, when, oh thought of darkness
  and horror! the recollection of the enchantress came to him, and he
  crossed his bosom and broke the spell. He hurried home with a
  beating heart.

  But the temptation and vision had proved fatal to him. He was never
  himself again. He dreamed constantly of Lore. All his longings were
  for her.

  At eve he would hear the same nightingale singing. He would long to
  follow the voice. It inflamed his love. His will, his senses, all
  that made life desirable, were yielding to the fatal passion.

  He went to a good priest for advice.

  "Father Walter, what shall I do?"

  "Shake off the spell, or it will end in your ruin."

  One day Herman and the priest went fishing on the Rhine. The boat
  drifted near the Lei. The moon rose in full splendor in the clear
  sky, strewing the water with countless gems.

  Herman took a lute and filled the air with music.

  It was answered from the Lei. Oh, how wonderful! The air seemed
  entranced with the spiritual melody. Herman was beside himself with
  delight. The priest also heard it.

  "The Lore! In the name of the Virgin, let us make for the shore!"

    [Illustration: HERMAN'S EYES WERE FIXED ON THE ROCK.]

  Herman's eyes were fixed on the rock. There she sat, the siren!

  The priest plied the oar, to turn the boat back.

  But nearer, nearer drifted the boat to the rock.

  Nearer and nearer!

  The moon poured her white light upon the crags.

  Nearer and nearer!

  There was a shock.

  The boat was shivered like glass.

  Walter crossed himself, and floated on the waves to the shore.

  But Herman--he was never seen again!

Mr. Beal's narrative nearly filled the evening. A few stories were
told by other members of the Club, but they were chiefly from Grimm,
and hence are somewhat familiar.

Charlie Leland closed the meeting with a free translation of a poem
from Kerner.

  Justinus Kerner was born in Ludwigsburg, in 1786. He was a physician
  and a poet. He belonged to the spiritualistic school of poets, and
  his illustrations of the power of mind over matter, in both prose
  and poetry, are often very forcible. The following poem will give
  you a view of his estimate of physical as compared with mental
  power:--

  IN THE OLD CATHEDRAL.

    In the vaults of the dim cathedral,
      In the gloaming, weird and cold,
    Are the coffins of old King Ottmar,
      And a poet, renowned of old.

    The king once sat in power,
      Enthroned in pomp and pride,
    And his crown still rests upon him,
      And his falchion rusts beside.

    And near to the king the poet
      Has slumbered in darkness long,
    But he holds in his hands, as an emblem,
      The harp of immortal song.

    Hark! 'tis the castles falling!
      Hark! 'tis the war-cry dread!
    But the monarch's sword is not lifted,
      There, in the vaults of the dead!

    List to the vernal breezes!
      List to the minstrels' strain!
    'Tis the poet's song they are singing,
      And the poet lives again.



CHAPTER X.

NIGHT THE SIXTH.

  THE BEAUTIFUL RHINE.--COBLENTZ.--A ZIGZAG TO WEIMAR.--GOETHE AND
  SCHILLER.--THE STRANGE STORY OF FAUST.--FAUST IN ART.--THE SEVEN
  MOUNTAINS.--THE DRACHENFELS.--THE STORY OF THE DRAGON.--STORIES OF
  FREDERICK THE GREAT.--THE UNNERVED HUSSAR.


Mr. Beal occupied much of the time this evening. He thus continued the
narrative of travel:--

       *       *       *       *       *

"From St. Goar to Boppard, two stations at which the Rhine boats call,
is about an hour's run; but the journey is an unfailing memory. The
rocky walls of the river, the continuous villages, the quaint churches
amid the vineyards and cherry orchards, the mossy meadows about the
mountains, the white-kerchiefed villagers, present so many varied and
delightful objects, that the eye feasts on beauty, and wonders
expectantly at what the next turn of the river will reveal. The rock
shadows in the water contrast with the bright scenes above the river,
and add an impression of grandeur to the effect of the whole, like
shadows on the cathedral walls that heighten the effect of the
rose-colored windows. Beautiful, beautiful, is the Rhine.

"Grand castles, perched on high cliffs and mountain walls, surprise
us, delight us, and vanish behind us, as the boat moves on;--the
Brother Castles, Marksburg, the mountain palace Solzenfels, with their
lofty, gloomy, and barbaric grandeur, reminding one always of times
whose loss the mind does not regret.

"And now a beautiful city comes in view, nestled at the foot of the
hills, and protected by a stupendous fortress on the opposite side of
the river. The fortress is Ehrenbreitstein, the Gibraltar of the
Rhine, capable of holding an army of men. It is a great arsenal now,
well garrisoned in peace as in war; in short, it may be called the
watch on the Rhine.

    [Illustration: EHRENBREITSTEIN.]

"The lovely city under its guns, on the opposite side of the river, is
Coblentz. It is a gusset of houses, a V-shaped city, at the confluence
of the Rhine and Moselle. The Romans called it the city of the
Confluence, or Confluentia; hence, corrupted, it is known as Coblentz.

    [Illustration: GOETHE'S PROMENADE.]

"It is the half-way city between Cologne and Mayence, and a favorite
resting place of tourists. The summer residence of the King of
Germany is here.

"From Coblentz we made a détour into the heart of Germany, going by
rail to Weimar, once called the Athens of the North. It was once the
literary centre of Germany. Here lived Goethe, Schiller, Wieland, and
Herder. What the English Lake District, in the days of Wordsworth,
Southey, Coleridge, Christopher North, and De Quincey was once to
England, what Cambridge and Concord have been to America in the best
days of its authors and poets, Weimar was to Germany at the beginning
of the present century. We went there to visit the tombs and statues
of Goethe, and to gain a better knowledge of the works of these poets
from the associations of their composition.

"Weimar is a quaint provincial-looking town on the river Ilm. It has
some sixteen thousand inhabitants, and is the residence of the Grand
Duke of Saxe-Weimar. The grounds of the palace are wonderfully
beautiful. They extend along the river, and communicate with a summer
palace called Belvedere.

"We visited the tombs of the two great poets. They are found beneath a
small chapel in the Grand Ducal burial vault. The Grand Duke Charles
Augustus desired that the bodies of the two poets should be interred
one on each side of him: but this was forbidden by the usages of the
court.

"In the old Stadtkirche, built in 1400, are the tombs of the ancient
dukes, now forgotten. Among them is that of Duke Bernard, who died in
1639. He was the friend of Gustavus Adolphus, and one of the most
powerful of the leaders of the Reformation.

"Goethe, the most gifted of the German poets, and the most
accomplished man of his age, was born at Frankfort-on-the-Main, in
1749. In 1775 he made the intimate acquaintance of Charles Augustus,
Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, who induced him to take up his residence at
Weimar, the capital. Here he held many public offices, and at last
became minister of state. He died at the age of eighty-four.

"Goethe's most popular work is a novel called _The Sorrows of
Werther_, but his great and enduring work is _Faust_, a dramatic poem,
in which his great genius struggles with the problems of good and
evil.

"His life was full of beautiful friendships. In 1787 Schiller, the
second in rank of great German poets, was invited to reside at Weimar.
Goethe became most warmly attached to him, and the two pursued their
high literary callings together. The literary circle now consisted of
Goethe, Schiller, Wieland, Herder, and the Grand Duke. It was the
golden age of German literature.


  THE STRANGE STORY OF FAUST.

  No myth of the Middle Ages has had so large a growth and so long a
  life as this.

  It has been made the subject of books, pamphlets, and articles
  almost without number. The Faust literature in Germany would fill a
  library.

  In painting, especially of the Holland school, the dark subject as
  prominently appears. It is also embodied in sculpture.

  But it is in poetry and music that it found a place that carried it
  over the world. It was made the subject of Marlowe's drama, of
  Goethe's greatest poem, and it is sung in three of the greatest
  operas of modern times.

  But to the legend.

  About the year 1490 there was born at Roda, in the Duchy of
  Saxe-Weimar, a child whose fame was destined to fill the world of
  superstition, fable, and song. He was named John Faustus, or Faust.

  He studied medicine, became an alchemist, and was possessed with a
  consuming desire to learn the secrets of life and of the spiritual
  world.

  He studied magic, and his thirst for knowledge of the occult
  sciences grew. He wished to know how to prolong life, to change base
  metals to gold, to do things at once by the power of the will.

  One night, as he was studying, the Evil One appeared before him.

  "I will reveal to you all the secrets you are seeking, and will
  enable you to do anything you wish by the power of the will alone--"

  Dr. Faustus was filled with an almost insane delight.

  "--On one condition."

  "Name it."

  "That I shall have your soul in return."

  "When?"

  "At the end of twenty-four years--at this time of night--midnight."

  "I shall have pleasure?"

    [Illustration: FAUST SIGNING.]

  "Pleasure."

  "Gold?"

  "Gold."

  "I shall know the secrets of nature?"

  "The secrets of nature."

  "I may do what I like at will?"

  "At will."

  "I will sign the compact."

  "Sign!"

  Faust signed his name to a compact that was to give the Evil One his
  soul for twenty-four years of pleasure, gold, and knowledge, that
  were to come to an end at midnight.

  "I will give you an attendant," said the Evil One, "to help you."

  He caused a dark but very elegant gentleman to appear, whom he
  presented to Faust as Mephistopheles.

  Dr. Faustus and Mephistopheles now began to travel into all lands,
  performing wonders to the amazement of all people wherever they
  went.

  In a wine-cellar at Leipsig, where he and Mephistopheles were
  drinking, some gay fellows said,--

  "Faust, make grapes grow on a vine on this table."

  "Be silent."

  There was dead silence.

    [Illustration: FAUST AND MEPHISTOPHELES.]

  A vine began to grow from the table, and presently it bore a bunch
  of grapes for each of the revellers.

  "Take your knives and cut a cluster for each."

  There was an explosion. Faust and Mephistopheles were seen flying
  out of the window; the _window_ is still shown in Leipsig. The vine
  had disappeared, and each of the revellers found himself with his
  knife over his nose, about to cut it off, supposing it to be a
  cluster of grapes.

  The wonders that it is claimed that Dr. Faustus did in the
  twenty-four years fill volumes. The Faust marvels have gathered to
  themselves the fables of centuries.

  The twenty-four years came to an end at last. Faust became gloomy,
  and retired to Rimlich, at the inn, among his old friends.

  The fatal night came.

  "Should you hear noises in my chamber to-night, do not disturb me,"
  he said, on parting from his companions to go to his room.

  Near midnight a tempest arose,--a wild, strange tempest. The winds
  were like demons. It thundered and the air was full of tongues of
  lightning.

  At midnight there was heard a fearful shriek in Faust's chamber.

  The next morning the room was found bespattered with blood, and the
  body of Faust was missing. The broken remains of the alchemist were
  discovered at last in a back yard on a heap of earth.

  This was the village story. It grew as such a dark myth would grow
  in the superstitious times in which it started. Goethe created the
  character of Marguerite and added it to the fable. The
  transformation of Faust from extreme old age to youth was also
  added. The opera makers have greatly enlarged even the narrative of
  Goethe; in the latest evolution, Mephistopheles is summoned into the
  courts of heaven and sent forth to tempt Faust, and Faust is shown
  visions of the Greek vale of Tempe and Helen of Troy.

  Faust has come to be a synonym of the great problem of Good and
  Evil; the contest between virtue and vice, temptation and ruin,
  temptation and moral triumph. It is not a good story in any of its
  evolutions, but it is one that to know is almost essential to
  intelligence.

"Returning to Coblentz, we passed our sixth night on the Rhine. We
there hired a boatman to take us to Bonn. Between Coblentz and
Andernach we passed what are termed the Rhine Plains. These are some
ten miles long, and are semicircled by volcanic mountains, whose fires
have long been dead.

"We now approached the Seven Mountains, among which is the
Drachenfels, famous in fable and song. These are called: Lohrberg,
1,355 feet; Neiderstromberg, 1,066 feet; Oelberg, 1,429 feet;
Wolkenberg, 1,001 feet; Drachenfels, 1,056 feet; Petenberg, 1,030
feet; Lowenberg, 1,414 feet.

"The Drachenfels is made picturesque by an ancient ruin, and it is
these ancient ruins, and associations of old history, that make the
Rhine the most interesting river in the world. Apart from its castles
and traditions, it is not more beautiful than the Hudson, the Upper
Ohio, or the Mississippi between St. Paul and Winona. But the Rhine
displays the ruined arts of two thousand years.

"The Drachenfels has its wonderful story. It is said that Siegfried
killed the Dragon there. The so-called Dragon Cave or Rock is there,
and of this particular dragon many curious tales are told.

"In the early days of Christianity the cross was regarded as something
more than a mere emblem of faith. It was believed to possess
miracle-working power.

"In a rocky cavern of the Drachenfels, in ancient times, there lived a
Dragon of most hideous form. He had a hundred teeth, and his head was
so large that he could swallow several victims at a time. His body was
of enormous length, and in form like an alligator's, and he had a tail
like a serpent.

"The pagans of the Rhine worshipped this monster and offered to him
human sacrifices.

"In one of the old wars between rival princes, a Christian girl was
taken captive, and the pagan priest commanded that she should be made
an offering to the Dragon.

"It was the custom of the pagans to bind their sacrifices to the
Dragon alive to a tree near his cave at night. At sunrise he would
come out and devour them.

"They led the lovely Christian maiden to a spot near the cave, and
bound her to a tree.

"It was starlight. Priests and warriors with torches had conducted the
maiden to the fatal spot, and stood at a little distance from the
victim, waiting for the sunrise.

    [Illustration: A CLEFT IN THE MOUNTAINS.]

"The priests chanted their wild hymns, and the light at last began
to break and to crown the mountains and be scattered over the blue
river.

"The roar of the monster was heard. The rocks trembled, and he
appeared. He approached the maiden, bound to an oak.

"Her eyes were raised in prayer towards heaven.

"As the Dragon approached the victim, she drew from her bosom a
crucifix, and held it up before him.

"As soon as he saw it, he began to tremble. He fell to the earth as if
smitten. He lost all power and rolled down the rocks, a shapeless
mass, into the Rhine.

"The pagans released the girl.

"'By what power have you done this?' they asked.

"'By this,' said the maiden, stretching out the cross in her hand. 'I
am a Christian.'

"'Then we will become Christians,' said the pagans, and they led the
lovely apostle away to be their teacher. Her first convert was one of
the rival princes, whom she married. Their descendants were among the
most eminent of the early Christian families of the Seven Mountains of
the Rhine.

"Such is the fable as told by the monks of old. The figure of the
power of the cross over the serpent, employed in early Christian
writings, undoubtedly was its origin, but how it became associated
with the story of the captive maiden it would be hard to tell."

       *       *       *       *       *

Master Lewis introduced the story-telling of the evening by anecdote
pictures of


  FREDERICK THE GREAT.

  Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, was born in 1712. He was a
  wilful youth, and his father subjected him to such severe discipline
  that he revolted against it, and, like other boys not of royal
  blood, formed a plan of running away from home. His father
  discovered the plot, and caused his son's most intimate friend, who
  had assisted him in it, to be put to death, and made the execution
  as terrible as possible. He early came to hate his father, his
  father's religion, and everything that the old king most liked. His
  father was indeed a hard, stern man, of colorless character; but he
  managed the affairs of state so prudently that he left his undutiful
  son a powerful army and a full treasury, and to these as much as to
  any noble qualities of mind or soul the latter owed the resources by
  which he gained the title THE GREAT.

  His mother was a daughter of George I. Frederick loved her, and from
  her he inherited a taste for music and literature, like many of the
  family of the Georges. He formed an intimate friendship with
  Voltaire, the French infidel writer, and interested himself in the
  French infidelity of the period, which was a reaction against the
  corrupt and degenerate French church.

  He entered the field as a soldier in 1741, and was victorious again
  and again in the two Silesian wars. The Seven Years' War, begun in
  1756, gained for him a position of great influence among the rulers
  of Europe. He was prudent, like his father; his government was wise,
  well ordered, and liberal, and he left to his successor a full
  treasury, a great and famous army, enlarged territory, and the
  prestige of a great name.

  The family affairs of kings during the last century were in rather a
  queer state, as the following story of Frederick's marriage will
  show.

  The prince was told that his father was studying the characters of
  the young ladies of the courts of Europe in order to select a
  suitable wife for him. He admired talent, brilliancy, wit, and he
  said in substance to the Minister of State,--

  "Influence my father if you can to obtain for me a gifted and
  elegant princess. Of all things in the world I would hate to have a
  dull and commonplace wife."

  His father made choice of the Princess Elizabeth Christine of
  Brunswick, a girl famous for her awkwardness and stupidity.

  The prince did everything in his power to prevent the marriage. But
  the old king declared that he should marry her, and the wedding
  ceremony was arranged, Frederick in the mean time protesting that he
  held the bride in utter detestation.

  Frederick had a sister whom he dearly loved, Wilhelmina. Two days
  after his marriage, he introduced the bride to her, and said,--

  "This is a sister whom I adore. She has had the goodness to promise
  that _she_ will take care of you and give you good advice. I wish
  you to do nothing without her consent. Do you understand?"

    [Illustration: VOLTAIRE.]

  The young bride, scarcely eighteen, was speechless. She expected
  "care" and "advice" from her husband, and not from his sister.

  Wilhelmina embraced her tenderly.

  Frederick waited for an answer to his question. But she stood dumb.

  "Plague take the _blockhead_!" he at last exclaimed, and with this
  compliment began the long and sorrowful story of her wedded life.

  She was a good woman and bore her husband's neglect with patience.
  Strangely enough, in his old age Frederick came to love her; for he
  discovered, after a prejudice of years, that she had a noble soul.

  Frederick died in 1786. In his will he made a most liberal allowance
  for his wife, and bore testimony to her excellent character, saying
  that she never had caused him the least discontent, and her
  incorruptible virtue was worthy of love and consideration.

  She survived the king eleven years.

Willie Clifton related a true story.


  THE UNNERVED HUSSAR.

  A man once entered the vaults of a church by night, to rob a corpse
  of a valuable ring. In replacing the lid he nailed the tail of his
  coat to the coffin, and when he started up to leave, the coffin
  clung to him and moved towards him.

  Supposing the movement to be the work of invisible hands, his
  nervous system received such a shock that he fell in a fit, and was
  found where he fell, by the sexton, on the following morning.

  Now, had the fellow been honestly engaged, it is not likely that the
  blunder would have happened; and even had it occurred, he doubtless
  would have discovered at once the cause.

  But very worthy people are sometimes affected by superstitious fear,
  and run counter to the dictates of good sense and sound judgment.

  A magnificent banquet was once given by a lord, in a very ancient
  castle, on the confines of Germany. Among the guests was an officer
  of hussars, distinguished for great self-possession and bravery.

  Many of the guests were to remain in the castle during the night;
  and the gallant hussar was informed that one of them must occupy a
  room reputed to be haunted, and was asked if he had any objections
  to accepting the room for himself.

  He declared that he had none whatever, and thanked his host for the
  honor conferred upon him by the offer. He, however, expressed a wish
  that no trick might be played upon him, saying that such an act
  might be followed by very serious consequences, as he should use his
  pistols against whatever disturbed the peace of the room.

  He retired after midnight, leaving his lamp burning; and, wearied by
  the festivities, soon fell asleep. He was presently awakened by the
  sound of music, and, looking about the apartment, saw at the
  opposite end, three phantom ladies, grotesquely attired, singing a
  mournful dirge.

  The music was artistic, rich, and soothing, and the hussar listened
  for a time, highly entertained. The piece was one of unvarying
  sadness, and, however seductive at first, after a time lost its
  charm.

    [Illustration: THE UNNERVED HUSSAR.]

  The officer, addressing the musical damsels, remarked that the music
  had become rather monotonous, and asked them to change the tune. The
  singing continued in the same mournful cadences. He became
  impatient, and exclaimed,--

  "Ladies, this is an impertinent trick, for the purpose of
  frightening me. I shall take rough means to stop it, if it gives me
  any further trouble."

  He seized his pistols in a manner that indicated his purpose. But
  the mysterious ladies remained, and the requiem went on.

  "Ladies," said the officer, "I will wait five minutes, and then
  shall fire, unless you leave the room."

  The figures remained, and the music continued. At the expiration of
  the time, the officer counted twenty in a loud, measured voice, and
  then, taking deliberate aim, discharged both of his pistols.

  The ladies were unharmed, and the music was uninterrupted. The
  unexpected result of his violence threw him into a state of high
  nervous excitement, and, although his courage had withstood the
  shock of battle, it now yielded to his superstitious fears. His
  strength was prostrated, and a severe illness of some weeks'
  continuance followed.

  Had the hussar held stoutly to his own sensible philosophy, that he
  had no occasion to fear the spirits of the invisible world, nothing
  serious would have ensued. The damsels sung in another apartment,
  and their figures were made to appear in the room occupied by the
  hussar, by the effect of a mirror. The whole was a trick, carefully
  planned, to test the effect of superstitious fear on one of the
  bravest of men.

  In no case should a person be alarmed at what he suspects to be
  supernatural. A cool investigation will show, in most cases, that
  the supposed phenomenon may be easily explained. It might prove a
  serious thing for one to be frightened by a nightcap on a bedpost,
  for a fright affects unfavorably the nervous system, but a nightcap
  on a bedpost is in itself a very harmless thing.

The sixth evening closed with an original poem by Mr. Beal.



CHAPTER XI.

COLOGNE.

  BONN.--HOLY COLOGNE.--THE STORY OF THE MYSTERIOUS
  ARCHITECT.--"UNFINISHED AND UNKNOWN."--VISIT TO COLOGNE
  CATHEDRAL.--THE TOMB OF THE MAGI.--THE CHURCH OF SKULLS.--QUEER
  RELICS.--THE STORY AND LEGEND OF CHARLEMAGNE.--THE STORY AND LEGEND
  OF BARBAROSSA.


"We emerged from the majestic circle of the Seven Mountains, the most
beautiful part of the Rhine scenery, and broad plains again met our
view. The river ran smoothly, the Middle Rhine was passed, Bonn was in
view, and there we dismissed our boatman.

"We stopped in Bonn only a short time. We went to the Market-place and
walked past the University, which was once a palace.

"We took the train at Bonn for Cologne, in order to pass rapidly over
a part of the Rhine scenery said to be comparatively uninteresting.

"Holy Cologne!

"The Rome of the Northern Empire! The ecclesiastical capital of the
ancient German church!

"The unfinished cathedral towers over the city like a mountain.
'Unfinished?' Everything has a legend here, and a marvellous one, and
the unfinished cathedral stands like a witness to such a tale.

    [Illustration: CATHEDRAL OF COLOGNE.]

"Above Cologne the river runs broad, a blue-green mirror amid dumpy
willows and lanky poplars, and the windmills on its banks throw their
arms about like giants at play. The steamers swarm in the bright
waters; at evening their lights are like will-o'-the-wisps. The long
bridge of boats opens; a steamer passes, followed by a crowd of boats;
it closes, and the waiting crowd upon it hurry over. The Rhine at
night here presents a most animated scene.

"The river seems alive, but the city looks dead. There is a faded
glory on everything. There are steeples and steeples, towers and
towers. Cologne is said to have had at one time as many churches as
there are days in the year. But life has gone out of them; they are
like deserted houses. They belonged to the religious period of
evolution, and are like geologic formations now,--history that has had
its day, and left its tombstone.

"Cologne is as old as Rome in her glory,--older than the Christian
era. She was the second great city of the Church in the Middle Ages.

"Cologne is full of wonders in stone and marble, wonders in legend and
story as well; and among these the cathedral holds the first place, in
both art and fable.


  THE MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT.

  In the thirteenth century--so the story goes--Archbishop Conrad
  determined to erect a cathedral that should surpass any Christian
  temple in the world.

  Who should be the architect?

  He must be a man of great genius, and his name would become
  immortal.

  There _was_ a wonderful builder in Cologne, and the Archbishop went
  to him with his purpose, and asked him to attempt the design.

  "It must not only surpass anything in the past, but anything that
  may arise in the future."

  The architect was awed in view of such a stupendous undertaking.

  "It will carry my name down the ages," he thought; "I will sacrifice
  everything to success."

  He dreamed; he fasted and prayed.

  He made sketch after sketch and plan after plan, but they all
  proved unworthy of a temple that should be one of the grandest
  monuments of the piety of the time, and one of the glories of future
  ages.

  In his dreams an exquisite image of a temple rose dimly before him.
  When he awoke, he could vaguely recall it, but could not reproduce
  it. The ideal haunted him and yet eluded him.

  He became disheartened. He wandered in the fields, absorbed in
  thought. The beautiful apparition of the temple would suddenly fill
  him with delight; then it would vanish, as if it were a mockery.

  One day he was wandering along the Rhine, absorbed in thought.

  "Oh," he said, "that the phantom temple would appear to me, and
  linger but for a moment, that I could grasp the design."

  He sat down on the shore, and began to draw a plan with a stick on
  the sand.

  "That is it," he cried with joy.

  "Yes, that is it, indeed," said a mocking voice behind him.

  He looked around, and beheld an old man.

  "That is it," the stranger hissed; "that is the Cathedral of
  Strasburg."

  He was shocked. He effaced the design on the sand.

  He began again.

  "There it is," he again exclaimed with delight.

  "Yes," chuckled the old man. "That is the Cathedral of Amiens."

  The architect effaced the picture on the sand, and produced another.

  "Metz," said the old man.

  He made yet another effort.

  "Antwerp!"

  "O my master," said the despairing architect, "you mock me. Produce
  a design for me yourself."

  "On one condition."

  "Name it."

  "You shall give me yourself, soul and body!"

  The affrighted architect began to say his prayers, and the old man
  suddenly disappeared.

  The next day he wandered into a forest of the Seven Mountains, still
  thinking of his plan. He chanced to look up the mountain side, when
  he beheld the queer old man again; he was now leaning on a staff on
  a rocky wall.

  He lifted his staff and began to draw a picture on a rock behind
  him. The lines were of fire.

  Oh, how beautiful, how grand, how glorious, it all was!

    [Illustration: THE MYSTERIOUS ARCHITECT.]

  Fretwork, spandrels, and steeples. It _was_--it _was_ the very
  design that had haunted the poor architect, that flitted across his
  mind in dreams but left no memory.

  "Will you have my plan?" asked the old man.

  "I will do all you ask."

  "Meet me at the city gate to-morrow at midnight."

  The architect returned to Cologne, the image of the marvellous
  temple glowing in his mind.

  "I shall be immortal," he said; "my name will never die. But," he
  added, "it is the price of my soul. No masses can help me, doomed,
  doomed forever!"

  He told his strange story to his old nurse on his return home.

  She went to consult the priest.

  "Tell him," said the priest to the old woman, "to secure the design
  before he signs the contract. As soon as he gets the plan into his
  hand let him present to the old man, who is a demon, the relics of
  the martyrs and the sign of the cross."

  At midnight he appeared at the gate. There stood the little old man.

  "Here is your design," said the latter, handing him a roll of
  parchment. "Now you shall sign the bond that gives me yourself in
  payment."

  The architect grasped the plan.

  "Satan, begone!" he thundered; "in the name of this cross, and of
  St. Ursula, begone!"

  "Thou hast foiled me," said the old man, his eyes glowing in the
  darkness like fire. "But I will have my revenge. Your church shall
  never be completed, and your name shall never be known in the future
  to mankind."

"The Cathedral of Cologne is unfinished, and its architect's name is
unknown. It may harm the story, but it is but just to say that many of
the old cathedrals of Europe are in these respects like that of
Cologne.

"We were impatient to visit the cathedral on our arrival at Cologne.
The structure stood as it were _over_ the city, like its presiding
genius; and so it was. Wherever we went the great roofs loomed above
us in the air.

"The interior did not disappoint us, even after all we had seen in
other cathedral towns. It was like a forest: the columns were like
tree stems of a vast open woodland, the groined arches appearing like
interweaving boughs. The gorgeous windows were like a sunset through
the trees. The air was dusky in the arches, but near the lofty windows
vivid with color.

"It was Sunday. The service had begun. It was like a pageant, an
opera. The organ was pouring a solemn chant through the far arches,
like fall winds among the trees. There was a flute-like gush of music,
far off and mysterious, like birds. It came from the boy-choristers.
Priests in glittering garments were kneeling before the cupola-crowned
altar; there rose a cloud of incense from silver censers, and the
organ thundered again, like the storm gathering over the woods. At the
side of the altar stood the archiepiscopal throne, half in shadow amid
the tall lights, red and gold; amid the piles of barbaric splendor,
canopies, carvings, emblems.

"We visited the chapels on the following day. In one of them a Latin
inscription tells the visitor,--

"'HERE REPOSE THE THREE BODIES OF THE HOLY MAGI.'

"The guide said,--

"'This is the tomb of the Three Kings of Cologne.'

"'The Wise Men of the East who came to worship at the cradle at
Bethlehem.'

"'Ask him how he _got_ them,' said Willie.

"'The Empress Helena, mother of Constantine, recovered them and sent
them to Milan. When Frederick Barbarossa took the city of Milan, he
received them among the spoils and sent them to Cologne. The names of
the Magi were Gaspar, Melchior, Balthazar.'

"'Do you believe the legend?' asked Willie.

"'I do not know; we shall find things harder than this to believe, I
fancy, as we go on.'

"And we did.

    [Illustration: ST. MARTIN'S CHURCH, COLOGNE.]

"Leaving the tomb,--a pile of jewels,--we went out, and near the
outskirts of the city found the famous Church of Skulls,--a gilded
ossuary, associated with a mediæval legend. It was full of cabinets of
bones, said to be those of eleven thousand virgins slain for their
faith by the Huns.

"Here we were shown--

"_A part of the rod with which the Saviour was scourged._

"_A thorn from the crown of thorns,--the Spicula._

"_The pitcher in which Jesus turned water into wine._

"'The Mediæval Church,' said our English-speaking guide, who had
little faith in the genuineness of the relics, 'has exhibited some
relics from time to time that would repay a long and arduous
pilgrimage if they were what they purported to be; as, for instance, a
feather of the angel Gabriel, the snout of a seraph, a ray from the
star of Bethlehem, _two_ skulls of the same saint,--one taken when the
departed saint was somewhat younger, as flippantly explained to an
astonished tourist, who found in two cities the same consecrated
cranium.

"'But of all the relics of which we ever read, some Germans who
visited Italy in search of these precious mementos received the most
remarkable.

"'One of these gentlemen, having applied to an ecclesiastic for some
memento of Scripture history which he could take back to Germany, was
both astonished and delighted by receiving a carefully prepared
package, which he was assured contained a veritable leg of the ass on
which was made the triumphal entry into Jerusalem, when the people
strewed palm branches in the way and shouted hosannas.

"'He was enjoined to keep the treasure a secret until he reached home,
which injunction he scrupulously obeyed.

"'Arriving in Germany, he disclosed to his four companions the
wonderful relic. They were much surprised, for each had been secretly
intrusted with the same remarkable treasure. So it appeared that the
ass had _five_ legs, which, of itself, would have been something of a
miracle.

"'Whether these wiseacres ever visited the Latin kingdom in search of
relics again I am not apprised.'

"Cologne is full of relics. The people regard them with reverence;
they serve the purpose of scriptural object-teaching to them. But they
only shock the tourist who has been educated to believe that religion
is a spiritual life, and that Christ's kingdom is a spiritual kingdom,
and not of this world."

       *       *       *       *       *

Several of the stories related by the boys this evening were
historical.


  THE STORY AND LEGEND OF CHARLEMAGNE.

  Charles the Great, or Charlemagne, King of the Franks and Roman
  Emperor, was born, probably at Aix-la-Chapelle, in 742. His empire
  at first embraced the larger part of what is now France and Germany,
  but it extended under his wars until at last it nearly filled
  Europe, and he wore the crown of Rome and the West. Napoleon, at the
  height of his power, governed nearly the whole territory that was
  once ruled by the mighty Charlemagne.

  He was one of the greatest and wisest men in the history of the
  world. He encouraged learning, and opened a school in his palace; he
  maintained morality and aimed to spread Christianity throughout the
  world.

  The Saxons were heathens. They honored a great idol called the
  Irmansaul. They were opposed to Charlemagne, and constantly
  threatened his frontiers.

  Charlemagne invaded their country, overthrew the great image, and
  after many struggles reduced the people to submission. In accordance
  with the rude customs of the time, he compelled them to accept
  Christianity and receive baptism. He is said to have baptized the
  prisoners of war with his own hand. He divided Saxony into eight
  bishoprics, and supported the bishops with guards of soldiers. We
  should look upon such missionary work as this as very questionable
  to-day, although enlightened nations of this age have sometimes
  adopted a policy in dealing with other countries that is as open to
  criticism and censure.

  The Pope of Rome became involved in troubles with the Lombards. He
  appealed for help to the victorious King of the Franks, the
  recognized champion of the Church. Charlemagne crossed the Alps,
  conquered Lombardy, and crowned himself with the iron crown of the
  ancient Lombard kings.

    [Illustration: CHARLEMAGNE IN THE SCHOOL OF THE PALACE.]

  He then repaired to Rome and entered the city in triumph. As he
  came to St. Peter's he stooped to kiss the steps in memory of the
  illustrious men that had trodden it before him. The Pope there
  received him in great ceremony, and the choir chanted, "Blessed is
  he that cometh in the name of the Lord."

  He now became the most powerful monarch in the world. He gained
  great victories over the Moors in Spain, and it was in one of the
  mountain passes there that the chivalrous young Roland, of heroic
  song, perished. His lands stretched from the Baltic Sea to the
  Mediterranean.

  In the year 800 he went to Rome. It was Christmas Day. He entered
  the basilica of St. Peter's to attend Mass. He approached the altar,
  and bowed to pray. The Pope secretly uplifted the crown of the world
  and placed it upon his head.

  The people shouted, "_Long live Charles Augustus, crowned of God,
  Emperor of the Romans!_"

  From this time Charlemagne was the Kaiser, or Cæsar, of the Holy
  Roman Empire on the Tiber and the Rhine.

  The Rhine was loved by Charlemagne. He lived much on its borders,
  and he was buried near it, in a church that he had founded, at
  Aix-la-Chapelle.

    "I'd dwell where Charlemagne looked down,
      And, turning to his peers,
    Exclaimed: 'Behold, for this fair land
      I've prayed and fought for years.'
    Then all the Rhine towers shook to hear
      The earthquake of their cheers.

    "That day the tide ran crimson red
      (But not with Rhenish wine);
    Not with those vintage streams that through
      The green leaves gush and shine:
    'Twas blood that from the Lombard ranks
      Rushed down into the Rhine.

    "'Twas here the German soldiers flocked,
      Burning with love and pride,
    And threw their muskets down to kiss
      The soil with French blood dyed.
    'The Rhine, dear Rhine!' ten thousand men,
      Kneeling together, cried."

                    THORNBURY.

  There is a beautiful legend that Charlemagne visits the Rhine yearly
  and blesses the vintage. He comes in a golden robe, and crosses the
  river on a golden bridge, and the bells of heaven chime above him
  as he fulfils his peaceful mission. The fine superstition is
  celebrated in music and verse.

    "By the Rhine, the emerald river,
      How softly glows the night!
    The vine-clad hills are lying
      In the moonbeams' golden light.

    "And on the hillside walketh
      A kingly shadow down,
    With sword and purple mantle,
      And heavy golden crown.

    "'Tis Charlemagne, the emperor,
      Who, with a powerful hand,
    For many a hundred years
      Hath ruled in German land.

    "From out his grave in Aachen
      He hath arisen there,
    To bless once more his vineyards,
      And breathe their fragrant air.

    "By Rudesheim, on the water,
      The moon doth brightly shine,
    And buildeth a bridge of gold
      Across the emerald Rhine.

    "The emperor walketh over,
      And all along the tide
    Bestows his benediction
      On the vineyards far and wide.

    "Then turns he back to Aachen
      In his grave-sleep to remain,
    Till the New Year's fragrant clusters
      Shall call him forth again."

                    EMANUEL GEIBEL.


  THE STORY AND LEGEND OF BARBAROSSA.

  Frederick of Germany was a very handsome man. There was a tinge of
  red in his beard, and for that reason he came to be called Frederick
  Barbarossa. He was an ambitious man, and he went to Rome to be
  crowned.

    [Illustration: CHARLEMAGNE INFLICTING BAPTISM UPON THE SAXONS.]

  It was a time of rival popes, and Barbarossa entered into the long
  controversy, which would make a history of itself. He captured
  Milan, and levelled the city. The sacred relics in the churches were
  sent to enrich the churches of Germany. Among these were the reputed
  bodies of the three Wise Men of the East; these were sent to
  Cologne, and are still exhibited there amid heaps of jewels.

  Barbarossa was constantly at war with popes and kings: he gained
  victories and suffered reverses; but his career was theatrical and
  popular in those rude times, and he was regarded as a very good
  monarch as kings went.

    [Illustration: THE GERMANS ON AN EXPEDITION.]

  He once held a great peace festival at Mentz, to which came forty
  thousand knights. A camp of tents of silk and gold was set up by the
  Rhine, and musicians, called minnesingers, delighted the nobles and
  ladies with songs of heroes and knights. The songs and ballads then
  sung became famous, and this festival may be said to be the
  beginning of musical art in music-loving Germany.

  Europe was now startled with the news that the Saracens under
  Saladin had taken Jerusalem. Barbarossa was about inaugurating a new
  war with the Pope; but when this news came he and the Pope became
  reconciled, and he resolved to go on a crusade.

  He was an old man now, but he entered into the crusade with the
  fiery spirit of youth. His war-cry was,--

  "Christ reigns! Christ conquers!"

  He won a great victory at Iconium.

  There was a swift, cold river near the battle-field, called Kaly
  Kadmus. A few days after the victory, Barbarossa went into it to
  bathe. He was struck by a chill and sank into the rapid current, and
  was drowned. He was seventy years of age. His body was found and
  interred at Antioch.

  Of course the Germans attached to Barbarossa a legend, as they do to
  everything. They said that he was not dead, but had fallen a victim
  to enchantment. He and his knights had been put to sleep in the
  Kyffhauser cave in Thuringia. They sat around a stone table, waiting
  for release. His once red, but now white, beard was growing through
  the stone.

  They also said that the spell that bound Barbarossa and his knights
  would some day be broken, and that they would come back to Germany.
  This would occur when the country should be in sore distress, and
  need a champion for its cause.

  Ravens flew continually about the cave where the monarch and his
  knights were held enchanted. When they should cease to circle about
  it, the spell would be broken, and the grand old monarch would
  return to the Rhine.

  They looked for him in days of calamity; but centuries passed, and
  he did not return.

  The legend is thus told in song:--

    "The ancient Barbarossa
      By magic spell is bound,--
    Old Frederick the Kaiser,
      In castle underground.

    "The Kaiser hath not perished,
      He sleeps an iron sleep;
    For, in the castle hidden,
      He's sunk in slumber deep.

    "With him the chiefest treasures
      Of empire hath he ta'en,
    Wherewith, in fitting season,
      He shall appear again.

    "The Kaiser he is sitting
      Upon an ivory throne;
    Of marble is the table
      His head he resteth on.

    "His beard it is not flaxen;
      Like living fire it shines,
    And groweth through the table
      Whereon his chin reclines.

    "As in a dream he noddeth,
      Then wakes he, heavy-eyed,
    And calls, with lifted finger,
      A stripling to his side.

    "'Dwarf, get thee to the gateway,
      And tidings bring, if still
    Their course the ancient ravens
      Are wheeling round the hill.

    "'For if the ancient ravens
      Are flying still around,
    A hundred years to slumber
      By magic spell I'm bound.'"

                    FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT.

The seven evenings with historic places on the Rhine had proved a
source of profitable entertainment to the Club. It was proposed to
continue the plan, and to follow Mr. Beal's and the boys' journey to
the North.

"Let us add to these entertainments," said Charlie Leland,--

"(1) A Night in Northern Germany. We will call it a Hamburg Night.

"(2) A Night in Denmark.

"(3) A Night in Sweden and Norway."

The proposal was adopted, and Master Beal was asked to continue the
narrative of travel, and all the members of the Club were requested to
collect stories that illustrate the history, traditions, manners, and
customs of these countries.



CHAPTER XII.

HAMBURG.

  HAMBURG.--BERLIN.--POTSDAM.--PALACE OF SANS-SOUCI.--STORY OF THE
  STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPHS OF HANDEL.--STORY OF PETER THE WILD BOY.


"Hamburg, the fine old city of the Elbe, is almost as large as was
Boston before the annexation; it is familiar by name to American ears,
for it is from Hamburg, as a port, that the yearly army of German
emigrants come.

"I looked sadly upon Hamburg as I thought how many eyes filled with
tears had turned back upon her spires and towers, her receding harbor,
and seen the Germany of their ancestors, and the old city of
Charlemagne, with its historic associations of a thousand years, fade
forever from view. Down the Elbe go the steamers, and the emigrants
with their eyes fixed on the shores! Then westward, ho, for the
prairie territories of the great empire of the New World!

"More than six thousand vessels enter the harbor of Hamburg in a year.
The flags of all nations float there, but the British red is
everywhere seen.

"We visited the church of St. Michael, and ascended the steeple, which
is four hundred and thirty-two feet high, or one hundred feet higher
than the spire of St. Paul's in London. We looked down on the city,
the harbor, the canals. Our eye followed the Elbe on its way to the
sea. On the north was Holstein; on the south, Hanover.

    [Illustration: CANAL IN HAMBURG.]

"From Hamburg we made a zigzag to Berlin and Potsdam. The railroad
between the great German port and the brilliant capital is across a
level country, the distance being about one hundred and seventy-five
miles, or seven hours' ride.

"Berlin, capital of Prussia and of the German Empire, the residence of
the German Emperor, is situated in the midst of a vast plain; 'an
oasis of stone and brick in a Sahara of sand.' It is about the size of
New York, and it greatly resembles an American city, for the reason
that everything there seems new.

"It has been called a city of palaces, and so it is, for many of the
private residences would be fitting abodes for kings. The architecture
is everywhere beautiful; all the elegances of Greek art meet the eye
wherever it may turn. Ruins there are none; old quarters, none; quaint
Gothic or mediæval buildings, none. The streets are so regular, the
public squares so artistic, and the buildings such models of art, that
the whole becomes monotonous.

"'This is America over again,' said an American traveller, who had
joined our party. 'Let us return.'

"Many of the buildings might remind one of the hanging gardens of old,
so full are the balconies of flowers. The fronts of some of the
private residences are flower gardens from the ground to the roofs.

"The emperor's palace is the crowning architectural glory of the city.
It is four hundred feet long.

"We visited the Zoölogical Gardens and the National Gallery of
Pictures, the entrance to which makes a beautiful picture.

"We rode to Potsdam, a distance of some twenty miles. Potsdam is the
Versailles of Germany. The road to Potsdam is a continuous avenue of
trees, like the roads near Boston.

"Of course our object in visiting the town was to see the palace and
gardens of Sans-Souci, the favorite residence of Frederick the Great.

    [Illustration: THE PALACE IN BERLIN.]

"Frederick loved everything that was French in art. The French
expression is seen on everything at Sans-Souci. The approach to the
palace is by an avenue through gardens laid out in the Louis Quatorze
style, with alleys, hedges, statues, and fountains.

"The famous palace stands on the top flight of a series of broad
terraces, fronted with glass. Beneath these terraces grow vines,
olives, and orange-trees. In the rear of the palace is a colonnade.
There Frederick used to pace to and fro in the sunshine, when failing
health and old age admonished him that death was near. As his
religious hopes were few, his reflections must have been rather lonely
when death's winter came stealing on.

    [Illustration: GROTTO.]

"The room where Frederick studied, and the adjoining apartment where
he died, are shown. The former contains a library consisting wholly of
books in French.

"We returned to Hamburg.

"We were in old Danish territory already. We stopped but one night at
Hamburg on our return; then we made our way to the steamer which was
to take us to the Denmark of to-day, Copenhagen."

       *       *       *       *       *

Among the stories on the Hamburg Night was one by a music-loving
student of Yule, which he called


  THE CITY OF HANDEL'S YOUTH.

  The composer of the "Messiah," George Frederick Handel, was born at
  Halle, Germany, Feb. 23, 1685. He sang before he could talk plainly.
  His father, a physician, was alarmed, for he had a poor opinion of
  music and musicians. As the child grew, nature asserted that he
  would be a musician; the father declared he should be a lawyer.

  Little George was kept from the public school, because the gamut was
  there taught. He might go to no place where music would be heard,
  and no musical instrument was permitted in the house.

  But nature, aided by the wiser mother, triumphed. In those days
  musical nuns played upon a dumb spinet, that they might not disturb
  the quiet of their convents. It was a sort of piano, and the strings
  were muffled with cloth. One of these spinets was smuggled into the
  garret of Dr. Handel's house. At night, George would steal up to the
  attic and practise upon it. But not a tinkle could the watchful
  father hear. Before the child was seven years of age he had taught
  himself to play upon the dumb instrument.

  One day Dr. Handel started to visit a son in the service of a German
  duke. George begged to go, as he wished to hear the organ in the
  duke's chapel. But not until he ran after the coach did the father
  consent.

  They arrived at the palace as a chapel service was going on. The boy
  stole away to the organ-loft, and, after service, began playing. The
  duke, recognizing that it was not his organist's style, sent a
  servant to learn who was playing. The man returned with the
  trembling boy.

  Dr. Handel was both amazed and enraged. But the duke, patting the
  child on the head, drew out his story. "You are stifling a genius,"
  he said to the angry father; "this boy must not be snubbed." The
  doctor, more subservient to a prince than to nature, consented that
  his son should study music.

    [Illustration: SANS-SOUCI.]

  During three years the boy studied with Zachau, the organist of the
  Halle Cathedral. They were years of hard work. One day his teacher
  said to George, "I can teach you no longer; you already know more
  than I do. You must go and study in Berlin." Berlin was at once
  attracted to the youthful musician by his playing on the harpsichord
  and the organ. But the death of his father compelled him to earn his
  daily bread. Willing to descend, that he might rise, he became a
  violin player of minor parts at the Hamburg Opera House. The homage
  he had received prompted his vanity to create a surprise. He played
  badly, and acted as a verdant youth. The members of the orchestra
  sneeringly informed him that he would never earn his salt. Handel,
  however, waited his opportunity. One day the harpsichordist, the
  principal person in the orchestra, was absent. The band, thinking it
  would be a good joke, persuaded Handel to take his place. Laying
  aside his violin, he seated himself at the harpsichord, amid the
  smiles of the musicians. As he touched the keys the smiles gave
  place to looks of wonder. He played on, and the whole orchestra
  broke into loud applause. From that day until he left Hamburg, the
  youth of nineteen led the band.

  Handel's extraordinary skill as a performer was not wholly due to
  genius. He practised incessantly, so that every key of his
  harpsichord was hollowed like a spoon.

  Handel's greatest triumphs, as a composer, were won in England. But
  the music-loving Irish of Dublin had the honor of first welcoming
  his masterpiece, the "Messiah." Such was the enthusiasm it created
  that ladies left their hoops at home, in order to get one hundred
  more listeners into the room.

  A German poet calls the "Messiah" "a Christian epic in musical
  sounds." The expression is a felicitous description of its theme and
  style. It celebrates the grandest of events with the sublimest
  strains that music may utter. The great composer commanded, and all
  the powers of music hastened with song and instrument to praise the
  life, death, and triumph of the Christ. No human composition ever
  voiced, in poetry or prose or music, such a masterly conception of
  the Virgin's Son as that uttered by this magnificent oratorio.

  The sacred Scriptures furnish the words. The seer's prophecies, the
  Psalmist's strains, the evangelist's narrative, the angels' song,
  the anthem of the redeemed, are transferred to aria, recitative, and
  chorus. The sentiment is as majestic as the music is grand. He who
  sought out the fitting words had studied his Bible, and he who
  joined to them musical sounds dwelt in the region of the sublime.

  All the emotions are touched by the oratorio. Words and music quiver
  with fear, utter sorrow, plead with pathos, or exult in the joy of
  triumph. A symphony so paints a pastoral scene that the shepherds of
  Bethlehem are seen watching their flocks. One air, "He was
  despised," suggests that its birth was amid tears. It was; for
  Handel sobbed aloud while composing it. It is the threnody of the
  oratorio.

  The grandeur of the "Messiah" finds its highest expression in the
  "Hallelujah Chorus." "I did think," said Handel, describing, in
  imperfect English, his thought at the moment of composition,--"I did
  think I did see all heaven before me, and the great God himself."

  When the oratorio was first performed in London, the audience were
  transported at the words, "The Lord God omnipotent reigneth." They
  all, with George II., who happened to be present, started to their
  feet and remained standing until the chorus was ended. This act of
  homage has become the custom with all English-speaking audiences.

  "You have given the audience an excellent entertainment," said a
  patronizing nobleman to Handel, at the close of the first
  performance of the "Messiah" in London.

  "My lord," replied the grand old composer, with dignity, "I should
  be very sorry if I only _entertained_ them; I wish to make them
  _better_."

  A few years before his death Handel was smitten with blindness. He
  continued, however, to preside at his oratorios, being led by a lad
  to the organ, which, as leader, he played. One day, while conducting
  his oratorio of "Samson," the old man turned pale and trembled with
  emotion, as the bass sung the blind giant's lament: "Total eclipse!
  no sun, no moon!" As the audience saw the sightless eyes turned
  towards them, they were affected to tears.

  Seized by a mortal illness, Handel expressed a wish that he might
  die on Good Friday, "in hope of meeting his good God, his sweet Lord
  and Saviour, on the day of his resurrection." This consolation, it
  seems, was not denied him. For on his monument, standing in the
  Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey, is inscribed: "Died on Good
  Friday, April 14, 1759."

Another story, which is associated with the woods of Hanover, near
Hamburg, was entitled


  PETER THE WILD BOY.

  In the year 1725, a few years after the capture of Marie le Blanc, a
  celebrated wild girl in France, there was seen in the woods, some
  twenty-five miles from Hanover, an object in form like a boy, yet
  running on his hands and feet, and eating grass and moss, like a
  beast.

  The remarkable creature was captured, and was taken to Hanover by
  the superintendent of the House of Correction at Zell. It proved to
  be a boy evidently about thirteen years of age, yet possessing the
  habits and appetites of a mere animal. He was presented to King
  George I., at a state dinner at Hanover, and, the curiosity of the
  king being greatly excited, he became his patron.

  In about a year after his capture he was taken to England, and
  exhibited to the court. While in that country he received the name
  of Peter the Wild Boy, by which ever after he was known.

  Marie le Blanc, after proper training, became a lively, brilliant
  girl, and related to her friends and patrons the history of her
  early life; but Peter the Wild Boy seems to have been mentally
  deficient.

    [Illustration: PETER THE WILD BOY.]

  Dr. Arbuthnot, at whose house he resided for a time in his youth,
  spared no pains to teach him to talk; but his efforts met with but
  little success.

  Peter seemed to comprehend the language and signs of beasts and
  birds far better than those of human beings, and to have more
  sympathy with the brute creation than with mankind. He, however, at
  last was taught to articulate the name of his royal patron, his own
  name, and some other words.

  It was a long time before he became accustomed to the habits of
  civilization. He had evidently been used to sleeping on the boughs
  of trees, as a security from wild beasts, and when put to bed would
  tear the clothes, and hopping up take his naps in the corner of the
  room.

  He regarded clothing with aversion, and when fully dressed was as
  uneasy as a culprit in prison. He was, however, generally docile,
  and submitted to discipline, and by degrees became more fit for
  human society.

  He was attracted by beauty, and fond of finery, and it is related of
  him that he attempted to kiss the young and dashing Lady Walpole, in
  the circle at court. The manner in which the lovely woman received
  his attentions may be fancied.

  Finding that he was incapable of education, his royal patron placed
  him in charge of a farmer, where he lived many years. Here he was
  visited by Lord Monboddo, a speculative English writer, who, in a
  metaphysical work, gives the following interesting account:--

  "It was in the beginning of June, 1782, that I saw him in a
  farmhouse called Broadway, about a mile from Berkhamstead, kept
  there on a pension of thirty pounds, which the king pays. He is but
  of low stature, not exceeding five feet three inches, and though he
  must now be about seventy years of age, he has a fresh, healthy
  look. He wears his beard; his face is not at all ugly or
  disagreeable, and he has a look that may be called sensible or
  sagacious for a savage.

  "About twenty years ago he used to elope, and once, as I was told,
  he wandered as far as Norfolk; but of late he has become quite tame,
  and either keeps the house or saunters about the farm. He has been,
  during the last thirteen years, where he lives at present, and
  before that he was twelve years with another farmer, whom I saw and
  conversed with.

  "This farmer told me he had been put to school somewhere in
  Hertfordshire, but had only learned to articulate his own name,
  Peter, and the name of King George, both which I heard him pronounce
  very distinctly. But the woman of the house where he now is--for the
  man happened not to be home--told me he understood everything that
  was said to him concerning the common affairs of life, and I saw
  that he readily understood several things she said to him while I
  was present. Among other things she desired him to sing 'Nancy
  Dawson,' which he accordingly did, and another tune that she named.
  He was never mischievous, but had that gentleness of manners which I
  hold to be characteristic of our nature, at least till we become
  carnivorous, and hunters, or warriors. He feeds at present as the
  farmer and his wife do; but, as I was told by an old woman who
  remembered to have seen him when he first came to Hertfordshire,
  which she computed to be about fifty-five years before, he then fed
  much on leaves, particularly of cabbage, which she saw him eat raw.
  He was then, as she thought, about fifteen years of age, walked
  upright, but could climb trees like a squirrel. At present he not
  only eats flesh, but has acquired a taste for beer, and even for
  spirits, of which he inclines to drink more than he can get.

  "The old farmer with whom he lived before he came to his present
  situation informed me that Peter had that taste before he came to
  him. He has also become very fond of fire, but has not acquired a
  liking for money; for though he takes it he does not keep it, but
  gives it to his landlord or landlady, which I suppose is a lesson
  they have taught him. He retains so much of his natural instinct
  that he has a fore-feeling of bad weather, growling, and howling,
  and showing great disorder before it comes on."

  Another philosopher, who made him a visit, obtained the following
  luminous information:--

  "Who is your father?"

  "King George."

  "What is your name?"

  "Pe-ter."

  "What is _that_?" (pointing to a dog.)

  "Bow-wow."

  "What are you?"

  "Wild man."

  "Where were you found?"

  "Hanover."

  "Who found you?"

  "King George."

  About the year 1746 he ran away, and, entering Scotland, was
  arrested as an English spy. His captors endeavored to force from him
  some terrible disclosure, but could obtain nothing, not even an
  answer, and it was something of a puzzle to them to determine
  exactly what they had captured.

  They at last resolved to inflict punishment upon him for his
  obstinacy, but were deterred by a lady who recognized him and
  disclosed his history.

  In his latter years he made himself useful to the farmer with whom
  he lived, but he required constant watchfulness, else he would make
  grave blunders. An amusing anecdote is told of his manner of working
  when left to himself.

  He was required, during the absence of his guardian, to fill a cart
  with compost, which he did; but, having filled the cart in the usual
  way, and finding himself out of employment, he directly shovelled
  the compost out again, and when the farmer returned the cart was
  empty.

  But poor Peter, with all his dulness, possessed some remarkable
  characteristics. He was very strong of arm, and wonderfully swift of
  foot, and his senses were acute. His musical gifts were most
  marvellous. He would reproduce, in his humming way, the notes of a
  tune that he had heard but once,--a thing that might have baffled an
  amateur.

  He also had a lively sense of the beautiful and the sublime. He
  would stand at night gazing on the stars as though transfixed by the
  splendors blazing above. His whole being was thrilled with joy on
  the approach of spring. He would sing all the day as the atmosphere
  became warm and balmy, and would often prolong his melodies far into
  the beautiful nights.

  He died aged about seventy years.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE BELLS OF THE RHINE.

  LEGENDS OF THE BELLS OF BASEL AND SPEYER.--STORY OF THE HARMONY
  CHIME.--THE BELL-FOUNDER OF BRESLAU.


One evening, after the story-telling entertainments, Mr. Beal was
speaking to the Class of the great bell of Cologne which has been cast
from the French cannon captured in the last war.

"It seems a beautiful thing," he said, "that the guns of war should be
made to ring out the notes of peace."

"There is one subject that we did not treat at our meetings," said
Charlie Leland,--"the bells of the Rhine."

"True," said Mr. Beal. "A volume might be written on the subject.
Almost every belfry on the Rhine has its legend, and many of them are
associated with thrilling events of history. The raftmen, as they
drift down the river on the Sabbath, associate almost every bell they
hear with a story. The bells of Basle (Basel), Strasburg, Speyer,
Heidelberg, Worms, Frankfort, Mayence, Bingen, and Bonn all ring out a
meaning to the German student that the ordinary traveller does not
comprehend. Bell land is one of mystery.

"For example, the clocks of Basel. The American traveller arrives at
Basel, and hurries out of his hotel, and along the beautiful public
gardens, to the terrace overlooking the Rhine. He looks down on the
picturesque banks of the winding river; then far away his eye seeks
the peaks of the Jura.

"The bells strike. The music to his ears has no history.

"The German and French students hear them with different ears. The old
struggles of Alsace and Romaine come back to memory. They recall the
fact that the city was once saved by a heroic watchman, who confused
the enemy by causing the bells to strike the wrong hour. To continue
the memory of this event, the great bell of Basel during the Middle
Ages was made to strike the hour of one at noonday.

"The bells of Speyer have an interesting legend. Henry IV. was one of
the most unfortunate men who ever sat upon a throne. His own son,
afterward Henry V., conspired against him, and the Pope declared him
an outlaw.

"Deserted by every one, he went into exile, and made his home at
Ingleheim, on the Rhine. One old servant, Kurt, followed his changing
fortunes. He died at Liege.

"Misfortune followed the once mighty emperor even after death. The
Pope would not allow his body to be buried for several years. Kurt
watched by the coffin, like Rizpah by the bodies of her sons. He made
it his shrine: he prayed by it daily.

"At last the Pope consented that the remains of the emperor should
rest in the earth. The body was brought to Speyer. Kurt followed it.
It was buried with great pomp, and tollings of bells.

"Some months after the ceremonious event Kurt died. As his breath was
passing, say the legendary writers, all the bells began to toll. The
bellmen ran to the belfries; no one was there, but the bells tolled
on, swayed, it was believed, by unseen hands.

"Henry V. died in the same town. He was despised by the people, and he
suffered terrible agonies in his last hours. As his last moments came
the bells began to toll again. It was not the usual announcement of
the death of the good, but the sharp notes that proclaim that a
criminal is being led to justice; at least, so the people came to
believe.

    [Illustration: THE SILENT CASTLES.]

"One of the most beautiful stories of bells that I ever met is
associated with a once famous factory that cast some of the most
melodious bells in Holland and the towns of the Rhine. I will tell it
to you.


  THE HARMONY CHIME.

  Many years ago, in a large iron foundry in the city of Ghent, was
  found a young workman by the name of Otto Holstein. He was not
  nineteen years of age, but none of the workmen could equal him in
  his special department,--bell casting or moulding. Far and near the
  fame of Otto's bells extended,--the clearest and sweetest, people
  said, that were ever heard.

    [Illustration: HOTEL DE VILLE, GHENT.]

  Of course the great establishment of Von Erlangen, in which Otto
  worked, got the credit of his labors; but Von Erlangen and Otto
  himself knew very well to whom the superior tone of the bells was
  due. The master did not pay him higher wages than the others, but by
  degrees he grew to be general superintendent in his department in
  spite of his extreme youth.

  "Yes, my bells are good," he said to a friend one day, who was
  commenting upon their merits; "but they do not make the music I will
  yet strike from them. They ring alike for all things. To be sure,
  when they toll for a funeral the slow measure makes them _seem_
  mournful, but then the notes are really the same as in a wedding
  peal. I shall make a chime of bells that will sound at will every
  chord in the human soul."

  "Then wilt thou deal in magic," said his friend, laughing; "and the
  Holy Inquisition will have somewhat to do with thee. No human power
  can turn a bell into a musical instrument."

  "But I can," he answered briefly; "and, Inquisition or not, I will
  do it."

  He turned abruptly from his friend and sauntered, lost in thought,
  down the narrow street which led to his home. It was an humble,
  red-tiled cottage, of only two rooms, that he had inherited from his
  grandfather. There he lived alone with his widowed mother. She was a
  mild, pleasant-faced woman, and her eyes brightened as her son bent
  his tall head under the low doorway, as he entered the little room.
  "Thou art late, Otto," she said, "and in trouble, too," as she
  caught sight of his grave, sad face.

  "Yes," he answered. "When I asked Herr Erlangen for an increase of
  salary, for my work grows harder every day, he refused it. Nay, he
  told me if I was not satisfied, I could leave, for there were fifty
  men ready to take my place. Ready! yes, I warrant they're ready
  enough, but to be _able_ is a different thing."

  His mother sighed deeply.

  "Thou wilt not leave Herr Erlangen's, surely. It is little we get,
  but it keeps us in food."

  "I must leave," he answered. "Nay, do not cry out, mother! I have
  other plans, and thou wilt not starve. Monsieur Dayrolles, the rich
  Frenchman, who lives in the Linden-Strasse, has often asked me why I
  do not set up a foundry of my own. Of course I laughed,--I, who
  never have a thaler to spend; but he told me he and several other
  rich friends of his would advance the means to start me in business.
  He is a great deal of his time at Erlangen's, and is an enthusiast
  about fine bells. Ah! we are great friends, and I am going to him
  after supper."

  "People say he is crazy," said his mother.

  "Crazy!" indignantly. "People say that of everybody who has ideas
  they can't understand. They say _I_ am crazy when I talk of my chime
  of bells. If I stay with Erlangen, he gets the credit of my work;
  but my chime must be mine,--mine alone, mother." His eyes lighted
  with a kind of wild enthusiasm whenever he talked on this subject.

  His mother's cheerful face grew sad, as she laid her hand on his
  shoulder.

  "Why, Otto, thou art not thyself when thou speakest of those bells."

  "More my real self, mother, than at any other time!" he cried. "I
  only truly live when I think of how my idea is to be carried out. It
  is to be my life's work; I know it, I feel it. It is upon me that my
  fate is woven inextricably in that ideal chime. It is God-sent. No
  great work, but the maker is possessed wholly by it. Don't shake
  your head, mother. Wait till my 'Harmony Chime' sounds from the
  great cathedral belfry, and then shake it if you can."

  His mother smiled faintly.

  "Thou art a boy,--a mere child, Otto, though a wonderful genius, I
  must confess. Thy hopes delude thee, for it would take a lifetime to
  carry out thine idea."

  "Then let it take a lifetime!" he cried out vehemently. "Let me
  accomplish it when I am too old to hear it distinctly, and I will be
  content that its first sounds toll my dirge. I must go now to
  Monsieur Dayrolles. Wish me good luck, dearest mother." And he
  stooped and kissed her tenderly.

  Otto did not fail. The strange old man in his visits to the foundry
  had noticed the germs of genius in the boy, and grown very fond of
  him. He was so frank, so honest, so devoted to his work, and had
  accomplished so much at his early age, that Monsieur Dayrolles saw a
  brilliant future before him. Besides, the old gentleman, with a
  Frenchman's vanity, felt that if the "Harmony Chime" _could_ be
  made, the name of the munificent patron would go down to posterity
  with that of the maker. He believed firmly that the boy would some
  day accomplish his purpose. So, although the revolt of the
  Netherlands had begun and he was preparing to return to his own
  country, he advanced the necessary funds, and saw Otto established
  in business before he quitted Ghent.

  In a very short time work poured in upon Otto. During that long and
  terrible war the manufacture of cannon alone made the fortunes of
  the workers in iron. So five years from the time he left Von
  Erlangen we find Otto Holstein a rich man at twenty-four years of
  age. But the idea for which he labored had never for a moment left
  his mind. Sleeping or waking, toiling or resting, his thoughts were
  busy perfecting the details of the great work.

  "Thou art twenty-four to-day, Otto," said his good mother, "and
  rich beyond our hopes. When wilt thou bring Gertrude home to me?
  Thou hast been betrothed now for three years, and I want a daughter
  to comfort my declining years. Thou doest thy betrothed maiden a
  grievous wrong to delay without cause. The gossips are talking
  already."

  "Let them talk," laughed Otto. "Little do Gertrude or I care for
  their silly tongues. She and I have agreed that the 'Harmony Chime'
  is to usher in our marriage-day. Why, good mother, no man can serve
  two mistresses, and my chime has the oldest claim. Let me accomplish
  it, and then the remainder of my life belongs to Gertrude, and thou,
  too, best of mothers."

  "Still that dream! still that dream!" sighed his mother. "Thou hast
  cast bell after bell, and until to-day I have heard nothing more of
  the wild idea."

  "No, because I needed money. I needed time, and thought, too, to
  make experiments. All is matured now. I have received an order to
  make a new set of bells for the great cathedral that was sacked last
  week by the 'Iconoclasts,' and I begin to-morrow."

    [Illustration: BELL-TOWER, GHENT.]

  As Otto had said, his life's work began the next day. He loved his
  mother, but he seemed now to forget her in the feverish eagerness
  with which he threw himself into his labors. He had been a devoted
  lover to Gertrude, but he now never had a spare moment to give to
  her,--in fact, he only seemed to remember her existence in
  connection with the peal which would ring in their wedding-day. His
  labors were prolonged far over the appointed time, and meanwhile the
  internal war raged more furiously, and the Netherlands were one vast
  battle-field. No interest did Otto seem to take in the stirring
  events around him. The bells held his whole existence captive.

    [Illustration: BELL TOWER OF HEIDELBERG.]

  At last the moulds were broken, and the bells came out of their
  husks perfect in form, and shining as stars in Otto's happy eyes.
  They were mounted in the great belfry, and for the test-chime Otto
  had employed the best bell-ringers in the city.

  It was a lovely May morning; and, almost crazed with excitement and
  anxiety, Otto, accompanied by a few chosen friends, waited outside
  the city for the first notes of the Harmony Chime. At some distance
  he thought he could better judge of the merits of his work.

  At last the first notes were struck, clear, sonorous, and so
  melodious that his friends cried aloud with delight. But with finger
  upraised for silence, and eyes full of ecstatic delight, Otto stood
  like a statue until the last note died away. Then his friends caught
  him as he fell forward in a swoon,--a swoon so like death that no
  one thought he would recover.

  But it was not death, and he came out of it with a look of serene
  peace on his face that it had not worn since boyhood. He was married
  to Gertrude that very day, but every one noticed that the ecstasy
  which transfigured his face seemed to be drawn more from the sound
  of the bells than the sweet face beside him.

  "Don't you see a spell is cast on him as soon as they begin to
  ring?" said one, after the bells had ceased to be a wonder. "If he
  is walking, he stops short, and if he is working, the work drops and
  a strange fire comes in his eyes; and I have seen him shudder all
  over as it he had an ague."

  In good truth, the bells seemed to have drawn a portion of Otto's
  life to them. When the incursions of the war forced him to fly from
  Ghent with his family, his regrets were not for his injured
  property, but that he could not hear the bells.

  He was absent two years, and when he returned it was to find the
  cathedral almost a ruin, and the bells gone no one knew where. From
  that moment a settled melancholy took possession of Otto. He made no
  attempt to retrieve his losses; in fact, he gave up work altogether,
  and would sit all day with his eyes fixed on the ruined belfry.

  People said he was melancholy mad, and I suppose it was the truth;
  but he was mad with a kind of gentle patience very sad to see. His
  mother had died during their exile, and now his wife, unable with
  all her love to rouse him from his torpor, faded slowly away. He did
  not notice her sickness, and his poor numbed brain seemed
  imperfectly to comprehend her death. But he followed her to the
  grave, and turning from it moved slowly down the city, passed the
  door of his old home without looking at it, and went out of the city
  gates.

  After that he was seen in every city in Europe at different
  intervals. Charitable people gave him alms, but he never begged. He
  would enter a town, take his station near a church and wait until
  the bells rang for matins or vespers, then take up his staff and,
  sighing deeply, move off. People noting the wistful look in his eyes
  would ask him what he wanted.

  "I am seeking,--I am seeking," was his only reply; and those were
  almost the only words any one ever heard from him, and he muttered
  them often to himself. Years rolled over the head of the wanderer,
  but still his slow march from town to town continued. His hair had
  grown white, and his strength had failed him so much that he only
  tottered instead of walked, but still that wistful seeking look was
  in his eyes.

  He heard the old bells on the Rhine in his wanderings. He lingered
  long near the belfries of the sweetest voices; but their melodious
  tongues only spoke to him of his lost hope.

  He left the river of sweet bells, and made a pilgrimage to England.
  It was the days of cathedrals in their beauty and glory, and here he
  again heard the tones that he loved, but which failed to realize his
  own ideal.

  When a person fails to fulfil his ideal, his whole life seems a
  failure,--like something glorious and beautiful one meets and loses,
  and never again finds.

  "Be true to the dreams of thy youth," says a German author; and
  every soul is unhappy until the dreams of youth prove true.

  One glorious evening in midsummer Otto was crossing a river in
  Ireland. The kind-hearted boatman had been moved by the old man's
  imploring gestures to cross him. "He's mighty nigh his end, anyhow,"
  he muttered, looking at the feeble movements of the old pilgrim as
  he stumbled to his seat.

  Suddenly through the still evening air came the distant sound of a
  melodious chime. At the first note the pilgrim leaped to his feet
  and threw up his arms.

  "O my God," he cried, "found at last!"

  "It's the bells of the Convent," said the wondering man, not
  understanding Otto's words spoken in a foreign tongue, but answering
  his gesture. "They was brought from somewhere in Holland when they
  were fighting there. Moighty fine bells they are, anyhow. But he
  isn't listening to me."

  No, he heard nothing but the bells. He merely whispered, "Come back
  to me after so many years,--O love of my soul, O thought of my life!
  Peal on, for your voices tell me of Paradise."

  The last note floated through the air, and as it died away something
  else soared aloft forever, free from the clouds and struggles of
  life.

    [Illustration: BRESLAU.]

  His ideal was fulfilled now. Otto lay dead, his face full of peace
  and joy, for the weary quest of his crazy brain was over, and the
  Harmony Chime had called him to his eternal rest.

  And, past that change of life that men call Death, we may well
  believe that he heard in the ascension to the celestial atmosphere
  the ringing of welcoming bells more beautiful than the Harmony
  Chime.

"I will relate another story," said Mr. Beal. "It is like the Harmony
Chime, but has a sadder ending."


  THE BELL-FOUNDER OF BRESLAU.

  There once lived in Breslau a famous bell-founder, the fame of whose
  skill caused his bells to be placed in many German towers. According
  to the ballad of Wilhelm Müller,--

    "And all his bells they sounded
      So full and clear and pure:
    He poured his faith and love in,
      Of that all men were sure.
    But of all bells that ever
      He cast, was one the crown,
    That was the bell for sinners
      At Breslau in the town."

  He had an ambition to cast one bell that would surpass all others in
  purity of tone, and that should render his own name immortal.

  He was required to cast a bell for the Magdalen Church tower of that
  city of noble churches,--Breslau. He felt that this was opportunity
  for his masterpiece. All of his thoughts centred on the Magdalen
  bell.

  After a long period of preparation, his metals were arranged for
  use. The form was walled up and made steady; the melting of the
  metals in the great bell-kettle had begun.

  The old bell-founder had two faults which had grown upon him; a love
  of ale and a fiery temper.

  While the metals were heating in the kettle, he said to his
  fire-watch, a little boy,--

  "Tend the kettle for a moment; I am overwrought: I must go over to
  the inn, and take my ale, and nerve me for the casting.

  "But, boy," he added, "touch not the stopple; if you do, you shall
  rue it. That bell is my life, I have put all I have learned in life
  into it. If any man were to touch that stopple, I would strike him
  dead."

    [Illustration: FINISHING THE BELL.]

    [Illustration: AT THE INN.]

  The boy had an over-sensitive, nervous temperament. He was easily
  excited, and was subject to impulses that he could not easily
  control.

  The command that he should not touch the stopple, under the
  dreadful penalty, strongly affected his mind, and made him wish to
  do the very thing he had been forbidden.

  He watched the metal in the great kettle. It bubbled, billowed, and
  ran to and fro. In the composition of the glowing mass he knew that
  his master had put his heart and soul.

  It would be a bold thing to touch the stopple,--adventurous. His
  hand began to move towards it.

  The evil impulse grew, and his hand moved on.

  He touched the stopple. The impulse was a wild passion now,--he
  turned it.

  Then his mind grew dark--he was filled with horror. He ran to his
  master.

  "I have turned the stopple; I could not help it," he said. "The
  Devil tempted me!"

  The old bell-founder clasped his hands and looked upward in agony.
  Then his temper flashed over him. He seized his knife, and stabbed
  the boy to the heart.

  He rushed back to the foundry, hoping to stay the stream. He found
  the metal whole; the turning of the stopple had not caused the metal
  to flow.

  The boy lay dead on the ground.

    [Illustration: THE DAY OF EXECUTION.]

  The old bell-founder knew the consequences of his act, and he did
  not seek to escape them. He cast the bell; then he went to the
  magistrates, and said,--

  "My work is done; but I am a murderer. Do with me as you will."

  The trial was short; it greatly excited the city. The judges could
  not do otherwise than sentence him to death. But as he was penitent,
  he was promised that on the day of his execution he should receive
  the offices and consolations of the Church.

  "You are good," he said. "But grant me another favor. My bells will
  delight many ears when I am gone; my soul is in them; grant me
  another favor."

  "Name it," said the judges.

  "That I may hear the sound of my new bell before I die."

  The judges consulted, and answered,--

  "It shall toll for your execution."

  The fatal day came.

  Toll, toll, toll!

  There was a sadness in the tone of the bell that touched every heart
  in Breslau. The bell seemed human.

  Toll, toll, toll!

  How melodious! how perfect! how beautiful! The very air seemed
  charmed! The years would come and go, and this bell would be the
  tongue of Breslau!

  The old man came forth. He had forgotten his fate in listening to
  the bell. The heavy clang was so melodious that it filled his heart
  with joy.

  "That is it! that is it; my heart, my life!" he said. "I know all
  the metals; I made the voice! Ring on, ring on forever! Ring in holy
  days, and happy festivals, and joy eternal to Breslau."

  Toll, toll, toll!

  On passed the white-haired man, listening still to the call of the
  bell that summoned him to death.

  He bowed his head at the place of execution to meet the stroke just
  as the last tone of the bell melted upon the air. His soul passed
  amid the silvery echoes. The bell rings on.

    "Ay, of all bells that ever
      He cast, is this the crown,
    The bell of Church St. Magdalen
      At Breslau in the town.
    It was, from that time forward,
      Baptized the Sinner's Bell;
    Whether it still is called so,
      Is more than I can tell."

"There is a sadness in the bells of the Rhine," continued Mr. Beal,
"as they ring from old belfries at evening under the ruins of the
castles on the hills. The lords of the Rhine that once heard them are
gone forever. The vineyards creep up the hills on the light trellises,
and the sun and the earth, as it were, fill the grapes with wine. The
woods are as green as of old. The rafts go drifting down the light
waves as on feet of air. But the river of history is changed, and one
feels the spirit of the change with deep sadness as one listens to the
bells."


  THE LIGHTS HAVE GONE OUT IN THE CASTLE.

  I.

    The boatmen strike lightly the zither
      As they drift 'neath the hillsides of green,
    But gone from the Rhine is the palgrave,
      And gone is the palgravine.
        Play lightly, play lightly, O boatman,
          When the shadows of night round thee fall,
        For the lights have gone out in the castle,
          The lights have gone out in the hall.
        And the Rhine waters silently flow,
        The old bells ring solemn and slow,
            O boatman,
                  Play lightly,
                        Play lightly,
        O boatman, play lightly and low.

  II.

    Awake the old runes on the zither,
      O boatman! the lips of the Rhine
    Still kiss the green ruins of ivy,
      And smile on the vineyards of wine.
        Play lightly, play lightly, O boatman,
          When the shadows of night round thee fall,
        For the lights have gone out in the castle,
          The lights have gone out in the hall.
        And the Rhine waters silently flow,
        The old bells ring solemn and slow,
            O boatman,
                  Play lightly,
                        Play lightly,
        O boatman, play lightly and low.

    [Illustration: ABOVE THE TOWN.]

  III.

    The lamps of the stars shine above thee
      As they shone when the vineyards were green,
    In the long vanished days of the palgrave,
      In the days of the palgravine.
        Play lightly, thy life tides are flowing,
          Thy fate in the palgrave's recall,
        For the lights have gone out in the castle,
          The lights have gone out in the hall.
        And the Rhine waters silently flow,
        And the old bells ring solemn and slow,
            O boatman,
                  Play lightly,
                        Play lightly,
        O boatman, play lightly and low.

The narratives of the evening devoted to the Bells on the Rhine were
closed by a story by Master Lewis.

"I do not often relate stories," he said; "but I have a German story
in mind, the lesson of which has been helpful to my experience. It is
a legend and a superstition, and one that is not as generally familiar
to the readers of popular books as are many that have been told at
these meetings. I think you will like it, and that you will not soon
forget it."


  "TO-MORROW."

  Once--many years, perhaps centuries ago--a young German student,
  named Lek, was travelling from Leipsig to the Middle Rhine. His
  journey was made on foot, and a part of it lay through the
  Thuringian Forest.

  He rested one night at the old walled town of Saalfeld, visited the
  ruins of Sorenburg, and entered one of the ancient roads then
  greatly frequented, but less used now, on account of the shorter and
  swifter avenues of travel.

  Towards evening he ascended a hill, and, looking down, was surprised
  to discover a quaint town at the foot, of which he had never heard.

  It was summer; the red sun was going down, and the tree-tops of the
  vast forests, moved by a gentle wind, seemed like the waves of the
  wide sea. Lek was a lover of the beautiful expressions of Nature, of
  the poetry of the forests, hills, and streams; and he sat down on a
  rock, under a spreading tree, to see the sunset flame and fade, and
  the far horizons sink into the shadows and disappear.

  "I have made a good journey to-day," he said, "and whatever the
  strange town below me may be, it will be safe for me to spend the
  night there. I see that it has a church and an inn."

  Lek had travelled much over Germany, but he had never before seen a
  town like the one below him. It wore an air of strange
  antiquity,--as a town might look that had remained unchanged for
  many hundred years. An old banner hung out from a quaint steepled
  building; but it was unlike any of modern times, national or
  provincial.

  The fires of sunset died away; clouds, like smoke, rose above them,
  and a deep shadow overspread the forests. Lek gathered up his
  bundles, and descended the hill towards the town. As he was hurrying
  onward he met a strange-looking man in a primitive habit,--evidently
  a villager. Lek asked him the name of the place.

  The stranger looked at him sadly and with surprise, and answered in
  a dialect that he did not wholly understand; but he guessed at the
  last words, and rightly.

  "Why do you wish to know?"

  "I am a traveller," answered Lek, "and I must remain there until
  to-morrow."

  "TO-MORROW!" said the man, throwing up his hands. "To-morrow! For
  _us_," pointing to himself, "there is no to-morrow. I must hurry
  on."

  He strode away towards a faded cottage on the outskirts of the town,
  leaving Lek to wonder what his mysterious answer could mean.

    [Illustration: OLD PEASANT COSTUME.]

  Lek entered the town. The people were strange to him; every one
  seemed to be in a hurry. Men and women were talking rapidly, like
  travellers when taking leave of their friends for a long journey.
  Indeed, so earnest were their words that they seemed hardly to
  notice him at all.

  He presently met an old woman on a crutch, hurrying along the
  shadowy street.

    [Illustration: THE OLD CITY.]

  "Is this the way to the inn?" he asked.

  The old one hobbled on. He followed her.

  "Is this the way to the inn? I wish to remain there until
  to-morrow."

  The cripple turned on her crutch.

  "TO-MORROW!" she said. "Who are you that talk of to-morrow? All the
  gold of the mountains could not buy a to-morrow. Go back to your
  own, young man! they may have to-morrows; but my time is short,--I
  must hurry on."

  Away hobbled the dame; and Lek, wondering at her answer, entered
  what seemed to him the principal street.

  He came at length to the inn; a faded structure, and antique, like a
  picture of the times of old. There men were drinking and talking;
  men in gold lace, and with long purses filled with ancient coin.

  The landlord was evidently a rich old fellow; he had a girdle of
  jewels, and was otherwise habited much like a king.

  He stared at Lek; so did his jovial comrades.

  "Can you give a stranger hospitality until to-morrow?" asked the
  young student, bowing.

  "Until TO-MORROW! Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the innkeeper. "He asks for
  hospitality until to-morrow!" he added to his six jolly companions.

  "To-morrow--ha, ha, ha!" echoed one.

  "Ha, ha, ha!" repeated another.

  "Ha, ha, ha!" chorused the others, slapping their hands on their
  knees. "To-morrow!"

  Then a solemn look came into the landlord's face.

  "Young man," said he, "don't you know, have you not heard? _We_ have
  no to-morrows; our nights are long, long slumbers; each one is a
  hundred years."

    [Illustration: OLD PEASANT COSTUME.]

  The six men were talking now, and the landlord turned from Lek and
  joined in the conversation eagerly.

  The shadows of the long twilight deepened. Men and women ran to and
  fro in the streets. Every one seemed in a hurry, as though much must
  be said and done in a brief time.

  Presently a great bell sounded in a steeple. The hurrying people
  paused. Each one uplifted his or her hands, waved them in a circle,
  and cried,--

  "Alas! TO-MORROW! Hurry, good men, all, good women, all, hurry!"

  What did it mean? "Have I gone mad?" asked Lek. "Am I dreaming?"

  Near the inn was a green, parched and faded. In the centre was a
  withered tree; under it was a maiden. She was very fair; her dress
  was of silk and jewels, and on her arms were heavy bracelets of
  gold. Unlike the other people, she did not seem hurried and anxious.
  She appeared to take little interest in the strangely stimulated
  activities around her.

  Lek went to her.

  "Pardon a poor student seeking information," he said. "Your people
  all treat me rudely and strangely; they will not listen to me. I am
  a traveller, and I came here civilly, and only asked for food and
  lodging until to-morrow."

  "TO-MORROW! The word is a terror to most of them; it is no terror to
  me. I care not for to-morrows,--they are days of disappointments; I
  had them once,--I am glad they do not come oftener to me. I shall go
  to sleep at midnight, here where I was deserted. You are a stranger,
  I see. You belong to the world; every day has its to-morrow. Go
  away, away to your own people, and to your own life of to-morrows.
  This is no place for you here."

  Again the bell sounded. The hurrying people stopped again in the
  street, and waved their hands wildly, and cried,--

  "Haste, haste, good men, all, good women, all. The hour is near.
  Good men, all, good women, all, hurry!"

    [Illustration: OLD PEASANT COSTUMES.]

  It was night now; but the full moon rose over the long line of
  hills, and behind it appeared a black cloud, from which darted
  tongues of red flame, followed by mutterings of thunder.

  The moon ascended the clear sky like a chariot, and the cloud seemed
  to follow her like an army,--an awful spectacle that riveted Lek's
  gaze and made him apprehensive.

  "A storm is coming," he said. "I must stay here. Tell me, good
  maiden, where can I find food and shelter?"

  "Have you a true heart?"

  "I have a true heart. I have always been true to myself; and he who
  is true to himself is never unfaithful to God or his fellow-men."

  "Then you will be saved when the hour comes. They only go down with
  us who are untrue. All true hearts have to-morrows."

  The moon ascended higher, and her light, more resplendent,
  heightened the effect of the blackness of the rising cloud. The
  lightnings became more vivid, the thunder more distinct.

  "You are sure that your heart is true?" said the maiden.

  "By the Cross, it is true."

  "Then I have a duty to do. Follow me."

  She rose and walked towards the hill from which Lek had come. Lek
  followed her. As he passed out of the town the bell sounded: it was
  the hour of eleven.

  The people stopped in the streets as before, waving their hands, and
  crying,--

  "Good men, all, good women, all, hurry! The hour is near. Good men,
  all, good women, all, hurry!"

    [Illustration: CITY GATE.]

  The maiden ascended the hill to the very rock from which the student
  had first seen the town, and under which he had rested.

  "Sit you here," she said, "and do not leave the place until the
  cocks crow for morning. A true heart never perished with the untrue.
  My duty is done. Farewell!"

  "But the tempest?" said the student. "This is no place of shelter.
  Let me return with you, only until to-morrow."

  There burst upon the hill a terrific thunder-gust. The maiden was
  gone, the black cloud swept over the moon, and Lek could no longer
  discern the town in the valley. Everything around him grew dark. The
  air seemed to turn into a thick inky darkness.

  Fearful flashes of lightning and terrific thunder followed. The
  wind bent the forest before it; but not a drop of rain fell.

  There was a moment's silence. The bell in the mysterious steeple
  smote upon the air. It was midnight.

  Another hush, as though Nature had ceased to breathe. Then a
  thunder-crash shook the hills, and seemed to cleave open the very
  earth.

  Lek crossed himself and fell upon his knees. The cloud passed
  swiftly. The moon came out again, revealing the lovely valley. _The
  village was gone._

  In the morning a cowherd came up the hill at the rising of the sun.

  "Good morrow," said Lek. "That was a fearful tempest that we had at
  midnight."

  "I never heard such thunder," said the cowherd. "I almost thought
  that the final day had come. You may well say it was a fearful
  night, my boy."

    [Illustration: THE NECKAR.]

  "But what has become of the village that was in the valley
  yesterday?" asked Lek.

  "There is no village in the valley," said the cowherd. "There never
  was but one. That was sunk hundreds of years ago; if you saw any
  village there yesterday it was that: it comes up only once in a
  hundred years, and then it remains for only a single day. Woe betide
  the traveller that stops there _that_ day. Unless he have a true
  heart, he goes down with the town at midnight. The town was cursed
  because it waxed rich, and became so wicked that there was found in
  it but one heart that was true."

  "Tell me about this strange village," said Lek, in fear and awe,
  recalling his adventure. "I never before heard of a thing so
  mysterious."

  "It is a sorry story. I will tell it as I have heard it.

  "The hills of Reichmanndorf used to abound with gold, and the people
  of the old town all became rich; but their riches did not make them
  happy and contented. It made them untrue.

  "The more their wealth increased, the more unfaithful they became,
  until the men met in the market-place daily to defraud each other,
  and the women's only purpose in life was to display their vanity.

  "At the inn were nightly carousals. The young men thought only of
  their gains and dissipations. Men were untrue to their families, and
  lovers to their vows.

  "The Sabbath was not kept. The old priest, Van Ness, said masses to
  the empty aisles.

  "In those evil days lived one Frederic Wollin. He was a brave man,
  and his soul was true.

  "It was the custom of this good man to instruct the people in the
  market-place. But at last none came to hear him.

  "One day, near Christmas, the council met. Wine flowed; rude jests
  went round. The question was discussed as to how these days of
  selfish delights might be made perpetual.

  "A great cry arose:--

  "'Banish the holy days: then all our to-morrows will be as to-day!'

  "Then Wollin arose and faced the people. His appearance was met by a
  tumult, and his words increased the hatred long felt against him.

  "'The days of evil have no to-morrows.' he said. 'He that liveth to
  himself is dead.'

  "'Give him a holy day once in a hundred years!' cried one.

  "The voice was hailed with cheers. The council voted that all future
  days should be as that day, except that Wollin and the old priest,
  Van Ness, should have a holy day once in a hundred years.

  "Christmas came. No bell was rung; no chant was heard. Easter
  brought flowers to the woods, but none to the altar. Purple
  Pentecost filled the forest villages with joy; but here no one cared
  to recall the descent of the celestial fire except the old priest
  and Wollin.

  "It was such a night as last night when Van Ness and Wollin came out
  of the church for the last time. The people were drinking at the
  inn, and dancing upon the green. Spring was changing into deep
  summer; the land was filled with blooms.

  "A party of young men who had been carousing, on seeing Wollin come
  from the church, set upon him, and compelled him to leave the town.
  He came up this hill. When he had reached the top, he paused and
  lifted his face towards heaven, and stretched out his hand. As he
  did so, a sharp sound rent the valley, and caused the hills to
  tremble. He looked down. The village had disappeared. Only Van Ness
  was standing by his side.

  "But as the villagers had promised Wollin a holy day once in a
  hundred years, so once in a hundred years these people are permitted
  to rise with their village into the light of the sun for a single
  day. If on that day a stranger visits them whose heart is untrue he
  disappears with them at midnight. Such is the story. You will hardly
  believe it true."

  The student crossed himself, and went on his journey towards the
  Rhine.

  "_They_ have one day in a hundred years," he said. "How precious
  must that one day be to them! If I enter the ways of evil, and my
  heart becomes untrue, shall _I_ have _one_ day in one hundred years
  when life is ended and my account to Heaven is rendered?"

  He thought. He read the holy books. He tried to find a single hope
  for an untrue soul; but he could discover none.

  Then he said,--

  "The days of evil have no to-morrows,--no, not once in a hundred
  years. Only good deeds have to-morrows. I will be true: so shall
  to-morrows open and close like golden doors until time is lost in
  the eternal." And his heart remained true.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE SONGS OF THE RHINE.

  THE WATCHMAN'S SONG.--THE WILD HUNT OF LÜTZOW.--THE AUTHOR OF THE
  ERL KING.--BEETHOVEN'S BOYHOOD.--THE ORGAN-TEMPEST OF LUCERNE.


Rhineland is the land of song. It is the wings of song that have given
it its fame. Every town on the Rhine has its own songs; every
mountain, hill, and river.

America has few local songs,--few songs of the people. The singers who
give voices to rivers, lakes, mountains, and valleys have not yet
appeared. The local poets and singers of America are yet to come.

In England, Germany, and some of the provinces of France, every
temple, stream, and grove has had its sweet singer.

Go to Basle, and you may hear the clubs singing the heroic songs of
Alsace and Lorraine.

Go to Heidelberg, and you may listen to student-songs through which
breathe the national spirit of hundreds of years.

The bands tell the story, legend, or romance of such towns at night,
wherever they may play.

In one of the public grounds to which the Class went for an evening
rest, one of the bands was playing the _Fremersberg_.

It related an old romance of the region of Baden-Baden: how that a
nobleman was once wandering with his dogs in the mountains, and was
overtaken by a storm; how he was about to perish when he heard the
distant sounds of a monastery bell; how, following the direction of
the sound, he heard a chant of priests; and how, at last, he was
saved.

The piece was full of melody. The wind, the rain, the horns, the
bells, the chant, while they told a story, were all delightfully
melodious.

The ballad is almost banished from the intellectual American
concert-rooms. In Germany a ballad is a gem, and is so valued. It is
the best expression of national life and feeling.

The Class went to hear one of Germany's greatest singers. She sang an
heroic selection, and was recalled. Her first words on the recall
hushed the audience: it was a ballad of the four stages of life. It
began with an incident of a child dreaming under a rosebush:--

    "Sweetly it sleeps and on dream wings flies
    To play with the angels in Paradise,
      And the years glide by."

as an English translation gives it.

In the last stanza, the child having passed through the stages of
life, was represented as again sleeping under a rosebush. The withered
leaves fall upon his grave.

    "Withered and dead they fall to the ground,
    And silently cover a new-made mound,
      And the years glide by."

These last lines were rendered so softly, yet distinctly, that they
seemed like tremulous sounds in the air. The singer's face hardly
appeared to move; every listener was like a statue. The silence was
almost painful and impressive. One could but feel this was indeed art,
and not a pretentious affectation of it.

    [Illustration: AN OLD GERMAN TOWN.]

The reign of the organ as the monarch of musical instruments began
with Charlemagne, and nearly all of the towns on the Rhine have
historic organs. Many of the organ pieces are local compositions
and imitative. On the great organs at Basle and Frieburg the
imitation of storms is sometimes produced.

None of these storm-pieces, however, equal that which is daily played
in summer on the organ of Lucerne. This organ tempest more greatly
excited the Class than any music that they heard during their
journeys; and Master Beal made a record of it in verse, which we give
at the close of the chapter.

The children of Germany learn to read music at the same age that
they learn to read books. Music is a part of their primary
school--Kindergarten--education. The poorest children are taught to
sing.

    [Illustration: THE RHINEFELS.]

The consequence is that the Germans are a nation of singers. The organ
is a power in the church, the military band at the festival, and the
ballad in the concert-room and the home.

These ballad-loving people are familiar with the best music. To them
music is a language. Says Mayhew, in his elaborate work on the Rhine,
in speaking of the free education in music in Germany: "To tickle the
gustatory nerves with either dainty food or drink costs some money;
but to be able to reproduce the harmonious combinations of a Beethoven
or a Weber, or to make the air tremble melodiously with some sweet and
simple ballad, or even to recall the sonorous solemnities of some
prayerful chorus or fine thanksgiving in an oratorio, is not only to
fill the heart and brain with affections too deep for words, but it is
to be able to taste as high a pleasure as the soul is capable of
knowing, and yet one that may be had positively for nothing."

It is to be regretted that so much of the good music of Germany is
performed in the beer-gardens. The too free use of the glass and the
pipe cannot tend to make the nation strong for the future; and one
cannot long be charmed with the music and mirth of such places without
fearing for the losses that may follow.

All trades and occupations have their own songs, even the humblest.
Take for example the pleasing Miller's Song, which catches the spirit
of his somewhat poetic yet homely calling:--

    "To wander is the miller's joy,
        To wander!
    What kind of miller must he be,
    Who ne'er hath yearned to wander free?
        To wander!

    "From water we have learned it, yes,
        From water!
    It knows no rest by night or day,
    But wanders ever on its way,
        Does water.

    "We see it by the mill-wheels, too,
        The mill-wheels!
    They ne'er repose, nor brook delay,
    They weary not the livelong day,
        The mill-wheels.

    "The stones, too, heavy though they be,
        The stones, too,
    Round in the giddy circle dance,
    Ee'n fain more quickly would advance,
        The stones would.

    "To wander, wander, my delight,
        To wander!
    O master, mistress, on my way
    Let me in peace depart to-day,
        And wander!"

                    WILHELM MÜLLER.

The watchman, too, has his peculiar songs. One of these is very solemn
and stately. A favorite translation of it begins:--

    "Hark ye, neighbors, and hear me tell
    _Eight_ now strikes the loud church bell."

An almost literal translation thus reproduces the grand themes which
were made to remind the old guardians of the night in their ghostly
vigils:--


  THE WATCHMAN'S SONG.

    Hark, while I sing! our village clock
    The hour of eight, good sirs, has struck.
    Eight souls alone from death were kept,
    When God the earth with deluge swept:
    Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
    Man wakes and watches all in vain.
      Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
      Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

    Hark, while I sing! our village clock
    The hour of nine, good sirs, has struck.
    Nine lepers cleansed returned not;--
    Be not thy blessings, man, forgot!
    Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
    Man wakes and watches all in vain.
      Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
      Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

    Hark, while I sing! our village clock
    The hour of ten, good sirs, has struck.
    Ten precepts show God's holy will;--
    Oh, may we prove obedient still!
    Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
    Man wakes and watches all in vain.
      Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
      Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

    Hark, while I sing! our village clock
    The hour eleven, good sirs, has struck.
    Eleven apostles remained true;--
    May we be like that faithful few!
    Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
    Man wakes and watches all in vain.
      Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
      Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

    Hark, while I sing! our village clock
    The hour of twelve, good sirs, has struck.
    Twelve is of Time the boundary;--
    Man, think upon eternity!
    Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
    Man wakes and watches all in vain.
      Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
      Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

    Hark, while I sing! our village clock
    The hour of one, good sirs, has struck.
    One God alone reigns over all;
    Nought can without his will befall:
    Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
    Man wakes and watches all in vain.
      Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
      Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

    Hark, while I sing! our village clock
    The hour of two, good sirs, has struck.
    Two ways to walk has man been given:
    Teach me the right,--the path to heaven!
    Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
    Man wakes and watches all in vain.
      Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
      Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

    Hark, while I sing! our village clock
    The hour of three, good sirs, has struck.
    Three Gods in one, exalted most,
    The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
    Unless the Lord to guard us deign,
    Man wakes and watches all in vain.
      Lord! through thine all-prevailing might,
      Do thou vouchsafe us a good night!

    Hark, while I sing! our village clock
    The hour of four, good sirs, has struck.
    Four seasons crown the farmer's care;--
    Thy heart with equal toil prepare!
    Up, up! awake, nor slumber on!
    The morn approaches, night is gone!
      Thank God, who by his power and might
      Has watched and kept us through this night!

The Class devoted an autumn evening to singing the songs of the Rhine;
the "Watch on the Rhine," the "Loreley," the student-songs,
folk-songs, and some of the chorals of Luther. The song that proved
most inspiring was the "Wild Chase of Lützow." Master Beal awakened a
deep interest in this song before it was sung, by relating its
history.


  "THE WILD HUNT OF LÜTZOW."

  All musical ears are familiar with the refrain: "Yes, 'tis the hunt
  of Lützow the free and the bold,"--if not with these exact words,
  with other words of the same meaning. The music of C. M. Von Weber
  has carried the "hunt" of Lützow over the world. The song and music
  alike catch the spirit and the movement of a corps of cavalry bent
  on the destruction of an enemy. One sees the flying horsemen in the
  poem, and hears them in the music. It was one of the few martial
  compositions that starts one to one's feet, and stirs one's blood
  with the memory of heroic achievements.

  I will give you one of the most vigorous translations. Longfellow
  has adopted it in his "Poems of Places." It catches the spirit of
  the original, and very nearly reproduces the original thought.


  LÜTZOW'S WILD CHASE.

    What gleams from yon wood in the bright sunshine?
      Hark! nearer and nearer 'tis sounding;
    It hurries along, black line upon line,
    And the shrill-voiced horns in the wild chase join,
      The soul with dark horror confounding:
    And if the black troopers' name you'd know,
    'Tis Lützow's wild Jäger,--a-hunting they go!

    [Illustration: MAYENCE IN THE OLDEN TIME.]

    From hill to hill, through the dark wood they hie,
      And warrior to warrior is calling;
    Behind the thick bushes in ambush they lie,
    The rifle is heard, and the loud war-cry,
      In rows the Frank minions are falling:
    And if the black troopers' name you'd know,
    'Tis Lützow's wild Jäger,--a-hunting they go!

    Where the bright grapes glow, and the Rhine rolls wide,
      He weened they would follow him never;
    But the pursuit came like the storm in its pride,
    With sinewy arms they parted the tide,
      And reached the far shore of the river;
    And if the dark swimmers' name you'd know,
    'Tis Lützow's wild Jäger,--a-hunting they go!

    How roars in the valley the angry fight;
      Hark! how the keen swords are clashing!
    High-hearted Ritter are fighting the fight,
    The spark of Freedom awakens bright,
      And in crimson flames it is flashing:
    And if the dark Ritters' name you'd know,
    'Tis Lützow's wild Jäger,--a-hunting they go!

    Who gurgle in death, 'mid the groans of the foe,
      No more the bright sunlight seeing?
    The writhings of death on their face they show,
    But no terror the hearts of the freemen know.
      For the Franzmen are routed and fleeing;
    And if the dark heroes' name you'd know,
    'Tis Lützow's wild Jäger,--a-hunting they go!

    The chase of the German, the chase of the free,
      In hounding the tyrant we strained it!
    Ye friends, that love us, look up with glee!
    The night is scattered, the dawn we see,
      Though we with our life-blood have gained it!
    And from sire to son the tale shall go:
    'Twas Lützow's wild Jäger that routed the foe!

  Lützow, the cavalry hero of Prussia, in the German war for freedom
  against the rule of Napoleon, was born in 1782. He was a famous
  hunter, and when Europe arose against Bonaparte in 1813, he called
  for volunteers of adventurous spirit for cavalry service: "hunters"
  of the enemy, who should hang about the French army, and, with the
  destructive vigilance of birds or beasts of prey, give the enemy no
  rest on the German side of the Rhine.

  The boldest young men of Germany rushed to Lützow; noblemen,
  students, foresters. His corps of cavalry became the terror of the
  French army. The enemy could never tell where they would be found.

  Among the young volunteers was Körner, the young German poet. He was
  a slender young man; but he had an heroic soul, and the cavalry
  corps of the fiery Lützow seemed to him the place for it. He joined
  the "wild hunters" in 1813.

  "Germany rises," he said. "The Prussian eagle beats her wings; there
  is hope of freedom.

  "I know what happiness can fruit for me in life; I know that the
  star of fortune shines upon me; but a mighty feeling and conviction
  animates me: no sacrifice can be too great for my country's
  freedom!"

  The words glow.

  He added,--

  "I must forth,--I must oppose my breast to the storm. Can I
  celebrate the deeds of others in song, and not dare with them the
  danger?"

  Körner's battle-songs became firebrands. He consecrated himself to
  his country in the village church near Zobten. He wrote the
  battle-hymn for the occasion, which was a service for the departing
  volunteers.

  "We swore," he said, "the oath of fidelity to our cause. I fell upon
  my knees and implored God's blessing. The oath was repeated by all,
  and the officers swore it on their swords. Then Martin Luther's 'A
  Mighty Fortress is our God' concluded the ceremony."

  He wrote a thrilling war-song on the morning of the battle of
  Danneberg, May 12, 1813. It ended with these words:--

    "Hark! hear ye the shouts and the thunders before ye?
        On, brothers, on, to death and to glory!
        We'll meet in another, a happier sphere!"

  On May 28, 1813, Major Von Lützow determined to set out on an
  expedition towards Thuringia, with his young cavalry and with
  Cossacks. Körner begged to accompany him. Lützow commissioned him as
  an officer. He was wounded, and left for a time helpless in a wood,
  on the 17th of June. In this condition he wrote his famous "Farewell
  to Life."

    "My deep wound burns," &c.

  Körner recovered, but was suddenly killed in an engagement on August
  26th.

  The "Sword Song" of Körner which Von Weber's music has made famous,
  was written a few hours before his death. It was an inspiration to
  the German cause.

  "Lützow's Wild Chase" thrilled Prussia. Like the "Watch on the
  Rhine" in the recent war, it was the word that fired the national
  pride, and nerved men to deeds that crowned the cause with glory.

  "The Rhine! the Rhine!" shouted the young German heroes at last,
  looking down on the river.

  "Is there a battle?" asked the officers, dashing on in the direction
  of the shout.

  "No, the enemy has gone over the Rhine," was the answer. "The Rhine!
  the Rhine!"

Mr. Beal introduced a number of selections from German composers, the
loved tone-poets, with interesting stories and anecdotes. We reproduce
a part of these musical incidents, as they properly belong to the
history of the river of song.

Taking up a selection from Schubert's famous symphony, he spoke
feelingly of the author, and then gave some pictures of the lives of
Beethoven and Bach.


  THE AUTHOR OF THE ERL KING.

  Poor Schubert! The composer of what operas, symphonies, overtures,
  choruses, masses, cantatas, sonatas, fantasias, arias! What
  tenderness was in his soul!--Listen to the "Last Greeting;" what
  fancy and emotion! listen to the "Fisher Maiden" and "Post Horn;"
  what refinement! listen to the "Serenade;" what devotion! hear the
  "Ave Maria"!

  Dead at the age of thirty-one; dead after a life of neglect, leaving
  all these musical riches behind him!

  Franz Schubert was born at Himmelpfortgrand, in 1797. His father was
  a musician, but a poor man. Franz was placed at the age of eleven
  among the choir-boys of the Court Chapel, where he remained five
  years, absorbed in musical studies, and making himself the master of
  the leading instruments of the orchestra.

  To compose music was his life. His restless genius was ever at work;
  always seeking to produce something new, something better. The old
  masters, and especially Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, were his
  sources of study and inspiration. Music became his world, and all
  outside of it was strange and unexplored. All of his moods found
  expression in music: his love, his hopes, his wit, his sadness, and
  his dreams.

  He seems to have composed his best works for the pure love of his
  art, with little thought of money or fame. Many of his best works he
  never heard performed. He left his manuscript scores scattered about
  his rooms, and so they were found in confusion after his decease.

  A monument was erected to his memory. On it is the following simple
  but touching inscription:--

    "The art of music buried here a rich possession, but yet
    far fairer hopes. Franz Schubert lies here. Born on the
    30th of January, 1797, died on the 19th of November,
    1828, thirty-one years old."

  Fame almost failed to overtake him in life; his course was so rapid,
  and his works were so swiftly produced. It crowned his memory.

  Schubert's magnificent symphony in C is one of the most beautiful
  works of the kind ever written, and lovers of orchestral music
  always delight to find it on the programme of an evening concert. It
  is a charm, an enchantment; it awakens feelings that are only active
  in the soul under exceptional influences. Yet the listener does not
  know to what he is listening: it is all a mystery; no one can tell
  what the composer intended to express by this symphony. We know that
  the theme is a noble one,--but what? that the soul of the writer
  must have been powerfully moved during its composition,--by what
  influences? It is an enigma: each listener may guess at the theme,
  and each will associate it with the subject most in harmony with his
  own taste.

  In 1844 Robert Schumann, while looking over a heap of dusty
  manuscripts at Vienna, found this wonderful symphony, until then
  unknown. He was so much charmed with it that he sent it to
  Mendelssohn at Leipzig. It was there produced at the Gewandhaus
  concerts, won the admiration it deserved, and thence found its way
  to all the orchestras of the world. The youthful composer had been
  dead nearly twenty years when the discovery was made.

  One of the best known of the dramatic German ballads is the Erl
  King.

  The Erl King is Death. He rides through the night. He comes to a
  happy home, and carries away a child, galloping back to the
  mysterious land whence he came.

  In this ballad a father is represented as riding with a dying child
  under his cloak. The Erl King pursues them.

  Schubert gave the ballad its musical wings. I need not describe the
  music. It is on your piano. Let it tell the story.


  BEETHOVEN'S BOYHOOD AT BONN.

  Literary men have often produced their best works late in life.
  Longfellow cites some striking illustrations of this truth in
  _Morituri Salutamus_:--

    "It is too late! Ah, nothing is too late
    Till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
    Cato learned Greek at eighty; Sophocles
    Wrote his grand Oedipus, and Simonides
    Bore off the prize of verse from his compeers,
    When each had numbered more than fourscore years.
    And Theophrastus, at fourscore and ten,
    Had but begun his Characters of Men.
    Chaucer, at Woodstock with the nightingales,
    At sixty wrote the Canterbury Tales;
    Goethe at Weimar, toiling to the last,
    Completed Faust when eighty years were past."

  Such examples of late working are seldom found in musical art. Men
  seem to become musicians because of the inspiration born within
  them. This impelling force is very early developed.

  Handel, the greatest musical composer of his own or any age, was so
  devoted to music in childhood that his father forbade his musical
  studies. At the age of eleven he as greatly delighted and surprised
  Frederick I. of Prussia by his inspirational playing; he was in
  youth appointed to a conspicuous position of organist in Halle.

  Haydn surprised his friends by his musical talents at his _fifth_
  year. He had a voice of wonderful purity, sweetness, and compass,
  and was received as a choir-boy at St. Stephen's Church, Vienna.

  Mozart's childhood is a household story. He was able to produce
  chords on the harpsichord at the age of three, and wrote music with
  correct harmonies at the age of six. Glück had made a musical
  reputation at the age of eighteen.

  Mendelssohn was a brilliant pianist at six, and gave concerts at
  nine. Verdi was appointed musical director at Milan in youth.
  Rossini composed an opera at the age of sixteen, and ceased to
  compose music at forty.

  No other art exhibits such remarkable developments of youthful
  genius; though many eminent poets like Pindar, Cowley, Pope, Mrs.
  Hemans, L. E. L., have written well in early youth. Music is a
  flower that blossoms early, and bears early fruit.

  Music may justly be called the art of youth.

  Beethoven was born at Bonn on the Rhine, 1770. He lived here
  twenty-two years. His musical character was formed here.

  Beethoven was put at the harpsichord at the age of four years. He
  was able to play the most difficult music in every key at twelve
  years; and was appointed one of the court organists when fifteen.

  The boy received this appointment, which was in the chapel of the
  Elector of Cologne, by the influence of Count Waldstein, who had
  discovered his genius. Here he was the organ prince.

  The following curious anecdote is told of his skill at the organ:--

  "On the last three days of the passion week the Lamentations of the
  Prophet Jeremiah were always chanted; these consisted of passages of
  from four to six lines, and they were sung in no particular time. In
  the middle of each sentence, agreeably to the old choral style, a
  _rest_ was made upon one note, which rest the player on the piano
  (for the organ was not used on those three days) had to fill up with
  a voluntary flourish.

    [Illustration: BEETHOVEN'S HOME AT BONN.]

  "Beethoven told Heller, a singer at the chapel who was boasting of
  his professional cleverness, that he would engage, that very day, to
  put him out, at such a place, without his being aware of it, so that
  he should not be able to proceed. He accepted the wager; and
  Beethoven, when he came to a passage that suited his purpose, led
  the singer, by an adroit modulation, out of the prevailing mode into
  one having no affinity with it, still, however, adhering to the
  tonic of the former key; so that the singer, unable to find his way
  in this strange region was brought to a dead stand.

  "Exasperated by the laughter of those around him, Heller complained
  to the elector, who (to use Beethoven's expression) 'gave him a most
  gracious reprimand, and bade him not play any more such clever
  tricks.'"

  At Bonn young Beethoven devoted himself almost wholly to the organ.
  The memories of the Rhine filled his life, which ended so sadly on
  the Danube. Bonn and Beethoven are as one name to the English or
  American tourist.


  THE FATHER OF ORGAN MUSIC.

  Bach, the greatest organist and composer of organ music of the last
  century, was born at Eisenach, 1685, and had truly a remarkable
  history. His art was born in him. He wrote because he must write,
  and sung because he must sing.

  His father was a court musician, and had a twin brother who occupied
  the same situation, and so much resembled him that their wives could
  not tell them apart. These twin brothers produced music nearly
  alike; their dispositions were identical; when one was ill, the
  other was so likewise, and both died at the same time.

  John Sebastian Bach was the brightest ornament of this music-loving
  family. His parents died in his boyhood, and his musical education
  was undertaken by his eldest brother, a distinguished organist. He
  fed on music as food.

  An incident will show his spirit. He was eager to play more
  difficult music than his brother assigned. He noticed that his
  brother had a book of especially difficult pieces; and he begged to
  be allowed to use it, but was denied. This book was kept locked in a
  cupboard, which had an opening just wide enough to admit the boy's
  thin hand. He was able to reach it, and, by rolling it in a certain
  way, to bring it out and replace it without unlocking the door. He
  began to copy it by moonlight, as no candle was allowed him in the
  evening, and in six months had reproduced in this manner the whole
  of the music. About this time his brother died, and the friendless
  lad engaged himself as a choir-singer, which gave him a temporary
  support.

  Organ-music became a passion with him. He determined, at whatever
  sacrifice, to make himself the master of the instrument. He might go
  hungry, lose the delights of society; but the first organist in
  Germany he would be: nothing should be allowed to stand in the way
  of this purpose in life. He studied all masters. He made a long
  journey on foot to Lubeck to hear a great German master play the
  organ; and when he heard him, he remained three months an unknown
  and secret auditor in the church.

  A youth in which a single aim governs life early arrives at the
  harvest. Young manhood found Bach court organist in that Athens of
  Germany, Weimar. His fame grew until it reached the ears of
  Frederick the Great.

  "Old Bach has come," joyfully said the King to his musicians, on
  learning that the great organist arrived in town.

  He became blind in his last years, as did Handel. Ten days before
  his death his sight was suddenly restored, and he rejoiced at seeing
  the sunshine and the green earth again. A few hours after this
  strange occurrence, he was seized with an apoplectic fit. He died at
  the age of sixty-eight.

  His organ-playing was held to be one of the marvels of Germany. He
  made the organ as it were a part of his own soul; it expressed his
  thoughts like an interpreter, and swayed other hearts with the
  emotions of his own. His oratorios and cantatas were numbered by the
  hundred, many of which were produced only on a single occasion. His
  most enduring work is the Passion Music.

  In 1850 a Bach Society was formed in London, and a revival of the
  works of the master followed. Bach wrote five passions, but only one
  for two choirs.

  To the general audience much of the Passion music, as arranged for
  English choral societies, seems too difficult for appreciation; but
  the over-choir at the beginning, the expression of suffering and
  darkness, and the so-called earthquake choruses, with its sudden and
  stupendous effects, impress even the uneducated ear.

  The beauty and power of the oratorio as a work of art are felt in
  proportion to one's musical training; but as a sublime tone-sermon,
  all may feel its force, and dream that the awful tragedy it
  represents is passing before them.

    [Illustration: A CITY OF THE RHINE.]


  THE ORGAN-TEMPEST OF LUCERNE.

    We came to fair Lucerne at even,--
      How beauteous was the scene!
    The snowy Alps like walls of heaven
      Rose o'er the Alps of green;
    The damask sky a roseate light
      Flashed on the Lake, and low
    Above Mt. Pilate's shadowy height
      Night bent her silver bow.

    We turnèd towards the faded fane,
      How many centuries old!
    And entered as the organ's strain
      Along the arches rolled;
    Such as when guardian spirits bear
      A soul to realms of light,
    And melts in the immortal air
      The anthem of their flight;
    Then followed strains so sweet,
      So sadly sweet and low,
    That they seemed like memory's music,
      And the chords of long ago.

    A light wind seemed to rise;
      A deep gust followed soon,
    As when a dark cloud flies
      Across the sun, at noon.
    It filled the aisles,--each drew
      His garments round his form;
    We could not feel the wind that blew,
      We could only hear the storm.
    Then we cast a curious eye
      Towards the window's lights,
    And saw the lake serenely lie
      Beneath the crystal heights.
    Fair rose the Alps of white
      Above the Alps of green,
    The slopes lay bright in the sun of night,
      And the peaks in the sun unseen.

    A deep sound shook the air,
      As when the tempest breaks
    Upon the peaks, while sunshine fair
      Is dreaming in the lakes.
    The birds shrieked on their wing;
      When rose a wind so drear,
    Its troubled spirit seemed to bring
      The shades of darkness near.
    We looked towards the windows old,
      Calm was the eve of June,
    On the summits shone the twilight's gold,
      And on Pilate shone the moon.

    A sharp note's lightning flash
      Upturned the startled face;
    When a mighty thunder-crash
      With horror filled the place!
    From arch to arch the peal
      Was echoed loud and long;
    Then o'er the pathway seemed to steal
      Another seraph's song;
    And 'mid the thunder's crash
      And the song's enraptured flow,
    We still could hear, with charmèd ear,
      The organ playing low.

    [Illustration: THE RIVER OF SONG.]

    As passed the thunder-peal,
      Came raindrops, falling near,
    A rain one could not feel,
      A rain that smote the ear.
    And we turned to look again
      Towards the mountain wall,
    When a deep tone shook the fane,
      Like the avalanche's fall.
    Loud piped the wind, fast poured the rain,
      The very earth seemed riven,
    And wildly flashed, and yet again,
      The smiting fires of heaven.
    And cheeks that wore the light of smiles
      When slowly rose the gale,
    Like pulseless statues lined the aisles
      And, as forms of marble, pale.
    The organ's undertones
      Still sounded sweet and low,
    And the calm of a more than mortal trust
      With the rhythms seemed to flow.

    The Master's mirrored face
      Was lifted from the keys,
    As if more holy was the place
      As he touched the notes of peace.
    Then the sympathetic reeds
      His chastened spirit caught,
    As the senses met the needs
      And the touch of human thought.
    The organ whispered sweet,
      The organ whispered low,
    "Fear not, God's love is with thee,
      Though tempests round thee blow!"
    And the soul's grand power 'twas ours to trace,
      And its deathless hopes discern,
    As we gazed that night on the living face
      Of the Organ of Lucerne.

    Then from the church it passed,
      That strange and ghostly storm,
    And a parting beam the twilight cast
      Through the windows, bright and warm.
    The music grew more clear,
      Our gladdened pulses swaying,
    When Alpine horns we seemed to hear
      On all the hillsides playing.

    We left the church--how fair
      Stole on the eve of June!
    Cool Righi in the dusky air,
      The low-descending moon!
    No breath the lake cerulean stirred,
      No cloud could eye discern;
    The Alps were silent,--we had heard
      The Organ of Lucerne.

    Soon passed the night,--the high peaks shone
      A wall of glass and fire,
    And Morning, from her summer zone,
      Illumined tower and spire;
    I walked beside the lake again,
      Along the Alpine meadows,
    Then sought the old melodious fane
      Beneath the Righi's shadows.
    The organ, spanned by arches quaint,
      Rose silent, cold, and bare,
    Like the pulseless tomb of a vanished saint:--
      The Master was not there!
    But the soul's grand power 'twas mine to trace
      And its deathless hopes discern,
    As I gazed that morn on the still, dead face
      Of the Organ of Lucerne.



CHAPTER XV.

COPENHAGEN.

  COPENHAGEN.--THE STORY OF ANCIENT DENMARK.--THE ROYAL FAMILY.--STORY
  OF A KING WHO WAS OUT INTO A BAG.


On the Denmark Night Mr. Beal gave a short introductory talk on
Copenhagen, and several of the boys related stories by Hans Christian
Andersen. Master Lewis gave some account of the early history of
Denmark and of the present Royal Family; and Herman Reed related an
odd story of one of the early kings of Denmark.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Copenhagen, or the Merchants' Haven, the capital of the island
kingdom of Denmark, rises out of the coast of Zealand, and breaks the
loneliness and monotony of a long coast line. It was a beautiful
vision as we approached it in the summer evening hours of the high
latitude,--evening only to us, for the sun was still high above the
horizon. The spire of the Church of Our Saviour--three hundred feet
high--appeared to stand against the sky. Palaces seemed to lift
themselves above the sea as we steamed slowly towards the great
historic city of the North.

"The entrance to the harbor is narrow but deep. The harbor itself is
full of ships; Copenhagen is the station of the Danish navy.

"We passed very slowly through the water streets among the ships of
the harbor,--for water streets they seemed,--and after a tedious
landing, were driven through the crooked streets of a strange old town
to a quiet hotel where some English friends we had met on the
Continent were stopping.

"The city is little larger than Providence, Rhode Island. Its public
buildings are superb. It is an intellectual city, and its libraries
are the finest of Europe.

    [Illustration: THE PALACE OF ROSENBORG.]

"It is divided into two parts, the old town and the new. In the new
part are broad streets and fine squares.

"We visited the Rosenborg Palace, the old residence of the Danish
kings;--it is only a show palace now. In the church we saw
Thorwaldsen's statues of the Twelve Apostles, regarded as the finest
of his works.

    [Illustration: VIEW OF COPENHAGEN.]


  THE STORY OF ANCIENT DENMARK.

  It is a strange, wild romance, the early history of the nations of
  the North.

  The Greeks and Romans knew but little about the Scandinavians. They
  knew that there was a people in the regions from which came the
  north winds. The north wind was very cold. Was there a region beyond
  the north wind? If so, how lovely it must be, where the cold winds
  never blow. They fancied that there was such a region. They called
  the inhabitants Hyperboreans, or the people beyond the north wind.
  They imagined also that in this region of eternal summer men did not
  die. If one of the Hyperboreans became tired of earth, he had to
  kill himself by leaping from a cliff.

  The Northmen, or the inhabitants of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden,
  were of the same origin as the tribes that peopled Germany, and that
  came from the East, probably from the borders of the Black Sea. They
  were fire-worshippers, and their chief god was Odin.

  Denmark means _a land of dark woods_. In ancient times it was
  probably covered with sombre firs. One of its early kings was Dan
  the Famous. His descendants were called Danes.

  Many ages after the reign of this king, the land was filled with
  peace and plenty. It was the Golden Age of the North. Frode the
  Peaceful was king in the Golden Age. He ruled over all lands from
  Russia to the Rhine, and over two hundred and twenty kingdoms of two
  hundred and twenty subjugated kings. There was no wrong, nor want,
  nor thieves, nor beggars in the Golden Age. This happy period of
  Northern history was at that age of the world when Christ was born.

  According to the Scalds, the god Odin used to appear to men. He
  appeared the last time at the battle of Bravalla, a contest in which
  the Frisians, Wends, Finns, Lapps, Danes, Saxons, Jutes, Goths, and
  Swedes all were engaged. The dead were so thick on the field, after
  this battle, that their bodies reached to the axle-wheels of the
  chariots of the victors. At the time of this battle Christianity was
  being proclaimed in England. It was approaching the North. With the
  battle of Bravalla the mythic age of Denmark and the North comes to
  an end.

  I have told you something of Louis le Debonnaire, who went to die on
  a rock in the Rhine, that the waters might lull him to his eternal
  repose. He was a missionary king, and he desired nothing so much as
  the conversion of the world to Christ. He was the son of
  Charlemagne. "It is nobler to convert souls than conquer kingdoms"
  was his declaration of purpose. He sent missionary apostles to the
  North to convert Denmark. His missions at first were failures, but
  in the end they resulted in giving all the Northern crowns to
  Christ's kingdom, that Louis loved more than his own.

  The Danes in the Middle Ages became famous sea-kings. Before
  England, Denmark ruled the sea. One stormy day in December Gorm the
  Old appeared before Paris with seven hundred barks. He compelled the
  French king to sue for peace.

  The sea-kings conquered England. Canute the Dane was king of all the
  regions of the northwest of Europe. His kingdom embraced Denmark,
  England, Sweden, Norway, Scotland, and Cumberland. Such is the
  second wonderful period of Denmark's history.


  THE ROYAL FAMILY OF DENMARK.

  Royal people, as well as "self-made men," often undergo remarkable
  changes of fortune. No one, however high or low, is free from the
  accidents of this world. All men have surprises, either good or bad,
  in store for them.

  Few families have experienced a more striking change in position
  than the present royal house of the little northern kingdom of
  Denmark. Twenty years ago, the present king, Christian IX., was a
  rather poor and obscure gentleman, of princely rank, to be sure,
  residing quietly in Copenhagen, and bringing up his fine family of
  boys and girls in a very domestic and economical fashion. He was
  only a remote cousin of Frederick VII., the reigning monarch, and he
  seemed little likely to come to the throne.

  But death somewhat suddenly prepared the way for him, so that when
  old Frederick died, in 1863, Christian found himself king.

  This, however, was but the beginning of the fortunes of this once
  modest and little-known household. Just before Christian came to the
  throne, his eldest daughter, Alexandra, a beautiful and an amiable
  girl, attracted the attention of the Prince of Wales. The prince
  became attached to her, and in due time married her.

  About the same time, Christian's second son, George, was chosen King
  of Greece, and was crowned at Athens, and is still reigning there.

  After three years had passed, the second daughter, Maria Dagmar,
  who, like her sister Alexandra, was a very lovely and attractive
  girl, was married to the Czarowitch Alexander of Russia, after
  having been betrothed to his elder brother Nicholas, who died. She
  is now Empress of Russia.

    [Illustration: PALACE OF FREDERICKSBORG.]

  Somewhat later, the eldest son of the Danish king married the only
  daughter of Oscar II., King of Sweden and Norway, thus forming a new
  link of national friendship between the three Scandinavian nations.

  It is thus quite possible that in the not distant future no less
  than four of King Christian's children, who were brought up with
  little more expectation than that of living respectably and wedding
  into Danish noble families, will occupy thrones in Europe. It may
  happen that the two daughters will share two of the greatest of
  those thrones,--that one will be Queen of England; the other is
  Empress of Russia,--while the two sons will be respectively King of
  Denmark and King of Greece.

  This great good fortune, in a worldly point of view, which has come
  to the Danish royal family, cannot certainly be attributed solely,
  or even mainly, to luck or chance. It has been, after all, chiefly
  its virtues which have won it such a high position in Europe. The
  good breeding and excellent character of the king's children have
  won for them the prominence they now hold; for the daughters are as
  womanly and virtuous as they are physically attractive, and the sons
  are models of manly bearing and irreproachable habits.


  THE STORY OF A KING WHO WAS PUT INTO A BAG.

  "His realm was once a cradle, and now it is a coffin," might be said
  of the most powerful monarch that ever lived. Kings are but human,
  and they are pitiable objects indeed when they fall from their high
  estate into the power of their enemies. Never did a king present a
  more humiliating spectacle in his fall than Valdemar II., called the
  Conqueror.

  Under the early reign of this king, the Golden Age seemed to have
  returned to Denmark. Never was a young monarch more prosperous or
  glorious in so narrow a kingdom.

  His empire grew. He annexed Pomerania. He wrested from the German
  Empire all the territories in their possession north of the Elbe and
  Elde, and he finally became the master of Northern Germany.

  He was a champion of the Church. A papal bull conceded to him the
  sovereignty of all the people he might convert, and he entered the
  field against the pagans of Esthonia, with an army of 60,000 men,
  and 1,400 ships! He baptized the conquered with kingly pomp and
  pride.

  His reign was now most splendid. Denmark was supreme in Scandinavia
  and Northern Germany. The Pope revered the Danish power, and the
  world feared it.

  But secret foes are often more dangerous than open enemies. The
  conquered princes of Germany hated him, and planned his downfall.

  Among these was the Count-Duke of Schwerin. He pretended great
  respect and affection for Valdemar. He laid many snares for the
  king's ruin, but they failed. He was called "Black Henry" in his own
  country on account of his dark face and evil nature, and Valdemar
  had been warned against him as a false friend.

    [Illustration: THE KING IN THE BAG.]

  But he was warm, obsequious, and fascinating to the king, and the
  king liked him.

  In the spring of 1233 Valdemar invited him to hunt with him in the
  woods of Lyo.

  "Tell the king I am disabled and cannot leave my couch," said the
  artful count, who now thought of a way to accomplish his
  long-cherished purpose.

  He left his couch at once, and sent his spies to shadow the king.

  The king landed at Lyo with only a few attendants.

  One night the king was sleeping in the woods of Lyo in a rude,
  unguarded tent. His son was by his side.

  They were awaked from slumber by an assault from unknown foes, and a
  sense of suffocation.

  What had happened? The king could not move his arms; his head
  seemed enveloped in cloth. He could not see; his voice was stifled.
  He _felt_ himself carried away.

  Black Henry had entered the tent with his confidants, and had put
  the King of the North and his son into two bags, and tied them up,
  and was now hurrying away with them to the river.

  Black Henry laid his two captives in the bottom of a boat like two
  logs, and hoisted sail; and Valdemar, whose kingdom was now only a
  bag, was blown away towards the German coast.

  He was thrown into prison, and there lived in darkness and neglect.
  The Pope ordered his release, but it was not heeded. The Danes tried
  to rescue him, but were defeated.

  He was at last set free on the agreement that he should pay a large
  ransom. He returned to his kingdom, but found his territory reduced
  to its old narrow limits. His glory was gone. His empire had been
  the North; it had also been a bag; and at last it was a coffin. Poor
  old man! His last years were peaceful, and in them he served Denmark
  well.



CHAPTER XVI.

NORWAY.

  STOCKHOLM.--STORY OF THE HERO KING.--UPSALA.--NORWAY.--CHRISTIANIA.--
  KING OLAF.--DRONTHEIM.--THE FISHERMAN OF FAROE.


The narrative of travel and history was continued by Mr. Beal.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Strange is the evolution of cities.

"We are about to glance at Stockholm. Let us go back in imagination
six hundred years.

"There are some rocky islands in the Baltic, at the foot of the
northern peninsula. Sea birds wheel above them in the steel-gray air;
they build their nests there. Storms sweep over these lonely islands;
sunlight bursts upon them, and now and then a Viking's ship finds a
haven among them, and scares away the birds.

"Years pass. Fishermen build huts on the islands. Hunters come there.
There come also the sea kings. A mixed, strange people.

"They build a village on the holms, or islets. They defend themselves
with stockades, and they found on stocks, or beams, their strong
houses. The growing town rises from stock holms; hence, Stockholm.

    [Illustration: GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS.]

"The years pass, and the sea birds fly away. There are wings of gables
where once were wings of birds. Stockholm becomes a fortress, and, as
in the case of St. Petersburg in recent times, the sea desolation
pulses with life and energy, and is transformed into a city. Churches,
palaces, gardens, arise. Battles are fought, and here tread the feet
of kings.

"The wonder grows. The birds scream far away now. The islands are
spanned by bridges. Stockholm stands a splendid city, one of the
crowns of earth.

"The city lies before us. Noble structures, villas, steeples, are seen
among the green trees. The ships of many flags lie together like a
town in the sea.

"It is sunset. The tops of the linden-trees are crowned with sunlight,
the Gothic windows burn. A shadow falls from the gray sky. Afar fly
the white sea-gulls. The shadow deepens. It is night. We are in
Stockholm.

"Every nation has its hero.

"You have been told how that poor Louis le Debonnaire, the son of
Charlemagne, preferred to win crowns for Christ's kingdom rather than
for his own. He lost his own kingdom; but the missionaries he sent
forth, though at first not successful, were the means of giving
Christianity to all the nations of the North.


  THE HERO KING OF SWEDEN.

  There was born in Stockholm, in 1594, an heir to the Swedish throne,
  whose influence was destined to be felt throughout the world and to
  very distant periods of time. The child was named Gustavus Adolphus.

  He was educated for the kingdom. At the age of ten he was made to
  attend the sittings of the Diet and the councils of state. In
  boyhood he was able to discuss state affairs in Latin, and in youth
  he was able to speak nearly all European tongues.

  He was schooled in the arts of war as well as peace. In early
  manhood he entered Russia at the head of an army, and compelled the
  Czar to sue for peace.

  After the war the young king gave his whole heart to the development
  of the industries and institutions of his kingdom. He founded
  schools, assisted churches, and everywhere multiplied influences
  for good. Never did a monarch devote himself more earnestly to the
  improvement of his people, or accomplish more in a short time. His
  influence for good has ever lived in Sweden, and is felt strongly
  to-day.

  He was an ardent Protestant. The Catholic powers of the South and
  the Protestant powers of the North had become very hostile, and war
  between them seemed impending. In this crisis the Protestant leaders
  looked to Gustavus Adolphus as the champion of their cause.

  In 1630 Gustavus called a Diet in Stockholm, and reported the danger
  that was threatening the Protestant states of Germany, and which
  would involve Sweden unless checked. He announced that he had
  decided to espouse the cause of the German princes, and to enter the
  field. He took his little daughter in his arms, and commended her to
  the Diet as the heir to the crown.

  He landed in Germany on Midsummer's day in 1630. He had an army of
  fifteen thousand men. It was a small army indeed for so perilous an
  undertaking. "_Cum Deo et victricibus armis_ is my motto," he
  declared, and trusting in this watchword he advanced on his
  dangerous course.

  The Imperialists, as the foes of the Reformed Faith were called,
  were led by Wallenstein. They were greatly superior in numbers to
  the Swedes and their allies.

  At Lutzen the great battle of Protestantism was fought, Nov. 6,
  1632.

  "I truly believe that the Lord has given my enemies into my hands,"
  said Gustavus, just before the battle.

  The morning dawned gray and gloomy. A heavy mist hung over the two
  armies.

  The Swedish and German army united in singing Luther's hymn,--

    "Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott."

  Then Gustavus said,--

  "Let us sing 'Christ our Salvation.'"

    [Illustration: DEATH OF GUSTAVUS AND HIS PAGE.]

    "Be not dismayed, thou little flock,
    Although the foe's fierce battle-shock,
        Loud on all sides, assail thee.
    Though o'er thy fall they laugh secure,
    Their triumph cannot long endure;
        Let not thy courage fail thee.

    "Thy cause is God's,--go at his call,
    And to his hand commit thy all;
        Fear thou no ill impending:
    His Gideon shall arise for thee,
    God's Word and people manfully,
        In God's own time, defending.

    "Our hope is sure in Jesus' might;
    Against themselves the godless fight,
        Themselves, not us, distressing;
    Shame and contempt their lot shall be;
    God is with us, with him are we:
        To us belongs his blessing."

  Clad in his overcoat without armor, he mounted his horse and rode
  along the lines.

  "The enemy is within your reach," he said to the allies.

  "Swedes," he said to his old army, "if you fight as I expect of you,
  you shall have your reward; if not, not a bone of your bodies will
  ever return to Sweden."

  To the Germans he said,--

  "If you fail me to-day, your religion, your freedom, and your
  welfare in this world and in the next are lost."

  He prophesied to the Germans,--

  "Trust in God; believe that with his help you may this day gain a
  victory which shall profit your latest descendants."

  He waved his drawn sword over his head and advanced.

  The Swedes and Finns responded with cheers and the clash of arms.

  "Jesus, Jesus, let us fight this day for thy name," he exclaimed.

  The whole army was now in motion, the king leading amid the darkness
  and gloom of the mist.

  The battle opened with an immediate success for the Swedes. But in
  the moment of victory the king was wounded and fell from his horse.

  "The king is killed!"

  The report was like a death-knell to the Swedes, but only for a
  moment.

  The king's horse with an empty saddle was seen galloping wildly down
  the road.

  "Lead us again to the attack," the leaders demanded of George of
  Saxe-Weimar.

  The spirit of the dead king seemed to infuse the little army with
  more than human valor. The men fought as though they were resolved
  to give their lives to their cause. The memory of the king's words
  in the morning thrilled them. Nothing could stand before such
  heroism. Pappenheim fell. The Imperialists were routed. The Swedes
  at night, victorious, possessed the field, but they had lost the
  bravest of kings, and one of the most unselfish of rulers.

"We left Stockholm for Upsala, the student city. The paddles of the
boat brushed along the waters of the Mälar; the old city retreated
from view, and landscape after landscape of variegated beauty rose
before us.

"The Mälar Lake is margined with dark pines, bright meadows and
fields, light green linden-trees, gray rocks, and shadowy woods. Here
and there are red houses among the lindens.

"We pass flat-bottomed boats, that dance about in the current made by
the steamer.

"The hills of Upsala come into view. The University next appears, like
a palace; then a palace indeed, red like the houses; then the gabled
town.

"We went to the church, and were conducted into a vaulted chamber
where were crowns and sceptres taken from the coffins of dead kings.
We wandered along the aisle after leaving the treasure-room of the
dead, and gazed on cold tombs and dusty frescos.

"Here sleeps Gustavus Vasa.

"In the centre aisle, under a flat stone, lies the great botanist,
Linnæus.

"We visited the garden of Linnæus, or the place where it once bore the
blossoms and fruits of the world. Nettles were there; the orangeries
were gone; the winter garden had disappeared. The place wore a
desolate look; the master had departed, leaving little there but the
ghost of a great memory.

"We left Stockholm for Norway.

    [Illustration: CASCADE IN NORWAY.]

"We were landed from the steamer at Christiansand. This sea-port is a
rude town, and except from the wild, strange expression of both land
and sea, which affects one gloomily, yet with a kind of poetic
sadness, revealed little to interest us or to remember. There was a
Lazaretto, or pest-house, on a high rock, from which we felt sure that
no disease would ever be communicated.

    [Illustration: LAZARETTO.]

"The scenery of Norway is unlike any other in the world. Take the map
and scan the western coast. It looks like a piece of lace-work, so
numerous are the inlets or fiords.

"These fiords are many of them surrounded by headlands as high as
mountain walls. They are little havens, with calm water of wondrous
beauty and with walls that seem to reach to the sky. On a level spot
in the mountainous formation, a hamlet or a little church is sometimes
seen, one of the most picturesque objects with its setting in the
world."

[The artist can give one a better view of these fiords than any
description, and he has faithfully done it here.]

    [Illustration: THE NAERO FIORD.]

"The mountains and valleys of Norway are unlike any other. Summer
finds them as winter leaves them. Great hills are worn into cones by
the snow and ice. The cataracts are numerous and wonderful. The water
scenery has no equal for romantic beauty and wildness.

"A twelve hours' farther sail brought us to Christiania. It is
situated in a lovely valley on the northern side of Christiania
Fiord. It has a population of about eighty thousand. Here are the
Royal Palace and University.

"All of the cities of the North have great schools and libraries. The
University at Christiania has nearly a thousand students, and a
library of one hundred and fifty thousand books.

"The port is covered with ice during some four months in the year.
During the mild seasons some two thousand vessels yearly enter the
harbor.

"Olaf, the Saint, the King of 'Norroway,' who preached the Gospel
'with his sword,' is the hero of the western coast. I might relate
many wonderful stories of him, but I would advise you to read 'The
Saga of King Olaf,' by Longfellow, in the 'Wayside Inn.'

"His capital was Drontheim, far up among the northern regions, where
the sun shines all night in summer, and where the winters are wild and
dreary, cold and long. It is a quaint old town. Summer tourists to the
western coast of Norway sometimes visit it. Its cathedral was founded
by Olaf, and is nearly a thousand years old.

       *       *       *       *       *

"And now in ten nights' entertainments, you have taken hasty views of
Germany and the old Kingdom of Charlemagne. Narratives of travel and
history have been mingled with strange traditions and tales of
superstition; all have combined to give pictures of the ages that are
faded and gone, and that civilization can never wish to recall. Men
are reaching higher levels in religion, knowledge, science, and the
arts. Kingcraft is giving way to the governing intelligence of the
people, and superstition to the simple doctrines of the Sermon on the
Mount and to the experiences of a spiritual life. The age of castles
and fortresses, like churches, is gone. The age of peace and good-will
comes with the fuller light of the Gospel and intelligence. The pomps
of cathedrals will never be renewed. The Church is coming to teach
that character is everything, and that the soul is the temple of God's
spiritual indwelling."

The tenth evening was closed by Charlie Leland. He read an original
poem, suggested by an incident related to him by a fisherman at
Stockholm.

    [Illustration: LAKE IN NORWAY.]


  THE FISHERMAN OF FAROE.

    When life was young, my white sail hung
      O'er ocean's crystal floor;
    In the fiords alee was the dreaming sea,
      And the deep sea waves before.
    The Faroe fishermen used to call
      From the pier's extremest post:
    "Strike out, my boy, from the ocean wall;
      There's danger near the coast.
        Beware of the drifting dunes
        In the nights of the watery moons,
          Beware of the Maelstrom's tide
        When the western wind blows free,
        Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
        Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
        Strike out for the open sea,
        Strike out for the open sea!"

    "O pilot! pilot! every rock
      You know in the ocean wall."
    "No, no, my boy, I only know
      Where there are no rocks at all,
    Where there are no rocks at all, my boy,
      And there no ship is lost.
    Strike out, strike out for the open sea;
      There's danger near the coast.
        Beware, I say, of the dunes
        In the nights of the watery moons,
          Beware of the Maelstrom's tide
        When the western wind blows free,
        Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
        Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
        Strike out for the open sea,
        Strike out for the open sea!"

    Low sunk the trees in the sun-laved seas,
      And the flash of peaking oars
    Grew faint and dim on the sheeny rim
      Of the harbor-dented shores.
    And far Faroe in the light lay low,
      Where rode like a dauntless host
    The white-plumed waves o'er the green sea graves
      Of the rock-imperilled coast.
        And I thought of the drifting dunes
        In the nights of the watery moons,
          And I thought of the Maelstrom's tide
        When the western wind blew free,
        Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
        Of the shoals of the Cattegat,
        And I steered for the open sea,
        I steered for the open sea.

    To far Faroe I sailed away,
      When bright the summer burned,
    And I told in the old Norse kirk one day
      The lesson my heart had learned.
    Then the grizzly landvogt said to me:
      "Of strength we may not boast;
    But ever in life for you and me
      There's danger near the coast.
        Then think of the drifting dunes
        In the nights of the watery moons,
          And think of the Maelstrom's tide
        When the western wind blows free,
        Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
        Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
        Strike out for the open sea,
        Strike out for the open sea!"

    "O landvogt, well thou knowest the ways
      Wherein my feet may fall."
    "Oh, no, my boy, I only know
      The ways that are safe to all,
    The ways that are safe to all, my boy,
      And there no soul is lost.
    Strike out in life for the open sea,
      There's danger near the coast.
        Then think of the drifting dunes
        In the nights of the watery moons,
          And think of the Maelstrom's tide
        When the western wind blows free,
        Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
        Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
        Strike out for the open sea,
        Strike out for the open sea!

    "False lights, false lights, are near the land,
      The reef the land wave hides,
    And the ship goes down in sight of the town
      That safe the deep sea rides.
    'Tis those who steer the old life near
      Temptation suffer most;
    The way is plain to life's open main,
      There's danger near the coast.
        Beware of the drifting dunes
        In the nights of the watery moons,
          Beware of the Maelstrom's tide
        When the western wind blows free,
        Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
        Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
        Strike out for the open sea,
        Strike out for the open sea!"

    And so on life's sea I sailed away,
      Where free the waters flow,
    As I sailed from the old home port that day
      For the islands of far Faroe.
    And when I steer temptation near,
      The pilot, like a ghost,
    On the wave-rocked pier I seem to hear:
      "There's danger near the coast.
        Beware of the drifting dunes
        In the nights of the watery moons,
          Beware of the Maelstrom's tide
        When the western wind blows free,
        Of the rocks of the Skagerrack,
        Of the shoals of the Cattegat;
        Strike out for the open sea,
        Strike out for the open sea!"

    [Illustration: THE COAST.]



CHAPTER XVII.

THE GREATER RHINE.

  THE RETURN HOMEWARD.--ON THE TERRACE,--QUEBEC.


The Class made their return voyage by the way of Liverpool to Quebec,
one of the shortest of the ocean ferries, and one of the most
delightful in midsummer and early autumn, when the Atlantic is usually
calm, and the icebergs have melted away.

As the steamer was passing down the Mersey, and Liverpool with her
thousands of ships, and Birkenhead with its airy cottages, were
disappearing from view, Mr. Beal remarked to the boys,--

"We shall return through the Straits, and so shall be probably only
four and a half days out of sight of land."

"I did not suppose it was possible to cross the Atlantic from land to
land in four days and a half," said Charlie Leland.

"We shall stop to-morrow at Moville, the port of Londonderry," said
Mr. Beal. "A few hours after we leave we shall sink the Irish coast.
Make notes of the time you lose sight of the light-houses of Ireland,
and of the time when you first see Labrador, and compare the dates
towards the end of the voyage," said Mr. Beal.

Past the green hills of Ireland the steamer glided along, among ships
so numerous that the sea seemed a moving city, or the suburbs of a
moving city; for Liverpool itself, with her seven miles of wonderful
docks, is a city of the sea.

The Giant's Causeway, the sunny port of Moville, the rocky islands
with their white light-houses, were passed, and at one o'clock on
Monday morning the last light dropped into the calm sea, fading like a
star.

The Atlantic was perfectly calm--as "calm as a mill-pond" as the
expression is, during the tranquillity of the ocean that follows the
settled summer weather. The steamer was heavily loaded, and had little
apparent motion; bright days and bright nights succeeded each other. A
flock of gulls followed the steamer far out to sea. For three days no
object of interest was seen on the level ocean except the occasional
spouting of a whale.

The sky was a glory in the long twilights. The sun when half set made
the distant ocean seem like an island of fire, and the light clouds
after sunset like hazes drifting away from a Paradisic sphere.

On Thursday morning the shadowy coast of Labrador appeared. The voyage
seemed now virtually ended after four days from land to land. There
were three days more, but the steamer would be in calm water, with
land constantly in view.

The Straits of Belle Isle, some six miles wide, were as calm as had
been the ocean. The Gulf of St. Lawrence--the fishing field of the
world--was like a surface of glass. The sunrise and moonrise were now
magnificent; the sunsets brought scenes to view as wonderful as the
skies of Italy; gigantic mountains rose; clustering sails broke the
monotonous expanse of the glassy sea, and now and then appeared an
Indian canoe such as Jacques Cartier and the early explorers saw
nearly three centuries ago.

The wild shores of Anticosti rose and sunk.

"We are now in the Greater Rhine," said Mr. Beal to the boys,--"the
Rhine of the West."

"How is that?" asked Charlie Leland. "Is not the Hudson the American
Rhine?"

    [Illustration: NIAGARA FALLS.]

"It is the New York Rhine," said Mr. Beal, smiling. "The river St.
Lawrence is, by right of analogy, the American Rhine, and so deserves
to be called."

"Which is the larger river?" asked Charlie.

"The larger?"

"Yes, the longer?"

"It does not seem possible that an American schoolboy could seriously
ask such a question! I am sometimes astonished, however, at the
ignorance that older people of intelligence show in regard to our
river of which all Americans should be proud.

"Ours is the Greater Rhine. The German Rhine is less than a thousand
miles long; our Rhine is nearly twenty-five hundred miles long: the
German Rhine can at almost any point be easily spanned with bridges;
our Rhine defies bridges, except in its narrowest boundaries. The
great inland seas of Superior, Huron, Michigan, Ontario, and Erie
require a width of miles for their pathway to the ocean. The Rhine
falls cannot be compared with Niagara, nor the scattered islands of
the old river with the Lake of a Thousand Islands of the new. Quebec
is as beautiful as Coblentz, and Montreal is in its situation one of
the loveliest cities of the world.

"The tributaries of the old Rhine are small; those of the new are
almost as large as the old Rhine itself,--the gloomy Saguenay, and the
sparkling Ottawa.

"Think of its lakes! Lake Ladoga, the largest lake in Europe, contains
only 6,330 square miles. Lake Superior has 32,000 square miles, and
Michigan 22,000 square miles.

"You will soon have a view of the mountain scenery of the lower St.
Lawrence. The pine-covered walls along which trail the clouds of the
sky are almost continuous to Montreal."

"But why," asked Charlie Leland, "is the German Rhine so famous, and
ours so little celebrated?"

"The German Rhine gathers around it the history of two thousand years;
ours, two hundred years. What will our Rhine be two thousand years
from to-day?"

He added:--

"I look upon New England as one of the best products of civilization
thus far. But there is rising a new New England in the West, a vast
empire in the States of the Northwest and in Canada, to which New
England is as a province,--an empire that in one hundred years will
lead the thought, the invention, and the statesmanship of the world.
Every prairie schooner that goes that way is like a sail of the
'Mayflower.'

"In yonder steerage are a thousand emigrants. The easy-going,
purse-proud cabin passengers do not know it; they do not visit them or
give much thought to them: but there are the men and women whose
children will one day sway the empire that will wear the crown of the
world.

"The castles are fading from view on the hills of the old Rhine; towns
and cities are leaping into life on the new. The procession of cities,
like a triumphal march, will go on, on, on. The Canadian Empire will
probably one day lock hands with the imperial States of the Northwest;
Mexico, perhaps, will join the Confederacy, and Western America will
doubtless vie with Eastern Russia in power, in progress, and in the
glories of the achievements of the arts and sciences. Our Rhine has
the future: let the old Rhine have the past."

The Class approached Quebec at night. The scene was beautiful: like a
city glimmering against the sky, the lights of the lower town, of the
upper town, and of the Castle standing on the heights, shone brightly
against the hills; and the firing of guns and the striking of bells
were echoed from the opposite hills of the calm and majestic river.

The Class spent a day at Quebec, chiefly on the Terrace,--one of the
most beautiful promenades in the world. From the Terrace the boys saw
the making up of the emigrant trains on the opposite side of the
river, where the steamer had landed, and saw them disappear along the
winding river, going to the great province of Ontario, the lone woods
of Muskoka, and the far shores of the Georgian Bay.

    [Illustration: A NEW ENGLAND IN THE WEST.]

    [Illustration: NEAR QUEBEC.]

"I wish we might make a Zigzag journey on the St. Lawrence," said
Charlie Leland.

"And collect the old legends, stories, and histories of the Indian
tribes, and the early explorers and French settlers," added Mr. Beal.
"Perhaps some day we may be able to do so. I am in haste to return to
the States, but I regret to leave a place so perfectly beautiful as
the Terrace of Quebec. It is delightful to sit here and see the
steamers go and come; to watch the bright, happy faces pass, and to
recall the fact that the river below is doubtless to be the water-path
of the nations that will most greatly influence future times. But our
journey is ended: let us go."


  ON THE TERRACE,--QUEBEC.

    Alone, beside these peaceful guns
      I walk,--the eve is calm and fair;
    Below, the broad St. Lawrence runs,
      Above, the castle shines in air,
    And o'er the breathless sea and land
    Night stretches forth her jewelled hand.

    Amid the crowds that hurry past--
      Bright faces like a sunlit tide--
    Some eyes the gifts of friendship cast
      Upon me, as I walk aside,
    Kind, wordless welcomes understood,
    The Spirit's touch of brotherhood.

    Below, the sea; above, the sky,
      Smile each to each, a vision fair;
    So like Faith's zones of light on high,
      A sphere seraphic seems the air,
    And loving thoughts there seem to meet,
    And come and go with golden feet.

    Below me lies the old French town,
      With narrow rues and churches quaint,
    And tilèd roofs and gables brown,
      And signs with names of many a saint.
    And there in all I see appears
    The heart of twice an hundred years.

    Beyond, by inky steamers mailed,
      Point Levi's painted roofs arise,
    Where emigration long has hailed
      The empires of the western skies;
    And lightly wave the red flags there,
    Like roses of the damask air.

    Peace o'er yon garden spreads her palm,
      Where heroes fought in other days;
    And Honor speaks of brave Montcalm
      On Wolfe's immortal shaft of praise.
    What lessons that I used to learn
    In schoolboy days to me return!

    Fair terrace of the Western Rhine,
      I leave thee with unwilling feet,
    I long shall see thy castle shine
      As bright as now, in memories sweet;
    And cheerful thank the kindly eyes
    That lent to me their sympathies.

    Go, friendly hearts, that met by chance
      A stranger for a little while;
    Friendship itself is but a glance,
      And love is but a passing smile.
    I am a pilgrim,--all I meet
    Are glancing eyes and hurrying feet.

    Farewell; in dreams I see again
      The northern river of the vine,
    While crowns the sun with golden grain
      The hillsides of the greater Rhine.
    And here shall grow as years increase
    The empires of the Rhine of Peace.



University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.



Transcriber's Note

This book contains some archaic spelling, which has been preserved as
printed. Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.

There is some variable spelling, particularly of place names; this has
been repaired where there was a definite prevalence of one form over
the other, but is otherwise left as printed.

Page 12--"Castle at" amended to "Bell Tower of"--"Bell Tower of
Heidelberg 229"

There are two references on page 57 to "Crofe Castle" in Dorsetshire,
which appear to be an author error for "Corfe Castle". These have
been preserved as printed.

Character dialogue sometimes transitions into tales, which do not use
continuing quote marks. As a result, some closing quotes are omitted,
and this has been preserved as printed.

The frontispiece illustration and advertising material have been moved
to follow the title page. Other illustrations have been moved where
necessary so that they are not in the middle of a paragraph.

The list of illustrations included some captions which were not included
with their corresponding image in the main text. These have been added.

A pointing hand symbol is indicated with -->.





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